The ship came into the harbour on the evening tide, its sail slack, its deck empty except for a single crewman who had not spoken since they left the island. He had been a sailor for fifteen years, had weathered storms and pirates and worse, but he had never carried cargo like this. The clay jar sat in the hold, sealed with wax and rope, and he had not touched it once during the voyage. He had barely looked at it.
Lysander was on the tower when the ship docked. He had been there since dawn, watching the sea. The Greek fleet would sail soon—Ampelos's latest intelligence said the omens were being read, the kings were gathering, the final preparations were being made. Days. Weeks at most. He had been counting the fishing boats, tracking the weather, doing all the things he always did when he was waiting for something he couldn't control.
