The Legacy of Megas Alexandros - a seleucid AAR

[Aaldaemon]

I'm sorry for this short and unloving battle description, but the battle has been autoresolved and i just didn't get into the right mood to make up something more thrilling.

That could very well be the best description ever of an auto-resolved battle. Good update, I see you are winning on all fronts.

[Lysimachos]

I see you are winning on all fronts.

That's just momentarily. My borders are fragile and i'm sure some day this will be to the benefit of my enemies. Which is not absolutely unwanted, as i explained before.

[Aaldaemon]

That's just momentarily. My borders are fragile and i'm sure some day this will be to the benefit of my enemies. Which is not absolutely unwanted, as i explained before.

Aye, tragedy and defeat sometimes make for much better writing material.

[Lysimachos]

Chapter 4: A syrian night (R-rated...)

The sun is still high on the sky, heating the plain and reflecting in the gentle waves of the Orontes.
A hand full of cloaked riders is cantering across the bridge, down the road. They hurry, they don't pause, ride on imperturbably, as if the change of day and night depend on it.

It has become late, the sun is bent for her deserved rest, only the upper heights of Silpios are still bathed in red light. The travelers have luck, the Alep-gate is not closed, yet. They move through the gate, don't dismount, still hurrying on. The riders gallop through the colonnaded alley, the axis of Antiocheia on the Orontes. They don't spend a glaze on the city's artistic architecture, they don't let themselves be drawn into the humming, heated summer night life of the metropolis, but push on, along the main road, then to the west, onto the island where the outline of the royal palace rises into the night sky.
The guards address the approaching party, but quickly back away. The riders dismount, one is quickly ascending the steps to the mostly unlighted palace, while the other three take the horses' reins.

A young woman in a young night. She is standing at her patio, looking down into the garden, where a fountain is quietly bubbling. Nature is lethargic of the day's heat, which is fading slowly.
The gracile fingers of her left hand run through her long, unbound hair, which is dark as ebony. Her immaculate body, white as alabaster, is covered by a cape of silk, which has traveled a long way from the east until it became her gown.
The young woman is closing her eyes. The sound of the bubbling fountain, chirping crickets. Rustling of drapery. This is wrong. She opens her eyes, shuddering. She does not dare to move.
The sound of calm breath. Quiet steps. She feels the sweat running along her spine.
She knows, someone is standing right behind her, his breath touching her neck, she feels the presence, almost a touch. With a fragile voice she speaks: “You should not be here, you don't know who i am. My king will be relentless.” A soft, calm laugh, only the width of a hand from her ear.
The tip of a tongue touches her earlap, running along it. Her heart almost stops beating.
The man is whispering: “I am your king.”
The tension falls, unspeakable relief. Antiochos kisses her neck, gently turning her around.
“My king, you are back. An emissary has come to...” He stops her speaking by kissing her lips, then pulls off her cape, revealing the impeccable beauty of her young body. He kisses her chest. “I know that.” Antiochos goes down on his knees, his hands fondling her back, kissing her belly. She shudders, as his lips and tongue feel their way down and a deep-drawn sigh escapes her lips.

The palace is awakening. The morning has not come, but noise is growing, torches are ignited, the king has ordered to wake the emissary. The king? He is here? How is this possible?
Antiochos has not been expected before the next week and now he is here, in his capital, in the middle of the night, surrounded by three of his most loyal bodyguards.

Antiochos awaits the emissary. His mood is great, he feels as young as ever, relaxed in mind and body, despite the long travel, while the delegate from Alexandreia is bleary-eyed and depleted. He has effort to stay upright and seems as if he would sell his king in exchange for a bed.
Antiochos grins. Perfect conditions for fruitful negotiations.

Several hours later, the sky is already brightening in the east, the ptolemaic emissary is on his way back to bed, walking on his last legs. Peace is signed between the two most powerful of the Epigonoi, Ptolemaios II Philadelphos and Antiochos Soter. Kilikia and Koile Syria, apple of discord in this war stay under seleucid rule and Ptolemaios guarantees independence for the Kyrenaika, where Magas rules, son-in-law of Antiochos.

A truly wondrous night, in the great city on the Orontes.



I really could not resist to find a use for his "Hetaira Hyperkalles"
Until now it works quite good without tragedy and defeat, but all success has to come to an end, i fear.

[Aaldaemon]

It's GOOD to be the King. What can I say, your aar is ever entertaining.

We have "peace in our time" now.

[Lysimachos]

Thank you :)

I see you are always here to comment when i'm posting ;)

[Aaldaemon]

Aye. Reading aar updates on this forum has become my religion. It's made easy by the fact I spend a lot of time writing on my computer, (no, not for my aar) and soloing in AoC (and alt tabing out everytime I zone to surf a bit, due to soloing boredom overkill).