The Epirote camp outside Tarentum was restless.
Pyrrhus sat in his war tent, maps spread before him, his mind racing.
The Romans had retreated after Heraclea, but they were not defeated. They never were.
A messenger arrived, bowing deeply. "Sire, news from Rome."
Pyrrhus gestured for him to continue.
"The Senate has rejected your offer of peace. They are sending another army."
Silence.
Echecrates cursed. "Of course they are."
Pyrrhus smirked coldly. "Fools."
Echecrates shook his head. "No, Pyrrhus. They are not fools. They are Romans."
Pyrrhus leaned back in his chair, his mind already forming a plan.
"They will march south," he said. "They will try to reclaim their lost honor."
Echecrates nodded. "So what do we do?"
Pyrrhus stood abruptly, his energy unshaken despite the losses.
"We strike first."
Echecrates sighed. "Of course we do."