Chapter 212: The Tar

He did not write on it.

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.

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.

He found Lysander in the war room. The lamp had burned out. Lysander was sitting in the dark.

"You did not sleep," Daidalos said.

"No."

"The platforms."

"Yes."

Daidalos sat across from him. Set a jar on the table. It was small — clay, sealed with wax, the kind used for storing compound samples in the workshop.

"I have been thinking since yesterday," Daidalos said. "You need something that stops wheels. Not fire. Not stones. Something that makes the ground impossible to cross."

"Oil worked. But it is gone."

"Oil is slippery. Slippery stops wheels. But there is something else that stops wheels."

He broke the seal on the jar. Poured a thick, dark liquid onto the table. It moved slowly — slower than oil, thicker than pitch. It sat on the clay surface like a living thing, settling into a pool that did not spread.

"Tar," Daidalos said. "From the fire ship reserves. I have forty jars in the workshop. It is the base compound — before the sulfur is added, before the naphtha. Pure tar. Heated, it flows. Cooled, it hardens."

Lysander looked at the pool of tar on the table. "It does not burn without the compound."

"No. Pure tar is sticky, not flammable. It will not ignite. It will not evaporate. It will just sit there."

"On the ground."

"On the ground. In front of the wall. Heated and poured. When it cools, it becomes a trap. Wheels hit it and sink. Not slip — sink. The tar grips. The wheels stop. The platform stops."

"And the men on top."

"Standing on a platform that is not moving. In range of every archer on the wall."

Lysander looked at the tar. Then at Daidalos.

"How much tar do you have."

"Forty jars. Enough to cover thirty paces of ground in front of the northern wall. Not the entire wall — the northern section. The section where the platforms will come."

"Thirty paces."

"The platforms are six paces wide. Twelve platforms side by side is seventy-two paces. You cannot cover all of them. But you do not need to. You need to cover the centre. The platforms at the edges are slower — they have further to travel. The ones in the centre arrive first. Those are the ones that break the wall."

"Cover the centre. The edge platforms arrive later."

"Yes. By the time they reach the wall, the centre platforms are stuck. Their men are dead. The archers turn to the edges. The edge platforms meet the kill zones — which still work against a smaller number."

Lysander stood. Walked to the window. The sun was coming up. The Greek camp was visible — men moving, platforms being repaired.

"Mix it with sand," Lysander said.

Daidalos looked at him.

"Tar alone grips. But tar mixed with sand — the sand gives it texture. It becomes rough. It grabs wheels faster. And when a man steps in it, it grabs his feet. He cannot run. He cannot charge. He is stuck."

Daidalos considered. "Sand makes the tar dry faster. It will harden within minutes of cooling."

"Good. We pour it hot. It flows across the ground. Then it cools. Then it hardens. By the time the platforms arrive, the ground in front of the wall is a trap."

"How long to prepare."

"Forty jars. Heated. Mixed with sand. Carried to the wall. How long."

Daidalos stood. His bandaged hands curled at his sides. "Four hours. If I have every man in the workshop."

"You have them."

"And the cauldrons."

"The cauldrons are empty. But the braziers still work. Heat the tar in the braziers. Pour it into clay jars. Carry the jars to the wall."

Daidalos nodded. He turned to leave. At the door he stopped.

"The tar will not last forever. The sun will soften it. The rain will wash it. It will hold for one day — maybe two. After that, it degrades."

"One day is enough."

"For one assault."

"How many assaults can we stop."

"Three. Maybe four. Then the tar is gone and I have no more."

Lysander looked at him. "Three assaults. That is three days."

"Three days. Maybe four."

"After that."

"After that, you need a different answer."

Daidalos left. His footsteps faded down the corridor — the careful, measured steps of a man whose hands hurt and whose body was tired but whose mind had found the thing it was looking for.

Lysander stood at the window. The Greek camp was moving. Men were assembling near the platforms. The repairs were almost finished.

He counted. Nine platforms visible. Three still being rebuilt. By noon, they would have twelve again.

By noon, the tar would be ready.

He turned and walked toward the northern wall. He needed to measure the ground. He needed to mark the section where the tar would go. He needed to tell the archers where to aim when the platforms stopped.

He reached the wall and looked north.

The Greek camp was busy. The platforms were being wheeled to the front of the camp. Not hidden anymore. In the open. Agamemnon was not pretending.

He was coming.

Lysander looked at the ground below the wall. Thirty paces of flat earth between the stone and the slope. He measured it with his eyes. Marked the centre. Fifteen paces wide — enough to cover the first six platforms.

The tar would go there. The platforms would hit it. The wheels would sink. The men would be trapped.

And Paris would be waiting.

Lysander turned and walked back toward the workshop. He needed to help Daidalos carry the jars.

Four hours. The Greeks would be ready by noon.

So would Troy.