Heir of Troy: The Third Son

The morning was cold enough to freeze the breath in a man’s lungs, but Lysander had been on the walls since before dawn. He walked the parapets with his cloak pulled tight, counting the stones that needed repair, the sections where the mortar had crumbled, the places where the ancient walls had grown thin. Hector walked beside him, silent for the most part, his eyes moving over the defences the way a farmer might survey a field before harvest.

"The northern section is weakest," Lysander said, stopping at a point where the wall dipped slightly, a sag in the ancient stone that had been there since before either of them was born. "If they bring rams, this is where they’ll hit."

"We’ve reinforced it twice."

"It won’t be enough. Not against fifty thousand men." Lysander looked down at the ground below the wall, the rocky slope that led up from the plain. "We need something else. Something they won’t expect."

"Such as."

Lysander was quiet for a moment. His mind was reaching backward, not forward—back to the lecture halls, the books, the histories he had taught for years before he ever set foot in this world. Constantinople. The Theodosian Walls. The barrels of Greek fire. The cauldrons of boiling oil. The logs that rolled down the slopes, crushing men like insects. All of it, centuries of siege warfare, compressed into a few desperate ideas.

"Oil," he said. "Heated oil. We pour it from the walls when they try to scale them. It burns. It sticks to armour. It makes the ladders impossible to hold."

Hector looked at him. "Where do we get enough oil."

"The olive presses. The cooking stores. We’ve been stockpiling for the siege anyway. We divert some of it to the walls. Cauldrons every fifty feet, kept hot with braziers. When the assault comes, we pour."

"Messy," Hector said. "Cruel."

"Yes."

Hector nodded slowly. "What else."

"Logs. Heavy timber, stripped of branches, lashed together. We stack them on the slopes below the walls—the north slope, the east slope, anywhere the ground is steep enough. When the infantry advances, we cut the ropes. The logs roll down and break their formations. It won’t kill thousands, but it will slow them. Disorganize them. Make them afraid of what else we might have."

Hector looked at the slope below the northern wall, the rocky ground where the Greek infantry would soon advance. "Can it work."

"It worked for—" Lysander caught himself. "It’s worked before. In other sieges. I read about it."

"You read about a lot of things."

"I had a lot of time to read."

Hector almost smiled. Almost. "Oil and logs. What else."

"Pitch. Heated pitch, mixed with sulfur. Daidalos already has the mixture for the fire ships. We can use it on the walls too. It’s not just a weapon—it’s a deterrent. Once the first wave of attackers burns, the second wave will think twice about climbing the ladders."

"Assuming we can heat enough pitch."

"We have the sulfur from Tarsus. We have the naphtha from the eastern traders. Daidalos can make more."

Hector was quiet, looking at the walls. The sun was rising over the eastern hills, pale and cold. The sea beyond the harbour was grey and flat. Somewhere on that sea, a thousand ships were preparing to sail.

"Oil, logs, and pitch," Hector said. "I’ll tell Daidalos to start preparing the cauldrons. The timber can come from the eastern forests—we’ll send out logging parties today. How long do we have."

"Ampelos says the fleet could sail any day. Once they’re at sea—" Lysander didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.

"Then we work fast." Hector turned from the wall. "I need to summon the outlying garrisons. Every man who can hold a spear. Every champion from every village and settlement in Troy’s territory. We’ll need them all."

"Miros can handle the summons."

"Miros is already handling a dozen things. But yes. He’ll handle this too." Hector paused. "There’s a garrison commander on the western perimeter. A man named—" He searched for the name. "Philo. Fifteen years on the western border. Steady. Reliable. His daughter is Arsini."

Lysander felt something shift in his chest. "I know."

"He’ll be among the summoned. I thought you should know."

Hector walked away toward the war room. Lysander stood alone on the wall, looking at the sea, thinking about a man he had never met who was about to be called to war because of the walls his daughter’s lover had built.

Cassandra was in the library when Lysander found her.

She was not reading. She was standing at the window, her back to the door, her dark hair loose around her shoulders. The winter light fell on her face, and her eyes were fixed on something beyond the walls, beyond the city, beyond the present moment. Lysander had seen that look before. It meant she was seeing something no one else could see.

"I’ve been looking for you," he said.

"You’ve been on the walls. Counting stones."

"Among other things."

She turned from the window. Her face was pale, her eyes tired. She had not been sleeping. She never slept when the visions were strong.

"The thread," she said. "In the west. It’s pulled tighter than ever. The fleet is almost ready to sail."

"I know. Ampelos received word this morning."

"That’s not what I meant." She walked toward him, her bare feet silent on the stone. "There’s something else. Something I can’t see clearly. A darkness. Not the fleet. Not Achilles. Something else. Something that’s coming from a different direction."

"The Sea Peoples."

She looked at him. "You know."

"I guessed. Agamemnon is not a fool. He knows Troy has been fighting the Sea Peoples for years. He knows they want revenge. He’ll try to use them."

"And if he succeeds."

"Then we fight on two fronts. The walls hold or they don’t. Either way, we’ve done everything we can."

Cassandra was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "You’ve changed. Since the plague. Since the fires. Since the children died in the school. You’re harder than you were."

"I’ve had to be."

"I know. But hardness is not the same as strength. Strength bends. Hardness breaks." She touched his arm, her fingers cold. "Don’t break, Lysander. Whatever comes. Don’t break."

He looked at her hand on his arm. "I won’t."

"You don’t know that."

"No. But I’m choosing to believe it."

She almost smiled. "That’s the first time I’ve heard you say that."

"Say what."

"That you’re choosing to believe something. Usually you just count things."

"People change."

"Yes." She withdrew her hand. "They do." She turned back to the window. "I’ll be here. If you need me. I don’t fight. I don’t build walls. But I see things. And sometimes—sometimes that’s useful."

"It’s always useful."

She didn’t answer. She was already looking at the sea again, her eyes fixed on something he couldn’t see.

Miros was in the training ground behind the barracks, working through the left-handed drills Deia had been recording. His right arm hung useless at his side, but his left arm was getting faster. The strikes were cleaner now. The footwork was steadier. He was not the warrior he had been, but he was still a warrior.

Hector found him there. "I need you to summon the outlying garrisons."

Miros lowered his sword. "All of them."

"Every man who can hold a spear. Every champion from every village and settlement in Troy’s territory. The western perimeter. The eastern watchtowers. The southern farms. Everyone."

Miros nodded. "How long."

"Messengers leave today. I want the garrisons assembled within the week. Before the fleet arrives."

"That’s not much time."

"I know. But we don’t have much time." Hector paused. "There’s a garrison commander on the western perimeter. Philo. Fifteen years on the border. I’ve heard good things about him. Make sure he’s among the summoned."

"Philo." Miros knew the name. Everyone knew the name. "Arsini’s father."

"Yes."

Miros was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "Does she know."

"Not yet. I thought you might tell her. Or Lysander. One of you should."

Miros nodded slowly. "I’ll tell her. She deserves to hear it from someone she trusts."

Hector turned to leave, then paused. "How’s the arm."

"Useless. But the left is getting better."

"Good. We’ll need every sword we can get." He walked out of the training ground. Miros stood alone, the wooden sword in his left hand, and thought about a girl who had stood between armed men and a classroom full of children. She would want to know that her father was coming. She would also be terrified.

He set the sword down and went to find her.

Arsini was in the supply office, as she always was. The tablets were stacked around her in neat rows—grain inventories, oil stores, medical supplies, everything the city would need to survive the siege. She looked up when Miros entered, and something in his face made her set down her stylus.

"Bad news."

"Not bad. Complicated." He sat down across from her. "Hector is summoning the outlying garrisons. Every man from every village and settlement in Troy’s territory. They’ll be here within the week."

"Every man." She understood immediately. "My father."

"Yes."

She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "I haven’t seen him in two years. He sends letters. They’re always about duty. About the importance of holding the line. He never asks about me. He never asks if I’m happy."

"Maybe he doesn’t know how."

"Maybe he doesn’t care."

"Or maybe he’s been on the western perimeter for fifteen years, watching the border, and he’s forgotten how to be anything except a soldier." Miros looked at her. "When he arrives, you’ll have a chance to find out."

She looked at the tablets spread before her. "I don’t know if I want to find out. I’ve built a life here. I’ve built something that matters. I don’t need his approval."

"No. But you might want it anyway."

She didn’t answer. She picked up her stylus and went back to the inventory. Miros stood to leave, then paused at the door.

"He’s a good soldier. Steady. Reliable. I’ve heard the reports. He’s held the western perimeter for fifteen years without complaint. That’s not nothing."

"It’s not everything either."

"No. It’s not." He walked out. Arsini sat alone in the supply office, staring at the numbers without seeing them. Her father was coming. The man who had sent letters about duty and never asked about her life. The man who had been a stranger for fifteen years. He was coming to fight in a war she had helped prepare for.

She didn’t know how she felt about that. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.