Chapter 200: War on the Fields

The smoke came before the news.

Lysander saw it from the northern tower — three pillars of black rising from the eastern fields, thick and slow, climbing into the grey morning sky like fingers reaching for something they couldn’t touch.

"They’re burning the wheat," Paris said. He was beside Lysander, his bow in hand, his eyes tracking the smoke. "The winter crop. Everything we planted in the autumn."

"I see it."

"Can we stop them?"

"No."

Paris looked at him. "No?"

"They have four thousand men between us and those fields. We don’t have the numbers to sortie, fight them, and get back inside before reinforcements arrive." Lysander kept his eyes on the smoke. "They know that. That’s why they’re doing it in daylight. They want us to watch."

Paris was quiet for a moment. His jaw tightened. His fingers moved on the bowstring — a small, unconscious motion. The need to shoot something. Anything.

"How much did we lose," he asked.

"The eastern fields were forty percent of our grain."

"Forty percent."

"Yes."

Paris looked at the smoke again. Then he looked away.

Hector arrived at the tower within the hour. His armour was already on. He had been expecting this.

"How much is left," he asked.

"The western plots. The terraced gardens on the southern slope. The root stores." Lysander pointed west. "Enough for three months if we ration hard. Two if we don’t."

"And the water."

Lysander looked at him. Hector’s face was flat. Controlled. But his eyes were asking the question he wasn’t saying aloud.

"The aqueduct from the hills," Lysander said. "They’ll cut it next. Maybe today. Maybe tomorrow."

"Then we lose the water too."

"Not all of it." Lysander kept his voice steady. "We have cisterns. We have the harbour well. And we have reserves I can’t explain right now."

Hector looked at him. A long look. The kind that asked: how much do you know that you haven’t told me?

"Trust me," Lysander said. "We won’t die of thirst."

Hector held his gaze for another moment. Then he nodded. "Fine. But when this is over, you tell me everything."

"When this is over."

"Yes."

Lysander didn’t answer. Because he wasn’t sure there would be an "over." Not in the way Hector meant.

The aqueduct fell by noon.

A runner came from the western watch station, breathing hard, his face streaked with dust.

"They’ve dammed it," he said. "The hill stream. They built a wall of earth and stone across the channel. The water’s backing up into the valley. Nothing’s flowing down."

Hector received the report standing. His arms crossed. His face unchanged.

"How long before the cisterns run low," he asked.

"Three weeks. Maybe four. Depends on usage."

"Then we ration." Hector turned to Lysander. "Get Arsini. Get the numbers. I want a rationing plan by tonight."

"You’ll have it."

Arsini was in the supply office when Lysander found her. She was already working. Tablets spread across the table. Her stylus moving. Her face set in the expression she wore when the numbers were bad and she was forcing herself to look at them anyway.

"The fields are gone," she said without looking up. "Forty percent of grain production. Gone."

"I know."

"And the water."

"I know that too."

She looked up. "Then you know what I’m about to tell you."

"Tell me anyway."

She set the stylus down. "At current consumption, with the western plots and the root stores, we have enough food for three months. Maybe three and a half if we cut to two meals a day and reduce portions by a third."

"And water."

"Four weeks if the cisterns are all we have. But you said we have reserves." She looked at him. "What reserves?"

"I can’t tell you yet."

"Lysander—"

"I can’t. Not yet. But they exist. Trust me."

She stared at him for a long moment. Then she picked up the stylus again.

"Fine. I’ll plan for three months of food and assume the water holds. If you’re wrong about the water—"

"I’m not."

"If you’re wrong, we start dying in four weeks. Not three months. Four weeks."

"I know. I’m not wrong."

She went back to her tablets. "Get out. I need to recalculate everything."

The afternoon passed in a haze of smoke and rationing orders.

Arsini posted the new rules at every gate and every public well. Two meals a day. Half portions for adults. Full portions for children and fighters. No waste. No hoarding. No trade of food outside the official distribution.

The people read the notices. Some argued. Most didn’t. They had lived through the black ships. They had lived through the plague. They knew what hunger looked like, and they knew that fighting over bread would get them killed faster than the Greeks outside the walls.

Helen worked in the supply office through the afternoon. She counted jars. She tallied grain sacks. She recorded oil reserves and bandage supplies. Her stylus moved steadily, her face calm, her hands precise.

She asked Arsini about the northern stores once. A simple question. Routine.

"The northern granaries," she said. "Are they full?"

"Eighty percent. Why?"

"Just updating the manifest. Hector asked for a full inventory."

Arsini nodded and went back to her calculations. Helen wrote the number down. Moved to the next column. Continued working.

Nothing unusual. Nothing noteworthy.

Just inventory.

Night fell. The fires in the eastern fields still burned. The smoke had turned the sunset red, then black, then nothing. The stars came out cold and indifferent above the walls.

Lysander stood on the northern tower, watching the Greek camp. Thousands of fires. Thousands of men. The sound of their voices carried on the wind — laughter, shouting, the clatter of metal. They were celebrating. Why wouldn’t they? They’d burned a city’s food supply without losing a single man.

"They’ll hit us tomorrow," Hector said. He had come up the stairs quietly. "Or the day after. They’ll test whether the rationing breaks morale."

"Maybe."

"Not maybe. They will. Agamemnon is patient. He’ll wait a few days. Let the hunger settle in. Then he’ll attack when we’re weakest."

"Then we make sure we don’t break."

Hector looked at him. "You keep saying that. ’Trust me.’ ’We have reserves.’ ’I can’t tell you yet.’ How long does ’yet’ last?"

Lysander didn’t answer.

Hector turned and walked back down the stairs. His footsteps faded. The tower was empty.

Lysander looked at the stars. At the smoke. At the dark fields where nothing would grow again until spring.

Three months, he thought. Maybe less. And then the underground city is all that’s left.

He didn’t say it aloud. He couldn’t. Not yet.

The attack came at midnight.

Not on the walls. Not on the gates.

Fire.

The first projectile hit the northern palace roof — a ball of burning pitch wrapped in cloth, trailing smoke, arcing through the dark sky from somewhere beyond the wall. It landed on the timber supports above the granary section with a sound like a cracking bone.

Then another. And another. Six in total. All aimed at the same section. The northern granaries.

The alarm bell rang. Men shouted. Water buckets passed hand to hand. The fire caught the dry timber and spread fast, eating through the roof supports, licking down toward the stored grain below.

"Water!" someone screamed. "Get water on the roof!"

They fought it for two hours. Bucket chains. Wet cloaks. Sand thrown by the handful. The fire ate three of the six roof sections before they contained it. The grain below was partially saved — the stone walls held, the fire didn’t reach the lowest stores.

But the damage was done.

Fifteen percent of the northern grain supply. Gone. Burned. Ash and smoke and the smell of charred wheat.

Dawn came grey and cold.

Lysander stood in the courtyard below the damaged granary, looking up at the blackened timbers. The roof was open to the sky now. Three sections destroyed. The stone walls still stood, but the wooden interior was gutted.

Arsini came to stand beside him. Her face was pale. She had been awake all night, coordinating the firefight.

"Fifteen percent," she said. "Of the northern stores. Gone."

"I know."

"That cuts our total food supply from three months to ten weeks. Maybe nine."

"I know."

She looked at him. "This wasn’t random. The projectiles hit the same section. All six. Aimed at the granary roofs specifically. Not the barracks. Not the temple. Not the palace chambers. The granaries."

Lysander looked up at the blackened wood. At the precision of the damage. Six projectiles. Same target. Same angle. Same section.

"You’re right," he said quietly. "This wasn’t random."

"Someone told them where the stores were."

Lysander didn’t answer immediately. He looked at the damage. At the angle of impact. At the distance from the wall — too far for a man to throw, but close enough for a sling or a simple torsion device. They had built something. Something small. Something aimed.

"Someone told them," he repeated. "Yes."

"Who?"

"I don’t know." And he meant it. He genuinely didn’t know. Not yet. "But we need to find out."

He turned to her. "From today, the supply manifests are restricted. Only people with a direct need to know get the numbers. Not the full inventory. Not the storage locations. Section by section, only what’s relevant to their role."

Arsini nodded slowly. "You think it’s someone in the palace."

"I think it’s someone who had access to the granary records. That’s all I think right now. I don’t accuse. I don’t guess. I gather information."

He looked back at the burned roof. At the open sky above the ruined timber.

"We’ll rebuild the roof," he said. "Move what’s left to the southern stores. And from tonight, the granary locations are classified."

"Classified."

"Yes. Only you, me, and Hector know where the food is. No one else."

Arsini wrote it down. Turned. Walked back toward the supply office.

Lysander stayed in the courtyard. He looked up at the blackened beams. At the smoke still rising. At the empty sky where the roof used to be.

Someone inside these walls is helping them, he thought. I don’t know who. I don’t know how. But I will find out.

He turned and walked toward the palace.

Behind him, the smoke rose. Thin. Slow. Dissolving into the grey morning like a secret no one had asked yet.