Chapter 205: The Noose Tightens

The numbers were on the table before the sun cleared the walls.

Arsini stood at the supply office door, three tablets stacked in her arms. She had been up since the fourth hour. The numbers did not wait for sunrise.

Lysander was already at his desk. He had not slept. The lamp was still burning.

"Grain," Arsini said, setting the first tablet down. "Ten months. Maybe eleven. Two years of stores plus the Egyptian shipment. Even with the Greeks taking the western fields, we hold."

"Good."

"Oil. Eight months. Linen for the medical ward. Enough."

"Water."

Arsini hesitated. Then she set the second tablet down. "The aqueducts are cut. They cut them three days ago. But the engineers found a spring. Southern slope. Underground. It adds two weeks to what the cisterns hold."

"Total."

"Seven weeks of water. Maybe eight if we ration hard."

Lysander nodded. Seven weeks. Not enough. But enough to breathe.

"The fields," he said. "The western fields."

Arsini set down the third tablet. "The Greeks are not burning them. They are harvesting them. Taking the grain. Loading it into their own stores."

Lysander looked at her. "They are eating our food."

"Yes. They are not destroying. They are feeding their army with our wheat." She paused. "We knew they would take the fields. We planned for it. But watching them carry it away—"

"It is different."

"Yes."

Lysander picked up the tablet. Studied the numbers. Ten months of grain. Eight months of oil. Seven weeks of water. The city could hold. For now.

But holding was not winning.

The news came at midday.

Fylon appeared at the war room door, his face tight. He did not sit.

"Three thousand men," he said. "Moving east. Out of the camp. Not toward us. Away from us."

Hector looked up from the map. "Direction."

"East. Toward the Anatolian road. The overland route."

Lysander felt it before Fylon finished. The overland route. The only road that connected Troy to the interior. The only road that brought supplies, trade, reinforcements from the east.

"They are cutting us off," Lysander said.

"Yes. Three thousand men. Enough to hold the road. Enough to stop any caravan, any trader, any reinforcement that tries to reach us by land."

Hector stared at the map. His finger traced the road east. The road that brought grain from the interior. The road that brought bronze from the mines. The road that connected Troy to every ally in the east.

"Three thousand," Hector said. "We cannot spare three thousand to stop them."

"No," Lysander said. "We cannot."

"Then the road is gone."

"Yes."

The room was quiet. The map lay between them. The sea was blocked by the fleet. The land was blocked by three thousand men. The aqueducts were cut. The fields were taken.

The noose was tightening.

Lysander walked the wall alone that afternoon.

He did not walk to check positions. He walked to think. The city below him was quiet. The rationing had begun. Families received their allotments at dusk. The children still played in the streets, but their games were quieter. The market was thinner. The voices lower.

He thought about the city beneath the palace.

The water. The fields. The fish. The blue light that breathed with human breath. A city that could sustain life without the surface. Without the fields. Without the aqueducts. Without the sun.

He could tell Hector. He could tell the council. He could open the passage and lead them all down.

But not yet.

Not while the walls held. Not while there was still a city above to fight for.

He thought about the words Priam had written in the leather note. The city beneath was not a refuge. It was an ark. And an ark was not for hiding. It was for surviving. And surviving was not the same as hiding.

Surviving meant coming back.

He walked on. The wind pulled at his cloak. Below him, the Greek camp stretched along the beach. Tents. Cookfires. The sound of hammers. They were building something. He could not see what. But he could hear the hammers.

They were building something.

Hector found him at dusk.

They stood on the wall together. The sun was setting behind the hills. The Greek campfires were being lit. Hundreds of them. A second city made of fire and canvas.

"How long," Hector said.

"Seven weeks of water. Ten months of grain. Eight months of oil."

Hector looked at him. His eyes were tired. But they were steady.

"I trust you," Hector said.

"I know."

They stood together on the wall. The sun disappeared behind the hills. The Greek campfires burned brighter. The city below them was quiet. The rationing had begun. The noose was tightening.

But the city was still breathing.

For now.

The knock came at the eleventh hour.

Hecuba was in her chambers. The lamp was burning low.

The knock came again. Three taps. Then three more.

She stood. Crossed the room. Opened the door.

Fylon stood in the corridor. His face was drawn. His eyes were tired. But there was something in them. Something that had not been there before.

"Queen Hecuba," he said. "I need to speak with you."

"Not with king Hector."

"Not with any of the princes.

Hecuba studied him. Fylon had worked for the royal house for twenty years. He did not come to her unless the matter was too delicate for the king. Too dangerous for the princes. Too heavy for anyone except her.

"Come in," she said.

She led him to the small sitting room. Closed the door. Sat across from him.

"Speak."

Fylon reached into his tunic. Drew out a small tablet. Set it on the table between them.

"I have a list," he said. "Three names. Three people who had access to the information that was leaked to the Greeks. The defensive positions. The fire ship compound. The net positions."

Hecuba looked at the tablet. She did not pick it up. Not yet.

"Why me," she said.

Fylon met her eyes. "Because you are the only person in this palace who can look at these names without letting love or fear change what you see." He paused. "If I bring this to Paris, his heart will protect someone. If I bring it to Lysander, his mind will analyze until the moment is lost." He paused. "You are the only person who will look at these names and see them clearly. Because you love this city more than you love any single person in it."

Hecuba picked up the tablet.

She read the three names.

Her face changed.

It was not fear. It was not anger. It was something colder. Something older. The look of a woman who had been betrayed before and had learned to recognize the shape of betrayal when it walked through her door.

She set the tablet down. Looked at Fylon.

"Are you certain," she said. "That the spy is one of these three."

Fylon met her eyes. "I am certain."

Hecuba folded the tablet. Tucked it into the folds of her robe. Close to her chest. Close to her heart. Close to the place where she kept the names of everyone she had ever lost.

"You will tell no one," she said. "Not Hector. Not Paris. Not Lysander. Not until I come to them."

"I will tell no one."

"Good."

She stood. Crossed the room. Opened the door.

Fylon stepped into the corridor. Paused. Looked back at her.

"Queen Hecuba."

"What."

"Be careful. Whoever this is—they are dangerous.

Hecuba looked at him. Her eyes were steady. Cold. The eyes of a woman who had buried children and survived wars and held a city together for forty years.

"I know," she said. "That is why I will find them myself."

She closed the door.

She stood alone in the sitting room. The lamp burned low. The city slept beyond the walls. The Greek campfires burned in the distance.

She drew the tablet from her robe. Looked at the three names again.

She did not speak them aloud.

She folded the tablet. Tucked it back into her robe. Close to her chest. Close to her heart.

And waited.