Chapter 210: The Platforms

Odysseus stood alone.

Two days.

He looked at the walls. At the parapet where the defenders stood. At the gaps that had cost him three hundred men. At the archers behind the line. At the oil cauldrons. At everything Lysander had built.

Two days. Then twelve platforms. Six hundred men per platform. Shield walls walking into the kill zones.

He did not smile. He did not frown. He calculated.

Then he turned and walked to his tent. The lamp was still burning. The wooden shape on the table was finished. He did not look at it.

He lay down and closed his eyes.

Two days...............................................................................

The third duel lasted four minutes.

Greek champion: Lykos of Crete. Tall, fast, lethal. Troy sent Charon — a garrison fighter, thirty years old, steady but not spectacular.

Charon died on the second thrust. The spear went through his chest. He looked down at it. Then he fell.

Silence. Both armies. No cheers. No roars.

Hector watched from the wall. His fingers were moving at his sides — small, unconscious movements. 𝑓𝑟ℯℴ𝓂

He turned to Philocles, a garrison commander. "Go to the lower town. Every reserve soldier who is not on the wall — bring them to the northern section. Now."

"How many, lord."

"Everyone who carries a spear and is not standing on this wall."

"There are four thousand men in the reserve."

"Bring them all."

Philocles went.

Hector turned to another commander. "Get word to Glaukos. His Lycians — all of them — to the harbour wall. And Thero. Her Carians — to the southern gate. Every fighter in this city at a wall before noon."

The commander ran.

Hector looked at the Greek camp. At the shapes behind the horse lines. Something was wrong. He could feel it.

Lysander was not watching the duel.

He was at the sixth tower, staring at the Greek camp. The shapes behind the horse lines had not moved in three days. Covered. Still. Twelve of them.

Today they moved.

The canvas was coming off.

He saw the first one. A platform. Wooden frame. Four wheels. Forward edge angled to sit flush against stone. Top surface covered in soaked ox hides. Arrows could not pierce it. Fire could not catch it.

Then the second. The third. Twelve.

And on top of each — men. Shoulder to shoulder. Shields locked. Fifteen men abreast. Packed tight.

"Hector!" Lysander’s voice cut across the wall. "The north! Now!"

Hector was already moving. He reached the parapet and looked down.

Twelve platforms. Rolling toward the slope. Two hundred paces. Closing fast.

"The kill zones," Hector said.

"Won’t hold," Lysander said. "Fifteen men abreast. The gap kills one. The other fourteen walk through."

"Oil."

"Not on the platforms. On the ground. In front of them. The wheels hit the oil, they slip, men fall."

Hector did not hesitate. "All cauldrons — pour on the ground! Now!"

The cauldrons tipped. Boiling oil hit the earth between the wall and the slope. It spread across the flat stone, pooling in cracks.

The first platform hit the oil. Wheels locked. It slid sideways. Three men fell. The platform scraped the wall at an angle.

The second platform hit the same patch. Slid. Five men went over the side.

The third was wider. It skidded through the oil and slammed against the wall. The men on top raised their shields and climbed over the parapet.

"Section three! They’re on the wall!"

The kill zone took the first man. Two spears. Left and right. Dead.

But the second was already there. And the third. And the fourth.

"Break! The gap is broken!" The shout came from the fourth section. Two platforms at the same point. Thirty men pouring over.

Hector was there before the shout faded. He killed three men in five seconds — thrust, shield strike, blade to the belly. But more were coming.

"Hold! If this section falls, the wall falls!"

On the eastern wall, Paris was shooting. Not at the men on the platforms — at the men pushing them. Twenty men per platform, backs exposed. Paris drew and loosed. Each arrow found a back or neck. The crews fell. The platforms stopped.

But the ones already at the wall kept disgorging men.

Lysander ran to the fourth section. Three Greeks on the walkway. Two defenders down.

He killed the first — thrust to the armpit. The second — pommel to the jaw. The third hesitated. Lysander charged, shoulder-first, drove him over the edge.

"Reset the gap! Left and right! Now!"

The defenders scrambled back. The kill zone reformed — broken, bloodied, but functional.

The border fighters held the eastern sections. A thousand men from Troy’s villages. Not trained soldiers. Men who had grown up fighting raiders. They held because retreat did not exist on the western perimeter.

The Lycians held the harbour wall. Glaukos led them — compact, hard, efficient.

The Carians held the southern gate. Thero at the centre, spear red, face calm.

The first wave broke. The platforms at the wall were empty. The ones in the oil were stuck.

The horn blew. Retreat.

The Greeks pulled back. The dead were left.

Hector found Lysander at the sixth tower. Armour dented. Helmet cracked. Three arrows in his shield.

"Losses."

"Sixty-one dead. A hundred and forty wounded. The Greeks lost two hundred and thirty. Three platforms destroyed. They have nine left."

Hector looked at the beach. The Greek camp was already moving. Men dragging the surviving platforms back. Repairing. Rebuilding. Preparing.

"Nine platforms," Hector said.

"Nine."

"They will come again."

"Tomorrow. Or the day after. They will repair the three they lost and come with twelve again."

"Can we hold."

Lysander looked at the wall. At the blood. At the oil. At the bodies being carried down the stairs.

"The oil is gone," Lysander said. "We used everything. The cauldrons are empty."

"Then what do we use."

"I do not know yet."

Hector looked at him. Tired. But steady.

"Find an answer," Hector said. "You built the kill zones. You built the defence. Now they have a weapon that beats it. Find the answer."

"I will."

"When."

"Before they come again."

Hector turned and walked toward the stairs. His armour clanked with each step. The cracked helmet sat crooked on his head.

Lysander stood on the wall alone. He looked at the Greek camp. At the nine platforms. At the three being rebuilt.

Then he saw him.

A single figure at the waterline. Golden hair. Golden armour. A spear in his hand.

Achilles had not moved. Had not fought. Had not been part of the assault. He had stood at the waterline and watched.

He was smiling.