Chapter 213: The Tar

Daidalos worked through the night.

Forty jars of tar. Heated in the braziers that had held the oil cauldrons. Mixed with sand from the harbour — three parts tar, one part sand. The compound was thick, dark, and moved like something alive when it was hot. When it cooled, it hardened into a surface that gripped everything that touched it.

Lysander helped carry the jars. His arms ached. The cut on his bicep from the last assault had been stitched by Antiphus but still pulled with every movement. He did not care. The jars needed to reach the wall before dawn.

By the fourth hour, forty jars sat on the northern parapet. Daidalos tested the last batch — dipped a stick into the mixture, pulled it out, watched the tar stretch and hold.

"Ready," he said.

Lysander looked at the ground below the wall. Thirty paces of flat earth between the stone and the slope. He had measured it at dusk. The centre — fifteen paces wide — was where the platforms would come. The edges were secondary.

"Pour it," Lysander said.

The jars went over the parapet. Tar splashed across the ground — thick, dark, spreading slowly across the stone. The sand gave it texture. It did not flow like oil. It settled. It gripped. It stayed where it landed.

By dawn, fifteen paces of ground in front of the northern wall was covered. A dark, sticky band that looked like nothing and would stop everything.

Lysander stood on the parapet and watched the sun rise.

The Greek camp was already moving.

Twelve platforms.

They came at the eighth hour. Rolling across the beach in a line, pushed by crews of twenty, the ox-hide covers glistening in the morning light. Twelve platforms. A hundred and eighty men. The same formation as before.

But this time, Lysander was ready.

"Archers," he said. "Not yet. Wait until they stop."

The platforms crossed the beach. Hit the slope. Began to climb.

The first six — the centre group — hit the tar.

The front wheels sank. Not slipped — sank. The tar gripped the bronze fittings, the wooden spokes, the leather wraps. The platform lurched. The men on top stumbled forward. Two fell over the front edge and hit the tar face-first. They did not get up.

The second platform hit the same patch. Same result. Wheels locked. Platform tilted. Men fell.

The third platform tried to go around. The tar band was fifteen paces wide. The platform was six. It could not avoid it. The right wheels hit the tar. The platform spun sideways. Three men went over the side.

Three platforms stuck. A hundred and eighty men in the centre — forty-five on the stuck platforms — were trapped. Standing on wooden platforms that were not moving, in range of every archer on the wall.

"Now," Lysander said.

The archers loosed.

Paris was on the eastern wall. He drew and released. Drew and released. Two hundred paces. Each arrow found a man standing on a platform that could not move. The men raised their shields — but the shields only covered the front. The arrows came from above. From the sides. From every angle the wall provided.

The trapped men died.

But the edge platforms were still coming.

Four platforms had gone wide — outside the tar band. They reached the wall. Their forward edges slammed against the stone. Men poured over the parapet.

"Sections four and eight!" a commander shouted. "They’re on the wall!"

The kill zones took the first men. Two spears. Left and right. Dead. But the second wave was behind them. And the third. The narrow walkway limited the Greeks to two abreast — but there were forty-five men climbing over each platform, and the defenders were tired.

Hector was at section four. He killed two men in three seconds. A third swung a sword — Hector caught it on his shield and drove his blade through the man’s neck.

At section eight, Lysander was the floating role. He arrived as the gap broke. Three Greeks on the walkway. He killed the first. The second. The third hesitated and Lysander drove him backward off the parapet.

"Reset! Now!"

The defenders scrambled back. The kill zones reformed. The edge platforms were cleared — their men dead or driven back. The centre platforms were still stuck in the tar, their crews dead, their wheels locked.

The horn blew. Retreat.

The Greeks pulled back. They dragged two of the stuck platforms with them. Two were left — embedded in the tar, their wheels sunk, their crews dead on top.

Lysander walked the wall. Counting.

Hector found him at the sixth tower.

"Losses."

"Eighty dead. Two hundred wounded. Thirty critical."

"Greeks."

"Three hundred dead. Maybe more. Four platforms destroyed. They have eight left."

Hector looked at the tar. At the two platforms still stuck in it, their decks littered with bodies.

"It worked."

"Half worked. The edge platforms got through. We need more tar."

"How much is left."

"Half. Enough for one more assault."

Hector was quiet. He looked at the Greek camp. At the eight platforms being dragged back. At the men already repairing them.

"They will come again."

"Yes."

"When the tar dries."

Daidalos appeared on the stairs. His bandaged hands were black with tar. He looked at the ground below the wall.

"Three days," he said. "Then the tar cracks. The sun dries it. The rain washes it. Three days of effectiveness. Maybe less."

Hector looked at Lysander.

"Three days. Then they come with everything."

"Yes."

Hector turned and walked toward the stairs. His armour was dented again. A new cut on his cheek. He did not touch it.

Lysander stood on the wall. The tar held. For now............................. ..................

Two days. No attack.

Lysander stood on the northern wall at dawn and watched the Greek camp. The platforms were visible — eight of them, lined up behind the palisade. Men were working on them. Repairing. Modifying.

But they were not moving.

"He is waiting," Lysander said.

Hector was beside him. "For what."

"The tar to dry."