The long wait is over. I go to Spain to command an army legally at last; I will put my hands on a living machine which in the right hands -my hands- cannot be stopped, warped, dislocated, ground down. I have yearned for a supreme military command since I sat, a boy, at old Gaius Marius's knee and listened spellbound to a master of warfare telling stories. But until this moment I did not undestand how passionately, how fiercely I have lusted for that military command.
I will lay my hands on a Roman army and conquer the world, for I believe in Rome, I believe in our Gods. And I believe in myself. I am the soul of the Roman army. I cannot be stopped, warped, dislocated, ground down.
Australian author (1937-2015)
There is a legend about a bird which sings only once in it's life, more beautifully than any other creature on the face of the earth. From the moment it leaves it's nest, it searches for a thorn tree, and does not rest until it has found one. Then, it impales it's breast on the longest, sharpest thorn. But as it is dying, it rises above it's own agony to outsing the Lark and the Nightingale. The Thornbird pays it's life for that one song, and the whole world stills to listen, and God in his heaven smiles, as it's best is brought only at the cost of great pain; Driven to the thorn with no knowledge of the dying to come. But when we press the thorn to our breast, we know, we understand.... and still, we do it.
"Do you realize that you've been married to me for just about half of your entire life?"
Her head came down, her eyes opened wide to stare at him. "Is that all?" she asked. "It seems an eternity".
"Did I say a quiet lion?" Alexander pulled a face. "An eternity with me has turned you into a bitch, my dear".
The bird with the thorn in its breast, it follows an immutable law; it is driven by it knows not what to impale itself, and die singing. At the very instant the thorn enters there is no awareness in it of the dying to come; it simply sings and sings until there is not the life left to utter another note. But we, when we put the thorns in our breasts, we know. We understand. And still we do it. Still we do it. ABOUT THE AUTHOR COLLEEN MCCULLOUGH was born in New South Wales in 1937.
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Lo que Cleopatra no se molestó en decir a César es que le había mostrado el cuchillo a Poteino dos días antes de usarlo. Poteino lloró, gimió y rogó mucho por su vida durante esos dos días. La batalla naval tuvo lugar en los primeros días de diciembre. César dispuso sus naves mar adentro pero a corta distancia de los escollos situados frente al puerto de Eunostos; los diez barcos rodios a su derecha, los diez pónticos a su izquierda, y una brecha de unos setenta metros entre unos y otros para poder maniobrar. Los veinte barcos de transporte transformados en buques de guerra estaban mucho más atrás. César había diseñado la estrategia, pero Eufranor la puso en práctica, y antes de que zarpara la primera galera se cuidaron meticulosamente todos los detalles. Cada barco de reserva sabía exactamente qué nave de la hilera debía reemplazar; cada legado y tribuno sabía con toda precisión cuáles eran sus obligaciones; cada centuria sabía qué corvus utilizar para abordar un barco enemigo, y el propio César visitó cada unidad para pronunciar unas palabras de aliento y ofrecer un breve resumen de sus propósitos. Su larga experiencia le había demostrado que los soldados rasos bien adiestrados y avezados en el combate a menudo podían tomar la iniciativa y convertir una derrota en una victoria si también ellos conocían con exactitud los planes del general, así que siempre informaba a la tropa.