Heir of Troy: The Third Son

The intelligence arrived on a grey morning, carried by a Phoenician trader who had slipped through the strait before dawn.

Ampelos brought the message to the war room himself, his face tight with something Lysander rarely saw on the old diplomat: fear. The tablet was small, the markings in Mycenaean code, but Ampelos had already deciphered it.

"They’ve set a date," Ampelos said. "Agamemnon has called for the fleet to assemble at Aulis. The rendezvous is in three weeks."

Lysander took the tablet and read it. The message was from one of Ampelos’s contacts in the Corinthian network, a man who had been reliable for years. It listed troop numbers, ship counts, supply estimates. The coalition was larger than they had feared. A thousand ships. Fifty thousand men. Every kingdom in the Peloponnese had answered the call.

But the date was what mattered. Three weeks.

"That’s faster than we expected," Lysander said.

"Agamemnon moved quickly. His message reached every corner of the Greek world within days. The story about Paris and Helen—the violated hospitality, the kidnapped queen, the house of liars—it spread faster than anyone anticipated. The minor kings who were wavering fell in line. The ones who wanted to stay neutral decided they couldn’t afford to. Even Diomedes of Argos is under pressure. His council is demanding he join the coalition. He may not be able to hold out much longer."

"How long can he hold."

"A few weeks. A month at most. If the fleet sails before he makes a decision, he’ll be forced to commit or face Agamemnon’s retaliation."

Lysander looked at the map on the wall. The strait. The harbour. The walls. Everything they had built, every preparation they had made, was about to be tested. "Three weeks. That’s not enough time."

"It’s what we have."

Hector entered the war room, still wearing his training armour. He had been drilling the militia since dawn, running them through the new formations Miros had designed. He took the tablet from Lysander, read it, and set it down without a word.

"Three weeks," he said.

"Yes."

"The net across the strait. Daidalos says it will be ready in two. The fire ships are already prepared. The supply reserves are at six months, maybe seven with rationing. The walls are sound." He paused. "We’ve done everything we can."

"It might not be enough."

"No. It might not." Hector looked at the map. "But it’s more than they expect. It’s more than anyone thought we could do. We’ll make them pay for every ship they send into the strait. Every soldier they put on the beach. Every day they spend on our shores."

"And if they break through."

"Then we fall back. We fight in the streets. We hold the citadel. We make them pay for every room, every corridor, every stone." Hector’s voice was flat, steady. "We’ve been preparing for this for two years. Now we see if it was enough."

Paris found Helen in the supply office, her sleeves rolled up, her hair escaping its bindings, a stylus in her hand. Arsini had put her to work three days ago, and she had not stopped since. The tablets were stacked around her in neat rows—grain inventories, water supplies, medical stores, everything the city would need to survive a siege.

She looked up when he entered. Her face was tired, but her eyes were clear. "The news is bad."

"Yes."

"How bad."

"The fleet assembles in three weeks. A thousand ships. Fifty thousand men."

She absorbed this without flinching. She had been absorbing bad news since she arrived in Troy. It had become a kind of skill. "What can I do."

"You’re already doing it. The supplies you’re cataloguing—they’re what will keep this city alive when the siege comes. Every jar of oil, every sack of grain, every roll of bandages. Arsini says you’ve been working through the night."

"I can’t sleep anyway. I might as well work." She set down her stylus. "I keep thinking about Sparta. About the palace. About Menelaus. He was weak, but he wasn’t cruel. Not really. He just didn’t know how to stand up to his brother. And now thousands of men are going to die because I left him."

"Thousands of men are going to die because Agamemnon wants control of the strait. You’re not the cause. You’re the excuse."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it’s true."

She looked at him, and her grey-green eyes were steady. "Then let’s make sure they regret using me as an excuse."

The High Priest was praying when Fylon’s watchers reported the meeting.

It was not unusual for the priest to pray. He prayed at dawn, at midday, at dusk. He prayed before meals and after meals and during the long hours of the night when the temple was empty and the goddess was silent. But tonight, he was not praying alone.

Four figures entered the temple through the back entrance, their faces hidden beneath dark cloaks. One of them was Phaedrus, the old councillor who had argued for returning Helen to Sparta. The others were men Lysander didn’t recognize—merchants, probably, or minor nobles who had been opposed to the reforms from the beginning.

They stayed for an hour. When they left, the priest was smiling.

Fylon reported this to Lysander in the small room above the wine shop. "They’re planning something. I don’t know what, but it’s soon. Before the fleet arrives."

"Can you get someone inside the temple."

"I already have. The serving woman I told you about. She’s been listening. She says the priest is telling his followers that the war is a punishment from the gods. That the only way to save the city is to cleanse it of the foreigners. That the prince who does not pray has brought this upon us."

"He means me."

"Yes. And Paris. And Helen. And the refugees. Anyone who doesn’t fit his vision of what Troy should be." Fylon paused. "He’s dangerous. More dangerous than Akastos was. Akastos wanted power. This priest wants purification. Men like that don’t negotiate. They don’t compromise. They burn."

"Then we need to move before he does."

"How. We have no proof."

"Then we find proof. Or we create it." Lysander stood. "The priest has been careful. But his followers aren’t as careful as he is. Phaedrus is frightened. Frightened men make mistakes. Put more watchers on him. On all of them. I want to know every move they make."

Fylon nodded and slipped out into the darkness.

The garden was cold, the fig tree bare, the stars sharp overhead. Paris found Lysander there, sitting on the stone bench where Andromache usually sat with her embroidery. His brother was alone, his face tired, his hands clasped in his lap.

Paris sat beside him. "I heard about the message. The fleet. The three weeks."

"Yes."

"I’m sorry."

Lysander looked at him. "For what."

"For bringing the war here. For making everything harder. For giving Agamemnon his excuse."

"You didn’t give him his excuse. You gave him his story. There’s a difference." Lysander paused.

" I remember what Mother said when she first came back. She looked at me and said I wasn’t the same. She said she didn’t know what had changed me, but she knew I was her son. She chose to accept me without understanding me. That’s what family does."

"I know."

"Helen is part of this family now. She’s part of this city. Whatever comes—the war, the siege, whatever—we protect her. We protect all of them. The refugees. The fishermen. The children in the schools. Everyone who came to us for shelter. That’s what we’ve been building for two years. Not just walls and ships. A city worth fighting for."

Paris was quiet for a moment. "You’ve changed. You know that. Since the fall. You’re not the same person I grew up with."

"I know."

"I don’t know what happened to you. I don’t think I ever will. But I’m glad it did. Whatever it was."

Lysander didn’t answer. He looked at the stars, cold and sharp and indifferent, and thought about the fleet gathering in the west, the priest plotting in his temple, the net being built across the strait, the fire ships waiting in the harbour. The war was coming. But they had been preparing for it. And they were not going to break.

Later that night, Paris returned to the east wing. Helen was still awake, sitting at the small table by the window, a tablet in her hand. She was not writing. She was staring at the inventory numbers as if they might rearrange themselves into something hopeful.

He sat beside her. "You should sleep."

"So should you."

"I can’t. Every time I close my eyes, I see the fleet. A thousand ships. Fifty thousand men. All of them coming here."

She reached out and took his hand. "I see it too. The ships. The fire. The walls breaking. I’ve been seeing it for weeks."

"What do you do."

"I tell myself it hasn’t happened yet. It may never happen. We may find a way to stop it." She looked at him. "We may not. But worrying about it won’t change the outcome. It only exhausts us before the battle even begins."

"When did you become wise."

"I’m not wise. I’m just too tired to panic." She squeezed his hand. "Come to bed. Whatever comes tomorrow, we face it together."

He let her lead him away from the table, away from the tablets and the numbers and the endless calculations. In the narrow bed, he held her close, her head on his chest, her breathing slow and steady.

"We’re going to survive this," he said. "I don’t know how. But we will."

"You make a lot of promises."

"I keep them."

She smiled against his chest. "I know."

Outside, the wind stirred the bare branches of the fig tree. The harbour was dark. The city was quiet. Somewhere in the west, a thousand ships were preparing to sail. But tonight, there was only the two of them, and the quiet, and the fragile, impossible hope that they might actually live to see the end of this.