"Seventy three cataphracts dead, Protos Kapetanos. And one hundred and twenty protostates. Over three hundred wounded." 

Brasidas could smell the blood on his face, the excrement from released bowels of dead men, and the heat made both all the more pungent. The mixed stench was almost an old friend to him at this point, like the smell of woodsmoke during the winter, or the aroma of fresh water at summer's height. They brought back memories of earlier battles, and briefly he wondered how many more he might live through, or whether he would fight until the end of the world. 

His contemplation passed quickly, and he nodded to the tetrarch. "Better than I had thought." He confessed. It seemed the Khareeds had not had the spirit to fight this day. They were lucky. It could have been the water they had drank the day before, the food could have been bad, their spirits low from some issue back home, or the will of the gods. He would not spit on good fortune. "Drag the enemy dead into a pile, and our men into another. Erect the Nimeia." 

Brasidas spent another moment remembering the smell and the heat of the day. Another battle. Then he went with his tetrarch, dragging bodies and piling them along with his men. It took a quarter of an hour to help the wounded on horses and roughly erect both piles of men. The enemy dead towered over their own, and with a light addition of black wine atop their own dead, they burned them and praised Ares and Hades. For the mound of ravaged enemy corpses, they left them bare to rot in the sun, and before it was a small statue of a protostate made of gathered weapons and shields; a monument to their victory the Khareeds would find the next day, next to the decaying corpses of their own dead. 

As the men took a needed drink from their flasks, Brasidas found Tychon lugging the last of the enemy dead, throwing two men at a time nearly a dozen feet into the air. Brasidas gave a smile that showed his teeth. 

"Well done. I'm sure the ladies will love to hear how far you can throw dead men." 

"Flattery is not your strong suit, old friend." Tychon remarked, wiping his nose with the back of his massive hand. "So we're off to see the amazons?" 

"I must confer with Phaedra on our next move." He said, nodding. Whenever they spoke, they had a way of barely suppressing smiles, as brothers often did. "Want to tag along?" 

"Sure, let the enemy scouts bake in the sun a bit longer as we speak."