Alcestis takes hold of one of his restless feet. -I don't think any of the acolytes are likely to know anything. It would take someone senior to control the bulls. Never a novice.

-Either that or the servants have stuck me in the rattiest old guest room possible, where they haven't changed the clayware in a good two hundred years ...

She gives up and turns away. It wouldn't be quite so annoying if the jug wasn't so gaudy and over designed.

She needs to talk to him, about the ease with which she's slipping back into the palace and its dance. Facing Britomartis, standing in the temple precincts again, felt so natural. He's brought this out in her. It's a shadow of the same ease with which he's vaulted up several social cla.s.ses, from working the docks to addressing the King in his chambers. Perhaps for him too, this is a return to grace for a fallen star - except, looking at him now, sprawled along the bed, she can see how he still doesn't quite fit. Part of him is a vagabond in the great halls, just as he is an aristocrat in the gutter. The only time she'd seen him truly in his element was that night in the ocean.

It's so easy for him to play a role, walk through a lie. But whether or not she can trust him, she still needs him to complete the transformation he's begun.-I need you to teach me to fight men.He doesn't respond. His gaze keeps flicking between the workmanship of the inside of the jug, and the labyrinthine patterns embroidered on the pillow. One distraction, clearly isn't enough for him.

She insists: -Word travels fast in the palace. The people behind this ... Even if they don't know we're looking for them, they'll know we're trying to stop the demons. They'll be coming for us.

-Not nearly up to your standards, he says, squinting into the jug. She still can't tell if she's being heard or not.

-I need to know how to follow through on an attack. How to stop them...

No response. She grabs the jug and wrenches it aside. It clatters onto the floor with a crack as one of the handles breaks away. -You can't duck and dodge forever.

He looks up: the pitcher had hidden the set of his jaw, the same face she'd seen in the fields when he'd goaded her into strength. -Oh, I'll teach you. But you'll have to learn that not every blow needs your full strength. And don't underestimate the acolytes; they hear all the best gossip. They may not know where all the bodies are buried, but they can still give you an idea who's doing the burying.

And his eyes flutter back to the embroidery, without a glimpse of his previous cares. She shakes her head in disbelief. Before she can say anything, he rolls over and looks up at her, his cheeks creasing with a smile as he heads her off. -If I was pa.s.sionate all the time, I'd burn up.

The next day begins the parade of volunteers: preening bull-leapers and giddy acolytes, servants grasping for a better lot and bored n.o.bles out for glory, almost every one of them young, wasp-waisted, and ambitious. Each morning, before the Doctor's lessons to the princes, Rhadamanthys has him put the volunteers through their trials, to find out if any of them have the gift for flight.

Which of course he does his best not to uncover; Alcestis knows as long as she remains unique, both she and the Doctor are indispensable, and the situation remains under their control. But together, they put on a convincing show of useless lessons a combination of the Doctor's technique of dodging blows, and exercises supposedly designed to coax them off the ground. It turns out that, without exception, the would-be saviours would never get off the ground under the weight of their own heads.

The two of them quickly grasp the potential. Each day, with suitable solemnity, she introduces the Doctor guarding her tongue to call him only 'Perdix' in front of the newcomers and testifies to his teaching of her. Then he takes the stage. The well-oiled men from the bullring hesitate for a moment before compliantly tying the bottoms of their belted loincloths into an infant's nappy (to avoid unwanted flapping in flight, the Doctor tells them). Then she leads them through a series of positions: eyes closed, wobbling on toes, arms and legs outstretched at odd angles, unaware of the dignity draining from them with each pose. Finally, she has them shift their weight just a little too far backwards, and contemplates the sight of a courtyard full of elegant bodies capsizing one by one. From high enough off the ground, she can see them topple in waves.

When the Doctor gets in on the act, it's never the same stunt twice. He gets them to bounce up and down and throw their arms about, to loosen their muscles, while singing silly songs to clear their heads. He teaches them breathing exercises, just to make them go whoosh. He finds a nice soft patch of ground, then has them practice falling over till they can no longer walk in a straight line. He sits catlike, with his legs curled under him, coaxing them into forming a human pyramid, then tells everyone to wave. Sometimes he's right in the midst of it all, flailing about rubberlimbed with the best of them, baffling them further when they can't quite decide whether this is meant to be fun or not.

-Oh come on, he finally says one day. -If I told you to throw yourselves off a cliff, would you really do it? No, wait, better not answer that.

And through it all, he makes sure to give each prospective student individual attention: teasing from them any sc.r.a.ps of knowledge about the councillors to the King who most serve to benefit from unrest in the empire; gently digging for any hints as to who might have the skills and the privacy needed to summon the bulls.

Because Deucalion is older, he carries the beaten-up old helmet, while Glaucus carries the much lighter bronze dagger. Glaucus chafes; he is growing faster than Deucalion, now a little bit taller and certainly as strong. Perdix walks behind his royal pupils, carrying an ostrich feather.They are climbing stairs that lead to one of the palace roofs, steps usually trodden only by servants who have to set banners or braziers. Their arrival sent more than a few servants into a flapping panic. Two palace guards trail behind them, uncertain whether they more greatly risk the King's wrath by intervening or by not intervening.

The test began as one of Perdix's mock arguments. At first, the boys had thought he would be a holiday, an easy break from their usual routine of reciting histories and drawing maps from memory. But the arguments, friendly as they were, became hard work in their own right. Perdix would never let either of them get away with saying something foolish, always demanding to know how they could be sure their statements were true. They discussed the flight of birds and the nature of the volcano, the meanings of words and the outcomes of battles all under the watchful eyes of their usual tutors or some petty courtier, as though Father worried Perdix would teach them dirty rhymes.

This morning's argument was about weights and measures. Perdix demanded their opinions: did heavier objects fall to earth more quickly than lighter ones? Deucalion ventured that he wasn't certain, which surprisingly seemed to delight Perdix. Glaucus said they should test the question by dropping different weights, which delighted him even more.

The other children wanted to come to the roof as well, but Perdix forbade it, instead giving the older pair of twin sisters the job of shepherding the children in the courtyard below. From the roof, Glaucus can see they've done a good job: the gang of royal and n.o.ble boys and girls stand in a hushed curve, well back from where helmet and dagger will land.

Secretly, Glaucus feels certain that the heavy helmet win strike the paving first, but he knows that only the test will be good enough to convince a man like Perdix. Their new tutor makes them stand at the edge, carefully, obviously ready to grab either of them if they lose their footing. The boys exchange grins. Their athletic training has given them strong balance and cured them of height-sickness long ago.

-I'll count to three, says Perdix, -and when I say three, drop them both at the same instant. Ready? One, two, three!

The helmet and the dagger strike the ground together with a mighty clang. The children cheer and chatter; they have no idea what it all meant. -What do you think, gentlemen? asks Perdix.

-They might have landed at slightly different times, and we couldn't tell, says Deucalion.

-Good point. How could we improve our test?

-Go higher up, says Deucalion.

-Try again with a heavier thing and a lighter one, says Glaucus. In the courtyard below, the children are already looking around for more things to be thrown off the roof.Perdix claps his hands. -Excellent.-You already know the answer, says Glaucus. -You've already carried out this test.

-Not personally ... a friend of mine.

-And they do fall just as fast as each other! Every time!

Perdix looks abashed. -Yes. The earth draws down all objects at the same speed.-Then how? How can we fly?Perdix puts a hand on Glaucus's shoulder, as if worried his pupil will put that question to the test, then and there.-So this is the source of all the excitement.Glaucus turns around to see that his father has come up the servants' steps and is standing on the roof, arms folded, watching them. He and Deucalion and Perdix all bow. He and his brother trade glances: they're for it now.But Rhadamanthys doesn't seem angry. -How are my sons proceeding in their instruction?

-Excellently, your majesty. Their minds are empty of preconceptions and filled with questions.

-Oughtn't you to be filling their minds with answers? says the King mildly. -Now, that I've satisfied my own curiosity, you will accompany us to the throne room for a meeting of the council. My sons will also partic.i.p.ate, as observers. (Glaucus suppresses a groan. He would rather keep chucking things off the roof.) -We will be debating the problem of Athens.

Perdix beams, disarmingly. -Then we can all look forward to having our minds filled with answers.

Rhadamanthys moves in to escort his sons away from the edge. -They take their city's name from my half-sister, you know.

-Athena? Oh yes, of course, lovely girl. Tried to give her flute lessons once, but she wouldn't stand for it.

-Surely you jest ...

-Well,, yes, actually.

Rhadamanthys laughs, rich and throaty. -One of the disadvantages of being a child of the G.o.ds is that you rarely see your family.

-Oh, I wouldn't say that was the main problem.

-What would you say, then?

-That you'll always be a child.

Rhadamanthys glowers for a fraction, then decides to take it with good humour. -In the divine realm, children overthrow their parents with startling regularity. (An eye to Perdix.) What though of mortals, who remain children in the sphere of men?-We try our best, sire. Gentlemen: one last, thing.Perdix has been holding his ostrich feather the whole time. Now, he casts it over the edge, and for a moment it spirals upwards upwards on the breeze, before beginning a slow flutter to earth. on the breeze, before beginning a slow flutter to earth.-Something more for you to think about, he tells the boys with a grin.

The council meeting goes on forever. Glaucus starts to clean under one fingernail with a splinter of wood. Of course Deucalion has to attend these sessions as the heir, but now that Glaucus is almost thirteen, he's being dragged to them more and more often. They want him to learn how the court works, how people say things without saying them and don't admit what they really want.

He can follow enough to tell how good Father is at this. Of course everyone says he's wise, he's the King after all, but Glaucus can see him balancing one courtier's interests against another's, the way he leaves them all satisfied with his decisions. Spotting everything in their faces, but giving little away with his own. Maybe that was one of the secret things they taught you on your thirteenth: how to make your face do those odd, distant, grown-up expressions. Deucalion has been doing those a lot lately, even when it's just the two of them.

Right now, Nauplius the Chief Councillor, Father's closest advisor, is insisting that they must prepare for war with Athens. He's a skinny stick who once had a great reputation as a runner and a javelin wielder, but who now spends all his energy trying to convince Rhadamanthys to do things.

-Now, that we can defend against the bulls they send, we must press our advantage, before there's another attack. Sail our men to Athens's sh.o.r.es and bring them to heel. Remind them of what they have forgotten the speed of our arrows and the barbs of our javelins.

-But surely we don't need an army to do that? says Peneleos, at the opposite end of the horseshoe of councillors' chairs. He's a big man but a soft one, a patron to many of the craftsmen of the city. -They have G.o.ds, we have G.o.ds. Pet.i.tion the Fallen. No need to bring men and ships into it.

Glaucus thinks he's got it: Nauplius wants to sail an army over because he owns so many ships. He's behind most of the trading fleet based on Thera. And Peneleos, one of the merchants who already has to pay lots for Nauplius to ship his wares, is resisting anything that might give Nauplius even more power and influence. Or disrupt his own trade.Suddenly Perdix speaks up. -Why Athens?They'd all forgotten Perdix was there. They turn to see him perched on the edge of a table watching them, and Nauplius starts to explain to the foreigner as if to a child.

-They've resented us ever since the last, war. Since we laid siege to them after their part in the death of Minos's son Androgeos. And now that their old king Aegeus, and Minos's son Asterius, have both died, they've declared that we are no longer due our tribute -Yes, well, I'm sure they need killing just on principle, but how do you know they're responsible for the bulls?

Glaucus perks up, watching the councillors fumble. Perdix is using the same trick on them that he uses on him and Deucalion: the unduckable question. And since they won't even admit most of what they do do know, having to admit there's something they know, having to admit there's something they don't don't know is making them turn know is making them turnall sorts of interesting colours.

He glances at his father. He's still unsure what the King thinks of Perdix. He treats him almost like another king. Could it be the new teacher really is of divine descent just like the royal family? Does that mean he's wise, or could he be stirring up mischief? If the G.o.ds love anything, they love trouble.

-Anyone could have asked the G.o.ds to bring this down on you ... always a.s.suming someone like Rhea didn't just get annoyed off her own bat, of course. But whoever did this could be anywhere. Why decide they're in Athens?

-Well, it's obvious, declares Peneleos. -They hate us. They have to live somewhere. Athens hates us. They live in Athens.

Perdix smiles indulgently. -Nauplius hates you, and he doesn't live in Athens ...

Glaucus can't help it he laughs out loud at Nauplius's fl.u.s.tered bl.u.s.tering in his own defence, and Peneleos's cowlike bewilderment. Deucalion shoots him a shut-up glance, but it's clear he gets it too Perdix is picking up the same sort of things they're supposed to, but breaking every rule by saying them.

Thankfully, Father looks amused and tolerant. His voice cuts across the others: -Peneleos, you were, giving us your counsel?

Peneleos says: -At the very least, we ought to let the G.o.ds decide if they want to, take action themselves.

But Perdix, his face still sunny, won't let up. -Oh, surely the G.o.ds are always in accord with what the King decides. It's a mark of his great wisdom ...

The King stands, up. Glaucus holds his breath. Everyone falls silent: no-one wants to, share in whatever doom Perdix has just drawn down upon himself.

Instead, he dismisses the councillors with a wave of his hand, and descends from his throne to, close on Perdix still sitting on the table kicking his legs like a little boy.

-It's clear there's something important that you don't understand about our empire. Come with me.***

The King leads him up and out of the rear of the palace. The grand steps here are inverted, leading upwards into the slope of the mountain rather than down to, level ground. At the top, the palace spreads out below them, a sprawling stack of alabaster cubes stretching down to, the sea. Its squared-off white turned fiery orange in the sunset.

From there they follow a former goat-track, now painstakingly paved, folding back and forth up the side of the volcano. The King's guards trail far behind, anxiously grasping the hilts of their swords. The light leaves them halfway up, and the Doctor must stay close to, Rhadamanthys's lantern.-You've wondered why the palace is here, says Rhadamanthys.-Well, it had crossed my mind that an active volcano wasn't the best of neighbours. If nothing else, it does tend to, dwarf you.

-There hasn't been an eruption in decades, and nor will there be. Just as there hasn't been an earthquake at Knossos in living memory. And that stretches back quite a way.

The glint in the King's eye suggests humour, but his tone says that any joke is his alone through eminent domain.

The Doctor can feel the heat now, closing in on his skin. At times it seems to, be radiating straight up from the bare rock of the mountain. The night is sticking to, him now. Above them, the Doctor can see a plaster-walled shrine, balanced near the peak, lit faintly red from the far side of the ridge. The King commands him onwards to, the door.Inside, and the far wall is missing an open precipice, with a smouldering glow beneath. The walls on either side are studded with fragments of crystal, catching shards of the fire and reflecting them; the large quartz on the central altar hints at only the tiniest flicker inside. Past the altar, and the chamber broadens out to, a wide stone lip: the Doctor is looking down, over the inner cliff, to, the sea of searing magma stretching across the crater.

Rhadamanthys stretches out a hand towards the magma below.

-Tartarus.

The Doctor stands,, taking it in as best he can.

-Down there the G.o.ds themselves are imprisoned, Rhadamanthys tells him. -The t.i.tans, overthrown by their children for their wickedness.And we have been blessed with the key to, their gaol.-Oh, murmurs the Doctor. -So that's how it works.His face gives no advantage away, his eyes flick about like a cornered animal. In the magma below, he can just make out glints of hot light set amidst the dull red glow uncountable numbers of the crystals, impossibly floating in the magma, like a thousand eyes in the darkness.He allows himself a slight grin. Edgar Cayce would have been delighted: Atlantis's crystals of power, just as his psychic readings said.

-The Fallen are ours to, command. The forces of sea, sun, wind, time they can all be brought forth by our words.

-So no eruptions, then? Four harvests in a year? Sunshine on a cloudy day?-All the best for our empire. We can mould the world as we wish.They stand on the lip of the volcano: the Doctor at the edge, the King moving slowly towards him. The Doctor is poised on his feet, ready to, run. The guards are nowhere to, be seen.

Rhadamanthys smiles, old and wolfish. -And Rhea, the mother of all, stood with her children at the gates of Tartarus, as they cast down her tyrant husband Cronus, and all his brothers in power.

He clasps the Doctor's arm, a gesture of friendliness, an a.s.sertion of strength near the edge. His unsmiling eyes lock on the Doctor's. -Is that how you see yourself, Perdix? Overthrowing the tyrant?

The Doctor returns the arm-clasp, just as firm: measuring each other's strength. -I've always been good with children.

Rhadamanthys speaks simply. -If you return from this precipice without me, you will be executed as a regicide, and my line will go on. If I return from here without you, no-one will say a word. That, friend Perdix, is the only reality.He releases the Doctor and turns, pacing slowly round the altar.-You wondered why we do not seem to, fear the G.o.ds, continues Rhadamanthys. -Instead, we respect them, with all the comfort of familiarity. We have been given our task, and our reward. Beyond that, our affairs are our own ... but neither do we attempt to interfere in theirs. You too have your task, and your reward.-Yes, I do get the point, sire. And let me a.s.sure you that I know, my place.

-Oh, I'm sure you feel you do. But I don't think that you fully comprehend mine.

He's closed in on the Doctor again: punctuating his final word with a turn and a raised hand: a single small gesture that takes in the temple, the fiery pit, the island, everything.

-Oh, I do, your majesty. You lay down the law, like a mat you can walk over without sullying your feet.

Rhadamanthys glowers. The Doctor raises his hands submissively.

-I meant no disrespect.

-Yes you did.

-Well, I can hardly contradict you, now can I?

-You meant disrespect, but it's the disrespect of the powerless. And thus I can overlook it. You know, that for all your mockery, you cannot overwhelm me. You can only pray I listen.-Oh I understand that.Now, the Doctor turns to, the King, drawing himself up, to, his full height. -In this reality of yours, there's no law beyond force. No tradition, no agreements, no wisdom, just strength. You welcome that, because you're the strongest one. Any rule or treaty or covenant can be broken on a whim. I haven't the brute strength to force you to look beyond yourself, any more than I have the words to describe sight to a blind man. I can't even whisper in your ear, 'Remember you are mortal', because word has it you aren't even that. Truly there is no law at all that binds you ... except the law of cause and effect. And that's as immutable as gravity.-Gravity?-... Oh for heaven's sake. That's the trouble with the Bronze Age, it cramps my metaphors. Look.

He takes a coiled golden armlet from his arm, throws it upwards. When it hits the floor it lets out a metallic chime.

-Throw something upward, it falls. Push something, it pushes back. Use your power as a club, you'll have to, hold ever tighter to, keep it from being wrested away. Resentment from other nations, from your own courtiers, from the common people is earned by your actions, just as much as trust or respect. Call it fate, call it economics, there are still forces that remain beyond your control.

He picks the armlet up, again. -Cronus is cruel to his wife and children, eventually they cast down him and all his brothers. Everything falls.

And he throws the armlet into the volcano. Rhadamanthys starts, instinctively reaches to, catch it, but it's lost in the night. He turns back to, the Doctor in astonishment and he's holding the armlet in his other hand, a catlike grin on his face.

-Everything falls, he says again.

-Even things that fly?

The Doctor holds his tongue for a moment. -Even those.

The King, takes the Doctor's arm again, gently this time, escorting him towards the door.

-I provide for my people. They have the best lives of any people in the known world. I want to see them free of this scourge, and on that we coincide. Let that be an end to it.-Oh, I'm glad to, serve you in this. But like I said, it does not end.

Alcestis hears all about it that night, in his room, as they spar in slow motion. She hovers, holding contorted poses just clear of each prolonged blow, learning to, keep her balance in any possible position.

He tells her: -The King's made it quite clear the only reason he hasn't clapped me in irons is because he needs me to defeat the demons. Which does rather rule out him being the one behind them.

-But of course he isn't.

The Doctor raises an eyebrow, still in slow motion. -Why not?

-He's the King.

-You think he wouldn't make that sort of sacrifice, if he felt it necessary? Even after all you've been through, on this island,?