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Chapter 20 - Antenor

They walked on. As if nothing had happened.

Only Aeneas's gaze occasionally strayed into the depths of the crowd. As if following the path of that small, vanished figure.

He thought privately: Good thing I read all those travel guides. Been to a few rough places. By any measure, I'm an experienced international traveler.

The gold and silver are safely sewn into my inner lining. Perfectly secure. Hope those few obols can keep that boy and whoever depends on him going for a few more days...

Leaving the noisy, bustling market near the docks, the road widened. The party's pace slowed.

The fierce sun beat down from overhead. It cast a glaring haze over the land ahead.

On one side stretched neat fields of wheat and vineyards. Green vines crept slowly over their trellises. Unripe grain swayed in the wind.

Farmers bent their backs. Sweat gleamed on their brows in the sunlight. Slaves and tenants swung wooden rakes and short hoes. They moved to the foremen's shouts. Sweat and earth wove a picture of 'plenty.'

The other side, however, held a different scene.

Along the field borders, in the gaps between trees and low stone walls, crowded rows of shacks. They were built from branches, reeds, and tattered cloth.

The wind tugged at the frayed edges of the cloth. Revealed dark, cramped spaces within. The air smelled of ash, refuse, and decay.

Barefoot children chased each other in the dust. Their laughter was weak and raspy. A gaunt mother held a malnourished infant tightly. Her attempts to soothe it couldn't stop its low, persistent crying.

More people just sat in their shack doorways. Their eyes were vacant. Staring into the distance. As if life held no purpose left to pursue.

Euryalus had lost his earlier market excitement. His voice grew quiet.

"Such a sight… I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen it. Right at the foot of the great royal city."

Achates's expression was grim. His eyes fixed on a thin father leading his child toward a group of slave traders from afar. He explained in a low voice:

"Most of these people own no land.

Their only choice is to sell their labor to nobles or rich farmers. For a little food.

If that still can't feed their families… they turn to theft… Or even sell their own children. To let the rest of the family live…"

Nisus and Euryalus exchanged a look. Anger flashed in their eyes. Then they bowed their heads, helpless.

They came from a mountain village. They knew lean years. But this kind of despair, pressed right against the city walls—in a place that should be the richest—was beyond them. Incomprehensible. Unthinkable.

Aeneas slowed his pace. His face showed unmistakeable shock.

His future-born soul had no immunity to such poverty.

In his memory, TV news had shown images of slums. Even refugee camps in war zones. But it was all through a screen—he could change the channel. Could walk away.

Here, the reality of the smells, the cries, the stares, pressed heavily on his heart.

'Is this the Bronze Age slum…'

He murmured inwardly. If Troy was a vast, glittering corporation…

Then these people were the temporary workers. Squeezed into corners. Doing the hardest work for the least pay. With no security.

The core prosperity of the 'company' rested on these people expending their strength and hope.

Without systemic change, these cracks would only widen. Eventually swallowing everything.

"Young lord?" Achates noted his expression, calling to him in a probing murmur.

Aeneas took a sharp breath. Returned to the present. Reined in his visible emotions. But his tone held a new resolve. "Let's go. We have duties to complete."

With that, he quickened his pace. As if unwilling to let his companions see the turmoil within.

But a seed had been planted in his mind. A thought he could no longer ignore:

If I am to truly bear the name of lord… I will not pretend I don't see this suffering. I will not!

The rest of the journey passed in relative quiet.

The fields, shacks, and scattered farmsteads gradually fell behind. They crossed an open plain. Until the massive city wall loomed directly before them.

Troy's lower wall stood imposing. Its structure of mud-brick and stone gleamed a pale gray in the sun. Thick and solid. Ten meters high.

A moat lay silent around its base. Reflecting the wall's stern authority.

The main gate ahead was like a great, silent beast of bronze. A weave of hinges and timber. It seemed to scrutinize all who sought entry with a cold eye.

The area before the gate teemed with noise. Farmers carried poles laden with produce. Merchant trains led donkeys and camels. Attendants of foreign envoys guarded their masters' chests.

Gate guards wore leather helmets. They held spears. Leaned shields against the wall. They checked identities and cargo, one by one.

Under the harsh sun, the smells of dust, livestock, and sweat blended into a single haze.

Aeneas stopped. Looked up at the gate.

To him, it wasn't just a wall. It was a symbol of power and history.

Beyond that arch lay the legendary Troy.

Achates noticed his gaze. Moved to his young lord's side. His tone was formal, yet held clear respect.

"Young master, this is the Antenor Gate. Guarded by Lord Antenor himself. He is the eldest son of the late hero Aesyetes."

Hearing the name, Nisus and Euryalus pricked up their ears. Their expressions turned intent.

Achates continued, his voice instinctively dropping, as if recounting a soldier's epic.

"You know the old hero's fame. He led our men to repel pirate raids more than once.

And over thirty years ago, when the demigod Hercules attacked Troy during an earthquake, it was Lord Aesyetes who stood firm.

He faced the mighty foe without fear. Fought to his last breath. Died with honor. Even Hercules praised his courage publicly."

Here, Achates pointed toward a sandbar in the nearby Scamander River.

Water lapped at its edges. A raised earthen mound stood prominently at its center.

"There. That is the tomb they built for him.

Guarded by his descendants for generations. That is why this gate passed to his eldest son, Lord Antenor, after his death. A symbol of continuity. And protection."

Nisus's mouth hung open. His eyes shone. He whispered, "What a hero…"

Euryalus clenched his fists. His expression was solemn, as if making a silent vow.

Aeneas was quiet for a long moment. Finally, he gave a grave nod.

He looked at the high gatehouse and the distant tomb. Committed the name 'Antenor' to memory.

"I see," he said softly. "The descendant of such a hero is indeed worthy of respect."

His gaze swept over the guards, then returned to the gate's dark mouth.

"Let's enter the city. If the chance arises, I would like to meet this hero's son myself."

Truthfully, the name meant little to him. Not a major player in the epic. He couldn't judge the man's character or ability like he could with, say, 'Paris'. But with such high repute… perhaps… a potential ally?

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