Chapter 109: A Swordless Army
The council chamber was cold despite the braziers burning in the corners. Winter was settling into the stones of the palace, a damp chill that no amount of flame could fully dispel. The councillors sat in their accustomed places, old men in heavy cloaks, their breath misting faintly in the air.
Lysander stood at the center of the room, facing them. He had presented numbers before—grain stores, fleet capacities, buffer projections—but never like this. Never with the knowledge that the wrong presentation could doom the entire proposal before the debate even began.
Priam sat at the head of the table, wrapped in a thick wool cloak, his face drawn but his eyes alert. He had been resting more since his collapse, but he had insisted on attending this session. To his right, Hector stood with his arms crossed, a silent bulwark against whatever objections the council might raise. Hecuba sat near the window, her hands folded in her lap, her dark eyes watching everything.
Miros had provided the numbers. Lysander had spent the previous night turning them into an argument.
"The northern beach is the weak point," he began, without preamble. "The black ships knew it. They hit it with their main force, and they almost broke through. The only reason they didn’t was because the patrols held the line long enough for Hector’s relief force to arrive. We lost twenty-three men. We would have lost more if the fishermen hadn’t volunteered."
He paused, letting the number settle in the room. Twenty-three dead. Twice that wounded. The councillors shifted in their seats.
"The fishermen," Lysander continued, "were not trained. They were not properly armed. Some of them had never held a spear before that night. But they held their positions. They didn’t break. They fought alongside the patrols and they held the line." He looked at the councillors. "Miros has assessed their performance. He believes that with proper training, a militia drawn from the settlement could hold secondary positions in any future attack. They wouldn’t replace the regular patrols. They would support them. Fill gaps. Guard the spaces between formations. Free up experienced soldiers for the front line."
"And who would train this militia?" one of the councillors asked. His name was Akastos, an old man with a face like weathered stone. He had been on the council since Priam’s father. He had voted against every significant reform Lysander had proposed in the past two years.
"Miros," Lysander said. "He’s already developed a training regimen. Three months for basic competence. Six for proficiency. The first cohort could be ready to hold secondary positions within two months."
"And the weapons."
"Daidalos has sufficient bronze in storage to produce spears and shields for a hundred men within a month. Swords take longer, but spears are simpler. Most of the fishermen already know how to use them."
Akastos leaned forward. "You’re asking us to arm the refugees. The same people who arrived on our shores with nothing. The same people who were fighting each other over blankets three days ago."
"I’m asking you to arm the people who held the line when the black ships came. The people who volunteered to fight when they could have hidden. The people who have more reason to defend this city than anyone in this room—because they’ve already lost one home, and they know what it costs." Lysander met the old man’s gaze. "Unless you have a better source of trained soldiers that I’m not aware of."
A murmur moved through the council. Akastos’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond.
Another councillor spoke. "And if they turn on us? If we give them weapons and they decide to use them against the city instead of defending it?"
It was Miros who answered. He had been standing near the door, silent until now. "They won’t."
"How can you be sure?"
"Because I’ve fought beside them. I’ve watched them hold a line when every instinct told them to run. They’re not mercenaries. They’re not conscripts. They’re fathers and sons and brothers who have nothing left except each other. Give them the means to protect what they have, and they’ll fight harder than any soldier you can conscript from the lower town."
The councillor looked skeptical but said nothing.
Priam spoke for the first time. "How many."
"One hundred in the first cohort," Miros said. "Another hundred within six months, if the training goes well and the weapons can be produced."
"And the cost."
Lysander had prepared for this. "Minimal. The weapons are already in storage. The training can be conducted in the existing compound, during hours when it’s not in use by the regular patrols. The militia would continue to live in the settlement—no new barracks, no additional housing costs. The only significant expense is food. And we have sufficient reserves."
"For how long."
"Eight months at current consumption. Longer if the fishing fleet continues to supplement."
Priam was quiet for a moment, his eyes moving over the councillors, reading the mood of the room. Then he nodded, once.
"The proposal is approved. Miros will begin training the first cohort within the week. Daidalos will provide the weapons. The council will review the program’s progress in three months." He looked at Akastos. "Unless there are further objections."
There were none. The old councillor’s face was stony, but he didn’t speak. The vote, such as it was, had been decided the moment Priam nodded.
The council dispersed slowly, the councillors filing out into the cold corridor. Akastos was among the last to leave, his movements stiff, his expression unreadable. Lysander watched him go and wondered what the old man would say to Rethon when they next met. The spider’s web was still intact, still spinning. But for now, the proposal had passed.
Hecuba rose from her chair near the window. She had not spoken during the meeting—she rarely spoke during council sessions—but her presence had been felt. Several of the councillors had glanced at her before speaking, gauging her reaction.
She paused beside Lysander on her way to the door.
"The old one," she said quietly. "Akastos. He’ll be a problem."
"I know."
"Not because he’s wrong. Because he’s afraid. Fear makes people do foolish things." She looked at him. "You handled him well. You didn’t argue with his fear. You gave him something else to be afraid of."
"The black ships."
"Yes. A greater fear cancels a lesser one. That’s politics." She walked toward the door, then paused. "The training. Make sure it’s good. If the militia fails, it won’t just be the council you have to answer to. It will be every refugee who believed in you."
She left.
Hector unfolded his arms. "That went better than I expected."
"Akastos didn’t fight as hard as he could have."
"He’s saving his strength. The militia is a small thing, in the end. A hundred men with spears. He’ll fight harder when the stakes are higher." Hector walked toward the door. "But for now, we have what we need. Tell Miros to begin the training. The sooner those men are ready, the sooner we can stop worrying about the northern beach."
Paris – Argos
The man’s name was Agenor, and he was the closest thing to a spymaster that Argos possessed.
Paris met him in a small room above a wine shop near the eastern gate, a place where the walls were thick and the windows were shuttered and the proprietor knew better than to ask questions. Agenor was perhaps fifty, balding, with the soft body of a man who had spent his career behind desks rather than on battlefields. But his eyes were quick, and his questions were sharp, and within minutes of their introduction, Paris understood that this was a man who had made a profession of knowing things he wasn’t supposed to know.
"Kleitos tells me you’re a merchant," Agenor said, settling into a chair. "Pelias tells me you’re something else. Which is it?"
"Both," Paris said. "Depending on who’s asking."
"And who’s asking now?"
"You are."
Agenor smiled faintly. "Fair enough. Let me tell you what I know, and then you can tell me what you know. Perhaps we can help each other." He poured two cups of wine. "The situation in Argos is deteriorating. Not visibly—the markets are still functioning, the farms are still producing, the palace is still standing. But underneath, there’s a rot. Agamemnon’s tribute demands have doubled in the past three years. The eastern trade routes have collapsed. The minor kings are being bled dry, and they know it. Diomedes has been looking for a way out for at least a year. The problem is, he hasn’t found one."
"What about the others? Tiryns, Corinth?"
"Tiryns is small. Too small to act alone, but large enough to be useful if someone else takes the lead. Corinth is more complicated—the king there is publicly loyal to Mycenae, but he’s been quietly stockpiling grain instead of sending it as tribute. That’s either prudence or defiance, depending on how you read it."
"And Sparta."
Agenor was quiet for a moment. "Sparta is the key. Menelaus is Agamemnon’s brother. If Sparta breaks with Mycenae, the entire coalition fractures. If Sparta stays loyal, the other minor kings will fall in line." He looked at Paris. "The question is whether Menelaus can be persuaded to break."
"What would it take."
"Pressure. Leverage. Something that makes him more afraid of Agamemnon than he is of the alternatives." Agenor paused. "There’s a complication. The queen—Helen. She’s become a political weapon. Agamemnon is using her to pressure Menelaus. The more Menelaus resists, the more Agamemnon tightens the screws. The queen is caught in the middle. Some say she’s become a prisoner in her own palace."
Paris felt something tighten in his chest. "These are rumours."
"These are reports from people who have been inside the palace. People I trust." Agenor studied him. "You’re from the east. Troy, I assume—you have the accent, though you’ve learned to hide it well. Your people have been building alliances. Lycia. Caria. The regional network. Agamemnon sees it as a threat. He’s preparing for war. If you want to stop him, you need to break his coalition. And the weakest link in that coalition is Sparta."
"I know."
"Then you know where you need to go."
Paris was quiet. The room was warm, the wine untouched, the shadows from the shuttered windows falling in stripes across the floor. He had been avoiding this. He had been telling himself that Sparta was not part of his mission, that the cracks in Argos and Tiryns and Corinth were enough, that he could go home without ever setting foot in that city again.
But Agenor was right. Sparta was the key. And somewhere in Sparta, there was a woman who was trapped in her own palace, being used as a weapon by a king who saw her as a tool.
"I’ll go," Paris said. "But I’ll need contacts. People who can get me into the city without being noticed. People who can tell me what’s really happening in the palace."
Agenor nodded. "I can give you names. A merchant in the lower town who trades in Laconian pottery. He has contacts in the palace—servants, mostly, but servants hear everything. He can tell you what you need to know."
"And the queen."
"The queen is watched. Closely. Getting to her will be difficult. " Agenor shook his head. "That would require a miracle. Or a very good plan."
Paris stood. "Then I’ll need both."
He left the wine shop and walked back through the streets of Argos. The sun was setting, the sky streaked with orange and grey. He had been in this city for a week, and already he had found what he came for. Cracks in the coalition. Allies in unexpected places. A path forward.
But the path led south. To Sparta. To a woman he had met three years ago and tried very hard to forget.
He went to his room and began to prepare for the journey.
