They Speak of Alexander

"March march!" the victor of Argos, grandson of the King of Asia, son of Alexander V's killer, the old 60 year old pudgy man, Antigonos II Gonatas, who unbeknownst to him ended King Pyrrhus' dream of a Greek Italy, is leading his Elite Royal Hoplites against Roman Triarii that wandered off their foraging line.

But even as the Romans are caught off guard, they engage his units in a disciplined manner, even if a bit outnumbered, the Romans are disciplined, even without a consul, the Romans don't back down.

King Antigonos himself is gripping his sarissa, plunging it at the heart of the green clad Roman, who just looks at him with grit, the stare shaking an old man who barely pushed it in his later life.

His eyes turned red as he shouted at his men to form a triangle, the outnumbered Romans… were trying to surround them. And if they lost the center, the Romans could attack from their back, the Roman Triarii, using spears reminiscent of the Spartan dory, attacked them from all sides.

Once or twice Antigonos got nicked by their iron tip spears, and their wooden shields with metal trimmings proving more than enough to get the sarissa stuck, the length of the Macedon sarissa making it hard to pull it back without more strength, not that his men lack strength, but the Volpina Romans don't lack endurance.

The round metal shields the Hoplites carry makes it so they can only use one hand for thrusting and one hand to defend, but the Triarii can't even reach their shields, so holding it just depletes strength.

Then the sarissa gets stuck in their shield and it's pulled out, stuck in a Roman and it's pulled out, until one time, a Macedonian Hoplite pulls it back a second too late…

And the Romans strike, they strike hard, sidestepping the sarissa, gripping its length, and hacking the Hoplite holding it to death with their side arm, even at the risk of skewering by another Hoplite.

Roman using Roman lives to pick off well trained Hoplites, and this is just one of the Roman's number.

The sight of their fearlessness puts fear in the hearts of many.

How terrible was Italia?

How terrible was it, that she birthed warriors such as these?

How terrible, that even Hades welcomes those who trained their whole lives because of a few Romans.

Is it true, that when Alexander the Great conquered the known world, Aries was smiling at the Italians all along?

Antigonos puts all of that at the back of his mind, focusing on the Romans in front of him. He should live first, not think of such matters. He defeated Pyrrhus, he can defeat a consul.

The sun beats down, and sweat drips from the brows of both sides. The air is filled with the acrid scent of fear, the metallic tang of blood, and the grunts of exertion. Each man fights with the strength of desperation, their breaths heavy and ragged. The battlefield is a tapestry of dust and steel, as the Macedonian phalanx and the Roman Triarii lock into a brutal embrace of war.

At the end of the chaos, only 3 Macedonian Hoplites are dead, and 211 Romans lay on the ground lifeless. But King Antigonos lost 3 elite Hoplites, who trained since childhood, veterans of the wars of King Pyrrhus, and the Romans?

They lost sheep farmers.

…

..

.

A year and 6 months, and Bylazora has finally ran out of food.

The city's granaries, once brimming with wheat and barley, now echoed with the hollow footsteps of the desperate. The smell of stale bread and rotting vegetables filled the streets, a stark contrast to the rich aroma of prosperity that once wafted from the local markets. The children's laughter had long ago been replaced by the wail of hunger, their cheeks sunken and their eyes hollow.

The citizens of Bylazora, once robust and proud, had been whittled down to mere shadows of themselves. The men's muscles had atrophied, their once-shiny armor now hanging loosely on their frail frames. The women had lost their rosy cheeks, their beauty marred by the grime of desperation and the lines of hardship etched into their faces.

In the few months batches of 50 to 100 civilians escaped into the countryside, but fighting men were not allowed to escape. At the end, the city of 35,000 has whittled down to 7,500.

Finally, the 3,000 men left who've been fighting off siege weapons all year round is ready to fight back. Instead of fighting in a siege, Antigonos II opts to face the Romans in the field.

The night before the battle, Antigonos stands atop the city walls, surveying the Roman campfires like a sea of stars in the inky blackness beyond the city walls. The distant murmur of their conversations is a reminder of the enemy's presence.

He can almost taste victory, feel the sweetness of victory kiss his lips, but his stomach rumbles, reminding him of his own dwindling resources. His hand clenches around the parchment map, the corners curling with his sweat.

The Macedonian king knows that this battle will determine not just the fate of Bylazora, but the balance of power in the Mediterranean.

He turns to his generals, their faces etched with lines of worry, and says, "Tomorrow, we feast in victory, or we feast in the arms of the gods." His voice is steady, yet it carries the weight of the known world.

The city's last stand is a spectacle of desperation and valor. The 3,000 remaining soldiers march out of the gates at dawn, their eyes set on the horizon where the Roman legions await. The air is cool, a stark contrast to the heat of the day that is soon to come, and the metal of their weapons clangs rhythmically with their steps.

The Roman commander, a seasoned veteran named Aemilius Brutus Papus, raises his eagle-adorned standard high, a symbol of Rome's unyielding spirit. His legionnaires, rested and fed, stand in meticulous formations, their head pieces shimmering in the early light.

The thousands of years of Greek hegemony, brought to the peak by Philip and Alexander, to the ancient cities of Corinth and Athens, to Asia and North Africa, Illyria and Epirus.

And lastly to Iberia.

King Antigonos will pull his weight one last time.