Troy smelled like home now.
He noticed it the moment he stepped off the gangplank — the specific layered smell of the city that he had catalogued on his first day and had stopped consciously noticing somewhere in the second week. Salt and stone and charcoal and the particular warmth of a city that had been standing in the same place for a very long time.
He stopped at the foot of the gangplank and breathed it in.
Behind him Paris was talking to the harbor official — the easy, practiced charm of a returning traveler making the correct social noises. Ahead of him the harbor road led up toward the city gates, the same road he had walked down three weeks ago in the dark of early morning, still learning what everything was.
He was different now.
Not transformed — he was careful about that word, careful about over-valuing what had happened in Sparta. He had not come back with the war prevented and the future secured. He had come back with five hundred and thirty-one words and a treaty and a clearer understanding of what he was trying to do.
But different, yes.
He shifted his pack and walked up the road.
Hector was at the harbor gate.
Not waiting — or not visibly waiting. He was talking to a guard about something, the conversation with the easy authority of a man doing his regular rounds, and he looked up when the Trojan delegation came through the gate with the precise timing of a man who had known to the minute when the ship would arrive.
He had been waiting.
His eyes found Lysander immediately.
Not Paris — Lysander. The brief, comprehensive assessment of someone checking that a thing they were responsible for had come back intact.
Then Paris, with warmth — the elder brother greeting, the hand on the shoulder, brief words that Lysander caught as something like good voyage, welcome back.
Then back to Lysander.
He said: "Walk — with — me."
They walked up through the lower city while Paris and Ampelos went ahead toward the palace.
Hector didn't speak immediately. He walked with his hands loose at his sides and his eyes moving across the streets the way they always moved — noting, assessing, the habitual vigilance of a man responsible for a city's safety that had become indistinguishable from how he simply looked at things.
Lysander walked beside him and let the silence be what it was.
After a while Hector said: "Paris — came — home."
"Yes."
"Without — a — Spartan — queen."
"Yes."
"And — with — a — treaty."
"Yes."
Hector was quiet for a moment.
He said: "Ampelos — sent — a message — from — the — last — port. He said — the — treaty — was — your — idea."
"The — foundation — of — it — was — mine. Ampelos — built — the — rest."
"He — said — the — foundation — was — the — most — important — part."
"He — is — generous."
"Ampelos," Hector said, "is — not — generous. He — is — accurate."
They walked.
A woman crossed ahead of them with a large jar balanced on her head, moving with the practiced ease of someone who had done it ten thousand times. A child chased a dog through a side street. The ordinary sounds of a city in the middle of its day.
Lysander looked at all of it.
I need to feed you, he thought. I need to make you stronger. I need to give you seven more years before what's coming and then I need to help you survive it.
He looked at the walls above the roofline — the towers, the stone, the late afternoon light on the battlements.
I am going to try, he thought. That is all I can promise. I am going to try.
Hector said: "Tell — me — what — happened. All — of — it."
"All — of — it — is — long."
"I — have — time."
Lysander told him.
Not everything — not the garden conversations, not the full depth of what he had understood about Helen, not the things that would require explanations he wasn't ready to give. But the shape of it: the treaty, why it had been necessary, what Paris had been planning and how the plan had changed, what Menelaus had agreed to and why.
Hector listened without interrupting.
They had walked most of the way up through the city by the time Lysander finished.
Hector was quiet for a moment.
Then he said: "Paris — came — here — planning — to — take — a — married — woman — from — her — husband's — house."
"Yes."
"And — you — stopped — him."
"I — changed — what — was — available — to — him. He — stopped — himself."
Hector looked at him.
"That — is — a — careful — distinction."
"It — is — an — accurate — one. Paris — chose — to — come — home. No — one — forced — him."
Hector said: "Why — does — it — matter — to — you — who — gets — the — credit."
"Because — if — Paris — feels — he — was — stopped — he — will — resent — it — and — try — again. If — he — feels — he — chose — he — can — live — with — it."
Hector looked at him for a long moment.
He said: "You — think — about — people — very — carefully."
"I — try — to."
"Since — the — fall."
"Yes."
"Before — the — fall — you — did — not — do — this."
Lysander said: "Before — the — fall — I — was — not — paying — attention."
They reached the palace gate.
Hector stopped.
He said: "I — told — father — you — were — useful. Before — you — left. I — said — it — to — make — him — agree — to — let — you — go."
"I — know."
"I — was — not — entirely — sure — it — was — true."
"I — know — that — too."
"It — is — true," Hector said. "I — want — you — to — know — I — know — that — now."
He said it with the flatness he gave most things — not warm, not performed. Just the statement of a man who had assessed something and was reporting his conclusion.
"Thank — you," Lysander said.
Hector nodded.
He said: "Tonight — you — rest. Tomorrow — Priam — wants — to — see — you. After — that — come — to — me. There — are — things — I — want — to — discuss."
"What — things."
"The — difficulties — you — mentioned — to — Paris. On — the — ship."
Lysander stared at him.
"Paris — told — you."
"Paris — tells — me — most — things. Eventually."
"What — did — he — say."
Hector said: "He — said — his — youngest — brother — came — to — Sparta — to — watch — over — him — and — instead — prevented — a — war — that — he — himself — had — not — known — was — coming — and — then — on — the — way — home — mentioned — casually — that — there — were — larger — difficulties — ahead — that — required — Troy — to — be — stronger."
He looked at Lysander.
"He — said — he — did — not — know — what — the — difficulties — were. But — that — you — did."
"I — have — some — idea."
"I — want — to — hear — it."
"Tomorrow," Lysander said. "After — Priam."
Hector looked at him for a moment.
Then he said: "You — are — different — from — when — you — left."
"Yes."
"Not — the — language. Though — that — also. Something — else."
Lysander said: "I — know — what — I — am — doing — more — than — I — did — three — weeks — ago."
"Yes," Hector said. "That — is — it."
He went through the palace gate.
Fylon was waiting in the corridor outside Lysander's room.
He had not been asked to wait. He was simply there — the old servant, the man Lysander had identified on his first week as the person he needed to know. Sitting on a low stool outside the door with the patient quality of someone who had been waiting a comfortable amount of time and was prepared to wait more.
He looked up when Lysander came down the corridor.
He said: "Welcome — back."
"Thank — you — Fylon."
"I — heard — the — ship — came — in."
"A — few — hours — ago."
"I — kept — your — room."
This was not, Lysander had learned, a small thing. In a palace where space was allocated by status and usefulness, a room being kept during an absence was a statement of intent. Fylon had apparently decided, in the three weeks of the voyage, to make that statement without being asked.
"Thank — you," Lysander said. "I — mean — that."
Fylon stood.
He said: "There — is — food — inside. And — water — for — washing."
"You — did — not — need — to — do — that."
"No," Fylon said. "I — chose — to."
He said it with the specific dignity of a man who understood the difference between obligation and choice and wanted the distinction acknowledged.
"I — know," Lysander said. "I — see — it. Thank — you."
Fylon gave the small nod of someone whose gesture had been correctly received.
He turned to go.
Lysander said: "Fylon."
He stopped.
"Tomorrow — or — the — day — after — I — want — to — talk — with — you. About — the — palace — stores. About — the — harvest — records. About — some — ideas — I — have."
Fylon turned.
He looked at Lysander with the expression that Lysander had been seeing more often lately — the expression of a man who had been watching something develop that he had not expected when it started.
He said: "The — grain — stores — have — a — problem. You — should — know — that — before — you — ask — about — them."
"What — kind — of — problem."
"The — north — stores — have — rot — in — the — lower — third. It — has — been — spreading — since — the — summer."
"Has — anyone — told — Priam."
Fylon said: "I — told — the — supply — manager. He — told — me — it — was — not — his — concern."
"It — is — everyone's — concern."
"Yes," Fylon said. "I — know — that."
He said it with the particular tiredness of a man who had known something was everyone's concern for a long time and had been unable to make anyone else see it.
"Tomorrow," Lysander said. "Show — me — the — stores."
Fylon looked at him.
"Before — you — see — Priam?"
"Before — I — see — Priam."
Fylon was quiet for a moment.
Then he said: "I — will — be — at — your — door — at — first — light."
He walked away down the corridor.
Lysander watched him go.
The grain stores had rot.
He had been gone three weeks and the grain stores had developed rot that the supply manager had decided was not his concern.
He went into his room. The food was there — bread and olives and a small jar of something. He sat on the mat and ate and looked at the clay shards still lined up on the window ledge where he had left them.
Welcome — back, he thought.
The real — work — starts — now.
He picked up a fresh shard.
He wrote on it — in Linear B, Paris's teaching finally fully useful — his priority list. The same one he had written on the ship, copied out properly now, the signs clean.
Language. Hector. The five. Agriculture. Medicine. Ships. Priam. The long horizon.
He added an eighth item.
Grain stores. Fix immediately.
He set the shard on the ledge with the others.
He lay back on the mat.
Above him: the same ceiling he had stared at on the first night, the stone close and yellow in the lamplight.
He had come a long way since that ceiling.
He had much further to go.
Sleep, he told himself. Tomorrow — you — start.
He closed his eyes.
And outside, Troy breathed its particular breath — salt and stone and charcoal and the long continuous life of a city that did not know yet what was coming.
He listened to it until he didn't.