The Pylos came back on a grey morning, twelve days ahead of schedule.
Lysander was on the tower when he saw the galley round the headland. He had been watching the sea since dawn, as he had watched it every morning since the ship departed. The winter wind was cold, the sky low and colourless, and the galley moved through the water with the easy grace of a vessel that had been built for speed and had found favourable winds.
He went down to the harbour at a run.
The ship was already docking when he arrived, the crew securing lines to the pier. Theron was at the helm, his face weathered and tired but triumphant. Behind him, the galley's deck was piled high with clay jars—dozens of them, each one sealed with wax and stamped with the mark of the Tarsus sulfur mines.
"Captain," Lysander said, climbing onto the deck. "You're early."
