Of Destiny and Duty: A Galatian AAR

[Ariovistus Maximus]

Nice updates man! Glad to see your back.

Many thanks! Yeah, sorry about the pause there. For a while it was pretty tough to figure out where to go next. I have a plan, but it was making it fit together that was a challenge.

Glad to see the readers back too.

[J.R.M]

Ahh at last your back man, great updates and nice screenshots man. CYA

[Ariovistus Maximus]

Yeah thanks!

This is like the 4th chapter since I started back up so make sure you didn't miss anything.

[Ariovistus Maximus]

Chapter XVI – Weights in the Balance

As the Galatians scrambled Northeast to stop Mithridates’ push north, the Pontic army took the road due west.

What had appeared to be the king himself leading his troops north, was the king himself making a feint to the North in order to clear the way for his true intention of marching straight toward Ankyra.

He had, in fact only had his cavalry with him when he was spotted; the rest of the army was waiting for the Galatians’ move to stop the Pontic “advance” northward.

When Mithridates was sure that the Galatians were close to his position, he doubled back to join his army.

First, Bagacos received word that Mithridates had hastily retreated in fear of the approaching Galatian army. Bagacos thought this a perfect opportunity to pillage the Pontic supply train. It was not long before he discovered that the Pontic host had entirely disappeared. At first the men were proud of their “achievement.”

But Bagacos wondered. Where could they have gone so quickly? Once again he came to the startling realization that Mithridates had entirely outmaneuvered him.

Bagacos called an assembly of his captains, and soon the orders were given to double-time West toward Ankyra.

“Unbelievable; that man is unbelievable. He has outdistanced me at every step!” Bagacos was beyond frustrated, and he was intimidated by Mithridates’ obvious abilities on campaign. Nonetheless, Bagacos had the one real victory on his side; his men could do it again.

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“But sir, our route is open; we can march through Ankyra in two days’ time!”

Mithridates paused for a moment, then replied, “Yes, captain. But Galatia will not be impressed by my maneuvers. They understand the march no better than that ‘general’ they have. No, what impresses them is blood. Only destruction will confirm me as their conqueror.”

“As you say,” Mithridates continued, “we have an open route into Ankyra. But we also have forced the enemy to rush toward Ankyra. It is only a matter of time before they see what I have done, and Bagacos, although unlearned in the finer points of warfare, is no complete fool. They will make straight for Ankyra, there is no doubt of that.

My position, and their own haste, gives me all the opportunity I need to deal them a crippling blow.”

Timothsenes, meanwhile, could hardly stand the intensity of this crucial moment. The fate Galatia, and, one could argue, the fate of Pontus, hinged upon the upcoming engagement.

Timothsenes, a seasoned commander and excellent tactician in his own right, considered the weights in the balance of battle.

Having lived among Galatians for many years, he knew the Galatians’ fighting spirit far better than did Mithridates. Mithridates, he thought, looked at Galatia as a land of mean little brigands and roving marauders.

And, although Mithridates had performed excellent maneuvers, this could only affect the battle itself in so many ways. Unlike Mithridates’ Hellenic adversaries, the Gauls had no formation and order of battle set in stone; this made them flexible. He could approach the army from the flank or from behind, but positioning meant little to the Gallic warrior.

The Gallic warrior’s goal in battle, is to kill things. Things in front of him, things beside him, things behind him. It would make no difference; wherever the Galatians saw the enemy, they would swarm upon them.

On the other side of the scale, the Pontics had training and experience on their side. Mithridates fielded a professional army with real battlefield experience. The Galatians were fierce, but the Pontics would show grim determination in their task as well. Also, the Galatians’ eagerness to kill may lead them into a trap; Mithridates had already demonstrated his uncanny ability in that area. Also, the Galatians understood Pontus no better than the Pontics understood them. No doubt those warriors who had not seen battle before would not understand how a phalanx should be dealt with. Even the experienced Galatians were accustomed to tribal warfare rather than the well-ordered Greek methods of fighting.

As to morale, this was a hard factor to discern. The Galatians had taken Pontus off-guard, true, but the Pontic troops had great confidence in Mithridates; confidence forged in battle against Seleucids, Macedonians, mountain tribes, and peoples throughout Northern Asia Minor. This confidence would not be shaken so easily.

The Galatians, although bolstered by their early victory, were now frustrated by constant marching. They must at least have some idea of the fact that their army had been outmaneuvered a number of times. This might cause their confidence to falter slightly. However, according to a Galatian, the real measure of a man is how he fights rather than how he marches. Thus, they probably were not impressed by Mithridates’ abilities.

Finally, Timothsenes had enough of consideration. Tomorrow, all would be made known.

[the man with no name]

They understand the march no better than that ‘general’ they have. No, what impresses them is blood.

Unlike Mithridates’ Hellenic adversaries, the Gauls had no formation and order of battle set in stone; this made them flexible. He could approach the army from the flank or from behind, but positioning meant little to the Gallic warrior.

The Gallic warrior’s goal in battle, is to kill things. Things in front of him, things beside him, things behind him. It would make no difference; wherever the Galatians saw the enemy, they would swarm upon them.

Good update but many stereotypes. Were these on perpose?

[Ariovistus Maximus]

Good update but many stereotypes. Were these on perpose?

In a way they are, although I didn't think of it in those terms exactly. Remember, this is Timothsenes thinking, not the author of the manuscript.

But yes it is fairly stereotypical, of the Galatians especially.

So if, what you mean is "Was that chapter a prophetic analysis?" No. It was a little teaser to get you thinking, maybe in certain ways.

The other thing was that I'm not really able to go in-depth, due to time constraints and of course that this is fictional.

Thanks for that observation though! I like comments like that! Helps me to keep the quality up.

Also, I want to make sure that the next chapter is well done, so it might be a day or two.

Thanks for reading!

[Ariovistus Maximus]

Hey guys! Due to length, the battle is in 2 parts.

This was going to be part one of the great all-out battle.

However I realized just now that I forgot to edit the pics.

So I think what I'll do is post both parts tomorrow.

Thanks!

[Ariovistus Maximus]

I'm still not finished, and also I'm just not satisfied with it as it is. I'm not sure why; it just doesn't feel quite right. A little too dry, maybe.

At any rate, I'll try to get it out soon.

[Ariovistus Maximus]

Chapter XXVII - Confrontation

“A red sun rose this morning,” Bagacos began, speaking boldly. “An omen the blood which will have been spilt before the sun fades in the West. I will tell you now that it will be Pontic blood that fills the streams and rivers of our great land! Yes, some of you, here today, will die, and we shall all drink to their memory. But those that die will die in the knowledge that they have given life to many others!

Do not be mistaken; the enemy is large and he is hard; he will not break easily. Many have not realized this, and taken the fight for granted; the Phrygians, the Cappadocians, and the hill tribes of the Hay’k have done so. Their own pride ground them into the dust, and those that live now serve their Pontic masters in humiliation!

Let this be a lesson to you. And let no man here today be anxious to keep his life. The good soldier in battle must accept that his life is no longer his; it belongs to the gods. For what is a man’s life, when lived under the clouds of shame, and under a master’s whip? Nothing! We men know this; we Galatians have always lived in freedom, and there is no other way to live!

So, now, steel your sinews; prepare you hearts, and clear your minds. Let each man not shrink from his duty but put all forward, withholding nothing!

If you do this, I can tell you that we here today stand square with any nation on this earth! If you do this, the men of the nation of Pontus will stay here for all time – in the ground, under the dirt!

Follow me men; we go to war!”

The vast Galatian encampment fairly exploded as the confident troops cheered their leader. The men were ready; they had been ready for months. Anything would seem better to those men, natural warriors, than the endless marching and waiting. Now the waiting was over; they truly were going to war.

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Only a few miles away, Timosthenes looked on as Mithridates watched his men form up into marching order.

A hush fell over the men as their revered commander began to speak.

“Now, men, there is little time for words. Nevertheless, to the brave a few words are as good as many.

Such good men as you need not words to spur them. I have watched you through many campaigns, and what I do know is that your deeds speak for themselves!

So let us now prepare ourselves. Let us speak for ourselves once more, not with vain rhetoric, but by strength of arms!

May each man do his duty. May the gods guide your eye, and let each arrow find its mark.

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Kyros looked out over the valley. He lived in this region for much of his life, and knew it well. Never had he imagined the battle that would take place on that ground in that very afternoon.

In a few hours, a snaking column of determined soldiers would march through the stands of trees in which he played often as a boy. How would it all end?

He could see his fellow soldiers taking their positions; the line seemed so long that it could stretch out to Athens. Kyros was truly impressed by the army Bagacos had put together.



Kyros was part of a troop of short-swordsmen. They were light troops, trained to move quickly, pound the enemy suddenly, and withdraw as suddenly as they had come. They would probably be sent either to exploit the enemy flank, or to weaken the main Pontic line in preparation for the heavier infantry by hacking the enemy’s pikes apart.

He knew that Artan was in the army as well, although he didn’t know his position exactly. Artan was captain of the Nietos, some of the toughest troops in the army. This was truly a high honor, and well deserved.

The two brothers still had little to say to each other. This frustrated Kyros; they were brothers, after all, and the only two left in their family besides. Nonetheless, Kyros shoved it out of his mind as always; there was plenty of work at hand.

Finally, murmuring floated through the ranks that the enemy had been spotted. Soon captains began shouting orders. Kyros’ captain ordered them to march ahead.

“See the glints off in the distance men? That is your target!”

As the captain was giving out commands, a rider galloped up with orders from Bagacos.

“All right men, move out! Our orders are to engage the main line.”

The men quickly became uneasy. Most of the men were conscripts; the most skilled warriors fought in more heavily-armed units.

“Do not make yourselves uneasy. We must simply engage the enemy long enough to distract them and pin them in place. Have confidence in our leadership; he has the situation well in hand.”



At that, the men gathered themselves and moved quickly forward.

Having never experienced combat on such a scale, Kyros had not been sure what to expect. He certainly hadn’t thought that the most challenging part of the battle would be the uneasy march across the open field toward the enemy. Yet it seemed that every fiber in his being cried out to keep him from taking another step forward.

Soon they came within range of the Pontic archers. Kyros suddenly wished he knew less about the outside world. His studies on the quality of Scythian archery were of little comfort to him now.



Soon it came: the storm of arrows. The captain ordered his men to move at double speed; the sooner they crossed this dangerous ground, the better. The men moved with their shields overhead, hoping to deflect at least some of the missiles raining down upon them.

There was incessant clanking as arrows slammed into shields, armor, and flesh. Kyros grew sick as a thick cloud of arrows flew toward him. He slowed down and hunkered down behind his shield. He could hear as the sharp projectiles hit home. He heard groaning; looking up, he saw three men near him crumple over, dead. At each volley, a few more men would tumble to the ground. Kyros almost felt like a hunted animal, unable to fight back.

Nevertheless, he remembered Bagacos’ speech and charged on. After an eternity of running under constant bombardment, they reached the Pontic line. It was almost a relief to be out of danger.

A relief, at least, until Kyros saw the Pontic line.



The first line consisted of light troops; the Theureophoroi, Kyros recalled. Actually looking at the Pontic line for the first time, he could see the light troops in front, followed by the archers, and finally the line of pikes.

Kyros’ stomach turned sour; how was such an army to be countered? Suddenly Kyros heard an incredible thunder.

Looking behind him, he saw Galatian heavy cavalry charge forward. He was not alone after all! All the men seemed to take heart at this realization, and made ready to fight.

Then Kyros was slammed to the ground by an incredible force. First he thought he must be dead.

Killed already? The battle has barely begun…

Soon Kyros determined he must not be dead, so...

He cleared his head and tried to get up. He checked himself for injuries; not a single hole that he could see.

Then he realized: his shield was mangled from a Pontic javelin, launched by the Theureophoroi

“Come on, lad! You’re not hurt. They need us up there.”

Another soldier helped Kyros to his feet, and they ran into the fray.



Kyros charged in, swung his sword back, and swung with all his might into his target. The Pontic soldier flew to the ground. Kyros turned to the next man he saw and –

But suddenly he too tumbled to the ground. His first “kill” had pulled his legs out from under him. The Pontic’s sturdy linothorax had blunted Kyros’ blow; he had not even penetrated it. In a flash, Kyros remembered his training in Athens. Even a hardy slash with a sword would not cut through the leathery Greek armor.

Kyros wrestled the man to the ground. Although the linothorax had saved his life, he was probably suffering from broken ribs from the blow. Kyros soon gained the upper hand and finished the job.

Getting back to his knees, Kyros found his sword and delivered a crippling blow to another soldier’s knees. His legs bucked and he fell to the ground as he moaned with pain. Kyros winced as he heard the distinct *crack* of breaking bones.

Finally Kyros rose to his feet to find that the Theureophoroi were falling back. Chanting war cries, Galatian warriors ran amongst them and cut them down as they ran.

Kyros sank his blade into another victim as he ran by. Kyros was filled with euphoria at their early success in the battle, yet at the same time his stomach wrenched at the violence all around him.



The archers also fell back. Mithridates no doubt wanted to preserve them for as long as possible.

Kyros was thrilled. What had been an unbreakable Pontic line had crumbled! Seeing heavy Galatian troops close in behind him, he knew that he had accomplished his task.

Surging with confidence, Kyros charged into the fleeing enemy with all his might.

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With a swing of his mighty broadsword, the Pontic spearman sank to the ground. Artan had made his third kill of the day. His men were charged with confidence, and were making good headway.

Artan’s men had been ordered to move far around the Pontic left flank. A separate battle was now raging between Artan’s men and the Pontic reserve, which guarded the Pontic flank.



Bagacos had ordered his heaviest troops into the Pontic screen, which Mithridates had not anticipated. Artan could see that his men were poised to break the Pontic left, which would enable them to crash into the rear of the main line.

Artan spotted a well-uniformed man in the mass of Pontic troops, yelling orders to his men. Artan marked him and moved steadily towards him.

At first the Pontic troops were surprised to see a Galatian in their midst, and did not react. Artan rushed into the Pontic captain, tackling him to the ground. Artan then fingered his dagger and plunged it through the captain’s throat, pinning him to the ground.

Artan was an experienced warrior, and he knew what to do next. Rising quickly, he bellowed a deep war cry and whirled his sword through the air, catching one of the enemy on the forehead and smashing him to the ground.

His wild antics had exactly the intended effect. “He’s a madman! They’re all madmen!”

He could see that the Pontics were thoroughly disturbed at the wild Galatian warriors all around them. A few of them started to edge backward. As Artan’s men caught on and smashed into the Pontics with renewed vigor, the Pontic line broke. They had seen enough of these Galatian warriors, who seemed possessed of an evil spirit in battle.



“Forward, men! See how nimbly the cowards run! Now move toward the main enemy line!”

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Mithridates had to work quickly; his main line was hardly touched, but his men were under significant stress.

He began by pulling his Theurophoroi back. He had placed them in front in order to pitch a volley of javelins into the enemy as they charged in. This being accomplished, he pulled back along with the archers.

In the grove between his main body and his flanking force on the left, he could see that his cavalry were in a fierce fight with Galatian horsemen. However, with archery support, Mithridates had every confidence in success there.

Mithridates watched as his two frontal lines faded behind his row of phalangites. These men were his toughest troops, armed with a 20-foot pike, or sarissa. With the first five rows of men bracing their pikes outward, they presented an almost impenetrable hedge of spear points to the enemy. Mithridates was certain that the Galatians had not encountered this kind of fight before.

Waiting until the last possible moment, Mithridates ordered his men to level their sarissai. Galatians who had been chasing down fleeing Theurophoroi one moment ago found themselves skewered on this hedge of pikes.



A messenger rode in.

“Sir, the flanking force has been engaged. They are heavily outnumbered, and isolated as they are, I don’t think they can hold much longer.”

“By the gods!” Mithridates had not realized that his men were under attack, and the fighting nearby had obscured the flanking force from vision.

Now, rather than using them to encircle the enemy, he would have to keep his own flank from caving in under the pressure.

Riding up close, however, Mithridates could see that there was no time to rectify the situation. Collapse was inevitable.

However, looking ahead, Mithridates sent his remaining cavalry in to buy his men some time. He could at least prevent them from being run down and slaughtered.

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“Kill them all! They have broken!”

Artan urged his men forward in hopes of keeping the fleeing Pontic troops out of the battle permanently.

Suddenly he saw Pontic cavalry smash into a cluster of Galatian troops nearby.



The collision was audible even over the other sounds of battle. Artan watched furiously as men were literally hoisted off the ground by Pontic lances as others were trampled under the horses’ hooves.

“Hold up! Hold up!” Artan cried to his men. “Forget those men; stop the enemy horsemen! Who is with me?”

Artan sprinted into the mass of Pontic cavalry and jumped up behind one rider. Artan yanked his neck savagely and felt the body go limp as the cavalryman’s neck shattered. Pitching him off the horse, Artan took his sword and swung at the nearest Pontic soldier.



But Artan was not accustomed to mounted fighting. He lost his balance and slammed into the ground. He felt a paralyzing pain as the horse’s sharp hooves ground into his shoulder. As soon as he could, Artan rolled away and managed to get to his knees. He could hardly move his right arm at all; now he needed to find a way out.

He saw an opening. Running as quickly as he could, Artan moved away from the fight.

Stumbling away from the commotion of battle, Artan began to lose his bearing. His vision began to blur; soon he could see stars. Blackness closed in; he toppled to the ground with a jarring thud.

Blackness, more blackness…

[the man with no name]

Very good update Ariovistus but i have 1 question...

[CENTER]


Artan was part of a troop of short-swordsmen. They were light troops, trained to move quickly, pound the enemy suddenly, and withdraw as suddenly as they had come. They would probably be sent either to exploit the enemy flank, or to weaken the main Pontic line in preparation for the heavier infantry by hacking the enemy’s pikes apart.

He knew that Artan was in the army as well, although he didn’t know his position exactly. Artan was captain of the Nietos, some of the toughest troops in the army. This was truly a high honor, and well deserved.

Do you mean Kyros was part of a unit of shortswordsmen?

But Artan was not accustomed to mounted fighting. He lost his balance and slammed into the ground. He felt a paralyzing pain as the horse’s sharp hooves ground into his shoulder. As soon as he could, Artan rolled away and managed to get to his knees. He could hardly move his right arm at all; now he needed to find a way out.

He saw an opening. Running as quickly as he could, Artan moved away from the fight.

Stumbling away from the commotion of battle, Artan began to lose his bearing. His vision began to blur; soon he could see stars. Blackness closed in; he toppled to the ground with a jarring thud.

Blackness, more blackness…

I have a bad feeling about this :)

[Ariovistus Maximus]

Do you mean Kyros was part of a unit of shortswordsmen?

Arggh, yes that's a typo. Thanks.

I have a bad feeling about this :)

[the man with no name]

Arggh, yes that's a typo. Thanks.

Your welcome.

[Ariovistus Maximus]

I can do this during the weekend. Update soon.

[Ariovistus Maximus]

Chapter XXVIII - The Day's End

Bagacos watched intently as the battle unfolded before his eyes.

Although his heavy troops on the Pontic left had been slowed by incoming cavalry, his men were making steady progress toward the enemy rear.

“If the center would but hold for a few minutes more! The day may be ours.”

Then he spied movement in the forest behind the Pontic line.

“Look there! Messenger! Find out the nature of that disturbance there. By Teutatis! What is this monstrosity?”

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Kyros ducked just in time; a spear point snaked just over his head. With a grunt he severed the head from the shaft. Adroitly snatching the fallen spike, he rammed it into his third victim that day. He had expected combat to be different; this was no simple matter of jabbing people with swords and spears. He was constantly shoved this way and that in the mass of struggling men. Most of the time he found himself parrying one thrust after another as the enemy slashed at him and his comrades.

Kyros heard a terrific noise; a deep, rumbling sound. A clattering noise like he had never heard. Then he heard shouts above the din of battle.

“CHARIOTS! Those devils have chariots!”

The Galatians began running erratically, trying to escape the horrible spikes protruding from the great Pontic chariots. Kyros steeled himself; this was not time to take flight. He would stand his ground. In the back of his mind, he felt determined to show his brother that he was as much a man as any.

The noise came closer. Kyros looked over his shoulder just in time to see the blur of the chariot rush past him. He was sent flying through the air, and smashed into the ground.

For a moment he could not see; he tried to get up, but this was impossible as well. As his head began to clear, his breath was taken away by such pain as he had never felt before. One of the chariot spikes had crashed into his leg, cutting straight into the bone.

He gritted his teeth, trying to comprehend where he was and what had happened. His vision slowly melted away.

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Artan, meanwhile was back up and moving about. He was strong and well-built; he recovered his wits quickly. He sat up for a few moments, and got up. He found himself a shield, which was not hard to find amongst the dead.

He wished desperately to find his father’s sword, but there was no time. He grabbed up a hand axe and headed toward the fighting.

He found his troops still struggling on. As he ran toward them, he saw that they had successfully caught the Pontics from behind! However, he could also see droves of men fleeing from the center. What could have broken them up so quickly? For a moment, his mind flashed to Artan. He quickly put that aside, setting his mind on the task at hand.

A man lunged toward him. Artan’s quick eye and strong arm worked as quickly as ever. He caught the man’s thrust with his shield and sent the Pontic’s sword flying out of his hand with a downward blow of his axe.

Swinging his axe back up, he knocked the man cold with the blunt end of his axe head. He pushed the unconscious form aside with his shield and moved on.

As he moved toward the large cluster of fighting men, he came from behind and buried his axe into some poor fool’s back.

Another man came toward him; he wore the fittings of a captain. Another one, Artan thought to himself smugly.

But truly, this captain had not come to his rank through connections, but through hard work and sweat. He was a strong, skilled fighter. Artan’s eyes fixed upon him. The knave had his father’s sword! He was a dead man now, for sure.

Artan threw his axe quickly at him. It sliced into the captain’s shield, splintering it from top to bottom. The Pontic threw his shield aside.

The captain rushed toward Artan as he picked up a spear, closing the distance and leaving no room to maneuver. He beat on Artan with his sword, but Artan shoved him off and sent him whirling with a blow from his shield.

The captain rolled quickly as Artan plunged his spear just past his waist. He savagely kicked Artan’s leg, bringing him down to the ground. Now the two wrestled, each trying to get above the other.

Artan slammed his fist into the captain’s jaw, then drew his hunting knife. The captain acted quickly, trying to block Artan’s swipe. He succeeded only in directing the knife into his shoulder rather into his heart. The captain growled in pain.

With the captain now struggling to remove the knife from his shoulder, Artan grabbed a rock from the ground and was finally ready to end the fight. The captain looked up with an expression of hatred and disdain.

Artan smashed the stone into his enemy’s head. But it was not finished, he readied himself to strike again.

But before he could finish, he was bowled over by Mithridates’ cavalry, which hammered into the Galatian troops from behind. Artan was sent rolling several feet.

Getting up, he realized that he had failed to notice what was going on around him. They were surrounded by phalangites and horsemen now.

Artan cursed the day that the first horse had been brought onto the battlefield, and thought to himself that he would never ride one of the horrid creatures again.

Artan spotted his father’s sword. I may die, but at least I may die with my family’s sacred heritage in my own two hands. He crawled quickly to the sword and grasped it firmly in his hands.

But that was as far as he got. His hand was pinned as one of those devilish Pontics stomped it under foot.

Artan looked up, and realized that the fight was over. He was surrounded by Pontic troops, and now they apparently expected his surrender.

Artan hated the notion of surrender. Instead, he elected to bite his would-be captor’s leg.

Howling with pain and anger, the soldier flinched back. Artan suddenly beheld the soldier’s other foot, as it flew directly into his nose.

“BY THE GODS! These savages don’t know when they’re beaten! Stubborn swine!

The fight is over, you fool. Your countrymen run like whipped curs from the field. But you; you have some spirit. Perhaps you would amuse the King.

Tie him up, and by Nike don’t let his head near your legs!”

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Kyros awoke to see a face hovering above him; a Pontic face.

“This one’s no good. His leg is badly damaged. We’ll just have to…”

Kyros sat up, grimaced through the pain, and spat on the ground.

“Kill me and be cursed!” Kyros spoke in the Pontic tongue.

The soldiers looked at him in surprise.

“A Galatian who knows our language! He may be worthwhile after all. Call a litter here immediately.

You, my boy, are now property of Mithridates the Great.”

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Bagacos felt sick. The enemy cavalry had snatched victory from out of his very fingertips!

“Let no man falter; this narrow loss will be repaid SEVENFOLD! Form up a line here, to keep those devils from running down our fleeing troops. Once all those left alive have returned, we shall repair to the hills and make plans for the future.

Such a vast land, with such great men, cannot be undone in one day. They have not seen the last of Galatian steel!

[the man with no name]

He found his troops still struggling on. As he ran toward them, he saw that they had successfully caught the Pontics from behind! However, he could also see droves of men fleeing from the center. What could have broken them up so quickly? For a moment, his mind flashed to Artan. He quickly put that aside, setting his mind on the task at hand.

That was one **** of an update! Although I think you confused Kyros and Artan again. Also, when are you going to return to John and the ottomans? I have a feeling that John is somehow gonna be related to Kyros and Artan.

[Ariovistus Maximus]

Ah, thanks for the comment!

I may well have mixed them up again; I'll check it out.

And... yes a Crusader update is coming. Not sure if it will be next or next after this current one. Prolly next though, since my favorite reader wishes it.

[the man with no name]

Ah, thanks for the comment!

I may well have mixed them up again; I'll check it out.

And... yes a Crusader update is coming. Not sure if it will be next or next after this current one. Prolly next though, since my favorite reader wishes it.

Thank you o great AAR writer :)

[Ariovistus Maximus]

Lol you're welcome, lone commentor.

Update soon!

[Ariovistus Maximus]

Chapter XXIX - Collapse

This chapter is dedicated in remembrance of Armistice Day, 1918, and to all the men
whose sacrifice preserved the world we inherit today.

Sweeping aside a poorly-timed strike, I ran my opponent through and watched as the enemy slowly faded back through the gate.

This had become almost a daily exercise for me, having fought in the city for months. I pray daily for the deliverance of my immortal soul; that I might be forgiven for considering the loss of life a commonplace event.

But, to return to the events of that day, we had received and blunted yet another Turkish attack on our old city. But in our minds, each of us knew that this would be the city’s final hour of independence.

Bombardments were now a perpetual affair; what few structures remained in the city turned to dust. Yet the extraordinary walls of the once-great city still stood, so that we still could present some challenge to the enemy.

However, the gaps were many; too many for us to block. Finally, we had seen enemy troops marshalling outside the walls for most of the day. It was obvious that they did not intend to accept disappointment today.

Everything that they could conjure up in their cruel imaginations, they did. Some of our men were dragged out during an attack. Their remains were later displayed for us outside the city walls. The Turks consistently interrupted the night with the blast of cannon, and there had even been a feast held just close enough to our walls that we could watch.

Finally, the enemy chose to attack during the night. Surely this would be the end.

Soon, the attack was rejoined. I saw, to my surprise, well-armored and confident soldiers. Now there was no doubt; Sultan Mehmed was finished with throwing old men and peasants at us. We would feel the fury of a true Muslim warrior.

And feel it we did. With a trumpet’s blast and a cry of “Allahu Akbar!” the enemy crashed into us.

They were met by only half-hearted defense, and our first line quickly fell behind the secondary. The ferocity of these Turks – finally entering the city after months of waiting – was astonishing.

And not only their valor, but their accoutrement, was devastating. These men wore scale metal armor, and were equipped with a variety of quality weapons, such as swords, axes, and halberds. There men knew how to use them.

The pit in my stomach deepened as I saw lighter troops flood through the gate after we had abandoned it. Truly we had seen no attack of such determination up to that point.

My mind flashed to Godwin; he was still very weak, and had not been able to stand with me since his injury weeks before. Strange, I think in retrospect, that I did not think of my family, my home, or even my God, but I thought of my brother in arms.

For, truth, that was our relationship. My father and mother I hold precious in my heart, remembering how, as a youth, they would comfort me in my childish distress. And I remember my brothers, how they made me strong.

Yet my parents comfort never saw me through the shadow of death, nor did brothers ever save my life in the moment of my weakness. But these things and more have I seen of my comrades, and especially of John. Oh, that I might relate the joys and sorrows that so many men bore with me in those times. But I am not able.

But instead let me impart the words of our former King, Henry the Fifth, in the trying day of the battle at Agincourt.

“He that shall live this day, and see my old age will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors, and say, ‘Tomorrow is Saint Crispian.’

And Crispan Crispian shall ne’er go by, from this day to the ending of the world, but we and it shall be remembered. We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; for he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother.”

And truth, a brother Godwin was to me; we had a bond between us unknown to all who are strangers to war. Yet I did see it until that very moment when that bond was near-severed.

But again I must return to the times as they were. Indeed, I must have had a similar lapse of thought during the fighting, as I was nearly cloven in two by a halberd. All my senses left me for quite some time.

I awoke to complete quiet; a sort of peace seemed to prevail upon the city. As I slowly rose up from under the bodies around me, I struggled to gain hold of myself, and sat up against a pile of rubble nearby. Then I saw, upon one of the few remaining structures nearby, the Sultan’s standard fluttering proudly in the wind.

Old Constantinople was taken.

Suddenly I was jolted by a soft voice nearby. Looking in the direction from which I discerned this sound, I saw a Turkish soldier crouching on the ground nearby, saying a prayer. My instincts told me instantly that my dagger was still in its sheath on my waist.

Then it came to me; this man was saying a prayer for one of his fallen brethren. My fingers relaxed from the dagger’s hilt, and I knew that the fight was over. I had no quarrel with this man, nor had I any cause to irreverence his time of grief.

I realized then that I had faced not monsters, but other men not unlike myself. They were not wicked fiends seeking to devour the whole of mankind, but men supporting a cause, as I was. Surely, there were fiends among them, as there are among us all, but I knew that this man before me was not.

I wanted only to avoid his notice. Presently he rose to his feet. To my horror, he walked straight up to me, apparently having noticed me as soon as I had begun to move again.

Grabbing me by the arms, he brought me gently to my feet. He first eyed my dagger, and then his steady gaze fixed upon mine. His expression, rich with human goodness that I shall never forget, told me that to him, it was finished. The work was done, and the day was over. He felt no necessity to do me injury.

With that simple gesture, he walked away.

I shall always remember the lesson that unnamed man, whom never I spoke to or met, had taught me.

But I had one last task in Constantinople: I had to find Godwin, whether it be to pay my final respects, or to bring him with me in my escape from the city.

[Ariovistus Maximus]

Excuse the triple-post, but I'd like to mention, as you probably know, that tomorrow is Armistice day. This marks the ending of World War One.

Thus, I thought it would be appropriate, in my own small way, to remember that day in this chapter.

Also, for those purists among you, I do realize that Henry V never made that speech; Shakespeare wrote it. However, I thought it really set the tone for the message I want to convey, for obvious reasons.

Thanks!

[gamegeek2]

Yeniçeri!

[kekailoa]

Good work, man.

[Ariovistus Maximus]

Chapter XXX - Escape

With Godwin’s arm wrapped around my neck, I dragged him through the little-used alleyways, struggling to reach the Northwest side of the city.

I had indeed found Godwin alive, and though not well, at least in the same state as before. The Turks had overtaken the infirmary, and I could see evidence that many had been executed, save those who were of considerable monetary value. It was indeed a surprise to me that they had considered Godwin of such worth. Landowner though he was, the Turks were looking for men of particularly high distinction, and this Godwin was not.

The infirmary was not guarded. No doubt the enemy saw no cause for this, and the Sultan wished to give his men some rest and leisure after their exertion. Aye, and the opportunity to plunder was also in their minds, I am sure.

I knew that there was nothing left to be done here. God had smiled upon Godwin and I, sparing our lives. We would make our way home, but first I determined that we should proceed perhaps to Greece, Hungary, or Italy and recuperate therein. Thence we would make the long journey home, fraught with peril though it may be.

Greece, I reasoned, must be Mehmed’s next target, being part of the old Byzantine Empire, so it would be madness to tarry long there. The Hungarians I did not trust, being a shifty and opportunistic people. In Italy, on the other hand, we might receive sanctuary from the Papacy or other of the Italian states, and there abide at our leisure.

The journey to Italy would be longer, but not impossible. We would make to the coast of the Adriatic and proceed to Italy by boat. I felt sure that we could accomplish this in a timely fashion.

But first I had to escape Constantinople. I was, ironically, aided in these efforts by the fact that the walls of the city were punched through here and there by cannon shot, which would facilitate our escape quite conveniently.

Over the process of some hours, Godwin and I stumbled through the city, taking regular rests wherever we might hide safely in rubble or an abandoned house. At about the halfway-point of our journey, I took stock of my provisions. From the makeshift infirmary in which Godwin had been held, I had procured a very little food; enough to sustain us for a day or two if we took sparingly. I had also brought a sword for each of us, some cloth for Godwin’s wound, a long rope scavenged from the ruins, and for myself, the ancient manuscript. It was a comfort to me in these dire times.

On our final leg of the journey, we were behooved to cross a major thoroughfare to reach the wall, our point of escape. Giving a generous period of rest (as we were to cover this distance quickly), we set out. Godwin had little to no energy left in him after a day of strenuous travel, so I was left to bear the weight.

I was struck with a sense of horror that permeated my entire being, as I heard the thump of feet and the clanking of metal. I was in the middle of the wide street, and would no doubt be discovered. Filled with anguish and despair, I sank to my knees.

Even if I were to leave Godwin lying here and run, I thought, I would still be seen.

But there my weary mind hit on an idea! Leave Godwin lying! Quickly I set Godwin, who was now unconscious, face-down on the ground, scrambled over a few feet, and flopped on the dirt as well. This was the only possibility of survival.

As the body of men marched closer, I heard them stop. Never in my life did I struggle so fiercely to force myself not to look. I knew that if I made the slightest movement, the game would be up. But this was hardly the end of my terrors.

The next thing I knew, I heard chattering from the Turks, and suddenly felt myself being lifted over the ground! Then I felt a strange weightlessness as I was tossed into a heap of rubble. Presently I felt Godwin’s mass fly into the rubble as well.

Apparently the Turks wished to clean the dead bodies from the streets. My hasty scheme had prevailed! God, in His wisdom, continually saw fit to let us live.

After waiting for some period of time (how long I know not), I took Godwin up and stumbled to the wall. From there, it was five minutes’ hard labor to heave Godwin over what was left of the wall, although thankfully the section which we had chosen for exit was only a few feet high.

We lay outside the wall until dark for fear of sentries on the walls, which would spot us easily if we made our escape during the day. But when the sun fell, we made for a stand of trees a good distance from the city.

My feelings upon departure of my home for the last few years were an indescribable mix of joy, confusion, hope, and a distinct feeling of being lost.

I had nearly forgotten that a real world existed outside Constantinople, having endured so long with no relation to anything but that old city. I felt as a man must feel when he steps onto a new uncharted land, or as one who makes a voyage to the moon.

Finally I reconciled to myself: I was going home!

[Ariovistus Maximus]

OK, now I know that crawling out of a wall isn't the most exciting event, but you have to know these things for the rest of John's story to make any sense.

Now, you may have guessed, and if not I will tell you, that a journey from Constantinople to London is no small feat, and this part of the story offers an INCREDIBLE potential for all kinds of excitement on the way there.

So, I will do my best to make the trip quite an exciting one. You will see.

Actually, this is quite an interesting part of both stories, as each one has made a very important transition. John is no longer a doomed soldier in a beseiged city, and Kyros and Artan are no longer free men of Galatia!

You could almost say that this marks the end of Part I of our story.

Hope you enjoy, and I'll try to get up at least one more update before Wednesday.

Also, being that this is kind of a halfway point in the story, I'd like to thank all my readers and all you awesome guys who've kept me going with your comments! :thumbsup2:

[gamegeek2]

[Ariovistus Maximus]

Chapter XXXI - To Serve, or Not to Serve?

Kyros trembled as he knelt in the tent of King Mithridates himself. He could not get up, for the pain of his broken leg was simply too great.

The battle was completely over. The forces of Galatia had melted back into the countryside, and the Pontic army was camped nearby.

“My men tell me that you know our tongue,” Mithridates said to Kyros in Pontic. “Prove this, and you may spare your life by performing a service to my Kingdom.”

Kyros remained stubbornly silent, but pondered this option within.

“I have need of men with such skills,” Mithridates went on. “This is your opportunity to make a difference for your people. You may perform a great service to them, and to me, by playing a part in ending this conflict between our two nations.

None of my emissaries know the Galatian tongue. You shall be my diplomat to your countrymen.”

Mithridates spoke convincingly, but Kyros remained silent.

Finally, Mithridates’ patience expired.

“Bah! I have no use for a mute Galatian. Take this fool away.”

Mithridates watched with a glimmer in his eye as his guards took up Kyros and marched out of the tent. He would bring the young lad over yet.

As Kyros exited the tent, he could see a cluster of men surrounding a Galatian prisoner. He was about to be executed! Kyros felt he could not watch. But as he glanced over, he was petrified.

That soldier was Artan! Bending Artan down to the ground, the Pontic executioner’s blade shimmered in the sun as it rose above his head.

“WAIT! Stop! Let me speak with Mithridates!” Kyros yelled with all his might.

Mithridates stepped immediately outside his tent and motioned the executioner to pause. He smirked as he congratulated himself on his brilliant timing. He had staged the execution perfectly.

Kyros looked urgently over to Mithridates.

“I will do you this service, sire. But surely you see that a weak, crippled man such as myself needs protection. I wish for a man of my own people to accompany me. That man, there!”

Kyros pointed to Artan, who was quite shocked at this sudden turn of events.

Mithridates pretended to consider the offer for a moment, then motioned to Artan.

“Come here, Artan. Your brother needs help.”

The two brothers were amazed at this man. He seemed to know everything. Mithridates set his eyes on Kyros.

“You will serve me as diplomat to the Galatians. Your brother will be your bodyguard.

One… of your bodyguards,” Mithridates added. “These are my terms. What say you?”

“Kyros considered briefly, and nodded. “I will represent you for my people. Only spare Artan’s life.”

[Ariovistus Maximus]

Chapter XXXII - Collateral Damage

October the Twenty-Second, 1454

Though I wished heartily to continue the narrative of Kyros the Galatian, there was little time for such things at the present. Perhaps I could continue further once we reached the Aegean. At that time, however, we were but a day’s walk from Constantinople.

We had consumed our tiny reserve of food faster than I expected. It took us both a great deal of energy to get anywhere, what with Godwin’s injury and the fact that neither of us had fared well nutritionally or otherwise in the past year.

I expected the people to be friendly; no subject, or former subject, of the Byzantine Empire would see the onslaught of the Turks without no small measure of trepidation. It was, therefore, in this faith that I knocked on the first country home we stumbled across.

The door creaked open to reveal a shriveled old woman, who gasped at the sight of two mangled, weary-looking knights. She did, however, finally consent to our entry.

I was, in a way, surprised to see the effect of the siege upon the countryside. It had never occurred to me that they would also suffer. Logical a conclusion as it was, I had simply been too isolated in my own surroundings to notice.

But now that I was there in the flesh, the toll was immediately apparent. A small storage shack had been ransacked and burned to the ground. Freshly-dug dirt and a makeshift cross denoted the loss of a family member, perhaps a grandson whom the Turks had seen as potentially fit for service, and therefore executed.

Finally, I saw that the poor old woman had nothing to spare us; she had not enough to sustain herself. A large army must feed itself. The Turks had, no doubt, exhausted the land after years of foraging during the siege.

Nevertheless, it was good to sit, warm ourselves at the fire, and for at least a moment not to fear being spotted in the open.

We bid the old woman farewell, thanked her for her kindness, and were on our way again. I estimated that it could be weeks before we reached the coast. I did not, however, expect them to be eventful.

From thence we would make our way to Italy, and then to Rome. I knew not where we could go from there; only that England was our destination, and that we could collect ourselves in Rome before setting out again.


November the Thirtieth, 1454

Our journey, or at least the beginning of the journey, is nigh complete. Little of significance has occurred on the way, and I have not time to relate the details.

In the first week of the journey, we had a few near-meetings with Turkish troops, advanced scouts for the main body. Disaster was fortunately avoided, however, and we were soon out of their reach. The people we met on our way were quite obliging. They had first-hand experience with the horrors of such wars, and were very glad to be of assistance.

I do not expect such gracious reception on the road ahead, where the people grow soft, and take their advantages for granted. True, other regions experience war, but they are wars of the greedy and power-hungry, not wars of Righteousness.

Our travels ended in Croatia at the fortress of Ragusa. Godwin and I discussed the possibility of taking our respite there, and proceed to Rome after we had regained our strength. We were both in agreement, however, that Ragusa would be a primary target for the Turks, and neither of us wished to spend another day of our lives under siege.

In the city, we managed to sell off our armor and other accoutrements of war, save one sword and two Turkish daggers (which I had taken in Constantinople) for our protection. In exchange, we acquired some rough-but-suitable clothing, with some remaining funds. With these, we procured food and lodging.

At the docks in the suburbs of the fortress, we secured passage to Italy. We were to take passage on a small merchantman.

We will set sail within the week.

In the meantime, I shall once again be able to find comfort in the narrative of Galatia. Strange; I almost feel I know this Kyros and his brother, so often have I poured through their story.

I feel that there is such value and significance in the experiences of those who have gone on before us. Surely, if we can learn from our own experience, can we not benefit sevenfold from those of others? Aye, learn, and save ourselves the pain they endured to gain that experience, if we take it to heart.

[Ariovistus Maximus]

All right; things are progressing. Sorry about the mix-up. I actually forgot to post my chapter! We had family over for thanksgiving and all that. Ya know how it gets.

But now you get two in one.

So, I'd like to (again) thank all you great readers and commentors! Keeps me goin'.

Also, a teaser. You've probably noticed that my story is semi-historical. The siege of Constantinople really did happen in 1453, etc.

Well, the fact that the War of the Roses began in England in 1455, combined with the journal entries in the last chapter...

Then, I'd like to explain something that might be confusing.

First, I'm not exactly sure how long the siege of Constantinople lasted throughout the story, but it's supposed to be two years since John wrote it.

Second, I haven't been consistent so far, in putting dates in John's part of the story. That is of some significance because it's supposed to read like a journal. So, know that I will pay closer attention to that.

Writing is a constant learning experience, and certainly my creative faculties are growing as time passes.

Thanks guys!

[gamegeek2]

All right; things are progressing. Sorry about the mix-up. I actually forgot to post my chapter! We had family over for thanksgiving and all that. Ya know how it gets.

But now you get two in one.

So, I'd like to (again) thank all you great readers and commentors! Keeps me goin'.

Also, a teaser. You've probably noticed that my story is semi-historical. The siege of Constantinople really did happen in 1453, etc.

Well, the fact that the War of the Roses began in England in 1455, combined with the journal entries in the last chapter...

Then, I'd like to explain something that might be confusing.

First, I'm not exactly sure how long the siege of Constantinople lasted throughout the story, but it's supposed to be two years since John wrote it.

Second, I haven't been consistent so far, in putting dates in John's part of the story. That is of some significance because it's supposed to read like a journal. So, know that I will pay closer attention to that.

Writing is a constant learning experience, and certainly my creative faculties are growing as time passes.

Thanks guys!

Keep it up!

[Ariovistus Maximus]

Chapter XXXIII - Assimiliation

Kyros spent three weeks in recovery before he was able to move about, with the aid of a stout walking stick.

Mithridates determined, therefore, that it was time for his initiation.

“Now, my lad,” he droned, “you shall follow me. Do not worry for your brother, he is well attended in the barracks. My men tell me that he is a vigorous fighter, and shall be a proper bodyguard for you.

… under the supervision of a few guards of my own, that is.”

Kyros struggled to keep pace with Mithridates as he sauntered through the palace. The Pontic host had retired to their capital, Sinope, where they would refit and prepare over the winter for the following season’s campaign.

“I am taking you to the assembly of the Council. It is imperative that you understand our government, society, and customs, if you are to represent us effectively.

First, you must know that I am absolute ruler. However, I see no reason that I should not keep a close body of representatives from each province at hand. This is not a compassionate act; it is a simple necessity.

It would be counter-productive to do otherwise; the people must feel that they have a voice.”

Kyros was in awed as he followed Mithridates through the maze of elegant suites and corridors that was the palace. He had seen great buildings in Athens, but never had he seen a grand palace, much less had the opportunity to frequent the interior.

The Pontic King’s palace was very grand indeed. Shining marble pillars, decorated with scenes of the region’s history, supported the massive structure. A vast network of torches and candles lit the interior both by night and day.

The tall rooms made Kyros feel very small. Great statues and other sculptures of stone, marble, and even gold, dominated the passing scene. Finally, the grandeur of the imposing structure was rounded off by vast collections of exotic vegetation, which Kyros thought would rival the beauty of the Hanging Gardens itself.

In his detached wonderment, Kyros nearly collided with the King, who had paused, apparently to say something of significance.

“By Zeus! I hope you are not always so clumsy. Few things frustrate me greater than clumsy servants.

Although, of course, you are a cripple, I suppose,” Mithridates said flatly. “And, too, this is your first visit to my palace. Nevertheless, I wish my representatives to be capable men, and not given to carelessness.

I asked you a question. Were you not paying attention?”

Kyros began to stutter an apology.

“Bah, no matter,” mumbled Mithridates.

“Now, where did you learn to speak the tongue of my people?”

“In Athens, sire,” Kyros responded.

“Athens? You, a Galatian, trained in Athens? Well, stranger things have happened before, I suppose,” Mithridates spoke haughtily.

“Indeed, a most impressive claim. And how exactly did you partake of training in Athens?”

“My father sent me, sire.” Kyros suddenly realized that he was in fact speaking to the man who had probably ordered his father’s death. Time had flown by him so quickly, he had thought little of even the recent past.

Fighting back the anger welling up inside him, Kyros stopped for a moment, then continued. “My father sent me, sire. He was a captain of Antiochus. He settled in Galatia, but wished his eldest son to be raised a Greek.”

Mithridates stopped again, and looked intently at Kyros. “What was that? A captain of Antiochus, was he?”

Mithridates looked Kyros over carefully. Indeed, he bears a resemblance to Timosthenes. I had not realized.

Well, there is great potential in this situation. I have only to exploit it.

“You are the son of Timosthenes?”

Kyros looked surprised. He could no longer contain his anger.

“Ah, you are. The language not spoken with words tells me all. You feel tremendous hatred, yet you conceal it. Why?”

Kyros remained silent, and stared as hard as he could into the floor. He found himself unable to speak to the man who had killed his father.

“You have conviction, young Kyros. This is a good thing, so long as it is tempered with prudence.

No doubt he believes his father to be dead, having no knowledge of his capture.

Most interesting. Well, I shall have something to show you after the meeting.”

Kyros grimaced. Does the king now wish to show me my father’s body. Has he no shame?

Mithridates searched Kyros’ eyes. No, I shall want him to have his mind on the council, not on his hatred of me. Or, even better, I might set his mind upon gratitude.

“No, that will not do,” Mithridates huffed with a smirk. “You will see it now, in this very hour.

Come, young man, and your eyes will be opened.”