Heir of Troy: The Third Son

The war council convened at dawn in Agamemnon’s tent, a vast pavilion of tanned hides and cedar poles that had been erected on the highest ground above the beach. The kings had been arriving since first light, their cloaks pulled tight against the cold wind that swept down from the mountains. Servants moved among them with cups of heated wine, but few of the kings drank. The mood was too tense for comfort.

Agamemnon sat at the head of the long table, his hands flat on the wood, his dark eyes moving from face to face. Menelaus stood behind him, a silent shadow. Odysseus was to his left, a tablet of intelligence reports before him. Ajax sat at the far end of the table, his massive frame dwarfing the chair beneath him. Nestor of Pylos, white-bearded and ancient, leaned on his staff beside the entrance, his eyes half-closed as if he were dozing. Diomedes sat across from Odysseus, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Idomeneus of Crete stood near the brazier, warming his hands, his scarred face grim.

"The fleet is assembled," Agamemnon began. "A thousand ships. Fifty thousand men. Every kingdom in the Peloponnese has answered the call. The Trojan defences are known to us—walls, fire ships, a net across the strait. They have been preparing for this war for two years. They are not going to surrender at the sight of our sails. But they have one weakness. One vulnerability they cannot overcome."

"Their numbers," Ajax rumbled.

"Their numbers. They have a hundred ships to our thousand. Five thousand soldiers to our fifty thousand. Walls can be breached. Fire can be countered. A net across the strait can be cut. But no amount of preparation can overcome the arithmetic. We will overwhelm them. We will strangle their trade. We will burn their fields. We will starve them out if we have to. They cannot hold forever." He paused. "And when the walls finally crack—when the gate breaks and the city is open—we have the warriors to finish it. Ajax, who has never been defeated in single combat. Diomedes, who has killed more men than any king in Argos. Idomeneus, who has led assaults on a dozen fortified cities. And Achilles." He looked around the table. "Achilles, who will tear down their walls with his bare hands if we ask him to. They have Hector. One man. One shield. He cannot stop all of you."

"Achilles," Odysseus said. "Who is not here."

The words fell into the silence. Several of the kings exchanged glances. Agamemnon’s expression did not change, but his fingers pressed harder against the table.

"He was delayed by storms. He will arrive before we sail."

"You’ve said that for three days." Diomedes’s voice was flat, unimpressed. "The storms have passed. The winds are favourable. Every other contingent is here. Where is the Phthian."

"He will come."

"He’d better." Ajax spoke for the first time, his voice a low rumble. "Without him, we’re still a match for anyone. But with him, we’re unstoppable. My cousin can break any wall, any line, any warrior. He’s been wanting this fight for years. He won’t miss it."

"Your cousin," Agamemnon said, "is the greatest warrior of our age. I have no doubt of his commitment. But his arrival is not something I can control."

"Perhaps the omens will tell us more." Nestor’s voice was old and cracked, but it carried the weight of decades. "Where is Calchas. Has the seer read the signs."

"Calchas will speak before we sail. He’s been fasting and praying for three days. The omens will be read, and the men will be reassured." Agamemnon looked at the kings. "The invasion proceeds as planned. With or without Achilles, we sail within the week."

The tent was silent. Then Menelaus spoke. His voice was quiet, almost too quiet. "When we take the city, I want my wife back. Alive. Unharmed. She is to be brought to me. No one touches her. No one harms her. She is mine."

"Of course," Agamemnon said.

"I mean it, brother. She humiliated me. She abandoned me. She made me a laughingstock before every king in Greece. But she is still my wife. And I will have her back."

"And you will." Agamemnon’s voice was smooth, reassuring. "When the walls fall and the palace burns, Helen of Sparta will be returned to you. I swear it."

Odysseus looked at Menelaus, and something flickered in his storm-dark eyes—a question he did not ask, a doubt he did not voice.

The storm struck at midday.

It came out of the west without warning, a wall of black cloud that swallowed the sky and turned the sea to chaos. The ships in the bay pitched and rolled, their mooring lines straining. Men scrambled to secure the sails, to drag the smaller vessels further up the beach, to save what could be saved. The wind howled like a living thing, and the rain fell in sheets that stung the skin and blinded the eyes.

Agamemnon stood at the entrance of his tent, watching the storm with the cold, calculating eyes of a man who had seen worse. Menelaus was beside him, his face pale.

"This is a bad omen," Menelaus said.

"It’s weather. Nothing more."

"The men won’t see it that way. They’ll say the gods are angry. They’ll say we shouldn’t sail."

"The men will say whatever they’re told to say. Calchas will read the omens tomorrow. He’ll tell them the storm was a test from Zeus, and we passed it. That’s what seers are for." Agamemnon turned away from the storm. "Achilles should have been here by now. The storms delayed him, but they’ve passed. Where is he."

"Perhaps he’s not coming."

"He’s coming. He wants Hector. He’s been talking about Hector for months. He won’t miss this." Agamemnon’s jaw tightened. "But if he doesn’t arrive soon, I’ll sail without him. I won’t let one man’s absence delay the entire invasion."

"And if we sail without him and lose."

"We won’t lose. We have numbers. We have surprise. We have the will of the entire Greek world behind us." Agamemnon’s voice hardened. "Achilles is a weapon. A powerful weapon. But he’s not the only weapon we have. We’ll win this war with or without him."

The storm raged on through the afternoon, and the kings huddled in their tents, waiting for it to pass. The men huddled around their fires, staring at the churning sea, whispering about omens and the anger of the gods. The invasion had been delayed again. And the army was beginning to fray.

As dusk fell, the storm began to ease. The wind dropped. The rain slowed to a drizzle. The clouds parted in the west, letting through a thin, watery light that turned the sea to silver.

And then the lookout on the northern headland cried out.

"Ships! Ships approaching from the north!"

Agamemnon was the first to reach the beach. Menelaus was close behind him. Odysseus, Ajax, Diomedes, Nestor, Idomeneus—the kings gathered on the sand, their cloaks snapping in the dying wind, watching the dark shapes that were emerging from the haze.

Fifty ships. Black hulls. Black sails. They moved through the water with a speed and precision that no other fleet could match. They did not struggle against the waves. They did not falter in the wind. They cut through the sea like blades through silk, and at their head was a single galley, larger than the rest, its prow shaped like a serpent with jaws agape.

"Myrmidons," Ajax said. His voice was quiet, almost reverent. "The Ant Men."

The ships approached the shore. The kings stood in silence, watching. Even Agamemnon said nothing.

The serpent galley was the first to ground. Its crew vaulted over the sides into the shallows—lean men, hard-faced, moving with the fluid coordination of soldiers who had been fighting together their entire lives. They formed a line on the beach, their spears raised, their black armour gleaming wet with spray.

And then he stepped off the ship.

and the kings who had known him for years felt the same chill they always felt when Achilles of Phthia walked into a room. He was young—younger than any of them, barely past his twentieth year—but no one who had seen him fight ever mistook youth for weakness. His hair was golden as wheat, his eyes the pale, clear blue of a winter sky. His armour fit him like a second skin, and his spear rested across his shoulder as if it weighed nothing at all. He moved with the easy, unhurried grace of a predator who had never encountered prey worth running for.

He walked up the beach toward the gathered kings, his Myrmidons falling into step behind him. He did not hurry. He did not bow. He stopped a few feet from Agamemnon and looked at him.

And then he smiled.

It was not a warm smile. It was the same smile he always wore when he knew he was the most dangerous thing in the room. The smile of a man who had never been defeated and did not expect to start now.

"Achilles of Phthia," he said. His voice was light, almost amused. "I believe you’ve been waiting for me."