What shall I do? The trap is plain enough
To me; but they, they only see the rough,
Long road and the red, ever-circling cloud
Of horsemen, raining arrows on them there.
Gods! And the mountains are so near, so near!
Scarce three days march ... that we shall never make.
I boasted once. The gods like not the proud.
And I shall die in this red waste of sand,
Though my heart tremble and my stiff limbs shake.
A thousand slaves bowed down at my command;