Pyrrhus

I was born of the Molossian Aeacids, the line that traced to Achilles. My father Aeacides was driven from his throne; I was carried into exile and kept by the Illyrian Glaucias. From Egypt I returned—Ptolemy armed me and, through marriage, bound me—and I took back Epirus before my beard was full.

I learned war in the school of the Successors. I fought Demetrius, bargained with Lysimachus, and sat, briefly and more than once, upon the throne of Macedon. I fought in the van, liked my men to see me, and kept a balanced order: phalanx to hold, horse to strike, skirmishers and archers to bite, and elephants to press the decision.

Tarentum called; I crossed to Italy. At Heraclea and again at Asculum I threw back the Roman legions—stubborn men—while their horses shied at my elephants. The field was mine, yet my friends were fewer, and I told those who cheered that another such victory would undo me. Cineas spoke in Rome with honeyed words; they praised him and refused.

Sicily opened to me; I drove the Carthaginians to Lilybaeum but could not wrench it from them, and the islanders tired of my demands. I returned to Italy, was checked at Beneventum, and went back across the sea once more—to Sparta by night, to Argos by torchlight—chasing the chance that beckoned and then fled. In Argos a woman’s roof tile stunned me; the sword finished the matter. Judge me by this: I never waited for fortune; I tried to seize her hair.