A dynamism of optimism and enterprise fired each man with belief in himself and his gods. Each citizen-warrior who had endured trial of arms in the phalanx or pulled an oar under fire on the sea now deemed himself deserving of full inclusion in all affairs and discourse of the city.

“Fly to the ends of the earth,”

“Habit is a mighty ally, my young friend. The habit of fear and anger, or the habit of self-composure and courage.”

“Because a warrior carries helmet and breastplate for his own protection, but his shield for the safety of the whole line.”

The more miserable the conditions, the more convulsing the jokes become, or at least that’s how it seems.

Conditions were deliberately contrived to make the exercise as close as possible to the rigor of actual campaign, simulating everything except casualties.

A king does not expend his substance to enslave men, but by his conduct and example makes them free.

“Now eat a good breakfast, men. For we’ll all be sharing dinner in hell.”

It was the standing order of my master on campaign that he be woken two hours before dawn, an hour prior to the men of his platoon. He insisted that these never behold him prone upon the earth, but awake always to the sight of their enomotarch on his feet and armed.