For a Fistful of Amphorae (or; These oath gods will destroy you)
- Thread starter Daeres
- Start date
That was amazing. Does Antigeneia now have the male title of "King" because she succeeded her father, or because she led troops in battle? (If the former, was equal primogeniture common among Greeks of this time?)
It's mostly related to the latter but a bit more complicated.
Firstly, she is referred to as King whenever Muwatalli is away as by practice she is functioning in the full role of King of Euboia in the stead of her husband. This was seen in a previous chapter when she was receiving petitioners and messages in the throne room of the palace. Whilst Muwatalli's state does not really operate on 'legality' at this point, there must always be a King on the island. If Nosthor was old enough, he would potentially perform this role instead. This is why Armadatta and Orkhillas call her King Antigeneia rather than Queen.
Secondly, in that particular battle she was in an unusual position; I'm not imagining equal primogeniture, so it should be her brother who is now King of the Eastern Abantes and who should have been leading the army. For whatever reason he was not forthcoming, and she stepped in. Likewise, she filled the immediate void that had been left by Geron in terms of leading the army and being the emotional heart of the Eastern Abantes. As I have imagined them Abantes have precedent for royal women taking part in combat, but not leading armies. They simply do not have a mental vocabulary for 'royal person leading a full army in battle' which is not 'general', or 'King'. And given that she had essentially assumed the role of the King as mentioned above, she is functionally the King during the battle.
So of your two possibilities, it is closer to the latter; from the POV of both Muwatalli's direct followers and the Eastern Abantes, she is performing the role of King regardless of her gender due to the lack of the title holder/s.
1194 BC
Muwatalli and his allies descended into the ancient and verdant valley of Kephissos, in the sight of Parnassos’ snowy tines. Those who dwelled here believed Parnassos to be the homestead of the Gods, and Muwatalli could well understand why; it was clear that only mighty deities would dwell in such pinnacles. But it was the help of humans that Muwatalli sought at this moment, for the godly had already been plied with sacrifice and prayer; the mortal mind required different kinds of persuasion. To that end the envoys of Muwatalli fanned across the Kephissos valley, proclaiming that he and his allies marched against the warlord Phlegwas, and that he intended neither harm nor mischief towards those who dwelt in the valley. No village would be despoiled, no crops stolen, no slaves taken. Muwatalli sought clear passage and inwardly hoped for aid. He, however, had resigned himself to achieving safe passage at best; Orchemenos’ destruction at Phlegwas’ hands some years earlier had freed the people of this valley from the dominion of the Minyans, likely giving Phlegwas a decent reputation among many in the valley. Muwatalli even feared that some might actively oppose his passage, and kept a watchful eye on the reaction to his ambassadors.
Down his army went, wearing their shining bronze, into Kephissos’ dene. A few precious minutes of rest were gratefully taken once the army had fully arrived on the plain. Those weary of slope and thin pathways had respite, at least for a time.The chariots had been partially disassembled for their montane wanderings, and now they could be reassembled without fear of damage for as long as they remained on the valley floor. They roamed free in a herd as nature had intended, along with the horses drinking and feeding on the rich grass. But any rest was short lived, for the urgency of the task had not lessened. Nor did Muwatalli or his allies wish to overstay their cautious welcome; they had met with no violence, and had no desire that this should change. The great battalions began to march once more, though their progress was quicker and easier than before on the flat, grassy valley floor. Onward they marched through the valley of Kephissos, a gleaming train of muscle, resolve, and no small trepidation. Their most difficult physical obstacle yet was still to come; Kallidromo, one of the two great mountains that overlooked the plains of Lamia. And as the army progressed through the green lands of the valley, the prospect grew ever larger in everyone’s minds. Intimidating thought was giving way to unsettling reality. Yet still they marched on.
Muwatalli had been correct- many communities did feel themselves liberated as a result of Phlegwas, and were not inclined to oppose the Lapiths -though they did nothing to obstruct the army of over six-thousand men that passed through their territory. But in this valley where no Greek or Anatolian tongue was spoken the name Muwatalli was still known. Some spoke of him as the Great King of the Hittites from over the stormy seas. Others spoke of him as the true crop-burning, barbaric warlord, rather than Phlegyas All knew him to be a bronze-wreathed Hittite warrior of reputation, and that he was not to be trifled with. Whilst many locals believed Phlegyas their liberator, there were persons and communities who feared Muwatalli might be wrathful if they did not send aid, others who had actually suffered depredations at the hands of Lapiths and did not believe them liberators, and other still who simply believed that Muwatalli would be victorious and reward those who stood with him. So, to Muwatalli’s delight, he found some detachments of locals requesting to join him (once translators had been found to explain this to him). They came from Elagissa, Druwmaia, the foothills of Parnassos and the weald of Lilaia. Almost none had bronze armour, but among them were many swith warriors and Muwatalli was glad of any aid. He promised to himself that he would reward those communities handsomely if he returned victorious. And so his further enlarged army marched through the dell of Kephissos, further into the sight of the Kallidromo.
Upon reaching the Kallidromo’s escarpments, more preparations were made; the chariots were taken apart once more, and additional men assigned to help ensure they did not slip or become damaged during the ascent; the horses were given extra feed, guarding against sudden exhaustion on the Kallidromo’s towering slopes; and everyone steeled themselves for a difficult march. It was not that the mountain was unusually precipitous in shape or sharp in incline, in many respects one could call it a gentle peak. It was, however, very tall and many men carried exhausting equipment. Likewise a number of the horses would be burdened with supplies and chariots. Those with full bronze equipment in particular prepared for a battle of endurance under the midday sun. The trust of Muwatalli’s own followers was strong enough to already be convinced of the coming trial’s purpose and success. But now his army contained over two thousand men who had never fought with him before. Prince Hogwuwges had been concerned that they might balk at the now imminent task, and Muwatalli had agreed. Now was not a time for a diplomatic conversation, but for a loud proclamation to get the blood pumping. This was no army of Hatti sworn to the king by oaths, but followers and companions who would follow Muwatalli so long as he had their respect, and maintained not a little awe. Even if he already had the confidence of most of the army, even if thousands of them had already served him loyally for years, it would not do to treat them for granted. They, along with his allies, should be treated as human beings to be persuaded and rewarded. Speeches of battle had never been a particular talent of Muwatalli’s, but he had long escaped unwillingness to perform roles he felt unsuited for. He was the shepherd of these men, whatever burdens that put upon him and no matter how uncomfortable he felt. Muwatalli walked a little further up the slope, and looked upon the thousands of men whose attention was now fixed upon him alone.
“Hittites! Thebans! Abantes! Minyans! Males! Narwekians! Men of Elagissa, Druwmaia, Lilaia, and Parnassos!”
Those of each of those peoples cheered as they recognised their mention (or had it translated for them).
“It is now that we come to the hardest task so far, the ascent of the Kallidromo! Pine-carpeted Kallidromo! Sacred Kallidromo! The gods will test our endurance and patience greatly by taking this route, and if there were but another way I would take it and save you all the hardship! But I swore to all gods I could name that any who asked for my help against Phlegwas the Lapith would receive it! Neither mountain nor bronze will stop me from keeping a god-sworn oath! The task we are presented with is unimpeachable, for the gods themselves demand that it is accomplished! This is why I rush to the walls of Thrachis! I would do the same for any one of you, but this day it to Thrachis we march! I ask that you follow me up this mount, and then that we fight together against the armies of Crop-Burning Phlegwas! I have already defeated him once in battle, and that was when he was prepared for my coming! No Lapith knows that we scale the Kallidromo, and when the horns of battle ring out across the plain they will quail in terror at our thundering approach! I ask that you trust in me, and in one another, paying no heed to kith or to language but only to the task and loyalty to your comrades! To dreadful battle we march, but we will master it! The spears of the Lapiths shall be rent, their axes broken, and their swords bent! I ask that you trust in me, Muwatalli, to do these things and to keep my god-sworn oaths!”
Cheering began among those who understood his words, then spread out like waves as those who had not understood finished hearing the translations; all seven-thousand men loudly sounded their approval. In Muwatalli’s mind, the affirmed trust and loyalty bound all of them together as brothers, and it was thus moral for him to lead the army up the mountainside without misgivings. If only it was as simple as that to banish misgivings entirely, he thought to himself. And thus up the Kallidromo the twenty-tongued army of a hundred villages went.
It was not long before Kamm reflected on how fine words faded once monotony set in. He was already sick of the slow, meandering climb up the mountain, and was missing the sea-swept shores of his native Kuwnos. He had to try to be as silent as possible, as the commanders didn’t want to chance how well the mountain absorbed sound. That also meant no marching songs, and no talking. There was nothing but Kamm’s own thoughts to relieve him from the tedium, to distract him from growing exhaustion. He couldn’t walk too fast either, or he’d end up crashing into the man in front. Not only that, but climbing up a mile of mountain was not equal to marching a mile of flat earth, muscles began to cramp much more quickly. Not only that, but a ferocious film of dust was being thrown up by the army’s march. But two things eased Kamm’s mind. The first was that soon the army would begin passing under the eaves of Kallidromo’s forests, and that marked the nearing of the summit as well as better shade. The second was the indomitable presence of Rashmania, who commanded Kamm’s detachment. Rashmania, in his daily life as a shepherd, was constantly moving up and down Euboia’s mountain slopes. He walked his own path up the mountain and had no need for the goat track the others used, for grass-tufted mountain rock was no more testing of him than a paved road. From Kamm’s point of view, Rashmania was a bronze-clad and muscular Hittite who seemed as spry as a mouflon and just as hardy, nor did he know that Rashmania was ordinarily a shepherd. Kamm was greatly encouraged by Rashmania’s quiet confidence, and admired his well built body. He had no doubt that Muwatalli was a capable warrior and a man of his word, but there was something that much more immediate about Rashmania’s presence. He also served as a reminder that Muwatalli’s words were not empty, that they were not just good words from a cunning mind; Kamm was sure that that a man such as Rashmania would only serve a king whose achievements matched their claims. Each time he felt himself grumbling Rashmania’s gleaming form would reinject confidence into Kamm’s viewpoint, acting as a constant reminder of the quality of Muwatalli and his servants.
Kamm was not the only one upon whom the slopes were beginning to take their toll, regardless of morale- three precious chariots were damaged by unexpected jolts before the treeline had been reached, potentially putting them beyond use in the following battle. The number of trips or stumbles increased as the army began to tire; there were no wounds more severe than grazes or gashes, but it was a clear sign that fatigue was beginning to take its toll. Muwatalli worried that this was the price such an army paid for rising to meet the sky in the manner of gods. The horses were far more comfortable than the humans due to the amount of care that was being given to them, but they disliked the ascent just as badly. The forest, and the summit just beyond it, grew closer and closer but at an agonising pace. Reaching that landmark signalled the end to an exhausting hike, and the sight of it helped to spur everyone on, helping them to ignore weariness and shortness of breath. All were united in their desperation to reach the summit. Nor were the commanders were spared the grinding march, for they had dismounted to avoid tiring their horses, and their bronze armour lay heavy across their bodies. For those used to chariots or horse-riding, the march made them feel like a caterpillar winding its way up an enormous tree. Muwatalli, also dismounted, was tired and sore in lith and limb as much as everyone else. The heat had made his throat feel like sand, and his bronze armour was excruciatingly uncomfortable. He ached to take it off but he resisted. Just a little further. He was near to the front of the army, and one of the first to finally feel that the trees were within easy distance. The excitement of it filled his limbs with renewed strength, and he pressed onwards with determination. Step after step after step. It was with great joy that he finally walked under the shade of green boughs, and not long afterwards he crossed the highest peak of the Kallidromo..The rest of the army followed him under the trees, passed across the summit, and were led into a plateau at the heart of the mountain. The ascent of the Kallidromo was finally at an end, and they halted in the eaves of the plateau. There all were finally able to rest in mottled shade, and there they prepared for the final deadly stage of their venture.
But when first they began to rest, many forgot there was a battle ahead. Steed and soldier alike slaked their terrible thirsts, and rid themselves of the cramps they had acquired on the ascent. The chariot teams set to work on re-assembling their wagons, and on attempting to repair the three damaged ones. The orders were still to remain silent, for now, but inwardly every person in the army felt mighty for their achievement; they had conquered the Kallidromo! But once thoughts turned to the next stage of the journey it dawned on many that battle was now imminent. The precious moments where this had been forgotten slipped away. In the place of fatigue and strain came a gnawing nervousness in the pit of the stomach. Many of the commanders had experienced this before, and immediately set the men to diverting tasks. This mostly consisted of re-arranging the army into its proper divisions and formations, the jumped messes of men rearranging themselves in ranks of rincs. Shield and spear were gripped tightly, armour inspected with rigour born of worriment, and all in preparation for what awaited them in Lamia’s green fields, for what awaited them when they descended from the Kallidromo. The anxiety of the commanders and their men remained no matter what they did to distract themselves, for it was unwilling to depart so easily. Whether loyal or mercenary, captain or slinger, Hittite or Kuwnaid, all their hopes now rested with Muwatalli the King of Euboia. All awaited the order to move out from Muwatalli. All awaited his words.
Muwatalli rode to the northern edge of the plateau, where the treeline gave way before an enormous cliff. The scouts had said that the entire Lamian plain was visible from that vantage point, and they wanted the King to view the situation personally. They had attempted to sound neutral, but Muwatalli detected that something was off, particularly when they asked for him to attend personally. Something clearly troubled them, and what it was Muwatalli could only guess at. It was with growing anxiousness that he dismounted a short distance away from the treeline. He walked cautiously to the edge of the plateau, and looked out into the fertile plains of Lamia. What he saw made him burst into tears. Surrounding the city of Thrachis was perhaps eleven thousand Lapiths under arms. They were a glittering reef surrounding Thrachis, the city an archipelago of stone in a vast sea of armed men. And Muwatalli wept. I have doomed everybody. Seven thousand men is not enough to overcome that tide of men. It cannot be done. I have doomed everybody. He looked upon the Lapiths as a man would look upon a crevasse too wide to jump across, and yet one that he was forced to jump at spearpoint. It was his own spearpoint, at that. He had thrown himself at every trial life had thrown at him for the past decade or more, taken up every opportunity, refused to balk at any challenge. But now, for the first time since his uncle had died, Muwatalli felt more like near-helpless Ahi-Teshub than King Muwatalli. And he wept. Orkhillas, who had also come to observe the Lapiths, walked up to Muwatalli and stood beside him.
“Great King, whyfore do you weep?” he asked.
“Because the price for the faith of thousands in King Muwatalli is doom awaiting them at the walls of Thrachis, bloody and ruinous.”
“You do not believe we shall overcome the Lapiths, my king?”
“It seems impossible to believe. They have so many men! Thousands more spears than those of my followers and allies here with me!”
“It is true that there is a fearful-many Lapiths. But do you not believe, as you said upon the foothills of the Kallidromo, that they will react in terror at our sudden approach?”
“Terror alone does not rule battles, Orkhillas. I cannot simply frighten the Lapiths away.”
“Perhaps not, my king, but look how terror threatens to rule you now. That is the power that fear can have over a human mind. And besides, the gods have seen fit to already grant you a great victory against Phlegwas once, and have they not favoured you and all of us in your service?”
“Orkhillas, I have feared the gods would take everything they gave to me at a moment’s notice ever since I put on the electrum crown. My homeland is lost to me, the rest of my family most likely dead for many years. I have felt fire at my back for over a decade, and I have always feared it would eventually catch me, consuming all nearby. I have galloped ahead of the flames, but now they surround me scalding and scorching all who rode with me.”
“The gods would not treat you thus after all the honour you have shown them. This is not the doom you have been given, my king. Nor are your plans awry- everything that you laid out makes sense. The battle will probably not be easy, no, but you were never planning on that being so. It is my opinion, my king, that keeping companions you value and trust entails trusting them with difficult tasks. You have treated myself, Prince Hogwuwges of Kuwnos, and many others with just such courtesy and grace. But it seems to me that it is yourself you do not trust with a difficult task. And that is because fear has sown doubt into the confidence you have learned and earned over many years. Allow me then, your servant, to tell you that the fear is wrong. Your plan is sound, the gods are with you, you will prevail. You do not pretend to be a king, you are a King.”
Muwatalli took a moment to really look at the tall Theban.
“Whatever grace I showed that earned such loyalty, Orkhillas, it wasn’t enough.”
“Nonsense, great king. It was a great charity you showed to me. But I shall recall it another time, when Enuio Blood-Hungry does not stand so close by, when battle is not imminent.”
“And does the Lapith army not terrify you with its size?”
“I do fear it, my king. But I have faith in the gods, and in my mind’s eye I imagine the terror you shall inspire them, and these things make me glad”
“Does anything make you uncontrollably afraid, Orkhillas?”
Orkhillas was silent for a moment.
“The death of my son. No art I possess, no sacrifice I make is enough to stop the trembling dread I feel at that prospect.” he said quietly. Muwatalli nodded.
“So it is with me. I would clothe Nosthor in armour adamant if such a thing existed. I wish I was with him now. I wish that I could always watch over him and defend him from all harm. But I know that I must raise him to be a man who no longer needs me, and to be a King mightier than I. One day he will stand on this ground, facing an army of eleven thousand men, and when that day comes I want him to be ready.”
“I still remember Gokkulos at that age. I thought that when he became anthroqos that I would be able to leave those feelings behind. But even now, when he is a man, whenever I know danger approaches him my chest tightens, and I weep.”
“You raised your son well, Orkhillas, and I hope to follow your example; I would not have asked Gokkulos to guard Antigeneia were he not so excellent and honourable a human being. If the gods are just, both of our sons will long outlast us, and surpass us in every way. If the gods are just, they will watch over them day and night.”
Muwatalli sighed heavily.
“But let us turn back to the task at hand. Let us return to the army, and see to my other sons.”
Muwatalli moved to head back to the army, then he turned to look upon the Lapiths once more. He breathed in sharply, then exhaled slowly and calmly. And then he walked back to his horse.
The great commanders of the army gathered together in their final, anxious conference before the imminent battle. Kamm did not know what they discussed, but from his position in spear-serried ranks he felt sure they would be more urgent if the army had been discovered. This was a comforting thought; he felt glad that the Lapiths did not know he was there upon sacred Kallidromo. But he couldn’t help imagining that in a few moments’ time he’d be able to feel all of them staring at him, eagles spotting a rabbit in the grass. And the thought of that made him want to hide behind the thickest boulder he could find. He shuddered at the image. Kamm supposed it was an easy matter for ashen-speared Abantes, accustomed to such things, to feel prepared for battle, maybe even be eager to get stuck in. But he was not an Abante, and this was his first battle. He could not stop himself imagining painful, terrifying scenarios now that the reality was immediately before him, much as he wished he could. However, his thoughts were interrupted by an order being passed along; the army was allowed to talk again, and the sound of human voices filled the canopy of Kallidromo’s woods. Immediately after this, two of the warriors in his regiment began to talk to Kamm. They had noticed his anxious face, they said. They had noticed his skin grow pale, they said. They had felt the same too, they said. But more importantly, they told him that it was natural to feel like this. That battle was a fearful thing, but he was surrounded by loyal comrades and led by great bronze-clad generals who could each defeat twenty men. And they told him that Rashmania, or The Climber as they called him, had already seen two battles under Muwatalli and had been victorious in both. That the King had invited him to receive venison at the Poteideia, the great festival of Euboia, twice. Such a man as this at their head would be sure to bring victory. Let alone Muwatalli himself! Muwatalli who had personally slain a great wanax in battle, who had charged mounted on a horse into combat without a chariot, Muwatalli who shepherded both Hittites and Akhaians with equal justice. Despite his nervousness, and his worry that much of what they were saying was exaggeration, Kamm found himself comforted. He hoped, desperately, that Muwatalli was truly a man of his word and Rashmania was not simply a teller-of-tales. His life was in their hands, along with everyone who stood beside him. And he was not yet ready to let his life go.
“Then we agree that we will take the western slopes down the mountain, and seek to meet the Lapiths on the plain itself in good order?” Muwatalli asked his commanders and comrades. There was no dissent, and with that the battle plan was formalised. The commanders departed to each of their own regiments, and began to organise the formations for descent into the Lamian plain. The final buildup to battle had begun, and even those who had professed indomitable characters felt their stomachs clench and their limbs tensing. A dreadful wait began, as the coming clash of arms was now inevitable, and yet the moment was delayed a little longer. Orders to move out were not yet given, and in a mixture of fear and excitement Muwatalli’s army stood in position to begin the final battle-march. Once again, Muwatalli was the sole focus of attention. From his own point of view, there was only one task left for him to complete before he was placed entirely in the hands of the gods. He summoned every horn-blower and bugler his army possessed (and there were many of them). He led them back to the edge of the plateau, where they too would see the great Lapith army gathered outside of Thrachis’ ancient walls. His musicians arranged themselves at the edge of the woods, where the cliff edge was only a few yards away, and waited for Muwatalli’s order. Many of them feared the multitudes they saw on the plain below, but they did not visibly betray it. They knew the king had brought them here for a purpose, and they would not allow themselves to be embarrassed in his presence. A great number of them were comforted by the fact that they had never seen so many instruments arrayed together in their lives. Conches, horns of all kinds, long iron trumpets, and many more esoteric items, all were being made ready. They settled themselves, and awaited Muwatalli’s command. There was a dreadful pause, the body quivering with anticipation but not being allowed release. King Muwatalli once again looked down at the Lapiths for a moment. Then he took up his horn, and blew.
The summit of Mount Kallidromon, looking towards the lofty peaks of Parnassus and across the Cephissus valley.
Muwatalli and his allies descended into the ancient and verdant valley of Kephissos, in the sight of Parnassos’ snowy tines. Those who dwelled here believed Parnassos to be the homestead of the Gods, and Muwatalli could well understand why; it was clear that only mighty deities would dwell in such pinnacles. But it was the help of humans that Muwatalli sought at this moment, for the godly had already been plied with sacrifice and prayer; the mortal mind required different kinds of persuasion. To that end the envoys of Muwatalli fanned across the Kephissos valley, proclaiming that he and his allies marched against the warlord Phlegwas, and that he intended neither harm nor mischief towards those who dwelt in the valley. No village would be despoiled, no crops stolen, no slaves taken. Muwatalli sought clear passage and inwardly hoped for aid. He, however, had resigned himself to achieving safe passage at best; Orchemenos’ destruction at Phlegwas’ hands some years earlier had freed the people of this valley from the dominion of the Minyans, likely giving Phlegwas a decent reputation among many in the valley. Muwatalli even feared that some might actively oppose his passage, and kept a watchful eye on the reaction to his ambassadors.
Down his army went, wearing their shining bronze, into Kephissos’ dene. A few precious minutes of rest were gratefully taken once the army had fully arrived on the plain. Those weary of slope and thin pathways had respite, at least for a time.The chariots had been partially disassembled for their montane wanderings, and now they could be reassembled without fear of damage for as long as they remained on the valley floor. They roamed free in a herd as nature had intended, along with the horses drinking and feeding on the rich grass. But any rest was short lived, for the urgency of the task had not lessened. Nor did Muwatalli or his allies wish to overstay their cautious welcome; they had met with no violence, and had no desire that this should change. The great battalions began to march once more, though their progress was quicker and easier than before on the flat, grassy valley floor. Onward they marched through the valley of Kephissos, a gleaming train of muscle, resolve, and no small trepidation. Their most difficult physical obstacle yet was still to come; Kallidromo, one of the two great mountains that overlooked the plains of Lamia. And as the army progressed through the green lands of the valley, the prospect grew ever larger in everyone’s minds. Intimidating thought was giving way to unsettling reality. Yet still they marched on.
Muwatalli had been correct- many communities did feel themselves liberated as a result of Phlegwas, and were not inclined to oppose the Lapiths -though they did nothing to obstruct the army of over six-thousand men that passed through their territory. But in this valley where no Greek or Anatolian tongue was spoken the name Muwatalli was still known. Some spoke of him as the Great King of the Hittites from over the stormy seas. Others spoke of him as the true crop-burning, barbaric warlord, rather than Phlegyas All knew him to be a bronze-wreathed Hittite warrior of reputation, and that he was not to be trifled with. Whilst many locals believed Phlegyas their liberator, there were persons and communities who feared Muwatalli might be wrathful if they did not send aid, others who had actually suffered depredations at the hands of Lapiths and did not believe them liberators, and other still who simply believed that Muwatalli would be victorious and reward those who stood with him. So, to Muwatalli’s delight, he found some detachments of locals requesting to join him (once translators had been found to explain this to him). They came from Elagissa, Druwmaia, the foothills of Parnassos and the weald of Lilaia. Almost none had bronze armour, but among them were many swith warriors and Muwatalli was glad of any aid. He promised to himself that he would reward those communities handsomely if he returned victorious. And so his further enlarged army marched through the dell of Kephissos, further into the sight of the Kallidromo.
Upon reaching the Kallidromo’s escarpments, more preparations were made; the chariots were taken apart once more, and additional men assigned to help ensure they did not slip or become damaged during the ascent; the horses were given extra feed, guarding against sudden exhaustion on the Kallidromo’s towering slopes; and everyone steeled themselves for a difficult march. It was not that the mountain was unusually precipitous in shape or sharp in incline, in many respects one could call it a gentle peak. It was, however, very tall and many men carried exhausting equipment. Likewise a number of the horses would be burdened with supplies and chariots. Those with full bronze equipment in particular prepared for a battle of endurance under the midday sun. The trust of Muwatalli’s own followers was strong enough to already be convinced of the coming trial’s purpose and success. But now his army contained over two thousand men who had never fought with him before. Prince Hogwuwges had been concerned that they might balk at the now imminent task, and Muwatalli had agreed. Now was not a time for a diplomatic conversation, but for a loud proclamation to get the blood pumping. This was no army of Hatti sworn to the king by oaths, but followers and companions who would follow Muwatalli so long as he had their respect, and maintained not a little awe. Even if he already had the confidence of most of the army, even if thousands of them had already served him loyally for years, it would not do to treat them for granted. They, along with his allies, should be treated as human beings to be persuaded and rewarded. Speeches of battle had never been a particular talent of Muwatalli’s, but he had long escaped unwillingness to perform roles he felt unsuited for. He was the shepherd of these men, whatever burdens that put upon him and no matter how uncomfortable he felt. Muwatalli walked a little further up the slope, and looked upon the thousands of men whose attention was now fixed upon him alone.
“Hittites! Thebans! Abantes! Minyans! Males! Narwekians! Men of Elagissa, Druwmaia, Lilaia, and Parnassos!”
Those of each of those peoples cheered as they recognised their mention (or had it translated for them).
“It is now that we come to the hardest task so far, the ascent of the Kallidromo! Pine-carpeted Kallidromo! Sacred Kallidromo! The gods will test our endurance and patience greatly by taking this route, and if there were but another way I would take it and save you all the hardship! But I swore to all gods I could name that any who asked for my help against Phlegwas the Lapith would receive it! Neither mountain nor bronze will stop me from keeping a god-sworn oath! The task we are presented with is unimpeachable, for the gods themselves demand that it is accomplished! This is why I rush to the walls of Thrachis! I would do the same for any one of you, but this day it to Thrachis we march! I ask that you follow me up this mount, and then that we fight together against the armies of Crop-Burning Phlegwas! I have already defeated him once in battle, and that was when he was prepared for my coming! No Lapith knows that we scale the Kallidromo, and when the horns of battle ring out across the plain they will quail in terror at our thundering approach! I ask that you trust in me, and in one another, paying no heed to kith or to language but only to the task and loyalty to your comrades! To dreadful battle we march, but we will master it! The spears of the Lapiths shall be rent, their axes broken, and their swords bent! I ask that you trust in me, Muwatalli, to do these things and to keep my god-sworn oaths!”
Cheering began among those who understood his words, then spread out like waves as those who had not understood finished hearing the translations; all seven-thousand men loudly sounded their approval. In Muwatalli’s mind, the affirmed trust and loyalty bound all of them together as brothers, and it was thus moral for him to lead the army up the mountainside without misgivings. If only it was as simple as that to banish misgivings entirely, he thought to himself. And thus up the Kallidromo the twenty-tongued army of a hundred villages went.
It was not long before Kamm reflected on how fine words faded once monotony set in. He was already sick of the slow, meandering climb up the mountain, and was missing the sea-swept shores of his native Kuwnos. He had to try to be as silent as possible, as the commanders didn’t want to chance how well the mountain absorbed sound. That also meant no marching songs, and no talking. There was nothing but Kamm’s own thoughts to relieve him from the tedium, to distract him from growing exhaustion. He couldn’t walk too fast either, or he’d end up crashing into the man in front. Not only that, but climbing up a mile of mountain was not equal to marching a mile of flat earth, muscles began to cramp much more quickly. Not only that, but a ferocious film of dust was being thrown up by the army’s march. But two things eased Kamm’s mind. The first was that soon the army would begin passing under the eaves of Kallidromo’s forests, and that marked the nearing of the summit as well as better shade. The second was the indomitable presence of Rashmania, who commanded Kamm’s detachment. Rashmania, in his daily life as a shepherd, was constantly moving up and down Euboia’s mountain slopes. He walked his own path up the mountain and had no need for the goat track the others used, for grass-tufted mountain rock was no more testing of him than a paved road. From Kamm’s point of view, Rashmania was a bronze-clad and muscular Hittite who seemed as spry as a mouflon and just as hardy, nor did he know that Rashmania was ordinarily a shepherd. Kamm was greatly encouraged by Rashmania’s quiet confidence, and admired his well built body. He had no doubt that Muwatalli was a capable warrior and a man of his word, but there was something that much more immediate about Rashmania’s presence. He also served as a reminder that Muwatalli’s words were not empty, that they were not just good words from a cunning mind; Kamm was sure that that a man such as Rashmania would only serve a king whose achievements matched their claims. Each time he felt himself grumbling Rashmania’s gleaming form would reinject confidence into Kamm’s viewpoint, acting as a constant reminder of the quality of Muwatalli and his servants.
Kamm was not the only one upon whom the slopes were beginning to take their toll, regardless of morale- three precious chariots were damaged by unexpected jolts before the treeline had been reached, potentially putting them beyond use in the following battle. The number of trips or stumbles increased as the army began to tire; there were no wounds more severe than grazes or gashes, but it was a clear sign that fatigue was beginning to take its toll. Muwatalli worried that this was the price such an army paid for rising to meet the sky in the manner of gods. The horses were far more comfortable than the humans due to the amount of care that was being given to them, but they disliked the ascent just as badly. The forest, and the summit just beyond it, grew closer and closer but at an agonising pace. Reaching that landmark signalled the end to an exhausting hike, and the sight of it helped to spur everyone on, helping them to ignore weariness and shortness of breath. All were united in their desperation to reach the summit. Nor were the commanders were spared the grinding march, for they had dismounted to avoid tiring their horses, and their bronze armour lay heavy across their bodies. For those used to chariots or horse-riding, the march made them feel like a caterpillar winding its way up an enormous tree. Muwatalli, also dismounted, was tired and sore in lith and limb as much as everyone else. The heat had made his throat feel like sand, and his bronze armour was excruciatingly uncomfortable. He ached to take it off but he resisted. Just a little further. He was near to the front of the army, and one of the first to finally feel that the trees were within easy distance. The excitement of it filled his limbs with renewed strength, and he pressed onwards with determination. Step after step after step. It was with great joy that he finally walked under the shade of green boughs, and not long afterwards he crossed the highest peak of the Kallidromo..The rest of the army followed him under the trees, passed across the summit, and were led into a plateau at the heart of the mountain. The ascent of the Kallidromo was finally at an end, and they halted in the eaves of the plateau. There all were finally able to rest in mottled shade, and there they prepared for the final deadly stage of their venture.
But when first they began to rest, many forgot there was a battle ahead. Steed and soldier alike slaked their terrible thirsts, and rid themselves of the cramps they had acquired on the ascent. The chariot teams set to work on re-assembling their wagons, and on attempting to repair the three damaged ones. The orders were still to remain silent, for now, but inwardly every person in the army felt mighty for their achievement; they had conquered the Kallidromo! But once thoughts turned to the next stage of the journey it dawned on many that battle was now imminent. The precious moments where this had been forgotten slipped away. In the place of fatigue and strain came a gnawing nervousness in the pit of the stomach. Many of the commanders had experienced this before, and immediately set the men to diverting tasks. This mostly consisted of re-arranging the army into its proper divisions and formations, the jumped messes of men rearranging themselves in ranks of rincs. Shield and spear were gripped tightly, armour inspected with rigour born of worriment, and all in preparation for what awaited them in Lamia’s green fields, for what awaited them when they descended from the Kallidromo. The anxiety of the commanders and their men remained no matter what they did to distract themselves, for it was unwilling to depart so easily. Whether loyal or mercenary, captain or slinger, Hittite or Kuwnaid, all their hopes now rested with Muwatalli the King of Euboia. All awaited the order to move out from Muwatalli. All awaited his words.
Muwatalli rode to the northern edge of the plateau, where the treeline gave way before an enormous cliff. The scouts had said that the entire Lamian plain was visible from that vantage point, and they wanted the King to view the situation personally. They had attempted to sound neutral, but Muwatalli detected that something was off, particularly when they asked for him to attend personally. Something clearly troubled them, and what it was Muwatalli could only guess at. It was with growing anxiousness that he dismounted a short distance away from the treeline. He walked cautiously to the edge of the plateau, and looked out into the fertile plains of Lamia. What he saw made him burst into tears. Surrounding the city of Thrachis was perhaps eleven thousand Lapiths under arms. They were a glittering reef surrounding Thrachis, the city an archipelago of stone in a vast sea of armed men. And Muwatalli wept. I have doomed everybody. Seven thousand men is not enough to overcome that tide of men. It cannot be done. I have doomed everybody. He looked upon the Lapiths as a man would look upon a crevasse too wide to jump across, and yet one that he was forced to jump at spearpoint. It was his own spearpoint, at that. He had thrown himself at every trial life had thrown at him for the past decade or more, taken up every opportunity, refused to balk at any challenge. But now, for the first time since his uncle had died, Muwatalli felt more like near-helpless Ahi-Teshub than King Muwatalli. And he wept. Orkhillas, who had also come to observe the Lapiths, walked up to Muwatalli and stood beside him.
“Great King, whyfore do you weep?” he asked.
“Because the price for the faith of thousands in King Muwatalli is doom awaiting them at the walls of Thrachis, bloody and ruinous.”
“You do not believe we shall overcome the Lapiths, my king?”
“It seems impossible to believe. They have so many men! Thousands more spears than those of my followers and allies here with me!”
“It is true that there is a fearful-many Lapiths. But do you not believe, as you said upon the foothills of the Kallidromo, that they will react in terror at our sudden approach?”
“Terror alone does not rule battles, Orkhillas. I cannot simply frighten the Lapiths away.”
“Perhaps not, my king, but look how terror threatens to rule you now. That is the power that fear can have over a human mind. And besides, the gods have seen fit to already grant you a great victory against Phlegwas once, and have they not favoured you and all of us in your service?”
“Orkhillas, I have feared the gods would take everything they gave to me at a moment’s notice ever since I put on the electrum crown. My homeland is lost to me, the rest of my family most likely dead for many years. I have felt fire at my back for over a decade, and I have always feared it would eventually catch me, consuming all nearby. I have galloped ahead of the flames, but now they surround me scalding and scorching all who rode with me.”
“The gods would not treat you thus after all the honour you have shown them. This is not the doom you have been given, my king. Nor are your plans awry- everything that you laid out makes sense. The battle will probably not be easy, no, but you were never planning on that being so. It is my opinion, my king, that keeping companions you value and trust entails trusting them with difficult tasks. You have treated myself, Prince Hogwuwges of Kuwnos, and many others with just such courtesy and grace. But it seems to me that it is yourself you do not trust with a difficult task. And that is because fear has sown doubt into the confidence you have learned and earned over many years. Allow me then, your servant, to tell you that the fear is wrong. Your plan is sound, the gods are with you, you will prevail. You do not pretend to be a king, you are a King.”
Muwatalli took a moment to really look at the tall Theban.
“Whatever grace I showed that earned such loyalty, Orkhillas, it wasn’t enough.”
“Nonsense, great king. It was a great charity you showed to me. But I shall recall it another time, when Enuio Blood-Hungry does not stand so close by, when battle is not imminent.”
“And does the Lapith army not terrify you with its size?”
“I do fear it, my king. But I have faith in the gods, and in my mind’s eye I imagine the terror you shall inspire them, and these things make me glad”
“Does anything make you uncontrollably afraid, Orkhillas?”
Orkhillas was silent for a moment.
“The death of my son. No art I possess, no sacrifice I make is enough to stop the trembling dread I feel at that prospect.” he said quietly. Muwatalli nodded.
“So it is with me. I would clothe Nosthor in armour adamant if such a thing existed. I wish I was with him now. I wish that I could always watch over him and defend him from all harm. But I know that I must raise him to be a man who no longer needs me, and to be a King mightier than I. One day he will stand on this ground, facing an army of eleven thousand men, and when that day comes I want him to be ready.”
“I still remember Gokkulos at that age. I thought that when he became anthroqos that I would be able to leave those feelings behind. But even now, when he is a man, whenever I know danger approaches him my chest tightens, and I weep.”
“You raised your son well, Orkhillas, and I hope to follow your example; I would not have asked Gokkulos to guard Antigeneia were he not so excellent and honourable a human being. If the gods are just, both of our sons will long outlast us, and surpass us in every way. If the gods are just, they will watch over them day and night.”
Muwatalli sighed heavily.
“But let us turn back to the task at hand. Let us return to the army, and see to my other sons.”
Muwatalli moved to head back to the army, then he turned to look upon the Lapiths once more. He breathed in sharply, then exhaled slowly and calmly. And then he walked back to his horse.
The great commanders of the army gathered together in their final, anxious conference before the imminent battle. Kamm did not know what they discussed, but from his position in spear-serried ranks he felt sure they would be more urgent if the army had been discovered. This was a comforting thought; he felt glad that the Lapiths did not know he was there upon sacred Kallidromo. But he couldn’t help imagining that in a few moments’ time he’d be able to feel all of them staring at him, eagles spotting a rabbit in the grass. And the thought of that made him want to hide behind the thickest boulder he could find. He shuddered at the image. Kamm supposed it was an easy matter for ashen-speared Abantes, accustomed to such things, to feel prepared for battle, maybe even be eager to get stuck in. But he was not an Abante, and this was his first battle. He could not stop himself imagining painful, terrifying scenarios now that the reality was immediately before him, much as he wished he could. However, his thoughts were interrupted by an order being passed along; the army was allowed to talk again, and the sound of human voices filled the canopy of Kallidromo’s woods. Immediately after this, two of the warriors in his regiment began to talk to Kamm. They had noticed his anxious face, they said. They had noticed his skin grow pale, they said. They had felt the same too, they said. But more importantly, they told him that it was natural to feel like this. That battle was a fearful thing, but he was surrounded by loyal comrades and led by great bronze-clad generals who could each defeat twenty men. And they told him that Rashmania, or The Climber as they called him, had already seen two battles under Muwatalli and had been victorious in both. That the King had invited him to receive venison at the Poteideia, the great festival of Euboia, twice. Such a man as this at their head would be sure to bring victory. Let alone Muwatalli himself! Muwatalli who had personally slain a great wanax in battle, who had charged mounted on a horse into combat without a chariot, Muwatalli who shepherded both Hittites and Akhaians with equal justice. Despite his nervousness, and his worry that much of what they were saying was exaggeration, Kamm found himself comforted. He hoped, desperately, that Muwatalli was truly a man of his word and Rashmania was not simply a teller-of-tales. His life was in their hands, along with everyone who stood beside him. And he was not yet ready to let his life go.
“Then we agree that we will take the western slopes down the mountain, and seek to meet the Lapiths on the plain itself in good order?” Muwatalli asked his commanders and comrades. There was no dissent, and with that the battle plan was formalised. The commanders departed to each of their own regiments, and began to organise the formations for descent into the Lamian plain. The final buildup to battle had begun, and even those who had professed indomitable characters felt their stomachs clench and their limbs tensing. A dreadful wait began, as the coming clash of arms was now inevitable, and yet the moment was delayed a little longer. Orders to move out were not yet given, and in a mixture of fear and excitement Muwatalli’s army stood in position to begin the final battle-march. Once again, Muwatalli was the sole focus of attention. From his own point of view, there was only one task left for him to complete before he was placed entirely in the hands of the gods. He summoned every horn-blower and bugler his army possessed (and there were many of them). He led them back to the edge of the plateau, where they too would see the great Lapith army gathered outside of Thrachis’ ancient walls. His musicians arranged themselves at the edge of the woods, where the cliff edge was only a few yards away, and waited for Muwatalli’s order. Many of them feared the multitudes they saw on the plain below, but they did not visibly betray it. They knew the king had brought them here for a purpose, and they would not allow themselves to be embarrassed in his presence. A great number of them were comforted by the fact that they had never seen so many instruments arrayed together in their lives. Conches, horns of all kinds, long iron trumpets, and many more esoteric items, all were being made ready. They settled themselves, and awaited Muwatalli’s command. There was a dreadful pause, the body quivering with anticipation but not being allowed release. King Muwatalli once again looked down at the Lapiths for a moment. Then he took up his horn, and blew.
The summit of Mount Kallidromon, looking towards the lofty peaks of Parnassus and across the Cephissus valley.
(I am sorry that it's been so long since the last chapter, I've had a real problem of writer's block with this one. However, I broke through it and now had the opposite; the originally ~4000 word chapter ended up breaking 11,000. I'm divvying up the chapter into three parts, because there is no way I am making people read that much text at once! I hope you enjoy, and that everyone still following the timeline isn't disappointed that it took this long to finish)
The Battle of Thrachis Part 1
The siege of Thrachis had devolved into numbing routine. Every day the warriors of Thrachis would guard the walls and report all movements that the Lapiths made. Every day the warriors of the Lapiths would inspect their palisades and camps, and would watch the walls of Thrachis for any sign of weakness or capitulation. Every day the refugees from Thrachis would watch from their hidden nooks on the mountainside in vague hope that the Lapiths would simply leave. Every day Huellos and his hidden regiment of Dorians and Leleges would watch for any sign that reinforcements would arrive. Underscoring each day’s drudgery was the uncertainty about when the Lapiths would finally attack. What might have otherwise been boredom was instead experienced as a restlessness and a gnawing anxiety on both sides. Each chore had to be completed with precision and each watch had to be given full concentration, for any task done poorly could result in the slaughter of either side. But giving such concentration to constant, repetitive duties was mentally exhausting. Pools of willpower were beginning to empty on either side of the city walls. Perhaps worst of all was that diversion from the day-to-day tedium came only with effort, for the thought of the final clash relinquished its grip on the mind unwillingly. This day began no differently. Perhaps the morning dews had lingered a moment longer, or the clouds had differed slightly in hue from the day before, or the bread had tasted slightly better than usual, but no genuine omen had been witnessed of anything extraordinary. No divination had revealed any significant portents. By the middle of the day even the most hopeful or pessimistic had adjusted to the fact that today would be the same as all others days of the siege before it. They were utterly wrong.
Boisterous blasts from a hundred horns cascaded into the valley of Lamia. In an instant monotony was shattered into jagged edges of sudden panic. Who had announced themselves, and what were their intentions? Could it be more Lapiths, allies of the Lapiths, or even allies of the Thrachians? How many were coming, and from where? No army could yet be seen. Both sides scrambled to react nonetheless; the Lapith camp was a disturbed ant’s nest, and the Thrachian walls were utterly packed with desperate defenders casting their eyes about. But things were clearer to those outside of the vortex of the siege. Both Huellos’ group and the Thracian refugees were sure that the sound of horns came from the great Kallidromon mount to the south, though they wondered if they were cheated by some trick of sound, for who would dare climb it?
And then they came.
A regiment of bronze-clad men several hundred strong emerged from the treeline high above the Lamian plain, right upon the northwestern flank of the Kallidromo. The sun dazzled upon their panoply, and the earth began to tremble at their approach. The burnished men were soon spotted by all in the valley as they began their march down Kallidromo’s slopes, their drumming footsteps sounding throughout the vale. Whose side were they on? Then behind them emerged another great regiment of bronze armoured men. How big was this army? Then behind them came a squadron of horsemen with crashing hoofsteps, and behind them carefully rode a squadron of chariots. This could only be the army of some great king, furnished with many bronze warriors, horses, and chariots. Whose side were they on? The trembles of the earth grew still more violent as yet more spearmen, swordsmen, archers, skirmishers, horsemen, and chariots emerged in squadrons or regiments from the treeline. Soon thousands of feet and hooves were marching down the mountain, a seething but ordered mass of singular purpose. But what that purpose? What wise and god-favoured king had ascended Kallidromo and now marched into the valley with such battalions at his command? Whose side were they on? The Lapiths dared to hope that one of the many kings they had embassied had come to lend his support, whilst those that opposed the Lapiths hoped it was an army aiming to lift the siege. But as the Lapith commanders conferred their hopes waned- if this was an allied army, they asked themselves, why had it not been announced by riders or other heralds ahead of time? Why did it approach from the mountain-top, concealing its approach utterly from the Lapiths? And who could possibly have furnished an army so rich in gleaming armour and horses? Fleeting panic had been seeded among many of the Lapiths, and now roots of deep fear began to take hold among the great groves of men they had gathered. Who had dared to attempt such an audacious and difficult approach? And who was capable of succeeding?
The unknown army continued to meander its way down towards the plain, and yet its identity was no clearer. A regiment of Lapiths guarded their companions while they hurriedly reorganised- the besieging army had been spread out so as to blockade Thrachis, and was not at all suited to fight a pitched battle. It was a race against time as the army descending from Kallidromo was descending with haste. Meanwhile the Thrachians scrambled all available men to the outer walls, preparing for the worst case scenario- that this army was on the side of the Lapiths and the final assault was upon them. They were prepared to meet this final culmination of the siege with total defiance, though many were terrified that their death seemed to swiftly approach. Every man, woman, and child party to the unfolding scene ached to finally know who the approaching warriors were, to know what doom was upon Thrachis and the Lapiths, to know whether a pitched battle or an assault was about to take place. They would have their answer.
The trumpets of the oncoming army roared back into life, once again filling the air with their dreadful din. They were much closer now and the shock to the system that much greater. Thrachians and Lapiths alike almost visibly quailed. And then, once the trumpets had died down, the oncoming army halted. Then a chant, barely audible, began to reach the ears of those upon the plain. It grew in loudness and strength, and then those with the keenest (and closest) ears began to distinguish the word that was being chanted over and over again; Muwatalli.That realisation made all those who heard it skip a beat, as a dry field catches ablaze in a hot summer sun so the rumour burned through the thickets of Lapiths. Lamentation, and no small terror, filled the hearts and left the lips of the Lapiths. The scramble to form up for battle became all the more desperate. Among the Thrachians there was instead sudden and unrestrained elation; their relief at realising Muwatalli was come left many sobbing from the sheer joy of it, for Muwatalli, Hittite though he was, was mostly definitely on their side, and here to effect their rescue. Amidst all this, Muwatalli’s army resumed its descent towards the plain, and now its purpose was clear; to engage Phlegwas in open battle. Huellos and his men did not yet realise Muwatalli had come, but he dared hope that the Lapiths were about to be engaged in battle, and he prepared his small force to intervene. And what of Phlegwas, the so-called Crop-Burner, the leader of the Lapiths and architect of the whole affair; what did he think of Muwatalli’s coming? Once he realised that it was Muwatalli he faced, that Muwatalli had assembled a huge army in great haste, and that he had managed to approach to the site of battle totally unseen to Phlegwas’ scouts, he laughed. He laughed in fey but sincere admiration for the talents and tenacity of his foe, even as he was fully prepared to strike him down. The final clash was coming sooner than planned, but Phlegwas was no less determined to break Muwatalli and his army on the field of battle in the sight of many thousands. His resolve was not in the least troubled, but it was now joined by the utter conviction that Muwatalli deserved to be defeated by the greatest force Phlegwas had ever assembled, the Hittite had earned it with his great courage and deeds. The only way to demonstrate how much he respected Muwatalli was to bury a sword in his flesh, and to destroy his kingdom.
Muwatalli’s army was nearly on the plain itself, the ground trembling still at its approach. Once it neared the walls of Thrachis the long line of warriors began to roil, altering its formation for battle. Squadrons of chariots and horsemen began to peel away from the main column, forming up in a great swarm on the army’s far right flank. The spearmen widened their rows to allow the lighter, nimbler skirmishers to dart through hollows in their ranks, and then the streaming shoals of bronze-coated warriors reformed as quickly as they had parted. The scols of infantry advanced with Thrachian walls anchoring their left flank, and the line of regiments began to spread out yet further as they moved onto flat land at last. No longer was Muwatalli’s army a column in marching order, instead several great banks of shimmering bronze and glinting blades rolled onto the plain in great waves. Males, Narewkians, Abantes, Thebans, Hittites, Minyans, all surged towards the great Lapith army. The Lapiths looked on in dread and wonder at the indomitable force that approached. They gripped their weapons firmly and not a soul fled, yet doubt began to creep into the minds of the war-famous Lapiths, a torturous nag telling them that even the greatest Lapith army of all time might not match the force ranged against them, this oncoming tide. And then Muwatalli’s army came to a stop. The bronze-lit sea that he commanded stilled, and had halted not half a kilometre away from the Lapith front lines. All that could be heard was the jubilant cries that resounded off Thrachian walls and echoed down Thrachian streets, and more distantly the sound of crashing waves. The war-famed Lapiths, many among them veterans, and their fearsome captains all knew that this halt was to allow Muwatalli’s men a chance to catch their breath. But the silence of the warriors ranged in front of them terrified them regardless. The uncertainty the Lapiths felt was drawn up into a single moment, stretched out beyond their tolerance, and it lasted for as long as the silence continued. Then, at last, the silence was broken with deafening peals of trumpets and horns, the instruments of Muwatalli’s army sounding out in unison one last time. But the release from the dreadful silence did not bring the Lapiths comfort. Many of them visibly quaked and somehow their own horns that answered seemed small and distant. Then an equally deafening din came from the thousand-tongued army of Muwatalli, the sound of thousands of weapons clashing upon shields coated in wood, hide, or metal. The Lapiths answered in kind. Both armies knew that the first skirmish was imminent. The gods’ purpose for this day would soon be revealed amid the shattering of spears and the breaking of bones. Broken human bodies would form their divine oracle.
Phlegwas was not minded to be timid, and recognised that morale among his men was wavering. After a few minutes of shield-bashing he ordered his skirmishers to advance, and blew hard upon his famous warhorn. Somehow it blew louder and clearer than all of the other Lapith horns, and with Phlegwas’ blast came courage as Lapiths remembered it was their famed King who led them into battle The foremost regiments of his army then began to advance, even as they felt fear tugging at their innards and taking strength out of their limbs. Muwatalli followed suit, ordering his own skirmishers to advance, and the first clash of the battle was now unavoidable. Shurki-Tulla, the bronze-clad governor of Stuwra, once again led Muwatalli’s skirmishers with his bow strung with auroch sinew. His Lapith counterpart was Ernza the Skull-Cracker who favoured the sling; he was named for the accuracy of his deadly lead bullets. Great companies of bowmen, slingers, and spear-throwers confronted one another across a narrow span and soon began to discharge their deadly missiles. Most of the shots and shafts missed entirely because of range and no small amount of terror sapping strength from throwing thews. But compared to the great battle at Heettos three years previously there were almost twice as many men releasing their bullets, arrows, and spears. The air hummed with the flight of the god Apeillan’s dreadful bounties. Companies of elite Hittite archers soon governed the exchange; they volleyed the Lapith skirmishers in unison time and time again, pelted them with their feathered shafts. But the flocks of skirmishers were so great in number that any progress was slow and the clash dragged on; whilst the Lapith skirmishers struggled with fear they did not give into it, and neither did Muwatalli’s men. As the skirmish continued Muwatalli and Phlegwas both considered their next move. The orthodox strategy would be to withdraw the skirmishers and then send in chariots to exchange arrow fire, but both commanders had too few chariots to use them so boldly. In addition, both knew the other to be capable of misdirection and clever improvisation, and the stakes were even higher than in their last encounter. Sooner or later one of them was going to attempt something out of the ordinary, something risky and untested, and either this would succeed brilliantly or lead to utter defeat. The tension mounted once Phlegwas sounded the retreat of his skirmishers, for this was merely a prelude to the next stage of battle and every warrior on the battlefield knew it The Lapiths had felt their courage return more forcefully as the skirmish had dragged on, especially after realising that Muwatalli’s force was smaller than their own. Their spirits were raised by the growing conviction that they outnumbered the Hittite king, and by the exhortations of their commanders and chieftains. New energy was rippling through the regimented ribbons of war-famed Lapiths. It built into a frenzy of bloodlust and grim determination, all the stronger for the fears it plastered over. The master of this frenzy was Phlegwas- he nurtured it and bolstered it with his speeches and his fearsome form, marshalled it, and once he was satisfied with it he would unleash it. And so he did.
The Battle of Thrachis Part 1
The siege of Thrachis had devolved into numbing routine. Every day the warriors of Thrachis would guard the walls and report all movements that the Lapiths made. Every day the warriors of the Lapiths would inspect their palisades and camps, and would watch the walls of Thrachis for any sign of weakness or capitulation. Every day the refugees from Thrachis would watch from their hidden nooks on the mountainside in vague hope that the Lapiths would simply leave. Every day Huellos and his hidden regiment of Dorians and Leleges would watch for any sign that reinforcements would arrive. Underscoring each day’s drudgery was the uncertainty about when the Lapiths would finally attack. What might have otherwise been boredom was instead experienced as a restlessness and a gnawing anxiety on both sides. Each chore had to be completed with precision and each watch had to be given full concentration, for any task done poorly could result in the slaughter of either side. But giving such concentration to constant, repetitive duties was mentally exhausting. Pools of willpower were beginning to empty on either side of the city walls. Perhaps worst of all was that diversion from the day-to-day tedium came only with effort, for the thought of the final clash relinquished its grip on the mind unwillingly. This day began no differently. Perhaps the morning dews had lingered a moment longer, or the clouds had differed slightly in hue from the day before, or the bread had tasted slightly better than usual, but no genuine omen had been witnessed of anything extraordinary. No divination had revealed any significant portents. By the middle of the day even the most hopeful or pessimistic had adjusted to the fact that today would be the same as all others days of the siege before it. They were utterly wrong.
Boisterous blasts from a hundred horns cascaded into the valley of Lamia. In an instant monotony was shattered into jagged edges of sudden panic. Who had announced themselves, and what were their intentions? Could it be more Lapiths, allies of the Lapiths, or even allies of the Thrachians? How many were coming, and from where? No army could yet be seen. Both sides scrambled to react nonetheless; the Lapith camp was a disturbed ant’s nest, and the Thrachian walls were utterly packed with desperate defenders casting their eyes about. But things were clearer to those outside of the vortex of the siege. Both Huellos’ group and the Thracian refugees were sure that the sound of horns came from the great Kallidromon mount to the south, though they wondered if they were cheated by some trick of sound, for who would dare climb it?
And then they came.
A regiment of bronze-clad men several hundred strong emerged from the treeline high above the Lamian plain, right upon the northwestern flank of the Kallidromo. The sun dazzled upon their panoply, and the earth began to tremble at their approach. The burnished men were soon spotted by all in the valley as they began their march down Kallidromo’s slopes, their drumming footsteps sounding throughout the vale. Whose side were they on? Then behind them emerged another great regiment of bronze armoured men. How big was this army? Then behind them came a squadron of horsemen with crashing hoofsteps, and behind them carefully rode a squadron of chariots. This could only be the army of some great king, furnished with many bronze warriors, horses, and chariots. Whose side were they on? The trembles of the earth grew still more violent as yet more spearmen, swordsmen, archers, skirmishers, horsemen, and chariots emerged in squadrons or regiments from the treeline. Soon thousands of feet and hooves were marching down the mountain, a seething but ordered mass of singular purpose. But what that purpose? What wise and god-favoured king had ascended Kallidromo and now marched into the valley with such battalions at his command? Whose side were they on? The Lapiths dared to hope that one of the many kings they had embassied had come to lend his support, whilst those that opposed the Lapiths hoped it was an army aiming to lift the siege. But as the Lapith commanders conferred their hopes waned- if this was an allied army, they asked themselves, why had it not been announced by riders or other heralds ahead of time? Why did it approach from the mountain-top, concealing its approach utterly from the Lapiths? And who could possibly have furnished an army so rich in gleaming armour and horses? Fleeting panic had been seeded among many of the Lapiths, and now roots of deep fear began to take hold among the great groves of men they had gathered. Who had dared to attempt such an audacious and difficult approach? And who was capable of succeeding?
The unknown army continued to meander its way down towards the plain, and yet its identity was no clearer. A regiment of Lapiths guarded their companions while they hurriedly reorganised- the besieging army had been spread out so as to blockade Thrachis, and was not at all suited to fight a pitched battle. It was a race against time as the army descending from Kallidromo was descending with haste. Meanwhile the Thrachians scrambled all available men to the outer walls, preparing for the worst case scenario- that this army was on the side of the Lapiths and the final assault was upon them. They were prepared to meet this final culmination of the siege with total defiance, though many were terrified that their death seemed to swiftly approach. Every man, woman, and child party to the unfolding scene ached to finally know who the approaching warriors were, to know what doom was upon Thrachis and the Lapiths, to know whether a pitched battle or an assault was about to take place. They would have their answer.
The trumpets of the oncoming army roared back into life, once again filling the air with their dreadful din. They were much closer now and the shock to the system that much greater. Thrachians and Lapiths alike almost visibly quailed. And then, once the trumpets had died down, the oncoming army halted. Then a chant, barely audible, began to reach the ears of those upon the plain. It grew in loudness and strength, and then those with the keenest (and closest) ears began to distinguish the word that was being chanted over and over again; Muwatalli.That realisation made all those who heard it skip a beat, as a dry field catches ablaze in a hot summer sun so the rumour burned through the thickets of Lapiths. Lamentation, and no small terror, filled the hearts and left the lips of the Lapiths. The scramble to form up for battle became all the more desperate. Among the Thrachians there was instead sudden and unrestrained elation; their relief at realising Muwatalli was come left many sobbing from the sheer joy of it, for Muwatalli, Hittite though he was, was mostly definitely on their side, and here to effect their rescue. Amidst all this, Muwatalli’s army resumed its descent towards the plain, and now its purpose was clear; to engage Phlegwas in open battle. Huellos and his men did not yet realise Muwatalli had come, but he dared hope that the Lapiths were about to be engaged in battle, and he prepared his small force to intervene. And what of Phlegwas, the so-called Crop-Burner, the leader of the Lapiths and architect of the whole affair; what did he think of Muwatalli’s coming? Once he realised that it was Muwatalli he faced, that Muwatalli had assembled a huge army in great haste, and that he had managed to approach to the site of battle totally unseen to Phlegwas’ scouts, he laughed. He laughed in fey but sincere admiration for the talents and tenacity of his foe, even as he was fully prepared to strike him down. The final clash was coming sooner than planned, but Phlegwas was no less determined to break Muwatalli and his army on the field of battle in the sight of many thousands. His resolve was not in the least troubled, but it was now joined by the utter conviction that Muwatalli deserved to be defeated by the greatest force Phlegwas had ever assembled, the Hittite had earned it with his great courage and deeds. The only way to demonstrate how much he respected Muwatalli was to bury a sword in his flesh, and to destroy his kingdom.
Muwatalli’s army was nearly on the plain itself, the ground trembling still at its approach. Once it neared the walls of Thrachis the long line of warriors began to roil, altering its formation for battle. Squadrons of chariots and horsemen began to peel away from the main column, forming up in a great swarm on the army’s far right flank. The spearmen widened their rows to allow the lighter, nimbler skirmishers to dart through hollows in their ranks, and then the streaming shoals of bronze-coated warriors reformed as quickly as they had parted. The scols of infantry advanced with Thrachian walls anchoring their left flank, and the line of regiments began to spread out yet further as they moved onto flat land at last. No longer was Muwatalli’s army a column in marching order, instead several great banks of shimmering bronze and glinting blades rolled onto the plain in great waves. Males, Narewkians, Abantes, Thebans, Hittites, Minyans, all surged towards the great Lapith army. The Lapiths looked on in dread and wonder at the indomitable force that approached. They gripped their weapons firmly and not a soul fled, yet doubt began to creep into the minds of the war-famous Lapiths, a torturous nag telling them that even the greatest Lapith army of all time might not match the force ranged against them, this oncoming tide. And then Muwatalli’s army came to a stop. The bronze-lit sea that he commanded stilled, and had halted not half a kilometre away from the Lapith front lines. All that could be heard was the jubilant cries that resounded off Thrachian walls and echoed down Thrachian streets, and more distantly the sound of crashing waves. The war-famed Lapiths, many among them veterans, and their fearsome captains all knew that this halt was to allow Muwatalli’s men a chance to catch their breath. But the silence of the warriors ranged in front of them terrified them regardless. The uncertainty the Lapiths felt was drawn up into a single moment, stretched out beyond their tolerance, and it lasted for as long as the silence continued. Then, at last, the silence was broken with deafening peals of trumpets and horns, the instruments of Muwatalli’s army sounding out in unison one last time. But the release from the dreadful silence did not bring the Lapiths comfort. Many of them visibly quaked and somehow their own horns that answered seemed small and distant. Then an equally deafening din came from the thousand-tongued army of Muwatalli, the sound of thousands of weapons clashing upon shields coated in wood, hide, or metal. The Lapiths answered in kind. Both armies knew that the first skirmish was imminent. The gods’ purpose for this day would soon be revealed amid the shattering of spears and the breaking of bones. Broken human bodies would form their divine oracle.
Phlegwas was not minded to be timid, and recognised that morale among his men was wavering. After a few minutes of shield-bashing he ordered his skirmishers to advance, and blew hard upon his famous warhorn. Somehow it blew louder and clearer than all of the other Lapith horns, and with Phlegwas’ blast came courage as Lapiths remembered it was their famed King who led them into battle The foremost regiments of his army then began to advance, even as they felt fear tugging at their innards and taking strength out of their limbs. Muwatalli followed suit, ordering his own skirmishers to advance, and the first clash of the battle was now unavoidable. Shurki-Tulla, the bronze-clad governor of Stuwra, once again led Muwatalli’s skirmishers with his bow strung with auroch sinew. His Lapith counterpart was Ernza the Skull-Cracker who favoured the sling; he was named for the accuracy of his deadly lead bullets. Great companies of bowmen, slingers, and spear-throwers confronted one another across a narrow span and soon began to discharge their deadly missiles. Most of the shots and shafts missed entirely because of range and no small amount of terror sapping strength from throwing thews. But compared to the great battle at Heettos three years previously there were almost twice as many men releasing their bullets, arrows, and spears. The air hummed with the flight of the god Apeillan’s dreadful bounties. Companies of elite Hittite archers soon governed the exchange; they volleyed the Lapith skirmishers in unison time and time again, pelted them with their feathered shafts. But the flocks of skirmishers were so great in number that any progress was slow and the clash dragged on; whilst the Lapith skirmishers struggled with fear they did not give into it, and neither did Muwatalli’s men. As the skirmish continued Muwatalli and Phlegwas both considered their next move. The orthodox strategy would be to withdraw the skirmishers and then send in chariots to exchange arrow fire, but both commanders had too few chariots to use them so boldly. In addition, both knew the other to be capable of misdirection and clever improvisation, and the stakes were even higher than in their last encounter. Sooner or later one of them was going to attempt something out of the ordinary, something risky and untested, and either this would succeed brilliantly or lead to utter defeat. The tension mounted once Phlegwas sounded the retreat of his skirmishers, for this was merely a prelude to the next stage of battle and every warrior on the battlefield knew it The Lapiths had felt their courage return more forcefully as the skirmish had dragged on, especially after realising that Muwatalli’s force was smaller than their own. Their spirits were raised by the growing conviction that they outnumbered the Hittite king, and by the exhortations of their commanders and chieftains. New energy was rippling through the regimented ribbons of war-famed Lapiths. It built into a frenzy of bloodlust and grim determination, all the stronger for the fears it plastered over. The master of this frenzy was Phlegwas- he nurtured it and bolstered it with his speeches and his fearsome form, marshalled it, and once he was satisfied with it he would unleash it. And so he did.
The Battle of Thrachis Part Two
An advance was once again sounded from Phlegwas’ great warhorn. His front line of spearmen began to press forward in a great shivering mass, a ripple of almost two thousand men. They raised up their fell shields to guard against the shafts of Muwatalli’s skirmishers, and swept forwards brimming with gars and newfound bloodlust. Muwatalli ordered his pelting-men back, his skirmishers ebbing away to anchor behind great banks of Euboian spearmen. The last to depart were the Hittite archers, who rained arrows upon the approaching Lapiths until the last possible moment, when at last they too were forced to trickle away behind Muwatalli’s front lines. As the Lapiths rushed to the attack Muwatalli ordered his own vanguard to meet them. two great regiments of spearmen surged towards their foe, and within moments they were upon one another. Tides of men clashed, spear-blades flashed, against one another hide shields crashed. The initial rush of Lapith enthusiasm was checked, for they failed to press their superior numbers. The Lapith swarm was lunging at Muwatalli’s vanguard, but the allied ranks remained closed, the men of many nations would not give ground or yield no matter the many darting spears that battered their shields. The clash dragged on and the Lapiths seemed endless, but still Muwatalli’s men held on, withstanding the grinding gyre of pressing bodies and frenzied thrusts.
Kamm was right at the forefront of this melee. His shield arm ached and the muscles of his spear arm burned. His lungs thirsted for air and his heart battered in his ribcage like a mace against a shield. A hundred times his shield was stabbed at by spears and a hundred times his own leister came diving down with wicked purpose. Only one of his strokes had hit home, plunging deep into a Lapith’s shoulder, but Kamm was still fighting a rising nausea welling up within. His instinct to survive was strong in its own right but it was Kamm’s trust in his companions that actively fought the revulsion threatening to seize his body, the comfort that came from feeling their presence on either side and at his rear. It was that which allowed him to retain mastery over his limbs. But that power was slowly fading, for Kamm had been fighting continuously for almost half an hour. He drew on the strength he had left over and over again, forcing his liths into action when every bodily impulse was telling them to seize up entirely. The effort was becoming more and more unbearable, and Kamm knew that eventually his willpower would give out. He lunged once, twice, a third time at the foes ranged in front of him. But his next strike was badly misaimed. He stumbled, his spear struck the earth with the impact shuddering up his right arm, and Kamm knew that he could give no more. His spear arm would not lift, his legs would not stir, and he could no longer resist the numbness spreading throughout his body like a comforting blanket. The numbness blocked out the pain, and it was bliss even as Kamm tried to will himself to action once more. He expected a killing blow and could find no will to resist it if it came. But just at that moment Tallias, the man to his right, jolted and fell twitching to the ground. Kamm turned and saw blood streaming from Tallias’ thigh, and heard the pained screams spilling from Tallias’ mouth. In an instant power flooded back into Kamm’s frame and fatigue was forgotten. Kamm swept in front of the fallen Akhaian with his shield raised and spear poised. A Lapith stabbed at him but Kamm’s shield stood fast. Another Lapith tried his luck but the warrior’s strike left him open for just a split second too long; Kamm flung his spear point blank at the unlucky Lapith, and the shaft lanced through the man’s throat. His rage clouded out the horrendous sputtering noises that came from the fallen Lapith’s pierced windpipe. Kamm picked up the fallen Tallias’ spear, and continued to fend off any Lapith on the front line who dared approach. Other friendly hands managed to lift and move Tallias away from the melee, but Kamm had not noticed. He had actually caused the entire shield wall of Muwatalli’s spearmen to advance, for the Lapiths had begun to recoil from his presence. Kamm’s bloodlust, however, had started to overcome his common sense. He came closer and closer to leaving the shieldwall altogether as he tried to chase down Lapiths that backed away from him. A thrown spear hummed past his ear and drew blood. He suddenly felt wet, warm blood rilling down his left cheek. That caused Kamm to pause long enough for friendly hands to haul him back into the shieldwall, before the darting spears of Lapiths could overcome him. Deep drags of air pushed out the bloodlust, and Kamm regained control over his senses. His limbs were even more sore than before, and he could once again feel the tendrils of nausea. He was dumbfounded at what he had done, and had he paused to think about it would have made him quiver. But he pushed confusion out of his mind as he blocked a thrown spear with his ox-hide shield. He set his mind to battle again, and to the comrades that surrounded him; what other choice did he have?
Kamm was not alone among Muwatalli’s men in pushing himself beyond his limits; out of confidence, loyalty, and bloodymindedness most of that vanguard of spearmen simply refused to allow Phlegwas’ superior numbers to intimidate them, no matter their exhaustion and pains. Those who felt more fearful were shamed and inspired by the rest. There was no possibility now of Phlegwas quickly routing Muwatalli’s army. But the Lord of the Lapiths was not so easily dismayed by setbacks, and at this point Phlegwas began to take measures to alter the balance of combat. On the left his few chariots were crewed and deployed, and with a great blast on his war-horn the carts were unleashed upon those of Muwatalli. They flung up immense plumes of dust on their approach, and threw wicked spears into the ranks of their enemies. Behind those plumes of dust marched a regiment of Phlegwas’ bronze armoured swordsmen, their advance concealed from view. On the right the skirmishers were sent to prise Muwatalli’s vanguard out from the shelter of city walls, enabling a massive push on that part of the battleline. Phlegwas still had every chance of gaining the advantage, and of forcing back Muwatalli and his companions. Already the skirmishers had forced the vanguard’s left flank to retreat, and the battle between charioteers was fiercely fought. But neither was Muwatalli content to simply sit and watch events unfold. Muwatalli’s horn sounded the advance of another of his great regiments, in this case some of his own bronze-armoured spearmen. He feared that he had unleashed them too late, and that the vanguard’s flank would be rolled up. But at that moment the left flank of Phlegwas’ vanguard suddenly found itself under a barrage of arrows, thrown rocks, and thrown spears. They then realised in dismay that the defenders on Thrachis’ walls had intervened. And then terror spread through the ranks of Lapiths as they heard the sound of great gates opening; from out of Thrachis’ cavernous entrance came a company of warriors led by a few bronze-armoured men, and they charged straight into the skirmishers who had been pushing Muwatalli’s men back with their fierce axes. Then Muwatalli’s regiment of gleaming spearmen crashed into the skirmishers, and a slaughter ensued. The great bronze armour and shields physically crushed those without armour, and many of the Lapith flanking forces were forced into a ball. Diving spears and biting blades cut many of them down, and the ball got smaller and smaller, until at last the Lapiths so-trapped begged for quarter. Much of Phlegwas’ vanguard was now being flanked on its right, and Muwatalli’s men were now able to take positions directly in front of Thrachis’ front walls and great gates. It was clear this first melee had been won by Muwatalli’s men, though at some cost.
Phlegwas laughed again in delight at Muwatalli and his men fighting so fiercely. Even his closest companions among the Lapiths found it a chilling, uncomfortable sound. He ordered his vanguard to retreat, and his two regiments then fought to extract themselves from the melee. They had not been crushed but they had been bloodied, and significantly less of the spearmen who had been sent forward returned. But Phlegwas also laughed because elsewhere the tide of battle was very different. Muwatalli’s chariots under the command of Prince Hogwuwges had been practically chased off the field; Lapith chariots and bronze-coated swordsmen now threatened Muwatalli’s army on its right flank. It was here that Phlegwas then concentrated a new offensive. His second line of spearmen, equal in strength to the first, was now sent out to crash against the right side of Muwatalli’s battle line. Further regiments and companies of bronze-armoured men were ordered to new positions, in preparation for a great charge against Muwatalli’s remaining vanguard. Muwatalli, for his part, wondered if the initial victory had already proven futile, but he was not going to passively allow Phlegwas to enact all of his plans either. If he allowed his vanguard to receive that charge it would likely be destroyed or routed, and that would take out almost a quarter of his total forces. Nor would he allow his right flank to be taken unchallenged. The burnished shoals of Muwatalli’s men rippled once more as they hurriedly reorganised. The advance of Phlegwas’ second line was met by fresh companies of spearmen and also some of Muwatalli’s bronze-clad swordsmen. The victorious vanguard was withdrawn, and replaced by yet more fresh spearmen. Skirmishers once again took up positions in front of this second line to pelt any attack upon it. And not least of all was Muwatalli’s decision to personally lead his entire cavalry force in an attack on Phlegwas’ chariots. The second, more deadly melee of the battle was about to begin.
Prince Howguwges was a man running out of time. His men were outnumbered and cut off from the main body of the army. His squadron’s serviceable and crewed chariots were being whittled down one by one, and his conspicuously rich armour meant that Lapith chariots continually hurled themselves at him. He knew that his chariots were inevitably going to be overcome by the Lapiths, and he along with them. But if that happened Muwatalli’s entire right flank would become torn asunder, and so the Kuwnian prince simply refused to give up. He fought all the harder for his guilt, because he knew his refusal to retreat might result in the deaths of all of his charioteers, men he had known and commanded for years. Every chariot he disabled, every spearman he killed, every spear blow he blocked, every arrow that clipped his armour or flesh was him throwing himself between the Lapiths and the rest of his squadron. Podar, his driver, had continued to dextrously command the horse team despite exhaustion, and despite terrifying battle engulfing the entire plain around him. He had almost perished to a loose missile several times, but the young driver was every bit as determined as his prince, and Howguwges also felt guilt that such a talented and promising man might die so young on this battlefield. The prince’s hard-fought resistance would not have been possible without Pothar, and Pothar was determined not to shame himself in front of the next king of Kuwnos, but neither knew how long that resistance could continue. And yet they persisted.
Three times Howguwges had rallied his remaining chariots together, and three times the Lapith carts had been driven back. His shield thrummed from all the shafts that had embedded themselves in it, and two of his spears had splintered into uselessness leaving him with only one. Again a chariot came hurtling towards towards Prince Howguwges’ own, and again Prince Howguwges raised a spear as his driver hurtled them towards the enemy team. He saw motion from the enemy chariot just in time and quickly moved his shield to cover Podar. Howguwges almost dropped his shield as a heavy thrown spear thudded against it, and missed his chance to strike as the two chariot teams passed one another. But the Lapith spearman would not escape so easily. The Kuwnian prince placed down his remaining spear and took up his bow, and Podar directed their path back towards the Lapith chariot. The Lapith team had circled around and began to ride hard at Howguwges and Podar once more. But this time Howguwges simply loosed arrow after arrow, and his third felled the spearmen in the approaching chariot which broke off. There was no time to rest, however, as the two men saw the remaining Lapith chariots gathering back into their herd. Another charge was clearly imminent, and Howguwges had no idea if this would be the one that finally broke his own charioteers. He blew on his horn with the reserves of breath he had left and the remaining chariots under his command reassembled. The prince looked remorsefully at how reduced their numbers were. But before he could announce what might be their final charge something caught his eye. He turned and saw great plumes of dust thrown up at the rear of Muwatalli’s army, and his heart leapt when he realised it was due to swathes of horsemen riding in his direction to effect a rescue. But he also realised that if the Lapiths noticed the approaching cavalry they would simply retreat, and come back to stalk the battlefield at some crucial later moment. But if I’m smart I can take the Lapith chariots out of the battle entirely.
The prince set his hastily improvised plan into motion. He ordered his charioteers to retreat, feigning that they were giving way before the Lapith war-carts. But as he glanced back at the Lapiths, Howguwges worried that was not enough to tempt them forward. An idea presented itself to him, and as much as it terrified him he became convinced of its necessity. He ordered Podar to slow the chariot, for he knew the prospect of killing a prince and plundering his armour would be too much for hot-headed charioteers to resist. Howguwges looked behind him and, sure enough, the Lapiths had begun to give chase and totally failed to notice the approaching Euboian cavalry. Howguwges and Podar tensed as the Lapith chariots grew closer, and then felt their hearts pounding as arrows began to fly around them, shot from the lead Lapith chariots. But then all was terror among the Lapiths as an oncoming wave of Euboian horsemen swelled around them. As Howguwges watched a great arc of horsemen rode around the rear of the Lapith war-carts and began dispatching their crews with thrown spears. The cavalry also shot arrows at the Lapiths, but being untrained in the art of horseback archery they were far less effective than a well judged javelin. Uncrewed chariots began crashing into the others, and the lead chariots had no choice but to ride on at full speed and hope to outrun the carnage. The Kuwnian charioteers, meanwhile, had seen what was unfolding and had turned around. The trap was now sprung, and Podar turned the prince’s chariot around to lead the squadron once more. A line of Lapith chariots confronted them but Howguwges and Podar pressed on, and the prince of Kuwnos took up his last remaining spear. Podar directed the horses to ride between two Lapith chariots, and a vicious strike from the prince felled a Lapith charioteer as he passed on the left. But just as they passed through the remaining line of chariots the cart jolted violently and Howguwges was flung out; a crewless Lapith chariot had careened straight into his own. His landing on the hard earth would have been awkward enough for any leg to support, but the additional weight of bronze armour pushed his limb beyond tolerance and something within his left leg snapped when he landed. The prince screamed in agony, and every muscle in his body tensed and trembled as he forced himself to be quiet. He could barely concentrate on anything but agonising pain, but he forced himself upright on his good leg. In front of him was his chariot with Podar still inside, and even in his excruciating pain Howguwges was glad his driver was alive. Podar ran out of the chariot; he only had to look for a moment to see that the prince was putting no weight on his left leg, and he supported Howguwges as they both walked back to the chariot.
Podar sat him down on the edge of the chariot’s platform, and either the pain began to slowly dim or Howguwges’ body became gradually used to the sensation. This is what allowed him to notice that the fighting had come to a halt around them; the few remaining Lapith chariots had fled back to their encampment, and empty or crashed chariots were all around them. Horsemen were gathering loose horses and beginning to lead them back to the rear of Muwatalli’s army. A detachment of those horsemen approached the two Kuwnians in their chariot. One of the men dismounted, and it took Howguwges a moment to recognise that it was Muwatalli himself. He tried to rise, but Podar kept him firmly sat down.
“I am sorry, great king, I would rise for you but my body betrays me.” said Howguwges, looking apologetically at his currently useless leg.
“Don’t apologise for that,” began Muwatalli, “But leaving yourself at the front and the rear of the chariots was incredibly stupid. You could have easily been killed!” There was irritation in the Hittite’s voice. “It was also incredibly brave.” said the king more softly.
“You commanded me to hold this flank, and I saw an opportunity to remove Phlegwas’ charioteers from the battle.” said Howguwges.
“I would have liked to do that without the commander of my chariots injuring himself.” said Muwatalli.
“But the trade is good, my king. I am injured but the Lapith chariots are gone, the trade is good.”
“I do not think of my companions as pieces on a gameboard,” said Muwatalli ruefully, “Driver, take your master back to the rear where his injury can be treated.”
Muwatalli paused, as he properly looked at Podar.
“And your injuries as well. You have done great service to your master, and I will see that you are rewarded. But right now both of you need medicine. This battle is far from over, and may last many hours yet. If the gods turn against us, and all is lost, then I want you able to retreat and survive. And if the gods are with us, and this day is to be ours, I don’t want to lose some of my best men to preventable ills.”
“Thank you, great King.” said Podar and Howguwges together. The prince then looked over at Podar beside him; he saw for the first time that an enormous bruise was already forming on Podar’s right flank where he had been thrown against the interior of the chariot. Podar stood up once more, and offered his hand to the Kuwnian prince.
“I am sorry, my prince, I would have you lie down but the chariot is not large enough and so you must stand,” he said as he hoisted Howguwges to his feet, ”Lean on me.”
Podar took up the reins of the chariot as Howguwges rested his left arm across the driver’s shoulders to support his bad leg. Podar only started the horses once he was sure Howguwges’ other arm was firmly grasping the chariot’s railing. The chariot began rolling across the earth once more, and Howguwges was hailed both by many passing horsemen and the remainder of his charioteers. He glanced across the rest of the battlefield, and watched great furlongs of men rushing at one another. The glare of polished bronze became too much and he turned away. He spent the rest of the chariot ride fighting unconsciousness amid the clamour of battle.
An advance was once again sounded from Phlegwas’ great warhorn. His front line of spearmen began to press forward in a great shivering mass, a ripple of almost two thousand men. They raised up their fell shields to guard against the shafts of Muwatalli’s skirmishers, and swept forwards brimming with gars and newfound bloodlust. Muwatalli ordered his pelting-men back, his skirmishers ebbing away to anchor behind great banks of Euboian spearmen. The last to depart were the Hittite archers, who rained arrows upon the approaching Lapiths until the last possible moment, when at last they too were forced to trickle away behind Muwatalli’s front lines. As the Lapiths rushed to the attack Muwatalli ordered his own vanguard to meet them. two great regiments of spearmen surged towards their foe, and within moments they were upon one another. Tides of men clashed, spear-blades flashed, against one another hide shields crashed. The initial rush of Lapith enthusiasm was checked, for they failed to press their superior numbers. The Lapith swarm was lunging at Muwatalli’s vanguard, but the allied ranks remained closed, the men of many nations would not give ground or yield no matter the many darting spears that battered their shields. The clash dragged on and the Lapiths seemed endless, but still Muwatalli’s men held on, withstanding the grinding gyre of pressing bodies and frenzied thrusts.
Kamm was right at the forefront of this melee. His shield arm ached and the muscles of his spear arm burned. His lungs thirsted for air and his heart battered in his ribcage like a mace against a shield. A hundred times his shield was stabbed at by spears and a hundred times his own leister came diving down with wicked purpose. Only one of his strokes had hit home, plunging deep into a Lapith’s shoulder, but Kamm was still fighting a rising nausea welling up within. His instinct to survive was strong in its own right but it was Kamm’s trust in his companions that actively fought the revulsion threatening to seize his body, the comfort that came from feeling their presence on either side and at his rear. It was that which allowed him to retain mastery over his limbs. But that power was slowly fading, for Kamm had been fighting continuously for almost half an hour. He drew on the strength he had left over and over again, forcing his liths into action when every bodily impulse was telling them to seize up entirely. The effort was becoming more and more unbearable, and Kamm knew that eventually his willpower would give out. He lunged once, twice, a third time at the foes ranged in front of him. But his next strike was badly misaimed. He stumbled, his spear struck the earth with the impact shuddering up his right arm, and Kamm knew that he could give no more. His spear arm would not lift, his legs would not stir, and he could no longer resist the numbness spreading throughout his body like a comforting blanket. The numbness blocked out the pain, and it was bliss even as Kamm tried to will himself to action once more. He expected a killing blow and could find no will to resist it if it came. But just at that moment Tallias, the man to his right, jolted and fell twitching to the ground. Kamm turned and saw blood streaming from Tallias’ thigh, and heard the pained screams spilling from Tallias’ mouth. In an instant power flooded back into Kamm’s frame and fatigue was forgotten. Kamm swept in front of the fallen Akhaian with his shield raised and spear poised. A Lapith stabbed at him but Kamm’s shield stood fast. Another Lapith tried his luck but the warrior’s strike left him open for just a split second too long; Kamm flung his spear point blank at the unlucky Lapith, and the shaft lanced through the man’s throat. His rage clouded out the horrendous sputtering noises that came from the fallen Lapith’s pierced windpipe. Kamm picked up the fallen Tallias’ spear, and continued to fend off any Lapith on the front line who dared approach. Other friendly hands managed to lift and move Tallias away from the melee, but Kamm had not noticed. He had actually caused the entire shield wall of Muwatalli’s spearmen to advance, for the Lapiths had begun to recoil from his presence. Kamm’s bloodlust, however, had started to overcome his common sense. He came closer and closer to leaving the shieldwall altogether as he tried to chase down Lapiths that backed away from him. A thrown spear hummed past his ear and drew blood. He suddenly felt wet, warm blood rilling down his left cheek. That caused Kamm to pause long enough for friendly hands to haul him back into the shieldwall, before the darting spears of Lapiths could overcome him. Deep drags of air pushed out the bloodlust, and Kamm regained control over his senses. His limbs were even more sore than before, and he could once again feel the tendrils of nausea. He was dumbfounded at what he had done, and had he paused to think about it would have made him quiver. But he pushed confusion out of his mind as he blocked a thrown spear with his ox-hide shield. He set his mind to battle again, and to the comrades that surrounded him; what other choice did he have?
Kamm was not alone among Muwatalli’s men in pushing himself beyond his limits; out of confidence, loyalty, and bloodymindedness most of that vanguard of spearmen simply refused to allow Phlegwas’ superior numbers to intimidate them, no matter their exhaustion and pains. Those who felt more fearful were shamed and inspired by the rest. There was no possibility now of Phlegwas quickly routing Muwatalli’s army. But the Lord of the Lapiths was not so easily dismayed by setbacks, and at this point Phlegwas began to take measures to alter the balance of combat. On the left his few chariots were crewed and deployed, and with a great blast on his war-horn the carts were unleashed upon those of Muwatalli. They flung up immense plumes of dust on their approach, and threw wicked spears into the ranks of their enemies. Behind those plumes of dust marched a regiment of Phlegwas’ bronze armoured swordsmen, their advance concealed from view. On the right the skirmishers were sent to prise Muwatalli’s vanguard out from the shelter of city walls, enabling a massive push on that part of the battleline. Phlegwas still had every chance of gaining the advantage, and of forcing back Muwatalli and his companions. Already the skirmishers had forced the vanguard’s left flank to retreat, and the battle between charioteers was fiercely fought. But neither was Muwatalli content to simply sit and watch events unfold. Muwatalli’s horn sounded the advance of another of his great regiments, in this case some of his own bronze-armoured spearmen. He feared that he had unleashed them too late, and that the vanguard’s flank would be rolled up. But at that moment the left flank of Phlegwas’ vanguard suddenly found itself under a barrage of arrows, thrown rocks, and thrown spears. They then realised in dismay that the defenders on Thrachis’ walls had intervened. And then terror spread through the ranks of Lapiths as they heard the sound of great gates opening; from out of Thrachis’ cavernous entrance came a company of warriors led by a few bronze-armoured men, and they charged straight into the skirmishers who had been pushing Muwatalli’s men back with their fierce axes. Then Muwatalli’s regiment of gleaming spearmen crashed into the skirmishers, and a slaughter ensued. The great bronze armour and shields physically crushed those without armour, and many of the Lapith flanking forces were forced into a ball. Diving spears and biting blades cut many of them down, and the ball got smaller and smaller, until at last the Lapiths so-trapped begged for quarter. Much of Phlegwas’ vanguard was now being flanked on its right, and Muwatalli’s men were now able to take positions directly in front of Thrachis’ front walls and great gates. It was clear this first melee had been won by Muwatalli’s men, though at some cost.
Phlegwas laughed again in delight at Muwatalli and his men fighting so fiercely. Even his closest companions among the Lapiths found it a chilling, uncomfortable sound. He ordered his vanguard to retreat, and his two regiments then fought to extract themselves from the melee. They had not been crushed but they had been bloodied, and significantly less of the spearmen who had been sent forward returned. But Phlegwas also laughed because elsewhere the tide of battle was very different. Muwatalli’s chariots under the command of Prince Hogwuwges had been practically chased off the field; Lapith chariots and bronze-coated swordsmen now threatened Muwatalli’s army on its right flank. It was here that Phlegwas then concentrated a new offensive. His second line of spearmen, equal in strength to the first, was now sent out to crash against the right side of Muwatalli’s battle line. Further regiments and companies of bronze-armoured men were ordered to new positions, in preparation for a great charge against Muwatalli’s remaining vanguard. Muwatalli, for his part, wondered if the initial victory had already proven futile, but he was not going to passively allow Phlegwas to enact all of his plans either. If he allowed his vanguard to receive that charge it would likely be destroyed or routed, and that would take out almost a quarter of his total forces. Nor would he allow his right flank to be taken unchallenged. The burnished shoals of Muwatalli’s men rippled once more as they hurriedly reorganised. The advance of Phlegwas’ second line was met by fresh companies of spearmen and also some of Muwatalli’s bronze-clad swordsmen. The victorious vanguard was withdrawn, and replaced by yet more fresh spearmen. Skirmishers once again took up positions in front of this second line to pelt any attack upon it. And not least of all was Muwatalli’s decision to personally lead his entire cavalry force in an attack on Phlegwas’ chariots. The second, more deadly melee of the battle was about to begin.
Prince Howguwges was a man running out of time. His men were outnumbered and cut off from the main body of the army. His squadron’s serviceable and crewed chariots were being whittled down one by one, and his conspicuously rich armour meant that Lapith chariots continually hurled themselves at him. He knew that his chariots were inevitably going to be overcome by the Lapiths, and he along with them. But if that happened Muwatalli’s entire right flank would become torn asunder, and so the Kuwnian prince simply refused to give up. He fought all the harder for his guilt, because he knew his refusal to retreat might result in the deaths of all of his charioteers, men he had known and commanded for years. Every chariot he disabled, every spearman he killed, every spear blow he blocked, every arrow that clipped his armour or flesh was him throwing himself between the Lapiths and the rest of his squadron. Podar, his driver, had continued to dextrously command the horse team despite exhaustion, and despite terrifying battle engulfing the entire plain around him. He had almost perished to a loose missile several times, but the young driver was every bit as determined as his prince, and Howguwges also felt guilt that such a talented and promising man might die so young on this battlefield. The prince’s hard-fought resistance would not have been possible without Pothar, and Pothar was determined not to shame himself in front of the next king of Kuwnos, but neither knew how long that resistance could continue. And yet they persisted.
Three times Howguwges had rallied his remaining chariots together, and three times the Lapith carts had been driven back. His shield thrummed from all the shafts that had embedded themselves in it, and two of his spears had splintered into uselessness leaving him with only one. Again a chariot came hurtling towards towards Prince Howguwges’ own, and again Prince Howguwges raised a spear as his driver hurtled them towards the enemy team. He saw motion from the enemy chariot just in time and quickly moved his shield to cover Podar. Howguwges almost dropped his shield as a heavy thrown spear thudded against it, and missed his chance to strike as the two chariot teams passed one another. But the Lapith spearman would not escape so easily. The Kuwnian prince placed down his remaining spear and took up his bow, and Podar directed their path back towards the Lapith chariot. The Lapith team had circled around and began to ride hard at Howguwges and Podar once more. But this time Howguwges simply loosed arrow after arrow, and his third felled the spearmen in the approaching chariot which broke off. There was no time to rest, however, as the two men saw the remaining Lapith chariots gathering back into their herd. Another charge was clearly imminent, and Howguwges had no idea if this would be the one that finally broke his own charioteers. He blew on his horn with the reserves of breath he had left and the remaining chariots under his command reassembled. The prince looked remorsefully at how reduced their numbers were. But before he could announce what might be their final charge something caught his eye. He turned and saw great plumes of dust thrown up at the rear of Muwatalli’s army, and his heart leapt when he realised it was due to swathes of horsemen riding in his direction to effect a rescue. But he also realised that if the Lapiths noticed the approaching cavalry they would simply retreat, and come back to stalk the battlefield at some crucial later moment. But if I’m smart I can take the Lapith chariots out of the battle entirely.
The prince set his hastily improvised plan into motion. He ordered his charioteers to retreat, feigning that they were giving way before the Lapith war-carts. But as he glanced back at the Lapiths, Howguwges worried that was not enough to tempt them forward. An idea presented itself to him, and as much as it terrified him he became convinced of its necessity. He ordered Podar to slow the chariot, for he knew the prospect of killing a prince and plundering his armour would be too much for hot-headed charioteers to resist. Howguwges looked behind him and, sure enough, the Lapiths had begun to give chase and totally failed to notice the approaching Euboian cavalry. Howguwges and Podar tensed as the Lapith chariots grew closer, and then felt their hearts pounding as arrows began to fly around them, shot from the lead Lapith chariots. But then all was terror among the Lapiths as an oncoming wave of Euboian horsemen swelled around them. As Howguwges watched a great arc of horsemen rode around the rear of the Lapith war-carts and began dispatching their crews with thrown spears. The cavalry also shot arrows at the Lapiths, but being untrained in the art of horseback archery they were far less effective than a well judged javelin. Uncrewed chariots began crashing into the others, and the lead chariots had no choice but to ride on at full speed and hope to outrun the carnage. The Kuwnian charioteers, meanwhile, had seen what was unfolding and had turned around. The trap was now sprung, and Podar turned the prince’s chariot around to lead the squadron once more. A line of Lapith chariots confronted them but Howguwges and Podar pressed on, and the prince of Kuwnos took up his last remaining spear. Podar directed the horses to ride between two Lapith chariots, and a vicious strike from the prince felled a Lapith charioteer as he passed on the left. But just as they passed through the remaining line of chariots the cart jolted violently and Howguwges was flung out; a crewless Lapith chariot had careened straight into his own. His landing on the hard earth would have been awkward enough for any leg to support, but the additional weight of bronze armour pushed his limb beyond tolerance and something within his left leg snapped when he landed. The prince screamed in agony, and every muscle in his body tensed and trembled as he forced himself to be quiet. He could barely concentrate on anything but agonising pain, but he forced himself upright on his good leg. In front of him was his chariot with Podar still inside, and even in his excruciating pain Howguwges was glad his driver was alive. Podar ran out of the chariot; he only had to look for a moment to see that the prince was putting no weight on his left leg, and he supported Howguwges as they both walked back to the chariot.
Podar sat him down on the edge of the chariot’s platform, and either the pain began to slowly dim or Howguwges’ body became gradually used to the sensation. This is what allowed him to notice that the fighting had come to a halt around them; the few remaining Lapith chariots had fled back to their encampment, and empty or crashed chariots were all around them. Horsemen were gathering loose horses and beginning to lead them back to the rear of Muwatalli’s army. A detachment of those horsemen approached the two Kuwnians in their chariot. One of the men dismounted, and it took Howguwges a moment to recognise that it was Muwatalli himself. He tried to rise, but Podar kept him firmly sat down.
“I am sorry, great king, I would rise for you but my body betrays me.” said Howguwges, looking apologetically at his currently useless leg.
“Don’t apologise for that,” began Muwatalli, “But leaving yourself at the front and the rear of the chariots was incredibly stupid. You could have easily been killed!” There was irritation in the Hittite’s voice. “It was also incredibly brave.” said the king more softly.
“You commanded me to hold this flank, and I saw an opportunity to remove Phlegwas’ charioteers from the battle.” said Howguwges.
“I would have liked to do that without the commander of my chariots injuring himself.” said Muwatalli.
“But the trade is good, my king. I am injured but the Lapith chariots are gone, the trade is good.”
“I do not think of my companions as pieces on a gameboard,” said Muwatalli ruefully, “Driver, take your master back to the rear where his injury can be treated.”
Muwatalli paused, as he properly looked at Podar.
“And your injuries as well. You have done great service to your master, and I will see that you are rewarded. But right now both of you need medicine. This battle is far from over, and may last many hours yet. If the gods turn against us, and all is lost, then I want you able to retreat and survive. And if the gods are with us, and this day is to be ours, I don’t want to lose some of my best men to preventable ills.”
“Thank you, great King.” said Podar and Howguwges together. The prince then looked over at Podar beside him; he saw for the first time that an enormous bruise was already forming on Podar’s right flank where he had been thrown against the interior of the chariot. Podar stood up once more, and offered his hand to the Kuwnian prince.
“I am sorry, my prince, I would have you lie down but the chariot is not large enough and so you must stand,” he said as he hoisted Howguwges to his feet, ”Lean on me.”
Podar took up the reins of the chariot as Howguwges rested his left arm across the driver’s shoulders to support his bad leg. Podar only started the horses once he was sure Howguwges’ other arm was firmly grasping the chariot’s railing. The chariot began rolling across the earth once more, and Howguwges was hailed both by many passing horsemen and the remainder of his charioteers. He glanced across the rest of the battlefield, and watched great furlongs of men rushing at one another. The glare of polished bronze became too much and he turned away. He spent the rest of the chariot ride fighting unconsciousness amid the clamour of battle.
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I think you're trying too hard to sound epic.
While a shield could be cruel, no doubt, 'fell' is more often used of weapons than defences.
I doubt they're brimming with fish, so I'm not sure what you're going for. Was that supposed to be the AngloSaxon word for spear (as in gar-lic, spear leek)?
circling? spirals? odd choice of wording...
"shoals"?
But, aside from those minor quibbles, great update!
While a shield could be cruel, no doubt, 'fell' is more often used of weapons than defences.
I doubt they're brimming with fish, so I'm not sure what you're going for. Was that supposed to be the AngloSaxon word for spear (as in gar-lic, spear leek)?
by "pelting-men" do you mean all ranged weapon wielders (i.e. including archers), or are you restricting that to e.g. slingers.
circling? spirals? odd choice of wording...
He's using a flexible fishing spear?
correct. But, wow that's obscure.
wouldn't happen with the fishing spear he's apparently using.
"shoals"?
But, aside from those minor quibbles, great update!
To answer these: a fell is actually an archaic English word for a pelt or a hide.
Yes, that is gar asin the old word for a spear.
Yes, pelting-men is meant to refer to all of the ranged-weapon bearers, and that's why I used that term in particular; there's only so many times you can refer to 'skirmishers' before you start seeing crosseyed.
Some of these you seem to have not quite understood the metaphor I was going for, and I can't really do much about that; for example shoal and gyre. There's been a consistent metaphor referring to the armies and to regiments of armed men with metaphors relating to the sea. See the first part in which Muwatalli's army is referred to as shoals, and banks, and waves rolling onto the plain.
Leister was supposed to be going with the theme mentioned above but, I think you're right, that one is too specific and I'll change it.
Liths is indeed an obscure word. But I like obscure words, and I don't really feel there's much harm in using the odd one now and again. It would be different if I was writing like Chaucer or Milton or even Edgar Allen Poe, but so long as it's only one or two I'm usually fairly comfortable. C.f gar, from above.
Ah!
OK
Actually, on looking up "fell", I did see that meaning, and meant to mention it, but forgot.
I love archaic words, too, but several of these were ones I had to look up.
Still, it's always good to learn new things.
I suck at understanding the arts of war and battle.
Has Muwatalli's reign brought new technology or tactics to the battlefield that was not present in the Hellenic lands at this time in OTL?
What is plain is that he has brought a high degree of unity; the peoples who have acknowledged his lordship are becoming numerous and his determination to take on dangerous actors like Phlegwas Crop-Burner has won him another legion of allies, who may not want to make him their king outright but would rather be fighting alongside him than against him. So he has been able to bring numbers to the battlefield, that much is clear. I can't judge whether they are fighting in a manner that would change the game of Hellenic warfare versus OTL, but a strong regional alliance and a large more or less federal power is a different thing.
Has Muwatalli's reign brought new technology or tactics to the battlefield that was not present in the Hellenic lands at this time in OTL?What is plain is that he has brought a high degree of unity; the peoples who have acknowledged his lordship are becoming numerous and his determination to take on dangerous actors like Phlegwas Crop-Burner has won him another legion of allies, who may not want to make him their king outright but would rather be fighting alongside him than against him. So he has been able to bring numbers to the battlefield, that much is clear. I can't judge whether they are fighting in a manner that would change the game of Hellenic warfare versus OTL, but a strong regional alliance and a large more or less federal power is a different thing.