Chapter 211: The Last Reserve

Lysander sat in the war room alone.

The lamp burned low. The clay tablet in front of him was blank. He had been staring at it for an hour.

No oil. The cauldrons were empty. Nine platforms remained. The Greeks would repair the three they lost and come again with twelve. Fifteen men per platform. A hundred and eighty men per wave.

The kill zones could not handle fifteen.

He tried everything.

Stones. Drop them onto the platforms. The hides would bounce them. Not enough stones.

Sand. Pour sand on the ground. Sand did not stop wheels. It slowed them. Slowing was not enough.

Fire. The hides were soaked. Fire would not catch.

Ropes. Trip the platforms. Too heavy. Ropes would snap.

He pressed his palms against his eyes. Every idea led to the same wall. The platforms would reach the wall. The kill zones would break. The wall would fall.

And after the wall — what?

He sat back. Looked at the ceiling. The stone above him was the floor of Priam’s chamber. And below Priam’s chamber was the passage. And below the passage was the city.

The city that breathed blue light. The city with water and fish and roots that grew without sun.

You are the Ark.

He had not told Hector. He had not told anyone. But the secret existed for a reason. Someone, long ago, had understood that walls fall.

If the wall fell — when the wall fell — the people inside needed somewhere to go.

Twenty-five thousand people. Soldiers and civilians. Seven thousand soldiers. The rest — families, children, old men, women, the wounded, the frightened. Eighteen thousand civilians behind the walls.

One passage. One entrance in Priam’s chamber. Narrow. Three men abreast at best. Three and a half days of descent.

At that rate, twenty-five thousand people would take weeks. Weeks they did not have.

He needed more entrances.

He closed his eyes. Thought about the manuscripts Priam had given him. The leather note. The map of the passage. Seven doors. Seven traps. But the note described one path — the one from the palace.

The city below had terraces. Streets. Buildings. A complete infrastructure designed for thousands. One entrance could not serve a city that size.

There had to be others.

The temple. Priam had said something — a detail he had almost missed. The kings used these tunnels to move unseen during sieges. Plural. Tunnels. Not tunnel.

The temple of Athena sat on the highest point of the citadel. Its stones were older than the walls. Older than the palace. If there was a second entrance, it was there.

But he could not search the temple now. Any movement there would raise questions.

He filed it. Temple. Second entrance. After.

For now, the palace passage was the only way down. And one passage was not an evacuation plan. It was a last resort for a fraction of the people.

He needed to know who would go. Who would stay. And who would betray them.

Because when the wall broke, the people inside would divide. Some would fight. Some would flee. And some would open the gates for the Greeks — not out of courage, but out of fear.

Lysander needed a list.

He stood. Found Fylon.

Fylon was in the small room above the wine shop.

Lysander closed the door. Sat across from him.

"I need two lists," Lysander said.

"Two."

"First. Every person in Troy — noble, merchant, soldier, civilian — who would betray the city if the wall falls. Not people who have betrayed us. People who would. When the moment comes. When survival is the only question."

Fylon looked at him. "That is a long list."

"I need names, titles, and where they live. Not categories. Every name. Every street. Every house. Who they report to. Who they drink with. Who they owe money to. Who they fear."

"That will take days."

"You have until I say stop."

"And the second list."

"Soldiers. More than a hundred. The most loyal. Men who would die for the city and the royal family. Not because they were ordered to. Because they believe in it. I need their names, their ranks, and where they are stationed."

Fylon picked up a stylus. Pulled two blank tablets toward him.

"Why," Fylon said.

"Personal reasons."

Fylon studied him. Decades of reading men who said "personal reasons" when they meant something they could not say.

"You are preparing for the wall to fall," Fylon said.

"I am preparing for every possibility."

"You are preparing for the end."

"I am preparing for what comes after."

Fylon was quiet. Then he began to write. The first name went down on the first tablet. A title beside it. A street beside that. On the second tablet, a different name. A rank. A station.

Lysander stood. Walked to the door.

"Lysander."

He turned.

"When the wall falls — if it falls — where do the loyal ones go?"

Lysander did not answer for a moment. Then: "Down."

"Down where."

"I cannot tell you yet."

Fylon nodded. Did not ask again.

Lysander left. The corridor was dark. The palace was quiet. The city beyond the walls was sleeping — or not sleeping, depending on whether fear let them sleep.

He walked back to the war room. Sat down. Picked up the blank tablet.

He did not write on it.

He thought about the passage. One entrance. Twenty-five thousand people. The temple — maybe a second entrance. He needed to search. He needed time he did not have.

He thought about the nine platforms on the beach. The three being rebuilt. The man with golden armour who had stood at the waterline and smiled.

Tomorrow the platforms would come again.

He had no oil. No answer. Two lists being written in a room above a wine shop. A city underground with one entrance. A temple that might hold a second.

It was not enough.

It had to be.

.........................

Daidalos came at dawn.

His hands were bandaged. Burns from the fire ships — raw, blistered, wrapped in linen that was already darkening with seepage. He moved carefully, the way a man moves when his skin hurts and every step reminds him.