Dawnlight pierced the tall linen curtains of the Trojan palace. It set the carved lion motifs on the golden throne ablaze. Dust motes floated like gold powder in the sunbeams. The polished porphyry floor tiles mirrored the dais, the throne, and the stern guards standing motionless on either side. Their bronze-tipped spears glinted with a cold light.
A man, dressed in dark, coarse linen and covered in travel dust, was led in by the guards. He dropped to his knees on the cold tiles with a thud. His body trembled with fear—a single strand in Priam's vast spy network. The king's eyes and ears monitoring his outlying lordships.
King Priam sat above. His grey hair seemed thinner in the morning light. He held a clay cup of pomegranate wine in his left hand. The fingers of his right tapped absently on the ivory-inlaid map set into his armrest. It meticulously outlined the realms of Troy and its subject territories. The Dardan river valley occupied a mere, insignificant corner.
The King's gaze remained fixed on the map. He uttered a single, quiet word. "Report."
The spy's voice quavered. He pressed himself lower to the floor. "Great King... news from yesterday. Prince Helenus, without your royal command... led fifty elite heavy hoplites to invade... the Dardan lands..."
The King's fingertip stilled upon the map, right over Dardan.
"...They met... a crushing defeat. Nearly the entire force was lost... The Prince himself was forced to pay five Talents of gold in compensation... to secure his release." The spy's voice grew fainter, as if trying to bury itself in the stone.
When the words "powerful bows" and "crushing defeat" were spoken, Priam's steady hand clenched. His knuckles turned white. His voice, thunderous with rage, shook the hall. "Fifty Trojan elites? Routed by borderland farmers?! That fool Helenus!"
No sooner were the words out than he hurled his clay cup at the floor before the spy. It shattered. The dark red wine splashed like blood, drenching the spy's terrified, pallid face and staining the polished porphyry.
But beneath this mask of fury, the King's mind was cold as iron. The Dardan military strength is growing faster than anticipated. Those powerful bows... must be checked.
From her consort's throne beside him, Queen Hecuba looked up. A flicker of concern crossed her dignified features. Her sharp eyes caught the calculating glint in her husband's gaze, quickly hidden. He is angry... but what is he planning beneath that anger?
As the courtiers stood frozen by the King's outburst, Deiphobus suddenly stepped forward. He dropped to one knee heavily. The impact of his knee on the stone echoed, instantly drawing all eyes.
His face was a mask of grief. His tone dripped with performative urgency and loyalty. "Father! I risked my life to stop Helenus! He wouldn't listen! He even... he even conspired with mountain bandits! Plundered trade caravans! Brought shame upon the royal house!"
As he spoke, he seemingly let a scroll of parchment slip from his sleeve. It unrolled on the tiles. It clearly recorded several transactions between Helenus and the bandits—amounts and dates. One piece of the damning evidence Helenus had surrendered in the cellar to save his own skin.
A sharp-eyed guard immediately stepped forward, retrieved it, and presented it to the King.
Deiphobus added at just the right moment, his voice laced with perfect shock and grievance. "And the ransom Aeneas initially demanded... was ten Talents of gold !"
A wave of suppressed, sharp intakes of breath swept through the courtiers. Even for the Trojan royal house, this was no small sum.
"Ten Talents!" the whispers ran through the hall. Shock and discontent spread.
The King let out a cold, sharp laugh. His gaze swept the hall like a hawk's. "Aeneas... The lion cub is showing his fangs. A pity he forgets—Troy's gold is always poisoned."
Deiphobus seized the opening immediately. He bowed his head, the picture of stoic endurance for the sake of royal dignity. "To preserve the House's honor, I privately covered the five Talents. To spare Helenus further humiliation. But... his conduct during the capture was disgraceful. A profound embarrassment to the Crown. It's truly..." He let the sentence hang, inviting the darkest interpretations.
The young Prince Troilus blurted out, stunned, "Helenus has completely shamed us..."
Several older generals and priests quickly chimed in, their voices dripping with scorn. "Launching an attack without the King's command! Then being captured in defeat! Such cowardice! He should be stripped of his priesthood!"
Priam listened quietly to the debate in the hall. His right hand returned to the map on his armrest. His fingertip traced a light path over the Dardan river valley. The lion cub shows its fangs... But Troy's hunters are never short of ways to deal with beasts.
Hecuba noticed her husband's subtle movement. Her worry deepened.
In the shadows of the great pillared colonnade, Cassandra stood robed in her priestess garments. She listened silently to the discussion in the main hall. Her black hair was tied back, her face cold as frost. A intuitive revulsion made her frown.
She could almost see it... chains of gold tightening around every neck... Greed and lies would only bring ruin.
Her eyes swept over the smug Deiphobus. A surge of intense foreboding made her turn abruptly. She strode quickly through a side corridor. Found her sister Polyxena spinning quietly in a side chamber of the Athena Temple.
"Beware Deiphobus!" Cassandra grabbed her sister's slender wrist. Her tone was urgent, severe. "My instinct tells me he means you harm!"
Polyxena looked up with her large, innocent eyes. Her long lashes fluttered like butterfly wings. Her face was a picture of disbelief. Her voice was soft, filled with naive confusion. "That can't be, Cassandra... He's our brother. Why would he wish me harm?"
Cassandra looked at her sister's unworldly expression. A flash of pain and helplessness crossed her eyes. She knew her warnings, her unheeded prophecies, were just whispers on the wind. Utterly useless.
She sighed deeply. Could only drag her heavy steps back to her place.
She wanted to keep listening. To see how far human greed... could push its own folly.
In the great hall, Priam rose slowly to his feet.
His voice regained its regal authority and calm. "Hear my decree: Effective immediately, the Dardan lands will pay double tribute. Furthermore, next month, they must deliver ten Talents of gold as a 'special tax.' For the families of our fallen soldiers."
His fingertip came down heavily on the ivory map, right over the mouth of the Scamander River. "And from this day forward, all merchant ships bound for Dardan lands must be inspected at the Trojan river port. Violators... will be treated as rebels!"
Deiphobus bowed his head, perfectly masking the fleeting smile on his lips. He failed to notice his father's icy gaze sweep dispassionately over his fingers, over the ring that hid its poisoned needle.
Queen Hecuba suddenly slammed her hand on the arm of her chair. Her voice trembled with emotion. "So we use an economic noose to strangle your own sister's grandson? Priam! And he is the most capable warrior among all your lords' heirs!"
She invoked the buried past, her voice filled with pain. "Have you forgotten? Thirty years ago, when Hercules sacked this palace and you were taken prisoner, who paid ten Talents of gold to ransom a prince? It was your sister, then the Lady of Dardan! Without her, where would your throne be now?"
A flash of anger crossed Priam's face, but he controlled it instantly. He turned, reaching to soothingly stroke his wife's tense hand.
His voice was cool with cunning and statecraft. "To tame a wild beast, one needs both honey and the whip." He addressed the court. "Send the order. Bestow upon Aeneas the honorary title 'Guardian of Ilion.'"
His tone shifted, taking on an unyielding hardness. "But—he must send his ten best archers from this battle to serve in the Royal Guard. As a pledge of loyalty. And he will surrender the craft of his 'longbows' to the Crown."
A stunned silence fell over the courtiers. They were shocked by the King's seemingly generous "reward," and even more by the naked demand for technology and hostages behind it.
Deiphobus seized the moment, his voice a low, tempting murmur. "Father, I have also heard reports... The Dardan lands now produce salt without any bitterness. And a clear, fragrant liquor they call the 'Nectar of the Gods'..."
He let the words hang perfectly, sparking a new wave of whispers among the court. A calculating gleam flashed in Priam's eyes. His fingers once again traced the Dardan river valley on the map.
Hecuba watched her husband's expression. Her heart sank.
She understood this economic siege of the Dardan lands was just beginning. And the greed in the Trojan palace, just as Cassandra foresaw, was indeed weaving chains of ruin.
In the shadows of the colonnade, Cassandra closed her eyes. As if she could already see a future running with blood.
The King's eyes gleamed. His fingers tapped lightly on the ivory map. A new idea formed. "Good. Command the Dardan lands to surrender the methods and production for this refined salt and 'Nectar of the Gods.' As tribute to the Crown. And as his reward..." He paused, his gaze sweeping toward the women's quarters. "I will grant him my most precious daughter, Creusa, in marriage. And I myself will host the wedding ceremony in this palace."
Queen Hecuba started, almost rising from her seat. She stared at her husband, his face suddenly alien to her.
"Priam! You would sacrifice Creusa?" Her voice shook with disbelief. Her fingers gripped the chair arms, knuckles white.
At that moment, Cassandra stepped from the shadows of the colonnade. Her face, framed by her severely tied black hair, was cold as frost. A sharp, mocking laugh tore through the hall's tension.
"Fools! You are forging the very arrow that will pierce Troy's heart!"
She flung the words at them. Ignoring the mix of shock and anger in their eyes, she turned and strode from the palace, her priestess robes whispering over the stone.
———
The sun climbed steadily over Troy, casting sharp light across the palace stones. By late morning, the marble gleamed, and the shadows had begun to shrink.
Three sealed scrolls of parchment, stamped with the royal seal, were secretly dispatched from the palace by separate messengers. Cloaked in muted robes, they slipped through sunlit alleys and vanished beyond the city gates — like shadows retreating from the noonday glare.
Secret Order One: Activate spies embedded in the various lordships. Begin spreading rumors. "The Dardan lands are conspiring with the Hittites, plotting treason."
Secret Order Two: Direct the Trojan navy to increase patrols at the mouth of the Scamander River. Under the guise of "security," effectively blockade the port to any merchant ship not rigorously inspected.
Secret Order Three: Draw from the royal secret treasury. Hire a band of mercenaries from beyond the borders. Disguise them as bandits. Task them with harassing and destroying Dardan trade caravans and outlying watchposts.
Deep within the palace, in a chamber lit only by torchlight, Deiphobus lounged comfortably in a chair draped with furs. His left hand gently stroked a cold-scaled serpent coiled in the crook of his arm.
"Find a way..." he murmured, "...for my sweet, innocent, pure little sister Polyxena to 'participate' in the grand feast our father is preparing for Aeneas..."
A cold smile touched his lips. His fingertip tapped the serpent's head lightly. "Such a lively occasion. As a princess, it would be only fitting for her to dance... and how terribly 'easy' it would be for her to fall. Perhaps injure herself so grievously she could no longer serve as High Priestess of Athena. A role that requires... purity."
The only sounds in the chamber were the soft rustle of Deiphobus stroking the snake and the restless flicker of the torchlight. It danced across his face, carving his handsome, brooding features into shifting fragments of light and shadow — like a mask that refused to settle.
Far away in the Dardan lands, Aeneas remained unaware. He was busy rebuilding the burned watchtower. Training his new longbow recruits. Oblivious to the vast net being woven in the Trojan palace, now silently unfurling toward him.