The Europa Barbarorum Monthly Writing Contest

[Zaknafien]

Something I have been wanting to do for some time is to encourage a sort of sampling of the great writers and historians we have as fans of EB, by giving a platform on which they can showcase their skills! For those of you, like me, who may not have the time to do an entire AAR at the moment, but still enjoy writing and love this time period, this is for you! We will start off monthly, where myself or another EB Member chooses a topic to write about. This will be vaugue enough to where no one will write the same story, but specific enough to perhaps a culture or region or time period. Authors will have 15 days to submit their short story (No limit yet on size, but lets be reasonable), and from thence 15 days of voting on the favorite. Readers are encouraged to provide feedback, critiques, and commentary on each piece as they see fit, but lets keep it civil.

First submissions can be entered between now and April 15th.

The first month's topic is simple enough:

"A Battle"

[keravnos]

Can EB members join in the fun?

[Zaknafien]

Of course! Dont think I dont plan on writing one myself :)

[Brightblade]

Shall I post it here?

I'm a half decent writer, I don't like AAR's because I dont use pictures in my writing :P

Let me know where to post and I'll write about a battle. Does it have to be a historically accurate one or one using certain liberties in characterization?

[Zaknafien]

Yes, post the entries in this thread. On the 15th we will establish voting for favorites but commentaries can start immediately.

You can write about a historical battle, using liberties, fantasy scenario that could happen in EB, a one on one encounter, whatever. A battle can mean more than two armies fighting. Uniqueness is interesting, I think.

[Orb]

In!

[Brightblade]

'Spear shall be shaken! Shield shall be splintered! A sword day, a red day, ere the sun rises!' - JRR Tolkien

(This is a fictional battle, between Thebes and Athens, in the famous field of Chaeronea where many battles were fought in the glorious past where two heroes, Solon of Thebai and Cleon of Athenai marched with their armies in yet another dispute between Greek city states)

Units of the Theban Army:



The tendrils of darkness that are night's harbingers spread over the world, their chilling grip devouring the last rays of light from the dying sun, which shone faintly red, blood red, in the deepening dark. Atop a grassy knoll, Solon stood: The proud Theban captain, mover of men, shaker of spears, slammer of shields, his long, richly adorned ebon cloak wrapped tight about him, his brow furrowed, as he stared out onto the plain, where but a mere mile away stood the Athenian encampment. The campfires.. so many. He sighed softly, the breath escaping his lips, his mind afire with thoughts of the coming day, of the future, of the past.

His entire life had been an essay in Homeric heroism, a gentleman by birth, born to one of the wealthiest of Thebes' families, he had always been a man's man, mixing well with commoner and noble alike, noble-born but great-hearted, a man with ambition only for glory, not for politics, intrigue and deception. A man dedicated to a life of soldiery, he was considered one of the finest warriors in all of Greece. Spartans, Corinthians... bah, he had fought them all. His scarred body was testament to the many wounds he had received in battle, now pride's marks lay hidden beneath his linothorax and rich, long ebon cloak. He was held in high esteem among his fellow Thebans, and though he had been nominated for the position of Strategos he had turned it down, preferring always to fight in the front line, preferring always the smell of oil, metal and sweat, the heat of the breath of the warrior in front of you, the fury in the clash. Young Solon, who had no beard, was statuesque, strong, well mannered and prideful, perhaps his greatest defect.

He wrapped his arms around his chest, biting his lip as he thought hard about Cleon, the famous Athenian hoplite who was rumored to be as valiant and noble as he, and sighed at the thought of the battle to come. War is old men talking, and young men dying, he thought to himself. Little did he know how true that time-honored phrase would prove itself yet again on the fields of Chaeronea, the beautiful, grassy plain, filled with spring flowers, would once again be bathed in the blood of his countrymen, and of their aggressors.

/ Will continue this later, just a first intro... bear with me

[paullus]

My contribution, I thought it'd be a fun way to do it:

P.Oxy.Inv. 2813

"To Dryton my brother, greetings, I hope you are well. I am too, though
I fear word has come to you that calamity has struck. I was sailing
down the river, in the company of Noumenios, and the mercenary horsemen
of Ptolemaios, the son of Eteoneus, riding alongside, and when the rebels attacked,
it was they who suffered the brunt of their attack. By the time our ships
reached the shore, we were forced to pick over the bodies
of fallen men--many of them of Lykian descent, as ourselves--fallen under
their missiles. We then carried on, pursuing them toward the neighborhood
of Lykopolis and villages around it, and it was at Petenouphis that we..."
[c.2 lines]
"...an entire army, the like only our father has reported to us, and I have never
arrayed against another, at least twice as large..."

P.Berl.Inv. 1287r

"...and though they skirmished with us, we pushed them back. As we shoved them into the center
of town, our gaisas we launched, and they launched back at us. This could continue, but grasping
the gaisa underhand, we threw ourselves upon them with a mighty yell, and they broke before
us, and we killed more of them there...
[c. 5 lines]
Then it was that Harsennouchis, son of Akannon, spotted them. Coming upon them swiftly we utterly
destroyed them, and he should be commended for his work. By this time, with the phalanxes
engaging outside the city, we cornered the last of them. The foxes hid inside the local whore house, but
Galates son of Ammonios, a resident of this Petenouphis, showed the way inside. Bursting upon them,
we slew them all, and see here, we produce as evidence two cloaks, a helmet, three shields, one ax,
two swords, four pikes, and one dead body."

P.Duke.Inv. 317r

"Konnon, contract keeper of the company of Komanos, to Ariston, strategos of the Arsenoite nome, greetings, be well.
I wrote before of the engagement outside Lykopolis, how the other commanders grew jealous of the
tactics of Komanos, removing from the ships to attack Petenouphis. The general massacre of the town
has indeed left the land in need of new workers, for there are 1,018 arouras of land unattended. If it is fitting,
the following men may be enrolled in the klerouchia of Lykopolis, and its village Petenouphis, though they
are from towns of the Arsinoite:
Dionysios, son of Kotys, ilarchos, 100-aroura holder
Dryton, son of Lykos, and his brother Lykos, both 20-aroura holders,
Seuthes, son of Ateuris, and his brother Teteuris, of those from Syria, both 20-aroura holders.
Kosakabos, son of Isidoros, 70-aroura holder
Ammonios, son of Dionysios,
Stration, son of Zopurros,
Alexandros, also called Hebruzelmis,
Menandros, son of Menandros,
Neoptolemaios, son of Hermios,
Herakleides, son of Ariston, these six 30-aroura Makedonians.

Additionally, the following of those attached to your guard, who accompanied Noumenios down the river, have died
and should have their land allotments redistributed:
Ptolemaios, son of Dionysios, Persian, dekanikos,
Abdes, son of Kommos, Persian,
Kotys, son of Seuthes, Thraikian,
Dionysios, son of Antigonos, Thessalonian,
Trochamos, son of Solon, Athenian,
Ammonios, son of Alexandros, Kyrenaian, these five idiotes, these six of the mercenary horse of Ptolemaios
son of Eteoneus.
Isidoros, Persian, dimoirites
Akannon, Galates, lochagos
Bithus, son of Dizaporis, Thraikian
Allaporis, son of Allaporis, Persian,
Psennouchis, who is called Galates, son of Dionysios, Persian, these three stratiotai, of the Galatians.

Additionally, these who perished in the pushing outside Lykopolis, before the rebels broke and fled, who
hold klerouchies in Tholthis:
Ammonios, son of Dionysios, Kyrenaian, pentakosiarch,
Kratetos, son of Kratos, Kyrenaian, lochagos
Eupolis, son of Eupolis, Hesperitan, dekanikos
Zopurion, son of Bithus, Thracian, dekanikos
Aristolochos, son of Straton, Thracian,
Menonides, Argive
Philonides, Kyrenaian
Kallipos, son of Amyntas, Kyrenaian,
Menon, son of Kallias, Persian,
Theokles, Korinthian,
Ammonios, son of Neoptolemos, Kyrenaian, these seven idiotes, these eleven of those commanded by Philon.
Phillipides, son of Krateos,
Batrachos, son of Philon,
Alexandros, son of Solon,
Demetrios, son of Kallikrates, these four Makedonians, of the agema."

BGU.inv.1280a

"from Noumenios, on the 12th of Xandikos, at Lykopolis...
[c. 4 lines]
...and it was there I marshaled the formations into array, with the...
of Philon on the right...Petenouphis and the mob of the Ga...
[c. 2 lines]
and I ordered the charge, and the elites of the rebels, those we trained
held up against our steady march, and though our resilience left them broken
up and down the line, the strain of such an endeavor as this left many weak,
for the sun was hard...Aithiopians bearing upon...
...and because they were within the ranks the Kyrenaian began to fall apart,
and as this made our hearts fall, so it gave new energy to the rabble against which
we stood...but then they swore to see Herakles fighting in their midst, and with
the arrival of the agema, the Kyrenaian was saved...
[c. 5 lines]
and so after the hardest of the fighting...
to the walls of Lykopolis, and breaking...
valiant and extraordinary acts on the...
lonchophoroi and the thorakitai against...
littered with stacks of the slain, and among...
Harsenouchis, commander of the rebels...
raised the cry of victory, and poured liba...
Ptolemy, Loved by his Father, the God, and...
rebuilding the destroyed wall, to the end...
Farewell."

P.Heid.Inv.914

"...and I swear it was hot, and battle makes it hotter. We saw Herakles fighting
before us in the front ranks, and left a trophy honoring him on the field. Do not worry
for me, but do send food and money. I will be at Lykopolis with the 2nd lonchophoroi,
and there is hardly anyone left alive to make food for us, so the vendors sell beyond the
prices until the strategos can correct the corruption. I will be assisting the blacksmiths
in repairing our shields and weapons, and we sail around to the nearby villages to look
for rebels and weapons. They hide when we come, the jackals. They could not do that
at Lykopolis, and the clash inside the walls was great. We of the Pannonians, and nearby
the Mysians, were the first inside. You should be proud, I bear a new scar from my left
brow, given me by the aspis of an Egyptian. Greet my sisters Euemera and Kala, and
Andromachos, and make sure that Diodoros does not plant palms on the north side of
my plot, he tried that before."

[Fondor_Yards]

Had it was so worth wasting my whole night to write this.


Varguntinus Cornelius Ausonius marched through the desert. Dam this heat, and dam this march he thought. Dam the Parthians, and dam Crassus for leading them into this death trap.

They had left the river behind them. Far behind them. And now there was nothing around them within eyesight, nothing but sand. And heat. He knew the men were starting to get tired, and worried. Hard, tough marches were nothing new to them, in fact they had been breed for such actions. His men were the finest soldiers in all the world. The legionaries, infantry men without equal. But, as rumor said, the opposite could be said about their foes. The parthians were master cavalrymen, a threat they had not faced before. Varguntinus was confident in their ability to defeat them. If Carthago’s mighty elephants, the greek’s noble hoplites, and the wild barbarians of the north could not stand to them, what hope did a handful of men with bows and horses stand? But not all thought as he, and he made sure to keep his 1920 men in line and ready for battle.

They are formed the battle lines quickly and as ordered, but as soon as they stopped, new orders came down. He frowned at these, but quickly ordered his men into a new position. Now they were a square, unflankable but also unable to move, unable to use the mobility that was their greatest strength. But Crassus was pro-consul and he was not, he must also know something that he does not.

And soon it began to rain. It did not rain water, as many men would have wished, but it rained death. An endless stream of arrows fell upon them from the far horsemen. Those devils, who quickly circled the whole army, were too swift to see much less shoot at. He quickly ordered his men into the testudo, hoping to project them. Many of the other cohorts nearby began to take similar actions.

But as they moved, so did the enemy. One band of horsemen moved through their ranks, and towards the roman ones. As they got closer, they threw off their heavy cloaks. Brilliant armour shined from under it, catching the sun and throwing it glaringly in many directions. They bore great spears and wicked looking pikes, and charged down at the romans. The parthian’s legendary cataphracts, the heaviest of lancers. Panicking, he quickly ordered his men back into normal formations. The enemy lancers quickly broke ranks, fleeing back towards the other horsemen.

Their own light men, some armed with little more then a shield, some javelins, and a prayer, quickly ran after them. They were met by a wall of arrows, slaying most, driving the few lucky ones back to their comrades. So they waited. Varguntinus hated it. Nothing could stop the arrows. They flew through their thick shields as if they were nothing, their armour did little more to protect them. He could hear his men cry out in pain, but like true romans their held their positions. He was both proud of them and angry for them. What in the name of the Gods was Crassus doing. If they just stayed here they were going to cut to pieces, unable to at least die in honorable combat, but shot at by cowards.

But the advance came, but far, far too late. Crassus sacrificed his son Publius to hold their rear, now the Parthians rode around with his head on a pike. Many men were now unable to move, the wicked arrows had pierced their limbs and bodies, leaving some quite literally pinned to the grounds. It pained Varguntinus beyond any of his own wounds to see his men like that. He could take any blow, any blow but this one. The retreat was sounded.

But it, like everything today it seemed, was sounded too late. It was night by now, with all of it’s affects. While it gave them better cover to retreat, since it was much harder now for the parthians to fire at them, but it also made it almost impossible for them to see were they were going. Varguntinus lead his men forward, and just hoped they were all going in the right direction. They might be fleeing deeper into parthian territory as far as he knew.

By sunlight, his worse possible fears were realized. The main force of romans was many leagues away, much to far. And the parthians were much too close, and were closing in on the kill. Quickly ordering what remained of his 4 cohorts onto a nearby hill, he got ready for the end.

What happened was very familiar from the last day. The enemy archers circled them, firing their powerful arrows into their ranks. But now there was a new element in the picture. Desiring more roman blood now, the enemy cataphracts formed their ranks and charged.

The melee was as crazed a one he had ever seen. Their charge was terrible, for none could stand in their way. Their lanced pierced through a man, as if his armour and flesh was mere paper, and hit the man behind him. Even in the face of such horrors, his men fought on bravely. Now with his lance useless, the parthian dropped it and reached for his mace. Before he could, two roman soldiers were upon him, stabbing wildly. Their blows slid off his armour, doing no harm to the man under it. Swinging his mace, he smashed it down onto one man’s helm. It caved in with a sickening sound, sending a spray of blood, bone, brain, and metal all around. Screaming out in rage, his friend struck forward. The horseman suddenly let out a high pitch yelp, the first noise he had made at all. He fell from his horse and onto the ground, never to rise again.

Side stepping, he quickly moved out of the way of a lance aimed at his heart. Leaping forward, his gladius penetrated deep into the horse’s exposed throat. Blood poured out of the wound, and the horse collapsed. But the parthian rose from the ground, wielding a wicked longsword. He swung down, but the blow was blocked by Varguntinus’s shield. He stabbed forward, but his sword was unable to break the armour. And so it went on, neither being harm the other. All around them, parthians and romans fell down, fighting till the death with sword, spear, mace, rock, or whatever they could use. With a mighty blow, the parthian’s sword slammed into his shield, shattered the heavily damaged device. Abandoning all his remaining sense, he bull rushed the man, who was clearly surprised and unable to bring his weapon in line in time. He tackled the man to ground, and ripped off his helm. In a frenzy, he stabbed his blade right into the man’s face.

Standing up, and looking around again, he saw to dismay almost all his men lay dead. Only a pitiful 19 other romans were able to stand. Taking a shield from a dead roman, his quickly joined his men in forming a last ditch circle formation, ready to die.

But when a parthian rode up, he did not attack. Nor did any arrows rain down on them. To his surprise, the enemy horses parted ranking, opening a small gap for them. The lone man up front dismounted and bowed, sweeping his hands towards the gap. Slowly, one by one, each of Varguntinus’s last men made their way out to freedom. He himself was the last one to leave that hill. As he pasted by the lone parthian, the man nodded and said something he did not understand. Surprising himself, he returned the nod and said “May filiolus incubo vos.” He quickly caught up with the rest of his exhausted men, and made their way to nearby city of Carrhae...

[keravnos]

A Battle

I am dying, for this is the time that my light perishes. Even if time stands still in my mind, the world around is burning. Tokharoi must have broken through. They aren't even trying to get this part of the wall I am dying on, next to my companions, who are lying dead besides me. It is, or was, Orozes the Parni, a good man with his bow, who could kill a man without even seeing him, just by shooting at the sound of the other's galloping horse. My own gastraphetes wasn't much good. Not with so many of them. By Artemis-Anahita, I killed so many I can't count them, yet even you virgin godess couldn't spare me from missile, not with all those arrows coming at me.

-Coughs blood-

So many arrows have pierced me, I could be a taget doll, like we used when we practiced our gastraphetes. I faintly remember, not so long ago, me, Tlepolemos, Alketas and Amyntas, right after gymnasion, we went and shot our gastraphetai on the target practice, near the walls.We thought we would be warriors one day, all of us, to go and fight far beyond Iaxartes, either to the Sakai lands in the north or the Tokharoi lands in the east. With the Parthians we were friends, allies against the Seleukidai. Then word came of the Maurya usurper, Sunga invading the Gandahara region from the south. Demetrios, our king back then, grabbed the chance and attacked through the Hyperion perasma into the Indian heartland. First Gandahara, then Takashila and then started conquering down the Indus like a mad man.

To us it sounded like a fairy tale back then, an Alexandros reborn in India. But my appointment as senior administrator over at the stores didn't leave me time. Food stuff to index, especially imported olives and olive oil (blasted things won't grow here, well the trees do, but don't have olives), because you can't trust the locals. They did tend to be very “light” with their hands. But our junior administrators, even if natives themselves could handle most cases very well, especially Oxuboakes and Oxubazes. My friend from childhood Alketas became a sculptor, creating many of the statues in Agora, in the aid of his father. Their masterpiece is the copy of Zeus statue as it is found in the legendary Olympias, in Elis, Greece. Amyntas, true to his name, he became a deffender of the Realm, joining the hippotoxotai. Tlepolemos, much unlike his name which meant “brave in war” became a mole, a chief siege engineer, responsible for the syringai, the underminings which toppled most of the cities that Demetrios conquered down in India.

-coughs blood-

It is funny though. I am dying, yet I can still remember. I still remember those 3 and me running up and down Oxiani (before the usurper called it Eukratidia, a name only he and his henchmen called the city), long before the days when life took us in different directions. I remember messing with the local merchants wares and the ugly looks we got one time when we toppled the furs of a mustached man with very small eyes, that looked like slits. He swore at us, in his guttural tonge, but we couldn't understand him. Later we found out that he was Altay from far far away to the north and east. I can still remember his rage and our laughter.

Then of course there is Diotema. My beloved. The reason I kept this lousy job. So much to catalogue and be mindful of, because I knew that she would be there waiting for me. She always had a cup of wine ready, and a crater (wine jar) standing by besides her. She knew I loved to drink, and she didn't mind my occasional drunken self. Sitting at our anaklintra, sipping good wine, eating fruits and chatting about anything and nothing at all. Or going to the theater to watch the latest comedy from Menander. My life was the laughter by my side. When she faded out giving birth to our son, my life faded out as well. I knew I was dead then. All the pain that could happen to me did. So many arrows are bleeding me dry, yet this isn't the worst hurt I got. In all fairness, I died when diotima did, only my hollow shell lived on. Work became life, Promotion came and I was master administrator for all supplies in Alexandria Oxiani, or Eukratidia as it was now called. Etaires were a nice way to spend time and money, but a day later, the longing for Diotema ripped my liver like in prometheus' torment.

Eventually, I remarried Roxanne, a baktrian beauty, who she says she has the same name like the wife of Alexandros. She was a good woman. People said she was a lot prettier than Diotema. We had a good life, and the 3 sons she gave me are almost wortwhile sleeping every night next to a woman who, comely as she was, I never managed to love. I still remember her crying sometimes, and in her own language cursing me for not loving her. But she cannot complain really. I always put food in her table and never excessively beat her. My happiest thought is that now she and the boys are away in Demetrias in Patalene, down in India. My bloodline, who started at Passarona, Epiros, near Pambotis lake, will continue. The little shepperd who joined Alexandros army 200 years ago may sleep well knowing his bloodline will go on. Me, well, I will get my glorious death, even if nobody will know about it, soon enough...

Things were going worse as the time went by. Usurper that he was, Eukratides managed to defeat the Euthydemids coming from India and drive them up to Indus, destroying their capital Takashila. Yet in doing so, he stripped the western frontiers dry, allowing Parthians to occupy Margiane and all western provinces. Sakai, pressured by the Tokharoi who emigrated in their former lands, massively attacked and occupied all of Fergana valley, from Thermai to Alexandria Eschate. Tokharoi began launching raids, both at the Sakai, and also at us. We knew that Alexandria Oxiani (to my dying breath, I won't call this Euktratidia) was going to be a prime target for the Tokharoi, as it is guarding the best river pass from Oxus in the east. The west is guarded well, but in the East of Baktra, we are all there is. So we asked for help. We begged for it. We pulled every sort of favour. I know, for I was a member of the city council crying out for help. There was none. That bastard of a king Eukratides stripped all guards and whatever available units dry to fight against the new king in India, Menandros. Few days ago, word came that he lost.

Before we could rejoice, urgent news came from across the river. Tokharoi were on the move again, a great host bent on destroying Oxiani, as it is dead ahead on its invasion route to Baktria. We had thought that they might try the western approach, as it is valley over there, horse country for them. Still they are not only resilient, they are clever as well. It seems that their horses are more rugged than we gave them credit for, and can march up the mountains. So, here they were. A huge horse archer army. I have never seen so many people in my life. It is disheartening to think that they were enemies bent on killing us. And it was spring so their horses had a lot of grass to feed on. Every able man, child and even some women was sent to the walls to help shore up the defense. They began assaulting the walls the following day, first shooting from as far as they could then coming ever closer as they approached. The triakontaminai katapeltai started throwing huge one talent rocks at them, smaller katapeltai started shooting as well, throwing many smaller rocks which dispersed upon flight, killing many Tokharoi. The big rocks hurled at them, drove them back for sometime. Yet, when they realised just how clumsy the katapeltai were, they came back with a vengeance. They had many spearmen with them this time, going straight for the walls. We shot many of them that day, I know I did. Yet, it seemed like their numbers were neverending.

We held them on the walls that day. We did. At night you could hear their dead and dying cries, as many of them died of the wounds we inflicted on them. Yet, as many as we had killed, there were more, so many more left. And we knew that none would be spared, after we had been killed and the women raped to death. I remember choking to the thought of what might happen to the children, and thanking the gods that mine were away. Next day, they returned with more ladders than there was place to put them on. More killed, more dying. I remember I stopped counting that day, and thinking that if I the elder with my gastraphetes had killed so many, what would my next in line, a Parni merc do? I only remember that we was replenished many times with arrows, 3 times as many as I was.

Then the city fell. It seems that they managed to capture a tower, establish a foothold on the rampart, then started lowering their troops in the city. Our agema fought them hard and actually contained them, killing scores and scores of those unarmored spearmen. Yet, it was for nought as on the same time as the first foothold was contained, a new breach in the rampart happened. That wasn't too difficult as Adobe fortifications are only as good as the least powerfull mud and hay brick they are built with. As the wall crumbled, the horde entered the city. That was a few hours ago. I think many of the people, and most of agema and toxotai have taken shelter in the Acropolis. It lies high on the hill in the middle of the city 2 plethra tall (60 m high) and its ramparts are high up on the rock a third of a plethron (10 m tall). I don't think they can take it by storm. They probably will starve the defenders.

Do as they may, I won't be here to see what happens. My unit was stranded on a relatively quiet piece of the wall, with only minor casualties. When shot at by two separate sides, though, and without any protection by the fortifications, we were just target practice. One by one we died, with me left to live this long, only by the grace of the gods. My breaths cannot be more than 10 now. I worry. Not for me, I had a good life and my progeny is safe. I worry for my people. I worry for my country and the “thousand golden cities” the nomads say we have. While not as many they are a wonder for sore eyes, an oasis of civilisation and culture in the middle of Nomads. I fear that as my light is devoured by darkness so will Baktria and the people living here in the future will never know who we were, how we enjoyed life to the fullest. I fear they will just contempt themselves with mere survival and intertribal strife...not life. I am dying... and I fear Hellenic Baktria will die along with me.

[Zaknafien]

[Placeholder--Aarg, I won't be able to finish this on time as Im traveling to Arizona tomrrow for three weeks of school. Here's up until where I finished, at least]

Zela, Cappadocia
2 August, 47 BCE

“Veni, Vidi, Veci”
--Caivs Ivlivs Caesar


Zela was an ancient town, a local merchant had told him, much older than Rome. Straddled upon a crag of a hill that overlooked the river valley for miles north and south, it was well defended on all sides with a steep incline and a solid curtain wall built in the style of the Achaeminid kings. The Cappadocian mountains, rugged and scattered with snow upon their flanks, frowned down upon the vale and the city like solemn guardians. For over two-thousand years it had been a cross-roads, mentioned by Assyrian merchants, Persian kings and Megas Alexandros himself. Even today, within its walls was the home of a famous cult of Anaitis, the Persian goddess of water and wisdom, whose gurgling springs it is said would heal any wound, if simply the penitent had faith in her power.

Perhaps that belief would be put to the test, this day, Hirtius mused.

Praetor Aulus Hirtius had served with Caius Julius for nearly ten years now, since he had been a young man of thirty years serving as a tribune of Caesar’s during the war against the Gauls. Back then, he could march for days with the rest of them, and had seen Caesar work miracles many times over. Even such, he was amazed at the speed with which Caesar had marched from Antioch into Cappadocia to oppose the young Pontic king, Pharnaces. Pharnaces, like his father Mithridates, was ever the thorn in the proverbial side of the Republic. Convinced of Rome’s distraction because of Caesar’s war with the rebel Pompey, Pharances had marched his army into Colchis and Armenia, burning and slaying in his wake. Deiotaurus, tetrarch of Armenia had appealed to Domitius Calvinus, proconsul in Asia, who marched to meet the upstart king and then suffered a humiliating defeat in Nicoplois. His conquest complete, Pharnaces enslaved all of the people and made all the boys eunuchs.

Caesar, naturally, had been outraged.

The Romans had arrived at Zela some three days past, after the lightning-quick march north from Syria. Upon arrival, the legion’s scouts had spied the Pontic king and his host arrayed upon the highest ridgeline in the valley, the same that was made famous for the victory of Mithridates his father and the defeat of Triarius before some three miles north from the town.

Under-strength and under-manned, with only two legions and allied cavalry under Deiotaurus, who had been made King once again, forget if you will his siding with Pompey at Pharsalus, the Roman army had occupied the ridgeline and set to work improving the fortifications. Never let it be said that Caesar was not a forgiving man, Hirtius thought and grinned.

He stood upon the rampart of earth and wood that had been hastily erected during the night, looking out over the valley, which was still shrouded in a milky fog that had rolled down from the foreboding mountains. In the east, the sky was turning red, casting a ruddy refelction upon the mist as the sun struggled to rise from beyond those sharp peaks and behind those heavy clouds. Across the way, he could spy the field-works of the Pontic army and the movement within. The little sunlight reflected off the tips of their lances and spear-points, glimmered in their conical plumed helmets as they readied for battle.

Fully two-thirds of the Roman army was engaged in manual labor, using their spades and their backs to erect the line of ridgeworks and fascines to encircle the campsite. He could hear the men singing below him, the raucous laughter of troops, the occasional curse from a superior. Hirtius smiled, despite himself. He was older now, but still in fighting trim, he liked to imagine. Streaks of gray lined his hair now, and his curiass fit more tightly than it did in Gaul, but the years of marching and campaigning in Greece and Syria had done him well. He was tired, though, very tired, and did not see how Caesar managed to stay so vigorous.

A brazen horn trumpeted in the north, breaking the praetor’s reverie.

There was movement within the Pontic camp, and a low rumbling of the earth. A cloud of dust rose slowly from the valley, and then racing out from it came the chariots, sunlight glinting off their iron-cast spokes and the sharpened blades affixed to their hulls. Pharnaces was making his attack.

“To arms!” Hirtius shouted, jumping down from the battlement. Elsewhere in the camp, others had noted the maneuvers and the trumpeters began to blast the recall and order to arms. The long, low horns echoed out across the valley floor, and legionaries halted their work immediately to answer its call.

Legio XXXVI Dieotaurus was at almost half-strength, and the Legio VI, composed of veterans who had been serving in Antioch was at barely 1,000 men. Even so, their position was strong and fortified, and Hirtius could not believe the audacity of Pharnaces in attacking it so prematurely. Perhaps he had a favorable omen, Hirtius thought, but dismissed it immediately as it came likely from some alien god. The Pontic allies under newly re-appointed King Dieotaurus formed in the center of the Roman camp, while the legionaries scrambled to take up their scutum and helmets and fall into their centuries and cohorts. The line became alive with movement and shouts, clanking of armor and weapons, and the blasts of the cohorts particular signal horns to alert their troopers where to form.

Across the vale, the Pontic army had begun to march in line out of their camp, with poorly clothed foot archers in the van coming behind the galloping charioteers. Hirtius could make out the forest of pikemen and spear-tips behind them, and the mass of swordsmen and horses moving to the flanks. Swearing, he pulled on his crested helmet and buckled the strap tightly in place as he stormed down the ridgeline, shouting for his tribune and his horse.

Caesar had ridden out from the headquarters tent to inspect the line, surrounded by a swarm of junior officers. Caesar was tall and well-formed, with a lean muscular body and keen, dark eyes. His face was broad and plain but still comely, and his charisma undoubtable.

“Caius Julius,” Hirtius shouted as he neared, extending his arm to shake his General’s hand.

“Aulus Hirtius, what goes on?” Caesar asked, sitting at ease on his white charger.

“Pharnaces has lost his mind, I should think,” Hirtius responded with a grin. “He has sent out charioteers with massed foot in close order behind them.”

Caesar was shocked, and almost it seemed a line of worry wrinkled his brow for only a moment, then was gone. “So be it,” he said. “Deiotaurus in the center of course. The sixth on the right, I want them to turn Pharnaces upon himself after his charge is expended.”

“Yes, sir, it is already being done,” Hirtius responded.

“Aulus Hirtius, you think too much like myself,” Caesar said, smiling. With that, he kicked his horse into a trot and started off toward the lines, his aides and tribunes scrambling their horses to follow him.

Arrows swarmed like a cloud of locusts in the dismal Asian sky, and rained upon the ranks indiscriminately when they fell. The hillside rang with the clangor of their iron tips striking against the upturned scutum like a rattle of rocks in a bucket, the din of them sliding off the curved shields or helmets, the thud of them striking the soft earth, the scream when they hit exposed flesh of men.

Of course only the very unlucky, or those who had angered the gods, were injuried by such arrows. The far greater number clanged or rattled to the side, or fell short and littered the hillside with shafts. A cloud of dust rose from the plain to the north where the Pontic charioteers wheeled their contraptions in broad circles, plumed, hawk-nosed archers in the cabs loosing their barbs with more efficiency than the massed foot archers behind them.

The legion was formed in the manipular square, each cohort offset from one another along the line like a large checkerboard that stretched over a mile from the crest of the ridgeline into the valley floor to the east. The alae of Pontic soldiers under Deiotaurus was likewise assembled, as most of them had been trained in the Roman manner for years prior and those who were not had received a hasty introduction. The Sixth legion had advanced closer than the rest of the line, eager to meet Pharnaces soldiers’ in close order.

The Sixth’s legate ordered the halt and the soldiers stopped in precision once the horns had blown, resting their scutum upon the dusty grass. The air was thick with dust blown up from the rumbling chariot wheels and horses’ hooves, and a warm wind was blowing from the south. Pharnaces’ charioteers wheeled around once more, horses bawling as their reigns were tugged tightly. The legionaries in the first and second ranks of each century took up their pila as one, smoothly raising the barbed hafts to a half-way position at shoulder level until the time was right.

Closer the chariots drove, eagerly driving forward to press the Romans back. Too close, for then the centurions ordered their men to loose their pilum with a wave of their hands.

The iron shanks lept into the dreary sky nearly in unison, and seemed to hang for a moment at their apex before arcing downwards into the advancing charioteers.

Horses screamed as the barbed shafts bit into their flanks, screamed and went down into the dust with a crash, sending their cab flying into the air in a splintering snap of wood and bronze. Men flew across the ground, shrieking in terror as chaos descended upon the riders. Some were speared by the pilum outright, sending them flying from the back of their chariot with a gaping wound in their sides or front.

That ended the chariots’ advance at once. Those who had survied turned their wheeled cabs around quickly as could be done, and sped for the safety of their camp, a fresh volley of glinting pila following them. Horses were screaming in pain on the field and men crawled in the dust with their entrails leaking behind them. The Sixth legion took up their scutum and marched the advance again, moving to meet the oncoming Pontic foot who closely followed the broken chariots.

Arrows danced in the sky again, raining upon the advancing Roman soldiers and glinting off their hauberks of chain and helmets of iron. A cloud of dust rose form their wake, and in the center Deiotaurus’ army had begun to follow the advance, moving to the edge of the ridgeline whilst the XXXVII Legion held steady on the left end of the field.

With a roar, the Pontic soldiers sprang forward in a charge, closing rapidly the distance between the opposing armies. The first ranks of the Sixth legion had halted again, raising their pila for a final thrust as the Asiatics closed.

“Loose!” shouted centurions up and down the Roman line. In the vanguard, the second, third, fourth, and fifth cohorts first ranks released their volley of javelins, which impacted the charging enemy with such force some were impaled completely and thrown backwards into the ground. Others collapsed, lungs frothed with blood from the shaft of iron hanging in their ribs, or tripped and fell over their fallen, crawling and dying comrades.

Those that had survived the missle volley now crashed into the first ranks of the Romans, screaming with the red fury of combat. One burly warrior threw himself onto a legionary’s shield with a thud and crash, knocking the wind from his lungs and sending him choking to the ground to be pierced by another Roman’s gladius a second thereafter. The battle-line was engulfed in the cacophony of battle, the din of metal scraping and sliding against itself, grunts and growls and groans of horror.

Aulus Hirtius, mounted on a brown courser, had ridden nearer to the fighting with the Sixth. All was calm with the rear cohorts, stern-faced legionaries standing quietly, awaiting their senior centurions’ orders to advance the cohorts forward to join the melee. Now and again, a lone arrow would fly near them, but the din and noise of battle seemed muffled at this distance from the fight.



[To be continued...]

[Rilder]

--Cut--

[To be continued...]


Go Pontos!, definatly voting for this one... :beam: Yes I know not everyone has written theres yet but, man its Pontos! :beam:

[Fondor_Yards]

Shouldn't we be starting the voting for this now?

[Zaknafien]

yep, was just thinking it myself. been busy with work and working on things for EB but a poll will commence!