Be polite to all, friendly to none. Be professional. Be ready to kill everyone and everything.

And what do the Theban hoplites see in this extended rending of the sky, this white-bright glory of Enlil's lightning? The future, but not theirs: paired cavalry fighters; formed ranks of armored death; grim men on their tall horses with lightning limning weapons tailored to the task; men spoiling for a fight if the gods allowed - the Sacred Band of Stepsons, out from shadows and the dark.

Each soul has its appointed doom. How is it you dare to raise a mortal boy so high - high enough to flout the gods? Bring godhead where a man may reach out and take it? growls Enlil, and lightning splits a clear blue sky.

I want to live like a man.

Revenge is never the best driver for a battle, but a common one.

There must be a corps that will battle for righteousness, for there are endless battalions who serve unrighteousness.

It's all right. Things as they once were will never be again, but it's all right.