The arrows hit the first Greeks in the shallows.
Men who had jumped from the ships into waist-deep water, holding their shields above their heads, trying to form a line before they reached dry sand. The arrows came down on them — not in volleys, but in steady streams, the archers on the wall shooting at their own pace, picking targets.
Paris was on the eastern wall. He drew and released. Drew and released. Two hundred paces to the waterline. Each arrow found a man. Not a soldier in the mass — a man. A face. A gap between a shield and a helmet.
The first arrow struck a Greek captain in the neck. He fell backward into the water. The men behind him stumbled over his body.
The second arrow struck an oarsman who had grabbed a shield and was trying to climb out of the shallows. He dropped the shield and fell.
The third arrow struck the deck of a beached ship — hitting the helmsman, who slumped against the tiller. The ship drifted sideways, blocking the ship behind it.
