Heir of Troy: The Third Son

The fires in the strait had burned for two days, but by the third morning the last of the black ships had slipped beneath the water, and the sea was calm again.

Lysander stood at the window of the war room, watching the harbour. The fire ships were back at their docks, their crews resting after the victory. The militia had returned to their posts. The settlement was quiet. But something had shifted in the air. The victory had been real—six enemy ships destroyed, the rest driven off—but no one was celebrating anymore. The Sea Peoples had come with knowledge they shouldn’t have possessed. They had known the patrol schedules. They had been warned about the fire ships. And somewhere in the palace, a traitor was still breathing.

Hector was at the map table, his hands braced on the worn wood, staring at the charcoal lines that marked the coastlines and the trade routes and the slowly closing ring of enemies around Troy. The broken sword was still there, its jagged edge catching the grey winter light. He had not moved it. He had not suggested moving it.

"We need to look at the full picture," Hector said. "Not just the Sea Peoples. Not just the leak. The full picture. Agamemnon’s coalition. Our allies. What we’re actually facing."

Lysander turned from the window. "Ampelos should be here."

"He’s on his way."

Ampelos arrived a few minutes later, his leather case under his arm, his face drawn. He had been up most of the night, compiling reports from his network of contacts—the merchants and traders and harbour officials who kept him informed of every movement in the Aegean. He set the case on the table and began laying out tablets.

"This is everything we know," he said. "The coalition. The fleet. The minor kings. The tribute payments. The troop movements. All of it."

Hector looked at the tablets. "Summarize it."

Ampelos took a breath. "Agamemnon has been building this coalition for two years. The core is Mycenae, Tiryns, and the southern Peloponnese—those are his direct vassals. They’ll follow him without question. The western islands—Ithaca, Cephallenia, Zacynthus—have all pledged ships. Odysseus of Ithaca has been named one of the fleet commanders. He’s clever, that one. Not a brute like some of the others. A thinker."

"Who else."

"Crete. Idomeneus has committed sixty ships. He’s old, but he’s experienced. His men are some of the best sailors in the Greek world. The northern kingdoms—Phthia, Locris, Boeotia—have all fallen in line. Achilles commands the Myrmidons from Phthia. His presence alone is worth a fleet. Men are flocking to his banner just for the chance to fight beside him."

"And the minor kings. The ones who were wavering."

Ampelos was quiet for a moment. "Most of them have folded. Corinth was always going to fold—Agamemnon squeezed them until they had no choice. Tiryns is his vassal. The smaller cities in the Argolid are too afraid to resist. Even the ones who wanted to stay neutral are being dragged in. Agamemnon is calling in every favour, every debt, every oath of loyalty he’s collected over twenty years. The coalition is the largest military force the Greek world has ever assembled."

"How many ships."

"At last count, over a thousand. That includes transports and supply vessels, but the core fighting force is perhaps three hundred warships. Each one carries forty to sixty men. The army will number somewhere between thirty and fifty thousand."

The numbers settled into the room like a cold fog. Hector’s expression did not change. "And our allies."

Ampelos picked up another tablet. "Lycia is committed. Sarpedon has pledged his full fleet—forty ships, well-trained, well-equipped. The Lycians are good fighters. They’ve been preparing for this longer than we have. Caria has promised thirty ships, but their naval capacity is limited. They’re a trading power, not a military one. They’ll do what they can, but they can’t match the Mycenaean warships ship for ship."

"And the others. The Thracian contacts. The Egyptians."

"The Thracian timber route is gone. Agamemnon bought them out before we could secure the alliance. The Egyptians sent grain—a gesture of goodwill—but they’ve made it clear they won’t commit militarily. They’re too far away, and they have their own problems with the Sea Peoples raiding their coasts. They wish us well. They won’t fight for us."

"So our total fleet. Lycia and Caria combined with our own ships."

"Perhaps a hundred vessels. A hundred and twenty if we arm the fishing boats and the coastal freighters." Ampelos paused. "Against three hundred warships. Against a fleet that outnumbers us three to one."

The room was silent. Hector stared at the map. Lysander stared at the broken sword.

"Ground forces," Hector said. "What are we facing on land."

"The army will march from the Peloponnese overland, then cross the strait near Abydos. They’ll approach Troy from the north. Agamemnon will bring at least thirty thousand infantry, plus chariots, plus archers, plus siege engineers. He’s been stockpiling timber and bronze for a year. He’ll build siege towers. Battering rams. Everything he needs to breach the walls."

"And our ground forces."

"The regular army is five thousand. The militia adds another two thousand, but they’re light infantry—they can hold the walls, but they can’t match Mycenaean heavy infantry in open combat. The refugees who volunteered are another thousand, but they’re not fully trained. Miros has done what he can, but they need more time."

"So we are outnumbered at sea three to one, on land six to one." Hector’s voice was flat. "And we have no more allies to call on."

"None that will answer."

Hector looked at the map for a long moment. Then he turned to Lysander. "You’ve been quiet."

"I’ve been listening." Lysander walked to the table and looked at the map. The coastline of Anatolia. The islands of the Aegean. The massed forces of the Greek world, represented by charcoal marks and Ampelos’s careful annotations. "We knew this was coming. We’ve been preparing for two years. The walls are stronger. The fleet is larger. The fire ships give us something Agamemnon doesn’t have. The supply reserves are deeper than anyone expected."

"But."

"But none of that changes the arithmetic. Three to one at sea. Six to one on land. If the coalition holds together, if Agamemnon brings his full force to bear, we can’t match him in open battle. We have to fight differently."

"How."

"Delay. Asymmetry. Fire ships in the strait. Raids on their supply lines. Diplomacy to keep the wavering kings from committing fully. If we can hold them off for a year—if we can make the siege too costly to sustain—the coalition might fracture. Agamemnon’s grip on the minor kings is strong, but it’s not unbreakable. Diomedes is still neutral. Corinth is only loyal because they’re afraid. If the war drags on, if the costs mount, those cracks will widen."

"And if the cracks don’t widen fast enough."

Lysander looked at the broken sword. "Then we hold as long as we can."

Hector was quiet for a long moment. Then he nodded. "Then we hold."

Cassandra was in the library when Lysander found her, sitting in her usual corner with a tablet in her lap. She wasn’t reading it. Her eyes were fixed on something beyond the walls, beyond the city, beyond the present moment.

"The thread," she said before he could speak. "It’s pulled tighter than ever."

"Paris."

"Yes. He’s close. Closer than he’s been in months. But something is in his way. A delay. A storm." She paused. "And something else. A choice. He’s going to have to make a choice very soon."

"What kind of choice."

"I don’t know. I can’t see it clearly. But it will change things. For him. For Helen. For all of us." She looked at Lysander. "You’re afraid."

"I’m always afraid."

"Not like this. This is different. You’ve been carrying the weight of the future for two years, and now the future is here, and you’re not sure if anything you’ve built will be enough."

"No. I’m not sure."

"Good. Certainty is for fools." She set the tablet aside. "I’ve been watching the threads for two years. Every decision you’ve made, every wall you’ve built, every alliance you’ve forged—it’s all there, woven into the pattern. Some of the threads are dark. Some of them are bright. Most of them I can’t read. But there’s one thread—" She paused. "There’s one thread that runs through everything. It’s you. You’re the thread, Lysander. You’ve been weaving something no one else could see. And it’s almost finished."

"Finished how."

"I don’t know. But whatever it is, it will be tested soon. The storm is coming. All the threads will be tested." She looked at him, and her dark eyes were ancient and tired and full of something that might have been hope. "Don’t break. Whatever happens. Don’t break."

He stood there for a moment, looking at her. Then he nodded. "I won’t."

He walked out of the library, and the weight of the storm settled onto his shoulders. Somewhere in the west, Paris was sailing toward home. Somewhere in the palace, Hector was preparing for a war they couldn’t win. Somewhere in the shadows, a traitor was still moving.

But the thread was still holding. And as long as it held, there was hope.