Chapter 150 - 151: The Gathering Storm
Daidalos stood at the water’s edge, staring at the strait as if it had personally insulted him.
The morning was grey and cold, the sea flecked with whitecaps, the current running fast through the narrows. A dozen men were already in the water—settlement fishermen, the ones who had volunteered when Maea put out the call. They were diving beneath the surface, feeling their way along the rocks, marking the spots where the anchor bolts would be driven into the stone. They came up gasping, their breath misting in the cold air, then dove again.
"The current is stronger than I expected," Daidalos said, not looking at Lysander. "It will tear at the net every day. We’ll need to replace the ropes every few weeks. The anchor bolts will have to be checked constantly. If one of them fails, the whole net shifts, and a ship could slip through."
"Can you make it work."
"I can make anything work. The question is for how long." Daidalos turned from the water. "The divers say the rock on the northern side is good. Solid. The anchors will hold. The southern side is more difficult—the seabed is softer. We’ll need to drive the bolts deeper."
"How much deeper."
"Twice as deep as the northern side. Maybe more. It will take time."
"We don’t have time."
"I know." Daidalos picked up a piece of charcoal from the rock where he had been sketching diagrams. "The first net is almost finished. We can install it within a week. But it won’t be invisible. The enemy will see the anchor points on the shore. They’ll know something is in the water."
"Let them see. They won’t know what it is. And by the time they figure it out, they’ll already be in the killing zone."
Daidalos grunted. "That’s the plan. Plans don’t always survive contact with the enemy."
"I know. But it’s better than no plan." Lysander looked at the strait, the water churning through the narrow passage. "How many ships could the net catch at once."
"Three. Maybe four. More if they’re close together. The ropes will foul their oars, entangle their rudders. They’ll be helpless in the current. The fire ships can pick them off one by one." He paused. "But it only works once. After the first engagement, they’ll know what we’ve done. They’ll find a way around it."
"Then we make the first engagement count."
Daidalos nodded slowly. "I’ll need more rope. More timber. More bronze for the anchor fittings."
"I’ll get you what you need. Just build it."
Daidalos turned back to his diagrams, and Lysander walked up the beach toward the settlement. Fylon was waiting for him at the edge of the northern section, his face grim.
"The priest," Fylon said without preamble. "He’s been quiet since the assassination attempt. No sermons. No speeches in the market. He’s staying in the temple, claiming he’s in mourning for his dead acolyte."
"He’s not mourning. He’s hiding."
"Yes. But he’s not hiding alone. My watchers have seen visitors coming to the temple at odd hours. Councillors. Merchants. People who have been opposed to you from the beginning. They go in through the back entrance, stay for an hour, then leave."
"Can you get someone inside."
"I have a contact. One of the serving women who brings offerings to the altar. She’s been listening. She says the priest is telling his followers that the war is a punishment from the gods. That the refugees have brought this upon us. That the only way to save the city is to purify it."
"Purify it how."
"She doesn’t know. But he’s planning something. Something soon."
Lysander looked at the temple on the citadel, its white columns catching the pale winter sun. "Keep watching him. If he moves, I want to know before he acts."
Fylon nodded and slipped away.
The east wing of the palace was quiet, the corridors empty except for the occasional servant who hurried past with eyes averted. Paris had chosen this wing deliberately. It was far from the council chamber, far from the barracks, far from the places where angry voices were still arguing about what to do with the woman he had brought home.
Helen was standing at the window of their chamber, looking down at the garden below. The fig tree was bare, the flower beds dormant. A cold wind rattled the shutters. She had been standing there for an hour, wrapped in her cloak, her back to the room.
"They hate me," she said.
"They don’t hate you. They’re afraid."
"It feels the same." She turned to face him. "Your mother looked at me like I was a problem she didn’t know how to solve. Your brother Hector walked away without a word. And Lysander—" She stopped. "Lysander looked at me like he was measuring me for a coffin."
"He was. He’s very thorough."
"That’s not funny."
"It’s a little funny."
She didn’t smile. She turned back to the window. "I thought once I got here, it would be over. The running. The hiding. The fear. But it’s not over. It’s just beginning. Now everyone in this city is afraid because of me."
"Everyone in this city was already afraid. The war was coming whether you were here or not."
"Stop saying that. It doesn’t help." She wrapped her arms around herself. "I know the war was coming. I know Agamemnon was going to find a reason. But I’m still the reason he found. Every person who dies on those walls—every ship that burns in the strait—that’s on me. That’s what they’re thinking when they look at me. That’s what your mother was thinking. That’s what your brothers were thinking."
"Hector wasn’t thinking that. He was thinking about troop placements and supply lines and whether the fire ships are ready. He thinks about everything in terms of the war. It’s not personal."
"And Lysander."
"Lysander was thinking about all of it. The war. The politics. The consequences. He does that. He can’t help it. But he wasn’t blaming you. He told the council as much."
"He told the council the war was coming regardless. That’s not the same as saying I’m welcome here."
Paris walked to the window and stood beside her. "No. It’s not. But it’s a start." He paused. "They’re my family. They’re difficult and they’re exhausted and they’ve been fighting for their lives for two years. They’re not going to welcome you with open arms. But they’re not going to send you back either. My father made that clear."
"Your father." Her voice softened. "He defended me. In the council. He doesn’t even know me."
"He defended the law. There’s a difference. But yes. He defended you." Paris looked at the garden below. "He’s been king for forty years. He’s buried children. He’s watched this city survive plagues and famines and wars. He knows what it costs to stand by your principles. He did it anyway."
Hector found Andromache in the garden, sitting on the stone bench beneath the bare fig tree. Her embroidery was in her lap, but she wasn’t working on it. She was looking at the harbour, where the fishing boats were coming in with the afternoon catch.
He sat beside her. Neither of them spoke for a long moment.
"The council decided," she said finally. "Helen stays."
"Yes."
"And the war comes."
"Yes."
She looked at him. "You’ve been preparing for this your whole life. The walls. The patrols. The drills. All of it, leading to this moment."
"I know."
"Are you ready."
"I don’t know. I’ve never faced anything like this. The scale of it. The fleet. The army. Achilles." He paused. "I’ve trained my whole life to be a soldier. I’ve fought battles. I’ve killed men. But I’ve never fought a war. Not like this."
She reached out and took his hand. "You’re not alone. You have your brothers. You have Miros. You have me."
"I know." He looked at their joined hands. "If something happens—if I don’t come back—"
"You’ll come back."
"You don’t know that."
"No. But I’m choosing to believe it." She met his eyes. "I’m pregnant, Hector. I was going to tell you later, when things were calmer. But things are never going to be calmer. So I’m telling you now."
Hector stared at her. The words took a moment to register, and when they did, something shifted in his face—not a smile, not yet, but the beginning of something that might become one.
"A child."
"Yes."
"Our child."
"Yes."
He pulled her into his arms and held her. His hands, which had killed men and held the line against the black ships, were trembling.
"I’ll come back," he said into her hair. "I’ll come back. I swear it."
The temple was quiet in the late afternoon, the evening prayers not yet begun. Lysander climbed the steps alone, his footsteps echoing on the ancient stone. He had not been here since his first visit, when the High Priest had tested him with cold eyes and veiled threats. Now he was coming back, and he was not coming as a supplicant.
The High Priest was in the inner sanctuary, kneeling before the altar of Athena. He did not rise when Lysander entered. He didn’t turn around.
"Prince Lysander. I wondered when you would come."
"You sent an assassin to kill my father."
"I sent no one. A troubled young man acted on his own, driven by visions he claimed came from the goddess. I mourned his death and prayed for his soul."
"His soul is beyond your prayers. And we both know you sent him." Lysander walked closer, his footsteps echoing in the stillness. "You’ve been preaching against the refugees for weeks. You’ve been telling your followers that the city must be purified. You’ve been meeting with councillors and merchants who oppose my family. And you sent an acolyte to murder the king."
"Bold accusations. Do you have proof."
"No. Not yet. But I will." Lysander stopped a few feet from the altar. "I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to divide the city. You’re trying to turn the people against each other. You’re doing Agamemnon’s work for him, whether you know it or not."
The priest rose and turned to face him. His pale eyes were cold, unblinking. "I am doing the goddess’s work. This city has strayed from her path. It has welcomed strangers and armed them. It has made alliances with foreign powers. It has placed its trust in a prince who does not pray, who does not sacrifice, who stands on towers and counts ships instead of seeking the goddess’s guidance. The war that is coming is her judgment. And I will not stand by while this city is destroyed by the arrogance of one man."
"The war that is coming was built by Agamemnon, not by me. He’s been planning it for years. He would have come whether I was here or not. And when he does come, we will need every man, woman, and child in this city—Trojan and refugee alike—to hold the walls. If you divide us now, you destroy us. You make Agamemnon’s victory certain."
"I make nothing certain. The goddess decides."
"The goddess gave us minds to think with. Use yours." Lysander stepped closer. "I’m not your enemy. I don’t care what you think of me. I don’t care if you pray or sacrifice or curse my name in the darkness. But if you move against my family again—if you send another assassin, if you stir up the people against us—I will tear this temple down stone by stone to find you. Do you understand."
The priest’s expression did not change. "I understand that you are afraid. And fear makes men say things they do not mean."
"I mean every word."
Lysander turned and walked out of the sanctuary. The priest stood alone before the altar, his pale eyes fixed on the door.
The Aegean Sea – Three Days Later
The fleet was gathering.
From the deck of the Mycenaean flagship, Agamemnon watched the ships assemble. They came from every corner of the Greek world—Sparta, Tiryns, Corinth, Ithaca, Crete, Phthia, Boeotia, Locris, a hundred islands and a dozen kingdoms. Black hulls and brown sails, war galleys and troop transports, their decks crowded with soldiers and their holds heavy with spears and shields and bronze rams. The water was thick with them, the horizon a forest of masts.
"They’re all here," said the admiral beside him. "Every ship that pledged. Every captain who swore the oath. They came."
"Of course they came. They had no choice." Agamemnon looked at the vast armada, and his face was calm, almost serene. "The message reached every corner of the Greek world. The story we told—the prince who violated hospitality, the queen held captive, the house of liars and oath-breakers—they all believe it. They all want justice. They all want war."
"And Troy."
"Troy will fall. They have walls and fire ships and clever princes. We have numbers. We have Achilles. We have the will of the entire Greek world behind us. It’s only a matter of time."
The admiral nodded. "When do we sail."
"Soon. There are still supply ships to load, troops to embark. But within the month, the fleet will be ready. And then—" Agamemnon turned his gaze east, toward the sea, toward the distant coast where Troy waited. "Then we bring them to their knees."
The wind picked up, and the sails of the fleet stirred. The war was coming. And across the sea, in a city on a hill, a prince was standing on a tower, counting ships, waiting for the storm.