Agamemnon did not raise his voice.
That was what made the room feel smaller.
His son stood before the campaign table with his cloak still fastened around his shoulders. Dust marked the hem. A dark stain had dried near one sleeve.
Agamemnon looked at it.
Then he looked at his son.
"You were ordered to enter the city."
The young man said nothing.
"You were not ordered to approach her."
"She had found the source."
Agamemnon's fingers rested on the edge of the table.
"She had found a thread."
"She was pulling it."
"We did not know where it led."
"She would have discovered it."
"Perhaps."
The word struck harder than anger.
The young man's jaw tightened. "She was going to expose your spy."
"She was going to expose someone connected to my spy."
"That distinction would not have saved us."
"No," Agamemnon said. "But it might have saved the network."
His son's eyes hardened.
"She was an old woman."
"She was Hecuba."
The name remained between them.
