All that could be done was done.
Alpheo judged as much when he finally let himself fall backward onto the cot, the coarse fabric of the tent ceiling above him rippling faintly with every gust of night wind.
He had already doubled the patrols, placed runners between the watchfires, and stationed trumpeters along the inner perimeter. If the enemy so much as sneezed in the dark, they'd have time to wake, mount, and form ranks for a counterattack.
It was a pity they couldn't take advantage of the night themselves , but with half their allied troops being as disciplined as a sack of ferrets, that would've been suicide.
A night attack required a pack; what he had was a parade.
So there was nothing left to do but wait for dawn...he truly hated having pigs as teammates.
