Chapter 239: Night Beneath Troy

For the first time since they had entered the passage, no one was telling them to keep moving.

Miros stood at the edge of the underground city and listened.

There were children crying softly. Women speaking in exhausted whispers. The occasional cough of a wounded man who had spent too many hours trying not to make a sound. Behind him, Daidalos was unloading the last of their supplies, while Antiphus moved between the injured, checking bandages and asking questions that received increasingly tired answers.

Above them, there was no sky.

No stars. No moon. No wind carrying the smell of the sea.

Only ancient stone, the faint blue glow spreading across the walls, and the strange quiet of a city that had waited beneath the world for longer than any of them could imagine.

Yet people were here now.

People who needed a place to sleep. Children who needed food. Wounded men who needed rest more than another order.

Miros looked toward the nearest row of buildings.

"Tonight, we stay here."

A woman standing beside him glanced at the dark doorways.

"Here?"

"Here," he repeated. "We will make the rooms comfortable enough for the night. Tomorrow, we can decide what needs to be done next."

He did not promise that the Greeks would never find them.

For tonight, he promised only a roof of stone and the chance to rest.

It was enough.

Or, at least, it would have to be.

The first problem was food.

Daidalos had counted their remaining supplies twice before finally admitting what everyone already suspected.

"What we brought will not feed this many people for long," he said.

Miros looked over the small collection of sacks and bundles. There was grain, a little dried food, and whatever else they had managed to carry during the descent. It had seemed sufficient when the group had first departed.

It looked painfully small now.

Then he glanced toward the broad stone basin beyond the buildings.

Fish.

He had seen them before, circling through the water as though the darkness above them had never changed. They had been one of the many wonders of this place, another question waiting for an answer.

Now, for the first time, Miros looked at them without thinking about mysteries.

He looked at them as food.

"Daidalos," he said, "find me a few baskets, some cord, and anything we can use to make a simple fishing line."

Daidalos followed his gaze.

Then he looked back at Miros.

"You want to catch those?"

"I do."

"Have you caught fish in a pool beneath an ancient city before?"

"No."

"Good. I was afraid you might claim experience."

Miros gave him a flat look.

Daidalos grinned, the first genuine expression of amusement he had shown since the descent.

"I will see what we have."

"And find dry wood if any was brought down. We have oil for the lamps, but I would rather not waste it cooking."

"Of course."

"Small fire. Away from the buildings. We will not turn our new home into a smoke-filled tomb."

"That would make the evening considerably less pleasant."

"Then make sure it does not happen."

Daidalos left, shaking his head.

Miros watched him go.

For a moment, the ordinary exchange felt almost unreal. They had spent so long moving through darkness, watching their steps and listening for dangers, that a conversation about baskets and cooking seemed to belong to another life.

Perhaps that was why he wanted it so badly.

A meal.

A fire.

People sitting together.

Tonight, he would try to give them that.

The fish were not easy to catch.

Miros discovered this within minutes.

The first line disappeared beneath the surface, and nothing happened. The second attracted the attention of a fish that approached the bait, inspected it with apparent indifference, and swam away.

Echion watched from the other side of the basin.

"Perhaps they are not hungry."

"Then we have something in common," Miros replied. "I am not particularly interested in starving beside them."

Echion crouched and studied the water.

The fish moved slowly through the blue-lit depths. Some were small, barely longer than a man’s hand. Others were larger, their pale bodies catching the glow whenever they turned.

"We could make a net," Echion suggested.

"With what?"

Echion looked at the cord in Miros’s hands.

"With that."

"That is a line, not a net."

"It could become a net."

"After we spend half the night making it?"

Echion considered this.

"Then we should begin quickly."

Miros sighed.

But he allowed himself a small smile.

They worked together, tying the available cord into a crude arrangement that would have embarrassed any experienced fisherman. It was not elegant, but it did not need to be. After several attempts, Echion managed to guide the improvised net beneath a cluster of fish near the basin’s edge.

Miros pulled.

Water splashed against the stone.

Echion stumbled backward, nearly falling on his back, while Miros hauled the net toward the shallows.

For a moment, they caught nothing.

Then three fish flashed beneath the surface, struggling against the cords.

Echion stared at them.

"We have them."

"Then pull before they escape."

Together, they dragged the fish onto the stone.

The smallest one slipped free and flopped back into the basin.

Echion watched it disappear.

"One escaped."

"One remains a fish," Miros said. "The other two are dinner."

They tried again.

By the time Antiphus came to check on them, a small collection of fish lay in a shallow basket beside the basin.

The healer stopped and stared.

"I leave you alone for a short time, and you begin a fishing expedition?"

"We are expanding our skills."

"You are making a mess."

"That too."

Antiphus crouched beside the catch. His expression grew more serious as he examined the fish.

"We should be careful. We do not know everything about this place."

"I know."

"The water, the plants, the fish. We cannot assume that everything is safe simply because it has survived here."

Miros nodded. He had no intention of feeding the entire group something they had never tested.

They selected one fish first. Antiphus examined it, and they cleaned and cooked it thoroughly over a small fire. They would begin with a modest portion and watch for any sign of illness before offering more.

It was a cautious beginning.

But it was a beginning.

The fire burned in a sheltered space between two stone buildings.

Daidalos had found a few pieces of dry wood among their supplies and gathered more usable scraps from material they had carried down. He arranged the stones carefully around the flames, leaving enough space for the smoke to rise toward the high ceiling rather than gather around the people sitting nearby.

The blue light shimmered across the stone while the orange firelight danced over their faces.

For the first time since the journey began, the two colors existed together around something ordinary.

Cooking.

A woman sat with her youngest child wrapped in a cloak beside her. Two older children watched Daidalos turn the fish over the fire, their tired eyes following every movement.

"Is it ready?" one asked.

"Not yet."

The child waited.

A moment passed.

"Now?"

Daidalos looked down at him.

"You have remarkable patience."

"I am hungry."

The woman covered her mouth, trying to hide a laugh.

Daidalos shook his head with exaggerated solemnity.

"Very well. Since you have explained the matter so clearly, I shall try to make the fish cook faster."

The child leaned closer to the fire.

"Will that work?"

"No."

The woman laughed properly this time.

It was a small sound.

A simple sound.

Yet several people turned toward it.

Not because it was loud, but because they had almost forgotten what laughter sounded like when it was not forced to disguise fear.

Miros stood a short distance away, watching.

He had heard screams in battle. He had heard men beg for their lives, heard the desperate silence that followed the death of a friend. He knew the sound of a crowd running from fire.

This laugh was different.

It did not erase any of those memories.

It simply existed beside them.

And for one brief moment, that was enough.

When the first fish was cooked, Antiphus divided it into small portions.

He ate a little himself and waited. Miros followed, watching the others rather than the food. Nothing happened immediately, though they would continue to be cautious.

After a while, Antiphus gave a small nod.

"We can try a little more."

That was all the permission Daidalos needed.

The next fish went onto the fire.

Then another.

They worked slowly, cleaning each one, turning it over the flames, and checking that the flesh was cooked through. There was no grand feast waiting for them. Their catch was modest, and the people gathered around the fire were many.

But they shared what they had.

The first portions went to the children, the weakest of the wounded, and those who had struggled most during the descent. Antiphus made certain that the injured could sit comfortably before eating. Women helped one another divide the fish into smaller pieces for the youngest children.

Miros insisted that the portions be distributed fairly.

No one was to take more simply because they stood closer to the fire.

No one was to be forgotten because they were too tired to ask.

A little boy received a piece of fish in both hands. He stared at it as if someone had given him a treasure.

"Careful," his mother told him. "It is hot."

He blew on it.

Then he took a bite.

His expression changed.

Miros saw it happen.

The boy’s eyes widened. He chewed quickly, then looked up at his mother.

"It is good."

His mother smiled.

"Then eat slowly, or you will finish it before you taste it."

He tried to obey. He truly did.

But a few moments later, he was asking for another piece.

His mother looked toward the basket, then toward the other children.

"We will see," she said.

It was not a promise.

But it was not a refusal either.

Nearby, a young girl who had barely spoken during the journey sat beside an older woman. She held her portion carefully, taking small bites while the woman gently smoothed her tangled hair.

"You have not eaten much," the woman said.

The girl shrugged.

"I’m not hungry."

The woman did not argue. She simply sat beside her.

After a while, the girl took another bite.

Then another.

The older woman said nothing, allowing the moment to remain hers.

Across the fire, one of the wounded men leaned back against the stone wall. His face was still pale, and the bandage around his side needed changing, but the tension had left his jaw.

"Better than the rations above," he muttered.

Antiphus glanced at him.

"You complained about those rations every day."

"They deserved it."

"Then you should be grateful for a meal you do not have to complain about."

The wounded man looked down at his fish.

"I did not say I was grateful."

"No. You merely stopped complaining."

A few people laughed.

The wounded man shook his head, but the corner of his mouth lifted.

For a while, they ate.

And for a while, the city beneath Troy was not a place of ancient doors, strange symbols, and unexplored passages.

It was a place where hungry people shared food.

Later, Deia came to sit near the fire with her tablet resting beside her.

She had spent much of the evening marking which buildings had been inspected and which routes should remain closed. Even now, her eyes occasionally wandered toward the surrounding stonework, as though she could not stop herself from wondering what the walls might tell her.

Echion noticed.

"You are studying the city again."

"I am always studying the city."

"Even when you eat?"

"Especially when I eat. People tend to speak more freely when they are not afraid of being questioned."

Echion considered this.

"Then perhaps I should ask you questions while you eat."

"You could try."

"What is that symbol on the wall?"

"I have not finished identifying it."

"What does the building ahead contain?"

"I have not inspected it."

"What is the purpose of the blue light?"

"I do not know."

Echion nodded thoughtfully.

"You are remarkably good at answering questions without answering them."

Deia looked at him.

"And you are remarkably good at asking questions to which you already know the answer."

He laughed.

She did too, quietly.

For a moment, she let her tablet remain untouched.

The city would still be there tomorrow. Its inscriptions would not vanish overnight. The unopened doors would remain closed, and the hidden passages would wait.

Tonight, there were people who needed to remember that life could be more than investigation and fear.

Deia reached for a piece of fish.

Echion noticed and moved the basket closer to her.

She gave him a grateful look.

Neither said anything more.