Heir of Troy: The Third Son

The first ships appeared on the northern horizon at dusk, their black sails dark against the bleeding sky.

Odysseus stood on the beach with the other kings, watching the squadron approach. They had all heard the rumours by now—whispers that had spread through the camp like fire through dry grass. Agamemnon’s son had found the Sea Peoples’ settlement. He had done what his father asked. The smoke from the island had been visible for miles, according to the first reports, a column of black ash rising into the sky like a funeral pyre for the dead.

The lead ship dropped anchor in the bay, and a single figure descended into a waiting skiff. He was young—early twenties, with the heavy build of his father and the cold eyes of a man who had learned to enjoy violence. His armour was blackened with soot, and there was blood on his hands, dried brown against his skin. He had not bothered to wash it off.

He walked up the beach toward the camp, past the gathered kings, past the soldiers who had gathered to watch him pass. He did not acknowledge any of them. He walked directly to his father’s tent and disappeared inside.

The kings stood in silence, watching the tent flap close behind him. The wind picked up, stirring the sand, carrying the smell of smoke from the north. The smell of burnt wood. Burnt flesh.

"This is what we’ve become," Diomedes said quietly. "We burn children in their beds and call it strategy."

No one answered him. There was nothing to say.

Agamemnon was alone in his tent when his son entered.

He was sitting at his table, a cup of wine before him, a map of the Aegean spread across the wood. He did not look up when the tent flap opened. He did not look up when his son crossed the room and stood before him. He simply waited, the way a man waits for a servant to deliver a message he already knows.

"Father," the young man said.

Agamemnon continued to study the map. "You’re back."

"I am."

"Did you do what I asked."

The young man smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. It was the smile of a man who had spent the past week doing terrible things and had discovered that he enjoyed them. "Yes. I burned the village."

Agamemnon’s hand tightened on the wine cup. "I didn’t mean that, you fool. I meant the other thing."

The young man’s smile did not waver. "Yes. It was difficult, by the way. I tortured the men. I threatened to kill their children in front of them if they didn’t tell me where the other tribes were hiding—every island, every meeting place, every route they use when they want to disappear. But they didn’t say anything. Even when I had my men violate their daughters before their eyes. They still refused."

He paused, as if waiting for a reaction. Agamemnon gave him none.

"It was impressive, really. Their resolve. They knew we were going to kill them all anyway, so they refused to cooperate. But the women..." He smiled again. "The women were weak. They told me everything just because I promised their sons would live. I swore on my honour. I gathered their children and put them on a ship, sent them off to find the other tribes. They believed me. They told me everything."

"And then."

"And then we killed them all. After we enjoyed them." The young man’s eyes were flat, empty. "And by the way, I kept my promise about the children. I let them live. Of course, the ship was leaking. There’s a good chance they drowned at sea. But that’s not my fault. That’s the sea’s fault."

He laughed—a short, ugly sound that echoed in the tent. "I made sure one of them survived, though. Just one. Someone to tell the others what we did."

He looked at his father, and something in his expression shifted. The cruel amusement faded, replaced by something that might have been confusion. "But Father... why did we do this? Won’t this just provoke them? Won’t it make them hate us more? They’ll come for us now. They’ll attack our shores. We’ve given them every reason."

Agamemnon finally looked up from the map. His face was calm, untroubled. "You stupid boy. Why do you think I gathered the largest army in Greek history? To defeat Troy alone?" He shook his head slowly. "No. I will destroy the Sea Peoples first. Then Troy. And when both are finished, there will be nothing left to threaten our civilization."

His son stared at him. "That’s insane. Even by my standards, that’s insane. We gain nothing by destroying them. It will only exhaust us before we even reach Troy. We’ll be weakened. We’ll be—"

"Enough." Agamemnon’s voice was cold. "This isn’t about gain. This is about survival. The survival of our civilization."

"Survival? What are you talking about?"

Agamemnon leaned back in his chair. His eyes were far away, fixed on something his son couldn’t see. "I had a twin brother. You know this. He died when you were young, in a hunting accident."

"I know. Everyone knows."

"A hunting accident." Agamemnon’s mouth twisted. "Yes. That’s what we told everyone. But two years before that accident, my brother was different. He was weak. I was better than him at everything—fighting, riding, hunting, everything. Then one day, I injured him badly during training. I knocked him unconscious. When he woke up, he was... changed."

"Changed how."

"He was strange. He spoke in languages no one understood. He saw things before they happened. And when he recovered, he was better than me at everything. He surpassed me in every way. It was as if he had become a different person entirely." Agamemnon paused. "I stayed close to him. I wanted to understand. And I learned things. Interesting things."

His son was listening now, his confusion slowly turning to unease. "What kind of things."

"When he died, I took the notes he left behind. He had been writing everything down—everything he saw, everything he knew. And what I found in those notes... it changed everything." Agamemnon’s eyes met his son’s. "Our civilization is going to end. The Mycenaean world. The Greek world. All of it. It will collapse into darkness, and it will stay dark for a thousand years."

His son stared at him. "That’s... you can’t know that."

"The notes told me. And they told me who will be responsible. The Sea Peoples. The Dorians. The Dorian invasion, the collapse of the palace economies, the fall of every kingdom in Greece. The Sea Peoples are the beginning. They are the first wave. And if I destroy them now, before they become unstoppable, I can save everything." He leaned forward. "That’s why I gathered this army. Not for Troy. Not for the strait. For survival. The survival of our entire world."

His son was silent. Then he said, "So Uncle was a seer. He could see the future."

Agamemnon laughed—a low, bitter sound. "A seer. Yes. Something like that."

The young man stood up. "Go to sleep, Father. You look tired. We can talk about this tomorrow, when you’re thinking clearly."

"I am thinking clearly."

"You’re spouting madness. Uncle was not a seer. He was just a man who hit his head and changed. That’s all." The young man moved toward the tent flap. "I’m going to sleep. We both need rest."

Agamemnon watched him go. "Yes. We both need rest."

His son paused at the entrance. "Even if what you’re saying is true—even if Uncle saw something—it doesn’t change the fact that we just slaughtered an entire village. Women. Children. And now the Sea Peoples will come for us with rage we’ve never seen."

"They will come. And I will be ready." Agamemnon’s voice was quiet, steady. "That’s why I needed to send a message. To show them what happens when they stand against us. To make them afraid before they ever see our ships."

His son shook his head. "You’ve made a terrible mistake, Father."

"Go to bed."

The young man left. The tent flap closed behind him.

Agamemnon sat alone in the dim light, his wine cup untouched, his map spread before him. He looked at the Aegean, at the islands where the Sea Peoples were hiding, at the city of Troy on its distant hill. And he thought about his brother.

The twin who had been weak. The twin who had fallen in a training accident and woken up different. The twin who had spoken in strange languages and seen things before they happened and written everything down in notes that Agamemnon now kept in a chest beneath his bed.

At first, he had thought his brother was a prophet. A seer. A man touched by the gods.

But the notes had told him something else. The notes had told him about time. About men who could travel through it—not with their bodies, but with their minds. Men who carried the knowledge of the future in their heads, who could slip into the past and live another life.

His brother had been one of them.

And somewhere in Troy, there was another.

Agamemnon reached for his wine cup and drank. The wine was bitter, but he barely tasted it.

He had not told his son the full truth. He had not told him about the time travelers, about the other one who was living in Troy at this very moment, building walls and ships and weapons that should not exist. That one—that prince who counted things and saw patterns no one else could see—was the real threat. Not Troy. Not the Sea Peoples. The time traveler.

But the time traveler would be dealt with. In time.

Agamemnon smiled to himself, a cold, private smile.

He knew things now. Things his brother had written down in those notes. Things that would make him the most powerful king the world had ever seen.

The war was coming. And when it was over—when the Sea Peoples were destroyed and Troy was ashes and the time traveler was dead—there would be nothing left to challenge him. Nothing left to bring his world crashing down.

The future was already written. And Agamemnon intended to rewrite it.