Chapter 215: Seven Doors

Lysander searched for three nights.

He started with the temple. Empty since the High Priest’s execution. Cold altar. No guards. He worked alone, lifting stones, pressing seams, feeling for the same mechanism Priam had shown him.

He found it behind the main altar. A stone that sat slightly higher than the others. He pressed. It sank. A gap opened — a vertical shaft, dark, cold air rising.

He lowered a lamp. The shaft connected to the main passage somewhere between the third and fourth door.

He closed it. Moved on.

The second entrance was in the northern granary. Behind a storage shelf that had not been moved in years. A stone in the wall responded to pressure. Another shaft. Another way down.

The third was at the harbour gate — inside the guard chamber where the harbour watch changed shifts. A stone in the floor, covered by a rushes mat no one had lifted in a decade.

The fourth: eastern tower stairwell. A loose block concealing a vertical drop.

The fifth: the lower town market. A covered well that was not a well.

The sixth: the craftsmen’s quarter. Beneath an abandoned workshop floor.

The seventh: a storage room in the eastern wing of the palace. Not Priam’s chamber — a different room, behind a wall panel that looked like decoration. This one descended directly into the city below, bypassing the passage entirely.

Seven entrances. Seven ways down. 𝑓𝑟ℯℴ𝓂

Too many. If the Greeks found one — by accident, by betrayal — the system was compromised. One entrance was a secret. Seven was a road.

He chose three.

The temple. Central. Large. Closest to the main square where civilians would gather.

The harbour gate guard chamber. Closest to the lower town and the settlement refugees.

The craftsmen’s workshop. Quiet. Unremarkable. In a district the Greeks would have no reason to search.

Three entrances. Three evacuation points. Not enough for twenty-five thousand people at once — but enough for the first wave. The wounded. The children. The old.

The other four he sealed. Reset the stones. Replaced the mats. Dragged storage over hidden panels. If he needed them later, he knew where they were. Until then, they did not exist.

He went to find Hector.

The war room. Door closed. Guard dismissed.

Lysander stood at the table. Hector sat. Paris leaned against the wall, bow in hand.

"What I am about to tell you does not leave this room," Lysander said. "Not to Arsini. Not to Andromache. Not to Helen. Not to anyone. Three people know after tonight. The three of us."

Hector looked at him. Paris looked at him.

"There is a city beneath Troy."

Silence.

"A complete city. Under the palace. Under the walls. Under the sea. Built into the rock by people who lived here before Troy existed. It has water — a stream that runs through the stone. Fish. Plants that grow without sunlight. And light — something on the walls that glows when people breathe near it."

Hector’s face was still. Paris’s hand tightened on his bow.

"How long have you known," Hector said.

"Since before the siege. Father sent me to find it."

"Father knew."

"Every king of Troy has known. The knowledge passes from father to son. No one else. Until now."

Paris spoke. "You can take people down there."

"Yes."

"How many."

"I don’t know yet. The city is large. Terraced levels. Buildings. Streets. But I cannot estimate capacity without a full map."

"Who is mapping it."

"Deia. I sent her with Miros and the twins before the siege began. Her task is to map every building, every room, every corridor. Miros is training the twins and securing the passages. I have no communication with them. I do not know how far they have progressed. But the city is there. It is real. And it can sustain life."

Hector absorbed this. A city beneath his city. An ark beneath his walls.

"Why now," Hector said. "Why tell us now."

"Because the platforms will break the kill zones. The tar will dry in days. The wall will be tested harder than it has been. And if it falls — the people inside need somewhere to go."

"You want us ready."

"I want us ready."

Paris looked at his bow. At his hands. At the wall that was the only thing between Helen and fifty thousand men.

"If the wall falls," Paris said. "Where do we go."

"Down. Three entrances. The temple. The harbour gate guard chamber. The craftsmen’s workshop. I have sealed the other four."

"Three entrances for twenty-five thousand people."

"Not all at once. The wounded. The children. The old. First. The soldiers hold the wall until the civilians are down. Then the soldiers follow."

Hector stood. Walked to the window. Looked at the city below.

"You are building a second Troy under the first one," Hector said.

"I am building a way for Troy to survive if the first one falls."

Hector was quiet. Then he turned.

"The lists," Lysander said. "I asked Fylon to prepare two."

Hector looked at him.

"First list: every person in Troy who might betray the city when the wall falls. Names, titles, addresses. Not traitors yet — people who would become traitors."

"Second list."

"A hundred soldiers or more. The most loyal. Men who would die for the city and the royal family. Names, ranks, stations."

Hector understood. "You want them as an internal force."

"They stay in Troy. Not underground. They are here — watching, protecting, ready. If the wall falls, they secure the evacuation routes. They hold the gates. They protect the civilians until the people are down."

"Who commands them."

"You choose."

Hector thought for a moment.

"Thersandron," he said. "Garrison commander. Southern gate. Twenty years of service. Never questioned an order. Never failed a duty."

"Can he keep a secret."

"He kept the western perimeter secret for fifteen years."

Lysander nodded. "Thersandron. He reports to me. The hundred soldiers report to him. No one else knows they exist as a unit."

Paris looked at Hector. Then at Lysander. "Three entrances. Three secrets. A hundred soldiers no one knows about. A city underground."

"Yes."

"You have been busy."

"I have been preparing."

Paris looked at the ceiling. At the stone. At the ground beneath the palace that went down and down into a world no one on this wall knew existed.

"When do we tell the others," Paris said.

"We don’t," Lysander said. "Not Andromache. Not Arsini. Not Helen. Not Antiphus. Not anyone. The three of us. Thersandron. Fylon. That is the circle."

Hector looked at him. "You trust Fylon with this."

"Fylon already knows something is being prepared. He does not know what. He does not need to. He needs the lists."

"And Thersandron."

"Thersandron gets the hundred soldiers. He does not need to know where the entrances are. He needs to know that if the wall falls, his job is to hold the gates and protect the evacuation. The details come later."

Hector nodded.

"One question," Hector said.

"Ask."

"The city beneath. Who built it."

"I don’t know. The writing on the walls does not belong to any language I have ever studied. Deia is working on it."

"Can she read it."

"Not yet."

Hector looked at the ceiling. At the weight of everything above and below them.

"Keep it sealed," he said. "Until we understand it."

Hector stood. Walked to the door. Stopped.

"Lysander."

"Yes."

"Build your second Troy. I will hold the first one as long as I can."

He left.

Paris picked up his bow. Walked to the door.

"Lysander."

"Yes."

"If the wall falls — I want to be the last one down."

"You will be."

Paris went out.

Lysander stood alone in the war room. The lamp burned low. The city above him was sleeping. The city below him was breathing.

He picked up the blank tablet. Wrote three names on it:

Temple. Harbour gate. Craftsmen’s workshop.

Three doors. Three ways down. Three chances for twenty-five thousand people to survive what was coming.

He set the tablet down. Looked at the wall.

Two days. Then the tar cracked. Then the platforms came.

He had two days to prepare for the end of the world above and the beginning of the world below.

He went to find Thersandron.