You, Cochrane, what city sent for him?

Tarentum, sir.

Very good. Well?

There was a battle, sir.

Very good. Where?

The boy’s blank face asked the blank window.

Fabled by the daughters of memory. And yet it was in some way if not as memory fabled it. A phrase, then, of impatience, thud of Blake’s wings of excess. I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry, and time one livid final flame. What’s left us then?

I forget the place, sir. 279 B. C.

Asculum, Stephen said, glancing at the name and date in the gorescarred book.