The Syrian Army's Fort, west of Mazaka.
Winter 266 BC

Everything was calm now. His army was experienced and loyal. Things ran smoothly and there were no worries, except for the occasional new recruits, but each captain could handle them effectively.
Wearing no armor, only fur to protect him from the winter morning cold, Aratos was walking towards the small wooden tower. Greeting, on his way, the few men who were already awake and the patrolling soldiers, he arrived at the tower. When Aratos reached the top, the tower guard automatically greeted and climbed down.
Aratos, looked up, closed his eyes, inspired the fresh air and sighed.
One more day. Soon the army will march up and enter Pontic lands. Opening his eyes, he looked north and observed the thin fog that covered and tried to slide down the rugged rocky peaks of the mountains. Soon the sun will climb up and destroy the fragile mist.
The camp was well positioned, away from the frontiers, though close enough for the planned surprise invasion. Our enemy will hardly suspect anything. The assault must be quick and effective, Aratos thought. Once the Pontic problem is dealt with, he could go south and aid against those damned Egyptians. Hell! He should be there right now! One of these days he’ll soon have to return to Persepolis, he misses his homeland and his son must have a persian education. Then, he won’t be able to avenge his father as he correctly wanted. His son was more important now and Aratos knew it, since the day he first held his baby on his arms.