For a Fistful of Amphorae (or; These oath gods will destroy you)

[Daeres]

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.

There is a big innovation that Muwatalli has introduced and that he did not mean to- the rider on a horseman as a warrior in his own right, as opposed to simply being a mode of transportation. In this age such a thing rarely existed, and possibly hardly ever. This was primarily due to a number of things; horse breeding had not yet produced dedicated warhorses outside of those trained to pull chariots (and there were detailed and specific manuals on how to do so, see the Kikkuli text), and chariots were an enormously prestigious component of armies, to the point where it was assumed that any army worth its salt would have one. Across the past century many commentators have assumed that Mycenaean battles were primarily fought with charioteers. I personally find the artistic evidence of footsoldiers too numerous, and also question the likelihood of this when even the grand armies of the Mittani, Hittites, Egyptians etc had large foot soldier components even when there was over 1000 chariots in play.

So why is Muwatalli using horseback riders? It's a move born of poverty. Chariot-trained horses are a rarity in this era, as are the specialists who make chariots. They are incredibly expensive weapons of war, and thus Muwatalli entirely relies on his landbound allies to provide his charioteers. Meanwhile horseback riding is a fast way to move around the island of Euboea, and a fast way to move around the battlefield. But the saddles they are using are not very deep, and a lot of effort is spent making sure you don't fall off. The spear throwing and arrow-firing from horseback is thus generally forward facing, and tentative, to make sure you don't fall off the horse. It's why the arrows were so inaccurate when shot at specific targets, and why they didn't fight hand to hand- without sufficient support you'd just fall off. This is not the last time that the horsemen will appear in this battle, however.

As for everyone else, I'm glad that you enjoyed the two parts thus far, the third one should be making its appearance later today. I have to warn you, it's a longer one, but I think you'll understand why when it arrives...

 

[Jonathan Edelstein]

Can't wait to see the last part of the battle.

 

[Daeres]

The Battle of Thrachis Part Three

The men of nearby Erutoptolis had been watching the unfolding battle at Thrachis from the safety of their walls, and had also been arguing amongst themselves. Many wanted to intervene in the battle, but many others did not. Which side would likely win? Could Erutoptolis furnish enough men to even make an impact? Would all of their warriors likely perish? The arguments became more heated as they witnessed various events unfold, particularly when it seemed as though Muwatalli’s chariots had been routed. But just as Prince Howguwges had been leading his countercharge a number of armed men appeared at the gate of Erutoptolis. Only one among them, young, bearded, and lovely-voiced, could speak the Mycenaean dialect, and he claimed that the King of the Dorians -a people nobody had ever heard of- wished to speak to the city’s king or elders. The king of the city, curious, walked to the parapet above the city gates.
“I am Agawon, King of Erutoptolis, formerly second spear of great Orchemenos.”
“I, Sallas, speak for Heullos, son of Herakles, King of the Dorians. My king and his men come in peace but also in haste. He marches on the armies of Phlegwas, the Crop Burner, and asks if you might join him in attacking the Lapith flank with whatever spears you can spare.”
“How many men does your king take with him?”
“Almost a thousand Dorians and Curetes, o King.”
Agawon considered for a moment.
“Does your king know the army that attacks Phlegwas?”
“It is the army of Muwatalli of Euboia, o King, who is indeed an ally of Heullos, my king.”
Murmurs erupted all over the walls at the mention of that name.
“Is Muwatalli kind to his friends?” asked Agawon with a considered tone.
After Sallas had translated this, Heullos looked at him with confusion.
“Are you sure you spoke his words truly?” asked Heullos in their native Dorian.
“Assuredly, o King. But I suspect that there is a double meaning here; he is asking if Muwatalli will reward him for coming to his aid.”
“Hah, this King really is an ex-soldier isn’t he.”
After further conferring with Sallas, the reply came from the lovely voiced Dorian.
“King Muwatalli has always held his friends close, o King, in the very tightest of embraces.”
“Then by all means, let us be rid of the Crop-Burner. Tell your king that if he assembles his men in a battle line, and gives my fair city some time, my soldiers and I will join him.”
Cheers erupted from the walls of the city, and then armed warriors began to move with haste. Shields were taken up, spears were picked out and gripped tightly, armour was hurriedly fitted and tightened. The city was suddenly a hive of activity. The Dorians assembled in a line just outside the city, watching the carnage outside Thrachis some four kilometres away. In what seemed only a few minutes a great line of spear-carrying warriors rushed out of Erutoptolis’ wooden gates. Not far behind them came a small company of extremely well armoured men led by Agawon himself, all burnished bronze and determined expressions. All in all the two forces stood close to two thousand strong, though not as close to that figure as they would like. Agawon, in some of the finest bronze armour any of the Dorians had ever seen, assembled his men into a line alongside Heullos’ men, and then blew his horn. Heullos followed suit, and the combined force started forward. It was unlikely that the horn blasts had been heard by Muwatalli or the Lapiths, for the din of battle would mask such distant noises. Time was of the essence, however; even as they began their brisk marsh Muwatalli’s forces might have been getting the worse of it, and the sooner they arrived the sooner they could make sure of the battle’s outcome. Thus began the march of Dorians, Curetes, and Erutoptolitans, to unknown ends.

As that march began the battlefield at Thrachis was even more alive with agitation. Muwatalli’s infantry on the right had taken the fight to the Lapiths, rather than allowing Phlegwas’ left to charge unopposed. Masses of bronze-glossed warriors were launching themselves at one another, and the concentration of bronze armour rippled like scales in clear summer waters. The Lapith right, meanwhile, approached the walls of Thrachis. Muwatalli’s skirmishers, and those of Thrachis, once again set to work. Their bowstrings sung, the air whistled with the flight of spears, and sling bullets cracked like hail on shield, armour, and flesh. Once the Lapiths drew too close they withdrew, and the Lapiths found spearmen waiting for them. The two great banks of warriors clashed, and the battleshores now stretched for more than a kilometre outside Thrachis. The sheer number of well protected warriors slowed the fighting, and it was deeply unclear which side was getting the better of it. But Muwatalli, though still outnumbered, had one enormous advantage; with the Lapith chariots completely routed his riders had total freedom of action. Muwatalli now began to take advantage of this; in imitation of his earlier feint at Heettos he had his horsemen kick up great plumes of dust. Phlegwas then committed more troops to that part of the battlefield, thinking that the dust disguised the advance of new reserves. But behind the curtain of dust lay no advancing warriors, and Muwatalli instead reinforced his left flank with his last fresh company of Abantes, for his men were slowly prising the Lapiths even further away from the walls of the great Thrachian city. After that, Muwatalli led several hundred horsemen across his right flank, where they then attempted to pelt the Lapiths with arrow shafts. Here he was frustrated, for Phlegwas had placed his remaining skirmishers here and they began to pelt the Euboian cavalry in turn. Muwatalli also noted with dismay that Phlegwas still had at least one entire regiment of infantry left in reserve that was entirely fresh, and a plentitude of survivors from the first melee of the day. His men were pushing the Lapiths back with great tenacity, but he feared that a strong counter-attack might undo everything, for Muwatalli had committed almost every force he had. His great commanders and fighters like Shurki-Tulla, Woinewas, Towanor, Orkhillas, and Rashmania were already in the thick of it. The next half hour would be the deciding factor in who finally achieved victory.

Then Phlegwas and Muwatalli alike both began to notice a growing plume of dust to the rear of the Lapith encampment. Muwatalli became deadly afraid that this was Lapith reinforcements, for even a thousand more Lapiths would mean utter ruin for his entire army, and he rode to get a better view. But Phlegwas already had a clearer view of what lay behind him, and he swiftly realised that these were not reinforcements coming to his aid. He had little time and most of his men were now tied up in combat, but his remaining resources were formidable and battle-ready. He ordered a reserve regiment to guard the perimeter of the encampment, and reassembled the remains of his vanguard. Even as he took these measures the Lapith king had no idea who it was that so hotly pressed his rearguard. At this unexpected reversal he was not laughing at all. As the unknown warriors grew closer Phlegwas felt his temple throb and an adrenaline rush in his right arm; this was as close as the Crop-Burner came to being afraid. The warriors grew close enough for Phlegwas to discern that men from very different cultures were all arranged together, a little microcosm of Muwatalli’s multistoried alliance. Some, Phlegwas noted, wore no armour of any kind bar their shields. That was something only Akhaians from the far north did, and he wondered what tribe had wandered so far from their homelands that they dared to join battle against him. Muwatalli was now on a hill high enough to see the substantial size of the oncoming strangers, but also saw that the Lapiths were ranged to defend against them and his heart swelled with new hope. Had another of Thrachis’ embassies met with success? It was at precisely that moment that something among the oncoming men changed. The righthand warriors began to increase in speed from a brisk march to a run, and their fellows then followed suit. Then a sound began to emanate from the warriors like nothing any Lapith, Hittite, Theban, Narwekian or Thrachian had ever heard before in their lives. It was a trilling, ululating sound that seemed to grow in sharpness and loudness, and it filled the hearts of all who heard it with utter terror save those literally incapable of feeling the sensation. The dreadful sound seemed to drown out much of the battlefield din, and the air was filled with the noise.
Alalalalalalalalala!
This was the warcry that shrieked across the battlefield, and as the oncoming warriors sang it their running broke into a flat-out sprint, once again led by the warriors on the right. The host at last crashed into Phlegwas’ rearguard, and they plunged into the Lapiths like a spear through a jellyfish. On their left the Lapiths fought against soldiers perfectly drilled in the traditional Aegean arts of war, and on the right they fought against foes who didn’t stab with spears so much as they shoved with all their bronze shields. The Lapith rearguard was soon being pushed back into the Lapith tents and campfires, and Phlegwas sent in the remainder of his vanguard in a last ditch effort to hold off this new assault. His sole remaining reserve was now his own warband of handpicked warriors, and he wanted to save that for the last possible moment. However, for all that they were now hotly pressed the Lapiths managed, just, to hold their battle lines together for the moment. If they could keep their nerve and hold together then perhaps even this setback could be overcome.

Muwatalli knew the battle was not yet decided, but he had one more gamble left, one more strategem left to enact. It was possibly his most desperate yet, and something straight out of Prince Howguwges’ repertoire. But Muwatalli had become a habitual risk-taker in his own right, and he was not prepared to sacrifice men by the hundred grinding the Lapiths down in a slow melee. He gathered his cavalry and remaining chariots, and after they were made ready the chariots charged straight at Phlegwas’ skirmishers on the far right. Following directly behind them in a long stanchion was the great stream of Euboian cavalry. The skirmishers scattered in the face of the chariots, and in the wake of the war-carts came the thundering hooves of Muwatalli’s horsemen. They flooded around the rear of the Lapith front lines and caused carnage in their wake; thrown spears and shot arrows fell into many Lapith regiments, and the Lapiths were terrified at the presence of so many horses torrenting behind them. Neither was Phlegwas able to move his warband quickly enough to stop the entire cavalry column passing all the way behind his front lines. Muwatalli rallied his cavalry on the northern tip of Thrachis’ heavy walls and took a moment to rest both man and horse. He carefully examined the ongoing battle, and saw that Phlegwas’ right flank was vulnerable; it had been partially encircled by Muwatalli’s infantry already and had been pushed even further away from the walls of Thrachis. If one of Phlegwas’ flanks crumbled the entire front line would collapse with it, and the battle would be as good as over. He rode at the head of his horsemen once more, their missiles hitting into the rear of Phlegwas’ rightmost regiment of spearmen. These Lapiths were already battered by combat with Thrachians and Abantes, and thundering cavalry re-awakened that fear among them they had felt when first they saw Muwatalli’s army. Their dread of Muwatalli and his men finally outgrew their dread of Phlegwas, and the regiment broke. At seeing their comrades fleeing more Lapiths on the right began to rout, and Phlegwas’ entire front line slumped as its righthand bastion began to give way. Many of the fleeing Lapiths surrendered to Muwatalli and his horsemen, but many others did not and the slowest were cut down. Those who held their nerve and held the line were still pushed back right to Phlegwas’ own position as Muwatalli’s men rushed into the breaches left by absconding Lapiths. They were joined by the rearguard, hurled back by the still-unknown host who pressed them so fiercely, and now only Phlegwas’ left and centre were holding their own against the waves of warriors that crashed against their shores. Phlegwas recognised that this battle was almost surely lost to him, but he refused to acknowledge it. His fey laughter returned, and at last he ordered his chosen warband into combat towards the right. To their credit they immediately made an impact, for they were both fresh and highly skilled warriors. But the tide was still very much against the Lapiths on all sides. Muwatalli knew these were the final moments of the battle, and so he dismounted his cavalry; they had almost entirely run out of ammunition anyway, nor could any fight hand to hand from horseback. He charged his company of dismounted horsemen at the nearest Lapiths with his mace and shield drawn, and the Lapith lines crumpled yet further. Only moments later Phlegwas’ left, and most of his centre, routed as they felt themselves becoming surrounded and cut off. Hundreds of Lapiths fled in a torrent back towards the distant fortress at Lamia, and dozens of them were taken prisoner by Muwatalli’s charioteers. Others surrendered without even attempting to make a run for it. Only a few thousand of Phlegwas’ mighty army still fought, and that number grew fewer all the time. The battle was now little more than a one-sided slaughter, and Muwatalli began to feel deep pity for his foes, despite his hatred of Phlegwas and the destruction the Lapith horde had caused. He would have offered the remaining Lapiths terms then and there, but he knew that Phlegwas and his chosen warband would not stop fighting until Phlegwas was dead. If he wanted to end the battle as quickly as possible Muwatalli would have to find and dispatch the Crop-Burner as quickly as possible.

The King of Euboia and his bodyguard then pushed their way towards Phlegwas’ personal warband. Their task was not easy- the chosen Lapiths were resilient, armoured, and fanatical in their loyalty to their king. Long spears, swords, and axes kept Muwatalli’s men at bay for some time. But Muwatalli was determined that this bloody day be ended, and he fell upon the chosen Lapiths; as a bull defending calves from a pack of wolves, so Muwatalli savaged the chosen warband of Phlegwas. As Muwatalli pushed further into the warband he glimpsed a figure- alone among the Lapiths this man’s helm was decorated with golden swans, and his cloak swam with pinpricks of gold. Muwatalli realised that this must be Phlegwas, and felt a surge of adrenaline course through his body. He heaved his way through the other Lapiths with unearthly strength, bringing down his mace and shoving with his great bronze shield. And then suddenly before him stood Phlegwas, Crop-Burner, armed with a finely crafted sword. Muwatalli felt like he was no longer in control of his own body, watching from afar as his mace smashed down onto the Lapith king’s shoulder. Phlegwas’ sword fell to the earth, and he turned to look at Muwatalli with his right arm held limp at his side. There was a dreadful moment where neither figure stirred further, and Muwatalli had no idea what was about to happen. Then Phlegwas, King of the Lapiths, Crop-Burner, Sacker of Cities, Bane of the Minyans, took off his gilded helm, and held it for Muwatalli to take from him. Muwatalli at first did nothing, utterly bewildered, and then he took the swan-crested helmet. He had come to despise and loathe Phlegwas, but upon the face of this man who had caused him so much anguish he saw only dignified serenity. And then, without warning, Phlegwas seized a sword from a nearby Lapith and plunged it deep into his own chest. The stab was strong and true, passing through the great armour of Phlegwas like it was cloth. Phlegwas cried out, and then the Lapith fell to the ground. Life dwelled in his eyes no longer. Muwatalli stared at the empty body of Phlegwas in his shock, and he was only awoken when a shield crashed into his side. He recovered himself, and brandished Phlegwas’ helmet by raising it aloft. He yelled the words ‘Phlegwas is vanquished!’ in both Hittite and Mycenaean, and within moments the battle came to a halt, amid cheering from his men and lamentations from the Lapiths.

The remaining Lapiths were exhausted, bloody, and remained proud. They had fought to the last, upright and unbent. But they knew that their fight was over, and that their lives were now Muwatalli’s to command. Or to take away. All the other Lapiths present on the field had fled, been taken prisoner, or had been killed. It was with no small trepidation that the last men of Phlegwas awaited their fate. They remained surrounded by Muwatalli’s men, their king was dead, and Phlegwas’ son Ixion had remained in Lamia; who would speak for them? Muwatalli had been but a name and a distant enemy to them, and now that he stood victorious in front of them the Lapiths realised they knew almost nothing about this man. This only increased their fear of what might happen next. It was well, therefore, that they did not know of the indecision wracking Muwatalli’s mind at that very moment. In fifteen years as King he had never humbled so great a host as this, a host which represented an ethnos as much as it did an army. Contradictory instincts played through his mind and amongst their clamour he sought wisdom.
Good men have died today who did not need to. Those known to me and those sworn to me alike. Men who trusted in me, and who even dead would trust me to avenge their deaths. But Phlegwas, the man who made this happen is now dead. These Lapiths followed the orders of their king until the bitter end, and is not that honourable? What would the kings of Hatti do in my stead… They would treat them like the Kaska, and set an example. That would be the wisdom of ancient Hattusa. But that never worked. The thread of reprisals against the Kaska only made them fight harder. Even those with almost nothing will fight to the bitter end for that little they possess, even if it is only their dignity. Even if I did not have these Lapiths killed, and instead made them slaves, what good does it do to make slaves of so many proud warriors? If I did it would only make them vengeful and their fellows angry. But I cannot simply let them go with no strings attached, as though no harm had been done. Harm has been done- fields have been blackened, people have been killed, villages have been burned.
Then an idea suggested itself. After considering it for a moment, Muwatalli decided that this was the correct path, and he hurriedly sought out Woinewas. No news had reached him that Woinewas had been killed or injured, and Muwatalli was relieved when the veteran sailor was brought to him alive and well. The governor of Amarendos was blood-spattered and was clearly exhausted, but otherwise Woinewas looked perfectly healthy.
“Well met in your victory, great king. What troubles you?” said Woinewas hoarsely.
“Woinewas, across the Gulf between Euboia and the mainland, there’s a place… I’m trying to remember what Akhaians call it… Anthedoon?”
“Yes my king, Anthedoon is probably where you’re thinking of.”
“It’s uninhabited, isn’t it?”
“It is, my king. No-one has lived there for as long as I can remember.”
“Does anything remain there at all?”
“There is the ancient grove of the Kabeiroi… but it has likely fallen into disrepair by now.”
Realisation dawned for Woinewas on what Muwatalli was considering.
“Is that what you’re going to do with the Lapiths? Because my king, that’s bril-”
Muwatalli gently shushed Woinewas.
“Do we have anyone that can understand the speech of Lapiths?”
“Yes, my king, I will fetch him immediately.”

A few minutes later the murmuring Lapiths silenced as they saw two men cross the gap between themselves and the warriors who surrounded them. One seemed in no way extraordinary, but the other was dressed in fine bronze armour, with a great mace in one hand and a decorated bronze shield in the other, and upon his helm was a crown of electrum. Nor did he look like an Akhaian. Many realised that this had to be Muwatalli himself, and their hearts began to race as they awaited their fate. The man they supposed to be Muwatalli said some words in the Mycenaean tongue, but none among the remaining Lapiths could understand it well enough to know what he said. There was at first panic, as for all the Lapiths knew he had just ordered that they all be murdered. But then the man beside him began to speak in the Lapith’s own tongue.
“Who among you will speak for the Lapiths to the Great Gwasileus Muwatalli?”
Who would speak for them? It was at this moment, as the Lapiths stood in indecision, that one called Liontu decided to cast fear aside. He had no famed ancestors, and no great standing among the Lapiths. But right now he took the fateful step that the others could not.
“I, Liontu of Ussa, speak for the Lapiths!” he said in a clear voice, and stepped forward. He felt every single Lapith eye staring at him, and all of Muwatalli’s men staring at him just as intently, but he remained where he was, and awaited the response of this Great Muwatalli. He watched as the translator relayed his words. Was that a smile that had appeared on Muwatalli’s face? He began to speak again, and his words were once again translated.
“Your king committed great crimes against many peoples, and Great Gwasileus Muwatalli came as their advocate! He swore oaths to all gods known that he would defeat your king, and here he stands victorious! Here he stands in judgement to all of you! What say you to the crimes that your king had you commit?”
“We stand before you as loyal followers of our king! We stood by him while others fled, when angry spears grew most bloody and when all hope was lost of victory! He was the sworn protector of all Lapiths, and he made us strong! But yes, he did have us burn villages, and kill women and children. I cannot overlook this. What judgement do you pass upon us?”
Muwatalli had these words relayed to him, and then he spoke again.
“My Great Gwasileus Muwatalli had thought that only death of the Lapiths would satisfy his oaths to the gods!”
The Lapiths cried out in fear at this, save for Liontu.
“But!” cried out the translator, and this silenced the wailings of the Lapiths.
“But! Great Muwatalli, the vanquisher, has been impressed with the courage, honesty, and dignity of Liontu of Ussa! He reasons that any people who produces such men cannot be evil at heart! It is because of this man that he has decided to spare all of the remaining Lapiths, and that none of you shall be harmed!”
The Lapiths cried out again, but this time in relief. Liontu himself broke from his stoicism in that moment, elation erupting from his heartl. But he also realised that Muwatalli had just set him up as the saviour of the Lapiths, which he didn’t really feel he was. Why had the Hittite done that?
“What shall become of us instead?” Liontu asked, and the Lapiths quietened again.
“My Great Gwasileus’ first requirement for peace is that all Lapiths who ran from battle and were captured be placed in servitude, in recompense for the damage that has been caused! Do you find this fair, Liontu of Ussa?”
Liontu thought for a moment. The Lapiths who had stood by Phlegwas would regard those who ran as cowards, and would not care for their fate in the slightest. It was perhaps better that they be servants and live on out of sight of other Lapiths.
“That is fair. Those who ran and were captured are cowards, and are no longer protected by the laws of the Lapiths!” he said, and he could hear the agreement of his fellow Lapiths behind him.
“My Great Gwasileus’ second requirement for peace is that you, who stood by your king until his last moments, remain free men! But restitution must still be made, and he asks that the splendid armours, chariots, and horses of the fallen be granted to him as gifts!”
“That is also fair.”
“Thirdly, and finally, he asks that you put down the spear and take up the plough! There is a holy shrine across from the sacred island upon which he dwells, and it has lain untended, and the gods who reside there have been dishonoured! To restore balance he asks that you restore this shrine, and keep it, and honour the Kabiroi worshipped there for all time! All lands that surround it shall be yours, and none shall take them from you! Great Gwasileus Muwatalli, lord of the sacred isle, shall defend you, and so shall his descendants!”
At this Liontu was genuinely surprised, and so were the Lapiths. Being given land to farm and dwell in peacefully did not seem like a punishment.
“What tribute does your king ask of us in return?” asked Liontu warily.
“All he asks is that is that you take up your spears once more if he or his descendants are in dire need! He asks of you no tribute, you shall be the masters of your own wealth and whom you trade with!”
“And what of wives and children?” asked Liontu.
“You may bring forth wives and children from wherever they live now!”
Inasmuch as a defeated army could feel jubilant the Lapiths were jubilant. But there was one final matter that had not been dealt with, and as though Muwatalli had read Liontu’s mind the translator spoke again.
“There is one final condition for peace that my Great Gwasileus Muwatalli demands! That you name Liontu of Ussa as your king, and that he rule over the land of Anthedoon that has been gifted to you, and his children after him, and his children’s children! Do you accept this condition, Lapiths?”
The great mass of Lapiths behind Liontu, to a man, cried out;
“Yes!”
It was at that moment that Liontu realised why he had been given the credit for their survival, and set up as their saviour. He had no desire to be a King in the slightest, but if it was necessary for the survival of his people, and if it was what they wanted, then so be it. He would carry this weight, for the sake of peace, and for the sake of the Lapuths. And thus, on that day, the Southern Lapiths were born.

Muwatalli’s good mood at achieving a peaceful solution only lasted until he laid sight on the ruinous battlefield once more. He wondered if that made him a bad king, that even after so many years the sight of thousands of corpses still disgusted him. Nor had his circle of friends and companions escaped unscathed, as he discovered to his sadness when he began to visit the wounded. In addition to Prince Howguwges’ broken leg Shurki Tulla had taken an arrow to the chest, but he would survive. Towanor, one of the heroes at the defense of Chalkis, had finally perished in the battle, though Muwatalli had no doubt he took many Lapiths with him to the afterlife. Orkhillas had lost two fingers. Members of Muwatalli’s bodyguard had perished; Huzziya, Alalimi, Gozin, Zaszas, Toudeus. Every single one of these deaths and wounds filled him with guilt, as did all of the other dead and wounded among his followers. He spoke with as many of the wounded as he could, making sure that they were as comfortable as possible, before he turned to his other necessary task- speaking to his various allies from the battle. The Thrachians, naturally, were delighted at their rescue and were entirely ecstatic. They were also one of the few allies not angling for a reward, and instead they wanted to reward him. He graciously accepted their gifts and promises. Almost all of the other allies had various demands, though all of them were different. The men from the Kephissos valley wished mostly for a pledge of eternal friendship, which Muwatalli was happy to agree to. They did not explicitly ask for treasure but Muwatalli remembered his pledges, and gave them a portion of the treasure looted from Phlegwas’ camp. Agawon of Erutoptolis explicitly asked for treasure, and given his timely assistance Muwatalli was not displeased to part with it. He also gave him some of the more splendid chariots and bronze armour. The lion’s share of the chariots went to Prince Howguwges and also the representatives of Nasoptolis. It was odd to him that the King of Summer from Nasoptolis had not led their contingent this time, but he would press that matter another time. To the men of Narweks he was enormously grateful, and he gave them many rich gifts and treasures. To the Males who had suffered so greatly at Phlegwas’ hands he gave the armour and rich cloak of the dead Lapith king, keeping for himself only the gilded helm. He also reminded himself to reward the locals where his ships were beached. But even with all of these rich gifts given he and his followers would take away many riches and precious things. The plunder of Phlegwas’ camp would greatly enrich Euboia and all who dwelled there. More important than gold or jewels, however, was the reinforcement that Muwatalli was a King of his word and a King of power, even if he did not think of it in those terms. His first defeat of Phlegwas had spread his name through most corners of the Akhaian speaking lands, and his great victory on this day would make him the most famous man in the entire western Aegean. And yet none of that comforted Muwatalli. He went back to talking to his wounded, and his followers, and to making arrangements for the dead. He had sent messengers back to Narweks, the Kephissos, and to his ships, and he was fully prepared to leave as soon as could be managed, for most of all he wanted to go home.

But one last thing awaited him. One ally had not yet come to petition him, and it was he who came to Muwatalli after he had been busy with one of his Abante companies. Muwatalli found himself approached by Heullos, King of the Dorians, and resigned himself to being petitioned for gifts once again.
“I am at your service, friend.” he said to Heullos in his well-practised tones.
“My king thanks you, o King,” began the Dorian’s translator, who seemed strangely familiar, “He wonders if we might speak somewhere more privately.”
Muwatalli assented. The three stood apart from the great mass of warriors and their temporary encampment.
“My king asks if you, o Muwatalli, remember his embassy of three years ago.”
“I do indeed remember the embassy of the Dorians, and your rich gifts.” Realisation suddenly hit Muwatalli. “And that is where I recognise you from, you were the ambassador were you not? Your name is Sallas?”
“I was indeed my king’s ambassador, I am glad that you remember me, despite the great beard I have cultivated since then. My king asks because he knows that others have spent the day petitioning you for gild and other great boons, but he wants you to recall what that embassy said.” said Sallas.
“You came offering us friendship, especially in times of need.”
“Your memory is indeed flawless, o King. This is important because he is not here to ask for treasure, or horses, or women, or slaves. He is here to ask that good intentions from then become firm promises now. He seeks eternal friendship between the Dorians and your great Kingdom, but also friendship between himself and you.”
The Dorian King extended his arm forwards, and looked at Muwatalli straight in the eyes. Muwatalli, without hesitation, grasped the man’s arm firmly and looked straight back. Heullos smiled, and the two men released one another’s arms. But he had been studying Muwatalli’s face keenly.
“My king says that he can see that battle pains you, and that even great victory is something you can barely stomach. That you expend almost all your energy on withstanding the desperate need to be back home, with your wife, living in peace.”
Muwatalli felt himself stripped bare, and a sudden stinging in his eyes. He had to look away for a moment.
“Your king certainly has keen eyesight.”
“He says, o King, that it takes great wisdom to hate war and battle as you do. You see the costs that men pay, the pain that everyone undergoes, and the pettiness that lies behind most of it. Who could stand amongst all this destruction and suffering and love war? You have honour not because you carry slights like a ledger, but because you seek solutions and you commit to your friends. My king knew you at first as a foreigner and a victor against Phlegwas, but having seen you forge crushing victory into a lasting peace he says you are a true king. He is proud, and honoured, to be your friend.”
Muwatalli was now the one to hold out his arm. Heullos took it.

Thus was Phlegwas, King of the Lapiths, defeated on the plains of Thrachis.

- The Chronicles of Pippassos

In our history, this enormous frieze from the Parthenon represented the conflict between 'civilized' man and his wild nature, with the civilized Lapiths fighting their barbarous Centaur cousins. Would the significance of such sculpture be different to a person in this alternate history? Would the Centaurs now represent civilization, and the Lapiths barbarism? That is, if the cultures that are to come have such stuff as Centaurs in their imagination, imagery, and conception of the past.

 

[Sir Chaos]

*bows respectfully*

Well done, Sir.

 

[Errnge]

Excellent update!

But with Phlegwas defeated, I wonder where this great story will lead now

 

[Daeres]

1194 BC

Qaqaro and Manassa both gazed out from the broad walls of Mukenai, and they looked upon multitudes. Over fifteen thousand men, the finest fruits of the remaining Mycenaean kingdom, were leaving the city on a war footing, their spears a forest carpeting the estates outside the city walls. Neither of them was leaving on this campaign, and the leadership of this mighty army they had left to younger men. Both, nonetheless, gazed out at the magnificent sight, provoking poignant memories of their own past campaigns. Manassa sighed.
“I remember leading an army twice this size when I was their age, against the Frodian rebels. Thirty priests anointed the city roads as we left with sacred oils, and the gold on our chariots shone in the sunlight. A magnificent day.” said the aged Argive. Qaqaro was beginning to suspect it was physically impossible for Manassa to pass a day without declaiming on his glorious youth. Manassa’s inability to keep nostalgia to himself was one of many things that exasperated Qaqaro endlessly, and he quietly rolled his eyes before responding.
“You returned home victorious from that campaign, what are your thoughts about this one? Will our Mycenaeans return home having bested Muwatalli?”
“Sacrifices have been made to the gods in the proper way, it should see the men to safety.”
“So you see victory lying ahead of us, and the dawning of Mukenai’s restoration?”
“I do indeed see victory, and the dawning of a new age for Mukenai.” Manassa paused for a moment.
“How could it not be?” he continued, “The kingdom of this pelasgos Muwatalli will be laid low, as the Bebruwkes of old. Crushing such an upstart as this will restore Mukenai’s honour, and bring about a new golden age that will resound throughout all time. Even Egyptians shall grow up hearing tales of the might of Mukenai. And yourself, Qaqaro? What do you think will result?”
“I too see victory. The army is well equipped and its commander is brave and strong.”
“He is indeed, and respectful of his elders too.”
Qaqaro was surprised, for a moment, that Manassa actually approved of somebody younger than him. Choosing Derwios had clearly been a fortunate choice beyond Qaqaro’s original designs. He smiled to himself.
“May the gods see them all to safety and victory!” said Qaqaro, as he walked away.
“May the gods see them all to safety and victory.” said Manassa under his breath.

Qaqaro was nothing if not a patient man. He had spent months of his life besieging Cretan fastnesses embedded in mountain rock, bellowing orders at spearmen advancing under hails of vicious arrows. He had remained a faithful servant of Akagmamonos even when the latter had descended into senile inaction, and had led the two year long purge of the wanax’s murderers. He had spent yet more years manipulating the situation in Mukenai to his advantage, reducing the leadership of Mukenai until almost all his peers had left, and he had waited over two years for an opportunity to take Mukenai’s army out of the picture. And he had waited a whole seven hours after the army had left before gathering his men to kill Manassa and his guards. Tonight, he was going to seize the greatest city built by Akhaian hands and restore it to glory. He had been loyal to all of the wanaktes he had served, but he was not loyal to the half baked oligarchy that awkwardly occupied the ancient citadel and haunted the looted palace’s chambers. With the wanaktes wiped out it fell to him, the last true Mycenaean, to raise Mukenai from the dirt once more. All that stood in his way was a pompous, ineffectual Argive, and whoever was foolish enough to side with him. Qaqaro made his move quickly, under the light of a gibbous moon; he gathered a dozen of his men and swept into the chambers where Manassa’s retainers dwelt. Fierce bronze swords were hefted, poised for grim violence. But patient Qaqaro was swiftly confused, for he found the apartments of Manassa’s woikos abandoned. He and his men continued to search, and yet chamber after chamber had been totally emptied. The more Qaqaro thought about it the more bewildered he became; how had almost a hundred men and women left the palace without him noticing? Where could they have gone to? How could they possibly have known what he had been planning? As Qaqaro stood in yet another empty bedchamber, surrounded by his chosen guards, he felt fear seep into his bones and panic awaken in his mind. Nightmarish uncertainty grasped Qaqaro in firm claws, and then came a sound that made his heart quail; sentries were blowing their alarms, enemies were upon the city.

He and his guards rushed out of the empty chambers into darkness scarcely lifted by torchlight. More of his men joined them, all of them herded together in their fright. Qaqaro led them to the palace’s great courtyard, which looked upon the entire lower citadel, and and their gaze was drawn to the great ramp leading up from the main gate. They saw, with horror, that the gates had been opened, and through those open gates came streaming hordes of warriors. No burly Mycenaean fighters were these, nor were they friendly to Qaqaro and his men; their garb was warlike, their spears raised, and their war cries echoed throughout the citadel as they rushed onwards up the ramp.
“Argives!” came the cry from an unseen sentry, and as the torchlit mass came closer Qaqaro saw the truth of it; he recognised the high helms of the approaching warriors, and he also recognised their chants. He cursed the panic that had stopped him noticing this immediately. He pushed himself through his fear, for Qaqaro of Knossos was no coward, and now was the time for him to lead his men, few though they were.
“Follow me!” he cried out to his troops. He drew them up in a tight pack at the edge of the courtyard, where it gave way to stairs leading down towards the lower citadel. The Argives’ superior numbers would mean nothing here, for they would be forced to advance three abreast. For a moment this steadied the nerves of both he and his men, for all saw the sense of this. But their rallying confidence was routed when they saw that the Argives pressed on heedless of this disadvantage, climbing the stairs that climbed the slope, an onrush of swelling bloodlust. The first dozen Argives that approached Qaqaro’s men were cut down with ease, but a lucky axe blow felled one of the Mycenaeans and the Argives immediately pushed their way into the courtyard with brute force. The crested bodyguards of Qaqaro fought desperately, but the relentless and unyielding Argive assault simply overwhelmed them. Qaqaro and his remaining men fought their way back towards the palace, but with every passing moment fewer of them remained. The pursuit of the Argives forced them into the abandoned throne room, and it was there that Qaqaro and his last companions made their final stand. They fought with frenzied abandon, and cost the Argives dearly, but one by one the Mycenaeans were laid low by biting axes, lashing swords, and snapping spears. Qaqaro yelled in agony as a spear plunged through a gap in his bronze armour, and then a great bronze shield smashed across his face. He plummeted to the floor, helpless, and he knew that his end approached. But the final stroke did not come, yet. The sounds of fighting around him had ceased, the desperate defence of the Mycenaeans had been overcome, and Qaqaro heard the sound of approaching footsteps.

“Bring him to his feet.” said a familiar voice. Firm hands lifted Qaqaro upwards, and restrained his arms tightly. He shook his head, trying to dispel the fog of pain that clogged his senses. He regained himself, and as he looked ahead he saw the face of Manassa staring back at him, but not as he had ever seen it before. Gone was the washed out soldier, gone was the gaze of eyes blinded by the light of past glories. Here now was Manassa no less aged but clad in steely resolve, and dressed as a great general; his great cuirass of polished bronze was girdled with great bands of brilliant blue enamel and decorated with carved snakes, and his bronze-embossed helmet was crowned with rushes. Qaqaro’s mouth was agape, any and all dignity forgotten.
“I see you are confused, Qaqaro, so let me explain something to you; did you honestly think that I had no understanding of my own reputation as a teller of tales, as a dotard and a dullard? Were you so assured of your own sagacity and cunning in hiding your intentions that you failed to consider others might do the same?”
Qaqaro had no response.
“Pugeqrins was easily swayed, in his own way. Pride is a rope, and all you have to do is tug it correctly to lead a man wherever you want to. His incisive response to our bickering and my inaction was to remove himself from the situation and start afresh, smart man that he is. The boy Eruthro I was more unsure of, as mixed in with his discourtesy and disrespect for his elders was a rather rational mind, and I did not know whether youthful ambition or spirited imagination would win out. When they both departed I was left with you, and there is no-one so easily manipulated as a man who believes himself to be the only smart man in the room. It’s a pity, for you were a good soldier not so very long ago, and you were so promising in your youth. You were loyal, respectful, and considered. When you acted so decisively in avenging our departed wanax I thought that our four-way rulership of Mukenai was a feasible plan, but something avaricious awoke inside you once the corpses of his killers cooled, didn’t it?”
Anger rekindled pride in Qaqaro for a moment.
“Isn’t this avarice, Manassa? Were you not trying to remove all other players from the game? Did you not just slaughter my warriors and betray the walls of Mukenai to the Argives?”
“Both Eruthro and Pugeqrins were wasted on bickering politics here, and in their own way they will carry on the glory of Mukenai in foreign lands. Besides, I only decided to begin on this path after I realised it was you that had Sthanelus killed, or had you forgotten that evil deed? You were too powerful to accuse directly, but I knew then that I could no longer trust any of you; you were once the prime example of a Mycenaean warrior, and if power can corrupt you then it would eventually corrupt all of them. And as for tonight, how can you possibly claim umbrage at my actions when you yourself planned to murder me and all my retainers? The gods certainly didn’t see fit to grace you with much self awareness.”
“What about the army?”
“Derwios’ army is never going to reach Euboia; as soon as dawn breaks tomorrow he will lead the Mycenaean army back to the city, once he announces the dreadful reports that the city has been attacked by your mercenaries and that you attempted to murder me. When the army returns they will find the coup defeated, and that the Argives have once more joined with Mukenai in glorious union. The city is safe, and the Mycenaeans are on the path to glory once more.”
“When really they have been made part of an Argive kingdom.” said Qaqaro, as full realisation dawned upon him.
“Argos rises.” said Manassa with a smile.
Qaqaro had been completely outplayed, and every moment he had taken Manassa for a fool he had ensured his own defeat. Awakening to this reality drained him of all his remaining willpower, he simply had no resistance left to give.
“Are you going to execute me?” he asked simply.
“No, I’m not. Unlike your clumsy plan, happily, mine does not rely on murdering your entire household down to the last woman and child. I will keep you as a hostage in Argos, where I can keep an eye on you, to keep the rest of your woikos co-operative. After the shame and scandal that’s about to become attached to their name, starting from tomorrow, they may even be glad to be rid of you. Don’t worry, I may be an old man but I won’t forget that you’re there. I’ll sacrifice to the gods for you, in remembrance of the Qaqaro of Knossos that captured Gortuun after a seven month siege, and the Qaqaro of Knossos that avenged the murder of our wanax like a howling gale. Maybe we’ll see one another again, some day. But for now, this is farewell. May the gods have mercy on you.”

A Year Later

Seventeen sable-sailed ships braved the wine-dark seas. At their head was a proud, broad-beamed warship of fifty oars. Its deck was girdled with hide shields, its prow menaced with brightly painted harpies and lions, and its benches were crewed with brawny, long-haired Mycenaeans. On its deck stood Eruthro of Ephiraia, waiting patiently in the bright sunshine. Before leaving the shining shores of Ithaka he had lavished luxuriant libations upon sea-nourished Amphitrite. Likewise, Pugeqrins’ instructions sent by messenger had been very clear, and faithful Eruthro had followed them with fidelity. The young Ephiraiot had every reason to believe that his voyage would soon end in success. This was not, however, enough to stop him feeling anxious. He was projecting confidence and relaxation, but it was the kind of calmness only those struggling to remain calm possess. For all that he trusted Pugeqrins, and trusted in the gods, it was still a journey to a foreign land with an uncertain end. The kind of place haunted by man-eating giants, fire breathing aurochs, and bronze-beaked birds. But as Eruthro stood upon the deck he felt a new breeze against his skin, a gentle gust of gliding Euar. He breathed in deeply, and noticed that something was cutting through the ubiquitous salty tang. He breathed in again, and realised with delight that smells of herbs, blooms, and above all soil were reaching him; land was within scentcatch. He took in the sweet savours once more, then turned around to face the rowers below him.
“Greenery is on the air, land’s nearby!” Eruthro shouted loudly. The rowers briefly stopped to cheer, and then they heaved their oars with new might.

Their rowing chants grew louder, their brawny arms brandishing the oars swept the ship across the salty sea. The sight of land soon accompanied the smell, for Eruthro began to see white sandy beaches. As the coast hove further into view Eruthro could see more; behind the sandy strands stood tall oaks, rowans, junipers, maples, and many more shady boughs besides. A pair of courting petrels flew over the ship’s mast, calling loudly at one another; a good omen. The Ephiraiot smiled, and gave the order for the ship to change course. His warship began to turn starboard, and within two lengths the oarsmen were propelling the sable-sailed ship along its new heading. Now, as per Pugeqrins’ instructions, they were following the coastline in a north-westerly tangent, and Eruthro checked to make sure the rest of his flotilla were behind him; they were, to his relief. He turned his attention back to the foreign coastline and studied it intently; the foliage was not unlike that of Akhaia, yet there were no mountains dominating the landscape, and where he would have expected stone-toothed bluffs there was instead smooth sandy shores.

As the ships slowly drew closer to the coastline Eruthro could see that the woodlands at times gave way to salt marshes, and to clearings that must have been the work of human labour, but not to the mouths of rivers. Some of those clearings were cultivated, and beyond them Eruthro could sometimes see even larger crop fields as strands of gold and grassy green. A rich landscape of farmlands and orchards was hidden behind the forests of this coastline, and to Eruthro this was resembling nothing so much as a verdant paradise. As the ships grew a little nearer to the beaches, rowing the rumbling seas parallel to the ranges of shoreline, the calls and cries of a multitude of birds became audible, even amid the clamour of rowing chants
and the rumbling waves. Eruthro also began to spot human beings more frequently; at first he had only seen furtive figures standing in the shade of leafy trees, but now he was seeing small clusters of them along the shoreline, though never in large numbers. Some were labourers, distracted from fieldwork or lumbery, whereas others were fishers or otherwise toiling in the shallows and on the beaches. Only once did Eruthro see armed men staring back at him, and they were not reacting with panic; instead they stood with imperious calm, daring the sabled-sailed ships to test their mettle, and when it was clear Eruthro’s convoy was uninterested they vanished into the treeline once more.

Eruthro’s coxswain then shouted some orders down to the rowing benches, and tapped Eruthro on the shoulder. He turned, and the coxswain pointed straight ahead of the ship. The Ephiraiot saw the coastline shift to the north-east, and his heart leapt- this was the bulge on the coastline that Pugeqrins’ instructions had mentioned, the one that he had described as emerging from the coastline like a knot on a tree trunk, or a blooming flower. The ship slowly turned starboard once more, and Eruthro’s heart began to throb with anticipation. The rowers were strong, warlike Mycenaeans and their pace was quick, but their progress still felt agonisingly slow to the young Ephiraiot. At last the ship turned larboard once more, and Eruthro saw that the coastline drew inwards. The natural harbour that lay just beyond sight was his convoy’s final destination. The oarsmen had realised that they must be close, and attacked the wine-dark sea with their oars. It was as Eruthro’s ship passed between the shore and a cluster of rocky islands that the channel leading to the harbour finally came into sight. Eruthro saw that both sides of the channel had been secured with great limestone fortifications, following Pugeqrin’s descriptions exactly. The final part of his instructions now needed to be followed, or the garrisons of those forts would treat the Mycenaean ships as enemies. Eruthro picked up his bronze-coated shield and held it to the sunlight so that it would gleam to onlookers. He continued to hold it aloft, having ensured it was the only visible piece of bronze on the ship. He grew more confident as he approached the channel, for no ships had launched against the flotilla, and there were no other signs of aggression. His ship passed into the channel, under the eaves of the twin bastions, and Eruthro saw that both were manned by warriors. Their calmness at his passing soothed his fraying nerves, and excitement overtook him again. As he finally passed into the harbour he saw the even greater citadel that lay before him, and knew himself to be in Elaqephale, ‘the deer’s head’ as Pugeqrins had called it, for the harbour surrounded most of the citadel in two great antlers of salt water. The ship had reached the end of its journey, and the rowing crew erupted in boisterous cheers as they hove the warship towards the piers of Elaqephale. Almost nine hundred men, women, and children had made the journey to these lands, and their new lives awaited them across the gangplanks raised to the sides of their sable-sailed ships.

 

[Dathi THorfinnsson]

Hmmm... interesting new direction...

 

[Daeres]

The colony that Pugeqrins and Eruthro have established does have a very specific real world location- I left one clue as to where it is in the text.

 

[Errnge]

The colony that Pugeqrins and Eruthro have established does have a very specific real world location- I left one clue as to where it is in the text.

It wouldn't be in Apulia, would it?

 

[Daeres]

It wouldn't be in Apulia, would it?

I can't get anything past you, can I...

 

[Shevek23]

I spent way more time than I should have last night trying to nail it down, with nothing but maps to guide me.

Would I be right in saying, without revealing too much to anyone who wants to stay in suspense, the place is a major port today?

And was only settled by Hellenes much later in OTL?

And of course the name you give it is no clue, for the OTL settlers were quite a different bunch of Greeks?

 

[kilopi505]

The colony that Pugeqrins and Eruthro have established does have a very specific real world location- I left one clue as to where it is in the text.

Is it somewhere in Crimea? If not Crimea...then Gibraltar? Carthage?

 

[Daeres]

I spent way more time than I should have last night trying to nail it down, with nothing but maps to guide me.

Would I be right in saying, without revealing too much to anyone who wants to stay in suspense, the place is a major port today?

And was only settled by Hellenes much later in OTL?

And of course the name you give it is no clue, for the OTL settlers were quite a different bunch of Greeks?

It is indeed a major port today, and was probably only settled by Hellenes later than OTL. However, the name is a clue to the OTL location- it's a literal translation of the Greek name's attested etymology. And Errnge's guess of Apulia is right on the money.

 

[Errnge]

It is indeed a major port today, and was probably only settled by Hellenes later than OTL. However, the name is a clue to the OTL location- it's a literal translation of the Greek name's attested etymology. And Errnge's guess of Apulia is right on the money.

For a second I thought you were being sarcastic towards me and I felt dumb, but now I feel smart, so

 

[Jonathan Edelstein]

However, the name is a clue to the OTL location- it's a literal translation of the Greek name's attested etymology.

Well, that gives it away.