The sails appeared on the southern horizon at dawn.
Hector saw them from the northern wall, where he had been standing since the last watch change. His eyes were gritty from too few hours of sleep, but the shapes on the water were unmistakable — broad-beamed, deep-drafted, the Lycian and Carian merchantmen he had learned to read during three years of coordinating with Sarpedon's navy.
Twelve Lycian. Eight Carian. Riding low in the water. Full holds.
He sent a runner to the harbour and went down to meet them.
Arsini was already at the docks when he arrived. She had two tablets under her arm and a third in her hand. Sarpedon's fast courier had arrived yesterday with the manifest — she had spent the night preparing berth assignments and allocation schedules.
"Twelve Lycian, eight Carian," she said without looking up. "Six hundred measures of barley, two hundred of wheat, plus oil and linen for Antiphus."
"Fighters?"
