The fires appeared on the water an hour before midnight.
At first they were scattered, distant, like stars reflected on the black surface of the sea. Then they grew brighter, closer, resolving into torches—hundreds of torches, carried by hundreds of small boats cutting through the waves toward the shore. The Sea Peoples had come again.
But this time, the Greeks were ready.
The watch bell rang three times, steady and controlled. No panic. No screaming. The camp stirred with the cold discipline of men who had been waiting for this moment. Soldiers rose from their beds, strapped on their armour, took up their spears. Fires were doused, tents cleared, the beachhead transformed into a killing ground.
Agamemnon stood at the water's edge, fully armoured, his cloak pulled tight against the night wind. Ajax was beside him, a mountain of muscle and bronze, his massive shield planted in the sand. Behind them, the army was assembling in the darkness—thirty-five thousand men, silent, waiting.
