Heir of Troy: The Third Son

The island had no name.

It was a jagged tooth of rock and scrub pine in the eastern Aegean, too small for any kingdom to claim, too barren for any farmer to settle. But it had a deep harbour on its southern side, sheltered from the winter winds, and in that harbour a fleet was gathering. Black hulls. Black sails. The same ships that had burned their way down the Anatolian coast, that had driven thousands of refugees into Troy’s walls, that had slaughtered fishermen and farmers and anyone else who stood in their way.

The camp sprawled across the rocky slopes above the harbour—tents made of patched sailcloth, driftwood fires, the smell of roasting meat and salt and smoke. Men moved among the tents with the easy, dangerous confidence of wolves. Women worked at the fires, sharpened blades, mended nets. Children ran barefoot through the camp, half-wild, learning to fight before they learned to read. The Sea Peoples were not a kingdom. They were not an army. They were the survivors of a dozen broken nations, bound together by hunger and desperation and the iron will of their chieftain.

Teresh sat on a driftwood throne outside his tent, watching the harbour. He was not a large man—lean and weathered, his black hair streaked with grey, his face scarred from a dozen fights. His eyes were the colour of the winter sea, cold and unreadable. He had led his people through storms and battles and the wreckage of the Egyptian campaign. Half his fleet was at the bottom of the Nile delta. Half his warriors were dead. But he was still here. And the tribes were still following him.

A lookout called from the headland. "Ship approaching! Small vessel, flying no colours!"

Teresh did not rise. He watched the ship enter the harbour—a lean galley, stripped of anything that might slow it down. It anchored at the edge of the fleet, and a single man climbed into a skiff and was rowed ashore. He was lean and weathered, his skin burned dark by years of sun, his hands scarred from rope and oar. He walked up the beach toward the driftwood throne with the guarded stillness of someone who had learned to survive in dangerous places.

Theron.

He stopped before Teresh and inclined his head. "Chieftain."

"Merchant." Teresh’s voice was low, rough, the voice of a man who had spent too many years shouting over storms. "You’re a long way from your trade routes."

"I’m not here to trade."

"No. You’re here because Agamemnon sent you." Teresh leaned back on his throne. "Speak. Tell me what the High King of the Greeks wants with the Sea Peoples."

Theron did not hesitate. "He wants you to join him against Troy. The Greek fleet will attack from the west—a thousand ships, fifty thousand men. They’ll blockade the harbour and invest the walls. But Troy has been preparing for this war for two years. Fire ships. A net across the strait. Reinforced walls. They’ll hold for months. Maybe years. Agamemnon wants to end it quickly. He wants you to attack from the sea while he attacks from the land. Two fronts. Troy can’t defend against both."

"And in return."

"Everything you take is yours. Gold. Grain. Slaves. The city will burn, and you will be the ones holding the torches. Agamemnon doesn’t want the plunder. He wants the strait. The rest is yours."

Teresh was silent. His cold eyes studied Theron’s face. Behind him, the camp was quiet—the women at the fires, the men sharpening their blades, the children who had stopped their games to listen.

"Everything we take," Teresh said.

"Everything."

"And after Troy falls. What happens to us."

Theron said nothing. His silence was answer enough.

"You don’t know," Teresh said. "Or you do know, and you’re afraid to say it." He leaned forward. "Agamemnon is not the first king to offer us an alliance. The Egyptians offered us gold to leave their shores. The Hittites offered us land to fight their wars. We took their gold and their land, and when the fighting was over, they turned on us. They always turn on us." He paused. "Why should Agamemnon be different."

"Because he needs you. Because Troy is a fortress, and he can’t take it alone. Because if the siege drags on for years, his coalition will fracture. The minor kings will start asking questions. The tribute payments will stop. He needs this war to end quickly. You’re the only way to make that happen."

"Or I could wait. Let the Greeks bleed themselves against Troy’s walls. Let them weaken each other. And when the siege is over—whoever wins—I can take whatever is left."

"You could. But if the Greeks win without you, there’s nothing left to take. Agamemnon will control the strait. He’ll control the trade routes. He’ll have no reason to tolerate your presence in these waters. And if Troy wins—" Theron shrugged. "Troy has fire ships. Troy has been killing your people for two years. Do you think they’ll forget."

Teresh looked at him for a long moment. Then he made a sound that might have been a laugh—low, humourless. "You speak well, merchant. Agamemnon chose his envoy carefully."

"I speak the truth. That’s all."

"Is it." Teresh stood. He was not tall, but the men around him stepped back as if he were. "You’ve had a long journey. Rough seas. You’ll rest tonight. Food. Wine. A woman to warm your bed. Whatever you need. I’ll give you my answer tomorrow."

Theron opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He knew better than to press. "Tomorrow."

Teresh gestured to one of his attendants. "Take him to the guest tent. Make sure he’s comfortable."

Theron was led away. Teresh sat back on his throne, watching the harbour. The Greek galley rocked gently at anchor among the black ships. The sun was setting over the western hills, painting the sea in shades of gold and grey.

He did not move for a long time.

The second ship arrived at dusk.

It was smaller than the Greek galley—a coastal trader, its hull weathered by years of running the eastern routes. It anchored beside the Greek vessel, and a single man was rowed ashore. He was younger than Theron, his face unlined, his hands uncalloused. He walked up the beach toward the driftwood throne with the careful composure of someone who was trying very hard not to show his fear.

Teresh watched him approach. "Another envoy. The Greeks send a merchant. The Trojans send a boy."

"My name is Akoras." The young man’s voice was steady, but his hands were trembling slightly at his sides. "I carry a message from Prince Lysander of Troy."

"Lysander." Teresh tasted the name. "The one who builds things. The one who counts ships. I’ve heard of him."

"He knows you’ve been gathering the tribes. He knows Agamemnon has sent you an offer. He sent me to give you another."

Teresh leaned back on his throne. "Speak."

Akoras took a breath. "The Greek fleet will arrive at Troy within weeks. A thousand ships. Fifty thousand men. Every kingdom in the Peloponnese has answered the call. The shores of Greece will be empty. The villages. The towns. The storehouses. All of it, undefended. The men who should be guarding them will be on their ships, sailing toward Troy."

He paused.

"Prince Lysander offers you time. Not gold. Not grain. Not an alliance. Time. When the Greek fleet sails—when every soldier and every ship is a thousand miles from home—their shores will be yours. No walls. No armies. No fire ships. Just plunder, waiting to be taken. You don’t have to fight Troy. You don’t have to die on our walls. You can take what you need from the Greek homeland while the Greeks are dying on ours."

Teresh was silent. His cold eyes studied the young man’s face, searching for the lie. Behind him, the camp was still.

"Time," Teresh said.

"Time. The siege of Troy will last months. Maybe years. The Greeks will bleed against our walls. Their supply lines will stretch. Their soldiers will die. And all the while, their homes will be empty. Their wives and children will be unprotected. Their storehouses will be full. You could burn a hundred villages before the fleet even reaches our shores. You could take enough plunder to feed your people for a generation. And you wouldn’t have to fight a single battle against Troy."

"And after the war. When the Greeks return. When they find their villages burned and their families slaughtered. What then."

"Then they’ll be too weak to fight you. They’ll have spent months fighting us. They’ll have lost thousands of men. Their ships will be damaged. Their supplies will be low. They’ll be in no condition to chase you across the Aegean. And even if they try—" Akoras shrugged. "You’re the Sea Peoples. You’ve been running from stronger enemies than the Greeks for years. You know how to disappear."

Teresh stared at him. The firelight flickered on his scarred face. The silence stretched.

"You speak well, boy. Lysander chose his envoy carefully."

"He told me to tell you the truth. That’s all."

"Is it." Teresh stood. "You’ve had a long journey. Rough seas. You’ll rest tonight. Food. Wine. A woman to warm your bed. Whatever you need. I’ll give you my answer tomorrow."

Akoras hesitated. "Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow." Teresh gestured to another attendant. "Take him to the guest tent. Make sure he’s comfortable. And make sure he’s kept separate from the Greek. I don’t want them comparing notes."

Akoras was led away. Teresh sat back on his throne, looking at the harbour where the two ships rocked at anchor—the Greek galley and the Trojan trader, side by side in the fading light.

One offered plunder in exchange for blood. The other offered plunder in exchange for nothing.

He sat there for a long time, watching the stars come out. His attendants kept their distance. They knew better than to disturb him when he was thinking.

After a while, a woman came to stand beside him. She was tall and lean, her dark hair bound back, her arms scarred from years of fighting. Her name was Miria, and she had been his second-in-command since the Egyptian campaign. She was the only person in the camp who could speak to him as an equal.

"The Greek offers gold and slaves," she said. "The Trojan offers an empty coastline. Which is better."

"The Greek offer is a trap. Agamemnon doesn’t want allies. He wants bodies to throw at Troy’s walls. We die. He wins. We get whatever plunder is left after the Greeks take the best for themselves."

"And the Trojan offer."

Teresh was quiet. "The Trojan offer is clever. Lysander knows we can’t beat Troy. He knows we’re wounded. He knows we need a victory. So he gives us one. An undefended coastline. Empty villages. Full storehouses. No walls. No fire ships. No armies." He paused. "He’s offering us survival. Not revenge. Not glory. Survival."

"And if the Greeks win the war quickly. If Troy falls before we’ve taken enough."

"Then we disappear. We’ve been doing it for years. We know how to vanish." He looked at the harbour, where the two ships were silhouetted against the last light of the sun. "But if Troy holds—if the siege drags on for months—we’ll have stripped the Greek homeland bare before Agamemnon even knows what’s happening."

Miria nodded slowly. "Which do you choose."

"I haven’t decided." Teresh rose from his throne. "Tomorrow. I’ll give them both their answer tomorrow."

He walked toward his tent, and Miria walked beside him. The camp was settling into its night rhythms—the fires burning low, the children asleep, the warriors sharpening their blades by starlight.

"The Trojan boy," Miria said. "He was afraid. But he didn’t let the fear stop him."

"No. He didn’t."

"That’s a kind of courage."

"Yes." Teresh paused at the entrance to his tent. "It is."

He went inside, and the flap closed behind him. The stars wheeled overhead, cold and indifferent. The two ships rocked at anchor in the harbour. And somewhere in the east, a thousand Greek ships were preparing to sail. Somewhere in the west, a prince was standing on a tower, counting ships, waiting for the storm.

Tomorrow, Teresh would give his answer. But tonight, he would think. And the wolves of the sea would wait.