Chapter 126: The Monster
The ship came in at midday, but it wasn’t a trader and it wasn’t a refugee vessel. It was a mercenary galley—lean and fast, built for raiding, its hull patched in a dozen places. The crew who stumbled onto the dock were not the hardened fighters who had set out from wherever they had set out from. They were hollow-eyed, battered, their armour dented and their weapons notched. Some of them were wounded. Some of them were missing.
Lysander watched them from the harbour master’s window. He had been reviewing the grain allocation reports, the new preservation figures Doros had compiled, but the sight of the galley limping through the barrier pilings made him set his stylus down. He had seen ships come in like this before—after the black ships, after the plague, after every crisis that had washed up on Troy’s shores. This one was different. These were not refugees. These were men who fought for coin, who had seen every kind of violence the world could offer. And they looked like they had just stared into the abyss.
He went down to the dock.
The captain was a man named Skamandros, a Greek from one of the northern islands, his face a web of scars. Lysander had seen him before—he had passed through Troy’s harbour a year ago, offering his services to anyone who could pay. Hector had declined. Skamandros had sailed west instead, seeking better contracts.
Now he was back. And he looked like a man who had aged ten years in twelve months.
"What happened," Lysander said.
Skamandros looked at him. His eyes were red-rimmed, unfocused. "We took a contract. Escort duty. A supply convoy heading for the western colonies. Should have been easy money." He spat on the dock. "It wasn’t."
"Who hit you."
"It wasn’t pirates. It wasn’t raiders. It was—" He stopped. "We were three days out of the islands. Dawn. The sea was calm. And then they came. Twelve ships. Mycenaean war galleys, the big ones with bronze rams. They came out of the mist like they’d been waiting for us."
"The Mycenaean fleet."
"Yes. But it wasn’t the fleet that did this." Skamandros gestured at his battered crew, his damaged ship. "It was one man."
The dock was quiet. The mercenaries were coming off the galley now, some of them limping, one being carried by two others. Antiphus’s healers were already moving among them, assessing wounds, directing the worst cases toward the medical tents.
"One man," Lysander said.
"One man. He was on the lead galley. Golden hair. Golden armour. He didn’t wait for the ships to close. He jumped from his deck to ours before the rams even hit." Skamandros shook his head slowly. "I’ve been fighting for twenty years. I’ve seen men kill in every way there is. I’ve never seen anything like this. He moved through my crew like we weren’t there. Like we were shadows. He killed twelve men before the ships even touched."
"Twelve."
"Twelve that I saw. There were more after that. He didn’t stop. He didn’t slow down. He didn’t even look tired." Skamandros met Lysander’s eyes. "He smiled. The whole time. Like he was enjoying it."
Lysander felt something cold settle in his stomach. He had known this moment was coming. He had heard the rumours, the tavern stories, the reports from the Phoenician captain months ago. But hearing it from a man who had faced it—who had watched his crew die one by one—was different.
"His name," Lysander said. "Do you know his name."
"Achilles. They were shouting it. The Mycenaeans, chanting it like a war cry. The men on my ship, screaming it like a curse." Skamandros closed his eyes. "I lost thirty men. Thirty. And he was just one of them. One man on one ship. If the whole fleet comes—" He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.
Hector was in the training ground when Lysander found him. He was running drills with the militia—the refugees who had volunteered after the black ships, the fishermen and farmers who had learned to hold a spear. They were getting better. Their stances were more solid, their strikes more precise. Miros had been training them for months, and the work was showing.
But watching them now, after what he had just heard, Lysander felt a chill that had nothing to do with the winter air.
He told Hector what Skamandros had said. He told it plainly, without embellishment. The Mycenaean fleet. The twelve ships. The one man who had killed thirty.
Hector listened without interrupting. When Lysander finished, he was quiet for a long moment.
"Twelve men before the ships touched," he said.
"And thirty in total."
"Yes."
Hector looked at the militia, who were still running their drills, unaware of what had arrived in the harbour. "Skamandros is a good fighter. His crew were experienced. If they couldn’t stop him—"
"They didn’t have a chance. Skamandros said he moved through them like they were shadows."
"There’s always a chance. Every fighter has a weakness. A pattern. Something they do that can be exploited." Hector turned back to Lysander. "Did he see anything. Any detail about how this man fights."
"Skamandros was too busy trying to stay alive. But some of his crew might have seen more. I can talk to them."
"Do it. Find out everything you can. How he moves. What weapons he uses. Whether he leads with his left or his right. Whether he tires after a certain number of engagements. Anything." Hector’s voice was steady, but there was something underneath it—not fear, but the cold focus of a man who had just learned the name of his opposite number. "If this man is real—if he’s what Skamandros says he is—then we need to understand him. Before he comes here."
"You think he will."
Hector looked at the northern horizon, where the sea was grey and cold. "I think Agamemnon didn’t build a fleet of thirty ships just to hunt pirates. And I think a man like this—a man who kills thirty soldiers on his own—isn’t someone you leave behind when you go to war." He turned back to the training ground. "Talk to the crew. Find out everything."
Lysander nodded and left.
The wounded mercenaries had been taken to the settlement’s medical tents. Antiphus was already at work, his hands steady despite the long hours he had been keeping since the plague. Reos and Demas moved among the injured, cleaning wounds, binding broken limbs. Deia was there too—thirteen years old, fetching water and clean cloths, her face pale but composed. She had been helping Antiphus since the plague. She had seen worse than this.
Lysander found one of Skamandros’s men sitting on a cot near the edge of the tent, his arm in a sling, his face bruised. He was young—maybe twenty—with the lean build of someone who had been fighting for his meals since childhood.
"You were on the ship," Lysander said. "You saw him."
The young man looked up. His name was Kreon, and his eyes had the hollow look of someone who had seen something he couldn’t unsee. "I saw him. He killed the man next to me. Nikos. We’d been fighting together for three years. He didn’t even slow down. Just put his spear through Nikos’s chest and kept moving."
"How did he fight. What did you notice."
Kreon was quiet for a moment. "He’s fast. Faster than anyone I’ve ever seen. But it’s not just speed. It’s—" He struggled for words. "He doesn’t hesitate. Most fighters, even the good ones, they pause. Just for a heartbeat. Between moves. Between kills. They think about what they’re going to do next. He doesn’t. Every movement flows into the next one. There’s no pause. No thought. Just death."
"Does he have a pattern. Something he does repeatedly."
"I don’t know. I was too busy trying not to die." Kreon looked at his bandaged arm. "But there was one thing. He leads with his left. The spear, the sword—always the left hand first. The right comes in after. And he doesn’t use a shield. Just a spear and a sword. No defence. Just attack."
"No shield."
"No shield. He doesn’t need one. He moves too fast to be hit."
Lysander filed the information away. Left-handed. No shield. No hesitation. It wasn’t much, but it was something. "Thank you. Rest now."
He walked out of the tent and stood for a moment in the cold winter air. The settlement was going about its ordinary business—families cooking their evening meals, children playing between the shelters, the distribution point handing out the day’s rations. Ordinary life, continuing in the shadow of something that was not ordinary at all.
Left-handed. No shield. No hesitation.
He thought about Hector, who was even now drilling the militia, preparing them for a fight they couldn’t imagine. He thought about Skamandros, who had lost thirty men to a single warrior. He thought about Achilles, somewhere in the west, killing and smiling and waiting for the order to sail east.
And he thought about the war that was coming, and whether any of their preparations would be enough.
Hecuba was in the palace courtyard when Lysander returned. She was sitting on a stone bench near the fountain, wrapped in a heavy cloak, watching the servants go about their work. She looked up as he approached, and something in his face made her straighten.
"You’ve heard something," she said. "Something bad."
"A ship came in. Mercenaries. They encountered the Mycenaean fleet."
"And."
"And they were destroyed. Not by the fleet. By one man. A warrior named Achilles."
Hecuba was quiet for a moment. "I’ve heard that name. Rumours, mostly. A man who cannot be killed. A man who fights like a god."
"Not a god. Just a man. But a very dangerous one."
"They’re all just men. Even the dangerous ones." She looked at him. "You’re afraid."
"I’m... concerned."
"Concerned is what you say when you don’t want to admit you’re afraid. I’ve been a mother to soldiers for thirty years. I know the difference." She gestured for him to sit. "Tell me about this Achilles."
He sat beside her on the cold stone bench and told her what Skamandros and Kreon had described. The speed. The lack of hesitation. The left hand. The smile.
When he finished, Hecuba was quiet for a long moment. "Hector will want to face him."
"Yes."
"Can he win."
Lysander thought about the question. He had asked himself the same thing a hundred times since he arrived in this body. In the history he knew, the answer was no. Hector would fall to Achilles outside the walls of Troy, and nothing Lysander had done—none of the walls, none of the ships, none of the preparations—had changed that. Cassandra had told him as much. The path was fixed. The outcome was certain.
But he couldn’t say that to Hecuba. He couldn’t say it to anyone.
"I don’t know," he said. "Hector is the best fighter I’ve ever seen. But this man—"
"This man is something else."
Hecuba nodded slowly. "Then we’ll have to find a way to beat him. Not in single combat. That’s what he wants. That’s where he’s strongest. We’ll have to find another way."
"What other way."
"I don’t know. That’s your job. You’re the one who thinks about things before they happen. Think about this." She stood, her joints stiff in the cold. "Now help me inside. My knees are telling me I’ve been sitting too long."
He helped her to her feet and walked with her toward the palace doors. At the entrance, she paused.
"Lysander. Whatever happens—whatever comes through that gate—you’ve done more for this city than anyone had a right to expect. Don’t forget that."
She went inside. Lysander stood in the courtyard, the cold wind tugging at his cloak, and thought about what she had said. Find another way.
Paris – Sparta
The garden behind the temple was their only refuge now. Paris arrived after dark, as he always did, and found her already there, sitting on the broken stone bench beneath the olive tree. She didn’t rise to greet him. She simply looked up and smiled, a smile that was tired but real.
"I heard about the convoy," she said. "The mercenaries. Menelaus was talking about it at dinner. He said the Mycenaean fleet destroyed them. He said Achilles killed thirty men on his own."
"The news travels fast."
"Bad news always does." She made room for him on the bench. "Is it true. What they say about him."
"Some of it. Maybe all of it. I don’t know." He sat beside her, their shoulders touching. "He’s dangerous. That’s all that matters."
"Menelaus was almost... gleeful. He said Achilles would do the same to Troy when the time came." She looked at him. "He said it like he was looking forward to it."
"Menelaus has never fought a day in his life. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about."
"But this Achilles does."
She was quiet for a moment. Then she reached out and took his hand. "When the time comes—when the fleet sails—you’ll be in danger. You and your brothers. Everyone you love."
"I know."
"I don’t want to lose you. Not now. Not after everything."
He turned to face her. In the moonlight, her face was pale but steady, her grey-green eyes unwavering. She had been so afraid when they first met—afraid of Menelaus, afraid of the future, afraid of what would happen if she let herself feel anything. That fear was gone now. What remained was something stronger.
"You won’t lose me," he said. "I promise."
"You can’t promise that."
"I can. I’m promising it. Whatever happens—whatever comes through that gate—I will find my way back to you."
She kissed him then, slow and deep, her hand cupping his face. When they broke apart, she was smiling through the tears.
"I believe you," she said. "I don’t know why. But I believe you."
He pulled her closer, and they sat together on the broken bench, watching the stars wheel overhead. Neither of them spoke. Words weren’t needed.
Later, they lay together beneath the olive tree, their cloaks spread beneath them, their bodies warm despite the cold. He traced the familiar curves of her body, relearning each one, and she sighed against his chest.
"I love you," she whispered.
"I love you too."
"Whatever happens. Whatever comes next. Remember that."
"I will."
They made love slowly, without urgency, the way people do when they know they have all the time in the world—even when they know they don’t. Afterward, they lay tangled in each other’s arms, watching the stars, neither of them willing to break the silence.
Finally, reluctantly, she stirred. "I have to go."
"I know."
She dressed slowly, pausing to kiss him one last time before she slipped through the gap in the wall.
Paris lay beneath the olive tree, watching the stars, and thought about Achilles. The man who had killed thirty on his own. The man who smiled while he did it. Somewhere in the west, that man was waiting for the order to sail east. And when he came—if he came—Paris would have to face him. Not as a merchant. Not as a spy. As a prince of Troy.
He closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
The stars kept wheeling overhead.
Troy – Night
Lysander stood on the tower, watching the sea. The harbour was dark, the ships all in. Behind him, the city was sleeping.
He thought about Achilles. About what Skamandros had said. He smiled. The whole time. He thought about Hector, who would want to face him. He thought about Hecuba, who had told him to find another way.
And he thought about the war that was coming, and whether any of his preparations—the walls, the ships, the supplies—would matter when that golden figure appeared on the battlefield.
Footsteps on the stone behind him. Arsini. She didn’t speak. She just stood beside him, her shoulder close to his, and looked at the dark water.
"You’ve been up here a long time," she said.
"Thinking."
"About the mercenaries. About Achilles."
She was quiet for a moment. "Maea told me what happened. The settlement is quiet, but people are talking. They’ve heard the rumours. They’re afraid."
"They should be."
"Should they." She turned to look at him. "You’ve been preparing for this. The walls. The ships. The supplies. You’ve done everything you could. Whatever comes—you’ve done everything."
"It might not be enough."
"It might not. But it’s more than anyone else could have done. That’s not nothing."
He looked at her. In the dim light of the tower, her face was pale but steady. "You always say that."
"Because it’s always true." She took his hand. "Come down from the tower. Whatever comes, we’ll face it. But not tonight. Tonight, you need to rest."
He let her lead him away from the parapet, down the winding stairs, back toward the supply office where the lamp was still burning. She didn’t count the refills tonight. She just let it burn, a small point of light in the darkness, while the sea whispered against the shore and the city slept.
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