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power of the sands to preserve delicate artefacts. Well, why shouldn’t the book come to light again? All manner of wondrous things were turning up on people’s spades these days.
    Percy, like everyone else, had been thrilled by the recent discoveries of gold, jewellery, and precious pieces of workmanship from antique times. But it was the written word he prized. Whether carved in stone, stamped on clay, painted on plaster, or—best of all—written on papyrus or vellum, words transmitted ancient thoughts and deeds. “In the beginning was the Word,” many religions agreed mystically in their different languages. Percy chose to take that literally. Words were more precious to him than philosophical ratiocination. The world could get by (and had for millennia) without looking on the face of Tutankhamen, but where would it have beenwithout the astonishing words of Homer, the sonorous phrases of the Old Testament, the stupendous story of the Babylonian hero Gilgamesh, a thousand years older even than Homer?
    He balanced the spine of the leather-bound
Iliad
in his hand and wasn’t surprised to see it fall open at the second chapter—the list of Greek ships setting sail for the war at Troy. There was a lifetime’s historical and geographical research to be done from those pages and he’d promised himself that if he ever retired, or had the luck to win a fortune on the football pools, that was the kind of detective work he’d spend his days on.
    Percy noted again that, among the invading Greek fleet, quarrelsome old Agamemnon was top dog, managing to raise the largest number of ships for the punitive expedition.
    “Great Agamemnon rules the numerous band,
A hundred vessels in long order stand.”
    The Great King’s friend, wise Nestor of Pylos, came next, contributing ninety. The island of Crete had brought in a contingent of eighty. Lagging about halfway down the list came Athens with an undistinguished fifty.
    With a mischievous apology to the poet, Percy improvised:
    “Fierce Percy led the London squadrons on,
Percy the Less, Montacute’s valiant son.
Sick-bag in hand, he plows the wat’ry way,
Queazy of stomach and with feet of clay.”
    Good humour restored, he grinned. “Greece, land of flawed heroes! Shove over, Achilles—here comes Percy!”

Chapter 3
    Late June 1928. Athens, Greece
.
    T he golden death mask of Agamemnon gleamed, alluring yet menacing in the filtered morning sunlight.
    Two men strolled towards it from opposite sides of the display cabinet in the Athens Museum and leaned forward at the same moment to examine it more closely. The dark head and the fair one bent, forming a triangle with the golden face. And what a face! This was the dark man’s third visit and would not be his last. Spectacular, barbaric, beautiful, and mysterious was Percy Montacute’s verdict on the old warrior. But was he indeed—Agamemnon?
    Percy turned and murmured as much in a knowing way to the other admirer.
    The fair-haired Englishman burst out laughing. “Almost certainly not, I fear. Probably his great-grandpapa. But I
can
identify
you
correctly! Captain Montacute, isn’t it? Percy! Salonika! We played the Ugly Sisters, you and I, in the Christmas panto for the troops in ’17. Well, well! Montacute’s son. How is your father? Haven’t seen the old bugger for years!”
    Percy appeared genuinely surprised and pleased. “Good Lord! Colonel Merriman! Sir! My father was well when last I saw him. But how are
you?”
    “Be delighted to tell you, my boy, but not here.” Merriman glanced around him. “Ladies beginning to direct Gorgon stares in our direction. This place gets worse than the London Library. Not the spot for two raucous fellows like us with ten years of life to catch up on! You
are
still a raucous fellow, I hope? I had heard you were enforcing the Law? That could dampen the spirits somewhat. Come on! There’s a café just along the street … why don’t we …?”
    When they’d settled with their