The island had no name.
It was a jagged tooth of rock and scrub pine in the eastern Aegean, too small for any kingdom to claim, too barren for any farmer to settle. But it had a deep harbour on its southern side, sheltered from the winter winds, and in that harbour a fleet was gathering. Black hulls. Black sails. The same ships that had burned their way down the Anatolian coast, that had driven thousands of refugees into Troy's walls, that had slaughtered fishermen and farmers and anyone else who stood in their way.
