The outlying villages began arriving on the second day.
Not just men—whole families. Farmers with carts piled high with grain sacks and clay jars of oil. Herders driving thin flocks of sheep and goats before them. Women carrying children and bundles of clothing. Old men leaning on sticks, their faces gaunt with the weariness of a long road. They came from the eastern farms, from the northern coastal settlements, from every village within three days' walk of Troy's walls.
Lysander stood at the northern gate, watching them stream in. The road was thick with carts and oxen and people on foot. The dust rose in pale clouds, catching the winter sun. The noise was constant—the lowing of cattle, the bleating of sheep, the cries of children, the shouts of men trying to keep their families together in the press.
