I
The temple square was full of soldiers.
They stood shoulder to shoulder from the steps to the edge of the lane, spearmen and archers and men with their shields still strapped to their arms, bloody to the elbows. Thousands of them. They had come off the northern wall in the last hour, and every one was waiting for the same narrow stairs.
Dexion stood at the top and counted how fast the dark swallowed them.
Two at a time. A hundred, perhaps, in the space of thirty breaths.
He turned to Hector.
"The stairs will not take them all."
"I know."
"Not before the Greeks reach the square."
Hector said nothing. Over the soldiers' heads, at the far end of the lane, the firelight was turning from orange to red.
"There is the craftsmen's workshop," Dexion said. "Two streets east. The door behind the kiln. It goes down to the same place." He swallowed. "Give me half."
Hector looked at him.
"Take them."
