They Speak of Alexander

Nearly 3,941 Romans stood on the field, compared to the 3,045 Macedonians opposing them.

Antigonos II grips his spear as he's atop a horse this time, a bead of sweat drips from the side of his head as the stares at the marauding mass of Romans in green in the midst, and back to his own barely trained men.

King Antigonos II keeps the Macedonian Left stationary, and quickly the Macedonian Center meets the Romans in the middle of the field.

The Macedonian Right, mostly composed of cavalry fights off the Romans, pushing them back there, but the center is taking the bulk of the damage.

Antigonos looks at those barely trained peasants contending with a Roman army and sighs.

"Men, remember, we are justice, justice for the Greeks, know no fear!"

With that, Antigonos marches his army forward, in an orderly formation. He only has 360 elite Hoplites, and about 24 Elite Cavalry in his unit, the rest being raw recruits. And they march straight at the Romans.

The sun beats down on the metal of their armor, and the clanking of weapons echoes through the valley as they march even close. The air is thick with dust, stirred by their movement, and the smell of iron is heavy as the anticipation of battle fills their nostrils. The Romans, in their verdant and iron, stand tall, shields locked and swords at the ready.

No time for thinking! No time for tactics! This is the tactic! If you want to fight Romans, fight like a Roman!

Antigonos's voice boomed across the battlefield, a mix of hope and desperation in his words. His heart raced as he saw the Romans approach, their discipline unyielding, their eyes cold and focused. He knew fear was a beast that could consume his men, so he gave them a new mantra: "Justice for the Greeks!" He had to make them believe that this was more than just a battle, more than a clash of arms. This was a war for their very identity!

Antigonos with no fear, charges straight at the Roman line, intending to break through to the flank to fight the Roman Commander Aemilius Brutus Papus. His cavalry Guards are cut down to 6, when 5 of his men stay behind so he can catch up to the Roman commander's personal guard unit.

But it was not to be, he was surrounded by Roman Triarii, he falls off his horse and manages to catch himself on his feet. He sees nothing in the chaos, just men and spears pointed at him.

With a mighty roar from this old man, he grabs a short sword from his buckle, discarding his spear.

The Macedonian recruits, hearing their king's battle cry, push harder against the Roman lines. Some drop their weapons and flee in terror, but others find a newfound strength and press on, driven by the image of their king fighting alone among the enemy.

Antigonos moves swiftly among the Romans, his sword flashing in the sun, cutting down soldiers left and right. Despite the fear, he feels no hesitation, his movements precise and deadly. His eyes burn with the fierce determination that comes from knowing that his people are counting on him.

"I am Antigonos the Pan-Hellenist! Fight me!"

He swings his sword as the Macedonian phalanx put pressure on the Romans surrounding him. As if the spirit of Antigonos the One-Eyed has possessed him, he found the long lost strength he used as a younger man fighting off the Barbarians in Thrace, the rebellious Greek Cities, the other Diadochi…

Pyrrhus…

Argos…

Asia…

The battles of his youth, the battles of his father Demetrius, the battles of his grandfather Antigonos the Great.

All of it seems to come back to him now as he fights for his country.

The world slows down as every muscle in his old body moves in unison, but in a moment, he coughs out a pint of blood as a sword swings over his shoulder from behind, burying itself in his collar.

"Stand down, King of the Greeks." Aemilius Brutus Papus yells at him.

"Ahh… A true Roman." Antigonos II takes his last breath, but the battle rages on around him. His soldiers fighting desperately trying to get to him, while the Romans surrounding him look on warily.

The last thing Antigonos could ever do for his men at this moment, is to remain standing. Is to remain standing for Macedon.

The battle rages on, but the fate of Macedon now lies in the hands of the younger generation. Antigonos's spirit lives on in the hearts of his men, urging them to fight for what he believed in until his very last breath.

The sun dips lower in the sky, casting long shadows over the battlefield. The fight is no longer about one man but about the very essence of a nation. The Greeks fight on, their king's valor a beacon in the chaos, their cries of "Justice for the Greeks!" ringing out as they clash with the Romans, who now know that they face a foe that will not easily be defeated.

But it is not to be, this day belongs to Mars.

The Macedonians put up a brave fight but they were routed, in Antigonos' retinue only a hundred Hoplites are intact.

The battlefield is littered with the dead and dying, and as night falls, the cries of the wounded and the mourning of the survivors fill the air.

The Hundred fight as they are surrounded on all sides, with javelins flying at them, but after almost thirty minutes of holding out, they are cut down to 50, to 30, to 20, and finally the last one of the falls.

The aftermath of the battle is a grim scene. The field is littered with the dead and dying, their armor stained with crimson, the ground churned to mud by the frenzied dance of battle. Antigonos' body lies still, his sword still clutched in his hand, surrounded by the fallen Romans and Macedonians alike, a testament to his valor.

Aemilius Brutus Papus approaches the fallen king, his own armor splattered with the grim evidence of the day's work. He looks down at Antigonos, a mix of respect and regret in his eyes.

"You fought well, old man," he says, his voice tinged with a hint of admiration. "But the gods have chosen Rome today."

The battle is of course, followed by clean up. 538 Romans are killed in this battle, alongside 2,937 Macedonians.

The Roman legionnaires march through the battlefield, methodically searching for their fallen comrades, their faces a mix of sorrow and victory. The clang of metal on metal fills the air as they strip the armor from the dead, their footsteps heavy with fatigue.

The Macedonian survivors, those not captured or slain, retreat to their camp, their heads bowed in defeat, their spirits crushed by the loss of their king.

The once proud banners of Macedon are torn and trampled into the dirt, their colors fading with the light of day. The air is thick with the stench of blood and the acrid scent of iron, the cries of the injured piercing the quiet that has descended upon the once tumultuous field.

The crows begin their feast, picking at the lifeless eyes of the warriors, turning the battleground into a feast.

As the sun sets, King Antigonos' corpse is standing there surrounded by crows, the Roman soldiers too afraid of coming close in fear of bad omen. They have come here to avenge themselves against Pyrrhus of Epirus, not to entangle themselves with the divine.

In the Roman camp, Aemilius Brutus Papus is celebrating his victory, but his heart is not entirely in it. He knows that Antigonos was a worthy adversary, a king who fought with the heart of a lion.

The Romans have always worshipped the strong, but they also feared them to some extent, if all the Macedonian cities fought this hard, will Rome have a hard time? They're already fighting the Northern Italian cities already.

The fires burn bright, casting flickering shadows on the tents, as the legionnaires share tales of the day's valor and mourn those who did not return. The wine flows freely, but it does little to dull the ache of loss.

Papus sits on a makeshift throne, his own armor removed, his skin stained with the grime of battle. He accepts the congratulations of his officers, but his eyes are drawn to the distant silhouette of the battlefield, where the body of Antigonos still lies, untouched by the ravages of the night.

Like a scarecrow.

Maybe this campaign will go smoothly, and he can return to Rome after subjugating Macedonia. Maybe there's no bad omen? Even if the bad omen comes, maybe not in his generation, so no need to worry, let the new Romans handle their problems.

Even in the last moment of his life, Antigonos spoke of Alexander.