Heir of Troy: The Third Son

The trouble began in the lower market.

Lysander heard about it from Fylon, who appeared at the supply office door with the grim expression of a man who had been expecting bad news and had just received it. The old spymaster had been tracking unrest for weeks, ever since the Sea Peoples’ attack, ever since the discovery of the Mycenaean manifest on the beached raider ship. People were afraid. People were angry. And the High Priest of Athena was giving them someone to blame.

"He’s in the market now," Fylon said. "Standing on the steps of the fountain, preaching to anyone who’ll listen. He’s telling them the refugees are the leak. That the Sea Peoples knew our patrol schedules because the refugees told them. That the foreigners in the settlement are spies for Agamemnon."

"That’s absurd. The refugees have been fighting for this city. Some of them died on the fire ships."

"Fear doesn’t listen to reason. And the priest is very good at what he does." Fylon paused. "There’s a crowd gathering. A hundred people, maybe more. Some of them are angry. Some of them are just scared. But anger and fear are a dangerous combination."

Lysander set down his stylus. "Where’s Hector."

"At the northern wall, inspecting the patrols. Miros is with him. Do you want me to send for them."

"No. I’ll handle this myself."

The market square was packed.

Lysander could hear the crowd before he saw it—the low, ugly murmur of a mob being fed what it wanted to hear. He pushed through the outer edge of the gathering, past the shuttered stalls and the abandoned carts, until he could see the fountain at the centre of the square.

The High Priest stood on the stone rim of the fountain, his white robes catching the pale winter sunlight, his arms spread wide as if bestowing a blessing. He was an impressive figure—tall and gaunt, with a face like a blade and eyes that burned with conviction. The pendant of polished lapis around his neck caught the light and threw it back in fragments of blue.

"They came from the sea with fire and steel," the priest was saying, his voice carrying across the square with the practiced resonance of a man who had spent decades addressing crowds. "They knew our patrols. They knew our defences. They knew when to strike and where to land. How did they know? Who told them?"

"The refugees!" someone shouted from the crowd. "The foreigners!"

"Yes." The priest’s voice dropped, becoming almost gentle, almost sorrowful. "We opened our gates to strangers. We gave them food and shelter. We armed them with our own weapons. And what did they give us in return? Betrayal. Treachery. The blood of our sons spilled on the harbour rocks."

A rumble of agreement moved through the crowd. Lysander saw faces twisted with anger—fishermen, merchants, craftsmen who had lived in Troy their whole lives. Some of them were people he knew. Some of them had children in Arsini’s schools.

"The prince would have you believe these people are our allies," the priest continued. "He would have you believe they are innocent. But I ask you—did the Sea Peoples know our patrols before the refugees arrived? Did the black ships burn our villages before we opened our walls to strangers?" He paused, letting the question hang in the air. "I have served the goddess Athena in this city for forty years. I have watched over the spiritual welfare of Troy since before most of you were born. And I tell you now—the goddess is displeased. The goddess sees the strangers within our walls. The goddess sees the betrayal in our midst. And the goddess demands purification."

The crowd roared.

Lysander stepped out of the shadows and walked toward the fountain. The crowd parted before him—not out of respect, but out of surprise. The prince who never came to the market. The prince who built the settlement. The prince who stood on towers and counted ships.

The High Priest saw him coming, and something flickered in his cold eyes. Not fear. Calculation.

"Prince Lysander," the priest said, his voice smooth as oil. "We are honoured by your presence. Perhaps you would like to address these good people. Perhaps you would like to explain why the enemies of Troy knew exactly where to strike."

Lysander climbed onto the fountain rim, standing face to face with the priest. The crowd fell silent.

"You want to know who told the Sea Peoples our patrols," Lysander said. His voice was not loud, but it carried. He had learned from watching Hector—you didn’t need to shout if you had something worth saying. "It wasn’t the refugees. It wasn’t the fishermen from the east. It wasn’t the families who have been living in the settlement for a year, who volunteered to fight, who held the eastern beach when the black ships came."

"Then who," the priest said. "Who betrayed us."

"A Mycenaean agent. A spy who has been operating in this city for months, feeding information to Agamemnon’s network. We found his manifest on one of the raider ships—a manifest written in Mycenaean code, listing our patrol schedules, our defences, our fire ships. The refugees didn’t write that manifest. A professional spy wrote that manifest. Someone who knows our military operations in detail."

"Then find this spy," the priest said. "Bring him to justice."

"I intend to. But I won’t scapegoat innocent people while I do it. I won’t let fear turn us against each other. Because that’s exactly what Agamemnon wants. He wants us divided. He wants us fighting each other instead of preparing for the war that’s coming. Every time you blame the refugees, every time you stir up hatred against people who have done nothing wrong, you’re doing Agamemnon’s work for him."

The crowd stirred. Some of the faces looked uncertain now. Others were still hard with anger.

"The goddess demands purification," the priest said. "The goddess—"

"The goddess was here when the black ships came. She was here when the plague spread through the settlement. She was here when the fire ships sailed out to meet the raiders. And she didn’t ask which of the defenders had Trojan blood. She didn’t ask which of the dying had been born within these walls. She watched over all of us. Every man, woman, and child in this city—Trojan and refugee alike. That is the goddess I believe in. That is the goddess who has protected this city for a thousand years."

He turned to face the crowd.

"I am not asking you to trust the refugees blindly. I am asking you to remember. Remember who stood beside you on the eastern beach. Remember who volunteered for the fire ships. Remember who brought their skills and their knowledge and their strength to this city when they had nothing else to give. They are not your enemies. They are your neighbours. They are your allies. They are your fellow defenders of Troy."

He stepped down from the fountain. The crowd was silent.

"I will find the spy," he said. "I will bring him to justice. But until then, I will not turn on the people who have been fighting beside us. And I will not let anyone—priest or otherwise—use fear to divide this city."

He walked away through the crowd. Behind him, the High Priest stood alone on the fountain, his white robes fluttering in the cold wind, his face unreadable.

Fylon was waiting in the small room above the wine shop when Lysander arrived. He had been watching the market from a distance, and his expression was troubled.

"You handled him well," Fylon said. "But he won’t stop. The High Priest has been building support for months. He has followers in the council, in the temple, in the lower town. Today’s speech was just the beginning."

"I know."

"And he’s connected to the leak. I’m certain of it. The manifest we found—the Mycenaean code—it matches the style of messages we intercepted from Akastos’s network. Same cipher. Same syntax. Someone in the temple is communicating with Mycenae."

"The priest."

"Or someone close to him. The priest himself is too careful to leave evidence. But he has assistants. Scribes. Underlings who do his dirty work." Fylon paused. "There’s a young acolyte named Lykos. He’s been with the temple for three years. He handles the priest’s correspondence. If anyone is sending messages to Mycenae, it’s him."

"Can you get proof."

"It will take time. The temple is a closed world. The acolytes don’t talk to outsiders. But I have a contact—one of the serving women who brings offerings to the altar. She’s been listening. She says Lykos has been leaving the temple at odd hours. Meeting with someone near the harbour."

"Who."

"She doesn’t know. She’s too afraid to follow him. But I can put a watcher on him. If he meets his contact again—"

"We’ll have him." Lysander looked at the window. The market was dispersing, the crowd breaking up into smaller knots of people who were still talking, still arguing. "Keep watching. And Fylon—be careful. The priest is dangerous. If he realizes we’re onto him, he’ll move against us. He has the ear of half the city."

"I know. I’ll be careful." Fylon slipped out into the darkness.

Lysander sat alone in the small room, thinking about the priest and the acolyte and the web of shadows that was still spinning beneath the surface of the city. The Sea Peoples had been driven off, but the real enemy was still inside the walls.

The Aegean Sea – Two Days Later

The island was a desolate speck of rock and scrub, barely large enough to appear on any navigator’s chart. There was no harbour. No fresh water. No shelter except a cluster of wind-bent pines clinging to the rocky slope above the beach. But the Kalliste was limping, its hull taking on water from damage sustained in the storm, and this island was the only land within a day’s sail.

Phaidon stood on the beach, staring at the damaged ship with the hollow eyes of a man who had been fighting the sea for three days and was beginning to lose.

"The keel is cracked," he said. "Not badly, but enough. We can’t make it to Troy without repairs."

"How long," Paris asked.

"A few days. Maybe more. I need to find timber—there’s nothing on this island except scrub pine. I’ll have to send a boat to the nearest port. That’s a day there, a day back, plus the repairs."

"A few days." Paris looked at the horizon, where Troy was waiting somewhere beyond the blue water. "We’re so close."

"Close doesn’t matter if the ship sinks." Phaidon turned to his crew, shouting orders to begin unloading the cargo and hauling the damaged vessel further up the beach.

Helen was sitting on a rock above the tide line, wrapped in her dark cloak. She had recovered from the storm, but she was thinner than she had been in Sparta, her face hollowed by weeks of seasickness and tension. Paris sat beside her and took her hand.

"A few more days," he said.

"I heard." She looked at the sea. "Every time we get close, something stops us. The storm. The rudder. Now the keel. It’s like the gods don’t want us to reach Troy."

"The gods don’t care about us. It’s just bad luck."

"Maybe." She leaned her head against his shoulder. "Or maybe it’s a test. To see if we’ll give up."

"We won’t."

"I know. That’s what scares me." She closed her eyes. "I’ve wanted to leave Sparta for years. I’ve dreamed about it. Planned it. Imagined what it would feel like to be free. And now that I’m almost there—now that Troy is so close—I’m terrified."

"Of what."

"Of everything. Of arriving. Of meeting your family. Of being the woman who started a war." She paused. "Of you realizing I’m not worth it."

He turned to face her. "You are worth it. You’ve always been worth it. I didn’t cross the Aegean and survive storms and pirates and the wrath of Menelaus because I wasn’t sure. I did it because I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life."

She looked at him, her grey-green eyes searching his face. "You mean that."

"Every word."

She kissed him—a slow, gentle kiss, more tender than passionate. When she pulled back, her eyes were wet, but she was smiling.

"Then we wait. A few more days. And then Troy."

"And then Troy."

They sat together on the rock, watching the sun set over the empty sea. The Kalliste lay on the beach behind them, its damaged hull drying in the fading light. Somewhere beyond the horizon, the lights of Troy were burning. And somewhere in the palace, a priest was spinning webs of fear, and a prince was counting the threads.

But here, on this desolate island, there was only the quiet, and the sea, and the promise that they were almost home.