Heir of Troy: The Third Son

The Lion Throne room at Mycenae was built to make men feel small.

The columns that lined the hall were carved from the trunks of ancient cedars, each one wider than a man could wrap his arms around. The walls were covered in bronze shields taken from conquered kingdoms, their surfaces polished to a mirror sheen, reflecting the light of a hundred oil lamps that burned day and night. The hearth at the centre of the hall roared with a flame that had not been extinguished in three generations, and the smoke rose through a shaft in the ceiling to the dark sky above.

The throne itself was carved from a single block of obsidian, brought from the eastern islands a century ago, its surface so smooth and black that it seemed to swallow the light around it. The armrests were shaped like lions. The back was high enough to dwarf any man who sat upon it.

Agamemnon sat upon it now.

He did not slouch. He did not fidget. He sat as if the throne had been made for him and him alone—as if the stone itself had been waiting for his weight. His hands rested on the lions’ heads, his fingers curled around their carved manes. His beard was dark and thick, streaked with grey at the temples. His face was heavy, hard, the face of a man who had spent his life imposing his will on others and had never once been refused.

Below him, the council chamber stretched the length of the hall. The kings and princes and warlords of the Greek world stood in their appointed places, arranged by rank and power and favour. The king of Tiryns was near the front, his face pale, his eyes fixed on the floor. The king of Corinth stood further back, his arms crossed, his jaw tight. The representatives from the islands clustered near the doors, as if hoping to escape before the proceedings began. Forty men in total. Forty rulers of forty kingdoms. And every single one of them was afraid.

A herald stood at the foot of the throne, a young man with a voice trained to carry across the vast hall. He struck his staff against the stone floor three times, and the sound echoed through the chamber like a death knell.

"The High King will hear the morning’s reports," the herald announced. "Let the king’s councillor approach."

An old man stepped forward from the shadows near the throne. His name was Pelagon, and he had served the House of Atreus for forty years. His back was bent with age, his hands gnarled with the pain of old wounds, but his eyes were sharp and his voice was steady. He carried a stack of clay tablets under his arm, each one marked with the seal of a different kingdom.

"The tribute from Tiryns has been received," Pelagon said. "Three hundred measures of grain, fifty head of cattle, twenty chariots. The king of Tiryns has fulfilled his obligations."

Agamemnon said nothing. His eyes moved to the king of Tiryns, who stood near the front of the assembly. The king was a small man, balding, his robes too fine for his frame. He flinched under the High King’s gaze.

"Acceptable," Agamemnon said. His voice was not loud. It did not need to be. The acoustics of the hall carried every word to every corner. "The king of Tiryns may remain in my favour."

The king of Tiryns bowed his head, relief visible on his face. He stepped back into the crowd, and several of the other kings exchanged glances. Acceptable. He said acceptable. That means we might survive this council after all.

Pelagon consulted the next tablet. "The king of Corinth reports that his grain reserves are depleted. He requests a reduction in his tribute for the coming season."

Agamemnon’s expression did not change. His fingers curled slightly on the lion’s mane. "The king of Corinth. Approach."

A man stepped forward from the middle of the assembly. He was taller than the king of Tiryns, broader in the shoulders, but his face was tight with the effort of concealing his fear. He walked to the foot of the throne and bowed.

"My lord. The harvest was poor this year. The eastern trade routes have been disrupted. My granaries are not what they were. I ask only for a small reduction, a temporary adjustment—"

"I have agents in your court," Agamemnon said. "I know the state of your granaries better than you do. You have been stockpiling grain for two years. You have been selling it to the islands at inflated prices. You are not depleted. You are holding out."

The king of Corinth went pale. "My lord, I—"

"If your granaries are truly empty, you are welcome to explain to me personally why your steward purchased three hundred additional storage jars last month. You are welcome to explain why your wife’s jewellery has been seen in the markets of Rhodes. You are welcome to explain why your youngest son has been sent to live with relatives in the northern hills, as if you were preparing for a siege."

The king of Corinth opened his mouth, but no words came out.

"Your tribute is doubled," Agamemnon said. "For this season and the next. You will deliver the first shipment within the week, or I will send my tax collectors to retrieve it personally. You remember my tax collectors."

The king of Corinth remembered. Everyone in the hall remembered. The last king who had refused tribute had watched his city burn while Agamemnon’s "tax collectors" dragged his family into the streets.

"Yes, my lord," the king of Corinth whispered. "Doubled. Within the week."

He backed away, his face ashen. Several of the other kings stepped aside to let him pass, as if his failure might be contagious.

Pelagon consulted the next tablet. "The situation in Sparta. King Menelaus reports that his wife, Helen, has fled the palace. She departed with a foreign merchant, believed to be a Trojan agent. Menelaus is gathering a pursuit force and requests the High King’s assistance."

A murmur rippled through the assembly. Helen of Sparta. The most beautiful woman in the world. The woman whose marriage had been a political triumph. The woman who had just humiliated her husband in front of the entire Greek world.

Agamemnon raised one finger. The murmur stopped instantly.

"My brother," he said, "is a fool."

The silence in the hall was absolute.

"He had one task. One responsibility. He was to control his wife. He was to maintain order in his household. He was to present a face of strength to the world. Instead, he allowed a foreign agent to seduce his wife under his own roof, in his own palace, while my couriers were standing in his hall delivering my orders." He paused. "The merchant was not a merchant. The merchant was Paris, son of Priam, prince of Troy. He has been in Sparta for weeks, gathering intelligence on our coalition, mapping our alliances, and seducing my brother’s wife. My brother did not notice. My brother did not suspect. My brother was too busy drinking wine and feeling sorry for himself."

He stood from the throne. The movement was unhurried, almost casual. But every man in the hall took an involuntary step backward.

"Send word to Sparta. Menelaus is to remain where he is. He is not to pursue his wife. He is not to send ships. He is not to take any action whatsoever without my explicit command. His wife is no longer his concern. She is a pretext—a tool to be used when the time is right. The insult to his honour is real. I will make use of it. But Menelaus will not act until I tell him to act. Is that understood."

Pelagon bowed. "Yes, my lord."

Agamemnon stepped down from the dais and walked among the assembled kings. They parted before him like water before a ship’s prow. His eyes moved from face to face, and each man he looked at felt as if he had been weighed and measured and found wanting.

"The king of Argos," Agamemnon said. "Diomedes. Where is he."

Pelagon hesitated. "The king of Argos sends his regrets, my lord. He was unable to attend. He cited illness."

"Illness." Agamemnon tasted the word. "Diomedes has been ill for a year. He has been ill every time I have summoned him. He has been ill every time I have asked for troops. He has been ill while meeting with unknown parties in neutral ports. He has been ill while asking questions about alternatives to the coalition." He turned to face the assembly. "Diomedes is not ill. Diomedes is waiting. He is waiting to see which way the wind blows. He is waiting to see if Troy can hold. He is waiting to see if I am strong enough to crush my enemies."

He let the silence stretch. The hearth fire crackled. The bronze shields on the walls reflected the flames.

"Let him wait. Let him watch. When the fleet sails—when thirty ships appear on the horizon and ten thousand soldiers march on the gates of Troy—Diomedes will understand his mistake. He will understand that there is only one power in this world. Only one force that shapes the destiny of nations. And he will come crawling back, begging for my forgiveness."

He walked back toward the throne, his footsteps echoing on the stone.

"Troy," he said. "Let us speak of Troy."

Pelagon shuffled through his tablets. "Our sources inside the city have gone silent, my lord. The councillor Akastos has been arrested. His network has been compromised. We are no longer receiving reliable intelligence from within the walls."

"Of course we are not." Agamemnon settled back onto the obsidian throne. "The third son. Lysander. He did this."

"My lord?"

"Pelonides met him. You remember Pelonides. He said the boy was sixteen years old. He said he watched everything. He said his eyes were like a man who had already seen the end of the game before the first move was made." He leaned back. "Sixteen years old. Perhaps seventeen by now. And he has been preparing for this war since before we knew there would be a war."

He looked out over the assembly.

"He built a fleet. He armed refugees. He negotiated alliances with Lycia and Caria. He purged my agents from his council. He took my best source—a councillor who had been feeding me intelligence for a year—and turned him into a weapon against me. He sent his own brother into the heart of my territory, and my brother’s wife, and my coalition’s most valuable political asset, is now sailing toward Troy because a seventeen-year-old boy planned it."

He paused. The kings shifted uneasily. This was not what they had expected to hear. This was not the dismissal of a minor threat. This was something else.

"Impressive," Agamemnon said.

The word hung in the air. No one breathed.

"A seventeen-year-old boy. The third son. The one who was never supposed to matter. He saw the war coming before any of you did. He built walls and ships and alliances while you were arguing about tribute payments. He turned my own network against me while you were drinking wine in your halls." He looked at the assembly, and his eyes were cold. "That is impressive. I will not deny it. Let the boy have his walls. Let him have his fire ships and his refugee militia and his alliances with minor kings. Let him keep building. Let him think he can hold back the tide."

He leaned forward on the throne, and his voice dropped to something just above a whisper—but the acoustics of the hall carried it to every corner.

"Nothing stands against the greater force. That is not strategy. That is the nature of the world. A boy builds a wall of stone. A man builds a flood. When the flood comes—when thirty ships appear on his horizon, when ten thousand soldiers march on his gates—all those years of preparation will mean nothing. The walls will fall. The ships will burn. The alliances will shatter. And the boy who built them will watch his city die."

He stood again, and this time he walked to the hearth. The flame roared at his approach, as if bowing to its master.

"The only man in Troy who concerns me is Hector. The shield. The greatest warrior of his generation. I have studied his battles. I have read the reports of every engagement he has fought. He is not a man who breaks. He is not a man who retreats. He is the one soldier in that city who might—might—hold the line when everything else crumbles."

He turned from the fire.

"But I have a solution for Hector. His name is Achilles."

The name rippled through the hall like a shockwave. Every king in the room had heard that name. Every king in the room had heard what happened at Aetolia. Thirty soldiers killed by one man. A fleet destroyed. A legend born.

"Achilles has never been defeated," Agamemnon said. "He has never been wounded. He has never met a warrior who could stand against him for more than a few heartbeats. I have seen him fight. I have seen him move through enemy lines like fire through dry grass. There is no soldier in the world who can match him. Not even Hector." He paused. "Achilles will handle Hector. The rest of the sons—the builder, the lover, the prophetess—they are irrelevant. They will fall. The city will fall. The walls will fall."

He walked back to the throne and sat.

"The fleet sails within the month. The army marches within the week. You will return to your kingdoms and gather your forces. You will send your ships and your soldiers and your tribute. You will do this because I am your High King. You will do this because I have protected you from your enemies for twenty years. You will do this because the alternative—" He let the threat hang in the air. "The alternative is not something you wish to contemplate."

He gestured. The herald struck his staff against the floor.

"The council is dismissed. The kings will return to their chambers. The preparations will continue."

The assembly began to disperse. The kings filed out of the hall, their faces pale, their voices low. The king of Tiryns was trembling. The king of Corinth looked like a man who had just seen his own grave. The representatives from the islands were already calculating how many ships they could afford to lose.

Agamemnon remained on his throne, looking out at the empty hall. Pelagon stood at his side, his tablets still clutched under his arm.

"My lord," Pelagon said quietly. "The king of Argos. Diomedes. Will you take action against him."

"Not yet. Diomedes is a cautious man. He will not commit until he sees which way the wind blows. When the fleet sails—when Troy begins to crumble—he will come back to me. They all will."

"And the boy. Lysander."

Agamemnon was quiet for a moment. The fire crackled in the hearth. The bronze shields on the walls reflected the empty hall.

"He is impressive," the High King said. "But impressive is not the same as invincible. Let him build. Let him prepare. Let him think he can win." He turned his gaze toward the eastern window, where the sea was hidden behind the mountains. "When the flood comes, the walls will fall. They always do."

He rose from the throne and walked toward his private chambers. The council was over. The war was coming.

And somewhere across the sea, a seventeen-year-old boy was standing on a tower, counting ships.