[EB II] Rich Land of Plenty - Baktrian AAR (updated daily)

[Beckitz]

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Screams of terror were the word of the day when Apollodotos and his Arachosian horsemen crashed into the ranks of the Syrian archers and ran wild among them, hacking and slashing and driving the whole formation into a panicked rout.

“Ha!” the general was heard to spit in triumph with each vicious sweep of the blade, severing limbs, splitting arteries, cracking skulls, “back to Syria with you worms!”



With much in the way of fanfare the personal cavalry of Tryphon, the nephew and commander of the Syrian king, rode upon the scene and brought the slaughter to a standstill. “What heroics from the son of Baktria!” Tryphon shot with dripping sarcasm, “to ride down poor peasants while the grown men clash in earnest!”

As if to spite his foe Apollodotos made one last swing at the spine of a fleeing Persian, felling him hard. “When I am writing the histories, Tryphon, I will be sure to remark upon the mettle of the Persians who left my sword arm too tired for the swinging.”

“You are a mad dog,” Tryphon shook his head in violent disgust. “Honor and fealty mean nothing to you, uncultured destroyer!”

Apollodotos pointed with his bloodied sword. “And I see that victory or defeat mean little to you, since you have abdicated the course of battle to me, you fool!”

Tryphon followed the direction of the blade in vexed confusion, and then irate horror. Apollodotos’ lieutenants had led the infantry around to flank the Syrian battle lines while the Seleucids sat inert, becoming encircled.



Tryphon cursed with his whole body and person. “Son of a-“

Apollodotos rallied his horsemen and rode off cackling. “Onward soldiers!” He returned to center where the infantry was fiercely locked in a swirling melee with the Syrian foe; the lines swished and flowed with the changing tide of combat, in some places buckling or in others pressing forward.



Tryphon was right at the front lines, riding up and down giving orders. Seeing the foe, Apollodotos rode to the other side of the line and led the cavalry in a charge that broke the morale of the Syrian infantry. The Baktrians started to break through and Tryphon was surrounded by hostile soldiers.


“Gah, unhand me!” he cried as they mobbed him, “guards!” but it was too late. Tryphon was pulled from his horse. The Baktrians peppered him with wounds, stabbing indiscriminately.



“The general!” lamented the Syrians, and like dust in the wind resistance collapsed. Those who could flee took off at a sprint; many others were trapped in the middle and fought to the death as they were hacked to pieces.





---

Back at camp, Apollodotos sat in counsel with his captains. They now were in control of everything up to the Tigris and Euphrates. The northern half of Babylon was theirs. It was time to consider the next move of the army.

“We must be wary of the Arabians,” cautioned one lieutenant. “They have already stormed into Babylon and they are in strength enough to cross and try for Seleukeia as well.”



Apollodotos sighed hard. “Are they truly a match for us?”

“Maybe not my lord,” was conceded. “Still, they will keep us tied down in Mesopotamia if they are not dealt with.”

“I have a mind to treat with them,” Apollodotos admitted. “Their emissaries approached me and offered to divide Mesopotamia in half. They will keep the lands below the rivers, and we will keep what is to the north.”

“You can make this deal on behalf of the realm?” Antialkidas was the one who said this – not coincidentally because he had been appointed as the Sinedrion supervisor of the army. The challenge imposed a tense silence upon the meeting.

Apollodotos frowned; still there was something about this young man that irked him. “I have been granted the plenipotentiary power of the Council,” he replied patiently. “I am commander of the whole army of the state; I cannot see why I could not make a simple deal…”

Antialkidas bowed his head without a word although he could not dodge the lingering stare of Apollodotos. Their private struggle would continue as the general cut a path through bureaucracy and Antialkidas passively countered with reports to the Council.

“The men are in high spirits. If the Arabian issue is dealt with we would be foolish not to try for Armenia.”

This was the counsel of a new addition to the inner circle of Apollodotos.



Vijayamitra Dyrtaios was the member of a new generation, the Indohellenoi. These offspring of marriages between settled Greek soldiers and their Indian brides were becoming an ever more prominent presence in the realm and formed the bulk of the infantry in the army of Kanishka; some of them, like Vijayamitra, had overcome their background to become successful in the Sinderion, or in this case, in the army. His bold behavior in battle at Sousa and during the chaos of the Nikeratos Disaster had earned the respect of the troops, the respect of Apollodotos, and the interest of the Sinedrion, which made him an overseer along with their man Antialkidas.

“I do so covet Armenia,” the general admitted with a thin smile; unlike the other of the two Sinedrion plants in his midst, he liked Vijayamitra, if only because he was a very useful lieutenant, “but I fear to leave the Syrians unconquered. They are like a many-headed hydra. Already they will be restoring their strength in Assyria and waiting to strike against us.”

“We have time,” Antialkidas counseled, “We need not take all of Armenia in a single blow. That land has been scoured by civil wars of late – let us appoint some pretender or another and prop him up in Armavir prosecute the war in our absence once we turn to Assyria.”

“We are thinking too far ahead,” Apollodotos dismissed his underling in this fashion; again the servant of the Sinedrion but bowed his shiny face. “For now the task of capturing Seleukeia remains before us. Let us reduce the city to our control and afterward see to establishing the proper garrisons and forts across Mesopotamia and settling those who are prepared for discharge.”

Indeed there were many veterans who had been with the army since Parthia, now expecting their customary grant of land and release from service. In time, they would begin to form thriving communities of Hellenes in Mesoptomaia and Elymais which would Hellenize the region and constitute a healthy source of soldiers for the distant campaigns of Apollodotos.

[Zeion]

Impressive victory against the Seleucids!

I'm intrigued about the confrontation in Mesopotamia with the Nabateans, and how the war in Armenia will go. Also it will be interesting if this new generation of indohellenic people in the higher society of Baktria will cause any problems...

Is there an overview map about your territory right now?

[Beckitz]

Impressive victory against the Seleucids!

I'm intrigued about the confrontation in Mesopotamia with the Nabateans, and how the war in Armenia will go. Also it will be interesting if this new generation of indohellenic people in the higher society of Baktria will cause any problems...

Is there an overview map about your territory right now?

I couldn't get one with FOW off unfortunately but I have a screennie of the minimap...



For story purposes I'm dividing Hayastan into Armenia and also an Assyrian Kingdom. Also note the little chink of grey where the Seleucids hold out in Assyria as well, which I'm considering a breakaway kingdom.

In the future I'll take better shots of the map and try to get some coverage of world affairs.

---

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Seleukeia was the crown jewel of the so-named empire. A resplendent city of marble, it was arguably the greatest achievement of Seleukos. Many miles away from the homelands of Hellas and Macedonia, this city stood as an outpost of Greece in Asia, civilizing the land around her. And in times past, wealth and power had flowed to this city as naturally as water flowing downhill. In its famous gardens and under the canopy of soaring temples, whispered conversations transacted unimaginable power and decisions that affected the lives of thousands of people, thousands of miles, and the whole continent of Asia.

But that city was no more. Fearing for their safety, under a regime that provably could not defend itself, merchants no longer routed their travels through Mesopotamia. Hearing the stories of vast thriving settlements in beautiful Baktria, enterprising Greeks and Makedonians no longer thought to build their homes in the waning country of Babylonia. The population, once teeming and crowded, had been reduced only to those who could not relocate because of age or poverty. Nobody tended to the temples. The public buildings and edifices faded under the predations of time and the environment. What was once an amazing city was now little more than a collection of dilapidated communities living in separate districts in the ruins.

Most of those who remained in the city of Seleukos were soldiers. Although worn, the walls of the city still stood and a garrison comprised of survivors from previous battles and the local levies was billeted within the settlement. They were prepared to defend the hollowed remains of the metropolis against Apollodotos to the very end.



Kallinikos was the magistrate of the city. He was the third person to hold the office in just the last few months alone; his predecessor had deserted and the one before that as well. The reason? The royal coffers had run dry. The Syrian king had turned to issuing debased coins with virtually no silver in them. Without proper payment, the chain of command had broken down as countless officials ceased to pay tribute to the King in Antiocheia or deserted the life of politics altogether. Kallinikos was the nephew of the King, which made him loyal for a different reason: because he had no choice.



Kallinikos sat much like I am siting now, dear reader, with his cheek resting in the palm of his hand and his shoulders curled and stooped. He was in war council with his captains, all of whom had similar levels of enthusiasm. At this point, only fear for their lives was keeping many of them in service to the defense of the city, including Kallinikos himself.

“The enemy has destroyed the wall here,” a lieutenant said as he pointed, “but this morning we put a palisade over the breach and I have ordered a new ditch to slow the attackers.”

Kallinikos sighed and adjusted the placement of his tired head. “How are the men?”

The sigh was parroted by the captain. “Weary my lord. The desolation of the city disturbs them.”

Kallinikos opened his mouth but before he could formulate a sentence the heavy mailed footsteps that had been clanking in the hallway blasted into the room in the form of a red-faced and panicked sentry, almost doubled over from exertion.

“My lord!” the guard gasped, “we have been betrayed! The men at the gatehouse have turned and they are opening the gates to the enemy – it is a plot to betray the city my lord!”

He had not even finished before the captain at Kallinikos’ right drew a dagger and stormed upon his commander; others in the room drew daggers and swords and made to slaughter their loyalist compatriots. Kallinikos caught the wrist of his would-be murderer and twisted the blade free; with his own hand the general drew a sharp knife and carved up beneath the ribcage of the aggressor, felling him. He turned to his left, ducked a sweeping strike from a sword and caught the second assailant in the throat.

“Sound the alarm!” the commander cried over the din of the mini battle unfolding in the room, “defend the city at all costs!”

Heavy bells began to ring over the city as soldiers in some places rushed to defend the walls, in others found themselves caught in bitter and confused skirmishes with their own brethren. Through the open gate, Baktrian soldiers began to pour inside the city and the situation became hopelessly chaotic, descending into an all-around melee.




Kallinikos raced into the central square, which they had converted into a mustering field; a modestly-sized company of defenders were gathered with anxious faces and nervous dispositions. “Form up!” he cried, on the verge of a panic, “find the traitors and gut them for their insolence!”

“My lord!” a terrified cry alerted the general gathering to the presence of the Baktrian attackers in the suburb below.

“Drive them back!” Kallinikos changed tacks without a pause, “charge with me soldiers!”

The Seleukids charged down the hill and toward the suburb; Kallinikos was desperate to push the enemy out of the city – how could the situation have turned so sour so quickly. As they ran, Baktrian soldiers were flooding into adjacent areas of the settlement as well but Kallinikos had no knowledge of this, and could have done nothing useful anyway if he had.

But soon enough he knew. The Seleukids were surrounded. In a cramped pocket, unable to brandish their weapons effectively, they were pressed together like sardines and they began to become slaughtered little by little.

Kallinikos called out commands until the very end, never admitting defeat or accepting the loss of the city. He took several blows to the body and endured them all, until a final strike in the leg severed an artery and brought him toppling to the ground, where he hacked – weakly – at the knees, ankles, and shins of Baktrians and traitors alike until the embrace of death stole the strength from his arm and then stole his life.



Later Apollodotos walked through the site of the massacre. He was quietly repulsed by the massive scope of the death – the sheer depravity of it all, seeing men cut down with no hope of defending themselves or surrendering. He noticed a corpse with an especially fine breastplate.

“What man was this?”

Antialikdas shrugged airily. “I know not my lord.”

“Humph,” Apollodotos said ambivalently, and he turned the body over with his foot.

[waveman]

I like the sad disparity between Kallinikos' heroic struggle and the anonymity of his body

[Ostlich]

First chapter is the stuff of published books.

[Beckitz]

I like the sad disparity between Kallinikos' heroic struggle and the anonymity of his body

For a similar episode consult the Fall of Constantinople

First chapter is the stuff of published books.

Oh stop it

---

Poseidon on the Indus: The Incredible Story of the Diodotoi and the Birth of Indohellas


Hippostratus Hermeteos is a Master Scholar of History at the Academy of Epakrates in Baktra. He has published numerous books and treatises on the Diodotid Dynasty and the rise of the Pan-Hellenon in Asia, and is considered to be the extent master in these fields. The following is an excerpt from his latest book.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Economic Penetration

“…like all cultural change, Hellas first came to the Indus through trade. Even as early as 30 BR (~240 BCE), a decade before the conquest of Diodotos, a wave of Hellenic-made goods began to penetrate the fertile river valley. These mass-produced crafts were popular because of their durability and because the plain, undecorated surface was excellent for painting. The discovery of Sinedrion-made pottery, combs, and rings depicting mythological Hindu and Vedic scenes marks the “first wave” of Hellenic cultural dissemination in the Indus.

By the late 3^rd Century BCE, the Sinderion produced two distinct kinds of crafts. The first class of items was the original ‘pottery vine’ style of simplistic ceramics and metals formed around an interior skeleton of animal bone or tungsten wire. These were usually distributed to licensed wholesalers who decorated the items on their own and sold them for a profit. Eventually, a second class of items emerged that were sold directly to customers and made of a much higher quality. The secret was something called “glass iron”, a refined metal that had a brilliant reflective quality and was superbly smooth. Although they took a long time to make, finished products of glass iron were considered exceptionally beautiful and they became a coveted status symbol among elites in Baktria as well as among the Indoi.

The infiltration of the Sinedrion mercantile empire was greatly accelerated after the conquest of Diodotos. Under pressure from the Council, the King unleashed a severe campaign beginning in 230 BCE to eliminate rival merchants and businesses by cutthroat economic practices, including a price war that flooded the market with cheap Sinedrion products at prices the native merchants could not match. A freeze was placed on new licenses for distributors and thereafter they were released only on a very limited basis by auction. The Sinedrion established such a presence on the Indus River that they were able to implement a riverine toll in 228 BCE.



One of the counter-flows of culture from the Indus to the Baktrians was in weaponry and armor. After the conquest of the North Indus plain, Diodotos sponsored a Sinedrion expedition to learn the secrets of the Indian longbow, which had devastated the Baktrian phalanx and its closely-massed formations. Longbowmen soon became a feature in Diodotid armies, first under the instruction of Indian captains, and later as a special corps of Hellenic and Indohellene soldiers known as the Indotoxotai.



The mace, too, fascinated the Greek invaders and was a subject of direct interest. The relatively heavy armor of the Baktrian foot soldiers proved useless and even counter-intuitive against the bludgeoning power of the mace. Diodotos experimented for some time during the war in the South Indus and later in Parthia using maces in several capacities, most interestingly as a bludgeon mounted on the back of a gauntlet for use in punching and backhanded swinging.



Indoisation of Hellenic Religious Practice

As was custom, in conquered areas of the Indus Diodotos permanently settled veterans of his army in towns, villages, and in quarters directly inside the cities. Among the settlers, and in the aristocracy back in Baktria as well, there was a craze for certain elements of Indian culture. Because of the unprecedented access, Indian spices and seasonings became must-have luxury items in cooking, and tea became popular. It was fashionable to copy Indian dress and wear brightly colored fabrics of cerulean and indigo. In manuscripts and codices, Greek scholars recorded Vedic and Hindu legends in Greek illustrative style.

The most profound changes for both cultures occurred in the realm of religion, spirituality, and philosophy. For the Hellenes, religion and philosophy – previously separate areas of thought – were blended together by the introduction of Indian concepts, and became a single coherent system of knowledge. For Indian spirituality, the infiltration of the Greek practices revived many of the ancient Vedic traditions and brought back the use of public ritual and sacrificial rite.

Greek religion became replete with idolatry. The Indian practice of crafting idols and worshipfully maintaining them was introduced in a series of new Hellenic temples, the most magnificent of which was the enormous Temple of Dionysus at Taxashila, where a massive bronze idol of the aforementioned god was washed on a daily basis and even had an enormous robe which was cleaned and straightened.



The Greeks also took quickly to the practice of mantras. They were believed to have magical and protective powers which made them popular among soldiers. There was a special profession of “mantra-writers” where the auteurs composed beautiful lyric poems of up to 100 lines for the purposes of recitation. The Hellenes created their own class of mantra, the “epic mantra”, which was usually a poetic remembrance of mythological events as long as 1000 lines or more. It became a custom to paint short mantras or excerpts of mantras on shields or armor as protection.

Paradoxically, religious observation took on a particularistic and cultist modality even as the importance of the gods themselves in the cosmological framework declined. The gods were increasingly seen as animated forces existing within a larger duality of good vs evil, creation vs destruction, etc. Some famous myths, like the stories of Herakles, were reinterpreted as parables of man’s quest for justice and truth against the forces of evil. Figures previously maligned by the gods, such as Prometheus, were reframed as heroic figures. None of the gods were seen as overtly good or evil in themselves, but merely forces that acted upon mortal lives.

By 190 BCE, on the eve of the death of Diodotos, Greek and Vedic Indian metaphysical thought were coalescing into a coherent canon. There were two prominent branches of metaphysical philosophy, one asserting that pleasure was the pure essence of truth and the divine, and the other asserting that a kind of complete peace, or inner harmony, was the divine essence. The fissure between them was defined by divergent beliefs about the nature and capability of man; the former school saw man as an extension of the divine and a part of it, whereas the latter school of thought saw man as distinct from and subservient to the flow of divine energy. The former branch was the Epalpnoi, or “happy ones”, whereas the latter were the Apotheoi, the “disciples” or “serious ones”.



The Epalpnoi emerged out of the cult of Dionysus, which became closely intertwined with the festival culture of Indian religion and the practice of feasts and celebrations like Diwali. Epalpnists believed that the Supreme Being had come into existence by a spontaneous burst of energy, which was the same as joy or happiness. Experiencing joy and bliss inside oneself was awakening the energies of the divine. The Apotheoi descended from Indian Vedic ascetic practices and Buddhism from deeper inside Northern India, mixed with Greek stoicism. Apotheism was a more intellectual branch of thought based on the observation of nature and professed emulating the balance of the natural world and giving up distractions.

The Caste War of the 220s and the Rise of the Warrior-Monks

The caste system was formally banned by Diodotos upon his conquest of the Indus, because he believed it was an obstacle to consolidating control over the realm. But the social aspect of the caste system was still observed and many Greek veterans found their way into warrior caste. It was not until a Hellenic priest was lynched and murdered for violating a caste taboo that Diodotos cracked down hard against the caste system; he abolished the system a second time in 229 BCE and issued an “Ultimate Edict” in 221 absolving priests and religious figures from the limits of their caste and placing them under royal protection.

Economic policies designed to ruin indigenous merchants, along with insensitivity to certain native customs, sparked a rebellion of the Indian warrior and noble castes that lasted from 229 to 212 BCE. The rebellion transcended ethnic and racial lines as Greek ‘members’ of the warriors and the nobility joined in the rebellion in significant numbers. Although the rebellious castes initially were very successful, the tide turned after the Edict of 221 promised protection and privileged status to the religious castes. This won the support of the many warrior cults – collections of disciples who studied martial arts and warfare, but were technically members of the lowly religious caste. With his army bolstered by these disparate warrior monks, Diodotos decisively crushed the rebellious army in 212.

In the wake of his victory, the caste system was permanently abolished. The triumphal achievement manifested in a declaration that only members of the monastic orders would be allowed to keep weapons in their home or carry them in public. In the following years, Diodotos founded countless new monastic schools – many comprised of the discharged loyalist soldiers – and in the process accelerated the birth of the Apotheist branch of life.

By the time of Diodotos’ death, only some vestigial social taboos remained of the caste system. The Caste War transformed the religious classes into a new framework much more closely resembling Greek values; in turn, the spread of the new life philosophies of Epalpnism and Apotheism eroded the relevance of the caste system in daily life and contemplation. The noble caste and the warrior caste were both annihilated, the former not reconstituted and the latter replaced by the warrior-monk system.

The warrior-monks were the mighty base of support from which Diodotos held his kingdom. During his life he exercised complete authority over them, but after his death they began to take on political lives of their own. On the eve of the Second Arabian War, there were really three loci of political power in the whole realm: the Sinedrion, the warrior-monks, and the Army of Kanishka….”

[McScottish]

Indo-Hellenic warrior-monks?! Mon dieu, this just gets better and better. I'm looking forward to how this progresses, and if these three loci can stop themselves from killing one another/engaging in power-plays.

[Beckitz]

Indo-Hellenic warrior-monks?! Mon dieu, this just gets better and better. I'm looking forward to how this progresses, and if these three loci can stop themselves from killing one another/engaging in power-plays.

Thanks McScottish! Let us see if inertia can overcome friction, or if the thread of my story thus far will run out!

---

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Clunk! The ornate goblet, all embossed with jewels and rubies, loudly fell to the floor like a common cup, bouncing theatrically all the way down the steps. The King of Armenia nursed a poorly-concealed rage, fuming as he rested his face on his fist and his elbow on the arm of his throne. “More wine,” he growled, as if his patience for this task was already tested.

A servant boy ran out from the shadows of the room; he fell to his knees and presented an equally exquisite chalice above his downturned head with both hands; crimson liquid sloshed inside the vessel and splashed over the lips of the cup. “Forgive me for dropping your cup my lord.”

The King snatched the goblet harshly and with his foot he kicked the boy down the stairs. He took a heavy draught, drenching his beard, and afterward he took up a kind of rest. He looked into the murky brew and stared at his own reflection. Harsh eyes mounted above a brilliantly flowing beard and within a magnificent weave of thick black hair stared back at him. His gaze traced to the shimmering shade of the diadem upon his head. “Seleukos…”

Again the cup was spiked to the ground; the King was on his feet with a snarl and a pair of clenched fists. Once more the servant child scurried over to the scene of the disaster but he was shooed away. “Get out vermin – out!!”

The boy hastened from the room. A similar luxury did not belong to the various magistrates and nobility of the court, who stood still as statues and with similar complexions, backs against the wall. The King turned his much-dreaded attentions to them.

“What is the first duty of a King!?” he seethed with raised shoulders. It was obvious he would answer his own question. “To protect his subjects!”

A dozen heads nodded energetically.

“Seleukos…” the King rumbled once more. “The so-called King of Syria…how I hate him!” He took the crown from off the top of his head, shaking it at the ghastly nobles as if he meant to throttle it. “This cheap tiara is not the worth the dust rotting inside the tomb of the fat Greek Aleksindar! Better him to have given my father a noose, that he should have hung himself and kept me from seeing this time of shame!” With a final sneer the King hawked the crown against the wall.

“My lord…” The aged and wizened vizier was a calm man, and also very brave to have spoken at all. “The way of things is not so bad. Apollodotos is a housecat playing at a tiger. He has but one army at his command-“

The King gesticulated wildly. “With that one army he has conquered the half of Asia!”

The vizier raised his palms for peace. “A not so impressive feat, to steal Asia from a dead man-“

“I am a limb of that dead man, Pharnavaz.”

“You are the only limb with any life, my lord.”

“This army of Apollodotos is the finest soldiers in the world,” a magistrate added from beside the safety of a column. Evidently he had decided it better to support the King in his pessimism than cross him in optimism. “They beat the Indians, the Parthians, and the Syrians all.”

The vizier gave his colleague a rueful look. “It is but a single army-“

“You keep saying this,” the King sighed, “I do not even know what you mean!”

The vizier simmered, albeit with a kind of good humor he had cultivated from necessity long ago. He motioned to his lord. “Put one hand behind your back.”

This was done, if with some flamboyant skepticism and the opportunistic cackles of the onlookers.

“Now catch these.” The vizier took two of the rings off his hand and threw them at the King with legitimate force. He did not catch either of them and they pelted him in the face and shoulder.

“Pharnavaz!!” the King howled.

“When you have but one hand you cannot catch the flight of two objects,” the vizier asserted, perhaps having vented a tiny amount of his doubtlessly massive frustration. “So too Apollodotos, with one army, cannot be everywhere to answer many attacks. This is how we can beat him.”

He had the attention of the room now. He used it. “Apollodotos is in Mesopotamia, guarding against the Arabians and making arrangements for his rule. While he is distracted we should use the opportunity to strike against the Greeks where they are not prepared.”

The King sighed, dusting himself. “What do you propose?”

“The old road of your forefathers, my King, runs through Elymais and the city of Sousa. Apollodotos needs this artery to supply himself and maintain communications with his overlords in Baktra. While he is away, we should strike into Elymais and capture Sousa, cutting him off from home.”

“It is a bold plan,” the King weighed, drawing a sour look from his vizier, “but I have heard none better. Let us make the preparations. You, Pharnavaz,” he said of the old man, "shall take command of my highland troops. This is your scheme, old man," he smiled, finally breaking the lingering tension of the room, "I am sure you would prefer to see it through yourself."

The vizier cracked a grin and bowed his covered head. "Of course my King. I will deliver you the taste of victory."

The King nodded stiffly; he was recovering his regal air after the 'embaressment'. "Good, go at once."

[Lugotorix]

Very impressive AAR style, and a good type choice. Just give me time to read this in full.

[Beckitz]

Very impressive AAR style, and a good type choice. Just give me time to read this in full.

Take your sweet, sweet time

---

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

The sun was blazing hot, and it beat down upon the splendid army of Pharnavaz the Vizier in a scorching ray of heat, turning the whole world dry as a bone, and warping the very air around them like the ripples of the desert, but the soldiers did not care. Despite heavy suits of chain mail, towering bronze helms, thick plates upon the horses, thundering boots of iron, and whatever else, they carried out the march in high spirits, passing water skins freely between each other, shaking droplets of sweat from their matted hair like dogs, and singing masculine songs of battle and the long march in cheery tune.

“What do I want when I get back home?” the captain sang in his hoarse but affecting voice.

Of course, they answered in chaotic chorus, “I want a girl when I get back home!”



Many of them already had ‘girls’ back home in the form of wives they had been paired with by the matriarchs of their local village. More likely they were referring to the captives they expected to take by force from Sousa and the surrounding countryside. From a military standpoint, the purpose of attacking Sousa was not to annex the Persian country – it was a strategic strike designed to cut off Apollodotos from his lines of supply. If they spent any time in the city of Sousa at all, it would probably be to loot it and cause destruction. There was no doubt that a column of chattel would be following the army on its way home.

Maybe. Or maybe it would prove too cumbersome…

“The first priority is to secure the roads,” the Vizier was addressing his council of captains as they marched along. “The Greeks have taken over the old guardhouses on the highway into the city. Some will need to ride ahead and deal with them if we are to have a clean operation.” He turned to the man on his left, “I will leave this to you of course.” The man bowed as the Vizier continued, “now then…”

Their march carried them through a small village. This was on the borderlands between Hayastan and Elymais, in a region ambiguously controlled by either polity. The villagers probably only knew of the war, and even of the conquest of Apollodotos, through passing rumor and word of mouth. For the first time they were seeing armored soldiers up close, and they gawked in their vulgar rustic way, looking up from their fields and labors to stare stone-faced at men who had the power to end their lives or else make them very miserable at a whim.

The soldiers gazed back with bemused expressions. Some pointed and made jests about the pauperish clothing, the wrinkled skin from the predations of the sun, or the limbs crooked and misshapen from so much hard labor. Others made catcalls, “hail leather-face”, “salutations old fart”, or something similar. The peasants did not get angry and they did not speak back. They merely stared in their dumb way.



In the shadow of his small little mudbrick house, a farmer grabbed his young son by the shoulder and led him inside. “Kallistos,” he began, very seriously, as he unclasped a saddle from the wall of his home, “take Hoplos and ride into the city.” He knelt down and matched eyes with his boy. “Tell the guards the Armenians are coming to lay siege. They will know what to do.”

Kallistos the young boy swallowed hard. “Yes father.”

The father patted him on the rear. “Go! Out the back, and be careful!”

The child slipped out the back porch of the home. Hoplos, his horse, whinnied as his young master arrived but the boy fiercely gave the beast a ‘shush!’. “Hoplos you will get me caught already!” he whispered to the stallion as he affixed the saddle. Kallistos swung himself into the seat; he craned his neck into the horse’s ear. “Ride quickly and don’t stop, okay?”

The horse did not answer. Kallistos gave it a kick. “Kyah!” And he went off, racing down the hill, thereafter following the base of the hills in secret, all the way to the road and on to the city of Sousa.

---

“Over or under?”

The recipient of this speech content, the other of the two sentries at the gatehouse in Sousa, did not respond at all. His face was resting in his palm as he looked out at the empty road and the empty fields and the empty hill and the complete lack of anything at all anywhere.

“Over or under!?”

The sentry was shook from his reprieve; he shot an annoyed expression at his partner. “What are you saying!?”

The other of the two guards indicated fiercely to the dice clutched in his fist. “Over or under fifteen, Leukos!?”

Leukos, scarcely believing he had been disturbed from his daydreams for this, at once returned to his staring exercise, but not without muttering “over…”

His partner splayed the dice onto the table. “Sixteen,” he glumly reported, “you win Leukos.”

Leukos sighed while he tried to find a more comfortable arrangement of his neck, head, and hand. “Thank the gods…”

Leukos stared at all the nothing on the road. There was no traffic from East to West because of the wars – the only people on the roads were settlers, refugees, and merchants coming from West and heading for the riches of Baktria and the Indus. That was, until Leukos spotted a cloud of dust building in the distance.

He nudged his partner, still quite relaxed. “What is that Gorates?”

Gorates leaned forward in his seat for the purpose of squinting. “I know not…some swift rider…”

The rider came closer and closer. His extreme pace was disturbing. Gorates took his spear and shield and he stepped out of the sentry box. “Oy!” he cried to the furiously approaching horse, “stop right there citizen!”

The rider did not stop. Leukos stepped out in time to see Gorates flinch, putting his shield in front of his face and the point of his spear out as a ward. But Leukos had the luxury of seeing right away that this was no threat – indeed it was a young boy, his face red and burnt from the sun.

“Sirs, I…ah!”

The horse abruptly moaned and gave out; it flopped to its side and the rider was pitched to the ground while his legs were crushed beneath. The boy screeched in pain and the guards, bewildered, made a delayed rush to liberate the young horseman from the trap.

“What the devil is going on!?”

The boy hissed in pain. “I’m supposed to tell you…an army is coming to Sousa! The Armenians are invading!”

Leukos took up a skeptical squint; he shared his furrowed brow with his companion. “What kind of foolishness is this?” he asked of the boy.

“I’m serious!” the child massaged his legs, “they crossed into Elymais yesterday, I saw them in my village! The army is huge and there’s men on horseback, men with armor, men with bows and arrows…”

Gorates now made an inquiry of Leukos. “If this is true the city will not withstand them…”

“We can collect the garrisons from Charax and the valley-“

“It will be something but not enough.” Gorates stooped and took the boy in his arms; Kallistos hissed in pain but did not cry out. The sentry faced his partner. “We have to warn the General. He will need to hear this at once.”

Leukos nodded. “I will find a runner.”

Gorates nodded back. “Come,” he said of the wounded warrior in his arms, “let us see if you are faring as well as you pretend,” and he followed Leukos into the city.

---

Word reached Apollodotos as the sun was setting. Now it was night and a dark night indeed. By the light of torches and candles, the General and his council engaged in a grave war council.

Apollodotos was seething at himself internally. He had not at all expected the King of Armenia would be crafty enough to take the fight to him. Now he was trapped in a terrible position.

Sousa was likely going to fall. It had already been a journey of six days for the runner to reach the army with his dire news. That meant the Armenians had arrived five and a half-day ago. The city was not at all prepared for a siege and did not even have a garrison – only tax collectors on the roads. If all the arms, armor, and soldiers were gathered from the area, and collected within the walls, still Sousa would likely succumb to the first assault.

Apollodotos would have to go north to save the city. But he couldn’t leave Seleukeia – the second he did, the Arabians would likely invade and try to conquer the rest of Mesopotamia out from under his nose.

“We should split the army my lord.” This was Antialkidas, who naturally drew the agreeable nod of Vijayamitra seated next to him. “We can leave a force behind in Mesopotamia to dissuade the Nabateans while the main body of soldiers goes north to Elymais.”

Apollodotos snorted. “And I suppose you would intend yourself to command the other half of the army Antialikdas…”

Antialkidas bowed his bald head. “I am your second-in-command my lord-“

“As appointed by the Sinedrion.” Apollodotos sneered this word.

“The Sinedrion is the ruler of the realm in the absence of the son of Diodotos.” Antialkidas was patient, but he did not waver.

Apollodotos would have liked to tell Antialkidas some of what he thought about the regency and the much-vaunted waiting for the ‘son of Diodotos’. But he knew it was a waste of time. The reality was what it was. Apollodotos had to trust Antialkidas, even though he knew the young man was always keeping an eye on opportunities for power or glory. Their fates were too much intertwined to be rent apart by suspicion, or ambition.


“Very well,” Apollodotos conceded, in a tone that did not sound much like a concession at all. “I will lead the main body of the army to Sousa and beat back the Armenians. I will leave you here,” he frowned at his second-in-command, “to hold Seleukeia against the Arabians.”



Antialkidas bowed his head. “An excellent plan, my lord.”

“It is the best of a bevy of terrible, horrible plans,” Apollodotos corrected him, but his sigh betrayed his defeat. “Let us hope it works.”

With only a portion of the army, neither Apollodotos nor Antialkidas was in the best possible condition. Both would be in serious danger against their respective foes. But Apollodotos was the best general in Baktria. And Antialkidas…he had some ideas of his own.

[Beckitz]

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

It was an impressive sight, even if you were an uncultured Greek. The fields outside the walls of Sousa, normally nothing more than unadorned trampled grass grazed too-heavily, were resplendent with the fluttering standards of Hayastan. Seemingly overnight, the besiegers had put up an imposing fortification of their own; a wooden palisade encircled the imperiled city, so sophisticated as to have guard towers and even gates, although they were more for the benefit of those who would pass inside and visit hell upon the populace than for any hopeful scenario of clemency to the defenders.

The Armenians knew something the Greeks did not: the siege would not last long. Although they gave the appearance of preparing for a long blockade, the Hayastan were in secret constructing wooden ramps and towers covered with wet hide to storm over the walls and attack. They were motivated by two things of import: first, that the strength of the defenders inside the walls was meagre, despite the many ruses they had attempted to inflate their numbers; second, the Armenians knew Apollodotos would soon be on his way to try and lift the siege. When he arrived, it was imperative that the Hayastan hold the walls for themselves, to attain the crucial edge they would need to best the general and his legendary army. The weak wooden rampart they had erected would not serve a similar function.

The plain around the city of Sousa is small. Not more than half a mile from the base of the city walls, there is a large hill that crests as high as two-hundred meters. Behind the cover of this mound, the slaves of the Armenians worked at feverish pace. They joined planks together with bands of hot iron, poured thick clods of earth in huge piles and patted them down until they were firm as stone. Blacksmiths hammered away at molten metals that would become bolts, bands, rivets, clasps, and whatever else the engines of war would need to remain together. Water from the nearby stream ran in a long channel down to the trough where artisans conjured massive plumes of steam from the constant baptizing of wicked contraptions of iron and metal.

All of this Pharnavaz looked upon with no expression. He had not reached old age in this wicked time without some stockpile of wisdom beneath his cinnamon taglemust. He knew that if he was to return to the King in triumph, every element of the army – from the lowliest worker, to the highest officer – would have to not only perform their role with competency, but with brilliant skill. So to him, the haste and rapid industry of the siege artisans was not impressive and it did not warm his heart. To him, it was maybe just enough.

Hands behind his back, Pharnavaz walked further down the encampment to where the finished products were assembled. The towers and ramps sat motionless and unattended like silent edifices erected for some strange purpose.

He looked at them for a time. Perhaps he was remembering the stories his grandfather used to tell of the many sieges of Aleksindar. An aide of the camp approached warily. “What are you thinking my lord?”

Pharnavaz blinked several times without speaking. When he responded, he did not turn his head. “I am thinking that tomorrow we will take Sousa,” he turned just enough to give the soldier a sidelong glance, “and the day after that, we will decorate her with corpses.”

The soldier chuckled uneasily. “The corpses of the Greek army, my lord!”

Pharnavaz nodded dryly. He lost interest in the servant and returned to the machines. “Perhaps.”

---

Tomorrow came. In the morning, the defenders were awoken by the horrible sound of the trumpets. The Armenians played them like dying animals, blasting rancid notes that seemed to travel across the whole city in perfect clarity. They sounded like notes of death and dying.

The soldiers raced to the walls. Gorates emerged on the rampart to find Leukos already there, squinting because of the light of the rising sun. With shielded brow, he nodded. “It would seem that Hephaestus has come for us.”

Gorates saw the siege engines, and understood the grim joke. He ought to have been despaired; it was hopeless. There were probably twenty-thousand Armenians or more and perhaps a few hundred defenders. The whole thing was a formality. It was only because of the stubborn pride of the garrison that the battle was happening at all. But the delay was important. It would buy Apollodotos time – time enough maybe to reach Sousa before the Hayastan had made themselves at home.

In times like these, it was funny how inevitable fates made men careless, rather than filling them with cares.

Gorates had a nod of his own. “Perhaps Hephaestus will knock a tower or two and take some goat-ers off our hands.”

The trumpets switched their tunes, from the sound of dying beasts to a schizophrenic melody that run up and down seemingly without concern for the listener, or sometimes crisscrossed even as if any man had four ears to listen with. At this, the attackers came forward in a wave.

Leukos drew a throwing spear from the vase on the ground and nudged his friend. “Over or under?”

Gorates snorted; but he was nervous. “Dead on.”

Leukos wound up and fired the projectile straight down the line of his shoulder. It whistled all the way into the kneecap of an unsuspecting savage.

“You called it,” he quipped, although he did not feel quite the satisfaction he had thought he might.

Soon the savages were close enough to throw spears and arrows of their own, ending the tranquil moment of humor and happiness before the descent of the hellstorm. The two sentries ducked behind the crenellations and gave each other meaningful looks.

“I think this is really the end Leukos,” Gorates said, as if this were truly a surprise.

Leukos sighed and his head turned down to his feet. “You will still be saying that when we are drinking wine on the River.” He looked at his friend and smiled.

Thunk! That was the sound of the ramps hitting the walls. There were probably a thousand Armenians who screamed their stupid warcries at that moment but they could not even drown out the shouts of Leukos and Gorates as they sprung to their feet and led the charge of the Greeks down the ramp and into the face of the savages.

---

Leukos burst into the dark room. His left eye was gone – savaged. He had lacerations all down his arms and legs. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and from the sockets of missing teeth. Quite understandably, Kallistos yelped in terror and covered his face.

“Come on now,” the soldier slurred as he slung the boy over his shoulder, “be brave in the face of the enemy.”

The sound of clashing weapons and shouting savages and dying men was deafening and very close at hand. “What’s happening out there?” the boy inquired sheepishly.

“Nothing good.”

They banged their way into a stable; the stable was adjoined to the outside of the wall, part of the larger gatehouse complex. Leukos plunked the child hard onto the back of a horse.

“Ah!” Kallistos hissed, “my legs!”

“Shut up about your legs.” Leukos literally tied the boy into the saddle. For one moment, he stopped and looked the kid in the face, which must have been horrifying. “You know what to do?”

Kallistos gaped. “Don’t stop?”

“Good enough.” After one last tug on the ropes, Leukos smacked the horse on the rear and it took off. “Fly beast!”

The sound of slaughter echoed in the halls just behind. Leukos turned to see a sentry shoved against the wall and stabbed to death by cackling savages. The apes noticed Leukos next, and like a swarm they abandoned their victim and turned to prey upon the new meat.

Leukos remembered the words of his father. ‘In the moment of danger son keep your chest forward and your head held high’. With a cry worthy of this noble patriarch, Leukos flung himself against the Armenian horde. The city had fallen, but he…he felt alive.

[waveman]

"
Pharnavaz blinked several times without speaking. When he responded, he did not turn his head. “I am thinking that tomorrow we will take Sousa,” he turned just enough to give the soldier a sidelong glance, “and the day after that, we will decorate her with corpses.”

The soldier chuckled uneasily. “The corpses of the Greek army, my lord!”

Pharnavaz nodded dryly. He lost interest in the servant and returned to the machines. “Perhaps.”"

I like the disparity between the forced enthusiasm of the soldier and the detached cynicism of Pharnavaz; it lends a nice atmosphere to the siege

[Beckitz]

"
Pharnavaz blinked several times without speaking. When he responded, he did not turn his head. “I am thinking that tomorrow we will take Sousa,” he turned just enough to give the soldier a sidelong glance, “and the day after that, we will decorate her with corpses.”

The soldier chuckled uneasily. “The corpses of the Greek army, my lord!”

Pharnavaz nodded dryly. He lost interest in the servant and returned to the machines. “Perhaps.”"

I like the disparity between the forced enthusiasm of the soldier and the detached cynicism of Pharnavaz; it lends a nice atmosphere to the siege

Thanks! You have the eye of a literary scholar

---

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

The advance scouts were the first to notice Kallistos, the lone rider, who was not galloping anymore; he was passed out in the saddle, kept upright by the bindings around his legs and waist.

“What’s this?” said one horseman, approaching the exhausted boy much as one would probably approach a piece of art in a museum, “some kind of cruel joke from the Armenians?”

His companion frowned. “Wake him.”

With knives and daggers they cut Kallistos loose from the saddle. The boy immediately slumped over but they caught him. From upside down they matched gazes with the groggy child.

“Are you…” Kallistos mumbled wearily, “are you Greeks?”

They nodded.

“Oh good,” and the boy passed out.

---

When Kallistos awoke he was in a strange place he did not recognize. He found himself in a cozy bed, with goose feather covers and a cot of firm rushes. He was in some kind of tent. A rack of weapons and armor decorated the place, as did embossed shields, furled flags, and a very plain table.

There were voices coming from outside the room – just beyond the exit flaps. Torchlight poured in from the same direction, leaving long shadows on the floor. Kallistos tried to listen to what they might be saying.

“…we don’t make it in time…”

“…day we waste is a day of preparation…”

Kallistos swung himself to dangle off the edge of the bed. As carefully as he could, he tried to slide off the mattress and down to the ground.

“Aah!” he winced and hissed at the shooting pain which darted up his leg. In the next room, all talk came to an abrupt stop. Kallistos froze and blanched with fear.

“What was that?”

The boy tried to climb back into bed but as he shifted his weight another fiery lancing pain split his leg and he fell backwards onto his rear just to take the pressure off.

A figure burst through the partition with both arms. The soft torchlight spread across the floor and across the figure of Kallistos. The boy’s eyes went wide with fear at the sight of Apollodotos, dressed in full armor as he often was.

“Well, well, well,” Apollodotos began. He smiled. “Look who’s finally awake…”

Kallistos gaped; he could manage nothing.

“They thought you were dead when they brought you back here.” Apollodotos let the flaps close behind him. “I guess the strength of the Alexandrian Greeks is tougher than it seems!”

A spark lit up in the back of Kallistos’ head. “Sousa!” His memories came flooding back; the ride to the city, the siege, the escape. “The city-“

Apollodotos silenced the boy with his raised hand. He nodded solemnly. “I know. We left as soon as we heard, but we couldn’t get there in time.” He sighed with his whole body. “I’m sorry.”

Kallistos looked around the decidedly martial furnishings. He looked to Apollodotos. “Who are you? What is this place?”

Apollodotos laughed through pursed lips. “This place is about 20 miles from Sousa.” He sat himself on his desk. “And I am but a humble servant of the Lord and King of Asia, Diodotos.”

Kallistos leaned forward with baited breath. “Are you the General?”

The General modestly laughed; he averted his gaze downward. “I am a general, yes. I suppose I could be the general, if you like.”

The boy was very upright now. “Are you going to save Sousa?”

Apollodotos crossed his arms, and smirked. “I am going to try…”

“My father says anything is possible if you try…”

A booming laugh came from the chest of Apollodotos. “He is wise indeed! A true philosopher of Hellas.” He nudged for the partition. “Come.”

Kallistos looked down at his lap. “My legs…”

Apollodotos returned to the main room with the boy straddled over his neck. In a flash the other offices were on their feet, stiff as boards. “Commander!”

“Sit,” the General insisted, and he did the same; with a grunt he lowered the child into his lap. “I trust we will not deprive ourselves of the council of little Alexander here.”

They all laughed politely. Some probably would have readily preferred to deprive themselves of the council of little Alexander – all the better to hear themselves talk more. But they dared not question the judgement of the General.

“Where did you come from, child?” Antialkidas leaned forward in anticipation.

“Sousa my lord.”

A seriousness fell upon the council. Antialkidas smiled. “And what did you see there?”

“Not much of anything my lord.” Kallistos wrung his hands in his lap. “I was in bed when the attack was going on.”

An elderly officer leaned in. “How many Persians?”

Kallistos shrugged meekly. “I know not!”

The captain grumbled and sat back in his chair.

“Perhaps the young commander would like to see around the camp for a while?” Antialkidas offered as enticingly as he could.

Kallistos looked at Apollodotos, “can I?”

Apollodotos snapped his fingers to summon a guard. He handed the child over, “be careful of his legs.” The general nodded curtly. “Find the man Apraxetes. Tell him to keep ward of the boy.”

The soldier nodded briskly. “At once my lord.”

The pair departed into the cool night. Apollodotos righted himself. “Now then…”

[Beckitz]

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Dahen awoke with a start. The first thing he noticed was the splitting pain in his temple, like lightning inside his brain. Vaguely he recalled drinking wine with his comrades in arms the night before. It seemed he may have had too much.

The light of the sun was excruciating. Dahen pulled the felt brim of his cap lower to cover his eyes. On hands and knees he searched the grass around him, finding his spear and his wicker shield resting, like he had been, against the rock.

He felt short of breath and a wooziness overtook him as he stood up. He raised the brim of his cap just in time to see the sword stroke which severed his head from his neck and ended his life.



Apollodotos thundered ahead without missing a beat, his blade shooting red spittle while it completed its arcing journey towards the sky. The General reared in his horse and called out to the ramparts of Sousa.

“Savages!!!” he roared at the tiny figures arrayed on the battlements. “Come and face justice for what you have done!”

Atop the walls, Pharnavaz grimaced. The fluttering banners of Hayastan were framed around him when he called back. “Justice can look after itself, since it has appointed me to rule over this stolen city of yours, o Greek!”

Behind the back of Apollodotos a retainer came forward. He muttered into the commander’s ear. “My lord there is a detachment of the Armenians approaching by the northwest road.”

Apollodotos turned his head ever so slightly. “How many?”

“Perhaps fifteen-thousand my lord – the main part of the force to be sure-“

Pharnavaz perhaps sensed what was being passed between the two foes. “You are not so brave yourself since you sit outside my walls rather than test at their strength!”

The General murmured to his lieutenant. “Prepare the men for battle and be ready to move.” He sneered at the vizier, “I do not have the luxury of cheap surprise unleashed without consideration for the honor of kings!”

Pharnavaz cackled unkindly. “I see no kings here Greek!”

“Indeed!”

The same retainer rode up close again. “My lord the army of the foe is almost upon us-“

From walls of Sousa a sonorous blast of trumpets rattled the plain. The gate was flung open, and a horde of Hayastan soldiers poured out in a sea of sparkling spear points and gleaming helmets.

“Attack soldiers!” Pharnavaz urged from the battlements, “drive the enemy from the field and from the heart of Asia!”

Apollodotos whipped around sharpish. “Form up two lines!” he barked to his captains. “Send the cavalry to delay the reinforcements!”



The moments before battle is joined are impossible to describe. When you are in the heat of battle, all is easy. You can fight because you must fight, because you are challenged to fight, because others fight around you. But when you stand across from the foe at a distance, there is nothing inevitable about the fight. It comes from within you, and from your comrades, as they drive you and you drive them toward the task.



“What’s so hard about it?”

Apraxetes supped from his wine to paper over the moment. “What do you mean ‘whats hard about it’?”

Kallistos squinted quizzically. “Aren’t you a soldier, don’t you fight for a living?”

From outside the tent somewhere a round of cheering wafted in. Apraxetes rubbed his palms together. “What does it matter if I’m a soldier or not?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be good at it?”

Apraxetes sighed but he couldn’t stop the tiny smile from creasing his face. “Do you want me to tell you what happened or not?”

“Yes sir.”

As I said, it takes some gumption to close from a few hundred feet and set to killing a man. It’s all about managing fear – you give yourself as little reason as possible to be afraid, and you try to make the foe as frightened as possible. So you have to stack your line to make it heavy on one side. That way when the lines clash, the enemy gets pushed back quickly in one place and is under pressure.



They panic – because they think they’re losing, is why. Even though you might be winning somewhere else, if it feels like you’re losing, you panic.



“I see…” Kallistos mused to himself. “So you just try and win somewhere as quickly as possible, so you can switch those soldiers to the rest of the battle and then you win there as well.”

“Almost,” Apraxetes appraised with raised finger, enjoying himself again, “but there’s one problem in what you say boy. What happens when the soldiers who panic and run away make it four-hundred, five-hundred feet out, and they see what’s really happened – I mean that they were just tricked into running away?”

Kallistos shrugged theatrically. “I don’t know!”

Apraxetes laughed into his cup of wine. “They come back. “



“And then you’re in trouble…because you might get surrounded by those same men you might have thought you conquered,” He raised his cup to his lips with a mysterious flutter of the eyebrow to accompany it. “So you have to send people to chase after them.”

Kallistos smirked at the attempted suspense. “You mean on horseback?”





“Aye we fight fair when we fight in the army of Apollodotos.” Apraxetes slammed down his cup. “We give them the treatment they would happily give us,” and he delivered the most subtle expression of a profound sanguine but good-natured acceptance.

Kallistos laughed; it was all he could do at this incredible world and this incredible experience he was being made a part of. “That must be an easy job then…”

Apraxetes raised a finger, “but very tiring.”

“I bet I could do it.” Kallistos blurted the words before he realized what was leaving his mouth, “I bet I could chase down anyone.”

Apraxetes poured himself another cup. “You ride?” he asked in the sight of the crimson gold.

“Faster than anyone.”

Apraxetes seemed very serious now. He drew the cup in front of him. “I once claimed I could take the walls of Sousa.” He twirled the glass. “The captain made me go first into the breach.”

Kallistos nodded. “Lucky you.”

Apraxetes had himself a sip. “We don’t joke boy,” he said, as a final matter-of-fact way of warning, “we match deeds with boasts in this army.”

Kallistos swallowed thickly. “You will find that I am well-matched.”

Apraxetes leaned back like a businessman finished with the preliminaries. “I think you will find yourself matched with a horse tomorrow,” he looked the boy right in the eye, “and then we will see for real if you can ride or if you are much outsized by your own words.”

The days fighting had been inconclusive. Tomorrow would be the final act.

[Beckitz]

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Again the martial sound of the horns and the men and the trumpeteers made a raucous outcry that effortlessly penetrated the flimsy fabric walls of the tent. Kallistos cursed the distraction and the wincing pain it introduced in his head, coming unwelcome as it was in the middle of his over-extended fight against the errant bindings of his greaves. For the umpteenth time he pulled the laces tight around his calf; for the umpteenth time they were not quite tight enough, but this would have to be the last attempt - Apraxetes ducked beneath the partition and came in with another wave of sound and screaming and the harsh morning sun.

He saw the frustrated look on the boy's face. The felt fell behind him. "Everything fit okay?"

Kalistos flashed his master an alarmed look, close to crazed. "I can't get this stupid greave to go on," he muttered irritably as he whipped the laces apart yet again.

"Let me," the soldier insisted, and he knelt down to have a crack at it. Tongue protruding he managed what was probably the best attempt yet; to test it he gave the thing a little shake. "Better?"

Kallistos sighed a huge sigh of relief. "Feels good."

Apraxetes with jaw-distended looked very intently at the young man, who was looking very intently at his lap. "You know there's no going back lad?"

Kallistos sighed. He felt profoundly encumbered by the confused jumble of armor he had strapped to himself seemingly every which way. "I know. I'm just nervous."

Apraxetes seemed to have been weighing a comment at this, but before he could ever speak a third figure ducked through the flaps of the tent.

"We're moving out lads," the soldier nodded to the pair in breathless excitement. "General's waiting."

"Alright let's go," Apraxetes affirmed, patting his apprentice on the back. "Up and at the foe."

The third soldier appraised the state of Kallistos and seemed to give his more senior comrade an almost quizzical look. "You gonna be alright there lad?" he tried.

"He's fine," Apraxetes insisted firmly, his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Just a little bit of nerves, nothing unusual."

"Right then." The soldier made to head for the battle lines; he paused and turned over his shoulder when he saw that Apraxetes had stopped beside the scene of Kallistos mounting his horse.

"Remember what I told you," the old soldier urged softly. "Don't put too much on yourself. Follow the riders at the front - let them take the lead and help them when you see them pick a target-"

"Apraxetes." The third soldier shrugged at his compatriot with the thinnest edge of irritation.

The old warrior smiled thinly. He nodded to his apprentice. "Alright then. Good luck my boy."

"Thanks." Kallistos handled the over-sized reins of his mount and kicked away atop the massive stallion.

The third soldier eyed his friend sidelong on the brisk march to the formation. "You're worried about the boy?"

"This is his choice," Apraxetes said as a way of deflecting, looking straight ahead into the rising sun. "He has to find his own way through the coming day."

The other soldier snickered. "As do we all."

He pulled down his helmet just as they arrived, much to the cheers and salutations of their brothers-at-arms. Apraxetes embraced and bumped shoulders with friends and comrades, laughing modestly as he always did at the incredible energy of the younger men.

"How are we for the fighting today brothers?" the old soldier asked paternally.

"Ha-oo!" they hooted by way of responding.

Apraxetes chuckled. "And how our 'fearless' enemy?"

He turned slowly to see the Armenian formation. They were spread on the far side of the plain in a decidedly less-shiny assemblage than their Baktrian foes - most of the well-armed and armored had perished the day before. What was left were the dregs, armed and kept in wicker and oak, adorned in the baggy silks and clothes of their home land. But the banners - kept high in the chilly mountain breeze - were fierce reminders of the royal pedigree of the force.

"They have not cheered much all day," a Sogdian appraised from his seat atop the rock upon which many sat. "They are making me feel, 'over-prepared'."

"Perhaps we should liven them up."

Someone took the hint and hawked a spear as hard as they could across the plain. It traveled maybe an eighth of the distance. The Hayastan didn't react.

"Sour lot," the thrower commented, but already he was being drowned out by the thundering of hooves. He had attracted the attention of the General, who stormed up to their assemblage with a pair of retainers at his back.

"Who threw that spear?" Apollodotos demanded to know.

"I sir," the culprit admitted sheepishly.

Apraxetes cleared his throat nervously. "Just testing at the enemy a little my lord."

Apollodotos glared at his captain. "Apraxetes. Again and again I seem to find you connected with trouble."

"No trouble here my lord," the warrior readily retreated.

Apollodotos flicked the reins. "Indeed not." Of the perpetrator and his offending spear, he nodded fiercely. "I ought to make you go fetch that boy. If not for the lateness of the hour I would"

The thrower nodded intently. "Yes my lord, of course."

Apollodotos gave them all a parting look of venomous contempt. "Mind you all the signal in a moment." He rode away, crying out as he went. "Soldiers! Prepare for war!!"

They all roared and thrust their spear-points to the sky.

"When Alexander first came to Sousa he made it our land, rededicating it to the Father of the Gods!" On he went down the line. "But it was Seleukos who raised it up, made it something more than it had been before - something beautiful! Something Greek!"

One of the soldiers looked around quizzically. "Why does he honor Seleukos?"

"Seleukos is friend to Baktria," another of them said a little peevishly. "He cultivated our land and gave it homage-"

The other soldier squinted in angry confusion. "Why fight we Seleukos now?"

Apraxetes shushed them. "Worry not about the merits of Seleukos, a dead man like soon you too may be."

The old warrior's head whipped around and his eyes widened. He heard the signal, as he was trained to do, sounding the advance upon the enemy hordes in blaring tones.

"Soldiers!" Apraxetes stepped forward, rallying all within earshot to him, "follow me into the mouth of glory! Let's have ourselves a fight!"

They were already cheering loudly. They started up at a light jog across the plains while the foe mimicked the motion.

"Remember that you fight for Baktria, you fight for Hellas, for your father, for the Father of the Gods, and all the honor of your family!"

The trumpets sounded the charge. As one the Baktrians screamed from their throats and threw themselves upon the enemy. The Armenians recoiled, stumbling backwards, guarding their faces, guarding their bodies.

Apraxetes punched his spear point through the wicker shield of a foe. With the aide of his foot he pried the prong free, just in time to position himself to parry a counter-strike; the Armenian enemy stumbled - his feet were too close together, and his weight was all displaced to the left, so that he was literally trying to windmill his arms and save his balance when Apraxetes killed him by shearing through the sheathing of his spine.

Kallistos saw his master in combat for only a second - then they flew past the clashing of the front lines, riding hard to where the Armenian cavalry was waiting on the hill. The boy found himself wishing he were taller, as he struggled to see over the riders in front of him. He heard cries for blood and the clashing of bronze against bronze.

The Baktrians were more numerous, so they began to encircle the beleaguered Armenian cavalry. Kallistos immediately looked, as he had been told, to find one of the older warriors in battle - he found one, beset on either side by admittedly frightful-looking Haystan. Kallistos swept in from behind and beat away the spear of the closest assailant; with the edge of his shield, he finished the task and snapped the point of the enemy lance right off.

The Armenian snarled. Kallistos froze, not really sure what to do, seeming to believe he had won. Before the boy could react, an enormous back-swing thrashed him across the temple and knocked him from his horse.

[Beckitz]

(Glorified internmission piece because I must get a good night's sleep tonight)

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

“Count your breaths…” - his preparation was visible – he inhaled high into his shoulders, and then blew out with a full-body motion, “and relax.”

There were a dozen of them all there plus Jong Ta-Yuan, the master, as always standing on his raised column in the center of the room. “Breathe…and relax,” he let his hands cup his energy, “and let the energy flow through you – feel where it is in you.”

They inhaled as one. They exhaled with as one. They were well-trained. These where the Buddhostoics. Behind the walls of the Blue Court, in a pagoda built of the Oriental style, they practiced their school of life and what the Indoi call svarakshakala, the way of fighting both armed and unarmed with hand and blade.

Originally there were only the stoics, but then after meditating with the disciples of Buddha the stoic master Epakrates achieved a state which the Buddhists call ‘nirvana’. He then began to teach his students about seeking pleasure through a well-cultivated mind.

He claimed that only what was felt inside the self was what mattered. External events could only cause distress if one allowed them to. It was better to avoid them entirely, and keep to one’s self-contained energy, the chi.

These warriors were one of many “private guards” or elite corps of soldiers who handled their own affairs independently but served in battle at the side of the King or his lieutenants at various times. It would be a mistake to think that they were somehow part-time or half-warriors – the art of the fight was incorporated into everything they practiced daily.

The Buddhostoics were one of three other schools prevailing, There was the Buddhostoics, the Old Stoics, and the Cynics. All believed that there was one ideal in life, the divine, which was an untouchable essence that permeated all of nature and the universe, and manifested itself in different yet identical forms. The Buddhostoics believed this essence of energy that flows through the universe could be harnessed in the body, which they called “chi”. They thought this energy represented the realest nature of life, manifested as harmony or inner peace, and it could be tapped into and massed within oneself by exercise and scrupulous care of oneself. The Old Stoics agreed that nature was to be looked to as the exemplar of the ideals in life, but as their takeaway from these lessons they believed that the "lessons of life" was that trying to control one’s life represents a type of resistance to the flow of things which caused “anguish of the self”. They therefore professed that they were like vines in the garden, grasping gently at life but never expecting to hold it. The Cynics believed that life was an ideal but they also thought it existed to be destroyed, and therefore whatever life took root, in whatever form, inevitably it would be destroyed. Thus by avoiding the external construct of life and turning inward, they professed to escape the suffering of pain.

In battle they fought with a type of long sword curved at the tip and with a high point to make it useful for stabbing after a miss or on the backswing. In training, they would train using a weapon in both hands, sometimes two swords, sometimes a sword and a throwing disk. Because they were skilled in both hands they could grapple with a foe up close and hold him by the wrist or shoulder with ease. In the moment they would always rush forward at the vanguard, and break up the enemy for the phalanx to sweep. This was known as the “grating” technique.

[Alwyn]

Very enjoyable updates, I like the contrast between the action in the previous update and the more contemplative style of the latest one. The Boddhostoics are an intriguing group.