Heir of Troy: The Third Son

The war room was crowded for the first time in months.

The long table was lined with men who had spent years fighting Troy’s border wars—garrison commanders from the western perimeter, patrol leaders from the northern coast, champions from the tournament grounds who had never commanded anything larger than a village militia. They stood shoulder to shoulder with Hector’s regulars, their armour still dusty from the road, their voices low and urgent. The torches on the walls had been lit since before dawn, and the air was thick with smoke and the smell of too many bodies in too small a space.

Hector stood at the head of the table, a map of the strait spread before him. Miros was at his right, his useless arm bound against his chest, his left hand resting on the hilt of his lighter sword. Paris stood near the window, his wound healed but the scar still visible beneath his tunic when he moved. Lysander was at the far end of the table, his arms crossed, watching the men as they argued.

"The northern beaches," Akmon said. The old patrol leader had been running coastal patrols for twenty years, and his face showed every season of it. He jabbed a calloused finger at the map. "That’s where they’ll land. The ground is flat. The water is shallow. They can beach their ships and march straight up to the walls. It’s the same approach the black ships used."

"The black ships were raiders," Philo said. Arsini’s father stood near the middle of the table, his grey hair cropped short, his voice level. "Fifteen years on the western perimeter. I’ve fought raiders and pirates and worse. The Greeks aren’t raiders. They’re an army. They’ll use siege towers. Battering rams. They’ll try to break the walls, not scale them."

"The walls are reinforced," Miros said. "The northern section has been strengthened twice. The cauldrons are in place every fifty feet. The pitch is ready. The logs are positioned on the slopes."

"Logs." Antenor the archer leaned against the wall near the back, his bow propped beside him. "I’ve been hunting in the eastern hills for twenty years. I’ve seen what a rolling log does to a deer. What will it do to a line of armoured men."

"Break their formation," Lysander said without looking up from the map. "Slow their advance. Make them climb over their own dead. It won’t stop them, but it will cost them."

"How much."

"Enough to make them think twice about the next assault."

Antenor nodded slowly. He was not a soldier by training—he had killed raiders with a hunting bow and had come to Troy because his village was in the path of the Greek advance. His men were hunters like him, silent and patient, and they would fight from the walls with the same calm precision they used in the forest.

"The harbour," a garrison commander from the southern coast said. His name was Kreon, and he had brought forty men from his watchtower. "The fire ships. The net. Can they hold the strait."

"The net will foul their first wave," Daidalos said. The shipwright had been invited to the council at Lysander’s insistence. He stood near the door, his hands still stained with pitch. "The fire ships will burn whatever gets through. But once they know what they’re facing—once they send divers to cut the ropes, once they learn to avoid the fire ships’ range—the strait becomes a killing ground for both sides. We’ll bleed them. They’ll bleed us."

"How long can we hold the harbour," Hector asked.

"Against a direct assault? Days. Maybe weeks. It depends on how fast they adapt. The fire ships are effective, but we only have so many. The net is strong, but the current will tear at it. Every engagement weakens it."

"Then we make every engagement count." Hector looked at the assembled commanders. "The walls are prepared. The harbour is prepared. The settlement has been evacuated inside the walls. The grain is stored. The livestock is penned. We have done everything we can to be ready." He paused. "The Greek fleet is the largest military force the world has ever seen. They have numbers. They have siege engines. They have Achilles. But they do not have the walls of Troy. They do not have the fire ships. They do not have the men in this room."

He looked at each of them in turn—the patrol leaders, the garrison commanders, the champions, the old soldiers and the young.

"You have fought raiders and pirates and the black ships of the Sea Peoples. You have held villages against overwhelming odds. You have never broken. You will not break now." He straightened. "The fleet will come. The siege will begin. And we will hold. Not for a day. Not for a week. For as long as it takes for the Greek coalition to fracture. For as long as it takes for Agamemnon to realize that Troy cannot be taken by force."

The men in the room stirred. Some of them looked at each other. Some of them looked at the floor. But no one argued.

Paris spoke for the first time. His voice was quiet, but it carried. "The settlement families have been moved inside the walls. The outer ring is empty. If the Greeks try to use the shelters as cover, they’ll find nothing but empty huts and cold fire pits."

"And if they burn them," someone asked.

"Then they burn them. The shelters can be rebuilt. The people cannot." Paris looked at the map. "The evacuation routes are clear. If the walls are breached—if we have to fall back—the civilians will move to the citadel. The militia will cover their retreat."

"The militia." Asterion, the wrestler from the southern plains, spoke up. His shoulders were broad as a doorframe, his arms corded with muscle. He had never fought in a war. He had fought in games. "I’ve been training with them. They’re not soldiers. But they’re willing. They’ll hold."

"They held the eastern beach against the black ships," Miros said. "They’ll hold again."

The council continued—supply lines, troop placements, the positioning of the archers on the walls, the rotation of the patrols along the harbour. Lysander contributed when the numbers required it. Paris spoke once more, about the water supplies in the lower town. Hector asked questions, made notes on the map in charcoal, listened to every voice. The torches burned lower. The shadows lengthened. Outside, the winter sun was setting over the sea.

When the council finally broke up, the commanders filed out, their voices still low, their faces still worried. Miros was the last to leave, pausing at the door.

"The wrestler. Asterion. He’s learning. Slowly."

"Is he ready," Hector asked.

"Not yet. Give me another week."

"You have less than that."

"I know." Miros walked out.

The door closed. Hector and Lysander were alone in the war room.

The map was still spread between them, the charcoal lines marking the coast and the strait and the slowly closing ring of enemies around Troy. The broken sword was still on the corner of the table—Achilles’s gift, the thumbprint crushed into the metal. Neither of them had moved it since the day it arrived.

"The Sea Peoples," Hector said without looking up.

Lysander nodded. "Ampelos received word this morning. Teresh has been gathering the tribes for months. Every tribe. Every chieftain. He’s built the largest force the Sea Peoples have ever assembled."

"To attack us."

"That was the plan. They wanted revenge for the fire ships, for the raids we turned back, for the refugees we took in." Lysander paused. "But they tried Egypt first."

Hector looked up. "Egypt."

"They hit the Nile delta three weeks ago. A massive assault. Hundreds of ships. Thousands of men. They thought the Egyptians would break the way the coastal villages broke. They were wrong. The Pharaoh had been preparing for them for years—archers, chariots, defensive lines along the river. The Sea Peoples lost half their fleet before they retreated."

"Half." Hector absorbed this. "So they’re wounded. Desperate."

"They’re looking for something. Revenge is still on the table, but revenge doesn’t feed your people. They need plunder. They need supplies. They need a victory." Lysander walked to the table. "Agamemnon knows this. He’ll send someone to Teresh. An envoy. An offer. Join us against Troy, and everything you take is yours."

"And if Teresh accepts."

"Then we fight on two fronts. The Greek fleet from the west. The Sea Peoples from the east. The walls can hold against one army. Against two—" He didn’t finish.

Hector looked at the map. "Can we reach Teresh first."

"Possibly. Fylon has contacts in the eastern islands. Traders who’ve dealt with the Sea Peoples before. I can send someone."

"With what offer."

Lysander was quiet for a long moment. The torches flickered. The broken sword caught the light. He looked at the map, at the charcoal lines, at the war that was coming from every direction.

"Nothing," he said.

The word hung in the air between them. Hector stared at him. The silence stretched. Outside, the wind stirred the bare branches of the fig tree. The harbour was dark. The city was quiet.

"Nothing," Hector repeated.

"We offer them nothing. No gold. No grain. No promises of alliance. No tribute. No trade. Nothing." Lysander met his brother’s eyes. "We remind them of what they already know. The Greeks are using them. Agamemnon doesn’t want allies. He wants disposable soldiers to throw against our walls. The Sea Peoples will die in numbers that make the Greeks’ job easier. And when Troy falls—if Troy falls—Agamemnon will turn on them. He’ll never let a fleet of raiders control the eastern trade routes."

"And you think Teresh will believe that."

"I think Teresh is wounded. He lost half his fleet against the Egyptians. His people are hungry. His chieftains are questioning his leadership. He needs a reason not to fight. If we can give him that reason—if we can make him see that Agamemnon is using him as a sacrifice—he might decide that survival is better than revenge."

"Or he might decide that revenge is the only thing he has left."

"Then we fight on two fronts. And we might not survive that."

Hector was silent for a long moment. He looked at the map. He looked at the broken sword. He looked at his brother.

"Send your man," he said. "Find Teresh. Tell him the truth. The Greeks will use him and discard him. The only way his people survive is if they stay out of this war."

"And if he asks what Troy offers in return."

Lysander looked at the map, at the sea, at the war that was coming, and let the silence speak for itself.

"Nothing."