[AAR] RTW: The Eastern Eagle

[Legio]

Author: Antiochos VII Sidetes
Original Thread: The Eastern Eagle

The Eastern Eagle

Chapter One: Recollections and Musings
I, Ptolemy Philadelphos, second to bear that "praenomen", as the Romaioi call it, wish to record the events that happened under my rule - to be as a beacon and a reminder of times past, when Hellenistic might was something to be feared, when mighty heroes walked the sands of the East...before the Return of the Phoenicians.

As I sit here writing this now, the Phoenici are at the very gates of the Nile delta. The sound of their heathen tongues and cries seem to lend new credence to that word barbarian from ancient Hellas. However loathsome they may seem, they are indeed skilled at war.

But, let us reflect back on a time when Egypt was, if not free of troubles, then at least beset by familiar ones.

My first memory was of my father, Ptolemaios I (called Soter by some) storming back to the royal palace at the heart of Alexandreia. My mother, Berenice, asked what news he had that put him in such a foul temper.

My father was a well-built man; tall, strong, and good-looking. To see his features marred by rage was not a pleasant sight.
"Those damned...I evacuate Koele Syria to preserve the lives of my loyal men, and I am rewarded with what? News that a great victory has been won over that vile Cyclops of a man, Antigonos...and I am blamed for not helping by that bastard Seleukos! I had thought him a man of honor when we served with Zeus-Alexandros. To turn on me like this--!

Ptolemy stormed out of the room.

Thus it was, from a very young age, instilled into my Gods-given head that Seleukos and his blasted mockery of an empire were to be hated, if not held in contempt.

The remainder of years until my ceremonial coming-of-age in my 16th year were uneventful, for me at least. For my father, less so. He lost ground in Hellas to events beyond his control, but he made up for it by engineering a brilliant reconquest of Cyprus.

At my coming-of-age ceremony, I first knew what it was to lead. Not one to leave responsibility to the randomness of future events, Ptolemy immediately put me in command of a large and unruly regiment of Machimoi, native Egyptians conscripted to fight for my father. He immediately sent me and this regiment, perhaps two thousand in all, north to our border with the Seleukid holdings in Upper Syria. The raids there were disheartening native kinglets and governors. We had to ensure that Seleukids did not penetrate the frontier and unnerve our subordinates with their terror tactics.

I met with great success initially. The relative mobility of the machimoi I led was impressive; armed with a leather corselet, a Greek xiphos, and two reed javelins, they were able to counter most lightly-armed raiders.

Until, that is, I encountered the man who was to shape my military encounters for the next twenty years: the most gifted leader the Seleukids had in the East--and possibly the most amoral and cruel son of a whore that was ever spawned by Zeus's divine touch.

Chapter Two: Of Arachosians and Hyrkanians

The events leading up to the encounter of my nemesis were eventful in their own right. My regiment of machimoi had been supplemented by a company of kleruchoi phalangatai out of a strongpoint near Pelusium. Inauspicious indeed; the site of a great Egyptian defeat at the hands of a despot from Babylon and Persia. If I had been wiser, I would have known that to ignore such a clear sign from the Fates invokes doom upon oneself...

Still, it seemed wise to implement them. The kleruchoi were well armored, with iron-studded leather corselets and modified Attic helmets. Plus, I had devised a perfect strategy to use them together with my light-armed machimoi.

It was on a cool Syrian evening that I was given the chance to test this theory of mine. While riding up to relieve a garrison of Phoenici levies of their long watch on the border, I was approached by my lochagos (though my command was not of Greek blood, we used Greek ranks nonetheless) Nemeb-hedj.

Nemeb-hedj was a short, stocky native Egyptian who was incidentally the best trainer of men I've yet employed. He was a hardened veteran of the Kushan frontier, as proved by his scarred chest and lack of an earlobe. The man perhaps twoscore and five years of age, and his contempt for me was undisguised and deep.

"Well, prince," he drawled sarcastically, "I thought it prudent to warn you of approaching cavalry, likely a vanguard to a larger raiding party. You might want to mount up your pretty-boy Greek pony-riders to go out and deal with them.

I glared at him and muttered, "You have the command, then," before trotting over on my fine Carthaginian charger to my regiment of Hetairoi.
"All right, men, ready your mounts and look to your weapons! The Seleukids are here!"
With that, the Greeks and Makedonioi of my bodyguard mounted up silently and followed me, alone of all my followers to have respect for my abilities and office.
We rode out towards the distant riders who were perhaps two stadia distant. They, too, sped up as they noticed our rapidly approaching force. We were soon close enough to see them for what they were: Hyrkanians and Arachosians, some of the most barbaric soldiers the Seleukids could put into the field. They fought in the most annoying fashion; armed with light javelins, they would simply stay thirty paces or so away from their enemies and drown them in a storm of missiles. They then drew their small swords and rode in for the kill.

The Hetairoi are not normally useful in this sort of situation, and from their despicable grins, showing blackened stumps instead of teeth, they knew this well. They rode close enough to throw their javelins, confident in their skill and safety.

They had not met MY Hetairoi. With nary a second to waste, my proud Companions drew from their saddlebags Syrian composite bows and a quiver of arrows, forty in all.

Needless to say, the slaughter was immense. We drew back our bows and let fly once, twice, thrice; men fell from their saddles like leaves from trees in Autumn. Despairing of a way out, the Arachosian regiment (for the Hyrkanians were first and took the brunt of the arrow fire) drew their short swords and bronze axes and charged us.

It availed them nothing. The muscled cuirasses of hardened bronze or iron are proof against all but the most well made blades, and the Arachosians did not have well made blades. Nor did their flimsy leather jackets protect them from the xystons of my bold companions.

Yet still, as they died, three of the most suicidal and brave threw themselves at me, recognizing me as a commander due to my emblazoned armor and helmet. I managed to draw back my bow one time, felling one of them, before they were on me.

Gods above, why did you make heathen barbarians so skilled at warcraft? It took every ounce of my academy-learned swordcraft to keep their blades from the unprotected flesh of my arms and neck. All I knew was the ring of blade on metal. We fell into a mind-numbing routine of cut and thrust. Unfortunately, this was precisely what they were going at. Surprising me, one of them brought his bronze axe down in a crushing stroke upon my helmet; I deflected it with my xiphos, and was about to slay him in return when my horse fell from under me. The axe-bearer's compatriot had struck my horse, nearly severing its head. The Arachosian scum rode several paces away and drew their javelins; I knew then that I must make my peace with Osiris, for I would pass through his gates soon.

And then... Three of my companions returned from their slaughter and speared the barbarous scum straight through the chest.

It was over. The vanguard ran -- but the main force was still to come.

Chapter 3: Jaws of the Nile

One thing in common with the aftermath of all military endeavors, great and small, is the screaming of the wounded. I care not if it is fifty thousand or fifty. For me, this aftermath was worse than any casual glance at a man with a spear being rammed through his midsection.

By the grace of Ares, however, the screams came not from my men but from the enemy's. The carnage was extraordinary for a mere engagement of half a thousand men, perhaps, on each side. Unfortunately for the shattered remnants of men lying on the blood-soaked sands, we had not the time to deal out to them merciful deaths. They were left to drown in their own fluids or watch as their innards seeped upon to the Syrian flats.

I was still stunned in the aftermath of what was my first true engagement when the loyal hetairos Aristophon rode up.

"My lord Ptolemy, we must go. If we hurry, we can prepare our lines for those bastards before they arrive."

I came out of my dulled daydreaming with a start. "Yes, of course...M-make sure that the men are ready."

Though I was shaken by my near-death experience, I and the men mounted without further incident and rode back to our encampment. On the way, I assured myself that this next battle would be different. I was blooded, now, and respected by my Greek soldiery. Hopefully I could win over the machimoi as well.

I found, as a pleasant surprise, that the men were already battle-ready and equipped with their reed missiles and short blades. All was ready. I inclined my head towards Nemeb-hedj for his efforts.

All I received in return was a stony glare and a snort as he turned to his men, yelling in Egyptian.

Machimoi outriders (very few in number and useless in combat) reported that the main Seleukid force was approaching.

"And their disposition? Are they battle-ready? What breed and type of slaves do we battle against this day?" I asked.

The messenger seemed overwhelmed by my quick questions. "U-ummm, they are in a jovial mood, sire. Filled up with plunder from some border village they looted... one of their own, too. Their commander must be a real whoreson."

I was unsatisfied. "But what modes of fighting do they possess? Pikemen? Cavalry? What, man?"

"Naught but some light spearmen stiffened with perhaps a thousand of those mobile dory-carriers...Thurephoroi, that's what they're called."

I smiled. The enemy would be overwhelmed by the plan that had been fermenting in my mind since we picked up the kleruchoi from Pelusium.


Several hours of marching later, we had found a suitable location in which the raiding party would have to pass to reach our holdings. It was perfectly suited for what I planned that day.

It was a plain, with rocks strewn in great numbers between my side of the field and what would be theirs. Far to the sides, rare spots of fertility provided extremely tall, Syrian grass which would be crucial to my battle-plan.

When the enemy arrived an hour or so later, they saw (or so they believed) a half-hearted local attempt to bar their way into the rich Egyptian Coele-Syrian lands. A phalanx of leather-armored Hellenes stretched thinly (six ranks only) across the plain, with tall grass on the sides.

The enemy commander, who I later learned was a native Persian by the name of Ariobanzes, came up with a suitable plan. He would throw the bulk of his strongest force, the thurephoroi, towards the thin line of phalangites. They would throw their lethal iron-tipped missiles into the phalanx, disrupting it, and then would charge into the gaps. He would send his weak native spearmen through the grass to outflank the phalanx, thus achieving victory. The arrogant fool saw no need for scouts.

The battle began as the Persian planned it. The rocks did not do as I had hoped -- the formations thurephoroi fought in were too mobile to be seriously disrupted. They merely stepped over and around the rocks until they were perhaps forty paces from our line. Their arms drew back...

Javelins flew in a deadly arc...

and then, chaos. The phalanx nearly dissolved at the start, with brave Hellenes rolling around on the grassy terrain in the vain hope of finding solace from their pain.

The Thurephoroi flew into the gaps, killing many of my men. However, due largely to our training, my men did as they were taught and dropped their unwieldy sarissae and drew the dependable xiphos. they quickly cut down the penetrating enemy, reforming the line.

Ariobanzes surely must have smiled, then. Surely his spearmen would spring out of the grass at any minute and destroy the flanks of the Ptolemaioi!
And men rose out of the grass...but they were not Persian or Seleukid. They were my machimoi, and on their blades and javelins they bore the blood once belonging to the pathetic slave-spearmen. They, too, drew back their arms...

The effect was immediate. Under the rain of reed javelins followed swiftly by a charge of sword-bearing, enraged machimoi, the Seleukids could do naught but run.

It was then that I had my fun. Riding through the tall grass to the immediate right of my victorious army, my Companions and I drew our Syrian composite bows and shot down many in their flight. The remaining enemies dropped their weapons and ran...

The rout had begun.

The following day, I returned with my Hetairoi bearing the head of Ariobanzes, and the entire sum of his plunder (carried by captives from the battle) gained over the course of his ill-thought-out raid.

My men cheered me as a new Achilles, a new Philippos, even a new Alexandros.

And yet the most poignant praise of all came from my lochagos Nemeb-hedj. He looked me in the eye, nodded once, and turned back to his men. I knew then that I was a true man in his eyes, and was fit to lead as well as rule.

And yet, if he had been gifted with the seeing of future events, he would have wailed; for the consequences of this victory gave my still-unmet nemesis the one edge over me he did not need.

Chapter 3: Catastrophes and Loyalties

The celebration after the battle was immense. I, as a general, had scored my first true victory, and my men, as a unit, had achieved theirs. We used our camp followers and prostitutes to their breaking points, and the mens' rations of wine for a week were used up in a single night (which was much regretted the next morning).

Several days after the battle, a messenger from my father the King arrived at the docks of Tyre (for that was where we had withdrawn to after the great victory) bearing a simple, but poignant, message.

All it said was "Know that you are a true son of mine, and I am well pleased with you. -Ptolemy, Pharaoh-Basileus of Egypt"

I could not have been more elated. To know that my father, who rode with the deified Alexandros himself, thought me to be worthy of his throne, was heart-warming indeed.

But, Nemesis, that cruel and vindictive goddess of revenge and balance, looked down from Olympos and felt anger. For I, Ptolemy II, had risen above the ranks of men. And she would pull me down by introducing, fittingly, my nemesis and equal in every way except morality.

His name was Sarpedon, called Soter by his men. He gained this unjust epithet through a brutal victory over a raiding force of obscure eastern nomads, called 'Pahlavans' or some such barbaric name. Surely such as they need not warrant the attention of any great power, even the Seleukids. It was with such a view that they sent Sarpedon north with a force of a mere three thousand, mostly levied phalangitai with several hundred aritocratic Median nobles. This against a raiding force, or perhaps an army, of eight thousand. His tactics that day were quite ingenious; He formed his phalangitai in a rough, crescent-shaped formation, with his cavalry on the sides. He cleverly engaged the Pahlavan force on a day marked by heavy stormclouds and sheets of rain. The Seleukids were uncomfortable, but the Pahlavans were doomed. No bow will fire correctly in wet weather, and a composite bow will simply go to pieces. Forced to attack at close quarters, the Pahlavans donned leather and mail and charged against his outnumbered pike-wall. They died in their thousands, but fought courageously until the Medians smashed into their flanks.

Sarpedon then showed his true colors by invading a territory of once-Seleukid ownership. Calling all the inhabitants "traitors", he sacked the provincial capital of Pardraya, killing perhaps twenty thousand innocent men, women, and children.

It was against such a man I was matched.

The news came to me, six months later, of another Seleukid force of similar size and disposition as the previous one, advancing along the same path. Knowing full well that I had left no survivors to run home to the Seleukid domains (or so I thought) I resolved to meet them in that same battlefield. Complacent and foolish, I know, but the wisdom of hindsight is ever correct. I was young, arrogant, and buoyed up by my earth-shaking victory. I wished to repeat it.

And so, the two forces met. I chose the same formation, which I now proudly called "The Jaws of the Nile", and awaited the Seleukid advance. Sure enough, indistinct but unmistakably hostile forces advanced towards my phalangitai. Moving grass betrayed the Seleukid flanks (the grass was well over seven feet tall; it must have been a mutant breed, for I have not seen the like since) as they advanced towards my concealed machimoi. But, something was different...

The soldiers assaulting my phalangitai were not Seleukid professionals at all! They were naught but Anatolian hillmen mixed with some Babylonian spear-bearing levies.

Fine, I thought. Let the professionals tangle with my machimoi. The equipment of the thureophoroi undoubtedly fighting my concealed warriors was not dissimilar to their combatants. Surely my well-trained men would prevail.

And so the battle progressed; the levies being slaughtered unmercilessly both by the sarissae of my center and by the skilled archery of my Hetairoi. Here a Cappadocian watches in disbelief as an arrow comes hurtling towards him, striking him through the throat; there, a Mesopotamian slides to the ground after being impaled by an unwieldy pike.

I resolved to send a messenger to brave the tall grass and see how the flanks were holding. The machimoi should have emerged by now.

After an agonizing, interminable wait, the messenger returned, with a massive spear wound in his side.

"Prince Ptolemy!" he spoke urgently in his thick, Gallic accent, "the flanks are falling. Your Egyptian lads aren't holdin' up well at all! Those Greeks from the north aren't wearin' leather like they were last time! They're in chainmail, and the 'Gyptians are dyin' in droves!"

"Thorakitai!" I swore. While not much different in fighting style from the Thureophoroi, they were much more heavily armored and often far better trained.

I commended the Galatian mercenary for his bravery and loyalty and sent him to the surgical tent behind our lines. I resolved to turn the tide of the battle with my Hetairoi; no spearman, no matter how armored, can face an assault of Alexandrian heavy cavalry while simultaneously battling off a horde of ferocious Egyptians.

I rode around to the right flank with my brave Companions; we would halt the fighting retreat of our machimoi here first, then turn and destroy the center, and then destroy the remnants of the Seleukids on the left.

The charge was glorious. Though I could see nothing but the Greeks to my right and left, I crowed inwardly with delight as each enemy fell to my xyston. After the fourth man was killed by the lethal spear, the shaft broke and I drew my gold-enameled xiphos. I laid about me blindly, striking every man I saw in chainmail. We were winning!

And then, suddenly, the timbre of the battle shifted. It was an almost intangible shudder; the noise of battle changed swiftly from the cries of dying barbarians to the sounds of rout and pursuit.

I was determined to find out what had happened. I would escape from the grass, rally my troops, and then --

A Seleukid javelin slammed into my shoulder... I flew off my horse back into the nearby lines of my machimoi...

"Leave him, 'hedj! What has that Greek bastard ever done for us? He's a rotten son of a rotten despot who will do no good for Egypt. might as well kill him now."

I was barely conscious, but I could overhear the entire conversation.

"A bastard like you wouldn't understand, Ahmose. You'd stab your own father if he didn't hand you loot every hour. Help me get Ptolemy out of here, or I swear you'll meet Osiris with my blessing!"

Secure in my temporary safety, I drifted into a blissful, dreamless unconciousness...

The battle on the field they would soon call "Prince's Folly" was a travesty, though truly the blame was not entirely mine. The influence of the Seleukid dynasty stretched beyond mere military might. The agents of Sarpedon had distributed Seleukid coin to all of my Greek soldiers, to desert at the blaring of the Seleukid salpinx (which I did not, of course, hear in the heat of battle). The result was almost a complete rout. My phalangites dropped their pikes and ran, leaving the flanks to die. The left flank was encircled and destroyed, but my bold charge had shattered the Seleukid left and bought us the time to escape. I awoke, in much pain, to the worried face of my doctor, Euthydemus.

I learned two things that day: Never to trust any Greek troops fully. They were too susceptible to Seleukid influence.

The second thing I learned was that I should never use the same tactics twice.

Sarpedon won this day...but the time would come when I would smash him like the vile insect he was.

[Legio]

Chapter 5: Desperate Times, Desperate Measures

The period after the battle called "Prince's Folly" was one of grim outlook for the Egyptian nation. Seleukid raids had vanished, to be replaced by professional armies moving in to seize control of the weakened towns in the region. I barely escaped Sidon with my machimoi and Hetairoi in time to avoid the numberless ranks of Seleukid phalangitai marching southwards, ever southwards...

And the enemies of the Ptolemaioi were ever stronger. Antiochos I, already being called Soter, not unlike his twisted subordinate Sarpedon, after barely three years on the throne (his brilliant destruction of an invading force of Galatoi had provided us with many a mercenary eager for vengeance) was proving to be almost as clever and wily as his dear, unlamented father Seleukos Nicator. He'd already crushed a large revolt in Syria and was planning an invasion of the fledgling city-state of Pergamon.

Yet strength to our foes was not the only problem I had. For my father was gone, and I, honourless and disgraced, was King Ptolemy II...soon to be called Philadelphus, or sister-loving.

My re-entry into Alexandreia was far from the celebrated Triumphus of my future allies, the Romaioi. Sullen crowds stared out at me in hostility and disgust. One plucky Chaldean immigrant even tried to throw a rotten vegetable at me; that idea lasted as long as his life did, after a nearby guard drove a blade into the base of his spine.

I did nothing to stop or chastise the Galatian responsible. Defeat had warped my morality beyond all recognition, and I was swiftly entering the point in my reign that I look back upon with disgust.

My first act as king was to raise taxes as high as the people could sustain. A property, sales, and even an entrance tax (upon coming into all larger cities within my lands)

I next appointed a governor, a bureaucrat from the fast growing civil service of Egypt, named Callisthenes. The man was an able governor, imaginative and efficient. Alexandreia would be fine in his hands...

For greater things were on my mind. Namely, building the greatest army Asia had seen since Megas Alexandros...

I marched into the desert with thirty thousand recruits of all races, colors, and descriptions. Giant Celts marched with dark-skinned Libyans and Nubians.
The most famous infantryman of the world, the Hoplite, served in abundance in this new army of mine. Warriors fighting in the style of ancient Hellas abounded; combined with my new combined-arms, they would be unstoppable.

And lastly came the Greeks and Makedones settled in my own lands; I trusted these the least, due to their history. As such, the phalanx of Alexandros and Philippos made up only forty percent of my great army. The rest was composed of heavy Thessalioi Hippeis, mail-armoured Galatoi, mobile Thureophoroi and lethal Thorakitai. I was even able to secure the loyalties of a force of archers trained in the Kretan styles that proved so lethal in past years.

Needless to say, Nemeb-hedj and his reinvigorated machimoi would serve admirably, but in a new way; I had marshalled them into a light-armoured, ekdromoi-style unit of hoplitai. They would fight admirably alongside my Hellenes.

Out of that desert, two years later, came a weapon personified. Rank after rank of pezthetairoi seemed to be emblematic of the glory of the Hellenes.

And I found an Alexandreia in chaos. The garrison was barely enough to keep the riotous Egyptians in check.

I called a council of all my military commanders and civil advisors to assess the situation.

"Noble strategoi and Nomarches, I come before you to ask your advice. I cannot move against the Northern Foe who even now subjugates Phoenicia and threatens Ioudaia until I am secure in the loyalties of my people. What steps should I take to ensure their respect, if not love, of my rule? Taxes cannot be lowered, as I need them to maintain our defenses. I have no shiny baubles to offer them or glittering words to befuddle their ears. My actions must be concrete and decisive. What, in the name of all the Gods of Hellas and Egypt, should I do?"

An uncomfortable silence filled the room. All the nobles of Greek descent and every bureaucrat in the room shifted uncomfortably, unsure of what to say.

It took a humble lochagos to redeem the council of nobles.

"King Ptolemy, it is time to embrace the customs and traditions of the people you rule. You, unlike your Makedonian father, have been raised in this land. You know our ways and idiosyncracies. You worship our Gods. Take up the Twin Crowns of the Nile in truth, and prove yourself to be a great Egyptian pharaoh as well as Megas Basileus of the Hellenes."

The result of Nemeb-hedj's proposal was twofold, and rarely do such decisions have impact.

First, I formerly adopted an Egyptian name, Weserkare Meryamun, meaning "Powerful is the Soul of Re, Beloved of Amon".

Second, the traditional "Pharaoh of Egypt" was added to my formal list of titles, to be trundled out only at stuffy formal meetings with ambassadors or read to defeated foes.

Third...

I married my sister, Arsinoe.

She was my second wife (I have not mentioned the first except in passing note, for all she was good for was siring my heir and children) but was the first one I loved.

I already loved her as a brother loves a sister, but now I would love her in a different way altogether -- the Egyptian way.

My father rolled over in his grave, undoubtedly, but the effects of this incestuous union were as a sword to a thicket of brambles.

For it paved the way for my army's march into Phoenicia, into Syria -- into Antiocheia itself.

Chapter 6: Apotheosis and Syriokratia

It is in this segment of my retelling of Hellenic glories gone past that I received the epithet "Eastern Eagle". For I won, quite possibly, the greatest victory since Plataia.

Herein is the tale of the events preceding the Battle of the Javelin...

My Great Army's march was not a thing to go un-noticed in the dusty sands of Ioudaia and Phoenicia. The very ground shook beneath the sandals and boots of my almost Persian-like arament; the dust clouds generated by the army's passing threatened to block out even the harsh Syrian sun. The Seleukid soldiers previously marching southwards promptly turned around, falling back upon the recently taken bastion of Tyre, congregating outside...

Sarpedon, for all his faults, was almost as good of a strategist as he was of a tactician. He knew that he controlled more men than my 30,000 strong army; it only required that he gather them together, weld them into a cohesive force, and wield them like a blacksmith's hammer upon my metaphorical blade.


The battle came sooner than I expected...

Outriders reported the advance of a force nearly the size of my own six hours in its advance (my scouts were getting supremely efficient after my massive crackdown on laxness and emphasis on discipline). "Good," I thought to myself, "We can have an end to it. The shame of my defeat shall be wiped away with Seleukid blood."

The battle was nothing to speak of. Eastern levies supported by a skeleton force of Thureophoroi threw themselves fruitlessly, if bravely, against my disciplined pikewalls of Pezthetairoi, after being shredded by my skirmishing force of Kretans. They died with scarcely a man reaching the phalangitai eighteen feet away...

Their tiny cavalry complement bore an odd standard, however; the emblem of the Seleukid royal house. Surely a prince of the house of Seleukos would not be here, in Syria, commanding a mob of ragbag levies? Regardless, they began to gallop away as soon as they saw the battle turning against them.

And then I remembered that Sarpedon was a second cousin to Antiochos Soter...and was thus fit to bear the Royal Banner.

While my phalangitai held the enemy levies in check, I rode off in pursuit...

But I would not make a second "Prince's Folly". Sarpedon, as I have said many times before, was no fool. This was almost certainly a trap...

But he had underestimated me. I nodded to my salpinx bearer; the harsh note blared out. It was echoed down the line of phalangitai.

My entire corps of mobile infantry came out of the reserve position to the right of the slaughter, leaving behind only a token force of Thureophoroi on each side of the dense phalanx to keep flanking enemies in check.

They followed my cavalry at a vigorous pace; I rode at the head of them, my Hetairoi in tow, lonchoroi (lesser nobility second only to the Hetairoi) riding on the sides of the advancing column.

I was confident that the forces I left behind, under the able Makedonian Asphalion, would be sufficient to destroy the still-vigorous attackers, though outnumbered.

It was thus that I advanced deeper into Seleukid-held Phoenicia with a force of scarcely eighteen thousand...

Sarpedon did not disappoint. After a day of advancement, my outriders once again reported an advancing enemy force...

I could not have been more shocked at the scout's figure: Sarpedon had somehow scraped together a force of 48,000 phalangitai, supported by perhaps 2,000 light troops and mobile infantry (the likes of which my entire army was composed). Of the cavalry, none of the vaunted Helleno-Persian warriors were present; they appeared to be only a force of mercenary horsemen, accompanied by perhaps 500 Thessalioi. Numerous the mercenaries may have been, but they would not stand to a charge of the lonchoroi and Companions.

My generals were at a loss when I asked them for advice. Every use of the forces I currently employed had always been accompanied by the phalanx of pikemen that was the dominant force of fighting in our world. Mobile divisions of infantry fighting on their own? Preposterous.

What, then, could we do against a mass of phalangitai fighting together against our less-dense formations of infantry?

It was then that I remembered my studies of the then-current campaigns of Pyrrhos of Epeiros against a tribe of Italioi called the Romani...

I remember asking my tutor, a strategist by the name of Donatos...

"How has Pyrrhos been suffering such heavy casualties against these barbarians? From everything you and the other tutors have taught me, no formation can stand up to the phalanx."

Donatos was impressed by my intelligent question, but quickly explained. "Prince Ptolemy, the Romani that Pyrrhos fights against are not mere barbarians. They are warriors every bit as disciplined as our own phalangitai. They fight in mobile formations called 'maniples' that allow them to outmaneuver our own phalanx, which is rather cumbersome. Mark my words, young prince; the day will come when Pyrrhos's cavalry and elephants shall not be enough to prevent the destruction of his infantry, whether by Roman might or artifice.

He was proved correct at Beneventum. I had learned that the phalanx was not the unbeatable formation that our neighbors to the north seemed to believe it was.

Thus it was that I organized my smaller army along Roman lines...

My machimoi and Thureophoroif illed in the role of hastati, light-armored soldiers sent in to weaken the enemy forces.

My Galatoi mercenaries served as principes, along with the powerful Thorakitai.

And my hoplitai served as triarii, stabilizing the formation and serving as a last resort if my makeshift divisions of infantry could not break the enemy lines.

And so battle was joined...

It was a plain that at first seemed ideally suited to my enemies. A desert flat with little disruptions...

But I saw that the land to my right was strewn with several boulders. What had not disrupted mobile Thureophoroi in the "Jaws of the Nile" encounter would surely destroy the dense phalanx, or at least disorder it.

The enemy advanced, secure in their superiority. The sound of 48,000 pairs of boots thudding on sandy, rough dirt echoes clearly in my mind this day.

I acted decisively. First, I deployed my Kretans. Their skilled archery felled many phalangitai; they had no room to avoid such lethal missiles, and their small bucklers provided scant protection.

Still, for every one that fell, another man would step up to fill the dead soldier's place.

The Kretans were soon within range of the long sarissae of the enemy infantry; still, bravely, suicidally, they kept up their withering fire for a full three minutes after the first of them fell to the long spears.

When they could take no longer, they fell back between gaps that suddenly opened in my formations. My soldiers had merely stepped aside, a feat impossible to duplicate for the cumbersome phalanx soldiers.

Melee was joined; my pseudohastati launched their lethal javelins, tearing great gaps in the advancing enemies.

The red tunics of the enemy pezthetairoi did nothing to hide the stains of blood appearing from the gaping holes in their dying bodies.

And, just as the enemy was recovering from the first volley, the second was launched...and then the third...

I estimate that a full four thousand of their men fell to the lethal volleys in that first stage. And it was not over. My men charged into the gaps bravely, quickly closing the distance before the sarissae could come swinging back into position. The slaughter was great. Machimoi swords were sheathed in bloody enemy flesh while dories pierced the linthoraxes of the helpless enemy.

But in their killing, the hastati had done too well. The annihilation of the front ranks of the phalanx had allowed the soldiers behind to get their sarissae into position; My men began to fall, unable to reach their tormentors hiding behind their terrible weapons.

The Principes advanced, all six thousand of them. The process was repeated, but with even greater success; the Principes' javelins tore the gaps that the weary hastati charged into, lengthening the time that the enemy had to bear up under our ferocious assault.

Nor was I idle during this time. My Hetairoi clashed with the light enemy hippeis on the left flank; our fierce xyston-armed charge utterly destroyed them, despite their outnumbering us by more than a thousand.

A similar scene was played out on the right.

Finally, with the lines stabilized once more, the Seleukid pezthetairoi began to push forward once more, destroying man after man in their ferocious, disciplined advance. Men were skewered on sarissae like meat on a stick cooked over a fire.

Here was the moment of triumph. Of course, some points in my lines were weaker than others. Thus, the pezthetairoi advanced at a dissimilar rate, with their formations quickly seperated.

I exploited this ferociously. My pseudotriarii exploited the enemy's disorder by utilizing that tactic that predated even the Makedonian phalanx:

The Hoplite Charge.

The fearsome "eleulululu" of the hoplitai as they smashed into the elements of the enemy far in advance of their allies. Quickly outflanked, the isolated phalangitai were destroyed easily.

The rout began, and all was forgiven. My honor restored. I regained a modicum of confidence for every ounce of Seleukid blood covering my various weapons.

Tyre quickly capitulated back to my army, the small Seleukid garrison surrendering in demoralization.

But this was nothing; for Sarpedon had escaped again. The famed Phoenician triremes ferried him back to Antiocheia as soon as he arrived in Tyre hours ahead of my vengeful troops.

But, as you future readers well know, Antiocheia is ours to this day -- and Sarpedon would not escape the next time he was in my grasp.

Chapter 7: A Hollow Victory

That victory, the Battle of the Javelin, broke the back of all Seleukid resistance. Antiochos Soter hurriedly sent swarms of diplomats flocking towards my victorious army, offering gold, land, and prestige if only I would halt my implacable northward march before I reached the newly-built city, and crown jewel of the Seleukid dynasty, Antiocheia.

I merely smiled and informed them that diplomatic talks could wait until after I sacked their capital city.

The shame of my earlier defeat was wiped away beneath the adulations of screaming crowds, no matter what town I passed through. Poets were already composing epic verse about me, saying I would be the Restorer of Empire and comparing me to Divine Zeus.

I was walking on the clouds; nothing could go wrong. My army continued its slow, stately march towards Antiocheia...

While encamped for the night, a mere four leagues away from my prize, a messenger from the huge mercantile port of Tyre asked entry to my tent and jolted me back to reality.

The city of Side, accounting for a full quarter of my nation's income through trade, was under attack and on the verge of falling.

The seemingly overwhelmed governor, ironically named Antiochos, had sent me a letter...

"Satrap Antiochos to the Great Pharaoh Ptolemaios of Egypt:

Greetings, my king. I humbly request that you send reinforcements as soon as available. An army of Pergamenes is marching through my province of Pamphylia even as I write."

I stopped reading in shock. Pergamenes! That proud city of Hellenes had never submitted to Seleukid domination before. Why, then, would they march on behalf of Antiochos Soter now?

My incompetent garrison commander Nicanor has squandered the professional troops I had here in a foolish frontal assault; your bold phalangitai are gone. I shall hold the city for as long as possible with the levies I can collect. May Great Nike bless my venture and yours."

I sat in my royal tent for several minutes, shaking in rage and impotence. I knew that I could not abandon this attack; it was the culmination of my father's dream and mine! But if Side fell, then my country would suffer horribly. Inflation would abound and my treasury would empty like a burning building...

Antiochos would have to hold as best he could.


The next day, my eyes finally beheld the great city of Antiocheia. Grudgingly, I had to give Seleukos credit. The city rivaled even my own Alexandreia in sheer opulence, splendor, and largeness. The walls seemed to tower over us like the Titans themselves.

A delegation of Seleukid dignitaries immediately proceeded out to meet my conquering soldiers. I and the trusted Nebem-hedj rode out to meet them, flanked by ten of the Hetairoi.

As we neared the party, I noticed one among them not clothed in opulent robes; instead, he was garbed in the silver-inlaid bronze cuirass of a strategos.

Though I had never laid eyes upon him before, I knew instantly that this was my foe, Sarpedon.

Sarpedon, in turn, met my stare with a scowl of unsurpassed hatred, his handsome features marred by malice. "The face of a God and the soul of a demon," as one of my ambassadors had put it, aptly.

"What could you possibly want, scum?" I spat at him viciously. "Your life and career are crumbling around you, and the city you are charged with defending will fall to my soldiers within the month."

Sarpedon met my question with an unexpected answer. "Give me three talents of gold and a trireme, to be crewed with my own men, and I'll hand this city of mine to you on a silver platter. The gates will open before you in the dead of night and you may do what you wish with my men."

I was aware of someone shouting in rage. I then realized that this was myself. "You...are given the trust of your king, your very BLOOD, and you will betray him for money? Go back in your city and die in a manner befitting your rank. I will not be party to your disgusting treachery."

He seemed genuinely surprised by my fierce rebuttal. His features hardened once more.

"Antiocheia may fall into your hands, noble one, but I wonder: How will you fight off my king's armies with a quarter and more of your income gone, matched against the wealth and opulence of Babylon?" With that witty comment, Sarpedon and his retinue turned and rode back into their city.

The worrying thing was that I had no answer for him; even the mnai to be gained by the taking of Antiocheia would not cover the loss of rich Side.

Still, my army settled down to wait, and siege engineers began their long work...

Chapter 8: The Hero from Side

The flames were massive, all-consuming. What can the creations of man do against such an elemental force? No battle-plan, no clever artifice can circumvent the fact of fire.

The attack had started well, indeed. The Antiocheian levies were as unskilled in archery as a man is in weaving. Their wild, undisciplined vollies killed nary a man before our mighty city-topplers reached the walls.

The mighty siege towers my engineers had spent days and weeks preparing were modelled directly on that most famous of all Besiegers, Demetrios. We made the necessary sacrifices to make sure that the siege of Antiocheia would be more successful than his siege of Rhodos.

The towers rolled up to the walls, pushed by the strongest Galatioi in my command. The men inside were undoubtedly eager, for any minute the ramps would come crashing down, unleashing warlike Hellenes upon untrained levies...

And yet Sarpedon was seemingly blessed by Helios, for it seemed that the Sun's divine flames had come down to smite my works.

The arc of the firepots coming from the hands of a squad hidden under the battlements...

The flames consuming my siege towers...

The screams of dying men, throwing themselves out of the tower...

Preferring death by a fall to an all-consuming inferno.


I retired to my tent in a rage, not even bothering to delegate authority to my underlings. My black mood remained for days upon end, increasing with each self-rejection of the harebrained battle-plans my mind was throwing out in increasing desperation.

Sapping was out of the question; The walls of Antiocheia had to remain inviolate. It would serve as my new bastion in years to come, or so I hoped.

Ladders, perhaps? My men would be cut down before they made sufficient presence on the walls.

My honor left bribery out of the question...

Then, what?

My reflections were interrupted by yet another messenger.

"Sire, may I enter?" he called from outside the tent.

"Be quick about it, runner. I have little patience for foolishness this day."

My curt response provoked a nervous response; the messenger merely handed me a letter and strode swiftly out.

I opened the leather message tube and picked up the papyrus scroll inside, wondering what it could be about. Revolt in Alexandreia, perhaps? My agents in Athenai were having success in fomenting revolt against the Makedones?

I unrolled it, and read the greeting.

"Antiochos Sidetes to King Ptolemaios II: Great tidings, basileus. Complete and total victory is mine. The Pergamene forces retreat in disarray before me and Pamphylia is safe from attack."

Antiochos was victorious! How? How could citizen levies smash the Pergamene army?

"My lord, it is imperative that you know the reasons behind the Pergamene attacks. Coils within coils, my lord. It appears that this attack was instigated not by the Seleukids, but by Pontos."

Pontos? I searched my memory as to what Pontos was. I connected the country with the name Mithridates...

Yes, I remembered. Pontos was an obscure Helleno-Persian mountain kingdom that was struggling to maintain its independence from the Seleukid domain. The last tidings I had heard from that area were of their military being savaged by a Galatian counterattack after frequent raids upon Ancyra. Why would they battle against me, potentially an ally?

"It appears that the Pontic heir, Pharnakles, has married into the Seleukid house. The daughter of the Seleukid king, Laodice, is now betrothed to him. The Pontikoi surely instigated this attack to gain clout with their new allies. Their influence over Pergamon is not inconsiderable; Philetaros knows that he is nothing to Pontic power, just as they are nothing to the Seleukids. It was a triple intrigue."

I marvelled at the subterfuge of Antiochos and his house. This truly was a masterpiece of diplomacy.

"I digress, however. I knew that if I met the enemy in the field, they would rout my army utterly. I thus resolved to meet them in the streets of Side themselves."

Interesting, I thought. Side was unwalled due to the former presence of a large defensive army of phalangitai on its eastern border. The Strategos Nicanor led those troops to glorious defeat against Pergamon, squandering much of northern army.

"I had cobbled together a mere regiment of native spearmen, supplemented by two units of Akonistai [skirmishers].

The Pergamene force included heavy peltastai wearing the linothorax, as well as a unit of hillmen from the central plateau of Mikra Asia. I positioned my troops in the town square, hoping that the enemy would hurtle themselves down the narrow, main road. They would ram into my wall of levy spearmen, who would hold them in place while my akonistai, formed in a V formation behind the spearmen, would rain down their numerous missiles and send the Pergamenes fleeing.

The enemy had other plans. Splitting his force, he sent a unit of peltastai and a unit of akonistai similar to my own to come at the city through the east road...

As soon as my scouts reported this, I and my cavalry guards rode to the outskirts of the town, waiting for the encircling enemy to come towards the entrance to Eastern Side (I had left the forces in the square under the command of a Hellenized Karian named Mistrophares. He and the levies were holding well as I had envisioned).

As soon as the enemies came in view, I charged toward them. My cavalry lowered their xystons in a brutal and disciplined line; our ferocious charge smashed through the lightly-armed akonistai, routing them almost instantaneously. The hardier peltastai fared better, stabbing with their swords and hurling their lethal javelins from close range. The conflict degenerated into a grinding press of bodies, all hacking at each other.

It was a losing battle. My men were outnumbered and overtired. I signaled for a disengagement and we rode off with as much speed as our near-dead mounts could muster.

The Peltastai, thinking themselves victorious, foolishly turned their sides to us and began marching down the East Road.

After resting our mounts for a bare four minutes, we gave chase, smashing into them just as they were reaching the town square...

What we started, the akonistai completed. Though the levies had but a dagger, they broke off their rain of javelins and fell upon the confused Pergamenes.

They were soon dispatched.

And then, the inevitable rout happened. My levies could take no more punishment; they fled, though where I do not know. Side is bordered by the sea on the side they were running to...

I knew the battle would be lost if I did not act quickly. My tired cavalry again lowered their spears and charged straight towards the enemy, who were just now coming in to the agora in the center of town. As I smashed in to the invading Pergamenes, my redoubtable akonistai drew their daggers and charged on to the flanks of the enemies, cutting into them even as they fought against our unstoppable, lethal inertia.

And so they ran, ran back to Pergamon, back to Pontos, back to Seleukeia. I care not where they have gone; Ptolemaios, you are victorious through me. May Nike bless you as she has blessed me."

I sat back, stunned. Side was protected by the Gods, or so it seemed. Antiochos had defeated a force outnumbering him by more than two to one.

And as I as sat there, a bolt of inspiration struck me. The penekontoroi, small scouting ships from my Mikra Asian fleet, were idle! They could blockade the port of Antiocheia. The people would capitulate, starving...

And Sarpedon would be mine.

[Legio]

Chapter 9: The Jewel of Syria

The outcome was inevitable, but that did not stop them from trying. Cobblers, glassmakers, merchants; all of them threw themselves wildly at my crack Galatian assault soldiers. Makeshift spears and rocks thrown by freed slaves took their toll...

One man's head staved in by a stone, another impaled through his armpit by a sharpened stick...


The assault on the gate was fierce; our rams had broken through the stout iron-reinforced wood of the gates perhaps an hour previously, and yet the resistance had not budged an inch in all that time. They fought on as if possessed...

I did not understand it. These were my future subjects! How could they think I would treat them badly? All throughout the Near East, I was becoming known for my cultured demeanor and leniency. Surely those tales must have spread here, to the very heart Syria?

Sarpedon's fell charisma ruined another chance at easy clemency. He had twisted the gullible citizens of Antiocheia against me, convincing them that the Ptolemaioi were naught but demons who would enslave and kill them all.

Even as I watched from behind the battle, a monumental blacksmith beat in a Ioudaian mercenary's head in with a gigantic smithing hammer. The Makedonian behind him quickly rammed a spear up into the blacksmith's chest cavity...

I shook my head. Yet another valuable artisan gone. At this rate, I'd be ruling over a city of ghosts...

Yet, no matter how fired and spirited a citizen resistance may be, they are never a match for a disciplined force. My men inexorably pushed the Antiocheians backwards into the streets, despite lethal sniper fire from the towers.

I rode in a stately procession behind the lines, accompanied by my Hetairoi. My desire to battle against innocent men, never quite as high as that of my barbarous mercenaries, was decreased yet more watching this needless battle. Even in loss, Sarpedon went down like a wounded lion. This evil would be last he ever perpetrated, I swore to myself.

Eventually, the fighting reached the town square...There Sarpedon chose his time, and wisely. My men ran in a ragged, disordered fashion, pursuing the routing Antiocheian levies.

Sarpedon's small complement of cavalry waited where the avenue widened into the Agora in the center of town...

His charge was bold, fierce, and fruitless. Bowling over my first two ranks of men, he soon became bogged down in the seething mass of soldiers which had made his charge so initially successful. One by one, the enemy Hetairoi fell.

I rode into the same mass of men from behind, determined to take Sarpedon alive. I could see his gleaming armor even from there, the burnished iron chased-with-silver of his breastplate marking him out from the rest of his men.

He, too, saw me...and grinned.

Sarpedon dropped his still-unbroken xyston...

Drew his blade...

"Damn you, no!" I shouted...

...He reversed the blade in one swift motion and drove it directly up in to his neck, killing him instantly.

I thought I saw his dying grin grow wider stilll...




Antiocheia was mine, indeed. But not without cost. Three thousand men out of my now 35,000-strong army had fallen. I shudder to think what would have happened if the enemies had been trained phalangitai.

And Sarpedon Soter, that nemesis of mine who I met only once, had escaped to Tartarus without his just reward.

I could only hope that the Gods would devise a fitting punishment for him -- it was out of my hands.

For a new threat was rising -- one every bit as deadly and powerful as Sarpedon and the Seleukids.

The Phoenici were rising the West, unbeknownst to all -- and the time would come when their eyes would look East, ever East...

A White Shield for a Black Cause

Antiocheia truly was the Jewel of Syria, if a jewel marred by war and fire. Even then, however, it still displayed signs of the prosperity it enjoyed under both Seleukid rule and, later, mine. I contented myself with helping rebuild, dealing with judicial disputes, and reforming the governmental system (heavily based on nepotism and corruption, under Sarpedon).

But I could not afford to frolic mindlessly in the opulence of Antiocheia's royal palace for too long a time. Already, events beyond my control began moving...

From Mikra Asia's central plain, news came of a pro-Pontikoi coup. The Galatian kingdom was reduced to Pontic vassal, with the "king" being a shameless bootlick to the powerful king of Pontos.

This state of affairs could not continue. I had already heard rumblings among the quite large Galatian portion of my army...rumblings of desertion. The Galatians wished embark a cultural crusade, to free their mighty kingdom from Pontic rule.

Now, I have been awarded with the epithets "The Honest" and "The True", but for all that, I am a keen manipulator of men's hearts.

The army would march northwards toward Galatia, which would enjoy "liberation" under my beneficent and noble eye. Surely the Pontic and Galatian rabble would not stand against my mighty army.

The royal army of Egypt marched without any notable events for several weeks before reaching the border of Pamphylia. After collecting the necessary tribute of levies from Side (willingly and graciously supplied by Antiochos Sidetes), we marched into Galatia.

I noticed almost immediately that the outriders and scouts I had sent to blanket the area were not returning. This was a true milestone; rare are the counterintelligence agencies of lesser nations able to stand up to the full might of a Hellenistic Empire's intelligence corps. I resigned myself to never seeing the scouts again...

The next wave of outriders I sent out were more heavily armed and guarded. I also dispatched a 200-strong detachment of light machimoi cavalry to follow after the most obvious of the scouts. Surely my trap would foil the barbarians' clumsy attempts to destroy my scouts.

When the scouts returned, I was smiling to myself. Surely no barbarian rabble of Pontic spies could match up to my clever planning and strategy (I admit that at that time the victories had gone slightly to my head). I looked at my messengers expectantly.

"Well? What news? Did the Pontics take the bait?" I asked.

The lead messenger looked somewhat ashamed. "King Ptolemy...we...well, we were captured, as planned, but as your horsemen rode up to cut down the Pontic raiders, the entire vale came alive with bowmen..."

I was shocked. "Do you mean to tell me that my entire contigent was wiped out?"

"Not quite, sire...A man rode out on a fine Nisaean stallion and handed me this papyrus scroll." He produced the scroll from a leather message tube around his shoulder, handing it to me. I unrolled it.

"To the Great Basileus Ptolemaios II, called the Honest, Philadelphos, and Syriokrator, greetings.

Following behind the messengers who have undoubtedly handed you this message are your soldiers. I have, of course, disarmed them and appropriated their mounts for my own use. Many thanks for those.

You need not worry; none your soldiers have been harmed in any way. I hope that, in the future, you will treat any prisoners from my command the same way.

I look forward to matching both wits and blades with you, Ptolemy. May it be an honorable and fair contest for all.

I shall await you at the plain of Brennus.

Yours,
Pharnakles Leukaspid"


After dismissing my messengers, I pondered this message. Could a vile slave of the Seleukids be so honorable and just a man as this Pontic noble so apparently was? Surely not, I thought to myself. I would just have to keep alert to see what his goal was.

I was in grievous error, though I did not know that then. For Pharnakles White-Shield was to be both the most honorable and the most deadly of all my enemies...

Save, of course, Hamalcar Barca.

Chapter 10 (Part 2) Blood on the Plain of Brennus

The Pontic host was impressive, to say the least. After almost a year of testing wits and blades against levied peasants and artisans, the sight of a gleaming army of Pontic warriors was a shocking sight indeed.

It was almost as if they had stepped out of the past; proud Persian nobles rode giant horses of Nisaean stock, supported by the ubiquitous sparabara and hillmen.

But no, this force was not just an archaic rabble of Persians. The center of their forces were composed of studded-leather wearing phalangitai, fighting in the style of the men who had betrayed me at Prince's Folly. It was thus that I was to battle against the best of both worlds; a Greek force supported by mobile Persian infantry and Savaran cavalry.

And their bold leader put them all to shame. Pharnakles White-Shield rode upon a snow-white, massive war-stallion, covered in a blanket of iron-scaled armor. He himself was no less dashing; he wore a gold-enameled bronze cuirass and matching greaves. His helmet was of a grand style modeled upon Alexandros himself, complete with high crest.

And of course, his spotless white shield was to be seen even from my lines.


He approached within shouting distance of my army (with myself at the head) and greeted me.

"Pleasantries aside, Pontic, what precisely do you want of me?" I was impatient with his delaying and wished to get this bloody and needless battle over with.

"Why, naught but to agree upon the terms of this battle. I assume that we should lay down some rules before we begin this trial of courage and bravery."

I was shocked. Pharnakles was either the most noble, innocent, and possibly unreal warrior to ever do battle, or he thought me a fool. I was inclined to believe the latter.

"What rules are there but the rules of war? To the victor, the spoils. Woe to the vanquished. Get back to your lines, Pontic; I want no more of your genteel trickery."

Even from my location, I could see that I had offended him. Nonetheless, he rode back to his army.


And then the battle began in earnest.


My Kretan archers traded vollies with the Pontic Thanvbara for the time it took us to maneuver our unwieldy phalanxes into position. Soon, however, the skirmishing was dispensed with and the clash began.

My phalangites initially destroyed the Pontics in great numbers. Though valiant, they were no match for my lethal army. My mobile soldiers on the flanks strove against the Pontic Thorakitai and Sparabara, meeting strong resistance.

And suddenly, the Pontics on the left broke. Sparabara dropped spears and shields in their mad attempts to escape my ferocious machimoi. The rout was immense, glorious, and successful...

And then Pharnakles's company of Sworn Brothers (as he called his bodyguard) rammed into the flank of my machimoi, destroying them in great numbers. It was all they could do to organize a fighting retreat...

That brief encounter set the timbre of the rest of the battle. My every attempt to destroy the Pontic lines was met with quick action by the cavalry of Pharnakles. I was on the verge of executing the commanders of the machimoi and thureophoroi, but beneath my rage I knew it was not their fault.

For I had met a commander who was as skilled as he was noble.

Pharnakles seemed to have been gifted with the speed of Hermes himself. He was everywhere and nowhere, defying attempts by my cavalry and light infantry to pin him down.

And yet, still, no matter what he did on the flanks, his phalangites were not up to the standards of my pezthetairoi. Slowly they gave back...until, at a pre-arranged signal, they dropped their sarissae and ran, covered by a volley of javelins (thrown by the redoubtable Kappadocian hillmen) which sent my ranks spiraling into disorder. Frequent punitive attacks by Pontic cavalry discouraged any thoughts of pursuit on my part.

So, the field was mine...the battle was won. But for all the men that died that day, all I had was a several miles-wide stretch of field and an enemy with a completely intact army...

An enemy that would be yet more deadly the next time I did battle with him.

Chapter 11: The Galatian Gamble

I can recall only brief fragments of the Assault on Ancyra. What I remember most was the immense amount of corpses fallen upon the ground; fallen in an a grotesque parody of the phalanx, more disciplined in death than they ever were in life.


Who would have known that a Pontikoi-loving cur like Brisaltas would have been able to attract such a large and well-armed force? Surely the Galatians should have joined my attack, which was for their benefit?

Whatever the reasons of their foolishness may be, I digress.


The events preceding the siege were almost as tense and high-energy as the battle itself. Behind every bush I saw a gleaming white shield, in every forest a company of Sworn Companions. Where could Pharnakles have gone?

The chivalrous Pontic general had vanished into the vast wilds of the central plain of Mikra Asia, never to be seen by Egyptian eyes again. To this very day, as I sit here writing in the besieged bastion of my acropolis, Pharnakles remains on the march with his indefatigable army.

Our progress was slowed massively due to my extensive scout network; I would not be caught unawares. Yet, eventually, I received a reliable report from a Pontic defector, one Chrysippos (A mercenary, disgusted by serving barbarian masters) that Pharnakles' homeland was under attack by the forces of King Nicomedes of Bithynia. Pharnakles realized the danger and had promptly turned his army around to battle the minor Asian kingdom.

Regardless of the reasons, his departure was good news. In a short time I and my army were encamped in front of the wooden walls of Ancyra.


And my foolishness showed itself.


Getting together the customary Greek peace party, I, Nemeb-hedj, and my chief military advisor Animixandros, rode up within a short distance of the Gallic palisades. I signaled to Nemeb-hedj.

His deep voice cut through the unnatural stillness. "Gauls of Galatia, lend your ears to the proposal of the Great Basileus-Pharaoh Ptolemaios II, called Honest, Brave, Sister-loving, Benefici--"

A strange hum filled the air scarcely a second before a large pebble smashed into Nemeb-hedj's head, killing him instantly.

His eyes seemed to glare reproachfully at me as he fell from his mount...


I drew my blade and screamed, determined to cut down the wall upon my strength alone, until Animixandros's quick comment brought me back to reality.

"Ptolemy, if you want them dead, use the army as your blade and the battering rams as your fist. Now is not the time for foolish rage. Let the barbarians rage impotently; we are Greeks."

I acknowledged his wisdom, despite my grief, and rode back to camp before the renegade Gallic slinger got another murderous urging.


The flimsy palisade of Ancyra fell to my rams as soundly as Nemeb-hedj did to the stone. As the palisades collapsed, I peered inside...


A Barbarian horde was arranged in a swirling mass inside the walls, all of the shouting warcries and taunts in crude Greek.

I smiled like the bloodthirsty predator I was at that moment. I nodded ot my trumpeter.

The blare of the salpinx set off a wonderfully deadly chain of events.

Slingers from Rhodai stepped out of the ranks of my skirmishers and let loose their stones...

The flat trajectory of the projectiles' flight made them twice as deadly. That first volley killed nearly one hundred.

The Kretans added to this lethal bombardment with expert archery. All the muscles of the giant Galatians helped them not at all with feathered death protruding from their unprotected bodies.


This lethal barrage continued until my men were completely out of missiles.


By then, there were as many dead Galatians as live ones in the low area below the central hill. Confident, I ordered the advance of my mobile heavy infantry.

First in were the Thorakitai....

The naked Galatians roared and charged...

The Thorakitai drew out their lethal javelins, threw, drew out more, threw again...

The Galatians fell, but not as normal men should. I, from my vantage point just behind my men, saw a javelin pierce straight through a Galatian's chest; he kept running, dropping his shield. He used his free hand to pull out the javelin, and hurled it back at my men...

Needless to say, my Thorakitai were slaughtered in huge numbers. Of course, they fought as true Hellenes should, taking down many with their lethal dories.

But they fell back...

I had learned my lesson. As the Galatians roared out their victory, I ordered my machimoi and thureophoroi forward.

What armored Thorakitai did not do, lethal missiles did.


And now no more of the naked men.


The Galatian resistance collapsed after the death of their champions; the rest of them were mere Celtic spear levies, no match for my men. The only final challenge remained in the town square; as my men advanced to seize it, a hidden force of Gallic heavy cavalry flew from behind a large mead-hall and smashed into my men. Their impetus was strong, but they were eventually isolated and killed.

Brisaltas died as a warrior of the Galatians wished to; when his horse fell, he merely leapt up before it could trap him and seized two machimoi by their throats and squeezed. His immense muscles bulged as he snapped their necks...

I saw this and coolly drew my Syrian composite bow from my saddle. I nocked an arrow, drew, and fired...

The missile pierced the Galatian chief through his vile throat. He fell like the great bear of a man he was.


Thus it was that Galatia was mine. All that remained in Mikra Asia was the Seleukid satrap of Ipsos...

And surely he would be no match for Ptolemy, Conqueror of the Gauls.

Chapter 12: Rumblings in the West

The campaign against Ipsos could not have gone more smoothly. Town after village after strongpoint fell to our lightning-quick advance. The one determined Seleukid attempt to defeat us was bold, but to no avail...

All I recall of that brief conflict is fragmented images; a man spitted upon my xyston, another dashed to the ground by my horse...

My men tell me I was as a Galatian wild-man in that encounter. I apparently slew thirty-three men altogether, though that tale may have grown in the telling.

I was floundering without Nemeb-hedj's often-unseen yet indubitably valuable advice. Without him, my only true friend among all my advisers and courtiers, I sunk deeper and deeper into a sullen rage, until some began to call me "Ptolemy the Morose".


Ipsos fell with the speed characteristic of the campaign. A brief affair in the agora of the town was dealt with by Egyptian bronze and Galatian iron.


Now let us move on to other events, ones that the future reader must surely be wondering why I have not mentioned up to this point.



All was not well in the West. The Middle Sea had been alive with fierce battle for nigh on 20 years. The Qarthasdim, or Phoenicians, were engaged in a brutal struggle with the hitherto-unknown city-state of Roma. The two titans struggled back and forth over Sicily, winning victories and suffering defeats equally.

Until the Spartiate Xanthippos.

Xanthippos was a mercenary general from Hellas, from Sparta no less. Hired by the desperate Phoenician Senate, Xanthippos reformed the Qarthasdim battle-line into the formidable tool of destruction it is today. Men armed in the fashion of Hellenic Hoplitai held the center, with the ubiquitous Qarthasdim mercenaries holding the right. The left was held by the elite Sacred Band of Kart-Hadast, a warrior band equaled only by the Companions of the Hellenes.

And the gigantic elephants formed in front of the Phoenician army did their part as well.

The end result was the Battle of Tunis, in which Xanthippos' brilliance caused the Romani formation of hastati, principes, and triarii which I admired so to rout shamefully and resulted in the capture of the Consul Regulus.

His courage also broke the siege of Lilybaeum, rallying the defenders and leading to a bold sally that routed the Romani force.

When offered the chance to go back to Kart-Hadast (Supposedly in a leaky boat designed to kill him), Xanthippos declined and raised an army on Sicilia to join with the beleaguered commander Hamalcar Barca...


Together, the two commanders did battle with great valor and genius, eventually driving the Romans off the island and defeating the Romani naval force in the decisive battle of Economus, near Lilybaeum.


Xanthippos fell nobly in battle after being pierced through the chest cavity by a well thrown javelin at Economus, but his successor was worthy indeed. Hamalcar Barca drove a massively hard bargain against the Roman senate, demanding the relinquish control of Magna Graecia entirely.

Hamalcar did what Pyrrhos Aiakides could not.


Hamalcar returned to Kart-Hadast and took control in a bloodless popular coup, electing himself Shopet for life. After destroying the Anti-Barcid party at the roots, Hamalcar Barca turned his eyes west...


And it was in this situation that I found myself. And though I did not know it yet, it would be the greatest test of my reign.


For while Hamalcar was a formidable foe, and one to be reckoned with, his progeny would prove more deadly yet...


For the one they called "Hannibal" was blessed and cursed to be, bar none, the greatest tactician this world has yet seen.

Chapter 13: The Lion of Makedon (Part 1)

It can be deceiving, having a national enemy. At times, it is tempting to willfully forget that things exist beyond your localized struggles with your time-honored nemesis.

Such it was with the Seleukid War. I had devoted so much of my intelligence, conciousness, and energy towards defeating and outfoxing the legions of Seleukid generals sent forth from Babylon in the East that I had excluded all but the most immediate extra-Asian threats.


The Sleeping Lion of the West had woken. While we in the East squabbled over resources and trade routes, King Antiogonos Gonatas of Makedonia was not idle. In a blinding series of campaigns, Antigonos first crushed the threat of Pyrrhos' army, newly returned from defeat in Magna Graecia, by way of a clever ruse. Antigonos deceived Pyrrhos into believing that the way to Pella was unguarded and sprung a deadly ambush. While Pyrrhos' army was marching down a narrow road surrounded by forests, Makedonian skirmishers assaulted the back of the column...

where Pyrrhos rode with his Lucanian Cows.

The first volley, I am told, killed Pyrrhos immediately. His elephants soon went beserk and destroyed the entire rearguard of the Epeirote army. Pyrrhos' second-in-command, bearing my name Ptolemaios, was powerless to stop the rout that ensued when Antigonos' troops hit the Epeirote army from the front in a lethal charge of xystons.


Once Epeiros was maimed, Antigonos marched southwards, smashing the city-states of Hellas in a battle resembling the earlier triumph of Philippos II.


Antigonos now commanded virtually the entire Western Hellenic world, and he soon turned his gaze upon my hard-won possessions in Mikra Asia.



The first word I had of Makedonians near my holdings came from, of all places, a Pergamene ambassador named Aristodikos. Ushered into the palace of the Satrap in Ipsos, Aristodikos wasted no time.

"Basileus Ptolemaios of Egypt, I beseech you on behalf of my people to aid us in our struggle against the bellicose Makedonians."

I looked at him, impressed. The number of men who could put such speech frankly were few indeed among the diplomatic corps of the world. "Pergamene...why, by Zeus, do you even dream that I would ever assist you? Have you forgotten your treacherous attack on my loyal satrap Antiochos Sidetes?"

Aristodikos gulped nervously. "This...is true, basileus. But I urge you to remember that we did it at the behest of our nominal overlords, the Seleukids. And it was only at the threat of their blades that we did such a vile and traitorous thing."

I considered this, and decided that Aristodikos had a point. "This is true, Pergamene. I will grant you that the reach of my enemy Antiochos Soter is long indeed. But before we agree on the terms of this assistance, please explain to me, by the Gods above, why the Makedonians are on the soil of Mikra Asia!"

"Lord, all we know is that they landed near the city-state of Halikarnassos, quickly subjugating it. They then advanced northwards towards our fair city and have proved unstoppable ever since. We are but one polis, King Ptolemy. We cannot stand against an Empire."

I acknowledged this point, and I did indeed see the wisdom of driving the Makedonians off my lands before they established a true foothold. It fell to haggling...


The terms were eventually set. Pergamon was to relinquish all ties to the Seleukid rulers of Babylon and instead swear loyalty to me, and my descendants. The Pergamene king, Attalos, would rule Pergamene in my trust and by my goodwill alone.


Aristodikos agreed instantly. My reputation for great-mindedness once again won a bloodless victory over what could have been an implacable enemy.



And so it was that my army marched westwards, towards Pergamon...

Towards the heirs of Alexandros himself.

Chapter 13, part 2: The Lion of Makedon

Never in my life, excluding perhaps the looting of the Nile Delta by the Qarthasdim, have I ever seen as many burned crops, fields, and villages as I did within Pergamon's holdings.

The passing of the Makedonian army was nothing short of a plague of locusts; they'd stripped the land entirely bare. What had once been a rich and prosperous nation would now be condemned to poverty for years, all to feed the many-mouthed Makedonians.

We found the site of the first attempt by Pergamon to halt the advance within a week.

It was an ill-favored ground, even in the best of times; dusty and dead in a land of fertility. The dead covering the ground by no means made the place more bearable. It had appeared that the Pergamenes had formed themselves into a tight, traditional phalanx; whoever the Pergamene commander was, he believed that history trumped innovation.

He surely positioned the customary Hetairoi and other hippeis on the flank, to serve as the hammer to the phalanx's anvil.

It appeared that he had not considered the possibility of war elephants.

I know not how Makedonia, a land quite far from the nearest of lands populated by pachyderms, procured their beasts of war; perhaps they managed to capture some of the deceased Pyrrhos' complement.

whatever the reason, it mattered not. The Pergamenes were crushed. According to Aristodikos, the army detachment sent out to defeat the Makedonians had been a full half of the military strength of Pergamon.

The Greeks of Mikra Asia were in dire straits indeed.


We were almost on top of the advancing Makedonian army, barely three hours distant, before their rearguard noted our presence and alerted their commander, a grizzled veteran of the war of Hellas named Nikarchos. By the time our two armies came within a reasonable distance of each other, the Makedonians had already formed their lines.

I could have cried out in despair. The Makedonian forces outnumbered me by half again what I had under my command. And these troops were no Seleukid levies or Pontikoi rabble. They were disciplined and deadly phalangitai trained in the manner of all the Successors to Alexander; every bit as skilled as my own. This conflict would not be resolved by superiority of troops.

I had a slight edge over the Makedonians in mobile infantry, but this was counterbalanced by the ominous presences of their Asian beasts looming on the right flank.


This battle was beyond my ability to win.

I had to hope that Aristodikos' countrymen would arrive when they were promised to.


As the standoff dragged on, I had to wonder if they would come at all...

It would appear that my reinforcements were delayed, perhaps fatally. I would have to fight the battle as if they were not a factor.


I adopted a battle formation that offered perhaps the only chance of success; with a phalanx in the center to match theirs and skirmishers hidden behind the heavy Thorakitai and Galatians, perhaps the enemy would meet their match.

And so it began.


The Makedonians sent forth their archers to duel with mine. Shafts of reed and wood flew back and forth over the no man's land between the two instruments of war, the armies of Egypt and Makedonia.

My archers, inevitably, would lose such a contest. The Makedonian complement of toxotai far outnumbered the skilled Kretans at my disposal; in a duel of missiles, quantity must be taken over quality.

Seeing the foolishness in continuing, I pulled back my Kretans and let the Makedonian archers fire uselessly at the front of my armored phalanx of warriors. The upraised spears and armor of my soldiers rendered the enemy missiles impotent.

Nikarchos the Makedonian, being a shrewd commander, realized this. He ordered his phalanx forward...

The impact between our two armies was anticlimactic indeed. In place of the customary clanging and crashing of two sprinting hosts, all that was to be heard was the dull clangs and thuds of sarissae bouncing off armor and piercing flesh. The grunting of the fatigued phalangitai overpowered all but the most strident screams.

On the flanks, the contest was less even. From the outset, the elephants destroyed all in their path. The noble Galatians threw themselves at the giant beasts in furious valor, but to no avail; their volley of javelins killed a bare three of the elephants and their charge was predictably bloody.

In my Galatians' defeat, I saw my army's victory. My peltastai (hired several weeks before from the lands around Ipsos) drew their weighted javelins, aimed, and threw...

The elephants nearly panicked there and then. The massive volley of falling missiles drove mad the beasts it did not kill.

If only the mahout of one elephant had been killed, my designs would have been fully realized.


One bold mahout of the enemy, seeing his allies' consternation, regained control of his ponderous mount with skill unseen in that of his compatriots. Urging this one elephant forward, he gave confidence to the others...

And the charge was resumed.

Though the battle went relatively well in other parts of the battle, it mattered not. I knew that if the my left flank collapsed, the entire army would unravel as if they had all routed at once.

And yet, there was naught I could do. I merely took a breath, and accepted my defeat...

And then, a hair-raising cry...

that warcry out of ancient Hellas, "eleuleulu!" rang out across the battlefield as nigh on five thousand Pergamene hoplites smashed into the back of the Makedonian phalanx. The effect was as a hammer hitting a mass of rotten meat; disentigration abounded. The unwieldy weapons of the Makedonians hindered their own flight and self-defense as the entire phalanx wavered in fear and confusion.

I'm told that Nikarchos, who might have rallied what remained of his men, was brought down by a dory in a futile and foolish attempt to charge a knot of hoplites head-on. Impaled upon the point of a spear, Nikarchos would burn no more villages.


The rout was contained, the enemy surrounded. Not a Makedonian who walked onto the field that day lived to tell of his campaign.

Even the mighty war elephants, hemmed in by men on every side, gave up to the embrace of death, one by one...

In the aftermath, a Pergamene, who I presumed to be the commander, sauntered up to my horse and looked up at my.

"You're welcome, Egyptian." his insolent grin struck a peculiar chord within me...

I dismounted, and showed my teeth in what could not possibly be called a smile. I then proceeded to smash in his face with my fist.

Even the sound of his nose breaking did nothing to assuage my anger.

"Damn you, Pergamene! How dare you demand thanks from me as I march to defend your city...in a battle you turn up late to! You are filth, and are lucky that I am a friend of your nation. Otherwise, you'd lay with the men you betrayed in your dawdling!"

I swept away from the weeping fool. If this was the stuff of which Pergamon was made, perhaps I should have rethought my alliance.

Still, the lion was at bay. The enemy would advance no further, for now.

I was free to return to the Seleukid War.

Chapter 15: A Necessary Evil

The return to Antiocheia was not nearly as trumpeted as my previous victories had been. I felt it wrong to claim credit for saving a nation that most of my countrymen regarded as an upstart kingdom barely worth speaking of; thus it was that my army quietly and efficiently marched back to my new military capital of the north.

I found, as a pleasant surprise, that my wife-sister Berenike had taken it upon herself to journey to Antiocheia to await my return as any wife of a soldier should.

Also, she assumed control as my regent for the entire north-west portion of my empire. Berenike was not considered weak-willed, to say the least.


Our reunion was joyful indeed, and I would recount it if it would not stray from the spirit of this chronicle. Still, reality made its customary appearance, as it always must, in the form of a bearer of news.

The messenger, fresh off the old Royal Road of ancient Persia, stood erect as I entered the debriefing room he had been kept waiting in.

"Well, my good man, what news have you for me?" I was in a good mood as of late, and I resolved myself to not worry overmuch about whatever tidings this messenger might bring.

"Basileus, I bring you wonderful news! A great victory over the Seleukids has been won!" the messenger's affectation of happiness did not seem forced, oddly enough.

"Truly? I was unaware we were had broken the truce with Seleukeia. Who dealt this blow?"

The messenger answered promptly. "Some barbarian tribe in the Far East called the Pahlava. It appears that they'd stopped paying tribute to the King Antiochos Soter a while back, and Antiochos was convinced that they'd recant their rebellion if he flexed his muscles, so to speak."

I was impressed by the messenger's eloquence. Perhaps the man should receive a higher station in life. He continued: "As you may have guessed, it did not work to perfection. Antiochos's attempt to attack the Pahlavan capital merely resulted in a set-piece battle that showed the limitations of his phalanx-based army." He looked pointedly at me. "The Pahlavan mounted archers annihilated the King and his army. Long live Antiochos II," the messenger drawled ironically.

I was stunned, both at this man's massive intelligence and the news he bore.

"Messenger, by all the Gods Above, who are you?"

The messenger smiled at me. "Antiochos II."

My jaw dropped. How dare this impudent mail-carrier put a jest upon me like I was some fool!

The messenger's smile widened at my expression. He merely raised his hand. Upon it was the signet ring of the Royal House of Seleukeia.


Thus it was that the dynast of the Seleukid Empire had donned a messenger's outfit...and infiltrated my Royal Palace.

My security nets, apparently, were somewhat lacking.

I resolved to approach this extraordinary turn of affairs delicately. "Well...Brother King...why, precisely, have you insinuated yourself into Antiocheia?" My smile was glassy and frozen.

"Ptolemy, I came to end this state of affairs between our two states. Also, my land is swarming with Parthian warriors, all hunting for my blood. I hope you won't begrudge the fact that I waylaid one of your messengers and stole his clothing."

In a way, it made a strange kind of sense. I truly would have disregarded any form of peace treaty. "Very well...Antiochos...what, precisely, are you planning to do about this 'state of affairs', as you call it? I intend to reunite the empire of Alexandros, Seleukid."

Antiochos's expression had lost all levity. "Ptolemy, that goal is impossible and you know it. The world has changed. But, beyond this, I am currently King of Kings of...the provinces of Seleukeia, Atropatrene, Corduene, and Sophene. Armenia has swallowed the remaining western satrapies, as have you. The Pahlava control the entire East. My chiliarch is holding the Babylonian border with great difficulty only. It won't be long, now."

I could see where this was going, and I was utterly surprised, not for the first time this night. "Antiochos, what you want from me is military aid. But you know this is impossible. We have been at war continuously for a half-century!"

"Ptolemy, ask yourself whether you'd like to deal with a civil and cordial Greek King in the East, or a new Persian Empire bent on assuming the cultural legacy of Xerxes and Cyrus and taking revenge on the heirs of Alexandros? You must help me. You will not stand before a Pahlavan empire as large as it will be after I fall. Consider this."


I saw his point, utterly. I'd not fought Horse Archers, but I knew from tales that my army would not stand before them. I would meet the fate of Antiochos I.

I sighed...

"Very well."

And, for the first time in history, A Ptolemaic army would march East...to help a Seleukid king.

Chapter 16: Shame of the Hellenes

Alexandros would have shed tears if he had seen what the incompetence and stupidity of his successors had wrought. The signs of the Gods' disfavor with the Seleukid cause were everywhere.

On march eastward, I saw more and more of these signs. Every soldier with more than one hundred men behind him was proclaiming himself "Basileus of the Seleukids" or "Grand Strategos of Kommagene", among other grandiose titles. Several of these had gathered forces large enough to halt the Pahlavan advance...if only they would commit them to the cause of the Royal House.

But of course, they would not. Instead, I battled them. Petty warlord after hill chief after twisted usurper threw their meagre forces at me piecemeal, thinking themselves great after a pygmy victory or two over petty rivals.

It truly was the end of the Seleukids...

If not for me...and Antiochos.

I must give credit to the man; he was without doubt the worthiest monarch ever to ascend the throne of Babylon. Even at that early stage, Antiochos proved his valor and courage in multiple skirmishes and his skill at diplomacy in winning over rebel dynasts and officers. Soon the Seleukid army was nearly one-half the size of ours.

Were Antiochos, called Theos by his adoring subjects, alive this day, then I have no doubt that the proud banner of Seleukos would be unfurled and the Might of the East would crush the upstart Qarthadasti.

And yet, it was not to be. The Gods have cursed we of Egypt...

But, again, I digress. I must return to the tale at hand.

After securing most of the rebel western regions for Antiochos, we felt that the situation was stable enough to proceed to Babylon and Seleukeia-on-the-Tigris, where his loyal satrap Achaios held off the Pahlava with threats and the remnants of Antiochos I's grand army.

We arrived to a city that was surprisingly calm. After billeting the army in the now quite-unfilled Seleukid barracks, Antiochos and I proceeded, alone, to the palace.

Outside, Achaios waited with an honor guard of fierce native Babylonians. Wearing armor dating back to the Great Assyrians, they looked as if they had stepped out of a chronicle by some historian in the far-flung past.

Once inside, Achaios began to explain the situation.

"Basileus Antiochos and Basileus Ptolemaios, it is heartening to see you here. I doubt that the Pahlavans would have held off an attack much longer. Even now, that bastard Arsaces schemes and plots among his generals, trying to overthrow us."

I was unimpressed with this Achaios; he seemed more given to rhetoric than to true analysis. Antiochos had assured me, however, that Achaios was capable, if long-winded.

"What is the state of your forces, Achaios?" I asked, attempting to simplify this meeting.

"A mere fraction of what set out with the great Antiochos Soter," Achaios said in a bitter tone. "What forces I have left are the cowards and the invalids; the ones who ran and the ones who were too weak to fight. The Hetairoi are gone, as are the Elite Thorakitai of Seleukeia."

"Elite Thorakitai?" I was surprised. Why would someone improve upon the Thorakitai design yet more? The greatest warriors served in the saddle, among the Companions. Everyone knew that. I recalled none of these elite warriors in my conquests; surely I would have noted their presence.

"Yes, Brother-King. My father saw fit to organize a shock regiment of soldiers covered in mail and nearly impervious to missile fire. They are useful indeed against mounted foes," Antiochos explained.

"Indeed," Achaios continued. "That is the exact reason that they were singled out and destroyed before they could annihilate the Pahlavan Kataphractoi as they were supposed to."

I nodded, intrigued. Perhaps a super-heavy mobile infantry would prove useful...

"The Pahlavans are currently occupied with some trouble from the west; that satrapy that rebelled a while back...Baktria, if you recall...has decided to take a hand. They are even now warring on the Pahlavans. Unfortunately, they have reached a stalemate and will soon negotiate a settlement....

Then, the wrath of Persia will be turned upon us."

So it fell to planning. The Pahlavans must not be able to battle us in a location suiting their mobile horsemen, which in turn meant that we could not use the phalangites that always proved so hardy against enemies. The same rough terrain used to protect us from cavalry would negate the use of a phalanx.


Perhaps it was time for a new regiment of those elites to rise once more...

Chapter 17: The Bane of the Hippotoxotai

I have heard many tales in my reign as Basileus of Egypt. Many fantastical tales have passed my ears, most of which I have responded to with skepticism.

One, however, stuck in my mind, if only for its monstrous exaggeration (surely).

I have heard of giant beasts roaming the interior of the land upon which Egypt sits; giant, gray, four-legged creatures weighing as much as many men combined and possessing great strength. I have also heard they bear a horn, of all things. They reputedly simply begin running and crush all in their path, aided by their massive weight.

So it was with the Seleukid military unit known as the Thorakitai Agematos Basilikou...

I must admit, of the few demonstrations I saw from the Seleukid units, I was massively impressed. The merit in such a unit was immense; I counted myself lucky to have not faced them in my Syrian War.

And once again, this unit would reach its full strength...

Under the banner of Egypt, the fierce bird of prey that led all of our myriad armies to victory.

Antiochos immediately allowed me complete autonomy in the satrapy of Ectbatana, so as to allow me to feed and continue to train my army. Within Ectbatana, the creation of a new weapon began.

I was not so foolish as to train soldiers like my phalangitai in such new tactics. I turned, of course, to the redoubtable Galatians and Machimoi, both of whom knew very well how to fight flexibly.

The new training required much effort; from wearing leather corselets and some chainmail to full, heavy armor required a shift in tactics and weight-balancing.

After many months of excruciating training which I will not recount here, the glittering pride of my military was ready.

It was time.


I was watching a mock battle between the new warriors and my trusty phalangites, with the new units making the phalanx of the latter virtually useless, when a messenger from Antiochos arrived, asking my presence in Seleukeia-on-the-Tigris. I consented, mounted, and rode to Seleukeia with twenty of my Hetairoi.

Upon arrival in the council room of the palace, I immediately noted Antiochos's grim demeanor.

"Brother-King, what exactly troubles you? Surely you should be pleased with the impressive revival of your military. Together, our armies form over fifty thousand men!" I exclaimed.

Antiochos was inimpressed. "And, Ptolemy, how many warriors do the Pahlavans have? How many numberless legions of levied spearmen? How many swarms of lethal hippotoxotai? How many battalions of world-conquering kataphractoi? I'll tell you, friend. Sixty thousand together in an army even now burning and looting its way to Seleukeia!"

I was shocked. "They're inside the empire? Already? My men have just finished their training!"

"Ptolemy, we must act now. Together, perhaps our new warriors can defeat the horse-archers and kataphractoi." Antiochos was adamant, and quite correct. I agreed immediately and scouts were sent out to survey the best battlefield. We decided upon a narrow, mountain pass...

Known as The Persian Gate. This landform had proved its worth even against the invincible soldiers of Megas Alexandros; the Persian Ariobarzanes held off the Makedonians for many days. Though it was originally used to keep western invaders out of Persepolis, it would be employed in the opposite fashion, this way.

The Pahlavans had to take this way; it was by far the quickest, and they had no idea that an opposing force would meet them there. If they elected to choose another route, then they knew that the army they would find opposing them would be larger still.

We would see if the son of Antiochos I would fare better than his sire.


Word of the Pahlavan approach reached us just as soon as they realized that we occupied the Persian Gate. The Pahlavan commander, known as Phraates the Quick, must have been dismayed. Still, surely the tradition-bound Hellenes would form their pathetic phalanx, as always. The rough ground would disrupt the formation and the Pahlavans would take the field.

What they saw was another thing entirely.

Row after row of identically armored, armed soldiers; armored completely in chainmail, complete with veils, and augmented by greaves and sturdy helmets, our men were the most well-protected foot in the world.

Phraates's shock was evident in the indecision among his soldiers. Eventually, he chose to stick with fine nomad tradition, and rely on missiles.

The mounted archers organized themselves as best they could in such a hostile location. The steep inclines and defiles made lines foolish-looking and pointless.

Still, they tried their best.

Arrows rained down upon my men in ever-increasing storms. Surely the deluge would utterly destroy the goat-hearted Greeks!

But an amazing thing happened: naught but two Greeks died. One was felled by an arrow through the eye-socket of his helmet, and the other had foolishly removed his helmet due to some skin ailment. Both were flukes and unworthy of my attention.

As the arrows had less and less effect, they soon ceased altogether. Phraates would use sheer force of numbers to overwhelm the Greeks.

The Pahlavan infantry arament stepped forward. Bearing studded-leather corselets, long spears, and hoplons, they appeared to be some odd form of hoplite imported into the Pahlavan ranks. Were these soldiers pitted against a Greek hoplite phalanx, the result would be unforeseeable.

But my men were no hoplites, to fight in the phalanx.

The Pahlavans formed their tight, pseudo-Greek formation, and charged, even attempting to imitate the "eleueleuleu" of true hoplitai. the crash was enormous as they smashed into our lines...

But nothing happened. For the phalanx depended upon logic that the attacking forces would overwhelm the stunned defenders with sheer weight; this did not work when the defenders had more mass than the phalanx!

Spears seeking flesh found mail; swords snaking towards legs met burnished bronze. Our warriors barely had to lift their spear-arms as the enemy warriors died of sheer frustration, or so it seemed.

The result, of course, was a rout.

of the perhaps ten thousand sent against our lines, they lost over half of theirs.

The Greek casualties numbered, perhaps, in the dozens.

Phraates would now throw his most lethal weapon against us: the Kataphract charge. These men were every bit as armored as mine, and I had no illusions that their charge would rebound so easily as the earlier attacks had.

So, we would rely on a different tactic. As the lords and nobles of proud Pahlava formed their serried ranks, gleaming in the hot afternooon sun, my men drew their throwing javelins from the holders in their shields.

Time seemed to slow as the ground shook beneath the weight of the Avengers of Dareios...

The spears of the enemy went down...

The fierce, barbaric cries shattered the un-natural silence...

And the arcs of javelins filled the air.

The charge was utterly destroyed. Kataphracts in the front ranks collapsed, and the second rank fell upon their destroyed bodies...

And so Greek courage proved itself worthy once more. Persia would not rise again this day. My men roared out a fierce cry, and charged...


Several hours later, forty-five thousand Persians lay upon the field. Diplomats from King Arsaces of the Pahlavan "empire", now once again confined to its historical limits...

or so it would be soon.

After frantic peace offers shot forth from the Persians, a deal was finally agreed upon:

The Pahlavans would withdraw from all Seleukid territory, but would not pay tribute to the Seleukids once more, as they had under Antiochos I. The Pahlavans were permitted to war upon Baktria as much as they wished; that would serve to keep them away from Seleukid lands.

Asia, once again, bowed to the heirs of Alexandros.

[Legio]

Chapter 18: A Dire Warning

I must admit, the Seleukid capacity for opulent feasts is unmatched in the world to this day. The celebratory banquet at Seleukeia was nothing short of world-shaking; Surely the Gods of Olympos would destroy the gathering out of sheer annoyance at its volume!

And Antiochos played the part of the gracious victor to its fullest. Giving out awards and monetary bonuses to those warriors who had proved exceptionally valorous, he was as well loved by my men as by his.

I listened with half an ear.

"...Nicanor, for the bold kindness in taking a spear wound for your comrade..."

"Megasthenes, for a javelin cast that pierced not one but two kataphractoi..."

and so on. As I gorged myself on fine Mesopotamian wine, the temptation of the slave girls dancing in front of me became harder and harder to resist...

I resolved to remove myself from the premises before I perpetrated an action I would regret. I quickly took myself to sleep...

But I shall not forget the dream that struck at my dulled consciousness that night.

Covered in sweat, Ptolemaios II Philadelphos woke from his stupor to find himself in a place much different from his quarters in the royal palace. A brilliant full moon shined through thin clouds like the eye of a God...

Ptolemy observed that he was sitting down upon a field of whitish-green grass, surrounded by a circle of destroyed pillars. Several feet away from him, a cracked tile protruded incongruously from the grassy plain.

The Egyptian king wondered idly where he was, and what civilization once dwelled where he lay.

-Ptolemaios Philadelphos-

A voice seemed to emanate from all points around Ptolemy. Fearing some form of sorcery, Ptolemy's hand unconsciously crept down to where his sword hilt would have been.

-Ptolemaois Philadelphos of Egypt-

The voice called out again. Ptolemy now suspected the presence of some malevolent being...

"Creature, wherever and whatever you are, I demand you show yourself! Do not toy with the greatest monarch in the world!"

Ptolemy resolved himself to perhaps impress the creature with his status. Surely it would think twice about attacking such an august figure.

A silhouette of a warrior wearing magnificent armor and garbed in a concealing helmet materialized before Ptolemy.

"Ptolemaios Philadelphos, I have chosen you to receive a message...one that is for the greater good of the Hellenic people..."

The warrior spoke in a more conventional manner. Emboldened, Ptolemy challenged the warrior.

"Friend, I know not what or who you are, but take me from these unknown ruins to a place I know. I tire of speaking to you in such a deserted locale."

Without being able to see, Ptolemy could sense the warrior smiling. The armored man waved his arm...

Suddenly, Ptolemy stood in the same circle of pillars...

which were inside the gargantuan temple to Megas Alexandros that he had planned to build upon his return to Alexandreia.

"Now, perhaps, you are more familiar with your surroundings? Ptolemy, I'm utterly flattered that you plan to go to such lengths to honor me. It's part of the reason that I've taken it upon myself to deliver the warning of which I spoke."

Ptolemy suddenly realized who he was talking to...

"Remove your helmet...King of the Greeks and Persians, of the Egyptians and Makedonians...Alexandros."

The dead conqueror removed his concealing helmet. Beneath it was a youthful visage with blond hair and a strong, aquiline jaw.

"Ptolemy, your father was among the most valued of my generals. I am glad to see that his son carries on the tradition of his glory. I must admit, though, I am rather disappointed at the state of my kingdom. If it weren't for that one-eyed fool Antigonos, this empire of mine might have been saved. I backed Eumenes of Kardia, you know... But I digress. Ptolemy, the ruins we stood in were the remains of the temple dedicated to me a couple hundred years from now. Do you know what that means?"

Ptolemy, still shocked by speaking with Alexandros, was unsure, and said so.

Alexandros sighed. "It means, my friend, that all you know, love, and rule will be torn down in fire and sword. It means that you will suffer the ultimate defeat if something is not done. If events proceed as they do now, my fair city on the Middle Sea will be burned to the ground within fifteen years. I warn you, Ptolemy...look to the west..."

Ptolemy was confused. "The West, my King? What is to the west besides barbarians, my allies the Romaioi and..."

Ptolemy trailed off. "The Phoenicians? Truly, I should fear them? They are mighty, true, but winning an island war with an upstart provincial republic does not put them in great standing with the great powers of the East."

the deified King looked annoyed. "Ptolemy, have you kept yourself up to date with what goes on? All may not be revealed to you. Suffice to say, look to Kyrene...for the either your greatest victory or your most terrible defeat shall come there. Now, AWAKE!"

I rose from my bed, completely aware of what had just transpired in the realm of dream.

So, the Barca thought himself powerful and wished a fight?

Well, the might of the Nile would swallow him...for Egypt, impossibly old and always mighty, would endure forever.

Chapter 19: Unexpected Aid and Opening Moves

The words of a God are not often ignored, and my case stuck to that archetype. I hastened to Antiochos's royal quarters, where I explained to him the dream and the warning I had received. Being a devout, kind, and understanding man, Antiochos graciously allowed me and my army to depart, although peace negotiations were not quite finished. I promised to repay his kindness and took myself back to Alexandreia...


The trip was long and arduous, encompassing minor delays and annoyances both. The only event of note occurred near the rising kingdom of Nabataeoi who now dwelled upon my western border. A massive raiding party of several thousand Arabians had been feasting upon the helpless border towns inside my provinces.

A quick charge of the Hetairoi ratcheted back their pretensions a notch or so. Needless to say, both the camel-mounted dogs and the unhorsed rabble fell before our spears.

Upon arriving in Alexandreia, I was besieged by legions of diplomats from nations great and small, far and near. Amidst all the chaos, I spotted a rock of calm.

The aforementioned rock of calm bore a ceremonial garment that, in its complexity, rivaled my ceremonial Pharaoh's Robe. It bore one purple stripe, which took me by surprise; the bearer must have been honored indeed.

After dismissing all other diplomats, I adressed the Roman envoy directly.

"Friend Roman, what is it that your great republic wishes to discuss with me?"

Though normally I would have laid on flattery, the Romaioi did not look kindly on such foolish verbal excess.

"Rex Ptolemy II, friend of the Roman People, called 'The Eastern Eagle', it is good to make your acquaintance. Your reputation precedes you."

I'd not heard that imaginative title before. I quite liked the sound of it; I wondered where it had sprung from. When I inquired, the Roman obliged me graciously.

"Rex Ptolemy, word of your great victory over the Syrians (the Romans did not deign to use the Greek names of our nations) reached even Roma Herself. We heard much of your cunning use of our military tactics. The title 'Eastern Eagle' has long been attributed to you in Italia, in honor of your emulation of our republic's military. But, to the point of the matter, I am Gnaeus Flavius Decurius, honorable Senator of Rome and envoy to the nation of Aegyptus. I have a proposition for you."

The Roman's explanation did him credit; he managed to state the compliments in a matter-of-fact tone and without any toadying.

"What is this proposition, Decurius?" (among the Romans, use of the praenomen is reserved for those who know the individual well)

"We of the Roman Senate have long been angered at our loss to the barbarian Punics across the Mediterraneum Mare, and wish our vengeance. To this effect, we have equipped 6,000 legionaries with an accompanying ala of equites auxiliarii. They are prepared to be shipped to Aegyptus to continue the war against the Dictator Hamalcar of Carthage which our spies tell us will soon happen."

The audacity and boldness of the Roman people never ceased to surprise me. After a momentary pause, I of course agreed, happy to receive well-trained soldiers to aid me in my war. There remained only one question; that of the Roman commander. I did not wish to be saddled with some populist politician in need of a quick boost in prestige.

"Friend Ptolemy, I, as a qualified Legate, will command this contingent. I am a veteran of the Great Punic War and will serve you admirably."

I was satisified; this man had already impressed me, and surely his military skills would match his austere and imposing character.

I, however, was not the only one preparing. Word came from out of the west that Hamalcar had invaded Iberia, and had already subjugated the southern tribe known as the Turdetani. If Hamalcar secured the Iberian silver mines, his war machine would be nigh-unstoppable.

And so it was that Decurius of Roma would return to his fair city and bring word-- word of war.

For Hamalcar could have but one choice: To battle Egypt in Africa, and the Romaioi in Iberia. Together, we would surely prove the victors...

Of course, none paid attention to the appointing of a small Iberian contingent to the son of Hamalcar...

But the apotheosis of Hannibal had begun, and it would have dire consequences for us all.

Chapter 20: A View of the World -- Exiles of Makedonia

THE FIRST CHAPTER EVER WITH SCREENSHOTS.


As we of Egypt feverishly prepared ourselves for the coming war, the events elsewhere in the world were being overlooked. To the future reader of this chronicle, I apologize for my inability thus far to construct the world outside of my actions to perfection.

Disturbing news first swept eastwards from Hellas, where the impossible had happened: After the stunning defeat of Pyrrhos by the forces of Antigonos Gonatas, a decade and a half had passed without incident. However, under a new king bearing the auspicious name of Alexandros Aiakides, the Epeirotes resurfaced and once again attacked Makedon.

The beleaguered king Antigonos was not so lucky this time. His army was routed and he was killed, along with his heir. A royal cousin of some competency, also named Alexandros, took power.

But he was now king of Lesbos and Thessalia, not Makedon. Epeiros looked to be the dominant power in Hellas.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

The Makedonians may have been defeated, but their wrath was still powerful. Turned upon the city of Pergamon, it proved to be unstoppable. What the Lion of Makedon could not achieve, shattered exiles did. I was powerless to stop them, as I was campaigning against the Pahlava at that time. I have always regretted not being able to intervene...

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Elsewhere, tumultous events were afoot. the Punikoi of the west now proved themselves able to secure a foothold in Italy by scattering and destroying a Romaioi legion and taking the Lukanian polis of Rhegion. The Romaioi already gathered to retake it, but whether or not they would succeed was yet to be seen. They were aided by one stroke of luck. Both Syrakousai and Messana had revolted against the harsh Phoenician rule imposed upon Sicilia and once again formed independent, though surely short-lived, kingdoms.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

I had returned with my army, briefly, to the region around Antiocheia, in the hopes of recruiting some of the toxotai syriakoi so famed in that region. I was at that point commanding the most powerful Hellenistic army in the entire world.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

And of course, though I have not mentioned him, my son and heir Ptolemaios III Lysimachos was a worthy successor to the throne of Egypt. He currently administrated Memphis with great skill...with greater skill than my estranged and useless son Ptolemaios Euergetes.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

And thus was the world at the time of the beginning of the Return of the Phoenicians...

Chapter 21: The Return

In the day and age that I am writing, The Great Gamble is legendary among naval commanders everywhere. That Hamalcar of Kart-Hadast was able to achieve such an astounding feat of logistics and seamanship was a testament both to his genius and to the naval legacy of the Phoenician people.

And yet, the beauty of the plan was completely and utterly wasted in that it nearly destroyed my Syrian empire forever...

I fear that I go ahead of myself.

The Phoenician War had begun well for the Egyptian people. While resting for a brief period in my royal palace at Alexandreia, my brilliant son Ptolemy Lysimachos approached me with an interesting proposition.

As Lysimachos strode into the room, I was shocked, as I always am, at his figure and bearing. My son was born to be a great basileus in the tradition of Alexandros. He was tall, well over six feet, and bore short-cropped black hair uncustomary among the Hellenes of Egypt. His body rippled with muscles; standing still, he seemed to be a frozen image of some great jungle beast about to pounce.

An energetic light danced in his eyes as he respectfully inclined his head.

"Father, I feel as though my part in your wars has been too small thus far. I am honored by your choice in me as Archon of Memphis, but I long to test my military skill. And I've concocted a plan that will allow me to enhance Egypt's prestige and power."

Lysimachos spoke with the quiet confidence and eloquence of a born rhetoritician; I do not doubt that he would fit in quite nicely among the orators of Athenai.

"Speak, son! What's this plan of yours?" I was doubtful that it would be something I had not thought of; preparations for the war were going extremely well.

"Father, have you given much thought to Kyrene?" Lysimachos's inquiry was almost rhetorical, yet I answered him anyway.

"Yes, Lysimachos, as you surely know. I have resolved to leave Kyrene to its independence; the time and money spent to subjugate it is better spent on re-equipping the army and training my new Romaioi-style soldiers."

Lysimachos spoke with the air of a man who knew something I did not. "So, your principal objection is that you have not the resources to capture and take Kyrene?"

"Yes," I spoke impatiently.

"Father, what If I told you that I opened, at my own expense, a new copper mine near the First Cataract, and have been using the revenues from it to equip an army of 5,000 machimoi to attack and conquer Kyrene?"

I was pleasantly shocked; Lysimachos was a worthy heir indeed. "Truly, son? You have done this? By all means, enact your plan..." I resolved to show him that I was not lacking in intelligence, either. Awe of a father is a good thing. "However, you realize that crossing a desert in the summer months is--"

Lysimachos cut me off. "Father, surely you don't believe I am that foolish? I've also equipped a suitable number of triremes to carry my men, and supplies along with the fleet. All will be taken care of."

I thanked the Gods above that this child of mine was loyal and faithful. He would prove a deadly enemy.

And so it was that Lysimachos sailed to Kyrene. I had not the time, however, to spare attention to his campaign. The army needed to be trained, alliances with the Pergamenes-in-exile to be renewed, the navy strengthened...

For several weeks, tedious administrative work occupied all of my daylight and many of my night hours. It was while I was poring over a new draft of a peace-renewal treaty to the nobles of Pontos that I was interrupted by a frightened and out-of-sorts messenger.

"Pharaoh Ptolemaios! The Phoenicians have come!" The native Egyptian messenger seemed completely distraught.

"Slow down, mail-carrier. The Phoenicians have not assembled their land armies near Lepcis yet. How could they attack me anywhere near Egypt?"

The mail-carrier nodded, as if he agreed with me. "Lord, you are correct. I know not how, but Hamalcar has launched a war-fleet of many ships from his capital. the naval base at Thera (an island naval base my father established in the west-central Middle Sea) has been utterly destroyed!"

I was not unduly worried. The western Phoenicians were renowned for their craftiness and naval acumen, but my naval forces were not inconsiderable. Surely the kybernates Philocaros would--

"Sir, your son Ptolemy Euergetes has taken personal command of the war-fleet and set out to battle Hamalcar. Philocaros attempted to protest, but Prince Euergetes had him thrown into prison!"

My rage was terrible at this news. That worthless, drunken sot of a son I had spawned seemed to, at every turn, foil and defeat my designs. It was only my strict principles of fatherhood, and the benevolent influence of Berenice, that prevented me from having him banished or executed. And now this!

Still, Hamalcar's navy was surely laden down with some invasion force or military armament. My navy was built for deadly striking power. The skill of my captains would surely counteract Euergetes's utter incompetence.

A week or so later, I was proved utterly wrong. It appeared that my fool of a son had attacked Hamalcar against the wind, first of all; second, the deviousness of Hamalcar's admiral had led to the mass use of fireships.

My entire Egyptian naval force was now at the bottom of the sea.

That Euergetes died was no consolation.

And now, an invasion force of unknown, but surely massive strength, was pointed at a certain city...

the City of Tyre.

The Phoenicians were coming home.

[Legio]

Chapter 22: The Defense of Tyre, part 1

I remember well those dire times. The Phoenicians were a bare three weeks from reaching Tyre; my son Lysimachos, controlling the only remaining Egyptian navy in the sea, was attacking Kyrene...

And Pharnakles Leukaspid, he of the White Shield, had resurfaced...as the King of Pontos.

It appeared that I had not paid enough attention to Mikra Asia.

But the Pontic resurgence would have to be ignored. I knew what must be done; the enemy must be met and held at the port of Tyre. If the Phoenicians were to gain landfall, they would cause untold damage and strife among my innocent subjects.

I left Alexandreia at the head of 4,000 Roman-trained Egyptian and Greek soldiers, along with 2,000 Thureophoroi and Thorakitai.

And of course the Legate Decurius marched with me, his stern aspect compelling his men to march faster yet than all of my disciplined warriors.

Altogether, it was 12,000 men who would undertake the defense of Tyre, along with the 2,000 strong garrison.

Surely the Phoenicians would not trump such numbers. The logistics required to transport an army larger than the one I had gathered were impressive indeed. As I knew that the crafty Hamalcar would have no doubt ordered his admiral to attack a defenseless Alexandreia, I left my elite royal guards along with all of my phalangitai to defend the capital.

Alexandreia would not fall by treachery.

Upon arriving at Tyre, I saw that the governor, an Egyptian named Wahibre, had took it upon himself to sink every merchant ship in the harbor, making the port completely inaccessible by sea. The Phoenicians would have to disembark upon dry land and then proceed to encircle the city.

Walls were strengthened; towers heightened; even siege engines were prepared upon our side, to be mounted on special platforms on the towers.

The Romaioi assisted us in crafting lethal dart throwers, which they called ballistae. I of course knew of these, them being a Greek invention, but the speed and skill in which the Romaioi engineers assembled them outstripped mine by far.

The Romaioi were an industrious people; I was well pleased they had no designs on the Hellenic world.

I was observing as the range of one of the new machines was tested when the call went out. Decurius strode up to me, the everpresent grimace heightened by the circumstances.

"Rex Ptolemy of Aegyptus," Decurius intoned formally, "The Punic armament has been spotted. They'll make landfall within two hours. Prepare your men." That characteristic of the Romaioi to treat any and all princes and kings of royal blood as normal men would bother many a ruler, but I found it oddly endearing. The honest bluntness of the Republican Italians was fresh and new in a world of toadying and lies.

I walked the circuit of the walls until I was on the seaward side. I stood there for several seconds as I considered the might of the western Phoenici.

I swear, to this day, that they enemy fleet outnumbered the Achaean fleet of a thousand ships at the fall of Ilium. The Phoenician navy could easily hold fifty thousand warriors.

My estimate was to prove correct. As the ships reached the shore and let loose their myriad legions, I was amazed both at their number and diversity.

Black Libyans bearing eight-foot spears strode along side Phoenician warriors armed in hoplite fashion. Mixed breeds of the two races bore throwing spears and chainmail not unlike the Romaioi.

Numidians bearing their lethal javelins poured forth in innumerable quantities, as barbarian Iberians with strange, rounded-bronze breastplates yelled their heathen battle-cries.

I was even ashamed to see a thousand-strong contigent of Greek hoplitai from the western colonies pour forth from one trireme. Money would buy out even loyalty to one's people, it would seem.

It seemed as if they hardly stopped to lay siege. Ladders pre-prepared were brought out of the ships, with rams being quickly constructed on the land outside the city walls. They threw up their ladders against the walls and began to climb...

I found myself surprised when a ladder hit against the stone rampart several feet away from me, the iron latches swinging down and affixing themselves to the sturdy construction. I scarcely had time to draw my blade and alert my warriors before the first enemy came over.

Just my luck; it was a monstrous, muscular Iberian bearing a massive shield and vicious sword, which I later learned was called a falcata. My study of him soon ceased when he, with a roar, swung wildly at me. I drew my much longer blade up into a parry; the only way I could defeat such a brute would be to keep his tiny short-sword out of reach of my flesh. I leapt backwards and swung my blade at his head. The Iberian brought up his massive shield in a block, and my sword rebounded off...

And so it continued for about a minute, when the barbarian caught me by surprise. Bringing his shield up over his head, he soon smashed it downwards against my blade, knocking it to the stone floor of the wall. He hefted his blade and smiled...

the blade licked out at my arm, slicing it superficially but painfully. I shouted in pain. I knew that I was no match for this muscular monster without a weapon, and all my other soldiers were occupied...

The Iberian kicked mightily at my breatplated chest, and knocked me to the ground...he hefted his sword once again, and...

a force of some sort took ahold of me as a voice in my head clearly stated, "Not today." guided by this power, I grabbed my helmet with both hands, removed it from my head, and swung it with superhuman force at the side of the Iberian's face.

He reeled to the right, teetering and falling off the wall.

I had very little time to consider what had just happened, for I noticed an Egyptian in difficulties, sparring with a more-skilled Phoenician bearing a spear. I leapt to help...

I will not concern you with rhetoric, but suffice to say the fighting went on for over an hour before a lull developed. All down the line of the wall, my men cheered until their throats were hoarse.

During this lull, I quickly made for the nearest large ballista, manned by two Romans. I ordered them to prepare as many bolts as they possibly could, and to alert their compatriots to do the same. I knew what would come next.


Rams.

The siege ram is utterly impressive; formed of the sturdiest wood and hardest iron, its brute force destroys any and all fortifications in its way. The walls of Tyre, while strong, were no Alexandreian bastion or Athenian Piraeus. They would not stand to concentrated rams.

But the stones and lethal missiles fired by ballistae would destroy these city-breakers as surely as they would destroy my walls.

My prophesy came true as the shouting in the Punic tongue carried across the no-man's-land between the wall and the siege lines. The rams came forward, pushed by the strongest barbarians the Phoenician army had to offer.

And my ballistas loosed...

I saw with my own eyes a ballista bolt penetrate the wood roofing of a ram and skewer a man underneath; the scream was audible even from such a distance. One after another, the rams were destroyed or the men operating them were killed.

Except for at the southern gate...

There, the Phoenician general deployed two rams, both heading for the gate. There were only two ballistas on the towers at the south gate, and both rams could not be destroyed in time...

Bolts fired at the rams; men fell. But they yet moved forward...

One ram was disabled in a lucky shot that utterly destroyed the metal head of the device, by hitting the wooden support. The ram collapsed, killing every one in it.

And as this happened, the other ram reached the gate...

once, it pounded...
twice...
thrice...
a fourth time...

and on the fifth, the gates burst open...

The waiting Phoenician warriors yelled their barbaric cries and ran forward, rushing through the annihilated gates.


We now had an enemy who outnumbered us by five to one within our city...

Chapter 22 Continued -- The Defense of Tyre

The moment when the barbarian hordes burst through the gates is crystallized within my consciousness to this day. It was almost as if a master artist had laid down the strokes; the charge inwards was almost beautiful. It was shattered as my men rose to the challenge and did battle for the hegemony of Syria.

The Phoenicians were confined to a very small entry which severely limited the number of men they could put into combat. Bunched together, the men made prime targets for missile fire of any kind...

Fortunate indeed that I had lined up eighty marksmen wielding the complicated and rare gastraphetes, a mechanical bow fired from the belly. The officer in charge, I could see, knew what he was doing; with three sharp commands, he prepared his men for the loosing.

And the effect was impressive indeed. The powerful bolts bowled over fully three ranks of the Phoenician horde, close-packed as they were. One gargantuan Kelt managed to raise his large, rectangular shield. His surprise was almost comical as the bolt went straight through the protective device and directly into his chest cavity.

Yet the primary drawback of the weapons was, of course, the time it took to load more missiles. This was apparent as the Phoenicians rushed forward, attempting to come to grips with the lethal warriors.

I had planned for this eventuality at every gate; two special divisions were positioned on every side of the three gates to acquire precisely the effect that I had aimed for.

Total annihilation.

My brave Romaioi, for those were the troops assigned, threw only one of their two missiles before launching themselves into the fray. Their short gladii were outranged by the huge Kelt blades and long Phoenician spears, but this did not stop the westerners. As one Roman was pierced through by a probing dory, two more closed in upon the wielder and stabbed him through the chest and stomach. In twos and threes, the cohesive and flexible Romaioi formation chewed through the undisciplined and compacted attackers.

The butchery continued until the two Roman segments met in the center where the attackers had formerly stood. Over the bodies of their deceased foemen, the Romans formed a battle-line facing towards the gate.

And not a moment too soon. For the next wave would most emphatically not be barbarians. A wave of Massalian Hellenes poured through the gate in a narrow, but lethal, phalanx formation. Their timeless battle-cry sent shivers down my spine...

But, apparently, not those of the Romans. At a signal from the officer of the gastraphetes, the Romaioi regiment parted in two to let the whirring bolts fly into the charging Greek phalanx.

I need not describe the carnage that resulted; suffice to say it was no lessened by the wave of pila that the Romans sent hurling towards the demoralized traitors, nor by the gladii-charge that nearly broke the enemy completely.

And so it went for a while, with the Romaioi battling in the forefront, gradually reinforced by elements of Galatians and machimoi filtered from relatively peaceful zones of the besieged polis. And yet, even the fabled legions of the West could not stand forever against the ever-increasing barbarian tide.

Men tired, and their lives began to be snuffed out, one by one. Here a tired Roman lifts his shield a bit too slowly, allowing a Libyan javelin to enter his throat...

Here, another's head is smashed by a massive Gallic war-hammer...

There, a machimoi's leather corselet does little to protect him from a Numidian slingstone crushing his head to a bloody pulp...

My men gave way, slowly, yielding every foot only after it was covered in blood. Finally, an intestine-soaked lochagos ran up to me, demanding respectfully that we withdraw back to the agora at the next lull. Regretfully, I agreed, and climbed down the battle-tower I had been standing upon back into the streets, to better organize the retreat.

I noticed, first, a fallen soldier's sheaf of javelins laying quite near my feet. I was embarassed and shameful at my lack of combat in the streets; a true leader should battle alongside his men. At the very least, their king could aid them from afar.

I picked up the javelin-carrier, holding four of its lethal cargo. I drew the first from its case, marveling at the smooth leather grip and how it fit snugly in my palm. I hefted it, testing the weight...

I'd not thrown a javelin since my first battle and victory, the Jaws of the Nile encounter. Very well, I thought. Let's put some old skills to use...

My first cast caught a mongrel breed of man [Liby-Phoenician] in the side, causing him to drop his blade and fall to the ground...

My second ricocheted off an Iberian round-helmet, stunning the man and allowing a nearby Makedone to ram a spear through his chest.

I apologize to the reader for dwelling upon this brief scene, but I include it only to emphasize that the true pursuit of a Hellenic general must always be to honor his men by taking their task upon himself. If a man does not do this, he is not better than scum beneath the feet of the world, or one such as Sarpedon.

I quickly dropped my weapons as the enemy fell back in disarray; beaten, but not vanquished. They'd be back, in force. As I prepared to call the retreat, I heard a strange sound...


"Zeus-Stratos, Leader of Armies, bless our quest!

"Blood-drenched Ares, God of War, give strength to our arms!

"Nike, Goddess of Victory, grant us what we desire!"

A lengthy Greek paean to the gods echoed throughout the city walls. Who could have come to our aid?

A messenger arrived and told me that ships bearing the Royal Eagle of Egypt had appeared behind the docked Punic fleet, and had let loose fire-bombs of a sort that were fast consuming the entire armada.

From outside the gates, sounds of ferocious battle could be heard. Unsure what was happening, I ordered my men outside guardedly, following them swiftly.

At my then-age of fifty six years, I'd not been so lucky in all my life. My son, Ptolemaios III Lysimachos, had arrived.

His five thousand machimoi warriors were supplemented, somehow, with thousands of Greek hoplites he'd somehow obviously before arriving. Never have I been so proud of my son...

The enemy, caught between a hammer and anvil of a quite different sort than Alexandros's, broke just as quickly. Running back to their boats, they found only burned hulks.

Fifty thousand men set out from Kart-Hadast; fifty thousand men attacked Tyre with all chance of success.

Fifty thousand men would now be buried, never to see their lands again.

It was the most stunning victory of my entire life...

And the last time that an army of the Phoenicians would ever be truly vanquished.

Chapter 23: Revelations, Delegations, and Diplomacy

I have always been amazed at the false and insufferable pride displayed by envoys of any sort. No matter the station of the country sending said diplomats, they will, without fail, be unbearably prideful and full of bluster.

The issue at hand with the Phoenicians, however, was that Hamalcar was one of the few rulers who had the might and influence to validate his bluster.

After the Great Siege, as my men had taken to calling it, My son, the Roman Decurius, and myself, were meeting to discuss how this extraordinary victory came to be.

I strode into the captured command tent of the Phoenician admiral Gisgo to find that Decurius and Lysimachos already awaited me within.

My son greeted me with a warm smile and greeting; it was in sharp contrast the Roman's quick, respectful nod.

With the pleasantries exchanged, such as they were, the debriefing could begin in earnest.

"Well, son of mine, I must admit, you have eclipsed even my glories at the engineering of this feat." While not overly warm, my respect was deep and genuine. At my ever-advancing age, I was glad that my heir was as qualified to lead Egypt to glory as I had ever been.

Decurius also expressed his respect. "As your father has said, you are indeed...competent..."
It was quite difficult for one as austere and aloof as Decurius to give adequate praise; that he spoke at all proved his admiration of the deed.

"I thank you both. I am glad that we, together, could deal this blow to the enemies of the state." Lysimachos was not overly proud; in this, he differed from many other Greek rulers.

"How, Lysimachos, how? How did you procure the army? I understand that you must have used your machimoi for this purpose, but I am confounded as to how you acquired such an impressive force of Hellenes."

I was wondering, truly; any Greek warriors that the Pharaohs of Egypt command are either from Naucratis or from the Red Sea colonies. These warriors did not bear the arms characteristic of either of those locales.

Lysimachos had that mischevious glint in his eye that I had come to know well.

"Well, father, it appeared that the men of Kyrene were perhaps more...partial...to our cause after I destroyed their advance force in Barca. I had heard of your plight and offered them a proposition: donate three thousand Greek hoplitai and the beneficent Pharaoh would be glad to grant independence to Kyrene...under, of course, our protection."

My son was as close to the ideal Greek ruler as a man can be on this earth. His diplomatic skills eclipsed that of the most unctuous Persian envoy.

Decurius and I both silently applauded his skill. After the explanation, our task was clearly to organize our defenses; first in Tyre, and then in Kyrene, surely the site of the next assault. The Barca would not be able to land such a naval blow again; his navy was at the bottom of the bay in Tyre.

It was to such a task I put myself; the defenses of Tyre would be suitably organized by my hand and that of Decurius. Lysimachos would proceed to Kyrene, as they knew him already and would treat him more reasonably than they would myself.

And so the reconstruction of Tyre began. With my men serving as laborers, the repairs to the walls and gates took a bare two weeks; impressive, considering the damage done there. I also commanded the digging of a twenty-five foot wide ditch, twenty feet deep, around the polis. When filled with water, this would present a formidable obstacle. The idea was, in its own, simple way, quite revolutionary, and I hoped to garner great use out of it.

It was while supervising the strengthening of the previously-wooden northern gate that I received word of diplomats from Kart-Hadast waiting within a guarded room in the civic center.

Hastening there, I felt no trepidation whatsoever. My victory was complete and total; surely Hamalcar was here to sue for peace.

Upon arriving, I was deeply unimpressed by the envoys; they were of the type I described earlier. As the first one prepared to speak, I gritted my teeth and hid my emotions.

"Outlaw ruler of the land known as Egypt, know that the King Hamalcar, the Brave, the Just, the Honorable, has deigned to send word to you that he will call off his invincible armies for the small price of Syria. If you cede this province to the Barcid Royal House, you shall rule as a friend and ally of Kart-Hadast in Egypt, forever protected by our mighty warriors. What say you?"

I was outraged. How dare he present such an...and then I grasped onto an appropriate response. Surely it would not work, but it would at least let Hamalcar know that I was not some pygmy king to be toyed with.

"But of course," I responded smoothly. "I will gladly submit to you the province of Syria. But, in order to make sure that your newly-given province will be safe and secure, the King of Pontos must be dethroned. Surely you realize that if I give it to you, my withdrawal will be seized upon by the Persian barbarians? Your ruler is wise indeed, and I leave the judgment up to him."

I was satisfied; I had set an impossible and ridiculous requirement which would give me moral and legal grounds to resist Phoenician advances until the task was complete.


What was to surprise me the most was Hamalcar's response.

Chapter 24: Tyche's Malice, part 1

There are some in this world of ours that seem to hold up the man devoid of artifice and deceit as a paragon; a role model that we all should follow.

By my reckoning, these men do more damage to our world than any other. For we live in a world of lies and facades, of false fronts and mistrust. And those who cannot keep up in such an environment drag down others with them.


So it was with Pharnakles, now King of Pontos.

Since my encounter with him perhaps twenty years ago, Pharnakles had prospered. His altruistic nature and utter loyalty, along with his redoubtable skill at warcraft, won him much favor with the Pontic king Mithradates. He served his monarch so faithfully, so unquestioningly, that Mithradates declared Pharnakles to be his heir and son, even over his blood kin. The cold-blooded Pontikoi then proceeded to put all his blood-sons to their deaths so they could not challenge Pharnakles' claim.

Ironic indeed that the altruism of one man could lead to such butchery.

As I have said, I was indeed impressed with myself after I sent off the reply to Hamalcar; Surely there was no way he could diplomatically wriggle out of such a quandary.

And, when his ambassadors returned two months after their previous visit, I could scarcely conceal my anticipation.

I greeted them with a warm smile. "Friends, I am glad to see you here once again, safe and sound. What word does your ruler bring to me?"

The ambassadors seemed somewhat put-off by my welcoming civilities. The foremost of them answered with what approached a sneer.

"Ruler of the Egyptians, Shopet-for-life Hamalcar has considered your proposition, and after much deliberation, has accepted."

I smiled. Surely Hamalcar could not be such a fool. "Oh, indeed? Well I am gladdened to hear that Hamalcar will valiantly throw his mighty army between the defenseless Egyptians and the vile barbarians of the north."

The envoy's smile eclipsed even mine. "Oh, don't trouble yourself with worry about our brave warriors. Indeed, the silver tongue of our great leader has convinced the gracious King Pharnakles to not attack Syria whatsoever. When he heard of the bargain between our nations, he agreed immediately to follow its terms to the letter. He will now gladly enforce every requirement of it, without question."

I could scarcely believe this. I had truly misjudged both Hamalcar and the Pontic king. Had I but remembered that Pharnakles Leukaspid was a naive fool! He would take the bargain as if it were passed down from Zeus himself, such was his innocence.

I glowered at the envoys, all pretenses gone. "Get out, you Phoenician dogs. Your trickery won't win for you what your strength could not. So be it; I shall battle your Pontic lapdog as well as your cowardly armies."

They hurried quickly out, barely concealing their ill-gained satisfaction.


The Fates had not smiled upon the cause of Egypt this day. I would now have yet another formidable foe to deal with on the battlefield...

A nation of warriors, of horsemen, of Persians, would now come crashing down upon my beleaguered nation.

It was time to use some 'liberal diplomacy' of my own.

Tyche's Malice, Part 2

There are certain attributes which remain fixed, as if in stone, when considering a race of people. For instance, the Persians have always been associated with wealth and decadent opulence; the Romans with austere severity. We of the Greek world are known chiefly for our political fractiousness. The Greeks will only act together if a decision is thrust upon them; if this does not happen, then we will squabble and bicker as we always have.

It is this assumption upon which the Phoenician tactics have been based; that the Egyptian nation would be friendless and hopeless against the combined arms of the many nations of the barbaric West.

Truly, a Pontic horde was even then marching in a stately procession downwards toward Antiocheia, conducting themselves impeccably to the nearby townspeople and farmers. Say what you will of Pharnakles; the man truly is well-meaning.

Yet Egypt was not alone in that dark time, no...

And my great friend delivered what would be his first and last repayment of his debt to my nation.

A messenger with reports of the result came to me, seeking my approval.

As the events were described to me, I imagined them as they surely must have happened....

Clouds of dust fill the air as a host of warriors numbering in excess of thirty thousand kick up dirt along a dusty trail....

Men armored in chain-mail, in leather, bearing all manner of weapons.

At their head rides a hawk-faced man of the highest nobility. Bearing ornate golden armor and carrying a long kontos held down at his horse's side, he looks fit to leap into battle at an instant.

The host expects no trouble on its march; the oath-breaking king they go to dethrone is occupied elsewhere. The wronged side of a holy contract gives the men of Egypt much grief.

The king Pharnakles permits himself a small smile as he sees the middle-sized city of Tarsos. This ripe Kikilian fruit will surely fall before his righteous arms...

The king's smile fades as his keen ears detect strident voices shouting, ordering, arguing. A cloud of dust to rival that brought by his own armament appears from behind the town....

Who could it be? Who would come to the aid of oath-breakers?


The mighty symbol of the Seleukid Royal House flies proudly above the serried ranks of the eastern Hellenes. They come to honor an oath more sacred yet than a bond between barbarian and Greek...

A debt of service.

Down go the spears, forming a wall of sharpened metal.

Out slide blades from their Greek scabbards.

The stretching of bowstrings is audible even from such a distance as the Syrian archers, having so faithfully served the Seleukids in Antiocheia of old, appear once more in large numbers.

Pharnakles barely has time to swing his men into position before battle is joined...

A human wall of Pontikoi warriors crash into the spears presented in their stately formation. Some snap, some fall...but not enough. The momentum of the charge propels the hapless men onto blades, ensuring their death by impalement.

Pharnakles is no fool, and realizes that he cannot overcome such a force with these tactics. He is wise, and knows that the army he has brought this day cannot defeat the mighty force of Seleukids brought to bear against him.

He gallantly orders the rest of his army to begin their retreat. His officers inquire as to whether he is coming...he answers, no.

The proud royal guard of Pontos lowers their spears and charges into the now-disorganized mass of pursuing Seleukid warriors...

The impact is immense. Dozens of men are killed by mere trampling, and as many by skill and force of arms. The Seleukids fall back, back...

and yet, the flanks of the phalanx begin to turn, to swivel. The cavalry will surely be trapped between opposite walls of sarissae...

But, no! The Pontic cavalry wheel leftwards, hacking through yet more phalangites as they go. Having executed a full turn, they ride off as fast as their tired mounts will allow.

True, the allies of Egypt hold the field. But the army of the enemy is completely intact.

Antiochos II Theos, Brother of Planets, King of Babylon, and Basileus of the Seleukid Empire, shall not help Ptolemaios against the Phoenicians. The Egyptians shall fare as best they can against the might of the west; Pontos will require the attention of Antiochos.

Is a victory a victory if the outcome is hollow?

Chapter 25: Thunder of Baal, Part 1

Finally, I arrive at the start of what surely all of my readers will recognize. The first great battle to be fought outside of Egyptian soil against the Phoenicians was drawing ever nearer; I am told by military academics that the battle is studied nearly as much as that of Arbela or Granikos. Having a battle of my own doing be compared to that of Megas Alexandros would be flattering indeed...

Were but the battle not the worst disaster since the bloodied fields of Prince's Folly.

After a solid several months of recontruction work within Tyre, I feared I had lingered overlong within my Syrian domains. Alexandreia, and of course Berenice, called. Too much time had passed since I had held my court in the greatest city in the world.

I, with Lysimachos and Decurius in tow, rode into Alexandreia at the head of 12,000 decorated and hardened warriors, veterans of the Siege of Tyre all.

I rode in a chariot crafted out of electrum, as the Pharaohs of old always had. Behind me rode Decurius and Lysimachos, in matching silver vehicles.

In disciplined, awe-inspiring lines, rank after rank of the new military elite of my kingdom, the agema (the warriors modeled after that of the Seleukids) strode boldly and silently behind. At their flanks rode the fierce Companions of my bodyguard, ever-ready to give their blood for the Twin Crowns.

In the middle of the procession marched the proud sons of Egypt, the machimoi. Having fought so long for a foreign dynasty, I now gave the utmost concern to honoring them as they deserved. Soon, Hellene and Egyptian would be one.

Lastly came my redoubtable Galatians and Hellenic hoplites, ever faithful and unswerving to my cause despite the popular image of mercenary disloyalty. All of them would be granted kleruchoi, or their own plots of land, to far and own.

I shall spare you more of this descriptive rhetoric; suffice to say, Decurius compared it to a Roman Triumphus, which is high praise from such a patriot as he.

I spent several days...well, I won't mention anything besides the fact that despite my age, I have the vigor of a man.

Yet after, I found myself arbitrating for the lawsuits of commoners. Though a tedious activity, it was indeed necessary for both my image and the well-being of my people.

The annoyance merely increased when I saw the next issue was probably going to be trivial and foolish. I'd seen these same two appearing before me several times before...

The bushy-bearded Chaldean spoke first. "King Ptolemy, this utter rat Ezekiel has ONCE AGAIN attempted to cheat me! He's been using underweight silver!"

The Jew on the other side of the dispute was outraged. "I did no such thing, heathen Babylonian! Those silver coins were minted straight from his Majesty's treasury! To claim otherwise is a slight upon the Pharaoh himself. In addition, the pottery you sold me had cracks!"

I sighed. "Nabbazanus, do you have the coins this time...?"

The Chaldean grinned triumphantly. "I certainly do!" He showed them to me proudly.

I examined them. "Ezekiel...oh, damn you both! These coins are from the year after Alexandros's death, when Egypt had that shortage in the treasury. Of course they're cheapened!"

The two looked sheepishly at each other. Without a word, the two walked away, still arguing under their breath.

I shook my head. Some of my subjects...

My reverie was interrupted by the arrival of one of my ubiquitous messengers. I opened the papyrus scroll he gave to me with haste.

To the Great Basileus Ptolemaios II, my lord and ruler:

"Greetings, great king. I wish to inform you that my scouts have reported suspicious activity along the border. Spies from within the Phoenician realm confirm that a military operation is underway. They seem to believe that Hamalcar has his mind set on a march across the coast all the way to Alexandreia; I suppose he'll supply his army with what ships you did not destroy at Tyre. I beg of you to gather your forces and march westwards to defend your humble vassal. May Zeus Stratos and Hermes fleet-of-foot bless your endeavor.

Humbly,
King Magas of Kyrene

The Thunder of Baal, Part 2

I read the missive several times automatically before I could spur my mind into motion. The attack, of course, made sense and came at a reasonably plausible time. I had been deceiving myself to think that my victory at Tyre and Antiochos's at Tarsos had cowed the westerners into meek submission.

Ironic indeed that I would ride to the aid of Magas; the traitorous pig declared independence in the early years of my reign, when I was unable to contest it. However, having him in power was a necessary evil.


So I steeled myself for what would be the greatest conflict and test of my reign. But I would not meet the western armies with my comparatively paltry Royal Army of thirty thousand.

For as I had been repairing Tyre, my son Lysimachos had, at my request, begun the greatest recruiting drive in the history of our kingdom. Clever propaganda tied to monetary benefits ensured nearly twenty thousand new recruits being drafted into my armies.

Lucky indeed that the call came as well when most of the sons of my landed nobles came of age. A new generation of Hetairoi and elite Phalangitai would ride and march against the barbarians of the west.

The noble levies amounted to another seven thousand on top.

Thus it would be that an army of nearly sixty thousand would march westward against the Phoenicians of Hamalcar.

The men set out from Alexandreia in high spirits, and why not? Any newly-raised army will surely have an inflated sense of its own invinicibility and martial strength. I did not begrudge them their happiness by inflicting grim reality upon them.

Now, if they left Kyrene singing, perhaps I would have a triumph worthy of the name.

Due to their courage and eagerness for combat, the army made wonderful time, unburdened as it was by a supply train (for I, as well as the westerners, was making good use of my navy). We were nearing Kyrene almost before I was aware of it.

I rode at the head of the long column, along with Lysimachos, my chief strategos Animixandros, and of course the Roman Decurius.

"Well, my friends, it looks like we've arrived." Lysimachos, true to his optimistic personality, was not unduly worried about the coming trial.

"Indeed, prince. I only hope we can bring as much glory to Egypt as your father and...Dekourios.... have in their past battles." Animixandros was, as well as a brilliant tactician, a born courtier. His polished flattery was only spoiled by his stumbling over the alien Latin sounds of Decurius's name.

Decurius was unimpressed. "While I agree, your toadying does not do you credit. Suffice to say that I hope my kinsmen fair well in Hispania; I've not heard word of Roman victories there. Perhaps if my countrymen do their part, Hamalcar will be too distracted to battle you here."

His dry tone held some hope; if the Romaioi could hold Hamalcar, then his resolve against me here would be much weakened.

With Decurius's comment, the conversation shifted to trivial matters. We rode the west of the way to Kyrene talking amiably amongst ourselves.

The gates of Kyrene swung open before us four and our honor guards. We were quickly escorted to the palace of Magas.

Once inside, we proceeded to the reception chamber specially prepared for foreign dignitaries. There stood Magas.

He was an unremarkable man at first glance. Of middling height, he bore graying brown hair along with a trimmed beard. His body was muscular enough to inspire respect, but not so imposing as to invoke admiration. His clothes were fine, but not opulent.

Distinctly normal.

Except that Magas possessed one of the most facile minds I'd seen yet. While militarily he was no Alexandros, he ruled his nation with a firm and wise hand and his city had grown prosperous under his reign. His people were happy, his farms rich. I doubt that a formally appointed archon could have governed it so well as he did.

It was such a man that greeted us. He started off with the pleasantries; however, we soon got down to the business for which we had come. "Brother-King Magas, how many men do you bear under arms besides the ones already serving under me?" my question was vital and direct.
"A hair short of four thousand, I believe, all of them hoplitai. Oh, and I've also procured several, ehm, ballistae through trade with Roma." I was impressed. Though we Hellenes could build such engines, the Kyrenakoi undoubtedly lacked the necessary engineers. it was wise indeed for Magas to appropriate such machines.

"Good!" Animixandros exclaimed. "That is good indeed. We have brought some machines with us, but yours will be welcome as well."

Magas nodded. "Anything to keep Kyrene in Greek hands. On that matter, I recommend that you engage the Phoenici away from the city. Their plundering would do my peasants much harm and the city's walls will not stand siege."

We agreed. Fighting within the walls would be irresponsible and dangerous. The army would meet them at the best point possible...

Our scouts soon located such a plain. Being undisturbed except for some scrub grass and a few desperately thirsty trees, it was perfect for the maneuvers of our cavalry, infantry, and...

Elephants. For Magas had one more trick up his sleeve: Twenty elephants from deepest Africa served us this day. Their brute force was stronger than any lance, their endurance more useful than any armor. They would serve us well.

Even better was the knowledge that the Romaioi had insinuated a local sympathizer within the ranks of Hamalcar's mahouts. One night several weeks ago, the crafty man had hamstrung each and every animal in Kart-Hadast.

There would be no clash of elephantine tusks. The advantage was mine.

Our council of generals agreed on a sound plan. The phalangitai would of course anchor the center, with mobile infantry on the flanks (my agema on the right, the Romaioi on the left) Farther on the flanks still were the mighty Companions, serving alongside the less prestigious but still powerful lonchoroi and prodromoi.

The elephants were positioned to the far left, hopefully away from the sight of Hamalcar.

Once this was agreed upon, we set to preparation. Dust clouds from far away alerted us to the presence of the apparently sixty-five thousand strong horde of westerners.

Their line of battle resembled ours, excluding their lack of phalangites. Hoplitai-style warriors served that purpose in their case.

And so battle was joined. Our missile-armed warriors traded long-ranged blows. Men fell, more on their side than ours; my Skythian mercenaries and Kretan warriors outranged the western bows.

The Phoenici saw they were engaged in a losing contest and closed ranks, preparing to charge. Their hoplitai locked shields, presenting a lethal wall...

Iberians girded themselves for battle, drawing their lethal cutting falcatas...

Numidian barbarians mounted their saddle-less desert mounts, preparing javelins for their lethal flights.

Rhetoric aside, the Phoenician war-host was as ready as ours.

The hoplitai launched themselves forward, their battle-cries a barbarous parody of the time-honored hoplite call. Alongside them ran the swift mobile Iberians and Keltoi; their cavalry followed suit.

The contact was as immense as I had expected. Hoplites at first broke the sarissae of my pikemen by sheer momentum. They looked on the point of breaking through before my startled pikemen recovered their valor.

From that point on, it was a slaughter. The linen corselets of the western hoplites served them little when spear-blades pierced their flesh. One bold Phoenician, seeing the futility of his attacks, drew back his heavy spear to throw; before he could, he found himself transfixed by three sarissae. He slid slowly to the ground, devoid of life.

On the flanks, the contest was more even. Barbarian traded blow with barbarian; my Galatians gave as good as they got. Two of the combatants, related by distant culture if not blood, dropped shield and removed helmet and dueled. The clash of their swords rang out even above the din and clamor of battle.

The cavalry of the enemy fell before the military elite of Hellas. Javelins pierced my charging Hetairoi, true, but once they reached close-range the enemy fell in droves. Soon, the cavalry of the enemy was in full retreat.

Or what they had showed of it, anyway. Now a brigade of elite cavalry charges out from behind the Punic lines; here, my Hetairoi turn to face their near foe. Conflict resumes...

The battle was only slightly in my favor; it could have gone on like that for hours.

Thus it was time.

My elephants trumpeted and roared in their animal fury, their lumbering stride turning into a full run.

The elite cavalry of the Phoenicians fell first. Horses collapsed, men with them, as the monstrous beasts destroyed them with their immense size. Men flew right and left, those that were not gored to death by the tusks of the charging elephants. Next fell the Keltoi. Armed with naught but swords, all their valor was useless against such large creatures. They were smashed under the ferocious attack of Magas's monsters.

One Gaul, filled to the brim with suicidal bravery, dodged to the side of one elephant and drove his sword, at an angle, deep into the head of the elephant. The beast reared, pulling up on its back legs...

Before it collapsed on the brave Kelt, killing him in the process.

All would be well, I thought. My elephants carried all before them. Nothing would stop them now...

And Nemesis saw my hubris, and acted. As one, the fighting Iberians turned and raised their javelins, heedless of the men now killing them in their distraction.

The arc of the missiles was beautiful and synchronized...

the thud of metal into flesh was as a dull punch in my head. The elephants, in their terrible confusion, turned, ran every which way...

That same strength that propelled them against my foes now turned upon friend and enemy alike. The two armies fell back in confusion, dying in droves.

The rout was complete. My men ran, dropping their spears and blades; only the Galatians, Companions, Agema, and Romaioi kept their dignity and retreated in good order.

Though we were both damaged, this battle hurt me far more than my enemy. For while I had nearly three quarters of my army serving at this battle, Hamalcar was using perhaps forty-five percent.

And now, I would fight more men with less than I had had before.

[Legio]

Chapter 28: A Victorious Defeat

I am pressed to admit that the battle outside Kyrene was not as large of a disaster as I previously made it out to be. It is true that many died on my side; but many more died on theirs. At the very least, this showed that my army was quite capable of destroying a Phoenician army without fancy tactics.

What I did not consider was what would happen if Hamalcar was in command...
but all would be made clear to me in time.

Our retreat back to Alexandreia was disciplined and ordered. My men were not unduly put out; they had been winning, and they knew it. No fluke mishap would steal their morale this day. As one Galatian said, "Just let us back at the bastards and we'll have them crying for the whores of mothers who gave birth to them!". Such ferocious sentiments did my heart good.

But there remained the matter of my low manpower. My recruiting drives had been successful, but to instate another within Egypt's borders would cause turmoil and havoc. Not enough men would be left behind to reap the harvest!

I called a meeting of my three faithful advisors to devise a solution.

As they stepped in, Gnaeus Flavius Decurius spoke up immediately. "Rex, you cannot ask my nation for more reinforcements. Every soldier we have is being put towards my nation's conflict in Hispania."

I was interested. "So you have news of the war in the far west? How goes it?"

Decurius gave a small, fierce smile. "I've heard that a great general who goes by Cornelius Scipio is giving the Punics a rough time. A great battle near Numantia smashed the Carthaginian regulars of Hispania. They are near victory, or so the herald said."

while internally I shouted 'YES!', I merely nodded and said, "That is good news indeed."

Animixandros, sharp as always, cut to the heart of the matter. "Now, Basileus, you've certainly called us here to discuss the recruiting dilemma, correct?" I nodded. "I thought so. Frankly, sir, I have decided that we must turn to our new Syrian provinces for more men."

I pondered this. "Syria? Interesting indeed. But would it be worth the time spent there recruiting soldiers? I suppose it might; those Syrians are doughty fighters."

Lysimachos frowned and shook his head sadly. "True, but what loyalty do they owe to us? They'd be at best disloyal mercenaries; money can only buy faith for so long." he paused, and rethought his statement. "However, the toxotai of Damaskos and Antiocheia owe us greatly for freeing them from the depredations of Sarpedon. They surely have not forgotten what we did for them. But that will only amount to another several thousand recruits..."

We were at an impasse. Who would aid us? None, it seemed.

And then, oddly, the tent flap opened and a sentry strode in. "Yes, what is it, sentry?" I asked.

The sentry gulped nervously, and then plunged in to his point. "Pharaoh, my n-name is Antonios. I'm an Ioudaian from Hierosolyma. I-I think that I might have an idea."

My entire reign's campaign to turn my army into a meritocracy seemed to have paid off. "Well, speak up, ...Antonios? How does one of your kind come by that name?"

He smiled, embarassed. "My mother felt that our new rulers would take kindly to a Hellenized Jew. She said it was time to submit to our rulers and adopt some of their customs, if not all of them."

I grinned. Helleno-native synthesis! The Great Dream of Alexandros was yet alive today. "Interesting. And your idea was?"

"Pharaoh...all the Jews in your great army hate the Phoenicians greatly. We see them as mere reincarnations of their barbarous ancestors, the Canaanites. Our people fought great wars to drive those idol-worshipers out of the promised land. Perhaps you should present your campaign in this way: As a great army of Hellenes deigning to help their Jewish subjects to destroy the resurgent devil-lovers of old...

My people would swarm to your cause. Too long have the warrior people of Israel sat peacefully in their villages and cities."

And there I had it; from the word of an unusually bright soldier of the agema, I would send recruiting sergeants to Ioudaia.

For is manipulation and deceit truly evil if it is for a noble cause?

Chapter 29: The Hand of New Hellas

By Horus above and Hades below! I fear that as I had some time back in this narrative, I have done again: I've once again focused only on local events to the exclusion of the wider world, at least as it affected me.

And it would wound me direly.

Sometimes it seems as if my life was one long series of campaigns and marches, both in victory and defeat. So it was as my army trudged back to Alexandreia; faded into the backdrop of despair and disappointment, the journey was as nothing.

My arrival was scarcely less ignominious. My men were dismissed to the enlargened barracks I had prepared before my journey westward. Lysimachos, credit to the Makedones that he was, embarked upon the road to Hierosolyma, there to propagate the interesting idea of the now-captain Antonios.

This world that we live in has shuddered and cracked to the point where nothing is the same. All has gone down into meaningless war and strife; the pride of nations is a bitter motive for yet more ceaseless conflicts.

And the great king of a unified Hellas deigned to turn his eye towards our wars for this reason.

Alexandros Aiakides, they tell me, is a remarkable man (for he rules still in his Greek kingdom). His father Pyrrhos was a renowned leader of men, but it availed him naught when the Makedonians crushed him near Pella. Alexandros inherited a defeated and weak kingdom that would have yet fallen to the Makedones were it not for his rulership.

Historians tell me that Alexandros somehow won over the cities of Hellas proper to his side and caught Antigonos Gonatas in a hammer-and-anvil movement worthy of Alexandros. As I have already detailed, the fallout led to the sack of Pergamon.

Alexandros assimilated Hellas into his new nation peacefully; they seemed more eager to join this new northern basileus than their ancestors had been to join another, perhaps more famous ruler.

So this new ruler would now commit his battle-hardened armies somewhere. Where was much on my mind.

I was reading several recruitment reports when I heard a running courier's footfalls outside my study. His news was unsurprising; the Epeirote king had taken a hand, by way of going west.

Italia would shake under the footsteps of a new generation of Lukanian Cows.

I slammed my fist down upon the desk. This boded direly for the war...

Decurius and Animixandros entered my study to discuss the new development.

"Roman. Can your people defeat this Alexandros?" I asked him seriously; the response would determine my next action.

Decurius's fierce hawk-like visage assumed a contemplative position. "...Yes, rex Ptolemy, I believe we can. The wise Senate of Roma was not so foolish as to ignore the new tyrant in the west. Our ranks will fill up with the ready and willing hastati that always defeat our enemies."

I smiled. At least the Roman did not underplay his nation's strength. "Good. Now, I have tasks for the both of you. Decurius, I want you to take half of my forces westward to Ptolemais-Theron. There shall you construct fortifications in the event of a Phoenician penetration into Egypt." Decurius nodded and left the room.

"Animixandros...I have something yet more adventurous for you. How do you fancy being a kybernates? The navy awaits your command; you shall sail it to the great city of Kart-Hadast and put it under blockade. The Phoenician traders will not gather yet more riches for their nation."

Animixandros grinned. "And seeing as how we sunk their navy outside of Tyre, they won't be bothering us at all."

I nodded, smiling. I had chosen wisely; now it but remained for me to prepare for Hamalcar's army on land.

And by Zeus, what a battle that man would give me...

Chapter 30: A Barcid Dawn

My physician Kastor tells me that I do not have much time; the wound that the son of Hamalcar dealt me in the Battle of the erythrum delta competes with Hannibal himself to slay me. So it appears that I must increase the pace at which this tale is being told.

I must cut to the heart of the matter in this case: the events directly after the departure of my navy for Kart-Hadast were headed off by a letter from Magas of Kyrene.

"Basileus Ptolemaios II of Egypt, I send this letter to you out of respect for your attempts at defeating the Punikoi outside my city. You and your father both are noble kings, fit to rule the nation you lead. But I must inform you that I have decided to remain neutral in any further conflicts. Kyrene cannot spare the men lost at that last battle, and we must not fall to a conqueror's hand. Hamalcar of the Phoenicians has agreed to spare my city if I do not aid you further.

So it will be. I leave you with this information: the army of Hamalcar approaches your border with my lands as we speak. They are making for Ptolemais-Theron and its oasis; I believe their supplies are running low. May the Fates and Tyche bless you."

My burst of anger after finishing the note was soon cooled by the knowledge that Magas was doing only what was best for his people. He could not defend himself against Kart-Hadast; and frankly, neither could I. To this day, I don't begrudge the man for what he did that day.

There remained the matter of Hamalcar's army. The fortifications of Gnaeus Decurius were almost certainly complete; if the city of Roma ever somehow conquer the world, it will be owed in no small part to the shovels of her soldiers.

I walked into the royal barracks in the military quarter of town, flanked by four of the agema. The commandant and his subordinates quickly rose to attention from their games of chance when they noticed my presence.

"Gentlemen, I want the elements of the army quartered here ready to move within two days. The enemy is approaching the oasis at Ptolemais-Theron and we must not tarry."

To the commandant's credit, he strode out immediately to make the preparations. I felt certain that we could arrive and fully entrench before the arrival of the Phoenici.

Our departure was swift and efficient; the fifteen thousand or so men left in Alexandreia were ready to leave on schedule. The march was unremarkable and we arrived scarcely five days after leaving Alexandreia.

Decurius met me at the gate of his Roman-style command compound with a frown.

"rex Ptolemy, why are you here? I was made to understand you had urgent administrative matters to attend to in the capital."

I shook my head. "Nothing is quite so urgent as defeating an invader, Decurius. Hamalcar is within a week's travel of reaching this place." I looked around, impressed. "By Horus! You work quickly! This wall must be four miles long!"

Decurius nodded. "Four and three quarters. It should force the Carthaginians to directly attack the wall; any attempt to go around will merely meet the shorter town wall."

I was blessed indeed to have such an adjutant. "Most excellent. I want the men to begin construction of stone throwers and your ballistae immediately."

Decurius nodded. "It shall be done." And with that, the arduous preparations began.

We worked as if we were tireless; nearly thirty engines of war were constructed, and a six-foot ditch was dug in front of the palisade; The spikes at the bottom would show wall-climbers why grace is a virtue.

The army finished all projects two days before Hamalcar's projected arrival. It was crucial that the men rest before combat; the much-needed respite would do wonders for both morale and stamina.

After a full day of rest, the men girded themselves for the conflict. Advance scouts reported that Hamalcar was near...

Do you know what it is to stand on a rampart and look out at eighty thousand men? In a word, terrifying. My army numbered perhaps fifty thousand; I had no idea that Hamalcar would still possess such an armament after the battle outside Kyrene.

Our two nations faced each other down for the better part of an hour before the frenzied activities of both besieger and besieged began. Ladders, apparently brought with the Phoenician army, were trundled out towards our wooden wall. Archers began marching into range of our ramparts. The enemy moved with competent ease...

Their coolness was somewhat thrown when the first thirty-pound stones began smashing men to bits. I watched as twenty men carrying a ladder jogged hurriedly towards my wall. A catapult behind the wall threw its deadly cargo at the same time that a wall-mounted ballista lauched its deadly missile.

The stone hit in the dead-center of the ladder, smashing it in half and utterly destroying the arms of the two men holding it at that point. The three-foot arrow shot from the bolt-thrower speared one man, then two, then three; all told, they resembled some roasted animal over a camp-fire. The remaining barbarians ran away, all pretenses at courage gone.

But such flukes did not occur on all of the ladders; and there were many of them indeed. Perhaps a fifth of the siege equipment deployed by the enemy was destroyed; but that left a sizeable portion yet unharmed. The ladders swung into position menacingly...

As a ladder crashed into position twenty feet down from where I and Decurius were standing, I remember wishing I was not fifty-eight years old. I drew my blade, ready to deal with any stragglers who made it past the doughty Kikilian warriors standing ready near me.

The first up the ladder was a giant, black Aethiopian of some sort; I suppose that the black race inhabits all of this continent we stand on. Regardless, his leopard-skin tunic did nothing to shield him from the point of a spear that pierced his abdomen. The brute shrieked like an animal as he fell into the ditch; his scream was cut off by a spike rising up through his head.

The next was an Iberian, and the one after a Libyan; but it mattered not. My men killed them in droves.

The battle appeared to be going marvelously well at first; nowhere had the Phoenicians even gained a toehold on the wall. Already I estimated that several thousand had been slain, with perhaps three dozen dead on my side.

But that all changed as a hail of arrows from a squad of Punic archers killed perhaps ten defenders, two ladders down from me. The gap was quickly filled; but the damage was done. Two Phoenicians were on the wall, then three; as I watched, one fell off the wall silently, his head pierced by an arrow fired from inside the walls. But another two had already mounted the wall...

This pattern continued until a solid hundred enemies had formed into a heterogeneous mass of tight-packed barbarians. They were shrugging off attack after attack from my less numerous and concentrated warriors...

I was struck with sudden inspiration. "Decurius!" I yelled. "Launch ballistae at them!" I pointed to identify the group; as if I needed to. Decurius smiled grimly as he ran down the stairs and gave orders to his firing-centurion.

Six ballistae fired in unison; six bolts flew through the air.

Fifty men died.

With the enemy ranks disordered and thinned, my men swarmed in from both sides, killing each and every barbarian still on the walls in that area. One enterprising soldier picked up a dropped, still-smoldering firebrand brought up by an Iberian (who presumably wanted to burn down the wall) and touched it to the ladder near him. The dry wood burned beautifully... almost as beautifully as the men still on it.

I shouted in joy. Hamalcar would do nothing to my army this day! I was defeating him on every expanse of the wall, and my siege engines wreaked horrible havoc on his archers and stationary parts of his army.

The balance suddenly shifted when the men climbing the ladders stopped being barbarians and started being warriors of the Sacred Band. The Sacred Band of Carthage is dedicated to their heathen gods, and has an impressive military record; they fought nobly against the Romans in the Punic War of years past and had served Carthage well indeed.

I wished I could do as Agathokles did and massacre them...

I digress. Now, it is well known that the men of Egypt are not weak nor unskilled at war. But while my agema and Galatians fought well and stymied the Sacred Band, my lesser-trained troops gave way. A kleruch phalangite skilled at forming his phalanx will still fight well with sword against barbarian rabble; but against a nation's elite warriors, he will fail. And fail they did...

The wall was in turmoil. I saw no less than three machimoi rush towards a warrior of the Sacred Band; the warrior merely smiled. Their reed javelins bounced off the bronze face of his shield, and their swords turned against his armor. The Phoenician backpedaled quickly, stabbed one in the face with his spear, and then dropped it and drew his sword. As the other two prepared themselves for a flurry of blows, the warrior leaped forward and tackled one's legs; the off-balance Egyptian fell from the ramparts, screaming all the way. It took the last machimoi's thrust to the unprotected thigh of the Punic soldier to injure him; the man rolled over and gutted my Egyptian, his sword sliding through the leather corselet as if it were naught but cotton.

I now saw that I would soon lose this conflict; more and more Sacred Band poured onto the walls, and less and less of my men were there to resist them. Though many of my men waited in the ranks below the wall, I knew that if they took it then they could reach the gatehouse. With the gates open, the superior numbers of the enemy would crush me.

And this is what would surely happen...

And a strange sound carried over the far desert...

"Thank the lord, my rock, who teacheth my hands to fight and my fingers to do battle.."

"Praise be to the God of Abraham, the God of Israel, the God of the Hebrews..."

Jewish chants...impossible! What would...

And then I grasped it.

Ptolemaios II Lysimachos, Prince of Egypt, Heir to the Throne, called the Quick, the Bold, the Noble, the Kind...

My son.

He'd arrived with what I would later hear to be about ten thousand Hebrew warriors, all enticed on the Canaanite deception propagated by Antonios the Ioudaian and Lysimachos.

As the Sacred Band's climbing ceased, my men on the wall were quickly able to deal with the warriors left stranded; this was aided by the archery of my Kretans. With less men on the walls, the archers could finally fire without fear of wounding their compatriots.

The din of battle outside sharpened as I ordered the gates open. My men charged out to meet the confused Phoenician host; my hastily-mounted Companions tore through all in their path.

I met up with Lysimachos's Hetairoi somewhere in the turbulent middle of the battle, quite randomly.

"Getting quite good at rescuing your father from sieges, aren't you?" I asked, grinning.

Lysimachos smiled in return. "It's a skill, I suppose."

The whirl of battle separated us until the rout began; and glorious it was. While a solid core of perhaps twenty thousand of Hamalcar's closest retreated with him in good order, the remaining rabble ran in all directions like the falsely brave rabbits they were.

Never again would Hamalcar threaten me. Never again would the Dictator of Carthage meet me in battle.

Note that I mention not his son.

Chapter 30: A Savior Humbled

Hubris...it affects all of us, eventually. There is a time in every man's life when he feels as if he is above all others in skill and luck. Nothing will stand in his way in the eternal quest for glory and power.

And the Goddess Nemesis shall inevitably take notice, and cast us down once more into the morass of seething humanity.

Once the bloody encounter and ensuing rout near Ptolemais-Theron died down, it came time for swift action. Thus it was that myself, Decurius and Lysimachos assembled, still-bloody, in the center of a bloody desert plain filled with the detritus of battle.

I reined in my exhausted mount as I came abreast with my son.
"Lysimachos, I, as King of Egypt and basileus of the Makedones, I hereby grant you the title of Soter. You damn well deserve it; your grandfather would be well pleased with your actions."

Lysimachos merely nodded. "It does appear that I'm developing a knack for such rescues. But with respect, Father, now is not the time for more talk. Hamalcar and his son have escaped with nearly twelve thousand men; if we strike now, we can annihilate the core of the Phoenician army in one fell strike."

Decurius nodded. "Your son is correct in his judgement. If Hamalcar is killed now, the Senate in Carthage will surely stage a coup so they can return to their republican government. The chaos would be wonderful indeed; the war would be ours."

I immediately agreed. "Lysimachos, ride out with our full complement of cavalry. Five thousand Companions and ten thousand lonchoroi should be enough to humble the pretensions of these upstart westerners."

Lysimachos grinned, a bloody light in his eyes that I'd not seen before. "We will smash them, Father, just as we've smashed them at Tyre and on this field. None will stand before Egypt!"

I was heartened by his enthusiasm, and with my leave he immediately rode back to the camp, where most of the army had assembled. Though the men would undoubtedly leave their hard-won loot in camp but reluctantly, they had yet more fighting to do before they could return and utilize it.

I watched from camp, tired to the bone, as the cavalry mounted and rode away at a hearty speed; they would be able to overcome the tired infantry of the westerners with ease.

And surely no soldier in the Phoenician army would stand against a charge of near-fresh warriors mounted on rested horses.

I, however, returned to my commandeered mansion in nearby Ptolemais-Theron; At fifty-seven, I was not as vigorous as I once was. I thanked Aphrodite, Goddess of Love, that my seed had spawned such a worthy son to take my place.

My sleep was interrupted by the a messenger urgently shaking my arm.

"Pharaoh! Pharaoh! You must wake! Your son is gravely wounded, my king!"

I sprang off the lengthy couch I had fallen into slumber upon. "What! How! When did he arrive?"

The messenger looked at me with wide, concerned eyes; if Lysimachos died, then the entire kingdom would be at risk due to civil war.
"Not a half-hour ago! He has a gash across his chest and an arrow in his thigh; the surgeons say he may die!"

I ran out to the paltry town hospital as fast as I could; luckily, it lay naught but several houses away from where I had been staying.

I burst into the room, taking in the scene quickly. Lysimachos lay on a bloody pallet, stark naked. As the messenger said, a terrible gash that looked as if it was made by a cruel, slashing weapon ran diagonally across his abdomen. It was not deep, however.

The real threat was the arrow wound; it looked as if it had hit that vital vein in the leg where a man may bleed to death...

A surgeon looked at me; his unworried gaze did him much credit. "Your son will live, lord. The arrow was nearly an inch away from anything vital; it but remains to extract it, and then to dress the wound."

As he finished speaking, Lysimachos awoke violently, thrashing about.

"Hannibal! We must rally the cavalry--"

He looked around, his gaze focusing on me.

"Father...it was a massacre. Two thirds of the men are as dead as I deserve to be."

I was incredulous. "How?!?! You outnumbered them! You were fresh and they were exhausted!"

Lysimachos shook his head tiredly. "Father, their general is either a god or a demon, depending on your point of view. I've never encountered such a mind..."

I was still surprised. "Tell me, son. How did this calamity come to pass?"

Lysimachos seemed to gather himself, and then launched into his tale.

"The pursuit was not long; the tracks seemed to slow as the Phoenicians got control of themselves. We followed their trail for naught but several hours until we came upon them.

They were unexpectedly well-prepared; though not a man was not bloodied and ragged-looking, they had formed a thin line of perhaps five ranks. It stretched from a large cluster of rocks to a large thicket of desert scrub. To go around either side would take far too much time; it was clever arraying indeed. We had but one choice: to charge.

Still, the situation was under control. Our warriors were elite, and ready for combat; the enemy had hardly two thousand of the Sacred Band with him, the rest being hardy Libyans and Iberians. Of cavalry there was nothing to be seen.

I ordered my men to form the customary cavalry formation used in such encounters. The elite Hetairoi would hold the center, while the less-skilled lonchoroi took their places on the flanks. It is, as you know, a cunning formation. The skilled Companions utterly destroy the enemies opposite them, and then wheel around and annihilate the wings which may or may not have collapsed under the assault of the lesser cavalries on the flanks.

We began our advance at a walk, kicking our mounts into slow, relaxed motion. What missiles the enemy had were launched in our direction; but their numbers were few, and a bare five or so men fell. More lethal was the archery of a select few of the Companions; the innovations you made thirty years ago and more still held fast. The composite bows of the hippotoxotai wreaked terrible damage on the linen-armored Libyans and unarmored Iberians. Dozens fell in the barrage, men the enemy commander could ill-afford to spare.


We began to ride somewhat faster, our walk picking up to a canter, and then a trot. Finally, the horses were all-out running towards the enemy, lances pointed downwards.

I remember screaming out an unintelligble war-cry just before the shuddering impact of our line and theirs meeting occurred. The infantry of the center were bowled over, killed by spear or sword or by the sheer mass of the equine fury arrayed against them.

I, foolishly, did not look at any part of the battle but my own, which was going splendidly. The warriors in the center fell back at an alarming rate, we had nearly broken through their entire line. I wondered why warriors of the Sacred Band would give so easily.

I then stopped and noticed that only the front two ranks had been of the Sacred Band; the rest was mere barbarian rabble.

Which led to the question: Where were the rest of the elites?

On the flanks, behind two ranks of barbarians...

And thus my lonchoroi, effective at the first charge, became bogged down in masses of spear-armed and bronze-clad warriors whose weapons took a terrible toll among my warriors.

I yelled at my Companions to rally, and turn towards the flanks and save my men. As they began to kick themselves into a semblance of order, a bare hundred men detached themselves from the melee to my right and charged at my milling, confused cavalry.

These warriors were of course of the Sacred Band, and were spurred on by a young warrior bearing the only mount in the entire enemy force.

He was glorious to behold, wearing bronze armor decorated with presumably religious figures and scenes from his barbaric culture. He bore a modified Attic helmet, as they are called, with a snow-white plume.

He could only be the son of Hamalcar...

Hannibal Barca.

His band of soldiers struck my confused mass with great force, killing many before we could ready our weapons in defense. By the time we were prepared, he successfully disengaged his men, running back towards the safety of his own line.

By the time we were ready to charge the enemy left flank, it was too late; too few of our warriors remained. We let loose anyway, our doomed charge doing its damage, killing many...

But it was all in vain. One by one, our warriors died, until I was left fighting with perhaps a thousand Companions all around me. I was about to cry once more for a rally when a bold Iberian tackled me off my charger and into the hard ground.

We rolled around, each one trying to break the other's grip, trying to draw a weapon. I finally kicked him off of me and reached for my long cavalry saber.

As I drew it and prepared to kill my fallen foe, a Phoenician bearing a wicked scimitar came bearing in from my left, swinging his blade ferociously. I gave ground desperately, until I slipped and fell on a patch of ground wet with another's blood.

The barbarian leapt towards my prone body, slashing viciously. What would have taken off my head scraped painfully off my chest. Though the wound was superficial, it hurt like the fires of Tartarus themselves.

I jumped to my feet, despite my pain, just in time to watch a Companion spear my foe through the chest. I looked around and spotted a riderless mount, trotting in a confused manner towards me. I saw my chance at escape and ran towards it, calming it in soothing Greek until it allowed me to mount it.

As I climbed upon my horse, an errant arrow, perhaps fired from a captured bow, winged its way into my leg.

The last thing I remember before reeling into unconciousness was that of my second-in-command Lathyros (called so for his embarassing girth) riding towards me, shouting for aid."

As he finished his woeful tale, I nearly screamed aloud. Where the world had been in our grasp, the scales were now almost even. The cream of my military was utterly gone.

All taken...

taken by a man named Hannibal Barca.

Chapter 31: A Turning Tide

I shall always remember the moments directly after that seemingly inconsequential skirmish as the beginning of the end for Egypt.

Everything at once seemed to turn against us; where there had been victory, now there was defeat. Where we had enjoyed luck and the blessings of the gods, now we experience reverse after reverse until it seemed as if the Nile would be choked with the blood of her sons and daughters.

The bad tidings began with the arrival of an Egyptian named Khafre. The news he bore was troubling indeed. Apparently, Animixandros's blockade of Qart-Hadast was so stunningly effective that many of the trading partners of the Phoenici began to take umbrage towards my navy's actions. Consequently, Alexandros of Epeiros was threatening war if we did not immediately call off the blockade. While normally I would ignore such bluster, Animixandros recently fended off a ferocious attack from the rear by the navies of some semi-civilized barbarian client states of the Iberian coast. The damage he sustained was considerable; we no longer had the strength to hold the blockade against the remnants of the Punic fleet combined with Epeiros.

I resignedly signed the order making sure Animixandros would retreat. Nothing more could be done.

And once again, the coffers of my enemy would grow until foreign mercenaries would fill the depleted ranks of the barbarian army.

I left Ptolemais-Theron in a black mood, but after much thought I realized that not all had gone wrong. I still commanded an army much more powerful than that of my foe's (for the moment), ruled a land filled with untold riches, and had a strong ally to the north and east of my holdings.

I returned to the capital to find a delegation of Seleukid dignitaries led by a Prince of the Royal House awaiting my attention.

I exchanged pleasantries with each one of them; they all seemed to be competent and respectful men. Antiochos was known to have a wise cabinet, and these men did that reputation no harm.

Ironically, it was the Prince himself who was most ill-tempered.

When I respectfully inquired as to why he and his retinue had journeyed down to Egypt to seek my audience, the man responded with a scornful sneer.

"Ptolemaios, I would have no truck with you willingly, but my brother seems to believe that an alliance with you holds some worth. In any case, I have been sent to notify you that the Grand Army of the Seleukid House has finished destroying the enemy you yourself could not deal with. The Pontic chieftain has fallen in a great battle outside Mazaka; the King of Babylon now holds sway over Pontos."

He motioned for his porter to bring an item wrapped in cloth forward; having done so, he threw it at my feet.

I unwrapped it quickly, wondering what it could be...

It was the White Shield of Pharnakles, obviously taken from him in combat. I looked up at this irritating prince and smiled.

"Though your ill-favored demeanor does you no credit, I am gladdened by the news you bring. My thanks to the Great King Antiochos for his aid."

The Prince, who had yet to introduce himself still, inclined his head grudgingly and strode imperiously out of the meeting room.

Those tidings were the last good news that I would hear for many a month. Not long after that, another messenger brought news of a great battle near Taras (a Greek city ruled by Rome, at the end of Italia) in which nearly twenty thousand Romans were killed. Alexandros of Epeiros was proving to be a greater ruler than even Pyrrhos had been.

News also reached my ears of stirrings among the Celtic peoples of the lands north of the Romaioi; apparently, Phoenician gold was supporting a large assault into the area some Romans were now calling Galla Togata, or toga-wearing Gaul (Toga being a Roman ceremonial garment, Gaul being their name for the huge expanse of land to their north and west). The future looked bleak for the war in the west.

Worse yet, I was later to discover that that imperious prince was named Philippos, and was heir to the throne of Babylon. He was a great leader of men, a true soldier-prince, known for his fairness and kindness to all of his people.

Unfortunately, he harbored a burning hatred for the land of Egypt, and believed the land lost by my long-dead nemesis Sarpedon Soter must be recovered by the sons of Seleukos.

Taking all of this news together, it would appear that the gods had turned against us...

The next encounter with Hannibal Barca would show just how correct that assessment was.

Chapter 32: The Death-Knell Tolls; A New Seed is Sowed

We near the moment of finality, dear reader. To you who have perused this document for so long a time, thank you. Hopefully the achievements recorded in this text will spur on Animixandros and his heirs to greater feats than I could ever achieve.

But, you must wonder, how could this happen so quickly? I had just defeated Hasdrubal's army in a titanic battle outside Ptolemais-Theron; true, Hannibal bested my son in a large cavalry skirmish, but no matter. Egypt still had her resources and power, the same as she always had!

That is completely true; but one must also take into account the forces arrayed against us. We were waging war against a man who had already proven himself a master tactician and who commanded absolute loyalty both from his own people and from the barbarian hordes that served him. Hasdrubal had been severely wounded at Ptolemais-Theron; he had left the state in the hands of his son. And never was a better decision made.

So as I was sifting through the missives that make up so much of governing, it came as but a little surprise to hear that Hannibal had used his overflowing coffers (due to the trade now pouring back into Qart-Hadast) to recruit yet another massive mercenary force. His Iberian royal lapdogs tripped all over themselves in the rush to supply warriors; Gallic chieftains far and wide pledged the blades of their men to him. He also had the foresight to draft fifteen thousand citizen militia from the Phoenician colonial heartlands into his army; these warriors would soon become a new Sacred Band to guard and protect Hannibal's person.

Upon finishing my administrative tasks, I looked up to see Lysimachos standing silently in front of my work-table.

I gazed at him questioningly. He shrugged and fatalistically uttered, "Animixandros has returned from his failed venture. His flagship will reach the docks in perhaps an hour." With that, my son turned and walked out of my workroom.

I shook my head sadly. Lysimachos simply had not been the same since he returned from that skirmish; he forsook the company of everyone and everything, including women. And for Lysimachos, that was odd indeed.

I must have dozed off in my chair, for I was awakened by the sight of Animixandros standing before me. He, also, did not look particularly happy.

"Basileus, I apologize sincerely for my defeat. I am hereby resigning my commission as Strategos of the Armies of Egypt."

I stood up from my chair. "You will do no such thing, Animixandros of Naucratis. I am the king, and I forbid you from leaving!"

Animixandros smiled sadly. "You cannot prevent me from doing this, my king. I am past my time of glory."

I sat and thought for a moment, realizing what had to be done. If Egypt lost this war, Hellenism far and wide would suffer. The capital of the Greek world would be destroyed. The Great Library would fall into the hands of those who did not even compose literature.

"Animixandros, if this is the way it must be, I have several final wishes for you to enact. And enact them you shall. First, I want you to organize caravans suitably protected and able to carry scrolls and works of literature."

Animixandros looked at me in surprise, but I did not stop. "Also, you shall depart for Antiocheia with your fleet in tow. Once there, I want you to first recruit as many able-bodied men as humanly possible. And next...I am nominating you Client-King of the Nations of Syria, subordinate to me but of royal rank. You shall rule from Kikilia to Petra. Summon Decurius once you are done with these tasks."

Animixandros began to protest, but I cut him off. "No arguments, my friend. This is for the greater good of Egypt."

He nodded, turned, and strode out. I knew I had made a wise decision.

Decurius came in, gave me a sharp Roman salute, and asked what I wished.

I smiled at him. "Decurius, you do your people credit. In you, I see the good of the Romaioi shining through. You have ever served me faithfully; will you complete for me this last task?"

He nodded. "Anything you require, rex Ptolemy."

I nodded as well. "Good. Take the remainder of your men -- three thousand or so, correct? Take your men and commandeer as many royal triremes as you see fit to journey to Mikra Asia."

He nodded, but asked me, perplexed, why he was needed in peaceful Mikra Asia when war was rumbling in Egypt.

"Decurius, I know it is against your ideals for a Roman to be a king. Thus, I am appointing you Strategos of Mikra Asia, with full legal and military powers. You shall rule as my satrap, autonomous from the central command."

He immediately understood the idea behind it all. "And I'm sure that Animixandros is taking charge of Syria, correct? This is wise, Ptolemy. I promise to you that if Egypt falls, I shall marshall all the resources necessary to reclaim it and defeat the Carthaginians."

I was pleased. "Go, then, Decurius, and prepare." He turned to leave, stopped, and looked at me. "Ptolemy, I would have you address me as Gnaeus."

He then strode out quickly before I could respond.

I was quite shocked. Among the Romaioi, using their "praenomen" is a sign of close friendship or intimacy. That I was honored as such showed how Decurius trusted and admired me; the feeling was utterly mutual. Never have I met such a dependable and upright man.

I leaned back in my battered work-chair; the task was done.

All that remained was to win one last battle, and the world would be in the palm of my hand. Hannibal would not be able to summon another army if I defeated this one; his prestige would suffer immensely from any kind of defeat.

But, sadly, no king of Egypt would ever deal him that needed defeat.

Chapter 33: Red Blood of the Delta, part 1

As so many individuals, writers, and poets have said before me, directly antecedent to any large storm is a period of almost glasslike calm; which is to say, smooth, clear, and uninterrupted.

So it was that that when the fiery chariot of Helios gave light to a new day, it was sunny, cloudless, balmy, and wonderful. The temperature was perfect as well; certainly not cold, but nor scorching like so many days here in Egypt.

But, I feel, even the common people knew what was coming. Word was out about the defeat near Ptolemais-Theron, and who was commanding it. Rumors circulating that the Phoenician leader was a demon sent to torment the Jews for their lack of faith, a reborn Xerxes come to take his revenge on the Greeks, a new Alexander come to once again spread culture throughout the realms.

Truly, it mattered not. All that was important now was the conflict. When my scouts reported that once again the tenacious Hannibal's army was marching in our direction, I resolved to let it take its course.

If I was to partake in the greatest battle of our time, let it be on my terms, on my land, near my source of strength.

My army was the greatest any Hellenistic king has ever commanded. 80,000 infantry, half of the Pezthetairoi and the other half thorakitai, Galatoi, and Romaioi mobile troops. I also commanded the obligatory missile infantry; of these, fifteen thousand were mustered. Kretoi and imported Syriakoi made up the bulk of this force.

Five thousand troops to be kept in reserve were the Agema, those warriors who borrowed so heavily from the Seleukid concept of an almost cataphract-like infantryman.

I commanded twenty thousand cavalry, fully a fourth of them the Companions, half of them the powerful lonchoroi, and the remainder light machimoi warriors.

I shall spare you the details of the remaining days preceding the arrival. There are matters of greater importance to cover.

Word finally came that Hannibal had penetrated Egypt; that bastion I had left nearly unmanned at Ptolemais-Theron surrendered (with the town) with nary an arrow fired. Unsurprising it was, but heartening; for I had ordered all towns assailed by Hannibal to do the same. My people would not suffer for the wars of its elites, as so many times peasants worldwide had.

Memphis fell next; again, I was unworried. All of this was going according to plan.

And then, the Thunder of Baal. Hannibal's army neared the Delta. At last, it was time for my army to act.

I assembled my mighty army, so glittering and wonderful in its military splendor, to hear one final speech before I threw it towards the foe.

"Men!" I shouted. Translators stationed throughout my army spread the word to those who could not understand or not hear.

"Men, in the past, we have been blessed of Ares. Nation after nation has fallen to our mighty strength; poleis and fortresses alike have bowed to our ascendancy. In the past, we were unchallenged, unconquered, the strongest of all the peoples in our world."

"But now, my faithful companions, now another foe has arisen. And mistake it not, for this is the gravest threat any of you will ever face."

"I realize many of you do not have such a terrible stake in my nation; many of you serve for martial glory, for gold, silver, copper...for lack of a better career."

"So, I shall not burden you with high-minded ideals of patriotism and loyalty to one's nation. Instead, I ask...nay, I beg...fight for me, my friends. Fight for the king who has led you through all trials, who has considered you above all else, who promises you undying glory if you can deliver to me this last victory."

"My friends...you are the Kings of the Earth! Nothing shall stand before you! Together, you and I shall conquer this last foe, powerful though he is, and then your lives will be blessed. All you wish shall be yours."

"And so I say to you...at them, my brave warriors and sons of Hellas, of Galatia, of Mighty Roma!"

The cheers were thunderous and unfeigned. And I yelled out one last time: "TO WAR!"

The mighty armament began its march towards the fields of destiny, where beside the rivers of the Delta, the great conflict of my time would be fought.

Red Blood of the Delta, Part 2

My strategos Kallimachos informs me that the palace complex will not hold for much longer. I must hasten this tale of the downfall of Egypt, it would seem.

Thusly, I will not bother you with the mundane details of the march. Suffice to say the anticipation erased any discomfort taken in en route to our destiny.

And so battle would be joined on a flat plain in the Delta, warded on two sides by the ubiquitous rivers that abound across the length and breadth of the region. Clumps of trees appeared incongruously near the eastern and western rivers; they'd be perfect for an ambush had either our two armies arrived earlier than the other.

We arrived to view rank after rank of incredibly disciplined Phoenician warriors, glittering in burnished bronze and polished iron, their very discipline a statement of controlled ferocity. They marched in sharp contrast to the scampering barbaroi on their flanks; Iberians with their leather and bronze armor, Kelts with their long-swords and trousers, black-skinned Aethiopians bearing javelins and short daggers...

The cavalries of my foe were of stout Liby-Phoenician stock; they were skilled, motivated, and completely equal to my own cavalry in arms and armor (at a glance). Despite my son's earlier defeat, I had easily mustered the cavalry needed to ward my flanks, even if it was slightly less experienced than the lost veterans of Ptolemais-Theron.

Of missile troops, I would have the advantage. For my warriors, my Kretans and Syrians, bore heavy armor to ward them from missiles; the enemy had naught but the rags on their backs. It was a small thing, true; but of such things are victory forged.

I arrayed my army in an unorthodox formation. Hannibal would doubtlessly be expecting me to deploy the tactics that had always served the Diadochoi so well; that is, phalanx at the center, cavalry on the flanks, and the missile-armed warriors in front of the line.

Hannibal would find a surprise awaiting his warriors, however. For my phalanx was arrayed so that only the front rank was entirely composed of phalangites; behind them, I had spread out the phalangitai so as to allow my innovation to do its work.

Galatians, armored in chainmail and bearing massive blades, were interspersed among the abnormally spacious ranks. When the Phoenicians broke through the phalanx-wall, they'd find quite a surprise waiting for them.

I held, of course, the Agema in reserve; the cavalry took the flanks as was traditional. All other mobile infantry excluding the Galatians took their customary positions on the right and left of the phalanx.

The greatest battle of our time began with a mundane exchange of missiles. Bows twanged, men fell; but while my men died only if pierced through the neck or other uncovered areas of the body, the enemy suffered no matter where a missile landed. Thus, many more men died on his side than on mine. This was, unfortunately, counteracted by the fact that Hannibal employed more archers than I myself had.

Lysimachos looked at me. "Father...whatever happens, I am happy to be by your side. I've already spoken with Mother; though she is in Antiocheia, she wishes she was here. She told me that she had a terrible premonition that we would both die today. If that's the case, Father...well, then, there's no one I'd rather fall next to."

I looked at him, grinning. "Well, of course. Were you saying that you thought I believed you'd rather die with, say, Pharnakles of Pontos?"

Lysimachos grinned back. "Well, father, I suppose a dignified farewell is out of the question, then. In any case, I'll see you back here in several hours...with Hannibal's head on the top of my spear." And he rode to take command of the left.

As the missiles shot back and forth, my cavalry moved forward upon my command. The left, so ready under Lysimachos to launch themselves at Hannibal, was composed of lonchoroi stiffened with several hundred Companions; the right, with Kallimachos in charge, had the machimoi, re-outfitted with linen cuirasses and heavy javelins in addition to their long spears.

Hannibal's Numidian warriors rode towards my right flank, screaming their barbaric warcries. The lonchoroi thundered into action; spears were lowered, shields raised. They charged...

The enemy trembled. No light cavalry would stand up to such a force...

And then the Numidians wheeled off, laughing and tossing javelins as they went. Spears pierced Greeks through the chest, neck, and, in one poor man's case, the head. A well-aimed cast sailed through the air and rent a hole through his forehead; he toppled from his horse, lifeless and limp.

"Damn it, Lysimachos! Use the Companions!" I muttered from my place behind the center. Soon enough, my son did as I wished. My Companions drew out their Syrian composite bows, as effective on horse as they were on foot, nocked an arrow to the bowstring, and let loose...

The Numidians, so confident with the distance between them and their foes, were utterly befuddled. Arrows slammed into them as if a giant hammer had been conjured up by the Gods; the hapless fools fell like leaves in autumn. Disordered, they fell back quickly, more of them dying all the way.

My Lonchoroi swung their spears into position and charged the unprepared Liby-Phoenician warriors, who had been waiting for the Numidians to wear down their foes.

On the right, a similar thing was occuring. The machimoi were easily able to hurl back missiles at the skirmishers deployed against them. After routing the Numidians, they threw themselves at the Liby-Phoenicians like wild animals.

A ferocious melee ensued, with my men getting the better of it. The craven dogs turned and retreated, screaming and shouting as they went.

At first, I was overjoyed, and reminded myself to commend Kallimachos on his easy victory. But then I noticed a facet of the retreat that seemed out of place; they rode away in a disciplined manner, without any trace of true panic...

A false retreat! "Kallimachos, PULL THEM BACK!" I yelled in futility. A group of hitherto-unseen warriors of the Sacred Band rode out on their snow-white mounts and into the flank of my disordered machimoi...

They'd come from the trees, somehow! But how, I wondered? It is a mystery that plagued me mightily until I struck upon the simple conclusion that he must have sent warriors ahead to hide themselves. He then knew I would have no time to send out scouts to check for traps; he himself arrived as we did.

And on the right? The charge was ferocious; again, the Liby-Phoenicians fell back, in true rout this time. The initial impact had shattered them; their subsequent casualties showed them the folly of depending on skirmishers.

So, though the battle on the right flank went badly, at least I knew Hannibal was not infallible.

And then another contigent of hidden cavalry issued forth from another copse of trees; Hannibal felt so confident in his trick that he decided to try it again, it seemed. However, my son was ready, and turned his warriors, charged, and met the threat head-on...

And in the center, Phoenician truebloods drew spear and sword and charged my phalanx. Though initially held up by the thin wall of sarissae, they soon penetrated, slew the front rank, and...

ran straight into my Galatians. Unprepared, their limbs were lopped off and their skulls crushed into pieces by the massive Gallic blades swung my my dependable mercenaries (almost an oxymoron, true). My trick drove them back, back, back; the phalangites reformed the phalanx, the Galatians retreated backwards into the mass once again...

On the flanks, the battle was bloody, vicious, and even. Barbarians strove against Greeks; Dories broke on Gallic shields; the ring of the falcata upon the Greek xiphos combined with the mingled screams and shouts of battle created an ear-rending din...

Lysimachos's contingent of warriors crashed into the emergent Sacred Band with a terrifying impact; men on both sides were unhorsed by the spears of th e other. For many long, intense minutes they strove against each other; finally, Lysimachos seemed to be gaining the edge. I could almost feel his tangible joy as he struck off the head of a hapless Phoenician, revelling in his martial glory...

And then, a man wearing a helmet with a snow-white plume riding with several hundred cavalry at his back came into view.

Hannibal had decided to take a hand.

The Guards of Hannibal lowered their weapons and spurred their mounts forward; Lysimachos looked directly at Hannibal, and grinned...

The melee on the right was now completely in the enemy's favor. Their mobility thwarted, their javelins useless, my lesser-armored machimoi suffered in combat with the elite Sacred Band.

And so they broke, running, scrambling for the safety of my lines.

It was time for the King of Egypt to show the foes of the crown what it meant to fear!

I rode with my Hetairoi, feeling the golden glow of the Spirit of Alexandros beside me, somehow. I looked over, saw nothing... But it was there nonetheless.

And an anachronistic battle-cry rose to my lips: "For Great Makedonia, for the Greek League, for King Alexandros! Strike down the decadent--" I had been about to say Persians, oddly enough. I hastily replaced it with "westerners", but I was shaken and apprehensive.

My fears disappeared as I rode past my fleeing machimoi, directly into the teeth of the pursuing Sacred Band. My first thrust speared a distracted Phoenician dueling with a dismounted Egyptian, taking him through the armpit as he raised his blade. My kontos splintered; I drew my magnificent sword and laid about me with zeal. Men fell as wheat does to the reaper; they fell back before me, the Lord of the Nile, King of the Greeks, Pharaoh of the Egyptians!

And I screamed out my joy and fury for all the world to hear. Hannibal would not stop me! Egypt would rule the world! Hegemony was the divine right of the Pharaoh!

My cry shattered the morale of the Phoenicians; they thought themselves arrayed against a demon, a monster, a God. My men were heartened; they saw me as the new Alexandros, and my fervor and strength as the will of the Gods.

I then looked around me, and took my bearings...

The center held, but barely. The Galatians were tired, and the Phoenicians, wary of the threat, held back and picked off phalangites here and there. On the flanks, the barbarians were being held easily; I feared not. But the time would have been ripe for a cavalry charge; I know now that had I turned my attention to my men, the day might have been mine.

Instead, I rode off after the fleeing cavalry...

And on the left, Hannibal's Sacred Band dueled with the Hetairoi amongst the dead of two nations. Mighty duels were fought, powerful blows exchanged, noble men felled...

But all paled compared to the Great Duel, as it is called.

Lysimachos and Hannibal had both been dismounted early in their encounter; now, each with a blade wet with the blood of many foes, they circled each other, interrupting the lulls with furious exchanges of blows.

Lysimachos brought his blade down upon Hannibal's in a ferocious overhand manuever; the parry threw him off-balance, and Hannibal lunged forward, knocking Lysimachos to the ground. His blade came down where Lysimachos's head had been; the roll allowed my son the chance to regain his footing. He leaped forward, slashing viciously; Hannibal turned partially, preventing a mortal wound but allowing the blade to scrape along his arm. The Phoenician Dictator roared, redoubling his efforts to slay the Prince of Egypt.

My son gave ground, parrying every blow and attacking when he saw the chance; and then, it happened.

Hannibal, so sure in his attack, slipped in a puddle of blood. Lysimachos's eyes lit up in glee; he leapt forward...

Onto the point of a spear, picked up from the ground and held up as Hannibal lay upon the blood-soaked plain.

My son gave three, choked breaths, muttered "Damn..." and then died.

And upon the fields of the Nile Delta, the hope of my people perished.

I of course did not know this, engaged in battle. But the quiver along my line gave away that something was wrong...

I wheeled out of my pursuit, watching in awe, as my cavalry left routed before them...

The left flank, assailed by Hannibal's cavalry, bent back in on itself, pressing against the phalanx...

The right, knowing something was wrong, fought with less than their usual ferocity, and fell in droves. My resultant charge did little to defeat the swarms of barbarians assailing them; I was bogged down, retreated, tried again, retreated...

My line appeared as an backwards U, attacked on all sides.


And what, pray tell, did I do?

Threw myself into the fray.

I killed more men that day then I had ever in the entirety of my life. Man after man fell to my blade; Gauls slashed, Iberians parried, Phoenicians backpedaled; all fell to my sword, to discarded javelins, to my shield-rim...

But no one man can sway a battle.

And so Kallimachos rode up behind me, hit my helmetless head with the pommel of his blade, and slung me over his horse...

And so I returned to Alexandria.


Thus it was that the battle ended. And you know the rest, my reader. Alexandria was assailed; we held for three months before they breached the walls. They poured into the streets, sacking, killing, murdering. The remaining warriors have withdrawn to the Palace compound, but even now the crash of battering rams reaches my ears. The walls are broken; they come for me. I am handing this chronicle to a messenger; The Fall of Illium floats across my mind. It is over. It is ended. All our hopes, dust; all our dreams, gone.

We are nothing but dirt and water; all passes, all dies. And may you, the reader, dwell in happier times.

-Ptolemaios II Philadelphos, King of Egypt

Epilogue: The Choice

They entered the workroom of Ptolemaios in haste and loudness. There were five of them: A brutish Kelt, his brother, a black-skinned Libyan, an Iberian, and a warrior of the Sacred Band.

Jabbering amongst themselves in their barbaric tongues, they imagined what loot would await in the rest of the palace. It was a shame they'd been assigned to search worthless workrooms; all the good treasure would be taken!

They were confronted by the sight of an old man, wearing a battered metal cuirass and clutching a richly-ornamented blade with a hilt of electrum.

He sat in his chair, arms laid out on the desk. The barbarians snarled in annoyance; must they kill yet more old men? One of them strode forward bearing a large axe...

And the old man stood up, a golden glow suffusing him. Before their eyes, wrinkle and wound fell away, hair turned from white to grey to rich, deep black, and arms throbbed with renewed strength.

As he stood, one of the barbarians screamed and ran out into the center hall, calling for help.

A deep voice emanated from the man's throat. "Come and take me, then."

Despite what they had seen, the barbarians charged forward, confident in their skill.

The old man parried an axe blow, gutted its owner, pivoted, slashed open the stomach of the Iberian, and kicked the Kelt in the testicles. As he writhed on the ground in pain, the old man blocked two desperate blows from the Phoenician and then decapitated him with one swing of his blade.

He strode out into the center hall, not even deigning to kill the writhing Gaul, where nearly thirty barbarians gaped at him.

He looked out at them, and a voice intoned clearly: "He is not yours to take."

As the disembodied voice spoke, the rejuvenated man reversed his blade and drove it deep into his stomach.

Ptolemaios looked up, and all was as light and warmth...and he could hear his son calling to him, telling him to leave that mortal realm of hardship and torment.

Ptolemaios smiled, closed his eyes, and slept the sleep of eternity.

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