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The negotiations could have gotten the same results without such major concessions in Africa IMHO, but okay, I want to see where this is going, and see if the Barcids manage to make some friends with this display.
 
I also am surprised that there isn't more tension between them and the Republic of Gadir, considering that Gadir is by far the more strategically powerful position, controlling all Mediterranean-Atlantic trade.

Gadir, at first, was a Roman client state formed out of the inability to systematically occupy all of the Phoenician colonies. It then moved into the orbit of the Barcids to gain more influence- better to be a Barcid pasty than a Roman slave. Of course, you're right; the Mediterranean-Atlantic trade moves at their whim, and they actually had a rather good war; they were associated with Carthalho's successful campaign in Africa, and aside from that were only really required to use their fleets. They've had a long time to build up considerable wealth, and now have commercial ties to West Numidia.

Considering the change in Barcid royal attitudes, and the new political situation in the West Mediterranean, Gadir's stance is liable to change.
 
I'm also curious how long it will take for Phoenician culture to merge with Iberian culture, and how it will do so. What will Barcid culture look like, and more specifically, what will things look like linguistically? I imagine Punic is the premier language, but surely they don't have a large enough population to make that much of an impact in the long run
 
The Archaeology of Iberia

"In approximately the 150s BC, we come to the Barcid period in Iberian archaeology. Elements of this period’s key features are visible in the previous transitional era- high status individuals being buried with Phoenician artifacts, Iberian languages being supplanted by the Ibero-Phoenician alphabet, the material presence of Phoenician settlement in many major urban centres. Explanations for the relatively sudden shift in material culture often revolve around the end of the Third Punic War, or the accession of King Carthalho. This seems particularly teleological, and so I aim to deconstruct it later.


The key features of the Barcid period, compared to the transition before it, are as follows; the complete disappearance of most local Iberian scripts and instead the standardised Neo-Iberian script becomes almost totally supreme; an increase in depictions of women across various artistic contexts; elements of Phoenician style dress becoming more common among native Iberian elites, and conversely some Iberian elements becoming more common in the Phoenician ruling elite (especially black fur garments); an as-yet unexplained predilection for worked agate as both jewellry and high prestige items like ceremonial maces and sceptres; the alteration of Phoenician produced imagery to reflect the environment of Iberia more closely in fauna and flora; the integration of Carthaginian religious imagery into all of the Phoenician societies of the peninsula (and many of the native societies), in particular imagery associated with Tanit.

More controversially, there have long been arguments as to the emergence of a Barcid ancestral cult, and also a personified Hero cult of Iberia. The former is a question of interpreting imagery in funerary contexts and also some high prestige art; the repeated use of a particular portrait across multiple burials that lacks divine qualities, and which bears a resemblance to some descriptions of Hannibal Barca. I do believe that the images depict Hannibal, but I propose an alternate solution to their precise context; rather than being directly religious imagery, I believe they reflect the ambition of the deceased to resemble their idealised Hannibal in both character and stature. It draws an explicit comparison between the dead and the Barcid national hero, and it’s worth noting that in the undisturbed burials with both imagery and remains intact we have only found male skeletons. Given the relatively unisex worship associated with Barcid era deities, either the ‘Hannibal Cult’ is a complete anomaly with no temples or official acknowledgement, or it never existed and we are simply looking at the idealised Barcid as a repetitive image. The second is the more likely to my mind.

As for the still controversial Iberion Cult, the issue is extremely murky. There are references to Iberion as the personified ancestor of Iberia in a few ancient texts, but they are all Greek ethnographic or historiographical references. No references appear before the beginning of the Barcid period, but then again the record of Greek literature is so patchy that the entry point of Iberion into literature is completely unknown. The specific idea that this hero, ‘Iberion’, was a focus of Cult worship is of great controversy; one school views any notion of Hero Cults as being a Hellenistic perspective applied to societies with completely different belief systems, and the other believes in relatively universal concepts of belief system organisation. I personally view it’s a mistake to rule out either scenario, and that whilst it is plausible that an ‘Iberion cult’ existed we cannot prove that it did (and it’s extremely unlikely the hero was called ‘Iberion’ by Phoenician speakers in the first place).

The alleged change in royal policies as the foundations of these evolutions are, to some degree, supportable; the assertion that he (Carthalho) invested in the region’s native communities is borne out by the first new period of monumental architecture (clearly patronised by royal authority) since the late Tartessan/Early Iberian era, and an observable increase in the splendour of grave goods attached to known elites. On the other hand, the claims that he eliminated bondage do not seem to have any basis in the archaeological record; there are no complete shifts in economic practice and production. and we continue to find slave collars at particular sites. The main argument against Carthalho’s direct influence, however, is that similar changes are observable in the territories occupied by the Republic of Gadir over the same period. The Republic of Gadir was not controlled by Barcid royal policy (although some have argued otherwise). Instead, the shift into the Barcid Period (perhaps misnamed) seems to have been common to all parts of the Peninsula in which Phoenician culture was a significant influence. Whilst this perhaps rules out the Barcid monarchy as the actual source of the changes, the emergence of a Neo-Phoenician community in Iberia would allow us to look at the Barcids as a fulcrum."

2267020283_6769aaf668.jpg



150 BC, Numantia

Izebal sat patiently in one of the palace’s many private chambers, absent-mindedly twirling the patterned cover of her seat around her finger. Then she heard footsteps, and smiled. Into the room walked Carthalho, King of the Barcid Kingdom. He smiled, sat down next to Izebal, and kissed her hand gently.
“I can only spare a few minutes my love, there is a delegation from Gadir.”
“Husband, do you remember the matter I brought to your attention two weeks ago?”
“Ah yes, the Numidian ambassador you were concerned about. Has something changed?”
“Unfortunately yes, my love, which is why I asked to meet you in person. My agents are absolutely certain that he means to have the ambassador from East Numidia murdered.”
Carthalho sighed deeply.
“It is a regrettable thing when one finds your own ally’s ambassador far more loathsome than that of your rivals. I have no love for him, but he is a potent prince in West Numidia and I must be certain that he is guilty if I am to have him sent home. Can I trust your agents at their word?”
Izebal looked Carthalho straight in the eyes.
“I swear by Tanit and by the life of our son that they can be trusted.”
Carthalho took Izebal’s hand and stroked it gently.
“Then I will have something done by the end of the day.”

Izebal smiled at her husband.
“Who did Gadir send this time? Bostar and that ridiculous wig of his, or that young dandy Hanno of Malakka?”
“Neither, we’ve been graced by the presence of Sekaarbal.”
Izebal’s face grew more serious.
“Of Tingi?”
Carthalho nodded.
“He’s one of their most powerful Maliks. Can it possibly be war? Why else send your state’s most famous general?”
“I don’t think so my love, the Gadirines are not so avaricious. But you are right, this is an unexpected development and they certainly want me to take this delegation seriously. I am somewhat concerned.”
Izebal leaned over and kissed her husband on the cheek.
“You have the sharpest mind in the Mediterranean, and I have no doubt that you will be the master of whatever surprises they attempt to throw in your direction. If they try to throw the wind in your sails, remind them what it’s like to be before the heir of Hannibal Barca!”
Carthalho looked at his wife with a combination of bemusement and affection. He never could quite get his head around her boundless enthusiasm.
“I must be away then, my love. Tanit protect you.”
Carthalho returned Izabel’s grip on his hand for a moment, before standing up and walking back out of the chamber.

Half an hour later

The usual ambassadors of Gadir had earned a rather mixed reputation in Carthalho’s court. Their gestures were extremely affected, their perfumes expensive, and their diplomatic minds dull. But they also threw rather lavish feasts and were generally a pleasant sort, so general feelings towards them were still rather positive. The tall, armoured figure striding into the Great Hall was of an entirely different breed. Sekaarbal was dressed as a commander in the field, save for his shield and weapons which had been left with a porter. His skin was heavily tanned from a lifetime of service in the hot Mauretanian sun, and his face was extremely stern. His crested helmet had a rather obvious scratch from a sword strike, and though his linothorax was extremely ornate it had clearly seen real use.

Upon reaching the appropriate distance from Carthalho’s throne, Sekaarbal bowed and removed his helmet in respect. A vivid scar was visible on his left cheek, known by reputation to have been from a sling bullet, and a scar interrupted the hair of an otherwise dignified beard.
So I am supposed to feel threatened but respected, thought Carthalho. Interesting.
“Honoured King Carthalho I come on behalf of the League of Gadir, better known to many as the Republic of Gadir. I am Sekaarbal of Tingi, Malik of Tingi, envoy of Gadir and acolyte of Melqart. I aim to negotiate regarding two particular issues, and I ask your permission to continue.”
Carthalho nodded.
“You are welcome here, Sekaarbal of Tingi, as is your speech.”
Sekaarbal bowed again.
“My thanks, Honoured King. The first issue concerns the gifts that the League has been sending your Kingdom since the time of your father.”
Here it comes, thought Carthalho.
“It has been our practise to make donations to the temple of Astarte here at Numantia. Now we wish to pay attention to our own temples of Astarte, the grand temple to Melqart at Gadir, and to Tanit as well.Therefore, these gifts will no longer continue.”
This caused shocked whispers across the Great Hall.
“However,” continued Sekaarbal, “We do not wish this to be misunderstood. It is not intended to be a slight on yourself, King Carthalho, nor to the goddess Astarte. Nor are we ungrateful for the many years your Kingdom stood by ours. In light of this, I bring with me this day what would have been donated for the next twenty years.”
Sekaarbal clapped his hands, and chest after chest after chest was carried in until it had covered a huge portion of the Great Hall. They were all opened, and each was filled to the brim with gold and silver. It was a truly enormous sum of treasure.
So they wish to move out from under my thumb, thought Carthalho. Under the calm words, this is their break away from us. The treasure is their manumission.
Carthalho smiled.
“You honour my halls with such a treasure. But with such a donation, how will your own temples receive their due?”
“Honoured King, if I may be so bold, the League’s coffers are drowning in gold and silver. Our wealth is such that it was nothing to share a generous portion with Numantian Astarte.”

Two hours later

Carthalho and Sekaarbal were both sat in a private diplomatic chamber. The chamber was beautifully decorated with friezes depicting the defeat of a Roman army in the Second Punic War. At its centre was a marble table, and at either end were Carthalho and Sekaarbal respectively, along with a few trusted advisors.
“Your reputation, Sekaarbal, speaks of your generalship and hard countenance. I did not expect you to be so gracious and charming in person.” said Carthalho with a pleasant smile.
“I would not have allowed the League to dispatch me as an ambassador if I had not thought myself suitable. Besides, you are not my enemy.” said Sekaarbal, calmly.
“Am I to understand you have a proposition?”
“That is correct. Forgive me King Carthalho if I seem at all rude but I wish to be direct, and I am not very eloquent. You have a reputation for crafting peace, and for deep intelligence. But Italy will not yet treat your ambassadors with respect, and it still treats your intentions with suspicion. Wounds have not yet had time to heal. The Italians will perhaps be our enemy again, but for now it is time that peace was peace. There must be a diplomatic channel between the Barcid Kingdom and Italy that functions. Gadir can do this thing, and that is what I am now proposing.”
Carthalho considered for a moment.
“Putting pride aside, your proposal makes rational sense. I am in agreement that there must be a conduit between my kingdom and Italy, and that I have been unable to establish it these past years. But tell me something Sekaarbal; why is it that you believe that you as fellow Phoenicians will not be similarly treated with disrespect?”
“Two reasons. One, our forces only directly participated in Africa in the late war and no other fronts significantly. The memory of Sicily still haunts the Italians, and so does Sardinia. Secondly, they make far too much money from us.”
Carthalho laughed.
“Well put sir. Gadir hardly seems to want for anything.”

Sekaarbal paused for a moment.
“Might I speak with you alone for a moment, King Carthalho?”
“Certainly.”
Carthalho clapped his hands, and his advisors left the room. Sekaarbal’s did the same.
Sekaarbal stood up from his chair a moment, and sighed. The stern face gave way to one deep in worry.
“I know my own reputation. I spent years earning it. I am not a great speaker, and not as articulate as you. Nor am I as crafty. But I am not stupid, and there are problems with the League. Merchants have amassed wealth beyond count, and now their wish is to no longer remain merchants. From among them or the Maliks of Gadir one will rise to make himself a King.”
Sekaarbal laughed harshly.
“Perhaps it might even be me. But the League will not remain a league for long, and it is changing fast. I have known war all my life, and I feel one coming. A civil war. I wish to be ready for it”
And I am to be your reserve.
“If I have understood these negotiations correctly, then, this is your purpose for coming here; to follow the wishes of the League and declare your true independence from my Kingdom; to establish a position of mediation between ourselves and the Italians; and to begin your own preparations for a war you feel is inevitable. And here I thought Gadir just wanted to be taken seriously.”

“I will be honest with you, the League was split over even attempting that much. There are many Maliks who don’t like the Barcid Kingdom and who would rather there was a war. They are fools.”
“You really are being rather honest with me Sekaarbal. I had not realised the situation in Gadir had become so complex. What have I done that has earned your confidence, so that I might do this with all the ambassadors that pass through these halls?”
Sekaarbal sat back down.
“You are the heir of Hannibal Barca. That might not mean much to many of the other Maliks in the League, but it does to me. I know that your grandfather was Mago, not Hannibal. But your talents in war and your personal conduct are that of him. A man who can walk into a usurper’s presence and bring him down with words. I am a simple man, King Carthalho. I fight wars, I bed my wife, I argue with other Maliks, I pray to Melqart.”
“And yet here you sit, showing that you are not such a simple man.”
“Perhaps. But I trust you. And you are the reason why we have peace. If you are to keep the peace, I must tell you these things.”
“Is that your wish? That I keep the peace?”
“You must, Carthalho Barca. For no one else can.”


stele.jpg


The ilex is chief among the trees of southern Iberia. They are blessed by Koshartu for they are the shield against the burning sun of Ishat. In these trees dwell her dryads.
The hazel is chief among the trees of northern Iberia. They are blessed by Marah and are the signs of her sacred lands. In these trees dwell her dryads.
Together, Koshartu and Marah unite into the land of Ba’al Hammon; Iberia.
The King of Iberia, scion of Hasdrubal Barca, is the chosen of Ba’al Hammon. Thus it follows that the King is the god-chosen lord of the entirety of Iberia.

The ilex and the hazel must be united.


At first I dwelt in fair Gadir,
Elder city of the west,
Home of Melqart lord of skies.

Cooling, soothing ocean breezes,
Ancient homesteads, painted grottoes,
And I felt my heart was glad.

Then I moved to Abdera bright,
Town of silver, place of lumber,
Home of Marah queen of seas.

I feasted on the finest fish,
I dallied with the finest girls,
And I felt my heart was glad.

A pilgrimage to Tom I made,
To sacred ground on mountain tops,
Home of Ergi blessed lord.

The sighing of the sacred firs,
The crying of the hallowed priests,
And I felt my heart at rest.

I stirred no more.

This poem by an unknown author is considered to be an interesting example of the Gadirine Sonnet. This popular genre of the period is defined as six tercets followed by a final summation line. In general, the lines of each tercet are eight syllables. However this particular poet chose to end almost all of the tercets with seven. In addition, here the tercets are paired, so that overall the poem is made up of three parts and a summation.

Other poems in the same genre had a continuous narrative, or were a commentary. This particular poem instead focuses on reaching fulfillment, though the particular kind has been up for speculation. Some believe the author to have become a priest, emphasising the line ‘I stirred no more’ as indicating not only that he settled at Tom but that prior hedonism was given up. But this is not agreed upon, and there are others who believe the poem to be relatively self explanatory.

Like other Gadirine Sonnets, this poem is relatively subversive in that direct references are made to sexual activity. This seems to have been influenced somewhat by Italiote poetry, which in this period was extremely irreverent in contrast to the extremely serious tone of works in Hellas during this same era.

Information regarding religious culture in the Republic of Gadir can also be taken from the poem. Whilst traditionally Carthaginian deities like Melqart and Marah clearly continued to be worshipped, we also see the presence of ‘Ergi’. This had been a major argument in studying Ibero-Phoenician religion, as certain imagery had been interpreted as representations of the Gallo-Iberian god Erge. Many argued that it did not make sense for this god to have spread into the southern parts of Iberia. However, the reference in this poem settled the matter, and there is then the matter of working out how this deity got so far south. It could be that the shrine at Tom had been founded by Celtiberians or Iberians, or that the local population were from much farther north and had been displaced at some point, or that something particular to this deity had become popular in the Phoenician communities of the south. Whatever the answer, it’s clear that Phoenicians in this period had accepted non-Phoenician deities into their religious lives.
 
Excellent update!

I really think it is interesting to see how things are unfolding in Iberia. Keep up the good work!
 
I concur- excellent cultural update. Still hoping for full Barcid Iberia eventually- perhaps after intervening in a Gadirene civil war?
 
The Chronicle of Years, Part 1

290 BC

Alexander IV, King of Asia, was walking to a meeting with his generals. His brow was furrowed in concentration, but softened when a young boy ran up to him in the corridor. Alexander smiled and bent down to catch his young son in an embrace.
“What is it Alexander?”
The younger Alexander lifted his head out of his father’s chest to speak.
“Father, will Demetrios be visiting us?”
The elder Alexander shook his head.
“He will not, I’m afraid. It is a sacred time in Pergamon this next week, and I allowed him to remain there.”
“That’s a shame. I like his stories...”
The younger Alexander released his grip, and scampered off.

“I can’t remember my father embracing me in the halls of Macedon like that,” came the rich voice of Seleukos, “There are many in Macedon who would call that coddling.”
Alexander raised himself.
“Let them call it what they like. A child with a living father deserves attention. Besides, I don’t recall you were a harsh tutor.” said Alexander, smiling gently at Seleukos.
“If I had raised my voice to the King of Asia, a dozen Persians would have demanded my head, along with half the Macedonians between here and Pella! And perhaps I never was a good Macedonian.”
“And after all those lectures on proper Macedonian etiquette when I was a boy!”
Alexander began to walk once more, and Seleukos followed him at his side. Alexander’s expression became more serious once more.

“May I ask you something, Seleukos?”
“My King, that may depend on the question.”
“What are your thoughts on the late Ptolemy? I was in Anatolia when the news of his death arrived, and I have not had the time to consider the matter until now.”
Seleukos considered for a moment.
“Ptolemy was a complicated man. He was a usurper, and I loved him little for that. I also fought him many times on many battlefields. But he was never cruel or vengeful. He was also a very intelligent man. Perhaps the world is a poorer place without him.”
“By all rights, I should have hated him. But I don’t think that I ever truly did, you know. If he had not declared independence he would have served me well, a fine compliment to the other titans that oversaw my regency. Besides, assassination is such a dishonourable act. He deserved better than that.”
“You always did prefer the honourable act, my King.”
“And it was you who taught me to do so.”

The two continued to walk through the palace’s chambers and corridors. Seleukos glanced over at the king; those that knew him well would have detected concern on his face.
But with that sense of honour came all the worries in the world, he thought.
“Something troubles you, Seleukos. I can feel it.” said Alexander.
“I worry sometimes that I took your father’s pothos and replaced it with too much love of honour. That I doomed you to forever worry that the world comes apart at the seams, and to find tears wherever you look.”
“The world is still coming apart at the seams, Seleukos. We have done much to sew it back together, but more stitching remains to be done. I know you would not have me leave the task half done.”
“That is true. I wish, however, that a father had been there to help guide you in your childhood.”
For a time, the only sound audible was footsteps.
“Alexander the Great did not raise me,” began Alexander, “But I had a father nonetheless, and he taught me about honour, integrity, and true wisdom. He was the very best of Macedonians, and the very best of fathers.”


257 BC

Alexander V, King of Asia, was sat writing. His scribes had long ago learned that Alexander insisted on writing particular correspondence himself, and so aside from guards at the door the King was alone in a private chamber arranged for that particular purpose. The room was exquisitely furnished; cedar wood tables and desks sat upon a magnificent carpet from India made of the richest dyes. The windows were covered by wooden shutters, delicately carved with exotic animals and plants. Only distant echoes or noises on the edge of hearing disturbed the quiet of the room.
The silence was broken by the sound of footsteps approaching the chamber door.
“My King?” came a voice at the door.
Alexander sighed, and finished the word that he had started.
“I’m all yours now, I just had to complete a Tar. Cuneiform is such an intricate script.”
“My king, Menelaus the son of Antigonos is here to see you.” said the messenger.
Alexander’s face brightened.
“Excellent! Tell him he can come in.”

The blond-haired, heavily bearded form of Menelaus entered the room, and bowed.
“Menelaus, it is good to see that handsome face of yours again.”
“My gracious king, it is ever my pleasure to be in your company. I have much to say that only you can hear.”
“Your urgent return did seem to herald important news; I only heard of your approach when you arrived in Babylon. Where did you leave in such a hurry?” said Alexander.
“I was in Chalkis before I departed Hellas. There was a gathering of the Hellenic League with some secrecy surrounding it. It is the contents of that meeting that I must share with you at once.”
“Ah, the Hellenes. This is the price I pay for setting them free. I am a little surprised (though not disappointed) that you came in person and did not send a letter. What ill news from Chalkis?”
“They are planning another wave of colonists for Sicily, and this time accompanied by a fleet. I do not refer to barges and trading galleys but Penteres, Hexeres and even an Octores that I believe is the fleet’s flagship. The ships will be transporting marines, and will depart once the Panemos current picks up in a few months’ time.”
“By the gods... May I ask why you were unable to send a letter?”
“I discovered this information covertly, and following this I was hounded by a Euboian spymaster. His agents were... relentless. I was unable to remain in Hellas long enough to have a letter written, and I have been evading pursuit for much of my journey.”
“I understand. But this is concerning news. What strength is this fleet?”
“Perhaps a hundred and twenty ships outfitted by the League, and they expect to hire mercenaries.”
“That’s not a colonial expedition, that’s an army... Carthage will treat it as an invasion of Sicily and that will be war then and there. Were Carthaginian ambassadors also in Chalkis?”
“Yes, I was not the only one to find out about the meeting.”
“Then measures must be taken, immediately. The news will reach Carthage soon and they will prepare for a war.”
Alexander stood up from his desk.
“Bagapata, would you please fetch me a scribe immediately.” said Alexander in unaccented Persian. The somatophylax immediately hurried off, leaving his counterpart to guard the King.

“My king, before I go into further detail on the Greek plans, might I ask a query?”
“Certainly Menelaus.”
“Why are you stopping a war with Carthage? You have no love for them, your armies and navies are strong, and they are ill-liked by the rest of the Mediterranean. Why leave them more time to build ships and hire mercenaries. If I might presume, you have been looking for an opportunity to engage them in open war; why not now?”
Alexander considered for a moment.
“Have you ever read any Judaean scripture?”
“I cannot say that I have, my King. Your ability to penetrate exotic texts has always astounded me.”
“One story is that of David and a Giant named Goliath. The Giant was five cubits tall, and a powerful warrior. He was the champion of the enemy, and given his immense size and strength he clearly expected to crush David with ease. Indeed, David was naked. Naked apart from two items; a sling, and a bag of five bullets. David hit Goliath smack in the forehead with one of the bullets and Goliath fell dead to the ground. The enemies of the Israelites fled, and the day was won, all for a single bullet.”
“I think Goliath should have worn a helmet, my king.”
“Yes, he should have. The point is, Menelaus, that our greater power than Carthage does not matter if we leave ourselves vulnerable. The Kingdom is not fully balanced yet; adjustments and further preparations need to be made. If we make our move before we are fully ready, disaster will strike. It is not only slings we must fear, but hybris. But rest assured that we will strike. I believe that the key lies with the Romans, our allies in Italy.”
“They are an interesting people, my king. I encountered a great many Romans in my travels in the west. The word that leaps to mind is; prickly.”
“But then again, Menelaus, are we not prickly ourselves at times? If you poke us, do we not roar?”
“We do, my king.Though I have always thought of myself as rather charming. But I could be Aphrodite herself and their gazes would still be cold. It was rather discouraging.”
“Perhaps they are rather prickly. But at this stage, their gruff nature is rather advantageous. They are also a pragmatic people, and it has always been my judgement that pragmatism can take you a long way.”


238 BC

Phillip IV, King of Asia, stared at the two men before him.
“So both of you believe that the satrap of Babylon is misusing labour gangs, siphoning funds, and neglecting his duties regarding repair work. Not only that, you think he is colluding with traitors. Do I understand this correctly?”
“Yes, my king.” said both men simultaneously.
Phillip ran his left hand through his hair.
“These accusations are serious, and I can’t see any other option but to remove him from his post. Such a shame. The man was rather pleasant at first. But I had noted a certain arrogance of late. Perhaps it is for the best. Now, the appointment of satraps is my perogative but do you have any suggested candidates gentlemen?”
The two men looked on one another.
“Actually, my king, we disagree on this particular matter.” said the taller of the two. He was Eanna-liblut, an Urukian of soul searching eyes and extremely pronounced cheekbones.
“Regrettably this is indeed the case, King of Kings.” said the other. He was Mithradata, a Persian with a handsome face unfortunately marred by several scars and a broken nose.
“That is not the answer I was looking for.” said Phillip, scowling.
“I will be honest, King of Kings. There are many suitable candidates, as you have gathered so many talented men together in your court. I do not blame Eanna-liblut for having made a different choice.”
“My esteemed colleague speaks sense. Both candidates are excellent men, it is simply the fine details that we differ on.”
“Very well, state your case.” said Phillip, pointing to Mithradata.

Mithradata bowed.
“Great King, as you say Babylon is indeed the heart of the Empire. Given the previous satrap’s many ill deeds, it seems to me that the position needs an upright, honest and direct man to do the job. My recommendation is therefore Artafarnah of Argeaopolis. He will banish the Lie from Babylon and establish Truth, for the glory of you our Great King and servant of the Truth.”
“A sound choice my King,” began Eanna-liblit, “But if I may I would recommend experience. Ibbi-Adad is currently governor of the Marshlands and served your father for decades across many fronts. He is wise, calm, and made of iron. He knows Babylonia intimately, and he will serve you well as a satrap.”
“Ah, Ibbi-Adad! I know him well, he has served me on campaign several times. He would be a rather excellent choice. Thank you for your counsel Mithradata, but I have now made my decision. Thank you both for bringing the issue to my attention, and for your advice. Now you must leave, for I am going to be making further preparations.”
Both men bowed, and left the room.

As the door shut, the two men walked down a lengthy corridor. At the end was another door, and as they opened it led into an enormous courtyard within the palace’s walls. This was the Garden of Alexander, constructed by Alexander V and filled with statues of the honoured dead. The two men stopped by the statue of Seleukos.
“So it was indeed your candidate who proved superior Eanna-liblit, my congratulations. I had not been aware that Ibbi-Adad had served the king on campaign.”
“That, my friend, was something I kept to myself. But it is not your fault; the campaigns in question are relatively obscure and occurred in the lifetime of the last king. I would not expect you to have dragged up such esoteric knowledge.”
“Then you certainly did your research, and further congratulations are clearly in order. I wonder, though, how the King would have reacted had he known the bribe you gave the satrap’s deputies to spy on him.”
“That is certainly a question, though it would be equally interesting if the King found out that Artafarnah was once good friends with the rebel Aryandas.”
“It is good, then, that we are loyal subjects of the king and also close friends!”

“Might I ask, Mithradata my friend, what will become of you since your... circle’s chosen candidate was not the Kings preference?”
“My associates and I are in tune with one another. They will understand.”
“I am glad, I would hate for your other friends to be easily swayed by perception.”
“It would seem that our mutual problem is neither your friends nor mine, but the party of Antipater.”
“Ah yes, the Macedonian. It is a strange thing; in theory, our great king and many of his subjects and advisors are Macedonians, but never refer to themselves as that or do so only formally. They are now even harder to tell apart from the Hellenes. But Antipater, and his friends, not only call themselves Macedonians they also spend their entire times reminding the rest of us how Macedonian they are.”
“I don’t really care whether a man calls himself a Macedonian or a Hellene personally, I care more that Antipater is a cold-blooded killer and extremely aggressive.”
“But perhaps some badly-educated men call us cold-blooded killers?”
“That is a fair point my friend. Perhaps he is a warm-blooded killer then; he actively seems to delight in slaughter, like an ancient hero.”
“You are of course right. I was merely remarking on curiosities. But I think we are both in agreement that he must not be allowed to gain influence. Though it seems our great king is avoiding him of his own accord.”
“Perhaps one might theoretically say that the King has never excelled in matters of politics.The Great King is, of course, above reproach. Even if that were said, one would do well to remember that the King is a great man and has his own powerful mind. It has just always been focused on military matters.”


227 BC

Amyntas, King of Asia, glared at the now ex-satrap of Media in front of him.
“My king... your word is law and your word is your command. Of course I shall abide by your decision.”
“Good. You will be escorted to a private estate tomorrow at dawn. Your family and your belongings will join you as soon as able. The estate has a lovely orchard, and I believe a particularly fine cook. There you will remain, in comfort and quiet.”
“Of course, my king.”
“Ithobal, my somatophylax, will escort you to a chamber where you will stay the night.”
The burly Chaldean directed the ex-satrap to the door, and followed him out.
“Well, that was relatively painless.” said Pothos, who had been sitting quietly.
“Gulippos was never going to be much trouble. He’s spent far too much time cultivating his grapes to have much heart left in him.”
“And too much time taking bribes.”
Amyntas smirked.
“And that.”
Amyntas stood up and walked out of the window. Outside he could see the Garden of Alexander, and the to and fro of multitudes. The fact that all of them served him still sat strangely; he had never been expecting to become King. After considering for a moment, he turned back around.
“Pothos, will you fetch the rest of my Hetairoi? There is much to discuss.”

The large chamber was now filled with two dozen individuals. This was the King’s inner Hetairoi, the highest circle of his advisors. In Alexander the Great’s time it would have been almost solely Macedonians, but in these modern times not only Macedonians and Greeks but Persians, Babylonians, Armenians and one Arab by the name of Hazael were all part of the King’s inner circle.
“I’ve gathered you all here, friends, for the next stage of the Empire’s recovery. I have removed all of the corrupt satraps and officials that could be found, and many of you have been by my side when I did so. Much work has been done. But here and now, we must solidify this into a concrete direction. We must forge a path if the health of the Empire is to endure.”
“May I speak?” said Phanodorus, who was a Greek by birth but wore his hair in the Persian style.
“Certainly.”
“My recommendation is to take advantage of the situation in Scythia Haumavarga. Their recent defeats have left them extremely weakened, and the opportunity has risen for us to secure the Sogdian frontier once and for all.”
“Are you suggesting that the king tries to annex the Scythians? That land was not intended for settled man to control; there are no cities to occupy, and if the Scythians wish to they can simply pack up and leave at any time.” said Hakob of Colchis.
“I am not. I am suggesting that many of the Scythian tribes that would once have shied away from alliance or settlement are likely to be more amenable. We will draw the powerful men out of Scythia like poison, and so render the sting harmless.”

“But is the King’s time not better spent here in Babylon, strengthening the realm?” asked Archias, the white bearded satrap of Media.
“The king has many willing and able generals able to conduct a campaign in Scythia, he need not depart unless he wishes.” said Phanodorus.
“Though that is a possibility, I have an alternative suggestion,” began Hazael, “There is the matter of the cults dedicated to the memory of Alexander the Great. Ptolemy in Egypt has officialized the Cult, and the deification of Alexander. It is also popular in my homeland. If we allow Egypt to monopolise the cult, not only will they hold sway over the memory of Alexander but they will also have influence over many of the King’s subjects. Taking control of this will strengthen the Empire.”
“What do you suggest I do, Hazael? Become the high priest of my own ancestor’s memory? The gods look poorly upon hybris, and having to look after the institution would be a dead weight around my son’s neck and his own sons.” said Amyntas.
“You are right, my King. I do not propose anything so grandiose. But perhaps instead a cultic centre might be created, a large temple that dwarfs the Ptolemaic Alexandreion in scale and beauty and with attendant priests. Not only would this permit a measure of influence over the Empire’s Alexander cults, it would also draw revenue into whatever province the temple was built in.”
A moment of thought passed.
“Well my friends, it isn’t every day you get a choice between invading the ends of the earth or deifying your own ancestor! The times we live in... Both of these suggestions have merit, and I will consider both projects. Remember though, no matter which option is taken or even if an entirely new one is decided upon, between us we will forge the Empire anew. With all of our talents, we will succeed. The Moirai are on our side.”
 
Cool! I like the reminders about the past being brought back up. Nostalgic.

Can't wait for the next update!
 
My one question about Amnytas' choice is why not both? I understand it would be costly to do a military campaign and build a marvellous temple but certainly the Greco-Persian Empire you've got going on here could handle it.
 
My one question about Amnytas' choice is why not both? I understand it would be costly to do a military campaign and build a marvellous temple but certainly the Greco-Persian Empire you've got going on here could handle it.

Unfortunately, Amyntas was not able to make either choice. Within two years, there had been a civil war and he was no longer King. This is the problem with a retrospective on things already passed...
 
Like For a Fistful of Amphorae, this timeline suffered from a period where I had a lot less free time and ability to write. This isn't dead, but it might be a little bit before a new update comes out. Apologies to everyone who might be irritated at that, but once the updates start again they'll become regular.
 
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