When everyone had gone, the room felt oddly vast.
Aeneas eased himself upright, wincing as a sharp ache tugged at his half-healed ribs. He rolled his stiff shoulders with a quiet groan.
Sunlight spilled through the window—bright, blinding, and utterly merciless. It seemed to mock him with its cheerfulness, as if saying: Welcome to the ancient world. No air conditioning here, my friend.
He took a deep breath, curiosity overcoming discomfort. Slowly, he swung his legs off the bed and padded to the door. The rough wooden handle was warm beneath his fingertips as he turned it and stepped outside.
The courtyard was modest but orderly. Irregular stone slabs formed a neat little path, and clusters of Mediterranean shrubs gleamed a sharp green under the sun. In one corner stood a simple rack of weapons—wooden swords, long spears, and a straw target punctured with old practice marks.
An olive tree dominated the space, its gnarled branches casting a wide shade. Beneath it, several flat stones served as tables and benches. And over in the far corner squatted a low stone hut—so humble, so suspiciously positioned—that Aeneas instinctively wrinkled his nose.
The air was dazzling with late-afternoon light, so crisp it made him want to breathe deeply… though each breath carried a reminder of rural reality: livestock, fermenting olive oil, and—ah yes—the unmistakable tang of a world before plumbing.
He muttered inwardly,
"Completely natural air, zero additives… might be a bit too authentic."
Under the tree's shade, a household slave swept the flagstones in steady silence, his broom made from dried reeds. Every motion was practiced, unhurried.
Beyond the walls, the Dardan valley unfolded in breathtaking layers. The forested ridges of Mount Ida shimmered in green waves. Far off, the outline of Troy glimmered faintly on the horizon, and beyond that, the Aegean sparkled like spilled silver coins. The Scamander River wound below, broad and restless, feeding farmlands and scattered villages along its banks.
Aeneas took it all in, letting the wind brush his hair, and for a moment tried—truly tried—to feel the beauty of it.
Then his modern mind kicked in.
"Magnificent view… tragic living conditions. Adaptation required, Mr. Buffett."
He exhaled and gave a small, wry grin.
"Alright, Allen old boy, time to tough it out. No heating, no coffee, no convenience stores… but plenty of history, apparently."
The courtyard shimmered with light and shadow, olive leaves rustling like whispers. Sea wind swept through, carrying the scent of salt and sun.
Aeneas wandered across the flagstones, trailing a hand along the wooden spear shafts. Everything here—every texture, every sound—was new, alien, and faintly enchanting.
He circled back to a flat stone table, where a clay basin sat half-filled with water. He hesitated, then plunged his hands in. The shock of coolness ran up his arms, sending a delicious shiver down his spine.
When he lifted his hands and shook them dry, the air sucked the moisture away in seconds.
"No soap, no handwash… sterilize by evaporation?" he murmured under his breath.
His eyes drifted toward that suspicious stone hut again.
The latrine.
It squatted there like a brooding turtle, exuding an aura of "approach at your own peril."
Aeneas froze for a beat, wearing the universal expression of someone remembering civilization's greatest invention.
"Flush toilets," he whispered reverently. "Humanity's true masterpiece. I miss you."
He turned away quickly, pretending not to see it—but the next problem rose immediately in his mind.
Bathing.
He pictured himself being doused with a bucket of icy water, teeth chattering uncontrollably.
"Hot water heaters," he sighed dramatically, "gone with the wind. Just me, cold water, and heartbreak."
A buzzing sound broke his lament.
A fly swooped past his ear.
"Oi—go away!" Aeneas swatted furiously, stumbling backward as the insect continued its mocking orbit.
"That's not just a fly," he muttered through gritted teeth, "that's the airborne ambassador of cholera and typhoid! I need bug spray!"
Aeneas finally snapped.
He threw back his head and let out a cry so dramatic that the gods themselves might have paused mid-ambrosia.
"No Wi-Fi, no coffee, no flushing toilets! Is this even human life?!"
The outburst echoed across the courtyard.
From the neighboring yard, a young slave poked his head out, wide-eyed with curiosity.
Instantly, Aeneas coughed twice, straightened his back, and clasped his hands behind him in a pose of practiced nobility.
"I was merely… warming up," he declared to absolutely no one.
Then, in a whisper meant only for his own sanity:
"Steady now. Don't terrify the locals."
A few sheep bleated somewhere beyond the wall.
"Oh, great," he muttered. "Lamb again."
His mind supplied the inevitable image: another roasted leg of mutton, sprinkled with salt, drowned in olive oil.
The monotony of it all made him sigh aloud.
"Three seasonings. That's it. No chili, no pepper, no sauce of any kind. Civilization truly begins with condiments."
A servant happened to pass by just then, balancing a platter bearing—of course—a fat, glistening leg of lamb. The man smiled and bowed.
Aeneas returned the gesture with all the weary grace of a diplomat greeting a rival king, while his inner voice added:
Bon appétit. My taste buds have just filed their resignation.
But then an even more terrifying realization struck him.
No potatoes.
No tomatoes.
No corn.
"Brilliant," he said flatly. "Half of global cuisine has just been erased. Farewell, fries. Goodbye, pasta. Adieu, popcorn."
He reached for a clay cup on the table, giving it a little shake. A thin residue of wine sloshed weakly at the bottom—clearish, yet vaguely murky.
He sniffed it, winced.
"Tell me this isn't watered down. And unfiltered?"
Still, thirst won. He took a cautious sip—then doubled over coughing, face twisting as if he'd swallowed sand.
The servant glanced over. Aeneas waved him off with exaggerated nonchalance, as though choking on ancient wine were perfectly routine.
But what truly broke him was his sweet tooth.
Vanilla ice cream, cream cakes, chocolate—each one flashed before his inner eye like the ghosts of a lost civilization.
"Oh no," he groaned, gripping the stone table for support. "My blood sugar's plummeting straight to the underworld…"
He sagged back, gazing up at the cloudless sky in utter despair.
"This isn't a foodie's paradise," he whispered hoarsely. "This is the foodie's inferno."
Aeneas dragged himself to a rough-hewn stone bench and sat down heavily. The sun was bright—half warmth, half assault. He exhaled, long and slow.
"All right. Breathe, Allen, breathe," came the familiar voice of his inner forty-five-year-old self, calm and practical as ever.
Three choices, then.
Option One: Run. Far, far away.
He pictured himself vanishing into the mountains, alone, surrounded by wild beasts and bands of brigands.
"Fantastic," he muttered. "Bronze-Age edition of Survivor. Forget lasting three seasons—three episodes and I'm toast."
He shuddered.
Option Two: Surrender to the Greeks.
Instantly, faces swam before his eyes—Achilles, Ajax the Great, Ajax the Lesser—all muscle, wrath, and murder.
"Massacres are basically their hobby. Handing myself over? Might as well gift-wrap my own head. And besides—morals, remember?"
He drew a big, imaginary X in the air.
Option Three: Stay. Strengthen Troy. Rewrite destiny.
His fingers began tapping the stone tabletop, slow and steady. His heartbeat matched the rhythm.
"I'm a Trojan prince—well, a cadet branch, but still. I've got status, resources, and a literal goddess for a mum…"
As memories and this body's instincts fused, knowledge unfurled inside him like pages turning in a vast, ancient book.
Aeneas stared down at his own palm—broad, calloused, lined with the strength and precision of a young nobleman trained for battle.
A faint smile tugged at his lips, half-bitter, half-wry.
"Well," he muttered under his breath, "talk about hard mode unlocked. Real life's decided to skip straight to the hell-difficulty setting."
The words came out with a dry chuckle, somewhere between self-pity and self-parody.
Then he lifted his gaze to the horizon, where the Aegean glittered like molten glass under the sun. Slowly, a spark of something steadier—resolve—began to burn in his eyes.
He sat motionless on the stone bench in the courtyard. Shafts of sunlight spilled down from Mount Ida, catching on his black-and-gold curls until they gleamed like fire.
When he closed his eyes, two very different streams of memory surged through his mind.
The first belonged to Aeneas: the weight of a sword in motion, the sting of sweat dripping onto the training ground's stone tiles, his father Anchises' patient, heavy-voiced lectures on duty and restraint.
The second… was baggage left behind by Allen Buffett: a jumble of war chronologies, centuries of spoilers from future history, and an adult's hard-won knowledge of technology, logistics, and farming.
He sighed.
"Right," he said aloud. "A forty-five-year-old, unemployed web novelist. My one golden cheat code: agriculture and applied science. Fantastic."
He exhaled, opened his eyes, and took in the rough simplicity of the world around him—primitive, yes, but undeniably alive.
From outside came the gentle voice of his mother, Aresya, calling out to a maid. Faint laughter followed—Terani's laughter, light as wind chimes.
"If I give up now," he murmured, almost afraid to finish the thought, "what kind of future would they have?"
The words carried both Aeneas' solemnity and Allen's modern, restless edge.
A breeze rolled in from the coastal plain, tasting of salt and grass. He rose to his feet—swift, fluid, newly decisive.
"All right then, Troy," he said, lips curving into a grin. "If I'm stuck being Aeneas, let's see if I can't rewrite your tragic script a bit."
A servant glanced up from the corner of the yard, startled by his sudden energy. Aeneas only grinned wider and waved a dismissive hand, as if to say, Don't mind me—just a quick meeting of the souls.
He looked toward the towering walls of Troy in the distance and laughed softly.
"Okay then. Aeneas 2.0—coming online."
The wooden gate creaked open with a sharp crack, and a tall young man strode in, sunlight tracing a golden outline across his broad shoulders.
His expression said it all: What trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?
"Aeneas!" he called, his voice deep and full of relief. "You're awake! By the gods, you really know how to keep people worrying!"
Aeneas looked up, the corners of his mouth quirking with genuine ease.
"Well, if it isn't my walking shield. Relax—I'm still very much alive."
He lifted a hand in lazy salute. The newcomer was Achates—his childhood friend, his right hand, and, truth be told, his occasional babysitter.
Achates approached, his sharp eyes scanning Aeneas up and down before his brow arched.
"I heard you went and killed a wild boar," he muttered. "Impressive… and idiotic."
Aeneas burst out laughing.
"Next time I'll bring you along, then it'll only be half idiotic. Can't risk facing another 'Boar King' without my backup."
"You…" Achates shook his head, but a reluctant smile slipped through all the same.
Then, after a pause, his tone deepened.
"Whatever you're planning—whether it's trouble or glory—I'm with you. Always."
For a moment, the courtyard fell utterly silent. Only the distant murmur of the Scamander River broke the stillness.
The unease in Aeneas' chest seemed to lift, scattered by that quiet loyalty.
"It's a promise, then," he said softly, forcing a grin to return. "But if you chicken out midway, I swear I'll write you as the traitor when they turn this into an epic."
Achates blinked, then gave a low, rumbling laugh. He clapped a heavy hand on Aeneas' shoulder.
"Don't worry. I'm not that kind of coward."
Their eyes met—and just like that, the tension cracked. The air lightened again.
Aeneas leaned against the stone bench, his hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the far-off shimmer of the Aegean.
"Achates," he said at last, his tone unusually solemn.
The young guard straightened instantly. His expression shifted from lazy ease to wary alertness—he knew that look far too well. Whenever his young master got that particular glint in his eye, disaster usually followed, and quickly.
Aeneas cleared his throat, as if preparing to deliver a royal decree.
"I've made up my mind," he announced grandly. "Since Heracles managed all those glorious labours, it's only fair I follow in his footsteps. The wild boar was just a warm-up. Next, I'll…"
He paused, tapping his chin in mock deliberation.
"…go to Nemea and kill a lion."
The courtyard froze. Even the cicadas seemed to stop mid-song.
Achates' eyes went wide—round as bronze coins. His mouth opened, then closed again, then opened once more, but no sound came out.
Aeneas watched him struggle, lips twitching. He lasted perhaps three seconds before the grin broke through—crooked, mischievous, entirely unrepentant.
Realisation dawned on Achates like a thunderclap. He let out a long breath, half relief, half exasperation.
"By the gods, my lord!" he gasped, swatting Aeneas on the arm. "You nearly gave me a heart attack!"
"That's how you know it worked!" Aeneas burst out laughing, his eyes dancing with boyish delight.
Achates couldn't help himself; he laughed too. In moments, both were doubled over, their laughter echoing off the courtyard walls like rolling thunder.
That was when Terani bounded in—light-footed as a startled deer.
Her round face glowed pink from running, and a smudge of flour clung stubbornly to her nose.
"My lord! Achates!" she cried, waving both arms as if to stop a pair of ships at sea. "Lady Aresya says dinner's ready! There's fresh bread—just out of the oven!—and stew!"
Each word sent a little puff of flour dancing from her tunic.
Achates tried to keep a straight face, he really did. But one look at her—flustered, flour-dusted, and utterly earnest—and his stern composure cracked.
"We'll be right there," he said, managing only a tiny, defeated smile.
Aeneas, meanwhile, studied her bright eyes and couldn't help thinking, At least smiles in this era are real. No filters. No touch-ups. Just people.
Terani, task completed, turned on her heel and scampered back toward the gate.
"Don't take too long!" she called over her shoulder. "Bread doesn't wait for anyone!"
When her voice faded, the courtyard fell quiet again.
The evening breeze swept down from Mount Ida, carrying with it the scent of salt and roasted meat.
Aeneas and Achates exchanged a glance. Then, as if by shared instinct, both started laughing again.
"She's got more energy than you," Achates teased.
"Rubbish," Aeneas shot back, chin tilted in mock pride. "If you dangled fresh bread and stew in front of me, I'd out-bounce her easily."
"Unbelievable," Achates muttered, chuckling under his breath as he threw an arm around the younger man's shoulders.
Together they headed toward the dining hall, the setting sun washing the world in molten gold.
Somewhere beyond the horizon, the waves lapped gently against the shore—soft, steady, and entirely unaware that a far louder storm was on its way.