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."
