Wesba never imagined events would spiral so completely out of his control.
Just yesterday afternoon, his messenger had returned from the Sybaris Plain with alarming news: the Lucanian tribal coalition, instead of advancing, had withdrawn into their camp. The Greek mercenaries loomed like a storm on the horizon, and the Lucanians had retreated in fear of attack. Wesba waited anxiously the following day, expecting the coalition's forces to arrive and consolidate their hold on the plain. But as the hours dragged on, they were nowhere to be seen.
By midafternoon, a scout arrived, breathless and wide-eyed, bearing news that shook Wesba to his core: the Greek mercenaries had annihilated the Lucanian coalition in a decisive battle near the Tino River.
Wesba stood frozen, terror gripping his heart. The thought of those relentless, fearsome mercenaries filled him with dread. He wanted nothing more than to flee—flee far away from the blood-soaked Greeks and their ruthless onslaught.
