Chapter 214: The Wait

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.

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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."

Daidalos checked the tar that morning. He knelt on the ground below the wall — the only man who walked in it, because he had wrapped his boots in cloth and knew where to step. He pressed his fingers into the surface. It gave. Slowly.

"Two more days," he said. "Maybe three. The sun is drying it from the top. The bottom is still wet. When the bottom dries, it cracks."

"And when it cracks."

"It stops gripping. The wheels will pass through."

Lysander looked at the Greek camp. At the men working on the platforms. At the shapes that were not platforms — something else. Wider. Flatter.

"They are building something new," Lysander said.

In the Greek camp, Diomedes stood over the workbench.

Odysseus was beside him. The wooden model was on the table — the shape he had been carving for weeks. But it was not a model anymore. It was a prototype.

Wide wooden boards. Flat. Attached to the front of the platform, extending outward like a shoe. The boards were wider than the wheels — three feet on each side. They distributed the weight across a larger surface.

"The tar grips wheels," Diomedes said. "It does not grip a flat board. The board sits on top of the tar. The weight is spread. The platform slides across."

Odysseus picked up the model. Turned it over. Studied the attachment points.

"The boards break away when the platform hits the wall," Odysseus said. "The men step off. The boards stay in the tar. The platform seats against the stone."

"How many boards."

"Two per platform. One front. One back. The crew nails them on before the assault. When the platform reaches the wall, the men climb over. The boards detach."

Menelaus appeared behind them. He had been absent from the war meetings for days — spending his time on the beach, staring at the walls, saying nothing. Today he spoke.

"And the archer. The one who shot Diomedes. He will kill men on the platforms."

"He will kill some," Odysseus said. "Not enough. The ox hides protect the front and sides. The top is open — but the men are packed shoulder to shoulder. An arrow finds a gap. One man falls. The next steps forward."

Menelaus was not satisfied. "How many will we lose."

"Twenty per platform. Maybe thirty. Out of fifteen." Odysseus paused. "We lose three hundred men to get a hundred and fifty over the wall. That is an exchange Agamemnon will accept."

Menelaus looked at the walls. At the parapet where the defenders stood. Somewhere behind that stone was Helen. His wife. The woman who had left him for a Trojan prince.

"When," Menelaus said.

"Three days," Odysseus said. "When the tar cracks. The boards go on. The platforms roll. One assault. Everything we have."

Nestor leaned on his staff near the tent entrance. He had been listening without speaking. Now he spoke.

"One assault. Everything. If it fails—"

"It will not fail," Diomedes said.

"If it fails. We have no second wave. The men will have seen twelve platforms defeated. Morale breaks. The coalition fractures."

"It will not fail," Diomedes repeated. He looked at the model on the table. At the boards. At the attachment points. "I have fought walls before. I have breached cities before. The tar was clever. The boards are simpler. Simple beats clever."

Nestor tapped his staff once. "Three days. Prepare everything."

They dispersed. Diomedes to the carpenters. Odysseus to his tent. Menelaus to the beach.

Nestor stood alone. He looked at the walls of Troy. Old eyes. Tired eyes. The eyes of a man who had seen too many wars and knew that every war ended the same way — with dead men on both sides and a story told by the survivors.

He turned and walked toward his tent.

Achilles was not at the meeting.

He had not been at any meeting. He stood on the beach where he always stood — at the waterline, his spear in his hand, looking at the walls.

Patroclus found him there.

"The council met," Patroclus said.

"I know."

"Three days. Then the assault."

"I know."

Patroclus stood beside him. The waves lapped at their feet. The wind was from the north. Cold.

"You have not fought since we landed," Patroclus said.

"No."

"The men are talking."

"Let them talk."

"Agamemnon is talking."

Achilles turned. His eyes were pale. Empty. The eyes of a man who had been waiting for something and was almost done waiting.

"In three days, the platforms roll. The wall breaks. And when it breaks—"

He stopped. Looked at the parapet. At the shape he had been watching for weeks. The broad shoulders. The dark hair. The man who stood on the wall every morning and looked north.

"When the wall breaks, Hector will come down. He will not hide behind stone. He will come to the plain. Because that is what he is."

"And you will be there."

"I will be there first."

Patroclus looked at his cousin. The golden armour caught the morning light. The spear rested on his shoulder. The face was beautiful and empty and patient.

"Three days," Patroclus said.

"Three days is nothing. I have waited longer."

He turned back to the sea. The waves came. The wind blew. The walls stood.

For now.