[puffyn]

---- Arcoscephale, Turn 4 ----

I think it is still summer... it has been hard, convalescing in this dark tent, to keep track of the days... it is painful to see my previous words of optimism and I would feel cursed by the gods had I not long since stopped believing in them. Perhaps I do not like to think what terrible deeds I am being punished for. So hard to think I was once an eager file leader... how bright Alexandros's armor was, his dream, and ours, of glorious victory in a far off land.

Poor Xanthos. I do not know what strange thoughts entered his mind as we approached the brigand lair. I saw their number was not great, and given my soldiers' skill knew we would prevail. My soldiers... my soldiers were brilliant... they kept their formation, and would have slain all our foe if only... But Xanthos, my faithful steed and companion... Perhaps he wanted to run free over the open plains -- it was such a fine summer day -- or perhaps he had simply tired of all this war and wanted to die with honor and glory. He would not hear my shouts to stay behind the hoplites, much as I begged him, and he rushed past the front file into the middle of the brigand mob.

What happened next is a blur... I recall one, perhaps two brigands fell beneath Xanthos' hooves (I had no time to draw my sword)... I recall a hail of javelins as my troops tried in vain to scare the brigands away from me and my wild steed. And a sword struck Xanthos, and again, and I fell into darkness.

My men thought I was dead. I heard later that a band of locals rushed out, and three died while the rest dragged me to safety. My hoplites held firm our retreat; they are Greeks. Would that they had a worthier commander... but they will not hear such talk from me. They regard my charge as heroic, and declare that fighting beside me raises their spirits.

It is odd to hear them talk this way, because the villagers have ceased their incessant bowing and butter songs, and once again ignore me. The talk these days is of a great battle that took place near the town of Bolfar. My soldiers swear that none of them went out there to fight, and yet the town pledges allegiance to us, and sends us gold and supplies. The villagers have come up with a new dance, in which they kick one leg and flail their arms. I doubt this would make sense even if I were well.

My butter has not been stolen once since I returned, but I do not have the stomach for it. I wonder what this means.

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