Re: The Legacy of Megas Alexandros - a seleucid AAR
Chapter 36: The Moment of Truth
The junior king yawns loudly. Recently he neither sleeps much nor restorative. Deep, dark circles around the bloodshot and only with effort half-opened eyes mark his face, the pale and greyish colour of which makes an unhealthy impression. The metal of his armour and the colour of his clothing are matted from a thin cover of dust. He looks weak and worn out, crookedly sitting on his mount.
He is accompanied by his staff, the leading officers of the army Seleukos Kallinikos has taken under command. The fewest of them seem to be in a much better condition than their Basileus, but at least they mostly strive to maintain a degree of dignity.
When Antiochos went to the west, to Aigyptos, his son travelled in the opposite direction, to the iranian possessions of the Arche. In recent times the incursions into the northern border regions of Hyrkania, Astauene and Margiana had increased to a dimension that could no longer be ignored. Raiding parties of the Dahae and related people were more and more roaming freely in the empire's lands, acting as lords by their own right. It was the father's wish for Seleukos to restore seleucid authority and give a sign that the Arche was capable to defend her subjects.
The largest of those parties, which was headed by Surenmehr, a powerful warlord of the house of Suren, had intruded far into Parthyaia. After some skirmishes Surenmehr decided to retreat, the seleucid army slowly following down to the Caspian Sea and further north. The steppe people, who were always outnumbered, evaded major confrontation time and time again and instead resorted to harass rear- or advance guard and supply troops, steadily drawing Kallinikos behind them.
"Those are too many to be Surenmehr's troops. Anyway, they are sitting on that hill like they want to give us a fight. We should take positions and show them the stock we're made of," barks Lasthenes Akkadikos. He dons his most baneful expression, although a meagre tuft of grass, which has somehow found a way to entangle itself in his beard, does its part in undoing the effect.
Seleukos examines the thin line of light infantry, screened by a larger number of riders, then looks along the columns of his own contingent. He nods. "Yes, form the phalanx. The cavalry stays back, close with the light troops."
Kallinikos' force, more than sixteen thousand souls, line up across from the hill, where the foe has positioned himself. A vibration flows through the ranks and with effort they start to move slowly. Most of the soldiers have little experience at marching in lockstep and need all the help the Auletai, the flautists, can give to follow the tact, the long and heavy Sarissas reaching into the sky. Officers with sticks run up and down the formation, forcing those back into line and rank, who fall behind. Close after the Phalanx, in the centre, where the overview is the best, follows their Strategos.
The enemy sits atop his hill and watches. Patiently he is waiting. Artabarzan, the warlord, has a good eye-sight and he is proficient with the bow. He knows how to use the wind to carry the arrow in its goal, he knows the strength of his men and their bows. He doesn't haste, for he is in no need to waste an arrow. When Artabarzan lifts his arm, he knows his men will hit the mark.
More than three thousand short dark lines rise from the hill, where the parthian footsoldiers stand, firm ground under their feet and strong bows in their hands. The arrows climb into the sky, higher and higher, before they start to fall, lowering down to the approaching army. Many arrows bounce against the lifted shafts of the Sarissas, lose their momentum and drop without effect, but many hit the barely armoured men, with unreduced velocity easily penetrating leather and lives.
The first cries of pain and death are heard, but the line of men only shivers shortly before continuing to crawl towards Artabarzan's humble hill.
With composed mind and calm heart, with deliberateness and steady hand the archers loosen another volley, and another, before Artabazan's mounted warriors join in the concert of snapping bowstrings. Now every single man under the warlord's command is contributing to devastating volleys, each composed of more than eight thousand deadly arrows, while their leader is waiting for his plan to unfold.
It is a terrifying sight, the dark clouds of thousands of simultaneously loosened arrows rapidly approaching, a sight that is able to inspire awe even in the most confident hearts, a sight that mutes all other senses and paralyses the mind, yet still is the phalanx rolling forward, so despondently slow. Quickstep could be in need, but with these untrained men, chaos would ensue, the line would rip apart, rendering the phalanx's strengths non-effective.
"Sire!" Kallinikos turns his head to the right, where Gorgias Dahaikos has stopped his mount and points to the east. There unobserved another band has come up and is now quickly riding over a slight slope, which runs some way to the right of the seleucid host, in full speed already shooting the first arrows into the back of the right flank.
The junior king is petrified, staring at the riders in the east, his horse nervously prancing, while the line is still advancing, unperturbed by the new threat.
His eyes meet Gorgias, who closes up to his king. The adjutant is on the verge to grab Seleukos by the shoulders and yells into his face: "Do something! Now!"
from Satalexton 
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Originally Posted by I of the Storm
That was hard...
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