Heir of Troy: The Third Son

The island was called Saria, a speck of rock and olive trees in the southern Aegean, too small to matter to anyone except the fishermen who used its harbour and the traders who stopped there for fresh water. It was not a place where kings met. That was the point.

Lysander arrived at dusk, the galley slipping into the harbour as the last light faded from the sky. The port was nearly empty—a handful of fishing boats pulled up on the shore, a single trading vessel anchored at the far end of the pier. No soldiers. No banners. No sign that anyone of importance had ever set foot on this island.

Ampelos’s contact was waiting at the end of the pier—a thin man in a plain cloak, his face weathered by salt and wind. He introduced himself as Doros, a name so common it was almost invisible. He asked no questions about who Lysander was or why he had come. He simply led him up a winding path through the olive groves to a small stone house on the hill above the harbour.

The king of Argos was waiting inside.

Diomedes was not what Lysander had expected. He was younger than the other minor kings—perhaps forty, with the lean build of a man who had spent his life in the saddle rather than on a throne. His face was lined, but the lines were from weather, not worry. His eyes were sharp and watchful, the eyes of a man who had learned to survive by seeing clearly.

He stood as Lysander entered, and for a moment the two men simply looked at each other.

"Prince Lysander," Diomedes said. His voice was low, measured. "I’ve heard a great deal about you."

"And I about you."

"All of it true?"

"Some of it. The rest is exaggerated."

Diomedes almost smiled. "Sit. We have much to discuss."

They talked through the night.

Not as negotiators, at first. As two men who were both trying to navigate a world that was crumbling around them. Diomedes spoke about the pressure from Mycenae—the tribute demands that had tripled in three years, the soldiers quartered in his territory without his consent, the slow, steady erosion of his authority.

"Agamemnon doesn’t need to conquer Argos," he said. "He already owns it. I’m a king in name only. Every decision I make has to be approved by his advisers. Every resource my kingdom produces goes to his war machine. He’s been bleeding us dry for years, and there’s nothing I can do about it."

"There’s something you can do," Lysander said. "You can refuse."

"Refuse. And then what. He sends his army. He replaces me with someone more pliable. He makes an example of Argos to keep the other minor kings in line." Diomedes shook his head. "You don’t understand what you’re asking. You’re from Troy. You’ve never been part of the Mycenaean sphere. You don’t know what it’s like to live under his shadow."

"I know what it’s like to prepare for war against an enemy who outnumbers us. I know what it’s like to build walls and ships and alliances while knowing that none of it might be enough. I know what it’s like to make impossible choices." Lysander leaned forward. "You asked for this meeting because you’re looking for an alternative. I’m offering you one."

"What kind of alternative."

"Not a military alliance. Not yet. Something smaller. A trade agreement. A formal recognition of neutral status. A statement—quiet, but public—that Argos will not participate in Agamemnon’s war. If one kingdom refuses, others will follow. The coalition fractures. Agamemnon’s grip weakens."

"And if he attacks Argos in retaliation."

"He won’t. Not if he’s already committed to a campaign against Troy. He can’t fight a war on two fronts. He needs his army in the east, not in the Peloponnese. If you declare neutrality after the fleet sails, he won’t have the resources to punish you."

Diomedes was quiet for a long moment. The lamp on the table between them burned low, casting shadows on the stone walls.

"You’re asking me to gamble my kingdom on a timing calculation. On the assumption that Agamemnon will be too busy to retaliate."

"Yes."

"And what does Argos get in return."

"Trade. Food. Access to the eastern routes that Troy controls. If the war goes badly for Agamemnon—if his fleet is damaged, his army stalled—you’ll be positioned to renegotiate your relationship with Mycenae from a position of strength. You’ll be the king who kept Argos out of a losing war. Your people will remember that."

"And if the war goes well for him. If Troy falls."

"Then you were never in a position to resist anyway. This way, you at least have a chance."

Diomedes looked at the lamp. The flame flickered in a draught from the window"You’re a persuasive man, Prince Lysander. But persuasion isn’t enough. I need to know that this isn’t just a desperate gamble."

"It is a gamble. For both of us. You’re gambling that Agamemnon won’t punish Argos for staying neutral. We’re gambling that we can hold against whatever he brings. Neither of us knows how it will end." Lysander paused. "But I know this: if you commit to his war, you commit to sending your men to die on a foreign shore for a cause that isn’t yours. If the war goes badly—if the siege drags on, if the costs mount—you’ll have nothing to show for it except bodies and debt. If you stay neutral, you keep your army. You keep your resources. You keep your options."

"And if Troy falls."

"If Troy falls, Agamemnon will be too weakened by the siege to punish anyone immediately. You’ll have time to negotiate. Time to prepare. Time to find other allies." Lysander met his eyes. "You’ve been asking questions about alternatives for months. You wouldn’t be here if you thought Agamemnon’s path was the right one."

Diomedes was quiet for a long moment. The lamp on the table between them burned low, casting shadows on the stone walls.

"Neutrality," he said. "You’re asking me to stand aside while my countrymen fight and die."

"I’m asking you to stand aside while your countrymen fight a war they didn’t choose. There’s a difference."

Another silence. Then Diomedes leaned forward. "If I do this—if I refuse to send troops—I need something in return. Not trade agreements. Not promises. Something real."

"What did you have in mind."

"A marriage. My youngest daughter is fifteen. Unwed. A union between Argos and Troy would bind our houses in a way that even Agamemnon couldn’t easily break."

Lysander was quiet. This was unexpected. A marriage alliance was more than he had come to negotiate. It was a commitment—public, permanent, impossible to hide.

"I don’t have the authority to agree to that," he said. "That decision belongs to my father."

"Your father is bedridden. Your brother is regent. And you—" Diomedes studied him. "You’re the one who makes things happen. I’ve heard the stories. The treaty with Sparta. The alliances with Lycia and Caria. You built all of it. If you recommend a marriage alliance to your brother, he’ll agree."

"Probably. But I won’t recommend something I haven’t thought through."

"Then think it through. Take it back to Troy. I’ll wait for your answer." Diomedes extended his hand. "In the meantime, I’ll give you what I can. A private pledge. Argos will not contribute to Agamemnon’s war. No troops. No ships. No supplies. I won’t put it in writing—not yet. But you have my word."

Lysander took his hand. "That’s enough for now."

"It’s more than I should give." Diomedes almost smiled. "But it’s what I can give."

They parted at dawn.

The galley slipped out of the harbour as the first light touched the olive groves on the hills above Saria. Lysander stood at the stern, watching the island recede behind him. The meeting had gone as well as he could have hoped. Better. Diomedes had given him a pledge—not a treaty, not an alliance, but something real. A crack in Agamemnon’s coalition. A seed that might grow.

But as the galley turned east toward Troy, a thought nagged at him. Diomedes was afraid. Not of Agamemnon—he had made his peace with that fear years ago. He was afraid of something else. Something he hadn’t said.

He’s waiting to see if we can hold, Lysander thought. He’s waiting to see if Troy survives the first assault before he commits to anything more.

It was a gamble. Everything was a gamble.

But it was a gamble worth taking.

The attack came two days out of Saria.

Not the black ships. Not the Mycenaean fleet. A small pirate galley, fast and low in the water, appearing out of a bank of morning fog before the lookout could raise the alarm. It came at them from the west, its oars churning the grey water, its deck crowded with armed men.

Lysander was on deck when the first arrow struck the mast above his head. He threw himself flat as the galley’s crew scrambled for weapons. Theron was shouting orders, his voice cutting through the chaos. The Trojan sailors were not soldiers, but they had been trained for this. They had known the route was dangerous.

The pirate galley rammed them amidships. The impact threw Lysander against the rail, and he felt something crack in his ribs—a sharp, bright pain that stole his breath. Men were boarding, their weapons glinting in the pale light. He saw Theron go down, a spear through his shoulder, still fighting. He saw one of the sailors, a man whose name he didn’t know, kill a pirate with an oar.

He drew his sword.

The next few minutes were a blur of steel and blood and the screams of dying men. Lysander fought with the cold, precise training that Hector had drilled into him over two years of dawn sessions. He was not the best fighter on the ship. But he was still standing when the pirates broke and ran, scrambling back to their galley, leaving their dead behind.

Theron was alive. Badly wounded, but alive. Three of the crew were dead. Five more were injured.

"How bad," Lysander asked. His ribs were screaming, but he forced himself to stand.

"Bad enough," Theron said through gritted teeth. "But we’re still afloat. And they’re running."

Lysander looked at the pirate galley, already fading into the fog. They had been lucky. A larger force, a more determined enemy, and they would all be dead.

"Get us home," he said. "As fast as you can."