Chapter 218: The Second Night

Lysander stood on the northern wall at dusk.

The Greek camp was moving. Not the usual movement — evening cookfires, men settling in. This was different. Purposeful. Groups of men carrying timber toward the platform line. Others hammering. The sound carried across the water — metal on wood, rhythmic, steady.

"They are fitting the boards," Lysander said.

Daidalos was beside him. His bandaged hands rested on the parapet. He had spent the day checking the tar — pressing his fingers into it, testing the surface.

"The boards," Daidalos said.

"Wide planks. Mounted on the front of each platform. They distribute the weight across a larger surface. The wheels do not sink into the tar — the board sits on top of it."

Daidalos was quiet. He looked at the tar band below the wall. Fifteen paces of dark, sticky ground. His invention. His defense. Being countered by a plank of wood.

"How long before the tar cracks."

"Tomorrow. Maybe the day after. The sun is drying it from the top. The bottom is still holding. But I can see the cracks starting."

"So tomorrow night. Or the morning after. They come with boards."

"Yes."

Hector arrived. He had been on the eastern wall, checking positions. He looked at the Greek camp. At the men fitting boards.

"Tonight?" Hector said.

"No," Lysander said. "The boards are not ready. The platforms need final fitting. Agamemnon does not attack with unfinished weapons. He attacks when everything is prepared."

"Then tomorrow night."

"Tomorrow night. Or the morning after."

Hector looked at the camp. At the eight platforms lined up behind the palisade. At the men working under torchlight. At the rhythm of hammers.

"And the tar."

"The tar holds until tomorrow. After that, it cracks. The boards slide over it. The platforms reach the wall."

Hector absorbed this. One more day of defense. One more assault the tar could stop. After that, the tar was dead.

"Then we fight tomorrow as if it is the last day the tar works. Because it is."

"Yes."

Hector turned to the wall commanders. "Full readiness tonight. Every man at his position. Sleep in shifts — four hours on, four hours off. No one leaves the wall."

The commanders moved.

Lysander stayed on the parapet. He watched the Greek camp until the fires burned low and the hammering stopped. Then he walked the wall — northern section, eastern section, back to the harbour gate. Checking. Reading. Feeling the wall the way he felt everything — with his whole body, every sense open.

At midnight, he was at the harbour gate when the guard spoke.

"Lord Lysander. I heard something."

"Where."

"The water. Eastern side. Below the wall."

Lysander stopped. Listened. The harbour was dark. The water was black. The wall extended into the sea on both sides — stone foundations below the waterline, rising above the surface to enclose the harbour.

He heard it.

Breathing. Not the sound of waves or wind. Breathing. Shallow. Controlled. The breathing of a man trying to be silent while his body needed air.

Someone was in the water. Below the wall. On the eastern side.

"How long," Lysander asked the guard.

"I noticed it ten minutes ago. I thought it was fish."

"It is not fish."

Lysander looked at the water. The harbour wall on the eastern side ran from the southern tower into the sea, curving north to meet the barrier pilings. Below the water, the stone foundations had been built centuries ago. He had never inspected them. No one had. The walls below water were not a concern — no ship could pass through stone.

But a man could.

"Archers," Lysander said. "Fire arrows. Into the water at the eastern wall. Now."

The guard ran. Within minutes, three archers were at the parapet, bows drawn, arrows wrapped in oil-soaked cloth. The arrows lit. Orange against the black water.

"Loose."

The arrows hit the water. The flames reflected off the surface — a flash of orange on black. For a heartbeat, the water was transparent.

Lysander saw shapes.

Three. Maybe four. Dark forms below the surface, moving along the base of the eastern wall. Swimming. Slow. Close to the stone.

One shape surfaced. A head. A gasp of air. Then gone.

"There," an archer said. "Twenty paces out. Near the third piling."

"Loose."

Arrows hit the water. One found a shape — the archer’s aim was good, the distance short. A cry. Muffled. Bubbles. The shape disappeared.

But the others kept moving. Toward the wall. Toward something below the waterline that Lysander could not see.

"They are looking for a way in," Lysander said. "Below the wall. There is a gap. Somewhere in the foundation."

"A gap?"

"The fishermen used it. A smuggling route. Below the waterline. I did not know it still existed."

He looked at the harbour. At the dark water. At the shapes that had disappeared.

"Some of them got through."

"How many."

"I don’t know. Three. Maybe four. The rest were driven back."

"Did they reach inside the harbour."

Lysander looked at the wall. At the water below. At the gap he could not see.

"I don’t know."

Then the sound came.

Not from the harbour. From the city. From the north.

Shouting. Then smoke. Then fire — a bright orange glow rising from behind the northern granary. Not the granary itself. Not yet. But close. Too close.

"Fire!" A runner came up the harbour stairs. "Fire at the northern stores! Someone set fire to the — "

Lysander did not hear the rest.

He was already running.

Not toward the harbour. Not toward the wall. Toward the smoke. Toward the fire that was rising from the heart of his city while he stood at the water’s edge listening to swimmers breathe.

He reached the northern granary in four minutes. The smoke was thick. The fire had started at the western end of the roof — the timber section. Flames were climbing the beams. Men were running with water buckets.

"Water! Now! The roof! Stop it before it reaches the grain!"

He grabbed a bucket. Threw water on the flames. The fire hissed. Steam rose. The flames retreated. Then came back.

The timber was dry. Months of dry storage. The wood caught fire faster than water could stop it.

"The grain below — get it out! Move the sacks away from the burning section!"

Men ran inside. Sacks of grain were dragged out — heavy, slow, each one requiring two men. The fire spread along the roof. Beam after beam. The stone walls held. But the roof was going.

Then — from the western side of the city — the sound of horns.

Not Trojan horns. Greek horns.

The assault had begun.

Lysander stood in the smoke, a bucket in his hand, and listened to the Greek war horns echo off the walls of Troy. The platform assault. The full force. Every Greek soldier charging the northern wall.

He was here. At a fire. While the wall was under attack.

A runner reached him. Breathing hard. Face white.

"The wall — Lord Lysander — the platforms — eight of them — they are at the wall —"

"Where is Hector."

"On the wall. Northern section. He is fighting."

Lysander looked at the fire. At the grain being dragged out. At the men fighting the flames with buckets and sand.

He looked north. Toward the wall. Toward the sound of horns and the sound of men dying.

He could not be in both places.

"Hector holds the wall," Lysander said. "We hold the fire."

He turned back to the flames. Picked up a bucket. Threw water.

The fire roared. The horns blew. And somewhere below the harbour wall, men he could not see were swimming back toward the Greek ships with fire on their hands and the knowledge of where Troy kept its food.