To The Strongest - A Hellenistic Resurgence AAR

[Eludio]

Through the Gates​

‘During the time of the ancient Greeks the philosophical sciences kept on growing and developing… The sciences continued to be intensely cultivated until the religion of Christianity appeared among the Romans; they then effaced the signs of philosophy, eliminated its traces, destroyed its paths, and they changed and corrupted what the ancient Greeks had set forth in clear exposition.’

Thus read Leonidas’s favourite passage from the scholar Masountis’s Meadows of Gold. A shining reminder of what they were fighting for, and of the barbarism of the foe they faced. The Great King had simply smiled at the notion, claiming that – though he was gladdened that the Arabian scholars had acknowledged this truth – he was nonetheless weary of the notions that the Romans were a witless barbaric foe. Dulled though they might have been by their overzealous worship of the Israelite God, Alkaios had warned, these were still the men that had destroyed Antiochus’s Macedon, built the paved roads of marbled Palmyra, and bowed the last of the Ptolemies to their will.

In truth, Leonidas knew little of what had befallen the last of the Epigonoi, but as far as roads were concerned, what he saw beyond the Gates of Cilicia left him none too impressed. There, once, the Royal Road of Darius had passed, but now only broken stones remained, a hassle rather than aid as Leonidas led his vanguard into Roman Lycaonia, forced into a tight column so as to not loose formation during the march. That above Cilicia was overall a quite barren land and, though Leonidas’s scouts had fallen across groups of shepherds herding their flocks of sheep, of the Romans themselves, there was no trace. Iconion, the Arabic sources told, still stood as a city, but if it held any substantial garrison stood guard there, they were certainly showing no interest in Leonidas’s advance. After the battle at the Gates, the Roman forces had prodded his defences, but whether these were men of Iconion, or which of the two warring Emperors they served, the Bactrian general had no way of knowing. Still, he could not imagine that the entire garrison of a city had extinguished itself on their encampment’s defences.

He was proven right, of course, by the onrush of a scout. From the back of the column. Leonidas cursed at the mere sight of the young messenger. He had no need for divine warning to know that this was not a matter of a broken axle on a servant’s cart. “Galloping wall,” the scout shouted to him in terrible Greek as Leonidas raced to the back of the column, warning his lieutenants as he rode. “Galloping wall,” the man repeated, but Leonidas gave him little heed, as whatever the Persian boy wished to say, he knew it meant that a mounted or otherwise fast-moving force was assailing them. Part of him cursed that he had been caught with the van, chiefly peltasts and shield-bearers, with not a pikeman between them. The other part cheered: ever since Demetrius Soter’s time, the Romans had put little value into horsemanship, and Leonidas himself had been none too impressed with the small force of riders that had shielded the Christians’ attempt to storm his Cilician position. Though he would still hang the scouts that allowed his force to be ambushed.

“Hollow!” Leonidas called out to his troops as he rode. “Hollow!” he shouted, and felt as a proud father when the soldiers, Mede and Mesopotamian alike, formed into the hollow rectangle that the Romans themselves had mastered, all those centuries ago. He had to smile. His vanguard split into two phalanx lines, with the fore and back regiments – all hypaspists heavily armed – closing the square to protect their sides. The baggage carriers and scouting cavalry positioned themselves in the centre, his Turkic ghilman dismounting and readying their bows, as dangerous shots on foot as they were galloping circles around the enemy. With no back to expose to a mobile cavalry charge, Leonidas’s troops could stand their ground for hours. Days, if need be. And his Turks were certainly a match for whatever mounted archers the Romans might have.

And then Leonidas cursed the poor scout. Because the force that came crashing into his square was nothing like a galloping wall, and rather resembled, more simply, a wall. He counted some two thousand Roman shield bearers – a number near as great as his entire force – and these met his now-halved phalanx with a terrible clashing of steel and crushing of bone. Of a mounted knight, nary a sight. Already, Leonidas was ready to call for a redeployment – rather willing to risk confusion than to face such monstrous infantry formed up as the hollow square – when he saw, sprouting from what had seemed like bare rock, a force of what he would have called peltasts, so lightly armoured they were. To both his flanks they rushed, and the learned general knew they were moving to encircle his force.

Another man might have despaired. Leonidas smiled. He called for the last two ranks of the far side of his square to supplement the front, and the other two ranks he had break in half and spread out as a bird’s wings, behind the picked troops that would have guarded the flanks of the squared. Let them come, he thought, looking at the Roman peltasts. Let them come into the arms of my army, and sow chaos in their own ranks as they are forced to break and flee. Already his archers were unleashing a storm over the enemy’s charging ranks, slowing their advance, and Leonidas thought that no general could have met an ambush any better. The light Roman troops had yet to strike his formation that, at a single pump of his fist, it opened up into two wide flanks, stopping the peltasts in their advance and pushing them back with ease. Truly, no general could have met an ambush any better.

“Galloping wall, lord, galloping wall!” the young scout yapped, having made his way through Leonidas’s inner guard to pull at the general’s skirts, like an annoying child. Leonidas would have struck the boy, but as he pulled his hand back to slap, he turned towards where the scout was pointing. And finally, he saw it. The Galloping Wall.

​

“Would you be slaves to the Babylon kings?” Narses asked with a shout, basking in the chorus of “no” that his army offered in answer. “Cilicia is lost, to our own weakness! As ever, the Persians strike when we fight between ourselves. And yet beyond that hill, the Cilicians fight on! And the Cappadocians! And the Anatolians! They fight on because, whether ‘tis I, or Bardas, or Prince Nikephoros who carry the diadem, those men will always trust in the might of Rome! They are but farmers from the provinces, with weapon thrust in hand, and yet they show no weakness. They show no division or doubt! I say: enough with weakness. Let’s show both our friends and our foes that we are strong! That no matter what schism they think they see, we are still their match!”

Narses took his place at the centre of the wall of knights, leading from the front like an Emperor of old, and he smiled, as the tagmata cheered his name. “Let’s show them that we… are… ROMAN!” he bellowed as he closed his aventail, digging his heels into his Gaius to spur the stallion into a trot. Already, his men sounded like a storm behind him as they picked up the pace to match his. When they emerged from behind their hillock, they were as a single immortal wave. One that washed over the disordered line of the Persians as if though it has been made of sand. Cilicia might have been lost. But the enemy would not take a single step further.

Author’s notes: I have, once again, deformed Al-Mas‘udi’s name into Masountis, to the point where the reader would be legitimised in suspecting that Alakios’s translators wrote it down this way. I originally meant to use Al-Jahiz’s quote on Greeks being thinkers whilst Romans were mere artisans instead, but the same passage mentions that Greeks are (by then) an extinct people, which I couldn’t have Leonidas fully gloss over, but would have derailed the whole chapter had I gone into it in depth. The moral of the story is this: the Bagdad-era Arabic literature seems to think of the Romano-Byzantines as, while still a culture people, standing on the shoulders of Giants, and nothing exceptional themselves. At least wherever it distinguishes them from classical Greeks, whom the Arabic scholars seem to appreciate far more. Perhaps, my dear Leonidas, but the shoulders of giant are a nice high ground from which to pelt you with missiles.

Another thing: Leonidas (by which I mean I, the narrator) calls the heavy troops of the Bactro-Hellenistic Phalanx “hypaspists”. Though that is not fully wrong per se – the word itself simply means “shield-bearer” or “one who has a shield” – these would not be the hoplite-looking hypaspists of Alexandrine Macedon. I do picture the officers (especially Leonidas and Phil who often fight on foot) as carrying some more decorative, classically inspired armour, which would include a round and possibly bronze-faced aspis shield, but the heavy infantry would be armed in the manner of the thorakitai of Hellenistic Persia. These carried an oval, Roman inspired, shield, and would appear none too different from late-Imperial legionnaires (though with a preference for thorax-like armour).

As for the Roman Galloping Walls… they’re just cataphracts. But a solid number of them, since the “legitimate” Emperor Narses has access to the standing regiments, where Bardas would only lead levied Thematic troops. I like to think these cataphracts as the Athanatoi (Immortals, ironically named after the Persian unit), established in the mid 900s. Cataphract forces are nothing new to the army that conquered Persia, but the Iranian intermezzo did see a focus on Turkic slave soldiers, and Leonidas likely never faced a full army’s worth of the heavy knights. Also, infantrymen with their backs turned don't usually put up much of a fight against a cavalry charge.

 

[Eludio]

The Last of the Nostoi​

“In the front,” barked – or rather, nearly barfed– the captain of Alkaios’s marines, a Sogdian man who went by the Hellene name of Lysandros and who, no matter his current commission, was so unaccustomed to life at sea that he almost hugged Philandros when a gust of wind rocked their ship. The first hint of air in a long while, and hopefully a sign that the rowers would be allowed some rest soon. The men on Phil’s own ship were nearly riotous, between the long windless days and the lack of a coast beside them. In truth, though he slept with a sword beside him, he could understand them. And wondered why Alkaios had decided not to coast Phoenicia. It seemed that, as he was once wont to do, his cousin had fallen in love with his new toy and wished to play with it as much as he could, no matter whether it could break it. Only, in this case, the toy was a fleet carrying some fifteen thousand sailors and eight thousand warriors, and though the captains might have braved the open seas before, Alkaios himself knew nothing of sailing except what he had learned in a book.

Already, as he approached the prow of the flagship, Philandros had his speech prepared. His lookouts had spied the coasts of Crete the previous evening, and he knew that they could still reach the island in good time. He would tempt his cousin with tales of the Sky King’s birthplace, perhaps cite the name of Theseus for good measure, and try to convince Alkaios to let the ships land and resupply. After five odd days at sea, Phil would have been thankful had the King announced he meant to conquer the Minoan island. At least the men would be fighting against their enemies in war, rather than against each other. As they were beginning to do, in the cramped quarters of the Egyptian ships. He understood the fears of a Roman fleet harboured at Antiocheia Ptolemais but, at this point, the faraway enemy seemed far less dangerous than his men’s fear of Poseidon’s wrath.

“Down here!” a straining voice called out to Phil from one of the rowing benches, when he was about to put a hand on his cousin’s padded shoulder, garbed as he was in one of their marines’ linen panoply. As the man turned around, also following the rower’s voice, Philandros almost stumbled in shock, for the marine had a dark black beard, and bore Alkaios no resemblance whatsoever. He was even more surprised when his cousin’s crystalline laugh erupted from the rowers’ benches. There he was: face covered in scruff, hair damp and caked with sea salt, forehead reddened by a merciless sun, the Great King of all Asia was rowing shoulder-to-shoulder with the lowest of the Christian Egyptian freedmen. “Gorytos, switch with me for a while, I need to talk with my cousin,” Alkaios shouted, and the black bearded marine stripped off his cuirass to take the King’s place.

“The men took issue when I suggested that they learn how to row on a ship,” Alkaios passed a tunic over his sweaty limbs. “So I had to give the right example, and now look at them,” and with that he swept an arm around the ship, so that Phil could recognise the men he’d fought with mixed amongst the rowers, and some of the rowers resting their haunches on the covered parts of the deck. “Besides, it’s a relaxing exercise, and a great way to keep in shape, these long days at sea. You should follow my example as well, Phil. But that’s not why I called you here. We won’t be continuing on our path to Cilicia,” he said gravely, but the words fell like song on Philandros’s ears.

“Am I to command my helmsman South, then? Or in which order do you want to proceed?” Phil beamed, already feeling the gentle sands caressing the palm of his feet. It was curious, he thought, how their men took to the seas. Those amongst the army that called themselves Hellenes had cried and celebrated when their ancestors’ waters had finally been in their sight and grasp. And yet now, mere days after they had left the Egyptian shores, these were the most vocal amongst the officers that asked for land. Though, in truth, Philandros found himself realising that this attitude was not reserved to seafaring.

“South? No, brother, not South,” Alkaios smiled coyly. “We are headed West!”

“We’ve no news, then, Leo?” the Empress Sophia asked, and the caulker’s son knew that she had barely listened to a word he had spoken. Not that he would blame her, even if he could. The movements of enemy armies, the rumours from across the sea… what mattered they, to a worried wife? To a terrified mother, to a deserted lover?

“We’ve no news of Bardas, my August Empress, no…” Leo admitted, and was heartbroken to see the woman scoff at his usage of the title. Perhaps she was right to do so. Perhaps, as of that moment, she was but the widow of a failed pretender. “Though I will reiterate my suggestion that we leave Corinth and seek refuge in Cephalonia. Perhaps Corcyra, if we can reach the island before being intercepted.”

“Or perhaps Ithaca, that I may await my Odysseus whilst the Italian Emperor seeks my hand for one of his sons?” Empress Sophia’s sad laugh filled the room, and there was true anger in her subtle mockery, and Leo’s head was bowed low. “No, Kalaphates, I might cower behind the walls of this fortress, but I will not flee it. Once you show your enemy your back, and start running, you cannot stop. You can no longer turn back, if not to die while trying to recover your dignity. I will not run, come what may.”

“Ships, my general, ships on the horizon!” a messenger came running into what had been Emperor Bardas’s office, when he had been simply the governor of Achaia. “It is not the Emperor’s ships, I’m afraid…” the man immediately clarified, once he noticed the Empress sitting next to Leo. The Lady averted her gaze, grimacing, and gave a simple nod of acknowledgement. Well, man? Speak up, what are we to expect? Is the prince come to take us? Narses? Leo wanted to ask, but he held his tongue, out of respect for the Empress’ distress.

She herself was about to gesture the messenger on when the man continued his report: “A large fleet, oh general. Some two hundred keels, between warships and transports, by our best count. These are not simple pirates, lord, but neither are they the Usurper Narses’s ships. I cannot say more, for I came as soon as the scouts brought word.”

“Leo, what is the meaning of this?” the Empress asked, her voice tinged with something close to fear. It was not a sound Leo was gladdened to hear, especially as it was a rare colouring for her voice to take. He took a moment to answer, as his mind raced through the possibilities. Two hundred ships. What realm, in the face of the earth, had the wealth and power to command such a force?

When he had been Logothete of the Post, Narses’s chief duty had been to organise the vast array of diplomats, envoys, representatives and sometimes spies, and summarise their reports for Konstantina to read or hear. Now that he was the Emperor, he often found himself wondering just how much was left unsaid. Just how much was stricken by his own Logothetes in their reports. As he stood watch, for the secon consecutive week, on the shores of Cibyrrha with the bulk of his army, waiting to see a fearsome Persian fleet silhouetting against the horizon. And wait they did. According to their Egyptian man, King Alcaeus’s fleet should have reached the Cilician shores at least three days prior. And yet, they were still waiting.

“What say you, Prince Nikephoros? Will this be the day?” Narses asked dryly, as he heard Konstantina’s eldest son stepping into the room. The man offered a shrug as his sole answer, preferring to take a grape out of the Emperor’s breakfast, rather than offer any military advice. Narses grimaced, taking note to not eat anything from that bowl again. “Speaking of waiting, have you any news from your governorship’s armies? It seems to me like we should have seen them already in our camp.”

The Macedonian shrugged again, slowly swallowing another grape as he fixed his stormy gaze on the Emperor’s face. Narses had known the man long enough to guess what effect he expected this little show of callousness to have. But he was the Emperor now, not some courtly bureaucrat, and as he violently stood up from his chair, the Prince shrunk into a corner of the tent, perhaps fearing that Tornikes had finally lost his composure. The Emperor simply smiled a mean grin and was so satisfied.

“I fear, Narses,” the Macedonian finally spoke, when Narses made it clear that he was more interested in attacking an oiled slice of bread than he was in the other man, “that we are waiting here for nothing.”

The Emperor raised a quizzical eyebrow, but now it was his turn to remain stoically silent. If for no other reason than the fact that a chunk of breadcrust had lodged itself between his two front teeth.

“My brother, your august co-ruler, has apparently picked up a Delian fisherman last night. Quite a long way from home, I am sure you are thinking. But it seems that this specific fisherman was looking for our armies. And now seeks a bounty, for the information that he brings, but that is another matter. For you see, Narses,” he smiled when the Emperor cringed at the tone of familiarity, “it appears that you were quite ill-informed, with regards to the Eastern Qagan…”

“The Persian King is no Turkic Qagan, Nikephoros, how many times should I repeat this?”

“And neither is the Persian King sailing to Cilicia, my dear Narses,” the Macedonian shot back with a smile. This turned into an evil chuckle as the Emperor failed to hide his horror.

“The Egyptian fleet all but despoiled Thera when they landed to resupply, and your Persian friend apparently bribed the locals with gold to keep them from revealing their presence to us. Blessed be God for their greed, right? The same locals now come to us, asking for a prize for merely doing their duty. They then sailed North-West, though whether headed for Constantinople or for Attica, our Delian could not say.”

“I am certain you are glad my armies were still near the capital, August Highness,” Nikephoros announced boldly, while Narses’s world crumbled around him. Had the Persians already landed… he could not stomach such a thought. He cursed vocally, blaspheming towards the coast, and the prince met that with a laugh. The pig-faced bastard.

“That I am, Nikephoros,” he admitted, focusing his frustration on the nearest target. “Your August brother will take charge of them, as he will ride for the Capital. I will take the fleet and sail the army to Athens, and the garrisons will have to hold the passes to Cilicia. I will not lose Greece behind us. As for you, dear prince, you are now amongst my Logothetes. You will join an embassy to Trebizond.”

​

“Trebizond? What the fuck would I do in…”

“You? Nothing. But I will not have war with Bardas while the Persians ransack our homes. I will have peace in the Empire, and you will merely be there to spectate it.”

​

Author's notes: no dogs named Argos were harmed in the making of this scene. And I still can't believe I made it to 40.

 

[Eludio]

One who Paints Scenes of War​

Alexandra gave the signal by beating the deck of her warship with the butt of her spear. The heavy sauroter dug into the – once waxed and polished, and now covered in sea salt – Egyptian wood, but she could not care less. She had sworn to burn the ship in sacrifice, anyway. The gods would not mind a kink in their offering, she was certain. And at that kink, the ship leapt forwards, breaking formation with the rest of the fleet and turning away from the small bay in which it was supposed to lay anchor. Alexandra turned towards her father’s flagship but could not see his face. She would have hoped to see shock in his eyes. Perhaps a hint of pride. Even disapproval.

Still, there was no time for matters of personal satisfaction. The prow of her ship cut the waves like a knife through linen, and, as the masts of the Egyptian fleet drew further and further, the spears of the Roman scouting party on the beach were fast approaching. As the waters that broke against the keel began to be mixed with sand, the first of the defenders’ arrows plunged amidst Alexandra’s crew. Then it was the turn of stones. She grinned as one bounced against her shield.

“Come, Phloros! Those are the shores of home! Show some more enthusiasm!” the warrior-princess called out, when her friend winced under the hail of projectiles. Even his reaction, she had no time to care for, because soon the beach’s Achaean sands were crushed under the wood of the Egyptian prow, her rowers having picked up speed rather than letting off as they closed in on the enemy. The ship halted with a crack as it smashed into the rocks that jutted in the shoals. One more scar on her divine offering. But one well earned.

If the Romans had foreseen her boldness, they made a good show of hiding it. From the moment she had dreamt up her plan, Alexandra had feared the moment of impact. She knew little of sailing and nothing of naval combat, but even then, she could have guessed that her men would be rocked about as the ship crashed onto shore. Perhaps it was the skill of her rowers, who disobeyed her orders and ever so slightly slowed the galley right before it would crash against the shoals. Perhaps it was sheer luck. But only a couple of Alexandra’s soldiers lost their ground, and she herself did not stumble. The Roman scouts, meanwhile, were scattered, having stood too close to the shore in the hopes of having a shot at the attacking ship.

The princess jumped into the fray, quite literally, leaping from the prow of her ship and landing, with the added weight of two meters of fall, on one of the Roman soldiers. That too, the enemy did not expect. Alexandra had aimed her sauroter at the man’s neck, but it proved to be an unnecessary precaution. The rim of her heavy, bronze-faced, and three-layered shield smashed in the Roman archer’s face, and he went down in a shower of blood. Alexandra had not even seen the light in the man’s eyes before extinguishing it. And she had no time to look back. Already the scout closest to her was dropping his bow to unsheathe a dagger. She stopped him with the tip of her spear, aimed true in the man’s eye. Then she felt a blow on her shielded arm and had to push a Roman soldier back before stabbing again. Her strike only glanced the man, skidding on the mail shirt hidden beneath his tunic, but Phloros was fast besides her, spearing the man right above the clavicle.

Alexandra took a moment to smile at the man, worthy Patroclus to her Achilles, and broke into a chuckle when she saw his deathly focus. She turned back towards the enemy, as Himerios leapt at her right, thrusting again and again and speeding forwards when the Roman scouts ceased their advance towards her. Phloros was flanked by Orestes, Himerios was joined by Pegasios, and soon even young Alexios was in their line. And what a poor line it was, nary a man waiting to feel their companion’s shield at their back before pushing onwards. But it was a line of heroes, their mere appearance having sent the enemy into a rout, so they pushed on and on, their beautiful bronze-faced shields gleaming under the sun like so many altars to the Titan Helios.

In Alexandria, she had ordered them made. Round and curved and three-layered, shaped to harken the arms of ancient hoplites. Once, the entire mass of Alkaios’s hypaspists had worn a similar kit. The whole five hundred of them, when they had defended the flanks of the thousand odd pikemen that had followed her father down from the peaks of the Pamir. Now, most of those men were either dead, or renowned officers and Satraps and wore the shield as a badge of pride. And the thousands of infantrymen carried the thureos. But not her battalion. These would one day be her own officers. Her own Satraps. And for now, they were her proud myrmidons. Because her mother had named her Alexander, but Alexander too sought to be Achilles.

“One who paints scenes of war? Truly, Tychon? That’s the excuse you wish to present to this court? That you would use that money to hire one who paints scenes of war? Pray tell, Tychon… where would this master painter of yours be?”

“Well, Lord Isokrates, I haven’t found the… uh… artist yet…”

“I’ve heard enough. You will pay back the stolen sum and compensate the Kingdom for twenty-five silver talents, half of which sum will go to finance the decorations at the Temple of Apollo here in Seleukeia. I won’t bother with deciding what to do should you not be able to pay the sum, because everyone in this hall know that is not an issue.”

​

Lu-Ling smiled from her post in the upper galleries. Despite their quarrelling, it was always a joy to see Isokrates at work. And, as usual, she would make certain that part of whichever fines were paid to the state would go to Alkaios’s armies in the West. She had received no words from her husband after his fleet had passed the height of Cyprus, but it mattered little. In twenty odd-years of knowing him, Lu’s trust for her one-time golden Prince had only grown. And there were more worrisome tidings away from the front.

“How many agents is this, Nha Nha? Five? Seven?”

“Twelve.”

“Twelve?!” Lu-Ling was torn away from the judicial spectacle. Her sister, her eyes and ears into the Persian half of the great Empire, merely nodded. “Twelve agents? Great heavens, at this rate we will have no informants by the end of the year! This is no longer a trifling matter… we need to inform Isokrates.”

​

Nha-Lin frowned slightly. “I never considered it a trifling matter, sister. But as to informing the regent… I have no proof that the murders are correlated. Only my hunch and a few similarities in the manner of the killings. It is no secret that things have been tense between you and Isokrates. Were the wrong people to whisper in his ears, he might fear this tale of conspiracies to be just your play for power.”

“Nonsense…” Lu began, but soon bit her lip and her words. The wrong people. There were plenty of those to go around. Most of the Grecian old guard had followed Alkaios to war, but even amongst the Persian nobility she had her enemies. “Isokrates would put the good of the realm above our petty squabbles, I am certain… but perhaps you are right to fear that his decisions might not be solely his own. Very well. Say nothing for now but keep investigating. If there are snakes hidden amongst the grasses, I wish to see their skins hung from my wall.”

Nha-Lin bowed, perhaps a tad too deeply, and Lu knew that her sister meant to make her smile. But she could not. She could only sigh, and curse under her breath. Curse whatever new enemy was killing amidst the shadows. Curse the fact that this enemy, her husband could not fight with spear in hand. And, mayhap, she cursed her own single-mindedness, that had her so focused on placing Alexandra on the throne, that she had forgotten her duty to ensure that there was a throne on which to sit.

​

Author's notes: little nods here and there, and I got to stir the plot that had once been Leonidas's back up, with the readers being far more informed about the "conspiracy" than any of the characters (and that is saying something). But mostly, the second half of the chapter was there to give the court administration stuff a chance to shine. I owe it to it, after all: most of Alcaeus's wars (and his huge amounts of retinues) have been financed by the constant arrests and ransoming (in universe: fining) of criminal lords in the Empire. Bureaucracy at its finest!

But of course, my own 'scene of war' was the core of this update. I was originally afraid that the in-game Alexandra would not live up to how I'm writing her, but the Warrior Lodge is doing what warrior Lodges are wont to do, and she keeps becoming more and more impressive. She still doesn't hold a candle to her father, of course, but 23 martial at age 18 is not something I'm about to scoff at. And it seemed right to start giving a face to her own little cadre. And so enter Phloros - whose black eye is due to his recent introduction to the warrior lodge, and not a Roman stone - and Alexios - in-game: the posthumous son of Isocrates's first wife's first husband (huh), and Alexandra's ward; who in-story also becomes Isocrates's foster son and Alexandra's hyperetes. Orestes and Pegasios are also in-game characters, but did not exist yet at this specific save.

 

[Eludio]

In the Fires of War, He was Forged​

The crying. It was the crying he could not stand. To be beset by enemies, to risk death, to have the weight of countless lives on his shoulders, Leon could deal with. All his life, he had been a soldier. But the crying. The crying crept its way under his skin, dug deep into his bones, tore him apart as no man or beast could do; every tear a shining, merciless, dagger; every wail grasping at his very heart. “Will someone shut the prince up?” Leon finally yelled out at the group of wetnurses that were holding little Prokopios. He felt somewhat ashamed when Empress Sophia’s eyes grew wide at the outburst, but she barked at her maids to listen to their commander, rather than chastising him. Good woman, Leon found himself thinking, deeply thankful when the prince finally quieted down, having been handed to a calmer breast. Stubborn, though.

“Empress, the truth is we should have left months ago, when first I suggested it. Bardas, blessed be the man, tasked me with protecting you and the children, not the Peloponnese. The Persian forces have taken the harbour of Patras and set up a blockade on the Gulf. They do have ships in the Aegean, but so does Lord Narses. If we manage to reach his fleet, you and the princes would be honourable hostages. If we stay in Corinth, I cannot speak for your safety. These are pagans, your highness. They murdered our garrison in Messenia to a man, including the captains. We have no assurance that they would treat you or your family with any respect. Mary’s tits, we have no assurance that they wouldn’t simply slaughter us all.”

Leon saw the lady Sophia frown at his blasphemy, but forced himself to steel his expression. He could not afford to lighten the gravity of the situation, whether with an apology or a joke. It had been months now, since last Emperor Bardas had managed to send news of his army’s conditions, and as far as Leon knew, his lord might be dead or forever defeated. As much as he would never admit it, part of his desire to surrender himself to Emperor Narses’s forces stemmed from a need to have some news. To know what had happened to his commander. Perhaps even to intercede in his favour. Not that a snob like Narses would ever care what a caulker’s son had to say…

“For my children…” the Empress began in hushed tones, “for them, and for them only…”

Leon all but let out a sigh of relief. “Of course, your highness!”

“Pray, lord Leon. Pray that I truly am saving them from the jaws of a ravenous dragon. Because you might not be a man of the court, but I am. And I know the maw of Lord Narses to be that of a lion. If truly he will treat us with honour, it will be as an honoured bargaining chip. That man does nothing without reason, and a welcome into his camp might very well signal the end of my husband’s time in the purple.”

“I will be candid, your highness. I’m afraid that signal was given more than a year ago, in the high passes of Cilicia.” Leon swallowed hard, and was shocked to feel a tear making its way across his cheek. The damned crying.

Men had cried, upon seeing the shores of Achaia. Andromachos, Phil’s own hyperete and a man he knew and valued for his stoic professionalism, has broken down on the bridge of his ship and torn out his hair, sobbing. Alkaios had laughed. “Did I not say it would be so?” his cousin had asked Philandros. He remembered not what he had answered. It mattered little, to Alkaios or to the truth. That truth being that his cousin had indeed been right and, as they’d swept through the valleys of the Peloponnese, the Bactrian Phalanx had seemed more akin to a group of children on a visit to the shores of the Aydar. They fought, they looted, they killed… but mostly they preferred lazing in the fields, searching for potential farmland, and above all shocking the locals by asking them to purchase some of their cheeses or wines, in the Koine that their ancestors had certainly shared. Philandros smiled and even chuckled, but sometimes he did not know what to make of the situation. This was not the war he had lived through for the last twenty years of his life.

They had fought skirmishes, of course, with the various Roman garrisons that dotted the landscape of Hellas, but even those the men had taken in stride, going to battle as if though to perform some mythical pantomime rather than risk their lives. All, of course, excepted his Egyptians. They cared little for a return to a land that their bloodlines had never seen, and instead seemed chiefly motivated by the riches that they could plunder from the Peloponnese. Which, in truth, suited Philandros just fine. For twenty years, he had led men who prowled the lands for bountiful loot. He doubted he would have known what to do with starstruck future homesteaders. And his Egyptian phalanx was excellent.

About three days into their training, Phil had given up on teaching his men the ways of the Macedonian pike, on the principle that even Odysseus could not have taught old Argos new tricks, and the former marines were clearly veterans. Instead, he had armed some in shining mail panoply, outfitted others with the pelte and javelins, and had even formed a little cavalry detachment from the men that could already ride. In the end, Philandros had found himself with a – somewhat Hellenistic-looking – force of infantry well suited for the resistance that the Romans were putting up. In the great steppes of the North, or in the large expanses of the Iranian plateau, his men would have been fodder for the arrows of the enemy’s horsemen. But in the valleys of Hellas – and perhaps even in the peaks of the Eastern Kingdoms, should they remain under his command – his force could operate in perfect autonomy, needing no support from either the Agema’s cavalry or the pikes of the foot companions.

Perhaps in too perfect autonomy, as Alkaios had all but officially turned Phil’s detachment into the vanguard of the army, seeing fit to send the Egyptian phalanx onwards whenever there might be any rumour of an approaching enemy force. At first, Philandros had feared for his own life. Had he fallen out of favour with his cousin again, he had wondered, and was this Alkaios’s stealthy way of ridding himself of an enemy? And yet, every victory of his, Alkaios celebrated with great feasting, and as of late he had taken to leading his own detachment of the cavalry to aid Philandros in his battles. And so it had dawned upon him: his cousin might be an unwavering optimist, but Alkaios was no fool. He too must have realised what Phil had feared from the beginning: one harsh engagement with the Romans, one battle worthy of the name, and the idyllic end of their exile would become just another war, in the eyes of the Bactrian phalanx. And farms would be burned, and women would be raped, and children would be murdered, and the Romanised Greeks that so placidly tolerated their quasi-peaceful occupation would become just another oppressed people, to be abused and exploited rather than freed and elevated.

And so, his Egyptians marched onwards, mercenaries looking for pay, in no part emotionally compromised by the warring that had been their companion through life. And so came Corinth, the first city to truly oppose them, the city where all the Roman soldiers that they had not seen in the rest of the Peloponnese had come together to stop the Persian invader. Alkaios would not commit men to assault the walls, because still he held on to the dream of his men peacefully sweeping through their ancient homes like a refreshing breeze, rather than the storm of steel that they truly were. And so, Philandros’s Egyptian phalanx harassed the defenders, until after a month long siege the main garrison surrendered the lower city, and only the nobles in the Acrocorinth yet held against them. Phil’s men were ordered to garrison the moored fleet, so as to ensure that they would not ransack the city, as the Bactrian Hellenes were allowed a stipend to rest and celebrate in Corinth. Rest and celebrate, while the enemy still held the fortress above their heads.

And then the Acrocorinth too fell, and the men of the Egyptian phalanx became marines again. Philandros had paid some attention to the reports that Nha-Lin’s agents brought Alkaios and knew that one of the two competing Roman Emperors had made Corinth his capital, so when he was tasked to take a portion of the fleet and give chase to the escaping Corinthian defenders, he knew what his true task was. “No sinking those ships, lest you wish to join Aegeus with them,” Phil had called out to his men in his accented Arabic, and the Egyptians had grunted their assent. He smiled: tough, coarse, perhaps not entirely loyal, yet they were professionals. Yes, he thought, if I can get you to stand the cold, you will prove quite the asset when I will make my move East.

“Roman ships, lord, from the direction of Attica,” Andromachos reported the words of the lookout.

“Reinforcements for our prey, say you? Enough to trouble us?”

“Nay, lord, some six warships, we still have the numbers.”

Philandros unconsciously caressed his moustache, as he thought. “Call for the wings to double their tempo,” he finally decided. “They can deal with the Roman warships. And tell them that they can try out their new rams, from those ships we need no prisoners,” he added with a smile. Andromachos chuckled cruelly as he went to relay the order. Still, Phil pondered the meaning of such a waste of men on the Romans’ part, but he knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. And he had the numbers to play at being an admiral, which brought him no little delight. For all that Alkaios had adored having a fleet, and had gone as far as having numerous books on naval warfare sent from Bagdad to better equip it for combat, the Bactrian forces were yet to engage the Romans in a naval battle. Phil would be the first of the Macedonian successors to achieve a victory at sea in some thousand-odd years. No small feat indeed.

“Increase speed, don’t lag far behind our wings,” he called out to his captain. He was playing the engagement as if though it were a land battle, having his “cavalry” encircle the enemy while his heavier “footmen” formed a wall to seal in the enemy fleet. And yet the roman ships kept advancing, six light warships and a fleeing passenger ship against his thirty heavy warships. The reinforcing ships spread out as if to shield the Corinthian against his fleet, and he realised that they must have been hoping to allow it space to flee. Perhaps sacrificing themselves for the task. A little part of him envied them their suicidal courage.

“Close in,” the other part called out, merciless against the foolishly useless annoyance that those ships offered, and his messengers gave the signals. He looked calmly on as the Egyptian sailors, with a thousand-odd years of seafaring experience over him, timed their manoeuvres perfectly to lock in the small Roman fleet, offering little chance for escape to either the Corinthian ship or its would-be rescuers. For a moment he feared ambush, thinking the battle too simple, but there were no other keels on the horizon. His men were closing in in an orderly fashion, almost methodical in their fighting.

“Eight hells surrounding the Earth!” Philandros cursed out as the flash of magic erupted from the smaller Roman crafts. He had little time to think as the very water around them took flame and the fiery hells of damnation came into the worlds of mortal to punish him for his hubris. The fleet’s captains screamed in disarray, calling for the rowers to back water, but their calls were soon drowned out by the wailing of the men below the bridges, as they burned alive trapped in a cage of wood and tar. Phil looked on, stunned, unable to give orders, as the enemy unleashed foul wizardry against him, and as the fires drew closed to his flagship, he was only saved when Andromachos dragged him above board. As he fell into the water, the realisation dawned on him, like some cruel joke: he would be the first of the Macedonian successors to achieve a defeat at sea in some thousand-odd years. No small feat.

“Fortune has blessed you, cousin, it truly has,” Alkaios smiled reassuringly, offering Phil a bunch of grapes. Philandros groaned as he refused the offer, waving the fruit away with an arm that still suffered from the burns he had sustained. They were alone, for the first time in quite a long time, in one of the many rooms of the Acrocorinth’s fortified palace. “Have it your way…” the King shrugged, pulling a grape for himself.

“Spin whichever tale you will for the officers, Alkaios, but those were good men, and I will carry the guilt of their death, even though I may be spared the shame.”

“The Romans are cunning, Phil, and skilled at covering their martial failures with trick worthy of Odysseus himself. We learned that a thousand years ago, when they broke Macedon’s phalanxes with shots from their ballistae, and we learned it again when they unleashed this magical weapon upon your fleet. I don’t dream myself infallible, and neither do I hold you to such a standard.”

“But as far as shame goes…” Alkaios sighed, pulling a small roll of parchment from his belt, “Apollonios sent this. It arrived shortly after you’d taken Corinth. Feel free to read it yourself, but the gist of it is that our beloved friend the Emir Razin has refused to be subjected to Satrapal authority and is now in open revolt against my authority. So far none of the ship captains have demonstrated any desire to betray our campaign, but I have no doubt that the precious Arabian warrior Razin offered us would have carried different orders.” When Philandros stared at his cousin in disbelief, mute as he held out a hand for the missive, Alkaios broke into another warm, consoling, smile: “I understand the paternal care of a commander. If you truly love those men, then I will recant. They will have died honourably, fighting off the Roman’s new magic. There is no shame in having fallen for such an unthinkable trap. It’s your choice, brother.”

Philandros kept his silence a moment longer, as his eyes darted over the scrawled letters of Apollonios’s damning message. “Well, they were traitors…” he finally conceded. Alkaios said nothing, but he beamed like a child.

​

Author's notes: was supposed to publish this one on Saturday evening, but those three last paragraphs took me the whole weekend to write. As Phil would say: no small feat. Sadly, CK2 does not have any sort of naval battles, so this whole piece was fiction. Wholly fiction? Not really. I had parked Phil in Corinth to lay siege to the city and, as I was distracted with other matters, Narses's loyalist armies rolled up with ten thousand Romans intent on doing exactly the same. Since I was at war against a revolt, this meant that they quite simply wiped the floor with Phil's two thousand odd men. But the game's fallacies need not be my stories, and so this instead became a naval battle, where the Romans shone thanks to their usage of Greek Fire.​

 

[Eludio]

Andromache, Priam, and the Achaean Besiegers​

He would be sentenced to death. That much Leon knew. He ignored the mode of it, but he had been certain of his fate the very moment he had stepped on the deck of Prince Nikephoros’s dromon. Perhaps even before. And yet… “The Empress!” he shouted, as one of the usurper Narses’s officers walked in front of him. “What has been of the Empress?”

“My mother’s doing fine, Caulker, thanks for asking. She’s all the way back in the City, probably drinking some fine golden wine, confident in the knowledge that all rebellion has been quashed, and the noble Emperor Narses’s attentions can finally turn to the treacherous Persians. Or did you perhaps mean someone else?” the lord Merkourios mockingly asked, his northern features easily recognisable once he moved closer to the bars of Leon’s prison.

Red fury boiled inside of his veins for what seemed like the longest of instants, as the braggart Prince’s insulting grin flared in front of him, but Leon’s spirit soon faltered and, as a fit of coughing overtook him, he lowered his head. “You know of whom I speak,” he admitted, as the air returned to his lungs. Merkourios was silent but, as he finally found the strength to look up, Leon found pity in the other man’s eyes, not scorn or ridicule. Another man might have been insulted by that. Not him: freezing in a lion’s cage, forced into chains as if though the most common of prisoners, the man who had stood at the left hand of an Emperor knew quite well that he made for a pitiful sight.

“The Lady Sophia is healthy and untouched. And so are her children, if you feared for them,” Merkourios admitted, in what seemed like almost a whisper. Then he made a face that seemed almost like a grimace: “I won’t lie to you, Caulker. Little Prokopios’s fate was discussed. But my father is not a cruel man, no matter what you may think of him. And the Lady Sophia made quite the appeal. Truly, had the Blessed Virgin possessed her gift of oratory, perhaps our Saviour would have never had to bear the cross,” with that he attempted a smile, or what Leon though to be a smile in the darkness of night. He cared little for the prince’s sympathies, but the news was good, and the caulker’s son allowed himself a long sigh of relief.

“Is that true, what you said before, Lord Tornikes? Is my Lord’s bid for the throne truly over?” a bout of coughing took Leon as he spoke the last word, as if though to distract him from his own embarrassment at having to ask such a question. Merkourios made a moue.

“So? What did you tell him?”

“That he was still a prisoner, and that I was not the town crier, bringing him news. Well,” Merkourios admitted, “I might have phrased it somewhat more nicely.”

At that, his father laughed. “Well, no matter his somewhat unmeasured ambitions, I’m saddened to hear that the Caulker’s son did not live through to see our Empire united once more,” the Emperor Narses bemoaned. He had ridden days on end, to reach his son and Prince Nikephoros’s Greek garrisons, and was now ready to take the reins of the great war beast, as it marched against their treacherous enemy in the Peloponnese. If he still was in the Peloponnese, that is. Sometimes, it seemed to Narses as if though King Alcaeus truly was blessed by his pagan gods, spirited across the edges of the world with his men, like the heroes of the Iliad.

“I’ve met him once, you know? The Caulker’s son, I mean. Bardas held him in high regard, even when he was a loyal general. Too high a regard, I thought at the time. But it seems he’s managed to give both us and the Persians some merry trouble with Corinth, so perhaps it was I who mischaracterised him…” Narses had but look up to realise that he was losing his son’s attention. Again, he allowed himself a chuckle. The Empire was still on the brink, and yet it all seemed so simple now. “Anyway, I regret that I could not meet him again, to make for myself a new impression of the man. What of Bardas’s wife, the lady Sophia? I would have expected her to already be at my door, begging for an audience.”

“Ah… as for that, pater… she is no longer in our camp. Not that she fled, or anything of the sort!” Merkourios was quick to clarify when his father raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Prince Nikephoros simply thought, and both I and the Lady Eparchos herself agreed, that it might be best to remove her from a… chaotic space, such as a military encampment can be. When the Prince removed himself to Athens, to quarter with the fleet, he brought the Lady with him, and gave her to the care of the cloistered sisters of Saint Irene. Under guard, of course.”

“Bardas might appreciate the gesture, if anything…”

“She seems to be appreciating it. I was even told…” Merkourios coughed lightly, as if though to hide his embarrassment. “I was even told that she might be interested in taking the vows, herself, and retiring to the convent for life…”

“That, Bardas won’t appreciate…” Narses said, laughing yet again. They were to be allies once more, but it didn’t mean that he had to like the man. “Still, if anything that makes both our and her position more secure, with regards to her children being used as some rallying banner. And the lady Sophia has shown no sign of the Caulker’s son’s affliction?”

“None whatsoever, as far as I am informed. I would not worry overly, father. By the man’s own admission, these sicknesses occur to sailors all the time. Cold, damp nights, mixed with an already tired predisposition, and our own lateness tending to it. These are the culprits of the man’s death. We are not facing a plague.”

“It would be the last of too many curses, would it not? Yes, you must be right, Merkourios. Now, let us talk of more inconsequential things!” Narses smiled, for truly it seemed to him as if though, now that Rome had begun to rise once more, it could not be pushed down again.

​

He would never have admitted it openly, but Seleukos was somewhat relieved to be back on the front lines. Officially, Lord Pyrrhos had requested his presence there so that his veteran forces might aid the newly appointed Satrap, Lord Leonidas, to pacify the province. When he’d arrived in Cilicia, Seleukos had found that it was well and truly conquered land, with the few Roman nobles that remained having turned traitor to their Empire and bowed down to the Hellenic Satrap without any further resistance. The true issue, he’d found, was the Satrap himself. Or rather, the lack of a Satrap. Because although old Leonidas still struck a somewhat commanding figure from his throne-like chair, whenever Pyrrhos sat him on it, it was hard to deny that there was very little of the soldier left in him. When he’d first arrived, Seleukos had been ushered in the man’s rooms like a mourner and found the once proud General drenched in sweat. Never had he looked so ancient.

Whether Isokrates knew, Seleukos was – as too often happened – only left to guess, but it mattered little. The Great King had made his noble landing in Achaia, and now the Agean sea lay, if not fully open, at least open enough to the Hellene fleet that King Alkaios was contacted and informed. But, until the time that the Great King saw fit to send further instructions, Seleukos found himself one of the most powerful men in the world, having been recruited by Satrap Pyrrhos to replace him, commanding the Cilician army’s Turkic cavalry while Pyrrhos himself had taken over Leonidas’s duties, guarding the passes. As the province was well and truly pacified, and as neither of the older men would dare attempt to break into Asia Minor after the great fiasco that had consigned Leonidas to bed in the first place, Seleukos’s new position consisted mainly of organising the road patrols and tasting the various varieties of wine and olives that grew in the region. Not the glorious war that he had once dreamt of, but now that Leonidas was incapable to lead them, that war would resume shortly enough. Because if there is one thing Seleukos knew, it was the mind of his lord.

​

Author's notes: and, with the end of the Roman civil war, here comes another map! Not all the highlighted player will be actual... ahem... players, in this story, but I felt like we've reached the West enough that it was time to colour some of the other Kingdoms. There is also a Bulgarian powerhouse and a large Sunni kingdom in Lybia which I've decided to hide the disgusting civil wars of keep as a surprise. The world is seemingly moulding into a series of large, centralised, Kingdoms! Add a couple of alliance systems in, and we'd probably have enduring peace... right?

I could have realistically nabbed a few more territories from the Roman Revolt, but I preferred to role-play it a bit and keep my fleet movements to a minimum. And besides, the clock was ticking on the Romans making peace. I actually have no idea whether they white-peaced (which would surprise me, given how close Narses was to 100% war score), but Bardas was running free a few minutes after the revolt ended, so I wrote it down as some sort of agreement. A way for Bardas to save face, while Narses now can concentrate on the Amyntid problem. Georgia and Armenia are... also there. Mostly for very future reference.

 

[Eludio]

The Good Daughter​

“If anything, I am glad to see you this way. From what your messengers referred, I half expected to find you drooling in a bed!”

Leonidas’s first instinct was to frown and yet something about the image made him chortle. Yes, perhaps thing could truly be worse. “Glad might be too strong a word for my own feelings, my liege, but at least I’m alive. And I will even be able to lead an army again, soon. I’ve already recovered some mobility in my legs, and Khonayn assures me that my situation will continue to improve with time,” he lied merrily, perhaps even to himself, though he could see in Alkaios’s pitiful expression that his words had done little to convince anyone. “Truly, my friend, I’ll be all right,” Leonidas attempted a reassuring smile.

“Indeed. And when you will be all healed, I will rejoice in seeing you holding a shield by my side. But for now, I would rather that see you rest and recover. I am here now, I can hold the field while you manage the rear-guard,” Alkaios reassured him with a friendly hand on his shoulder. “And besides, is it not a Satrap’s duty also to govern? Cilicia is not Aria, my friend. I’m sure you will have your hands full, whether you join us against in the West or not.

“And besides, my brother’s machinations have borne fruit,” the King continued, somewhat with disinterest. Leonidas clenched his teeth at the mere mention of Isokrates, and yet grew curious, as what little Pyrrhos had told him about the Regent’s secret dealings with the Romans had been mangled in his memories by his sickened state. “Phrygia will be far more welcoming to us than it was to Alexander. Perhaps Alexandra is right. It will all come down to one great siege, as it was in our great war against the Trojans. Fitting, I suppose.”

“I’ve heard all about her great escape, from your darling Seleukos. Near broke that one’s heart, she did,” Leonidas laughed hoarsely. “And I’ve heard of her heroics too. Did she land with you, our dear warring princess?”

“Nay! My heroic daughter is now the supreme commander of all our forces in Hellas. Well, Phil is, but she speaks the words. And should my cousin get any ideas on what to do with the ten thousand men he now commands, he will be in no position to do anything, as she holds the reins in name.”

​

Leonidas let the silence hang heavy in the stuffy air of his sick room, content with studying Alkaios’s features as the King’s curious gaze darted around the décor. Around the white sandstone walls, over the blue silken curtains, across the heavy red tapestries, and through the Roman candelabra, gilded and winged to give the impression of a bird carrying the candles. Tarsus was a ruined town, compared to Baghdad or even some of the Arabian and Roman cities on the Phoenician coast, yet the governor there had had an eye for luxury.

“That is quite the command,” Leo finally commented, as the Great King’s curiosity seemed to wander dangerously close to a jewelled box that the general himself had eyed. “Are the rumours true, then? Is it your intent to make her your heir? Some will protest the choice, my liege, I feel as if though I must warn you…”

“Heavens above, is there a conspiracy that you should also warn me about?” the Great King shot back, laughing heartily at what Leonidas could only assume was his own shocked expression. “What is this sudden interest you all have with my inheritance? I’m barely forty… and younger than you, I might add! Not some decrepit old man on his deathbed. Damned it all, I could still father a whole litter of little Princes!”

“Well, you are a bold warrior King, my lord…”

“Aye! And do the Gods not favour the bold? Or did the Roman fool you with their God of reclusion and lethargy?” the Great King had risen from his seat at Leonidas’s bedside, and for a moment the wounded man thought he had truly angered him. But Alkaios controlled himself, turning towards the door with a sigh. “You, of all people, must understand that it is in no measure pleasurable to think of one’s own demise, my friend,” the King admitted in a voice that was barely more than a whisper. “But I am no fool. I have been thinking about it. And yes, Alexandra was by my side as I traced the steps of the Pharaohs, and that was no mistake. Whether that will be her key to Egypt, to the entire Kingdom, or merely to a flattering marriage, will be up to her own strength. But if worse comes to worse, my brother – do not groan, now, he is still the Regent – will be able to manage the Realm until a husband is found for her. As long as you, oh Satraps and friends, honour my legacy, what risk is there?” he asked, speaking those last words like a command and admonition.

“Is this the reason for her command in Hellas, then?” Leonidas kept questioning, rather to sail over the last point than out of real curiosity. “A chance for Alexandra to prove her strength?”

At that, Alkaios finally turned back towards him, with a grin on his face. A grin that, despite the King’s reassurances, was beginning to show signs of age, creasing his cheeks as it shaped his face. “She would love that. I named her Alexander, and so, naturally, she thinks me Philip. But no. We managed to get Phrygia to submit through my sheer presence. So will it be for Hellas. Alexandra is but to hold Achaia until I will have reached the Roman walls with my armies, and then their lords in Thessalia and Attika and Boiotia will follow suit. I do not wish our ancient homeland ravaged by war. The Peloponnese was a necessary fight, but Macedon need not suffer us as soldier. Her lands will welcome us as farmers and shepherds.”

“Are you not the soldiers who conquered the world!?” Alexandra asked, her voice loud yet soft – as her tutors had taught her, to the assembled armies of Asia. Nearly the entire Phalanx, her father had granted her. A poisoned gift, as these were the star-eyed men who had been promised farms and wealth in their ancestral homes, and could stomach no more war. The faithful worshippers of Ares, the noble Companions who saw fighting as their duty, the bloodied veterans who no longer knew anything but the battlefield… those men had sailed to Cilicia with her father, that he might engage in glorious conquest while she held what little of the homeland they had already retaken. Her, and her staff of youths. Proud myrmidons, Alexandra had once called them. Yet the assembled armies of the Achaeans would as soon heed the word of their horses. It had not gone unnoticed that, whenever she sent Alexios to arrange a muster or even a simple assembly, the boy had first to ask Philandros for aid before the Phylarchs would listen to his messages.

And yet… what a figure they cut, those six thousand phalangites! For near two months they’d rested in the idyllic valleys that they knew only from the tales that their ancestors had passed down, and yet they were none the weaker for it, rest having been to them a source of healing and recovery, rather than laziness and weakness. “When I was but a child,” the Princess called out to that majestic assembly, “I remember watching this very force drill for hours on end, as I followed my father across conquered cities. Persian princesses would stare and admire the men who had taken their kingdoms and now took their hearts. My friends, the young boys of the Bactria koine, would look at you with dreaming eyes, for they could not wait until the day when they too could march amongst you.”

“And I know these things to be more than imagined memories, for I see some of those erstwhile boys among you now, and I know for a fact that many of you have Persian princesses for wives!” At that, a scattered rain of awkward laughter swept through the phalanx. Always a good sign, she thought, as she continued: “I’ve heard some of you be thankful, for the gift my father has given you. For these brooks, these vales, and these fields. This piece of Hellas. And it would serve me well, were I not to disprove you of that notion. Were I to rest on my laurels, as the daughter of the man who has broken a thousand years of exile. But that would be a betrayal. Because, Great though the King may be for having guided you here, you fought by his side every step of the way! Alkaios of the line of Amyntor, and the Gods that favour him, might have shown you the path, but they did not gift you the Peloponnese… you took it!”

Flattery worked like magic on any man, and some of the younger phalangites – those less deserving of such words – even shouted their approval. Alexandra’s smile stretched from ear to ear as she forced her pride to grant her back the power of speech for her grand finale: “Now, will you sleep as babes, hoping that real warriors will leave you the scraps of their great conquest… or will you come with me, and take the whole of Hellas for ourselves!?”

​

 

[Eludio]

The Throne of Peter, the Crown of Caesar​

It was quite the ugly thing, if one were to speak verily. What amounted to an average sized box, its wood cursed by moulds and eaten by worms, its gilded decorations faded and scarred by time and usage and theft. Its back fared no better: once shaped like the entrance to an ancient Basilica, it now lacked two of its columns, and the pediment was marred by what looked like an old bloodstain. Of its armrests, no trace remained, if not for broken hints of the trunnels that had once bound them to the rest of the artifact. It was, all in all, just an old chair. And yet…

And yet, Witiking could not tear his eyes from it. No, Saint Peter’s Throne was indeed an old chair, and an ugly and ill-preserved one at that. Yet it was also so much more. Brother Isidore insisted on telling anyone that would listen that there was quite the slim chance that the Apostle had ever sat on that cushioned seat. Too new, too ornate… well, according to the Isidore, it had once been these things. Perhaps he might even have been right. But how could anyone deny that ugly old chair’s power? For centuries, the Saint’s successors had been enthroned on it, nearly enshrined in it, on their accession. The closest a mortal man could get to sitting at the Lord’s side, with the Patriarchs and the Archangels. No, it might have been an ugly thing to look at, but so were the hands of the carpenter, and yet through them had the world been saved. And now, it needed saving again.

“The sea will not stop this pagan horde from crossing into Italy, on this we do agree. And I do not suggest we stand idly by, as Persia’s armies sweep into the East,” the Preferatus, Cardinal Francisco de Fogaça conceded, much to Witiking’s pleasure. Yet the man had still not spoken a ‘but’, and so these words meant little. “But the Greeks have sealed their fate. And let us not speak of the Mahomeddans. Their fleets have scoured our sea, have terrorised our coasts for untold years. If the scourge of God falls upon them, it is a blessing, not a curse.”

“And so, what, Cardinal Fogaça? Are we simply to pray for our own salvation, hoping that our sins are more menial than the Greeks’, and let those Christian souls suffer under pagan heel? Differences with the Empire or not, it is our duty as shepherds to guide lost lambs back to the flock, not to leave them out to the wolves. Are you so gladdened that the pagan horde has damned the Arabians, that you willingly offer up the souls in Greece, yourself a pagan in front of your bloodied altar?”

“Temper your words, Witiking! I asked you hear to council me, not to trade barbs as bickering dowagers!” Pope Coelestinus finally spoke out, robbed by what the younger Cardinal had assumed to be his own reveries regarding Peter’s Seat. Witiking grew silent, head bowed before his mentor, yet in his heart annoyed that the Holy Father seemed more preoccupied with the manner of his speech than with the content of his words.

​

“No offence was given, I am certain, and none was taken by me, Holy Father,” the Preferatus assured with a smile, a smug perfect paragon of Christian virtue. “I understand your frustrations, Cardinal Esikonen. You know my birth, and so paint over my every word with the belief that I am somehow furthering some secret plot to rid Iberia of the Mahomeddan tyrants. And I will not lie, Holy Father, I do rejoice in the shattering of the Caliph’s kingdoms. But I do so because I see in the Persian horde the hand of providence!”

“Providence!?” Witiking scoffed, appalled at the seeming blasphemy. “Reborn Attila threatens to destroy the Lord’s bastion in the East, and you see providence?”

“Yes, Cardinal Esikonen, I do! The Lord’s justice can be harsh, and harsh it is proving to be against the errant peoples that now suffer under the hooves of the unbeliever. But it is justice, nonetheless. The Greek Emperors refused and yet refuse to acknowledge the authority of Rome. The Arabs blaspheme the Lord with their corrupt worship. And so, as he destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah, the Highest now brings their kingdoms to heel. And well you do to mention Attila!” the Lusitanian bellowed, turning the heads of the cloistered monks that went about their business below the papal windows. “For remember you not, Cardinal, how it was that Attila, Scourge of the Earth, indomitable in battle, was finally sent back from whence he came? It was by the word of the Pontiff, not by the might of the sword, that Rome was saved from the monster!”

“What then, my friend? Would you have me take to sea, and land in Embassy on the Greek shores?” the Holy Father asked, his voice calm yet powerful. That, at least, gave the Spaniard some pause. “Or would you have me wait until this providential cleansing has been completed, and only interfere to stop this swarm of locusts when it has reached the gates of Rome, sole remaining bastion of pure and honest Christianity?” Witiking did his best not to chuckle.

“Never, Father! And please, do not mistaken my acceptance of the Lord’s harsh justice as a form of rejoicing. I bear no ill will towards the men of Egypt, or Greece, or Anatolia. I am only gladdened by the toppling of their Empires, that they may return to the flock without the burden of pride weighing on their shoulders. But as for the Persian King, I would never suggest apathy in front of such a threat. Simply, I advise your Holiness be mindful of the teachings that Christ our Lord imparted on Saint Peter, and do not turn to violence with undue hurry. For, should we wound this Persian Malchus, the Lord will not be there to heal him, and we may be dooming our Eastern brothers to further decades of suffering.”

“Decades of suffering are little, when compared to eternal salvation!” Witiking complained, but by the look in his mentor’s eyes he knew that the Holy Father had already made his choice, and that there would be no war.

“You are right, my dear Witiking, you are quite right,” Coelestinus nodded, his expression paternal and placid. “And should it come to it, we must be prepared to fight might with might. But Francisco is also wise in his suggestion of restraint. I would rather err on the side of caution, and see the City of Constantine destroyed by the barbarian, than myself be the cause of its downfall, when still it could be rescued. We should first send embassies to the Persian king, we must first turn the other cheek, and hope that peace might prevail. And yet, Witiking, greatest among my students,” the Holy Father spoke out with all the gravitas that his ageing voice could convey, “you have my blessing to begin your own embassy. Should diplomacy fail us, the Christian princes of Europe must be ready. We follow the way of peace, but we are not weak. Cardinal de Fogança, you will bring the Persians our merciful offers. But you will do so with armoured hand. Cardinal Esikonen, you I task to forge that armour.”

​

It was an item of beauty, verily so. Six square plates of the most delicate gold, enamelled with tiles of viridescent glass and jewelled like the neck of an Eastern Queen. A gift from a Roman Augustus of old, to the faithful vassal that had rescued Italy from the wrath of the barbarian tide. Once, perhaps, they had been the wreath on an Emperor’s helm. Now, they were the crown of a Caesar. One who had not just protected Italia from a barbaric King’s wrath, but had done what countless ancient Emperors could not, and had brought Roman laws and Roman peace to the warring princes of Germania. Truly, of all the men that ever set that crown upon their heads, Rossella’s father Castore had to be the most deserving. Not a foreign King, crowned by a frightened Pontiff in an effort to protect the Eternal City, but a true son of Italy, who now stood as her great defender.

And yet, at times it seemed to Princess Rossella that the true beauty of the Crown of Italy came not from the Greek gold that adorned its sides, but from that simplest of circlets that stood at its heart, that Iron nail that shone almost as silver, that most holy of relics entrusted to the Emperors in the West. A sign of martyrdom, and of Christianity itself. Christianity which now stood on the brink, as a new barbarian tide came from the East and engulfed the Greeks and their sea. And against that tide, the great Emperor Castore offered no shelter. “I have offered my brother in the East the most favourable of terms in exchange for my aid,” he had answered harshly to the Basileus’s envoys, “yet he refuses to acknowledge me as his equal in the West. Rebukes my rightful claim to govern all of Italia. Renounces the authority of the Patriarch of that same Rome whose name he wears as a mantle. No, gentlemen. I have already offered your lord my hand. He spat on it.”

And so, six centuries or so later, the West returned the favour that the East had done onto it during the time of the great invasions and sat silent while its sibling was ravaged and cast down. Rossella saw not the wisdom in this. Thought it foolish and mad, and more than that impious, to let fellow Christians, fellow Romans, suffer under Persian swords due to a slight of honour, no matter how large. But what would she know? She was but a young and wide-eyed princess, and her father was the restorer of the Western Empire. He could not be so horribly wrong, could he?

Author's notes: I'd say "I'm back!" but I feel as if though I've started too many of my notes that way. So, instead, to the meat and potatoes: the Throne of Peter, and the Crown of Caesar. Let's start with the second one: historically, the Iron Crown of the Lombards/of Lombardy. Of doubtful origin, and certainly altered during the centuries, at least part of the golden plaques are dated to around the 5th century. Theories vary as to its nature, ranging from a crown made for a child (I've even read about it being Romulus Augustulus's - but that seems as far fetched as most theories about the kid himself), to it being a gift from the Emperor in Constantinople to Theodoric, first Ostrogothic King of Italy (the story Rossella clearly believes). I personally like the idea that it was originally a set of jewelled plaques removed from a decorative helmet and forged into a crown, simply because of the symbolical value. As for the nail of the True Cross, that Princess Rossella comments "shone almost like silver"? It's actual silver, and it's a safe bet that it was never used to crucify anybody, in Judea or otherwise.

The game did come in my favour, since the Imperatore Castore decided that he would rather the Iron Crown than the Reichskrone, even tough he owns both. I suppose it also did me a huge favour by giving me a HRE that is Italian enough for the Hellenistic enemy to consider them their old Roman enemy. Castore would deserve his own AAR: I have no idea how Otto's HRE formation events work, but he was soundly defeated by our dear Castore (whose family becomes historically very important during the Investiture Controversy) who then formed the Empire. He then defeated some two or three revolts staged by the German princes, took some land from the Byzantines, and managed to look somewhat decent even using the Italian portrait set! All worthy achievements.

But now for the Throne of Peter. Much like the Iron Crown's nail of the "True" Cross, it is a complete forgery, though this fact seems to have been accepted far before anyone thought about trying to date the Crown (hence my mention of a "Brother Isidore"). It's been used in the enthronement ceremony of the Popes in Rome for (at most) three centuries by Witikind's time, and has been conserved in a beautifully crafted bronze reliquary, made by Bernini in the 17th century, which I've had the pleasure of seeing myself when I visited Saint Peter's Basilica. In the eleventh century, no such reliquary existed, but I can imagine it still being kept somewhere private, apt for important conversations between Cardinals.

 

[Eludio]

Daughter of a Virgin Mother, Birthplace of Democracy​

“Athens, uncle! Athens! Whatever can compare to this?” Alexandra did not await an answer, instead jumping at the older man’s neck and hugging him tight. Phil couldn’t help but smile. Well could he imagine a few things that had compared. He still remembered re-entering Balkh for the first time since his exile. The elation he had felt at the sight of those old gates. And he remembered Bagdad, stretching over the horizon into the ruins of ancient Seleukia and Ctesiphon, to which no city on the face of the Earth could compare. And yet, so could he understand her. Sparta had been a village built on a ruin. Corinth, imposing though the Isthmus still was, had been a battlefield of desperation and, as Phil understood it, it had been centuries since last it had held any other role.

Athens was… Athens. Near as perfect as any man born in Bactria could have imagined it. The great towering statue of the Goddess no longer watched over the city, but her palace still did. Her Parthenon still stood proud and vigilant over the great hill, proud enough to inspire in Philandros an understanding of his kin’s fascination with the Gods and their blessings; its columns untouched by the Romans that had converted it into a temple to their own Virgin saint. The citadel that surrounded it, those same Romans had given up with little fight, unable to resist a siege once the great gates of the city had been swung open by treacherous hand. A masterstroke from Alexandra, one in which Phil’s part had not been unsubstantial. One that had reminded him of those early years at Alkaios’s side, cutting their way through Hyrkania and Persia as much with word as with blade. One that had required no naval engagement, which in itself was as much a boon to Phil as was the city’s treasury. Since those far off days in Hyrkania, he had learned to swim somewhat, but had no desire to do so in front of the Roman wizardry again.

“And, what’s more, if Attica is not lost already, it will soon be,” Prince Nikephoros the Macedonian added with a drawling tone that would have made the most lovable of men intolerable. And the Macedonian was, even on his best days, far from the most lovable of men. “Your wife… pardon me, Master Bardas, your former wife reports as much. It seems the Persians still fear my brother’s fleet enough that they dare not blockade its port, but Athens has fallen, and our garrison has abandoned the streets and retreated to the Acropolis. The situation in Asia might be dire, Narses, but abandoning Greece is hardly a solution to our woes.”

“I still want to know how the Easterling has been moving so undisturbed through the theme of the Cibyrrhaeots,” General Bardas – once the most terrible of traitors and now one of the men Narses was forced to rely on the most – growled, clearly successfully pricked by the Prince’s barb. “I bled over those passes. I know how defensible the paths between Cilicia and the Empire are. Were they left utterly unmanned? Or does anyone in this room truly believe that the Persians were able to… what was Lord Gabalas’s excuse? Uncover hidden caverns that crossed the mountain ranges? That sort of tale, I would reserve for my children, not for a meeting of military men. And now the garrisons of Samos, too, barricade themselves in their forts, and neither challenge nor are challenged by the enemy? This is not incompetence, Emperor. This is treason.”

“Funny that it should be you, General Bardas, to speak of treason. I would wager both passes and ports would have been quite the easier target to hold, were our armies not so ragged from spilling each other’s blood…”

“Enough, Merkourios, please. Enough,” Narses admonished his son, though the man had spoken much of his same thoughts. “We could stand here addressing blame all day. And tomorrow morning we would still be here, for blame there is on all sides. But, for good or ill, I am captain of this ship. And I will not have my marines mutiny, especially if half of my rowers are already abandoning their oars.” There he was forced to pause, not out of any desire for theatricality, but because he felt a fit of coughing clawing at his throat and had to focus all his strength on fighting it. The caulker’s curse. “Bardas,” the Emperor finally managed to spit out, “I will not even pretend that I do not fear how much I might regret this act. But, if so, it will be my sacrifice in the name of the greater good. Prince Nikephoros is right. Greece cannot be abandoned. But we know the enemy King rides from Phrygia, and on him I must focus my own sight.

​

“But to you I grant blessing… nay, I ask you, as one who could have easily been where you are now: resume the task that was given to you by our late lady Konstantina. What forces are not in the Guards, I grant onto you, to march into Greece and stem the tide of the enemy advance.”

“Narses!”, “Father!”, “Highness!”, echoed through the private rooms, but the Emperor did not care. His eyes locked into Bardas’s, even as they were made heavy by the tiredness that his fever brought on, and he desperately searched for some sign of loyalty in the other man’s visage. He found, instead, that defeat had done little to temper the General’s boldness. But it mattered little, because neither had it done anything to break the man’s determination. Bardas bowed deep, deeper than Narses would have dreamt to expect, yet when he rose his back was straighter than his blade.

“When I turned my blade against you, I did so because I thought myself the only man able to protect our great Empire,” Bardas spoke out, more eloquently than he had done whilst arguing the terms of his own surrender. “You give me now the opportunity to serve, as I always have and always wanted to, as Constantinople’s bulwark once again. And for that, August Highness, I am grateful. With your leave? I would set off immediately to prepare my officers, as I am sure my men will be soon arrayed.”

​

Narses nodded. August Highness. It was the first time the would-be usurper addressed him as such. He still despised the man, but even he was not unsusceptible to flattery. Would that the Eagle still had two heads… he mused. “Strategos,” he called to Bardas, as the man was already making ready to turn on his heels. “Be weary. Though we may stand together now, there are others in the Empire that do not share our convictions. I shall deal with Gabalas and his ‘undecided’ lot, but I have eyes and ears in Greece beyond those of the Lady Eparchos. The enemy speaks our tongue, travels our road in disguise. There are traitors in the cities, paid bandits in the countryside. Even talk of apostates joining the enemy’s ranks. Be wary, Bardas. This is not Ardashir that we are making war upon. This is Seleucus.”

“Truly, I understand your strategy, but do they really need to ride with us? Surely, there is a place somewhere in the baggage train where your Athenians could be of better use. Perhaps carrying pots? Or guiding the mules, if they are so eager to show their worth as leaders? Not the place for the heroes of Marathon, surely… but then again, our new Hellenes are hardly worthy of the comparison.”

Alexandra answered her uncle Phil’s cantankerous complaining with a warm smile. He might have hidden them under a wave of critiques, but he spoke the words she so desired to speak. “Our new Hellenes”. And that, indeed, they were, the five hundred Athenians that had joined her ranks when her armies had left the great city to pour into the plain of Boeotia like an unstoppable conquering flood. In the eyes of their priests and God, these men had made themselves apostates. Some might have even been earnest in their conversion. Most, Alexandra knew, were simply desperate or betrayed men who sought in her service a better lot. She did not care. As they rode with her men, fought with her men, dined besides their long-lost cousins that had crossed the world to re-join them, the five hundred Athenians would see the truth of it. Or, at the very least, they would become visibly wealthy and undeniably privileged. Which was all that mattered, in truth.

Because her father might have had great successes in winning both Arabian and Roman governors to his side, but Alexandra would not be content with a handful of jewelled and perfumed heads bowing to her in a high hall. The people that lined the streets, as she had ridden into Athens, had looked at her with terror in their eyes. She sought to have that terror replaced with adoration. Because she would one day inherit an Empire that promised to stretch from the banks of the Indus to the feet of Olympus, that much she was certain of. An Empire of ambitious generals and rebellious vassals, an Empire of many peoples and as many enemies. An Empire whose veterans had already proven that they would not stomach that much more warring, and whose levied auxiliaries were as likely to join the first war-minded Imam as they were to follow her into battle.

No, if truly she wanted to conquer the world, Alexandra would have to seek aid in the cities of Hellas, beseech they grant her their sons and ensure that they would remain loyal when her place amongst the stars depended on them. With time, perhaps, she could awaken in her people’s ancient kin that sense of pride that united her father’s noble veterans. Remind them of a glorious past before the rise of the Romans. But for now, promises of wealth and freedom would have to suffice.

“Hear this, Eusebios?” she called out to the leader of this new Athenian party in her army. “My uncle doubts your men’s valour. Perhaps he fears you will shrink back to the altar of your crucified god at the first sight of a Roman army. What say you to that?”

“You promised us democracy, oh golden Queen! Why would the liberated slave shrink back to those that have put him in his chains?”

Alexandra answered her uncle Phil’s cantankerous snorting with a warm smile.

​

Author's notes: Athens, oh Athens! Daughter (albeit perhaps adopted) of a Virgin Mother, and Birthplace of Democracy. Decades you withstood the Spartan siege, yet how quickly Narses's Romans gave you up. As is the most efficient solution, when attacking with the Invasion CB, I only bother to conquer the (Feudal) main holding, leaving the non-castle holding alone. Given that Athens's castle holding is the Acropolis (and finds itself thus smack in the middle of the city), in writing the gates of Athens are swung open by treason, and the Roman garrison has to be wrestled from their fortress instead. But treason there was! Because - though it may not seem so due to his temporary facelessness - Eusebios is a character in game as well. I have no idea whether he was spawned randomly, or created by one of my vassals as Court Physician, but he spawned with Greek (not my custom Hellene) culture, and with Hellenic religion. And so we have the first Apostasies.

An Apostate, for those not in the Ecumenical know, is any mage Christian (though I suppose it could be applied to any religion) that has abandoned the Chantry Church for a life of hiding a different religion. It was famously used to denote the Roman Emperor Flavius Claudius Julian (aptly known as Julian the Apostate), a nephew of Constantine I who embraced polytheism and went against his famous uncle's Christian-friendly reforms. As I've had Alexandra say, these are few and probably not-that-trustworthy converts, but it matters little for my storytelling, and even less for her (somewhat premature, given that she isn't even heir apparent) Empire-building. What both of us need, is bodies to throw into the war machine. But more on that in later chapters.

On the Roman side, the dire situation in which the Empire finds itself forces our modern day Ptolemy and Caesar to find common ground (though it does nothing for their personal dislike for one another, as that -100 relation with liege shows). Asia minor is far from conquered, but resistance has been lax, and I have not bothered to besiege anything because Nicaea is the title the CB is for anyway. Hence the rumours of Lord Gabalas (who's ironically also called Bardas) and his party betraying Rome. It means I will have some strong Greek Orthodox vassals once the war is won but... well, we'll build that bridge and besiege that island-fortress when we get to it. Isn't that how the saying went?

 

[Eludio]

Achaean Ships on Trojan Shore​

His King had crossed the Sea of Aegeus, had bathed on the beaches of Achaea, had walked the ruined streets of ancient Laconia, and seen the remains of the great sanctuary of Olympia. And yet, every time that the Sea would show its face beyond one on the blooming hills that dotted their path through Ionia, Alkaios the Great would stop and stare in awe, as if though it were the first time that he saw the lapping waves. And Seleukos, now once more in charge of the Companion Cavalry – meagre compensation for the lack of a royal marriage though it may have been, was left to stare at him. His boyhood hero. Now, seemingly, lost in boyhood dreams himself. Dreams of a sea that had belonged to their ancestors, dreams of conquest and glorious war, dreams that so many who followed the King had shared, and that he had managed to fulfil for all of them. And yet…

And yet, now that Seleukos was no longer a boy, he found himself feeling something akin to annoyance at the sight of the golden king staring into the unknown. As a child might watch in adoration and laugh with glee as his father repeats a quip heard a thousand times, Seleukos had never doubted Alkaios, neither in his acts nor in his motives. But as the adult son will instead groan and roll his eyes at the same joke, so now too did the commander of the Companions found himself wondering. Wondering what was passing through his King’s mind. Wondering whether it was related to the bloodied but not beaten enemy, deep in whose territory they were. Wondering whether the man had any plan, or whether it was sheer luck and the Gods’ will that they had not been flanked and murdered by Roman troops. And wondering, above all else, how long he would be left to wonder, and when his King would finally share whatever passed through his brilliant mind.

Because brilliant, King Alkaios certainly was. Or at least had been. But no matter how much the Gods had seen fit to bless him, still he was a man born of mortal woman, and there were other intellects, amongst those of his followers, that shone perhaps just as brightly. Once more like the child, Seleukos had once delighted in seeing the Great King put in their place those commanders who had questioned his plans. Once more like the adult son, Seleukos now yearned to have his own plans heard. Because they were drawing close to the plain of Ilion, that ancient battlefield of Heroes, most cherished and blessed by mighty Ares, God of warriors. That ancient battlefield where the enemy’s mounted wall, the same that had destroyed lord Leonidas’s force and made the man lame, would surely be preparing to face their phalanx. That ancient battlefield, flattened by centuries of war and perfect land for a warhorse’s heavy hooves.

The Troad now lay beneath their feet, as they followed the course of the great Scamander that Achilles son of Peleus had made battle within the times of myth, and once more the King had stopped his march, seated comfortably on his saddle as he stared at the sea in front of him. Searching for some sign of the ruins of fair Ilion, Seleukos was sure. Or perhaps of the tomb of Achilles, if the Romans had not defiled it. The Commander of the Companions had no time for such sentimentality. Instead, he looked towards the land, towards that horizon whence, he feared, a Roman army might pour out at any moment. He knew not when this realisation had made its way into his mind, but he now saw how much his King’s acts seemed ones of hubris, rather than heroism. The lack of worry with which he advanced. The lack of care for the way he would face the enemy when, eventually, it would show its face. The lack of doubt about whether or not he would achieve victory. And the Fates would punish hubris, even in one well-beloved by the Gods.

“Look, Seleukos. Look, to the far West, on the coast. Look at that wide sandy patch. Could that be where the Achaeans that followed Agamemnon made their landing? Perhaps there, on that hillock, they might have made their camp,” the Great King pointed out to him, waving his hand somewhere towards that coast of the Dardanelles that so aptly he described. Ever the growing son, Seleukos had to roll his eyes. He remembered the King as quite the different man, when he had left for Mesopotamia with the wounded veterans. Had it been Egypt that had so changed him? Was this simply the natural passage of the years? Or had Seleukos truly grown, enough to see through the veil of adoration.

“We can make camp where our ancestors did, tonight. Give the order, Seleukos,” King Alkaios ordered, confidently, smiling as if though he saw no qualms with his plan.

“Great King, I must admit,” Seleukos began, still searching for his words, so great was his consternation, “it seems to be quite the risk, and for quite little gain, to camp so close to the shoreline and in so open a position. Should we perhaps not make our stop here? We are still high in the hills, shielded from both the enemy’s army and his navy…”

“Have you not been watching the sea, young Seleukos?” the King interrupted him, though with such a genuine tone that betrayed no anger or annoyance. No, but I’ve been watching you as you got lost in it, Seleukos almost answered. Instead, he just muttered something about watching the hills. “And well you did. There is nothing wrong with being vigilant, in enemy land. However,” King Alkaios smirked, “had you watched the sea you would have noticed the most curious of phenomena. For the past six nights now, the only keels to break the waves have flown our colours. And Lysandros has flown them quite openly… even from these hills, I could see the Sun of Vergina on our Egyptian sails.”

“And the Roman fleet has not answered his taunts… by Zeus’s beard, you have not managed to turn their admiral, sire?”

“I wish!” the King laughed aloud, that clear laugh Seleukos remembered hearing when faced with unsurmountable odds. “But you have half the right of it. It’s good to see your duties in Assyria have not dulled you. Prince Nikephoros, for that is their nauarch, has not dared show his ships in almost a week. Now, I know not whether the man’s dead, attempting to wrestle the Peloponnese from Philandros, or whether his fleet has been destroyed in a storm. Perhaps the Romans are once more fighting a war between themselves, and his ships are needed elsewhere. But what matters is that he gave us and the fleet a chance to move in parallel, and I cannot waste it. On the off chance that the Prince were lying in wait – and the Hellespont is truly the best spot for such an ambush, for the Romans have a great city on the other side of the straits – I want the army close to shore, to aid our fleet against an enemy that has already shown his mastery of the seas is well beyond our own.

“Fear not, young Seleukos,” the Great King said with his ever-confident tone, “some men might style me Achilles, but I have no intention of dying on these shores. Leonidas claims the Romans have refined their cataphracts into a mounted wall? You and Pyrrhos have brought me siege towers. The enemy’s fleet might be lying in the harbours of Kallipolis, ready to burn our fleet with their witchcraft? Then I will make my ships into untold great bridges over the straight, slowing their fire with our hulls until the first of our men are storming that port’s gates. Fear not, young Seleukos. We fight onwards to glory, but we will live to bask in it. When I will feel old enough to seek out glorious death, I will bid you help me carve a bloody path to the pillars of Herakles. Until that day comes, you can be safe in the knowledge that I have no intention of sacrificing you to my own altar. Now, my friend, can I trust you to give the Companions their orders?”

Seleukos felt like a fool. Like the happiest of fools. He went and rode to give the Companions their orders, that their Hellenic army was to make camp on the shores of ancient Troy. Perhaps it was not only children that were entitled to having heroes.

​

“You’re a hero to this Empire, your highness, not the inexperienced boy who bid me share the burden of his crown. Throughout all the disasters that we have suffered in this war, throughout all the humiliations, inflicted to us by our enemy and by each other… throughout all that has occurred, the fame of your fleet’s exploits was the one thing that kept the people of the City from taking to the streets in anger or fleeing to the hills in fear. You have inherited all of your noble line’s strength and have never shown any trace of the vices that brought me and your mother into conflict. Trust in yourself, August Highness.”

“Please, Narses,” Nikephoros asked, his lips veiled by a merciful smile as he sat at the older man’s bedside, “you are my equal and my senior, there is no need for this ceremony.”

But Narses shook his head. “No, your highness. I will stay your senior for a few years yet, and perhaps I was indeed your equal by law, once. But no longer. Now I am but a dead man, whose only regret is to have failed so miserably at the task that you had assigned me. Now I am but a dead man, and you will be the one and true Emperor of Rome.”

​

Author's notes: Well-walled, broad-wayed, well-peopled Ilion! Troy of myth, grave of many heroes, eternal monument to them all. By the 11th century, little remained of the city at all. A Roman city had been built on the site of the Greek colony (itself founded several centuries after the Trojan War, on the ruins of the original city), but earthquakes devastated the area, and it was apparently only sparsely populated. Enough to pique Alcaeus's curiosity - and perhaps Seleucus's as well though, in his recent cynical mood, he might not admit as much - but definitely not somewhere the Byzantine Empire might keep a garrison. Especially not given that Gallipoli is just around the corner. Will the Hellenes have better luck than the allied powers of the Entente? Find out, in the next Episode! (Then again, it would be difficult to have worse luck...)

What else? Seleucus regains his position as Commander of the Companions, a role held by his namesake, who would become Seleucus I Nikator of the Hellenistic Seleucid Empire of Persia (and royally screw up all of my Imperator runs). Which simply means that I once more gave him a commander seat, in the (perhaps vain) hope that he might improve his martial stat a tad. There's also some talk of hubris, though the word itself is never spoken, and of the Sun of Vergina. The first is a trait that the ancient Greeks were always watchful against (lest the Gods personally decide to bring them down a peg) and that many a hero and King suffered from. The second is the (in my opinion extremely visually pleasing) star seen in many pieces of ancient art, on the banners of ancient Macedon and the flag of the modern Region of Macedonia in Greece, and at the top of this page. A symbol used extensively by the Argead Kings, I picked it as CoA of Alcaeus's Empire, and the man himself apparently had it painted on the sails of his ships. Why the Roman fleet would not rise up to the challenge, Alcaeus is left to wonder, while we are in the know. After all, it would be unwise for a recently ascended Roman Emperor to delegate command of his most faithful unit to a different man...​

 

[Eludio]

Stronger​

That sabre was a thing of beauty. Only slightly curved, in the Indian manner, with a gilded hilt shaped like the head of a horse. Top heavy, it broke through the earth and stuck into the ground as it dropped from Alexandra’s tired hand. There she left it, reaching instead for the bowl of warmed water that her maid Cleopatra was proffering. It did little for the dried blood, that by now had all but soaked into her skin, but it offered the pained and aching muscles of her forearm a moment of respite.

“Why… why did they have to throw themselves on our swords? Was it not enough, all that I have offered them?” Alexandra cursed the weakness of her words, the feebleness of her voice. She had sought to sound as a philosopher, questioning the sanity of men, lamenting the madness in their fearful and greedy acts. Instead, she found herself sounding like a whining child, disappointed that her playmates refused to follow the rules she had set in a new game.

And the Greeks had, indeed, refused to follow her rules. After Athens, the Roman garrisons had begun to fall more quickly. So quickly, in fact, that Alexandra suspected the enemy to be raising some great army in the North. Thebes, Livadeia, Neai Patrai… Pharsalos had surrendered before any blows were exchanged. Perhaps, despite her better judgement, Alexandra had allowed herself to believe that the shackled Greeks had truly simply been waiting centuries for the chance to avenge themselves as Hellenes.

“Leave us!” she once more cursed her weakness. “I apologise, Cleo. Just…” Alexandra took a deep breath. “I need to confer with my uncle, alone. You understand, don’t you?”

In her handmaid’s saddened eyes, Alexandra saw that the woman understood perhaps too well. The blood still clung to her palm, but she cared nought about it anymore. She wanted to throw that water bowl against the walls of her tent. She wanted to cry. She desperately wanted to shriek and sob and throw herself on the floor. Instead, once Cleopatra had stepped out of the pavilion, she allowed herself to slump onto a kline, most self-indulgent of acts, and the greatest concession she would allow to that feeling of weakness that had come over her.

“Why, uncle Phil? Why could they not be content? I offered mercy with open palm, and still these men wished my death. Would even the riches of old Babylon have not been enough to these Graikoi? Has the heroic spirit of Hellas really been so diluted?”

And there again it was, that great saddened pity, as strong in her uncle’s gaze as it had been in Cleopatra’s. “Lexa…” he begun softly, then seemed as if though struck by a bolt from the skies, and his lips broke into a chuckle. Dragged up by anger, Alexandra stood to strike the man, yet immediately she was once more humbled by her own weakness, and hugged Philandros tightly before she broke out into sobs.

“You are so much like your father,” her uncle whispered with smiling voice, as he allowed himself to hold her head tightly to his shoulder. “Rarely can men match the lofty expectations that people such as you two place on them. You have offered the cities of Hellas self-government, and honours, and the memory of a time to them long forgotten. And some men, truthfully, have seen the greatness in your proffered gift. But those are the men that now march with us, much as I might have maligned them. The others… the others might have listened your proposals but have heard only that you were willing to pass through their cities without burning and raping them. That offer, none would refuse.”

“Your father too, you know, sought to take back the homes of the ancients without spilling blood. Because the two of you are of the same spirit as our Macedonian ancestor who rode with the Great Conqueror over a thousand years ago, and so cannot fathom why the men of Hellas would have changed. But these men are unlike the two of you, and so much like me. Just as I, half-Persian and half-Bactrian mongrel, they too are Hellene in little beyond name and blood. For how many centuries have they fought the Gauls, and the Arabs, and the Saka, besides their Roman lords? What matters to them that their ancestor fought Crassus and Aemilius, if those are now the names of their fathers and uncles?”

Alexandra pushed him aside, her cheeks red and burning as more tears made their way across them. “Why, Philandros, do you tell me this now? If you were so sure that my plan would fail, why did you coax me into attempting it?” she asked, betrayal breaking through her bronze-armoured confidence.

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Why, my dear child? Because I’ve placed my wager, and I’ve bet on you, and I would rather see a dozen cities razed to the ground than to lose this wager. Because I cannot afford you to be weakened, be that in matters of character or in the eyes of the army. Because I have not crossed through sea and flame, nor risked life and limb, just to watch you sit in the shade of Achaian meadows. Because my strength is now intertwined with yours, and I need you to be stronger. And perhaps…

“Because I have faith in you, Alexandra, despite my cynical words. Because even though you might bemoan the men whose spirits you could not redeem, all the cities south of Aeolia have surrendered to your rule after a mere show of your armies. You might not be succeeding in the way that you had hoped, dear child… but you are not failing.”

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Author's notes: because unless you completely conquer all the holdings in a county, it will continue to spew small groups of men against you! Shorter chapter this week, decided to keep it more intimate to Alexandra, though I'd planned to sail over the sea back to Egypt and see what was happening there...