Chapter 134 - 135: The Return
The storm came out of the west on the third day.
Paris had been on deck when the first dark clouds massed on the horizon, low and heavy and moving fast. Phaidon took one look at the sky and began shouting orders. The crew scrambled to reef the sails, to secure the cargo, to lash down everything that wasn’t already tied. The Kalliste was a sturdy ship, built for the coastal trade, but it wasn’t built for this.
"Get below," Phaidon said. "Both of you. Now."
Paris didn’t argue. He climbed down into the cargo hold, where Helen was waiting in the cramped compartment behind the olive oil jars. She had been seasick for most of the voyage, her face pale, her hands gripping the edge of the bench. But when she saw his expression, she straightened.
"What’s wrong."
"Storm. A bad one."
The ship lurched. The jars rattled in their racks. Somewhere above them, a wave crashed against the hull with a sound like thunder.
Helen reached for his hand. "Will we make it."
"Phaidon knows what he’s doing. He’s been sailing these waters for twenty years."
"That’s not an answer."
"It’s the only one I have."
The ship pitched again, harder this time. Paris braced himself against the hull, his arm around Helen’s shoulders. The compartment was dark, lit only by a single oil lamp that swung wildly from its hook. The smell of fish and brine and fear filled the small space.
"How long," Helen asked.
"I don’t know. Storms like this can last hours. Days."
"Days." She closed her eyes. "I didn’t escape one prison just to drown in the sea."
"You’re not going to drown. I promised you that."
"You promised me I’d see the sea. You didn’t promise I’d survive it."
He almost smiled. "I’m promising now. You’ll survive. We both will."
She leaned her head against his shoulder. The ship rolled, and the lamp swung, and the storm raged on.
Troy – The Council Chamber
The second session without Lysander was harder than the first.
Akastos had regrouped. He had spent the days since Arsini’s appearance rallying his allies, whispering in corridors, preparing a challenge that would be harder to deflect. The issue this time was not grain allocation or militia funding. It was the settlement itself.
"The refugee population has grown beyond what the city can sustain," Akastos said, his voice smooth and reasonable. "We all know this. The settlement outside the walls is a drain on our resources. A security risk. A breeding ground for disease. Now that Prince Lysander is absent—"
"The settlement is under the protection of the crown," Hector said. "It is not a matter for debate."
"Everything is a matter for debate, Prince Hector. That is the purpose of this council." Akastos spread his hands. "I am not suggesting we expel the refugees. I am suggesting we relocate them. There are lands to the east, beyond the mountains. Fertile valleys. They could be resettled there, away from the city, where they would no longer strain our supplies."
"And where they would be defenceless against the black ships and the raiders. Where they would be picked off one by one." Arsini’s voice was cold. She had been expecting this. She had spent the previous night going over the numbers, the supply reports, the strategic assessments. "The settlement’s location outside the walls is not an accident, Councillor. It’s a buffer. A first line of defence. If an army lands, the settlement gives us time to close the gates and man the walls. Relocate them, and we lose that buffer."
"We lose a liability."
"We lose four thousand people who have sworn to defend this city. Four thousand people who volunteered to fight. Four thousand people who held the eastern beach when the black ships came." Arsini stood. "You call them a drain. I call them a militia. I call them a fishing fleet. I call them the people who make the pottery, who tend the sick, who teach the children. Relocate them, and you don’t just lose a buffer. You lose everything Prince Lysander built. Everything that has kept this city alive."
The room was silent. Akastos’s face was flushed, but he didn’t respond.
"The settlement remains where it is," Hector said. "The matter is closed."
"It is not closed," Akastos said. "It is merely postponed."
"Then postpone it somewhere else. This council is adjourned."
The councillors rose. Akastos was the last to leave, his robes swirling, his back stiff with barely contained fury. Arsini remained at her place, her hands flat on the table, her breath steady.
Hector waited until the room was empty. "He’ll be back."
"I know."
"You handled him well. Again."
"He’s not difficult to handle. He’s just a man who’s never been told no." She gathered her tablets. "But he’s right about one thing. The settlement is a strain. If the siege comes—if we have to bring everyone inside the walls—it will be harder than we thought. The supplies. The space. The sanitation. We need to update the plans."
"Then update them. Whatever you need."
She nodded and left the chamber. In the corridor, she paused and looked out the window at the sea. Somewhere out there, Lysander was sailing toward a meeting that might change the course of the war. And somewhere further west, Paris was sailing toward Troy with a woman who might start one.
She turned from the window and walked back to the supply office. There was work to do.
The Aegean Sea – The Fourth Day
The storm had passed, but the Kalliste was limping.
The main sail was torn. The hull had taken damage. Two of the crew were injured—one with a broken arm, one with a gash across his forehead that had needed stitching. Phaidon had done what he could, but the ship was not going to make it to Crete on schedule.
"We’ll need to put in for repairs," Phaidon said, standing at the helm. The morning sun was pale on the water, the sea calming after the violence of the past two days. "There’s an island two days east. Small port. They have a shipwright."
"Two days east," Paris said. "That’s closer to Troy."
"Yes. Closer to Troy. Further from Crete." Phaidon looked at him. "If you wanted to disappear, Crete was the place. No one asks questions in Crete. But if the ship can’t make it—"
"Then we go east. We go to Troy."
"Is that what she wants."
Paris looked at Helen, who was standing at the rail, her face turned toward the rising sun. She had been sick for most of the voyage, but she had never complained. She had held his hand through the storm, and when the waves finally calmed, she had come up on deck and looked at the sea as if it were something precious.
"Yes," Paris said. "That’s what she wants."
He walked to the rail and stood beside her. The wind was cold, but the sun was warm on their faces. The sea stretched to the horizon, empty and endless and full of possibility.
"We’re going east," he said. "To Troy."
She turned to look at him. "Troy. Your home."
"Our home. If you want it to be."
She was quiet for a moment, watching the water. "I’ve never had a home. Not really. The palace in Sparta was a prison. My father’s house before that was a negotiation. I’ve spent my whole life being a guest in other people’s places."
"Troy won’t be like that. I promise."
"You make a lot of promises."
"I keep them."
She smiled—a real smile, bright and unguarded. "I know. That’s why I believe you."
He put his arm around her, and they stood together at the rail, watching the sea carry them east. Toward Troy. Toward whatever came next.
Troy – Night
Hecuba sat beside her husband’s bed, as she had every night since his collapse. Priam’s breathing was steady now, his face peaceful. Antiphus said he was improving—slowly, incrementally, but improving. He might wake within the week. He might speak. He might even recover enough to sit in the council chamber again, though he would never bear the full weight of rule.
"You’ve been sleeping long enough," Hecuba said quietly. "The city is still here. Your sons are still fighting. The walls are still holding. But they need you. Hector needs you. Lysander needs you. Even Paris—wherever he is—needs you." She paused. "I need you. You foolish old man."
Priam’s hand twitched in hers. It was the first movement she had felt in days.
She looked at his face. His eyes were still closed. His breathing was still steady. But the twitch had been real. Something was stirring in the depths of sleep.
"Take your time," she said. "I’ll be here when you wake."
She held his hand and watched the lamp burn low, and waited.
The Aegean Sea – Dawn
The island appeared on the horizon as the sun rose—a smudge of green and brown against the blue water. Phaidon stood at the helm, squinting at the shoreline.
"There," he said. "The port. We’ll be there by midday."
"And after the repairs," Paris asked. "How long to Troy."
"Three days. Four if the winds are against us."
Three days. Four at most. And then they would be home.
Paris stood at the rail, watching the island grow closer. Helen was beside him, her hand in his. She had not spoken much since they turned east, but her silence was not fear. It was something else. Anticipation. Hope.
"Tell me about Troy," she said. "The real Troy.
"It’s a city on a hill. White stone. The sea at its feet. There’s a tower where my brother stands every morning, counting ships. There’s a garden with a fig tree where Andromache sits with her embroidery. There’s a school in the craftsmen’s quarter where a girl named Deia teaches children to read. There’s a harbour with a barrier of wooden pilings, and a workshop that smells of sulfur and smoke, and a settlement outside the walls where four thousand people have built a new life from nothing."
"Four thousand refugees."
"Four thousand people who refused to die. They came to us with nothing, and we gave them shelter. Now they’re soldiers. Fishermen. Potters. Teachers. They’re part of the city. They’re part of what Lysander built."
She was quiet for a moment. "Lysander. He’s the one who wrote to me. Years ago. After you left."
"He’s the one who prevented the war. Then. He’s been preventing it ever since."
"And when I arrive—when we arrive—what will he say."
Paris looked at the horizon, where Troy was waiting somewhere beyond the blue water. "He’ll say welcome home."
She leaned her head against his shoulder. The wind stirred her hair. The island grew closer, and beyond it, the sea stretched east toward Troy.
Three days. Four at most.
And then they would be home.