Heir of Troy: The Third Son

Dawn broke grey and cold over the island harbour. The two ships—the Greek galley and the Trojan trader—still rocked at anchor among the black hulls of the Sea Peoples’ fleet, their crews waiting on deck, their captains watching the shore. They had been anchored for two days now, and the tension had grown thick as fog.

The camp sprawled across the rocky slopes above the harbour. Driftwood fires sent thin columns of smoke into the pale sky. Warriors sharpened their blades with slow, deliberate strokes. Women worked at the fires, their eyes watchful. Children ran barefoot through the tents, half-wild, sensing the mood of their elders and keeping their distance from the driftwood throne.

Theron stood before that throne, his weathered face carefully composed. He had been an envoy before, had carried messages for merchant houses and minor kings, but he had never stood before a man like Teresh. The chieftain of the Sea Peoples sat on a throne made of salvaged ship timber, lashed together with rope and bronze wire. His black hair was streaked with grey, his face scarred from a dozen fights, his eyes the colour of the winter sea—cold, grey, utterly unreadable.

Beside Theron stood Akoras. The Trojan envoy was young—younger than Theron had expected when they first met in the guest camp. His hands were trembling slightly at his sides, but his face was composed. He had learned composure somewhere. Perhaps from the prince who had sent him.

Behind Teresh, the tribe leaders had gathered. A dozen chieftains of the scattered Sea Peoples, men who had led their own raids and commanded their own ships. Kurash, the heavy-shouldered chieftain who had lost three ships in the Egyptian campaign, stood at the front. His face was hard, his arms crossed. Miria was at Teresh’s right hand, her dark hair bound back, her arms scarred from years of fighting. She was the only person in the camp who could speak to Teresh as an equal, and she watched the two envoys with the cold patience of a predator.

The camp was silent. Even the gulls had stopped crying.

Teresh sat on his driftwood throne, looking at the two envoys with his cold, unreadable eyes. The silence stretched. Theron felt sweat beading on the back of his neck despite the cold.

"I have considered both offers," Teresh said finally. His voice was low, rough, the voice of a man who had spent too many years shouting over storms. It carried across the silent camp. "The Greek offers gold and slaves. The Trojan offers an empty coastline."

He paused. The chieftains leaned forward. Theron held his breath.

"I refuse them both."

A murmur ran through the gathered chieftains. Theron’s face tightened. He had expected this possibility—had warned Agamemnon that the Sea Peoples might refuse—but hearing it spoken aloud was different. Beside him, Akoras went pale.

"Chieftain," Theron began, "if you would only consider—"

"You said what you came to say, merchant." Teresh leaned forward. "Now you will listen to what I have to say."

He rose from his throne. The guards shifted, their hands moving to their weapons. The chieftains straightened. Miria watched, her expression unchanged.

"Agamemnon wants us to die on Troy’s walls. He wants us to soften their defenses so his Greeks can march through the gates without getting their armour dirty. He offers us plunder—plunder we would have to share with fifty thousand soldiers who will take the best for themselves. He offers us gold—gold that will be worthless when his fleet turns on us after the siege is over."

He turned to Akoras.

"Lysander wants us to attack Greece while the fleet is away. He offers us time. An empty coastline. Undefended villages. He thinks we will be grateful for the scraps from his table while he fights his war." He paused. "He’s clever. Cleverer than Agamemnon. But he’s still using us. He’s still pointing us at his enemies and hoping we’ll be too busy to turn on him."

Akoras opened his mouth, but no words came out. The look in Teresh’s eyes had stopped him cold.

"Both of you think the Sea Peoples are desperate," Teresh said. "Both of you think we can be bought with promises and pointed at your enemies like a pack of dogs." He paused. "We are not dogs. We are not desperate. And we will not be used."

He gestured to his guards. "Go back to your masters. Tell Agamemnon that the Sea Peoples do not fight for promises. Tell Lysander that the Sea Peoples do not fight for scraps. Tell them both that we will be watching. And tell them both—" He paused. "Tell them both that we will see them on the battlefield."

His hand dropped. The guards seized Theron and Akoras. The Greek merchant struggled, his weathered face contorted with sudden terror. "You can’t do this! I came under truce! I came to negotiate!"

"You came to use us," Teresh said. "Truce is for nations. We are not a nation."

The Trojan boy did not struggle. He looked at Teresh, and his face was pale but composed. "I knew this might happen," he said quietly. "Prince Lysander told me. He said you might kill me. He said if I was afraid, I didn’t have to come."

"And you came anyway."

"Yes."

Teresh looked at him for a long moment. "You’re brave, boy. Braver than the merchant." He nodded to the guards. "Make it quick."

Two blades flashed in the morning light. Two bodies crumpled to the sand. The chieftains watched in silence. Miria watched in silence. The gulls wheeled overhead, their cries sharp and mournful.

Teresh looked at the bodies for a moment. Then he turned to his guards. "Take the Greek’s head. Put it on his own ship and send it back to Agamemnon. Take the Trojan’s head. Put it on his own ship and send it back to Lysander. Let them both know that the Sea Peoples are not to be bargained with. Let them both know that we are coming."

The guards dragged the bodies away. The chieftains were still silent. Some of them looked shocked. Some looked satisfied. Kurash’s heavy face was unreadable. Miria’s expression had not changed.

Teresh turned to face his chieftains. His cold eyes swept over them, one by one.

"I know what you’re thinking," he said. "You’re thinking I’ve doomed us. You’re thinking we should have taken one of the offers. The Greek gold. The Trojan coastline. Something. Anything." He paused. "You’re thinking like men who are afraid."

Kurash stepped forward. "We are afraid. Half our fleet is at the bottom of the Nile. Half our warriors are dead. The Egyptians crushed us. The Trojans have been burning our ships for two years. The Greeks have a thousand vessels and fifty thousand men. What do we have."

Teresh looked at him. And then he smiled.

It was not a pleasant smile. It was the smile of a wolf who had been cornered and had just realized that the hunters were weaker than they looked.

"We have patience," Teresh said. "We have time. And we have the one thing that neither the Greeks nor the Trojans have."

"What."

"Nothing left to lose."

He stepped forward, his voice rising so that every warrior, every woman, every child in the camp could hear him.

"The Greeks are sailing to Troy. A thousand ships. Fifty thousand men. They will lay siege to the greatest fortress in the Aegean. They will spend months—maybe years—trying to break walls that have stood for a thousand years. And while they are fighting the Trojans, their homes will be empty. Their villages will be undefended. Their storehouses will be full."

He turned, his arms spread wide.

"We will attack the Greek shores while their fleet is at Troy. We will burn their villages and take their grain and slaughter their livestock and carry off everything that isn’t nailed down. If the Greeks try to send ships back to stop us, we will disappear into the islands. We know how to vanish. We’ve been doing it for years."

"And if Troy wins the war," Miria said quietly.

"Then we attack the Trojans while they are celebrating. While their walls are damaged and their soldiers are exhausted and their guard is down. We take everything they have. Everything."

He looked at the chieftains, his cold eyes blazing.

"And when we have enough—when we have rebuilt our fleet and our armies and our wealth—we will not stop at Greece and Troy. We will attack every city and plunder every kingdom in the Middle Sea. The Egyptians. The Hittites. The Canaanites. The island kingdoms. Every coast. Every harbour. Every storehouse. We will take enough gold to make our children’s children rich. Enough ships to command the sea for a thousand years."

He paused.

"And we will return to Egypt. To the Nile delta where half our fleet is rotting at the bottom of the sea. And we will avenge our dead. We will burn the Pharaoh’s cities and slaughter his armies and take everything he has. Everything."

The camp was silent. The chieftains stared at him. Kurash’s heavy face was frozen. Miria’s eyes were bright with something that might have been pride.

"You asked me what we are winning," Teresh said, turning back to Kurash. "I’ll tell you what we are winning. Everything. Every coast. Every kingdom. Every scrap of gold and grain and plunder from one end of the Middle Sea to the other. That is what we are winning."

Kurash was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly. One by one, the other chieftains followed. They dipped their heads to Teresh—the wolf they had followed through fire and water, the wolf who had just refused the two most powerful alliances in the Aegean because he believed in something greater.

That night, Teresh stood alone on the headland, watching the two ships sail away into the darkness. The Greek galley heading west. The Trojan trader heading east. Both of them carrying the same grisly cargo. Both of them carrying the same message.

Miria came to stand beside him. The wind tugged at her dark hair.

"Kurash is convinced," she said. "The others will follow. For now."

"For now is all I need."

"And if the plan fails. If the Greeks and Trojans don’t exhaust each other. If one side wins quickly."

Teresh looked at the sea. The stars were coming out, cold and sharp overhead.

"Then we adapt. We’ve been adapting for years. We know how to survive." He paused. "But I don’t think one side will win quickly. Lysander has been preparing for this war for two years. Fire ships. Reinforced walls. Cauldrons of oil on every parapet. He’ll bleed the Greeks for every inch of ground. And Agamemnon has Achilles. He’ll keep throwing men at the walls until they break. This war will drag on. And while it drags, we will grow stronger."

Miria nodded slowly. "You’re enjoying this."

Teresh smiled—the same cold, wolfish smile. "Yes. I am."

He turned and walked back toward the camp. Behind him, the two ships had disappeared into the darkness. The sea was black and endless. Somewhere in the west, a thousand Greek ships were preparing to sail. Somewhere in the east, a prince was standing on a tower, waiting for a messenger who would never return.

The war was coming. And the wolves of the sea were waiting.