Heir of Troy: The Third Son

Hector returned to the Shasu camp at dusk with the gold.

Fifty riders behind him, a cart bouncing across the frozen plain with three chests strapped to its bed. The sun was almost gone, the sky fading to a cold, bruised purple in the west. The Shasu camp was quiet now—tents struck, horses saddled and waiting, the women and children gathered near the edge of the firelight with their bundles already tied. They were ready to leave. They were only waiting for the payment.

Zimri met him at the edge of the camp. The old mercenary was wrapped in a dark cloak now, his curved sword at his belt, his face unreadable in the twilight. He looked at the cart, at the chests, at the fifty riders who had come to deliver them.

"You came yourself," he said.

"The son of Priam settles his own debts." Hector pulled his horse to a stop and dismounted. "Three chests. Count it."

"I will."

Zimri gestured, and two of his men climbed onto the cart. They opened the first chest, and the gold caught the firelight—coins, ingots, worked pieces that had been gathered from the palace treasury over the course of an afternoon. The Shasu men stared at it with the flat, hungry eyes of people who had not seen enough gold in a long time.

Zimri watched them count. He did not smile. He simply waited, patient as stone.

When the counting was done, he nodded. "It is enough."

"Then our business is settled. You ride out tonight."

"We do." Zimri paused. "But first, I owe you the rest of what I promised. Come to the fire."

They sat on woven mats beside the same fire where they had spoken that morning. The women brought watered wine and dried meat, then withdrew. The camp around them was quiet except for the stamping of horses and the low murmur of voices as the Shasu made their final preparations.

Zimri drank deeply before he spoke. "This morning, I told you that the world is ending. I did not exaggerate. The east is dying—earthquakes shake the cities, rivers run dry, crops fail in the fields. The ground itself seems to have turned against us." He set down his cup. "But there is something else coming. Something that even the dying east fears."

"The Assyrians," Hector said.

"Yes. But you do not understand what they are." Zimri’s dark eyes fixed on him. "You have fought Greeks. You have fought the Sea Peoples. You have fought raiders and pirates and the black ships of the coast. None of that will prepare you for the Assyrians."

"What makes them different."

"Their mind. Most armies fight because they want something—land, gold, slaves, glory. They take what they want and then they leave. The Assyrians are not like that. They fight because conquest is what they are. They do not raid a city; they erase it. They burn the buildings, tear down the walls, salt the fields so nothing will ever grow again. They kill the men, enslave the women and children, and then they move on to the next city and do the same."

He paused, and his voice dropped.

"I fought against them once, years ago, as a mercenary for the Babylonians. We thought we could stop them. The Babylonians had a great army—chariots, infantry, archers. We met the Assyrians on the plain, and they destroyed us. Not defeated. Destroyed. They did not fight like men. They fought like a storm, like something that could not be stopped. When it was over, half our army was dead and the other half was running. I was one of the ones running."

He reached for his cup and drank again.

"The Babylonians will not stop them. The Hittites will not stop them. No one in the east can stop them now. They are growing, year by year, city by city. And when they have finished with the east, they will come west. Not this year. Not the next. But they will come."

"When."

"I do not know. Years. Decades. But the direction is certain." Zimri’s eyes met his. "You are fighting the Greeks now. That is war. What the Assyrians will bring is not war. It is the end of things. It is the death of cities, the death of peoples, the death of a whole world."

The fire crackled between them. Somewhere in the camp, a child was crying softly, and the sound carried on the cold wind.

"Why are you telling me this," Hector asked. "You are a mercenary. You have taken my gold. You have no reason to help me."

"I have no reason to help you. But I also have no reason to lie to you." Zimri’s face was unreadable in the firelight. "You are not my enemy. The Greeks are not my enemy. The Sea Peoples are not my enemy. We are all just people trying to survive something that is coming whether we want it to or not." He paused. "I tell you because knowledge is the only thing I have left to give. And because you are one of the few men I have met who might actually listen."

Hector said nothing. The fire burned low, and the first stars were appearing overhead.

"There is something else," Zimri said. "Something closer than the Assyrians. Something that concerns your city directly."

"The Hittites."

Zimri’s eyes widened slightly—the first real reaction he had shown since the gold arrived. "You know."

"I suspected. The Hittites have been a shadow over this region for as long as Troy has stood. It is not hard to guess that they would see us as a prize."

"Then you know what is coming. Whoever wins this war—you or the Greeks—the Hittites will come. They consider Troy their property, a city that exists to serve their trade routes and their ambitions. They have let you build walls because walls serve their purposes. They have let you grow strong because strength serves their purposes. But make no mistake, Prince Hector. When the war is over, the Hittites will march. If the Greeks win, they will drive them back into the sea. If you win, they will take your city for themselves."

"And you know this because..."

"Because I fought for them. Seven years. I know how their commanders think. I know what they want. And I know that they are patient." Zimri leaned forward. "They are not afraid of the Greeks. They are not afraid of you. They are afraid of nothing except the Assyrians, and even that fear is buried deep. They will wait until you and the Greeks have exhausted each other, and then they will come."

Hector stared into the fire. The flames danced, casting long shadows across the ground. He thought about the walls, the ships, the fire weapons. He thought about everything they had built. And he understood, with a cold certainty, that it would not be enough.

"How do I avoid this," he asked.

"I do not know. Perhaps you cannot. But I will tell you what I would do if I were you." Zimri’s voice was low, intense. "I would make this war so costly for the Greeks that the Hittites decide to wait longer. I would make Troy into a fortress that no army wants to touch. And I would prepare for the second war even while the first is still being fought."

He stood and walked to the edge of the firelight, looking out toward the eastern hills. For a long moment, he was silent.

"One more thing," he said. "A gift. From a man who has fought in more sieges than I can count."

Hector stood and walked to his side.

"I have fought for the Egyptians," Zimri said. "I have fought against them. And I have learned something from them that no Greek general knows. The Egyptians do not fight alone. They make the land itself fight for them. The Nile is full of crocodiles and hippopotamuses, and the Egyptians treat them as allies. They do not drive the beasts away; they welcome them. When an enemy army tries to cross the Nile, the crocodiles take them. The hippos smash their boats. The river itself becomes a weapon."

He turned to face Hector.

"I do not know your land, Prince Hector. I do not know your city or your weapons. But I know this: you do not have to fight the Greeks alone. Your land can fight for you. Your sea can fight for you. You just have to know how to use it."

He paused.

"And the most important thing of all—if I were you, I would kill at least five thousand Greeks in the sea before they ever set foot on shore. A thousand ships and fifty thousand men must land somewhere. They must disembark. They must struggle through the surf and the sand with their weapons and their supplies and their horses. In that moment, they are helpless. In that moment, they are at your mercy." His dark eyes burned. "I do not know how you will do it. I do not know what weapons you have or what tricks your walls conceal. But a warrior with your reputation—a warrior who has defended this city against the black ships and the Sea Peoples

—a warrior like you will find a way."

He extended his hand.

"Good luck, Prince Hector. You will need it."

Hector clasped his forearm. "And you."

Zimri smiled—a sad, tired smile. "The desert is my home. I will find somewhere safe until the world settles. Or I will die trying. Either way, I will not be back."

He turned and walked toward his people. Hector stood alone by the fire, watching the embers die. The Shasu broke camp within the hour, and by midnight the plain was empty again—nothing left but cold fire pits and the fading sound of hooves on frozen ground.

Hector returned to the city alone, the weight of a dying world pressing down on him like a mountain.