Chapter 141: The Longer Route
The black galley had been gone for three days, but the broken sword was still on the table in the war room. No one had moved it. No one had suggested moving it. It lay where Hector had placed it, the jagged edge catching the light every time the door opened, a silent reminder of what was coming.
Lysander had spent those three days doing what he always did when he didn’t know what to do. He worked. He reviewed the supply numbers. He checked the fire ship production schedules. He walked the walls with Miros, inspecting the patrol rotations, noting the weak points that still hadn’t been reinforced. He met with Maea to discuss the settlement’s water supply. He met with Doros to adjust the grain rationing. He did everything except the thing he most needed to do, which was to find out how Achilles knew about the sulfur.
The list of people who knew about the sulfur mission was short. Theron and his crew. Daidalos. Hector. Fylon. Arsini. Himself. That was six people, and none of them were traitors. Theron had lost his brother to the black ships. Daidalos had spent two years building weapons to defend the city. Hector was Hector. Fylon was the most loyal man Lysander had ever met. Arsini was—Arsini.
But someone had told Achilles. Someone had passed the information through the network that still, despite everything, connected Troy to Mycenae.
Fylon was in the small room above the wine shop when Lysander found him. The old spymaster had been working without sleep for three days, his network of watchers stretched thin across the city. His face was grey with exhaustion, but his eyes were still sharp.
"Anything," Lysander asked.
"Nothing. I’ve traced every contact Theron and his crew have spoken to since they returned. I’ve traced every person who knew about the Argolid mission. I’ve traced every connection to the Mycenaean network we’ve been feeding false information. None of them knew about the sulfur. None of them knew about Argos."
"Then how did Achilles know."
"I don’t know." Fylon’s voice was flat, frustrated. "Either there’s a source we haven’t found, or the information came from somewhere we haven’t looked."
"Where haven’t we looked."
Fylon was silent for a moment. "The islands. The trade routes. The neutral ports where our ships stop for water. The sulfur came from Tarsus, but it passed through Rhodes. Theron’s crew talked to people there. They might have said more than they should have. A merchant might have overheard. A dockworker. A spy in the harbour."
"Can we trace it."
"Not quickly. The routes are too diffuse. Too many ports. Too many people." Fylon paused. "But I have a contact in Rhodes. A Phoenician trader who’s been reliable for years. I can send word. Ask him to listen."
"Do it. Whatever it costs."
Fylon nodded and made a note on his tablet. "There’s something else. Echelos—the guard who was carrying messages for Rethon—he’s been asking questions. About Akastos. About what happened to him. He’s nervous. He thinks someone might be coming for him next."
"Is someone coming for him."
"Not from us. But he doesn’t know that. He’s been hiding in his quarters, refusing to go on duty. His daughter has been bringing him food."
Lysander thought for a moment. "Use him. Tell him that if he wants protection, he needs to earn it. Put him back on the palace guard rotation. Let him feel like he’s still useful. And watch who he talks to."
"You think he might lead us to the other source."
"I think he’s afraid. Afraid people make mistakes. Afraid people reach out to whoever they think can protect them. If there’s another traitor in the palace, Echelos might lead us to him."
Fylon nodded slowly. "I’ll arrange it."
Lysander left the wine shop and walked back through the streets of the lower town. The winter afternoon was fading, the shadows long and cold. The market was closing, the vendors packing up their stalls. The children who usually ran through the streets were indoors. The city was quieter than it had been in months. The envoy from Achilles had done what no enemy fleet had managed to do. He had made Troy afraid.
At the palace gate, Lysander paused. The guards stood at attention, their spears level, their faces hard. But their eyes kept moving to the sea. To the empty horizon. To the place where the black galley had disappeared three days ago.
They’re waiting, Lysander thought. Everyone is waiting. For the fleet. For the war. For the man with the broken sword.
He walked inside. The corridors were quiet. The torches were burning low. In the war room, the broken sword was still on the table, and Hector was standing before it, his arms crossed, his face unreadable.
"Hector."
"I’ve been thinking," Hector said. "About what Thersander said. About Achilles knowing everything. The fire ships. The militia. The sulfur. The alliance with Argos. All of it."
"We’ll find the leak."
"It’s not the leak that concerns me. It’s what the leak means." Hector turned to face him. "Achilles knows everything. He knows our strengths. He knows our weaknesses. He knows our plans. And he’s still coming. He sent an envoy to tell us that he knows, and he’s still coming. That’s not strategy. That’s confidence. Absolute, unshakeable confidence."
"Or arrogance."
"Arrogance that’s been earned. You don’t kill a champion in three heartbeats and break his sword with your bare hands unless you have reason to be arrogant." Hector looked at the broken blade. "I’ve been trying to figure out how he did it. The thumb print in the metal. The clean break. It’s not just strength. It’s precision. It’s knowing exactly where to apply pressure. Exactly when to strike. I’ve been fighting my whole life, and I couldn’t do that. Not with my bare hands."
"Can you beat him."
Hector was silent for a long moment. "I don’t know. I’ve never faced anyone I couldn’t beat. But I’ve also never faced anyone like this." He turned from the table. "But I’m not going to let him define how I live. Or how I prepare. Or what I do in the time I have."
He paused, and something shifted in his expression—a decision made, a weight set down.
"I’m going to marry Andromache."
Lysander looked at him. "You already proposed. She said yes."
"A private promise in a corridor at midnight isn’t a wedding. It’s a vow between two people, and it’s real, but it’s not—" Hector struggled for words. "She deserves more than a whispered promise in the dark. She deserves a ceremony. A celebration. Something that says to everyone—to the council, to the city, to the gods—that this is real. That we are real. That whatever comes next, we face it together."
"A betrothal ceremony."
"Yes. Before the war starts. Before the fleet comes. While there’s still time." He met Lysander’s eyes. "I don’t know if I’ll survive this war. I don’t know if any of us will. But I know I want to stand before my family and my city and declare that Andromache is my wife. Not in secret. Not in whispers. In the light."
Lysander felt something loosen in his chest. "When."
"As soon as it can be arranged. A few days. The priests will want to do it properly—offerings, omens, the whole ritual. But I’m not going to wait for the perfect moment. There is no perfect moment. There’s only now." He paused. "I’ve spent my whole life waiting. Waiting for the right time. Waiting for the war to be over. Waiting for my father to recover. I’m done waiting."
"Then don’t wait. Do it now. Do it tomorrow if you want. I’ll handle the priests."
Hector almost smiled. "You’ll handle the priests."
"I’ve handled worse. The council. The plague. The black ships. Priests are just men with more incense."
"Mother will want to be involved."
"Mother will want to organize everything. Let her. It’ll keep her busy." Lysander looked at his brother. "Andromache deserves this. You deserve this. The city deserves something to celebrate."
"Then we’ll celebrate. Before the war. Before whatever comes next." Hector looked at the broken sword on the table. "Let Achilles send his messages. Let him break his swords and kill his champions. I’m going to marry the woman I love. And we’re going to have one night—one good night—before the world burns."
He walked out of the war room. Lysander stood alone with the broken sword, the jagged edge catching the lamplight. Somewhere in the palace, Andromache was waiting for a man who had finally decided to stop waiting. Somewhere in the barracks, Miros was drilling the militia for a battle they might not win. Somewhere in the west, Paris was sailing toward home with the woman he loved.
But tonight, there would be something else. A promise. A celebration. A light in the darkness.
Paris and Helen – The Aegean Sea
The merchant vessel appeared on the horizon just after dawn.
Paris saw it first. He had been standing at the rail of the Kalliste, watching the sun rise over the eastern sea, when he spotted the sail—a patched, weathered square of canvas, the kind that belonged to a trader who had been working the same routes for decades. The ship was small and slow, its hull heavy with cargo, and it was heading west. Toward them.
Phaidon came to stand beside him. "A trader. From the eastern islands, by the look of her. Probably heading for the Peloponnese."
"Can we avoid them."
"No. They’re already close enough to see us. If we turn away now, it’ll look suspicious." Phaidon squinted at the approaching vessel. "We’re a merchant ship on a merchant route. We act like one."
The trader drew alongside them an hour later. The captain was an old man with a face like cracked leather and a voice roughened by decades of shouting over the wind. He hailed Phaidon in the rough, mixed dialect of the Aegean trade routes, and the two captains exchanged news: the weather, the currents, the state of the ports further east.
Paris stayed near the stern, his merchant’s cloak pulled tight, his face carefully neutral. Helen was below deck, hidden in the cramped compartment behind the olive oil jars. They had agreed that she would stay there whenever another ship approached. A woman of her appearance was too memorable. Too many people in the Greek world knew what the queen of Sparta looked like.
"The Peloponnese is buzzing," the old captain was saying. "Something big happened. The queen of Sparta—Menelaus’s wife—she ran off with some merchant. A Carian, they say. Walked right out of the palace and disappeared. Menelaus is furious. Agamemnon’s got the whole coast on alert. Ships being stopped. People being questioned. Anyone heading west is getting searched."
Phaidon kept his face still. "We’re heading east. Toward Rhodes."
"Good. East is safer. West is a mess." The old captain spat over the side of his ship. "They’re saying this merchant—whoever he is—he’s a Trojan agent. Sent to seduce the queen and humiliate Menelaus. Some people are saying it’s one of Priam’s sons. The handsome one. Paris."
Paris felt his heart stop. He kept his face completely, perfectly still.
"A prince of Troy," Phaidon said. "That’s quite a story."
"Stories are all we have. No one knows what really happened. But if it was a prince—if Priam’s son really did steal Menelaus’s wife—there’ll be war. Agamemnon’s been looking for an excuse. Now he’s got one." The old captain shook his head. "Bad time to be on the water. Bad time to be anywhere near Troy."
"Thank you for the warning."
The old captain waved and turned back to his helm. The trader continued west, toward the Peloponnese, toward the search parties and the questions and the war that was gathering like a storm.
Phaidon looked at Paris. "You heard him."
"Yes."
"If they’re searching ships heading west, it’s only a matter of time before they start searching ships heading east. Someone will talk. Someone will remember a Carian merchant and a woman with grey-green eyes. We need to get off the water."
"How far to Troy."
"Four days. Five if the winds turn."
"Can we make it without stopping."
Phaidon was quiet for a moment. "We’ll need water. The crew is already on half rations. But if we push—if the winds hold—we might."
"Then we push. No more stops. No more delays. We get to Troy before anyone thinks to look for us there."
Phaidon nodded and turned to shout orders at his crew. Paris went below deck.
Helen was waiting in the compartment, her knees drawn up to her chest, her face pale in the dim light. She looked up when he entered.
"What’s happening."
"We met a trader. He said the whole Peloponnese is searching for us. Menelaus has ships out. Agamemnon is using it as a pretext."
"A pretext for what."
"War. He’s going to use us—use you—as the reason to rally the coalition against Troy."
She closed her eyes. "This is my fault."
"No. Agamemnon was going to start this war whether you left or not. You just gave him a better story. The war was always coming." He knelt beside her and took her hands. "We’re going to push for Troy. No more stops. Four days. Five at most. And then we’ll be home."
"Home." She opened her eyes. "You keep calling it that."
"Because it is. It will be. For both of us."
She looked at him, and something in her face shifted—not hope, exactly, but something close to it. "I’ve never had a home. Not really. The palace in Sparta was a prison. My father’s house before that was a negotiation. I’ve spent my whole life being a guest in other people’s places."
"Troy won’t be like that. I promise."
"You make a lot of promises."
"I keep them."
She leaned her head against his shoulder. The ship rocked gently on the winter sea. Above them, the crew were adjusting the sails, turning the Kalliste east, toward Troy.
"Four days," she said.
"Four days."
She closed her eyes and let the rhythm of the sea carry her toward whatever came next.