What might the grey, part tumbled Cyclopean stones of Mycenae, a city said once to be rich in gold, tell us of her past if they could speak? The great wall surrounding the city, standing proud to keep out her enemies some three and a half thousand years ago, today proclaims in silence the depredations of men and of time. Through her famed Lion Gate, above which the rampant beasts of carved stone remain standing, once passed worthies, emissaries and traders from the Peloponnese and much of Greece beyond. Her alleyways, her squares, then alive with calls and chatter, with careering, pestering children and yapping dogs, offer now only gaping emptiness to birds wheeling darkly in the sky above.

The palace, once looking down upon the city, once a centre of power and wealth, of vibrant columns, richly frescoed walls, proudly displayed bronze armour, weapons and trophies, lies open and desolate. Long forgotten are the finely attired courtiers who spiced the air with talk and laughter. It was here the bard played and sang of great deeds, here beyond memory the rulers and their coterie gathered and contrived the fate of others.

The gods of old are gone but could those walls speak through the sighing breezes of night they would surely have dark tales to tell; tales of deceit, of intrigue and of murder. They might even now weep blood.