Chapter 113: The God and the Priest
The Temple of Athena stood on the highest point of the citadel, its columns of pale stone visible from every corner of the city. It was older than the palace, older than the walls, older than the dynasty that now ruled Troy. The wooden statue of the goddess within—the Palladion—was said to have fallen from the sky in the age of the first kings, a gift from the divine, a guarantee of the city’s inviolability. As long as the Palladion stood, Troy would stand.
Lysander had never entered the temple.
He had walked past it a hundred times—on his way to the tower, on his way to the war room, on his way to the supply office. He had seen the priests in their white robes moving through the courtyard, the supplicants kneeling before the altar, the smoke of incense rising into the winter sky. But he had never gone inside. He was a man from another world, another time, and the gods of this age were not his gods.
But Hecuba had asked him to come. And when the queen asked, it was not a request.
"The temple," she had said. "You’ve held your position for two years, and you’ve never once set foot in it. The priests are starting to talk."
"Let them talk."
"They will. And their words carry weight with people whose support you need." She had looked at him with those dark, sharp eyes. "I don’t care what you believe. But I care what the city believes. Go to the temple. Be seen. Make an offering. The gods don’t need your faith, but the people need to see that you respect theirs."
So he went.
The courtyard was empty at this hour, the morning cold keeping the supplicants away. A young priestess in a grey robe was sweeping the steps. She looked up as he approached, her eyes widening, then quickly looked away. She didn’t bow. She didn’t speak. She simply stepped aside, as if his presence was something to be endured rather than welcomed.
The interior of the temple was dim, lit only by the flames of bronze lamps suspended from the ceiling. The air was thick with incense—frankincense and myrrh, the scents of ritual and sacrifice. The walls were painted with scenes from the city’s founding: the first king receiving the Palladion from the hands of the goddess, the building of the walls, the great battles of the ancestors. At the far end of the chamber, the statue itself stood on a pedestal of black stone. It was smaller than he had expected—no taller than a child—and its features were worn smooth by centuries of veneration.
He stood before it, uncertain what to do. He had no offering. He had no prayer. He was here because Hecuba had told him to be seen, and being seen required standing in the right place long enough for someone to notice.
"You are the prince who does not pray."
The voice came from behind him, cold and measured. Lysander turned.
The High Priest of Athena was a man of perhaps sixty, tall and gaunt, with a face like a blade. He wore the white robe of his office, bordered with purple thread, and a pendant of polished lapis hung from his neck. His eyes were pale grey, almost colourless, and they studied Lysander with the cold assessment of a man who had already formed his judgment and was merely waiting for confirmation.
"I am Lysander," he said. "Son of Priam."
"I know who you are." The priest walked past him, toward the altar, his sandals whispering on the stone. "Everyone knows who you are. The prince who negotiates treaties. The prince who built the settlement. The prince who stands on towers counting ships." He paused, his back still turned. "The prince who has brought thousands of foreigners to our shores and armed them."
Lysander kept his voice level. "The refugees were already on our shores. I gave them somewhere to live."
"Somewhere to live. Yes." The priest turned. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were hard. "And now they carry weapons. Now they train in our compounds. Now they walk our streets as if they belong here."
"They defended this city when the black ships came. They held the line while our own patrols were falling back."
"They held the line." The priest’s voice was soft, almost amused. "And for that, we should be grateful. We should open our gates, share our grain, give them the rights of citizens. Is that what you believe, Prince Lysander?"
"I believe they’ve earned the right to be treated as more than a burden."
"Earned." The priest tasted the word. "You speak of earning as if it were a transaction. A man fights, therefore he belongs. But belonging is not earned. It is given. By the gods. By the king. By the blood that runs in your veins." He stepped closer. "Tell me, Prince Lysander. When you look at these refugees—these fishermen and farmers and displaced wanderers—do you see Trojans?"
"They’re people. That’s enough."
"No. It is not enough." The priest’s voice hardened. "A city is not a collection of people. A city is a covenant. A sacred bond between the gods and the bloodlines they have chosen to protect. When you bring foreigners into that covenant, you weaken it. You dilute the bond. You invite chaos."
"The goddess protected this city when the black ships came. She didn’t ask which of the defenders had Trojan blood."
The priest’s eyes flickered. Something dangerous moved behind them. "You speak of the goddess as if you know her will. You, who has never set foot in her temple until today. You, who has never made an offering, never spoken a prayer, never bowed your head in her presence. You presume to tell me what the goddess wants?"
"I don’t presume anything. I’m telling you what happened. The city survived. The refugees helped. Those are facts."
"Facts." The priest smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "You are a man of facts, Prince Lysander. Ships and grain stores and casualty numbers. You measure the world in what you can count. But the gods cannot be counted. Their favour cannot be measured in bushels of wheat or numbers of spears. And when their patience runs out—" He paused. "When the goddess withdraws her hand, no wall will be high enough to save us."
"Are you threatening me?"
"I am warning you." The priest’s voice dropped to a murmur. "You have risen very far, very fast. The king listens to you. The people admire you. But there are those who remember what you were before—the quiet boy in the corner, the son who never mattered. And there are those who wonder what changed. What really changed." He held Lysander’s gaze. "The goddess sees all things, Prince Lysander. Even the things you think are hidden."
Lysander felt a chill that had nothing to do with the winter air. The priest knew nothing—couldn’t know anything—but his words were too close, too precise, to be accidental.
"I’ll make an offering," he said, his voice steady. "Since that’s what’s expected."
"Yes. Make an offering. Be seen." The priest turned back to the altar. "The people need to believe that their leaders respect the gods. Even if the respect is a lie."
Lysander placed a silver coin on the altar—the traditional offering for a first visit—and turned to leave. At the door, the priest’s voice stopped him.
"One more thing, Prince Lysander. The prophetess. Cassandra. She serves the goddess, as I do. She sees things that others cannot see. I have watched her, these past two years, and I have noticed something curious. She speaks to you. Not to the king. Not to Hector. To you." He paused. "What does she tell you, I wonder. What secrets does she share with the man who does not pray?"
Lysander turned. "She tells me the truth. Whether I want to hear it or not."
"The truth." The priest’s smile was cold. "The truth is a weapon, Prince Lysander. Be careful how you wield it."
Lysander walked out into the cold morning light. The young priestess was still sweeping the steps, her eyes fixed on her work. The incense smoke drifted from the temple door, curling into the winter sky. He stood for a moment, feeling the weight of the priest’s words, the veiled threats, the probing questions.
The man was dangerous. Not because he had power—though he did—but because he was looking for something to use. And he had already identified Cassandra as a potential weakness.
Lysander walked back toward the palace, his mind already turning over the implications. The temple was not neutral. The High Priest was not an ally. And somewhere in the shadows, a web was being spun that he could not yet see.
Paris – Sparta
The potter’s name was Laertes, and his shop was a cramped, dusty space in the lower town, filled with shelves of unpainted clay and stacks of finished bowls. He was a small man with quick hands and a nervous manner, and when Paris showed him the token Agenor had given him—a small clay disc stamped with a lion’s head—his demeanour shifted from wariness to something closer to fear.
"I was told to expect someone," Laertes said, ushering Paris into a back room cluttered with broken pots and abandoned wheels. "Though I wasn’t told who. Or when. Or what they would want."
"I need information," Paris said. "About the palace. About the king. About the queen."
Laertes flinched at the last word. "The queen is not a safe topic."
"Nothing I’m doing is safe. Tell me what you know."
The potter hesitated, his eyes darting toward the door. "I supply the palace kitchens with vessels. Bowls, plates, storage jars. I make deliveries twice a week. The servants talk. They always talk. But lately—" He lowered his voice. "Lately they’ve been scared. The king is in a black mood. His brother—Agamemnon—has been sending messengers. Demanding things. Tribute. Troops. Gestures of loyalty. And the queen—she’s been confined to her chambers. Not officially. There’s no announcement, no decree. But she doesn’t come out anymore. She doesn’t walk in the gardens. She doesn’t visit the market. The servants say she’s become a ghost in her own palace."
"Whose doing. Menelaus?"
"Menelaus is a man caught between two fires. His brother demands obedience. His wife demands—" Laertes paused. "I don’t know what she demands. But she’s not passive. The servants say she argues with him. That she refuses to be used as a bargaining piece. That she told him, in front of witnesses, that if he wanted to prove his authority, he should prove it to his brother, not to her."
Paris felt something shift in his chest. She was still fighting. After three years, trapped in a marriage that had become a prison, she was still fighting.
"Is there any way to get a message to her," he asked.
Laertes stared at him. "You’re mad. If anyone found out—"
"If anyone found out, I would be the one to suffer, not you. Is there a way."
The potter was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded, slowly. "There’s a serving woman. Aite. She’s been with the queen since she was a girl. She’s loyal. She might—might—carry a message. But it would have to be small. Something that could be hidden. And there would be no guarantee of a reply."
"That’s enough." Paris reached into his case and pulled out a small strip of leather. He had prepared it the night before, not knowing if he would have the chance to use it. Six words, in the script of Troy, that only one person in Sparta would recognize. I came back. Are you there?
"Give her this. Tell her it’s from someone who remembers the sea."
Laertes took the strip as if it were a live serpent. "If this is discovered—"
"It won’t be." Paris stood. "I’ll come back in three days. If there’s a reply, I’ll be grateful. If there isn’t, I’ll disappear, and you’ll never see me again."
He left the shop and walked back through the streets of Sparta. The winter sun was high now, the market in full voice. Ordinary people, buying and selling, living their lives, unaware of the fractures spreading beneath their feet.
Somewhere in the palace on the hill, a woman who had once asked him for the truth was waiting. He didn’t know if his message would reach her. He didn’t know if she would answer.
But he had done what he came to do. He had found a way in.
