The Egyptian ship came into the harbour on a grey morning, its sails dyed the colour of saffron, its hull built of cedar so dark it was almost black. It was not a trader—or not only a trader. The markings on its prow were the symbols of a royal house, and the guards at the gangplank wore the scaled bronze armour of the Pharaoh's personal guard.
Lysander watched it dock from the harbour master's window. He had been reviewing the militia supply lists when the harbour bell rang, and he had set them aside without thinking. Ships from Egypt were rare—perhaps one or two a year, traders mostly, carrying papyrus and ivory and the fine linen that the noblewomen of Troy prized above all other fabrics. But this ship was different. This ship had come with a purpose.
