A historical fiction about Greece invading Iraq to search for WMDs or something. Friends were made along the way. Will finish and revise later




That guy is kinda alright


“Hello? Syntagmatarch?”
Theban Hoplites began fleeing before the wall of bristling pikes advancing towards them.
“There’s a pretty serious problem at hand...”
The Macedonian Phalanx continued their advance forward, crushing all remaining Theban resistance. None could resist such a war machine. None could hear anyone either over the din of cheers and panicked shouts. Not even the concerned voice of a Phalangite haphazardly marching forward at the bottom right corner of his Taxeis.
“There is literally no one to our right.”
His Taxeis buddies picked up their pace, eager to make the complete rout of their assigned enemies final.
“There’s a gigantic gap between us and the Athenians pushing back our right flank.”
Loud Macedonian whoops began drowning out even the cacophony of battle.
“THEY WILL GUT US FROM BEHIND LIKE A FISH.”
Some overzealous Phalangites even dropped their Sarissas and began clapping their neighbors’ ass cheeks.
“Seriously? It doesn’t take a military genius to - “ continued the exasperated Phalangite before he was cut off by an even louder noise.
The thundering of hooves.
Even the Phalangites at the front of their overzealous formation shut their mouths and turned to face the source of this earthquake. Flooding into the aforementioned gigantic gap were none other than the left flank’s Macedonian Companion cavalry, spearheaded by a dashing young man and his beastly mount. The wedge effortlessly slid through and charged at the seemingly victorious Athenians from the rear.
The Athenians began fleeing before impact. The Companions captured some panicked Athenian Hoplites when they could, and slaughtered others when they felt like it. The previously silenced Macedonian Phalangites on the left renewed their cries of victory - even the one on the bottom right corner.
He was also thinking about that hot piece of ass leading the battle-winning charge. Wearing shining armor, sporting wavy Homeric hair, a confident yet stone-cold expression adorning his perfectly carved face, and a towering night-black specimen of a horse obeying his every command, this prince captured the imagination of the Phalangite.
“That guy is kinda alright,” he thought.


Cleitus Saviorus


“This is not alright,” thought King Alexander.
He had led the Macedonian charge across the river straight into the shocked Persians. Their surprise did not last long, and they fought back with unexpected ferocity. Both Persians and Macedonians were dropping like flies from the barbaric melee. Alexander himself was in the thick of battle, riding his majestic steed, lopping off limbs when he could, and fending off blows when he couldn’t. At one point, he clanked a Persian’s helmet with his Kopis, creating a massive, gross-looking dent. The Persian gurgled out blood, tears welling up in his eyes at such a brutal fate.
“Actually, this is pretty awesome.”
Alexander then knocked a javelin out of the air before it could pierce his neck.
“After all, I am invincible.”
He dodged to the side at a passing Persian cavalryman’s side-sweep, and repaid him in kind.
“That from Delphi even told me. Since when were oracles ever wrong?”
A thump snapped Alexander back to his senses. Some Persian cavalryman had attempted to hack at his back with his axe, but Alexander’s Linothorax completely rebuffed it.
“Exactly,” replied Alexander to no one in particular.
The offending Persian had been carried forward by his Nisean mount’s momentum, then he turned to face the King. He suddenly smiled a humorless grin. Alexander cocked his eyebrows. His peripheral vision caught some movement, but it was too late. Alexander could barely turn around to see another axe swinging towards his head.
The axe never met his face, for the hand holding it was now on the ground several feet away. Its former Persian owner was screaming, and fell off his mount. Right next to the orphaned Nisean horse was none other than Cleitus the Black, one of Alexander’s father’s most trusted Companions.
Cleitus gave Alexander a quick nod before wordlessly riding off to engage the no longer smiling Persian cavalryman some distance away. Their swings, parries, and feints were lost to Alexander as he observed only the Macedonian officer. He smiled to himself.
“This is the beginning of a long, beautiful friendship.”


In this moment I am euphoric


An Athenian was watching the ceremony from a crowd of cowed native spectators, silent but excited Macedonians and their close allies, and mumbling “allies.”
“Some piece of work you are, to declare yourself Pharaoh of Egypt,” mumbled the Athenian. He still hadn’t gotten over his and his city state’s defeat at the Battle of Chaeronea, after which he was among the lucky captured. He would never get over his new life as one of the many “Allied-Hoplite-Hostages” attached to Alexander’s army.
“I guess the titles of Basileus of Macedon, Tagus of the Thessalian League, Hegemon of the Hellenic League, and Strategos Autokrator of Greece weren’t enough for you,” the Athenian added under his breath.
“Then again, it takes a completely megalomaniacal copycat of Narcissus to scheme adding Shahansha of Persia to his unsatisfiable list of accolades,” he said out loud. A Macedonian to his right elbowed him in the sides. After catching his breath, the Athenian made a mental note to keep his thoughts to himself. His mind then wandered off towards a more objective analysis of this Basileus-Tagus-Hegemon-Strategos-Pharoah.
“Nonetheless, he may be as cunning as he is mad. Declaring his godhood at the Siwa Oasis is a clever political move. After all, these foolish, theistic Egyptians would bend over backwards to anyone who puts a fancy headdress on their head and declare themself a god. Idiots. Then again, there’s more to forging an empire than simply conquering one. Ruling it, and its fickle populations, is a chronic pain in the ass that requires every last method of control. Religion included. The opium of the masses.”
The Athenian pondered for a moment.
“Thus, Alexander is a street-level opium dealer,” concluded the Athenian out loud.
The entire crowd turned their attention towards the Athenian in the middle. He froze in terror, expecting his public lynching to top off the deification of Alexander. A burly man, probably one of Alexander’s lackeys, shouldered his way through the glaring crowd. He stopped in front of the Athenian, possibly to perform the lynching himself.
The Athenian closed his eyes and prayed to Socrates.
His death didn’t come.
He slowly opened his eyes.
The goon opened his mouth.
“You’re just mad because you’re not Alexander.”


I just saw a guy get sliced in half


“PREPARE TO REPEL CHARIOTS,” bellowed the Syntagmatarch to his Taxeis.
The rumbling of the unholy contraptions kept growing. Even from an entire Stade away, the Phalangites could see, hear, and feel the long, sharpened, glistening blades attached to the chariot wheels. However, these men were hardened veterans of many battles, and had drilled many days before, just to complete this stage of the battle to decide the fate of Persia. They formed one half of the anti-chariot strategy.
The other half milled about in a loose formation behind the Macedonian Phalanx. Alexander’s reserve Phalangites as well as various light infantry - Cretan Archers, Thracian Peltasts, and whatever other warbands that tagged along with Alexander on the adventure of a lifetime - were restlessly but silently fidgeting. All save for one Cretan trying to lighten the mood.
“So… if I were an Olympic charioteer… would I be allowed to attach those things to my wheels? I’d imagine that would be rather advantageous against my competitors. What do you say?” he asked a Thracian standing to his left.
Silence.
“Come on, say something! High morale can stop a scythed chariot dead in its tracks. I learned that from Socrates himself. He’s actually my Erastes, really!
Silence.
“That means I get to suck his dick.”
The Thracian to the Cretan’s right groaned. The Cretan turned around, eager to chat with his newfound friend.
“WILL YOU JUST SHUT UP ALREADY?” shouted the second Thracian in frustration… in his native tongue.
The Cretan didn’t understand a single word, yet still got the full message.
“Well bar-bar to you too, fine gentlem - “
“BREAK RANKS!” interrupted the Syntagmatarch in the front.
The Phalangites audibly stiffened and began shuffling to their sides. The light infantry behind pulled their arrows, raised their javelins, and swung their slings. As the gaps in the Macedonian Phalanx opened, the light infantry in the back were able to finally witness firsthand the Persian four-horsed scythed chariots. The light infantry grimly prepared to fire at the rapidly closing in slaughter machines.
“Wait, why are we side-stepping? Shouldn’t we be running for our lives - OH GODS!!!”
The Phalangite’s concerns were cut off by his witnessing the men on the outer columns of the gaps being cleaved into two or more. The perpetrators however slowed down to a crawl at the adhoc wall of pikes formed by the reserve Phalangites. Pinned down by this impenetrable wall, the chariots were then beset on all sides by the light infantry, who had unceremoniously stepped over the mutilated body parts of their fallen comrades. A hail of missiles then riddled the charioteers.
The Cretan, still standing some distance away, was out of cheeky things to say at this ghastly sight.
“I - I… just saw a guy get sliced in half,” he stammered.
Not even a second later, another Persian chariot was halted in its tracks close to the shell-shocked Cretan. Light infantry began to swarm the massive vehicle. Its Persian drivers were not pleased, and used their clubs to clobber the intruders. One of them was rather vocal about his displeasure.
“GET THE AWAY FROM MY CHARIOT!” he screamed… in his native tongue.
The angry Persian was suddenly cut off from any further vocalization, for he had been shanked in the throat by a Cretan.
“Bar-bar to you too, fine gentleman,” he quipped.
Once all the Persian chariots were completely neutralized, the Macedonian Phalanx closed their gaps to prepare for the main assault. The light infantry either dispersed to aid other parts of the battle line, or retired to loot for prizes among the dead charioteers. A silent Thracian reached to claim a dead Persian’s silly-looking hat, but it was snatched away by some quick fingers. The Thracian looked up to see a certain islander running back to the Macedonian camp.
“YOU ALREADY HAVE A DOZEN OF THEM!” screamed the now-vocal Thracian at the fleeing Cretan… in his native tongue.
“Sorry! Can’t talk. First time for you? Understandable. Maybe later!” were the Cretan’s Parthian words as he fled back to the baggage train to stash his spoils. He had already managed to stash away his survivor’s guilt.


Wait, we’re not supposed to fight against cavalry


His Agrianian warchief had told him to follow his lead in the upcoming “greatest battle of our generation.” In turn, the warchief had followed the lead of Alexander as he led the Companion cavalry on a steady gallop in front of the Macedonian center, slowly to the right. Thus, an Agrianian Peltast indirectly followed Alexander’s plan for a large group of light infantry to accompany the Companions, hidden from sight by the Persian cavalry matching the Macedonian cavalry’s movements.
This Agrianian skirmisher was no stranger to creative battle tactics, having cut his teeth in numerous petty raids and massive wars around the Pontos Euxeinos throughout his bloodied life. They did not however help his mental state in the slightest.
Especially after his deployment in Cimmeria under the callous Bosporan Greeks. The battle where he lost his mountain shepherd dog. His very own Companion. Not to mention his numerous human Companions that stuck with him all those years. And those mounted nomads charging downhill, clad in armor...
The Agrianian was snapped back to reality upon hearing his warchief yell in indignation and surprise. Alexander had suddenly swung his Companions around and charged towards the Persian center.
“What are you doing, Alexander!?! Glory is to be claimed HERE!!!”
The tactical-minded Agrianian Peltast however, unlike his murder-obsessed warchief, knew immediately what the King was doing. He had seen it all before. In order to neutralize a superior force, the inferior force must leave behind a pocket of troops to distract said superior force. This frees up the inferior force to win the battle from another front. Speaking of superior force and a sacrificial inferior force…
“Stand your ground, warriors! We’re being approached by the Persian cavalry!” growled his warchief as he banged his axe against his Pelte to raise morale. His Agrianian Peltast subordinate and others followed his lead, but old memories were resurfacing. The incoming Persian cavalry looked familiar.
“Looks like Scythians to me. Typical of them to screw us over at every opportunity. They must really like us!” the warchief joked. His Agrianian retinue around him laughed, though more to calm themselves than each other. That one Agrianian Peltast, however, couldn’t even muster the willpower to grin.
These heavily armed Scythian cavalrymen were the same ones who brutalized his battle dog and murdered his entire old warband back in ‘mmeria. Or were they? The Agrianian noticed despite his fear that some of the horsemen wore… comically tall, pointed ornamental helmets? Others were fully clad in comprehensive armor - squares of shiny bronze covering even their monstrous mounts? The Agrianian couldn’t tell if these were even true Scythians.
Regardless, he could not bear to raise his javelins against these stampeding monsters that had taken so much from him. He curled up into a tight ball and began sobbing. He thought about his late mountain dog whom he had raised since he was a puppy. His old pack of Peltasts that had survived everything their enemies had thrown at them - Thracians, Dacians, rival Bosporan Dynasties - but not Scythians. And then there was his wife, whom he hadn’t seen ever since his warchief called upon his retinue for “the adventure of a lifetime.”
A strong hand suddenly clasped his shoulders, seemingly trying to comfort his ravaged soul.
“Are you really choosing NOW to do that again? GET UP, WARRIOR! This is the grea - “
A sickening crunch instantly ended the warchief’s long career of delivering and perpetuating bloodshed. The Agrianian looked up, right into the unforgiving eyes of a Scythian horseman. These burning coals were the only part of his face visible, since a tall metal collar hid the rest of his helmeted head. Well, save for his mouth, which was twisted into a gleeful roar. A quiver made out of what had to be patches of human skin from a variety of cultures completed the inhuman picture. The Scythian raised his Akinakes...
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!”
… and the Scythian lowered it. He was rather miffed at this still-shrieking Agrianian, who also didn’t appear to be carrying much of value anyways. Nor did he put up any sort of worthwhile fight. The cavalryman maintained his psychotic bravado, though.
“Very well. Say your final prayers in your barbaric tongue. I’m actually feeling rather generous today. However, I’ll still come back for you - “
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!”
“ - later.”


Not even relevant


Of all the days to equip his bronze cuirass, he chose to do so on the day of a battle where mobility was required.
The stumbling Shield-Bearer panted to a halt as Alexander, most of his Companions, lighter, nimbler Shield-Bearers, and some accompanying assault troops charged at the Persian center, presumably to win the battle. Elsewhere on the right flank, a chaotic struggle was developing between the Persian cavalry and Macedonian right. The Shield-Bearer grunted as he jogged back to the right, his bronze cuirass weighing him down.
The head-splitting hangover didn’t help either.
“Sucks to be irrelevant, doesn’t it?” said an irrelevant Companion, appearing alongside him on top of his steed. The Shield-Bearer merely grunted in acknowledgement. The two stopped not too far from the desperate battle on the Macedonian right, surveying the situation. The Companion devised and voiced his plan of action first.
“We could circle around them to join the rear attack. Some of the other Companions and Prodromoi that were also ordered to stay behind have already begun the encirclement. Or... maybe we could let the Agrianians tire out the Scythian cavalry first... ”
“They are literally dying.”
“The Scythians?”
“FOR *BELCH* ’S SAKE.”
“Fine.”
The two picked up their pace as the Shield-Bearer pushed his body to the limit to reach his struggling comrades in time. His Companion cavalryman ally casually galloped alongside him. The two were cut off however by the meanest cavalryman they had ever seen. This brute, eyes flaming, pointed with his finger at his human skin quiver case, then to his own neck. He finished the taunt by completing the decapitation motion.
“Hey,” whispered the Companion to the Shield-Bearer.
“What.”
“If we die today, our foreskins are going on that quiver case.”
The Shield-Bearer rolled his eyes and raised his Hoplon, Dory poised at the Scythian. The Companion then galloped off towards the side, presumably to aid the rear assault on the right flank. The Scythian observed this scene with amusement.
“His ally is abandoning him, and he’s not even surprised. Such disunity. I was told I would be facing worthy adversaries, not a pack of squabbling idiots.” The Scythian then unclasped his lance from his armored steed’s side, and goaded his beast forward. The Shield-Bearer hunched down to lower his center of gravity. He immediately regretted his stance as the Scythian’s mount accelerated at record-breaking speeds.
“Ballsacks.“
The lance penetrated the Shield-Bearer’s Hoplon, but was miraculously stopped by his cuirass. Nevertheless, the heavily armored spearman was thrown back, wind knocked out of him. The punctured Hoplon landed some distance away. The Scythian looked with admiration upon his work. He tapped his lightning steed to advance at a disrespectfully slow saunter towards the felled Shield-Bearer, who was still clutching his stomach, head hung low.
“You know, I’ve always wanted a pasty white highlight on my quiver case. Those guys I killed at the ends of the world were ruining my intended color scheme. Yellow and brown aren’t really my thing...”
The Scythian cataphract stopped right next to the gasping Shield-Bearer.
“Then again, count yourself lucky. While you will soon cease to draw breath, your memory - and foreskin - will live on forever, attached to my - why are you smiling,” the Scythian frowned.
The Shield-Bearer had looked up to his foe and... was grinning?
“What are you - “
“Bar. Bar,” said the Shield-Bearer, relishing each syllable.
A Xyston expertedly pierced the only part of the Scythian cataphract not protected by armor - his running mouth. He fell from his mount, desperately grasping for a jaw that was no longer there. It was the Companion who held the honor of gaining the upper hand against this fiend, but the fight was far from over. Even as he dismounted and tried to thrust his Xyston into the jawless Scythian’s face, a massive gloved hand suddenly snatched the weapon mid-thrust.
“.”
The Scythian proceeded to put his other monstrosity of a hand onto the Xyston, and began applying an ungodly bending force. The Companion tried yanking his Xyston back, but it would’ve been easier to yank back a tree stump. As for the grounded Scythian, although he no longer had a jaw, the inferno blazing in his eyes spoke volumes.
The Companion put every ounce of his body into a renewed thrust, even squeezing his eyes closed. The Scythian matched his effort flawlessly. The struggle continued, but after what seemed to be the longest minute of his life, the Companion was rewarded with a sudden plunge. He opened his eyes. His Xyston had caved in the Scythian’s face.
“Ha! Take that, er!”
There was also a Dory already embedded in the dead Scythian’s face. It was the Shield-Bearer who held the honor of finally putting down this rabid beast. The two Macedonians withdrew their spears and faced each other. The Shield-Bearer spoke first this time.
“Where were you while he was murdering me?”
“Winning the right flank. Where were you while he was snapping my Xyston in half?”
“Admiring the desert sand.”
The two stopped their lovers’ quarrel upon noticing an ongoing scream drowning out the sounds of battle in the distance. They turned their attention towards the direction of the scream - the victorious Macedonian right. There didn’t seem to be any fighting left there. The Macedonian cavalry relief force had already begun riding towards the Macedonian left at the behest of a panicked runner. This left behind the grievously battered light infantry. The survivors were holding their wounded and dead comrades in their arms, and were beginning to disperse back to the Macedonian camp. This left a lone, sitting Agrianian - the source of the wails. Eventually, he fell silent.
The Shield-Bearer stepped towards him, but then stopped and turned towards the Companion. He began to beckon, but saw what he was holding… and puked.
“Gods, put that thing away!”
“You think this will cheer him up?”
“He’s in great pain!”
“Fine. I’m keeping this though.”
The Shield-Bearer and the Companion, who had slung the quiver over his back, made their way towards the Agrianian.


We are literally dying


“ing traitor!” spat the Thessalian at the “Greek” before him.
This venal, lightly-armored, but still helmeted Hoplite under the employ of the Persians had just sent the Thessalian flying after a prolonged duel-turned-wrestling match. Before that, the Thessalian had exhausted all of his weapons during the defense of the Macedonian left, and was eventually knocked off his horse… by this random sell-sword who inexplicably demonstrated supreme wrestling skills. This wrestler might have been even more dangerous unarmed, considering he had been fighting another, armed Thessalian who had managed to chop his Dory in half and knock away his Hoplon. He then choked him to death with his bare hands.
“Damianos would have dismantled this poser,” thought the current Thessalian. He gathered himself for round two, and rose. His fists were raised and clenched, trying to emulate the stance of a childhood friend. Either the Thessalian’s imitation was poor, or he was simply a poor boxer in general, but he was bloodied by a few punches from the Greek-In-Name-Only. He was then sent backwards by a disrespectful push of the foot on his chest.
The exhausted and injured Thessalian stumbled backwards and landed on his stomach facing away from his opponent. He got back on his knees, suddenly aware of the Macedonian left’s dire straits. Thessalian cavalrymen all around him were fighting for their very lives. The dismounted ones were being picked off one by one by the Greek mercenary Hoplites. The ones still mounted were desperately trying to maintain a thinned rhomboid formation, scrambling all around the left flank to ward off the enclosing Persian cavalry.
“We could’ve easily beaten all that cavalry,” muttered the Thessalian. “Median, Cappodacian - a thousand nations could converge upon us with their horse, yet we still would’ve out-maneuvered them. Then these traitors just HAD to jump in,” he spat. Speaking of traitors…
The helmeted wrestler was walking towards the prone Thessalian. The underdog tried to rise, but stopped when he saw a sizable rock in front of him, hidden from view from the approaching “Greek”. He laid his hands upon this rock, and listened carefully at the footsteps growing closer. As soon as the footsteps stopped dangerously close to him, the Thessalian summoned all his remaining strength to lift the rock, spin around, and slam it into the side of the Greek’s Corinthian helmet. The Thessalian eyed the helmet flying off to his right, but the momentum spun him completely around, with enough remaining velocity for a second strike. As the Thessalian concentrated on preparing the second strike, he resolved to catch a glimpse of the traitor’s face - to relish in seeing his look of fear and regret.
What he actually saw shook him down to the core in a split second, preventing him from stopping the rock in time.
It was his childhood wrestling and boxing-obsessed friend.
*Crack*
Damianos crumpled onto the ground, his skull now fractured beyond all recognition.
The Thessalian immediately dropped the rock. Nothing else mattered to him at the moment. Not the blood-curdling screams around him. Not the bodies piling up. Not even his damaged right foot, the rock having landed on it.
Damianos had told him all those years ago that he was going to pursue a wrestling career in Ionia. He said that as he departed from the walls with a Hoplon on his back, a Dory in his right hand, and a Corinthian helmet on his head. The young, homebound Thessalian waving goodbye to him didn’t even consider reading between the lines.
Now though? Why didn’t Damianos recognize him? Did he forget their friendship after all these years? Did...did he remember? If so, did those Persians brainwash him with propaganda? That must’ve been why he didn’t hold back - did he? He was using all these showy, ineffectual moves… was Damianos trying to help him understand and thus give him a chance to run away, without alerting the other Greek mercenaries?
The grizzled Thessalian collapsed onto the ground in the sands of Gaugamela. He had had enough. The unanswered questions, and the unfairness of it all. The Persians. The stupid oligarchy in his Thessalian city-state that had created the conditions which forced his Thessalian friend to adopt the mercenary life. Who knew how many other Greeks were forced to fight against their countrymen by similar conditions. War. Strife. And the Tagus of the Thessalian League responsible for the current carnage...
The disillusioned cavalryman could only lie back on the ground next to his dead friend. The hopeless battle around him became irrelevant. Soon, the sound of metal clanging and Thessalians screaming began fading from his mind as he thought about his situation.
“So... my horse ran away, all four of our initial rhomboid commanders have died, both ends of my Xyston broke, I can’t find my Kopis, and I’m all out of javelins. Now my childhood friend is dead by my own hands.”
The Thessalian closed his eyes and took a deep breath, seemingly at peace with his tragic fate.
“THANKS FOR NOTHING, ALEXANDER THE !!!”