To The Strongest - A Hellenistic Resurgence AAR

[Eludio]

Good to see you again Eludio! A different type of writing style can be a nice little change of pace and the quality is solid as with the previous updates, I hope things quiet down for you, I can respect both tech issues and having a hectic IRL at the moment.

Thank you for the kind words Storm! I'm glad you've appreciated the different approach. The next chapter will see a little return to form, though, I promise. And that famous map I've been delaying five chapters now.

I've spent most of today reading this AAR and that should serve a testament of its qualities. Honestly, 'LARPers' from Bactria are way more fun than what I expected this to be.

That is high praise indeed, I am flattered! Honestly, I had no idea what the endgame would be when I've started writing them, but it's beeing a fun run both to play and to write

 

[Eludio]

Only Ambition​

Staring into the Sea, Phil felt oddly reminded of a night sky. It stretched on, a boundless expanse of shades of blue, the sun shimmering on its surface where the stars would have shone in the sky. He’d walked the shores of the Caspian Sea, he’d swam in its waters with Alkaios, when they’d allowed themselves to feel as children once more. It had been a moment of peace, a safe oasis in the deserted field of war that their lives had been. The Sea below Antioch was one of very different waters. There would be no peace in those waters, no childlike innocence nor temporary escape. Because those waters led to the coast of Phrygia. To the islands of Ionia and the cliffs of Achaia. To the Bosporan straits over which the Romans stood guard. There could be no peace in that Sea, Philandros knew as much.

“Look at it, cousin. Look at the world that shall once more be Ours!” Alkaios commanded, as if though to confirm Philandros’s fears. His expression was one of unbridled ecstasy, and yet there was no joy in his smile. Nay, it was the grin of a wolf or starved lion that adorned his lips, of a hungry animal that closes in on a wounded prey, certainly not that of the child that had shown his face in the Caspian waves. Where that young hero had strolled naked and damp to face his enemies, the more mature King stood panoplied as if though for parade, and had stepped into the waters only to offer sacrifice. Surely, the younger men in the army saw their King as some great God, yet Phil could see in him only an actor playing the role in a comedy. He’d far more willingly adored Alkaios when his cousin had seemed oblivious to his own heroism.

“You can see the coast of Cilicia, cousin, far off in the North. The Gates of Phrygia. Those gates we shall cross, and move onto the lands that the Sea yet hides from us. Ionia, Thrace, all of Hellas… and then Epirus and Egypt and all the Kingdoms that had once been Great Alexander’s, they shall all be ours!” Alkaios declaimed with an orator’s voice, in truth addressing not Philandros, but his adjutants. The officers of the new Persian levy, and of what remained of the original phalanx that had followed him from Bactria. It was those men that raised voices of cheer. For his part, Phil but stepped forwards, so as to be able to speak without being heard by the soldiers.

​

He even ventured a sympathetic smile as he went to squeeze Alkaios’s shoulder, just as the other man would have done in their childhood, to console Phil after a tutor’s overharsh reproach. “You know, cousin… You’ve carved for our exiled people an Empire. All those centuries ago, Alexander had dreamt himself Great King. You’ve already achieved that dream…”

“And now I should rest and enjoy my victory, lest my reign be cut short as the son of Philip’s?” Alkaios asked, cutting him short. For the time of a long silence, Philandros feared he’d incurred his cousin’s ire, until the man’s lips broke into the warmest laugh. “You are afraid that I might be losing myself in the ancient King’s myth, and that I will make war upon the world, until all our friends are spent, just to walk in his footsteps, are you not?”

Yes, Phil would have wanted to say. He would have wanted to shout the word, beg his cousin to turn on his heels and return to Seleucia. Show him how he could be content with his conquests, with his port on the great Sea, and not further temp fate needlessly. But, in truth, he was far too stunned by Alkaios’s self-awareness to utter any words. Not that any words were needed, because Alkaios ensured that any silence would be short lived. With a grimace, he received Phil’s unspoken plea, and answered it in hushed tones.

As he spoke the words, his expression turned from sorrowful towards a tentatively hopeful smile. “I have promised our men Greece. I have promised them the home that we robbed of, all those centuries ago. For you and I, in our palaces and our silks, and Empire is worth another. But to them… to them a farm in Macedon will be worth ten castles in the Pamir. I cannot let them down. But once Hellas is freed from the Roman yoke, then I will lay down my arms, embrace my duties, and we will have peace.”

Phil had no desire to fall for his cousin’s charming tricks. He knew how manipulative Alkaios could be, he’d seen the man convince soldiers to fight against impossible odds with a smile upon their lips. And yet… he wanted to believe him. He had to believe him. Perhaps, at least in part, he genuinely did. So, Phil hugged the man, and prayed for peace to truly come soon to their shores. For after all, what else could he do? What ever else?

“Do you understand, brother? The myths, the speeches, the parades, and ceremonies… these are but tools. My purpose, my only ambition, is towards our men. Our people. Our exiled countrymen, that have given to me their faith.”

True to his word, haughty Isokrates. Always true to his word. And of course, that coward Philandros had been all too happy to jump at his cousin’s beck and call. Damn them both, the ingrates. He’d helped raise them, that he had. And now they conspired to have him in chains, his only crime having been an excess of zeal in the quest for justice. Leonidas cursed them both, cursed their youthful stupidity and then cursed his fate. Shackled to a post, in what could otherwise had been a noble general’s pavilion, he awaited Alkaios’s justice, like some traitor or base assassin. And then he cursed Bahman, the disappearing snake, and all his brotherhood, had there ever truly been one. Twice the man had damned him, first with his advice and then by abandoning his post.

Before Leonidas could curse also the Gods, a soldier raised the door flap of his tent, and the Great King stepped in. He could have prostrated, chained though he was. He could have pleaded for mercy or denounced his past actions. But Leonidas had been a soldier his entire life, had been Satrap of Arya and one of the most powerful men in Asia: he would rather die with dignity than live in ignominy. He never felt anything but love for Alkaios, yet he would have rather been punished with a quick death for having stared down the Great King, than be rewarded with life for having begged his forgiveness.

And yet, once his eyes locked with the stern emerald gaze of the King, Leonidas faltered. He did not bow; he did not humiliate himself with the prosykenesis. Yet his stare fell to the ground, and he nodded along with it. That, it seems, was enough for Alkaios, because, when Leonidas raised his head back up, the Great King was smiling. “Whatever have you been up to, old friend?” he asked, the mirth of hidden laughter on his lips. As Alkaios gestured his bodyguard to unlock the shackles, Leonidas knew himself saved. He had never been too cautious a man, and immediately stood tall, to face his King in the eye.

Alkaios stopped him, before he could say anything: “Hush now, and listen, for you have indeed caused quite a stir, and the words I have to speak do not come easy to me as they do to other men.” At this, the King took a deep breath, so that it seemed as if though truly he were close to attempt a great endeavour. “I am sorry, my friend Leonidas. I am sorry that I have lacked faith in you, and I am sorry that is had to come to this. There. I have said it. I will not repeat myself,” Alkaios declared, complementing his stern tone with a complicit wink.

“I have not forgotten my cousins, nor did I ever truly believe them avenged with the destruction of Al-Qadir’s power. I would have had to conquer Mesopotamia eventually, and so I followed that lead, but whatever doubts you’ve had, I had shared. I doubted everyone, even you, and so I spoke of these doubts only to few. Too few, it seems,” the King admitted in a sigh, before growing stern again: “Yet you were also a fool, my friend, to trust the word of some Persian mystic on these matters. Had you brought your worries to me, instead, I would have assuaged them. Now you are an enemy of the great Persian lords, whose friendship was hard won and who could yet destroy all that we have built, and I cannot let that slide…”

“So, is that how it has to be, my King?” Leonidas asked, in true and honest doubt. He forced himself to not sound pleading yet, had he been still a younger man, he knew he might have cried. “Am I to be sacrificed to the altar of politics? Slain or exiled for the game of shadows and tricks?”

Alkaios stroked his freshly shaven chin, as if though pondering the matter, but in his gleaming smile Leonidas saw that his sentence had already been passed: “Exiled, indeed! Exiled to the far end of the Kingdom, as was done to the last of the Silver Shields, when they became too dangerous to be kept near Babylon. Only,” the Great King spoke slowly, his grin growing to wolfish proportions, “the far end of my Kingdom is here. In Antioch, bordered as it is by the armies of the Romans. These are mighty men. The destroyers of ancient Macedon. It will take an even mightier general to hold them. A general who would then earn his pardon in the eyes of all in the Kingdom, and perhaps even the Satrapy of Syria or Cilicia, who would then become gateways to our blessed West.”

​

At that, finally, Leonidas fell to his knees. For he had indeed been a soldier his entire life, one of the most powerful men in Asia, and would not plead nor beg. But gratitude? That alone could truly humble him. “Will I then by your side, as we make war against the great enemy? Will it be like the years past?”

“By my side?” Alkaios asked, his eyes growing wide in affected surprise. “The Gods mute your words, Leonidas! You are a veteran of many campaigns; you are more than capable to hold your own command. The conquest of Cilicia, the taking of those rocky gates, that will be your endeavour, and yours alone.” Before Leonidas could utter the question, the King was already answering it: “As I have said, right now our Persian allies would be able to undo all that we have built. Still there exists a powerful realm that could restore the Islamic Caliph in power, and then it will be a merchant’s game, to keep our subjects loyal. And – more pragmatically – we will need ships,” he finished with an impish grin.

At that, Leonidas stood, and embraced his lord, and Alkaios returned the hug in kind. He had come to doubt him. Come to doubt the young golden god that had won them Persia. He’d thought him distracted and weakened by the power to rule, feared he’d forgotten the battlefield on which his myth had been forged. Perhaps it had shown. Perhaps that is why Alkaios had allowed him to see only the mask of the Great King. But now, with those words, he lifted his actor’s garb, and revealed himself as the warrior hero that he had always been. Like Odysseus shedding the garb of the old man, or Achilles casting away his womanly disguise, so did Alkaios turn back into the prince of yore.

“Do you understand, my friend? All this subterfuge, all this politicking, it is but an ugly and temporary necessity. My purpose, my only ambition, is to set our rule in stone. Make our Hellenic lordship strong, so that we may rule over this Empire like the lion rules over the common beasts. So that we will be able to dole out justice and seek out our enemies freely, with no fear of revolt or sedition.”

To a lion’s mane, she’d often compared it. The King of the Africas’ crown, atop the brow of the King of Asia. Alkaios had liked the idea. Back then, of course, they’d never seen a lion. Back then, too, they’d been younger and more foolish. She had, at least. Sometimes, Lu-ling wondered whether the sycophantic priests that followed her man were not right, and that he had been indeed blessed by his Gods, so little did Alkaios appear to be touched by age. He’d grown a grey hair or two in that golden mane, certainly. And perhaps the skin clung slightly less tightly to his wide cheekbones than it once did. But any time he would flash his dashing smile at her, Lu would see the same young prince she had fallen in love with, all those years ago.

Twenty years. More than that, in fact. Enough years that those above the twentieth seemed immaterial. Her father had been born under the anarchy of the Five Dynasties. He’d served the Emperors of the New Tang Dynasty and fled the tyranny of the Jurchen usurpers. And now, lazing on a camp bed with her beloved lion, his daughter rested upon the shores of the Western Sea, as her man prepared to make war on the remnants of the Dai Qing. She chuckled. Alkaios had been raised with tales of the ancient king Odysseus’s journey across the Grecian Sea. To her, it seemed like such a small hop.

“One thing always struck me, about your Odyssey…” she began, without preamble nor explanation. That had always been their way. Or, at the very least, it had been their way for as many years as she could remember. He hummed, calmly, half with her and half in the arms of Morpheus. Lu frowned and, smirking coyly, pulled a hair from that golden mane. Alkaios answered the gesture with a howl, chuckled, then asked: “Yes dear, what were you saying struck you about the Odyssey?”

Lu-ling nodded, satisfied, and continued: “What do you think the hero thought, when he was finally allowed back to his wife?” She paused, but he did not interrupt her thoughts. That too, had always been their way. “I remember Penelope’s disbelief, her doubts, her uncertainties. And yet; he was the hero, a great conqueror, his patroness had given him back the strength and handsome form of his youth… do you not think that he might have doubted his choices, at some moment? He who had shared the bed of a goddess, who had been offer the hand of a young and beautiful princess?”

Alkaios but stared at her, his gaze wide like that of a shocked child. And then he smirked. And then he kissed her. Softly, teasingly, he kissed her forehead. “I know nothing about sharing the beds with goddesses… And only very little of being offered the hands of princesses,” he added with a wink and another kiss. “But I will say this: ten years Odysseus spent trying to go back to the woman he loved, to the family he’d left. And I will not believe that he, even for one moment, regretted what he found. For I have been indeed conqueror, perhaps even hero… yet all that pales in comparison to the bliss that I enjoy in your arms.”

Perhaps Lu did not fully believe him. Perhaps, deep in her heart, she knew that Alkaios loved little more than to be hailed a champion by his men, to be cheered by his soldiers and embraced by his commanders. Perhaps, deep in her heart, there was little that she herself enjoyed more. Yet his words came to her like a warm hug, a reassurance that she would not have thought possible, and she could not will herself to be rid of it.

“Do you understand, my love? The conquests, the power, the riches… these are but the path, and the frills that border it. My purpose, my only ambition, is for us to be happy. Ever since the Goddess of love sent you on my path to greatness, it has been one that we’ve shared. And if we sit on the throne of Asia, or of Egypt, or of the entire world, I will certainly be glad. But my joy will come from the fact that we share that seat.”

Our Sea, the Bactrian Greeks in the army called it. Our Sea, as if though their power over it had not faded distant centuries in the past. Our Sea, as if though their inexistent navy already ruled those waves across which the Achaeans had waged war against their Trojan foe. Alexandra had to hold back scoffs. Sometimes, she wondered whether those men placed their faith too blindly into her father.

She loved him, the Gods themselves must have known that she did, and certainly he was great… yet she would only ever see in his plans what she would have done differently. Where she would have acted more swiftly, more decisively, sometimes even more cautiously. And she could only ever see that her ideas would have been more effective, grander… or simply would have been, when Alkaios had refused to act.

“My purpose, my only…” her father went on, from behind her, continuing some monologue he had been declaiming, apparently for her benefit.

“Only ambition… I know,” Alexandra said, interrupting him. And truly she did since, in that, father and daughter were the same.

​

Author's notes: at long last, the map I have so often promised! Whilst not always as densely populated, it always takes me aback just how massive the Persian Empire was, compared to its Western neighbours. And Alkaios's is, most definitely, a great Persian Empire! Most of the map is self explanatory, and what little isn't is probably included in the earlier chapters (though the territorial extent of the Roman civil war does little to reflect the size of their armies, since our "rightful" Emperor Narses controls the wider, lighter purple part of the map, yet has some three thousand less men). The Arabo-Egyptian sultanate will be expanded upon in later chapters, but little has changed on that front, compared to the game's start.

What else... Leo has been demoted, but now has an important task of his own. Phil is still tithering on the fence regarding his opinion of his cousin, and is more easily swayed now that he's close at hand (both in story and in game - swaying being a mechanic, after all!). Lu is still only Alkaios's lover, in game terms, and will probably stay that way a while yet. And then there's little Lexa, who isn't so little anymore... but more on her, and her knowledge of ambition, later.

I would also take the chance to thank @Thaiga for the nomination as this week's WritAAR of the Week. I don't do this solely for the accolades, but damn if they don't feel good, especially from this community!

 

[Specialist290]

So many different faces, so many different "only purposes and ambitions." Perhaps there is a space somewhere in Alkaios's mind where all of these different and seemingly contrary purposes are reconciled into a coherent whole, but the above chapter makes it clear only that Alkaios is adept at revealing only what he wants those close to him to know, and that his true purpose is something that he is keeping very closely guarded indeed.

 

[Superstorm]

Another solid update! This reminds me I need to try and make some maps eventually. They give a great overview and I am indeed suprised just how big that empire has grown!

 

[Midnite Duke]

Alkaios is no longer simply trying to convince Phil and Lu that there is an endgame; he is now trying to convince himself that his treadmill will eventually slow and he can get off. Thank you for the update and congrats again.

 

[Eludio]

A Soldier named Alexander​

“Soldier! What is your name?”

“Alexander, sir!”

“You and half the sods in this army… you’ve a nicer kit than the others, at least,” the lochagos scoffed. “And what are you, half Turk? Scythian?”

“My mother’s from the East…” Alexander tried to interject, but the officer had no real interest in his subordinate’s heritage, and continued unperturbed: “Shit, you’re young! Or can your people just not grow a beard to save their lives?”

“Anyway,” the lochagos went on, again not bothering to wait for the soldier’s answer, “that was some fine and deadly fighting, son,” he pointed to Alexander’s sword arm, still caked in the blood of many a different Syrian soldier, as he spoke. “Reckless and stupid, too, and I would have you whipped for stepping out of line five times too many… but you looked like a hero while you did, and sometimes that does more for an army than killing ten of the enemy.”

“Thank you, sir!” Alexander answered, saluting with by slamming a fist into a pride-full chest. And immediately winced, as the move had been far more sudden and violent than desired. Still, the lochagos’s words of praise soothed the pain better than any balm, crass and direct though they might have been.

The officer stared on for a while, pulling on his moustache as he inspected the paragon soldier from head to toe. In any other context, Alexander might have tried to hide from that gaze. Might have stood cross armed or with chin dug into the military scarf or tried to dissimulate a far too youthful face beneath the carefully filigreed cheekpieces of his elephant head helm. But an honest compliment can tear down even the most carefully laid of walls, and so Alexander stood with chest puffed out and well unmasked, beaming as if though it were Achilles himself that had just complimented his skill at arms.

“What are you, kid? Bastard son of some landowner back in Bactria?” the lochagos asked, still pulling at his moustache, for once expecting an actual answer.

“Too good well trained to be the son of a well-meaning farmer?” Alexander replied with a boastful grin, far too confidently and proudly. Just confidently and proudly enough to win over the ageing lochagos’s heart.

“Too well trained to be the son of some fat nobleman too, but far too well dressed to be the son of a veteran phalangite,” the officer chuckled at the young soldier’s boastful attitude. “And besides, lord Philandros isn’t the type of General to ask a common born peasant up to his tent. Prefers girls,” he added with a mean grin. “Are you hearing me, boy? I said the King of Sogdiana asked for you, personally! I’d expect some words of thanks!”

“Thanks… thank you, sir…” Alexander stammered, feeling the world collapse all around. “Thank you, I will go to the General right away,” Alexander whispered, and the lochagos clearly thought the soldier awed by the honour. And indeed, Alexander was awed. Awed and terrified and – certainly for the first time ever – uncertain on what to do.

Desertion came to mind. Flight, to steal a horse and run off into the night. But it was still bright morning, and the armies of conquering Alkaios did not rest even in victory, and kept a tight watch on whomever came and went from their camp.

And so, defeated, the young prideful shoulder proceeded, shoulders slumped, towards the King of Sogdiana’s pavilion.

It was the names that killed him. Philandros spent every fight, every long and dreary battle, on the doorstep of Hades, terrified of whichever stray lance might finally push him over the threshold. And yet, after every fight, it was the names that found the mark no enemy steel had. Phaedros and Farhad and Isidoros and Cyrus and Ahmad and Theophilos and Hector and Bodhi… and then a thousand more. He could not remember all of them. He never tried. But they would come back, from time to time. As he lay resting. As he made love to a concubine. Or as he ran down an enemy soldier. ‘Are you a Farhad?’ he would then wonder. And yet his horse would go on riding, and his steel would go on killing.

“Alexandros, phalangite of the second taxeis of Bactria, my lord, on your request,” Philandros’s page announced, bringing him back from the land of the dead. He answered with a simple nod, but that was enough. The less competent of the royal pages, he would not allow near his compound, and happily left for Alkaios’s shock troop.

As the soldier stepped in, Phil could not help but chuckle. The phalangite’s armour was a beautiful piece, it’s silvery scales still shining under the dents and bends of a day’s combat, and the helmet was made to match, filigreed in gold and moulded into the shape of an elephant’s head. A beautiful piece, clearly having come from the forges of a master Persian smith, not the royal armouries. In truth, he almost felt ashamed, not having noticed the dashing figure on the march.

“Quite the display on the field… Alexander,” Phil congratulated the soldier with a smile, gesturing for his page to leave the room. Ever a good servant, the man pulled the heavy woollen doors of the pavilion behind him, effectively sealing his King in with the young soldier. And with the heat of a Syrian summer evening. But such was the price of silence.

“Thank you, oh King… you do me too much honour, to waste your time with one such as I,” the phalangite replied, head bowed low, and that face all but fully masked by the helm’s visor. Of this fact, Philandros took note with a smirk: “You know, soldier… it is customary for a man to remove his helmet when addressing a superior, unless he is on duty…”

The phalangite froze, back as still and straight as if though made of the same metal as his arms. “I did not know whether I was at liberty…” the soldier began, the words dying off as an unusually deep voice suddenly cracked into a much lighter tone.

“Are you not always at liberty?” Phil shot back, trying his best to add an air of annoyance into his voice, but knowing full well that his amusement was quite audible. For a moment the phalangite said nothing, head still bowed, then shook it before removing the elephantine helm. And, with that, so was Alexander the soldier removed from the room.

“You knew!” Alexandra said, somewhat accusingly, having cast off the young soldier’s shyness like an actor does a mask. In fact, her face, now no longer hidden, showed more than just an air of annoyance. Philandros did not contain his laugh this time.

“Yes, Xandra, yes, I knew. No matter how much dirt you try to rub on it, I can still recognise your face… though nice touch on the hair,” Phil commented, pointing a quill at the princess’s long tress, tied around her head like an ancient Spartan soldier’s. “Your father might have actually enjoyed that trick. I assume, since you are down here with the lowly footmen, that he did not approve of your little stunt?”

“He never expressly forbade it!” she shot back, not without a tinge of insecurity. “Which means you did not ask,” Philandros interrupted her. Alexandra opened her mouth to say something, then closed it, and then opened it again. Never had he seen her in such distress, but for all his amusement Phil was in no mood to offer her a lifeline.

He simply raised an eyebrow, sitting his chin onto his fist until she continued: “I did not ask… I did not want him to say no. It’s the conquest of Egypt, uncle!” she lamented, as if though he did not know the fact. But he understood what she meant. Alexandra had followed the army camp ever since she’d been of an age to ride on her own.

“It’s as if though Philip had brought Alexander with him in the conquest of Thrace, only to leave him behind for the Great War,” she insisted, and Philandros saw no boon in reminding her that Philip had been murdered well before he could voice his preferences on whether his son should accompany him to Persia.

“You do realise the position this puts me in, don’t you?” Phil asked instead, then shook his head as he saw guilt easily overcome by stubbornness on the battlefield of his niece’s face. “You know that Alkaios wanted you in Ctesiphon to learn how to rule, don’t you? It was far from a punishment…”

“Oh please, uncle! As if though father ruled from Ctesiphon!” she blurted out, interrupting him. He frowned, but said nothing. Even in passion, Alexandra knew what she said. Philandros knew for a fact that young Seleukos would have accompanied her as he led the wounded veterans back into Assyria. And that his name had been floated around more than once as a potential match.

Still, his silence gave her time to temper her indignation, and instead Alexandra meekly asked: “Can you not simply pretend that you haven’t noticed me?”

After a moment’s consideration, Philandros shook his head. “No, child, I cannot. Wait! Hold your complaints,” he almost asked, rather than ordered. “Whatever business you have with your father, that is your own. I will not send you back to Babylon, nor will I denounce you to him. But he’ll learn of your disappearance soon enough, and I suggest you reveal yourself before then.”

“But!” he raised a finger to silence Alexandra, even as she moved to express her joy. “You’ll pardon my crassness in saying that, no matter how skilled you are at wrapping your chest, I don’t expect your disguise to last much longer,” Phil said, only minimally embarrassed, while Alexandra’s face turned towards the redder tones of brick. “And I would not have that happen in the midst of the footmen’s camp. You’ve seen enough of war to know that some wouldn’t wait enough for you to explain who you are.”

He let the implication hang heavy upon Alexandra’s shoulders, and only continued when her proud gaze finally faltered. “From tonight onwards, you will sleep in my pavilion. When we march, you’ll ride with me, and if we were to come into combat, you’ll serve as a mounted messenger for me. Those are my terms. If you don’t accept them, you can go head over and plead your case to your father right now.”

“I wouldn’t be fighting…” she said, thoughtfully, and Phil could not help but see his cousin in her, ever unsatisfied. “But you’d be close to the general of a taxeis, relaying his orders, and getting used to command,” he offered, having long learned to deal with Alkaios. Like father, like daughter, Alexandra grew silent and thoughtful.

“What would the men say?” she finally asked, tacitly accepting Phil’s offer. It made him laugh out loud. “That I surround myself with young heroes?” he rebuked with a shrug. “Your father does so, who would question me following suit? Or perhaps they’d say I show favour to rich young soldiers. Or that I’ve taken a male lover, just to change things up. I’m still the King of Sogdiana, Zeus Soter!” he blasphemed, perhaps for the first time in recent memory.

It mattered little. At the mention of her father’s favour for young heroes, Alexandra too had started laughing. “Then I, Alexander of Bactria, accept your offer, oh King of Sogdiana!” she said with a deep bow, her braid almost falling from the crown of her head. Philandros but smiled in response, only offering a nod as he pointed her towards the pavilion’s exit.

It was a curious thing. Phil had been raised to consider the gods but distant ghosts, uncaring and uninterested, and far too busy to give mortals signs of their will and whims. And yet, as Alexandra lifted the heavy woollen flap to leave his tent, he could not help but focus on the two long curls that had escaped her tress, and now formed up like horns on her temples.

​

Author's notes: I'd say I'm back, but I'd be repeating myself. The Exam session is taking its toll on me, but I still manage to write something from time to time, and for this chapter I decided to focus on our little Alexandra, all grown up and with a mind for war. No pictures for now, she'll have more time to shine later on, but suffice it to say that the promises Alkaios made Leonidas in the last chapter have come to fruition: the Spartan's namesake is holding off the pretender Roman Emperor in Cilicia, while the Great King is heading south, through Syria and Egypt.

The al-Ikshidi Sultanate is going through what historians usually refer to as a "shitshow of a period", and by the time of the next chapter, it won't even be "al-Ikshidi" anymore. Easy pickings and, as the last Sunni kingdom in the East, a natural next step for Alkaios's expansion. I glossed over the first battle(s) to get to Alexandra in the aftermath of her first true fight, but the Bactrian conqueror is steamrolling as usual. I decided to actively gimp myself by only having him fight on the softer Egyptian front, and leaving Leonidas to handle the Romans in the north.

Little of historical note here, except perhaps something on the military organisation. A Lochagos (by Wikipedia translated as a Captain) is the commander of what was probably the smallest functional unit in the Hellenistic phalanxes (having as subordinates only the phylarchs and the individual soldiers), whilst a Taxeis (headed by a taxiarch or strategos) was the recruitment unit of the ancient Macedonian armies. I've assigned ""Alexander"" to the second Taxeis of Bactria, as I try to fit them to the number of levied troops for each Kingdom, and each Taxeis is supposed to be about 1500 men.​

 

[Midnite Duke]

Thank you for the update. Girls just want to fight, while looking good.

 

[Specialist290]

So Alexandra finally gets the taste of battle she has craved for, and finds it as sweet as her father does.

Phil is a good man for looking out for his niece like this -- I can only imagine what Alkaios's reaction would be were his daughter to die on the front lines, or worse, under his watch.

 

[Eludio]

Alkaios is no longer simply trying to convince Phil and Lu that there is an endgame; he is now trying to convince himself that his treadmill will eventually slow and he can get off. Thank you for the update and congrats again.

The question, I suppose, is whether he'll trip on it, or keeps finding new wind to go on running. I hardly see a world where he manages to step off, sadly...

Thank you for the update. Girls just want to fight, while looking good.

I've actually realised she lost her "groomed" trait a few saves after... it was not my intention, but perhaps she learned something, on that battlefield?

So Alexandra finally gets the taste of battle she has craved for, and finds it as sweet as her father does.

Phil is a good man for looking out for his niece like this -- I can only imagine what Alkaios's reaction would be were his daughter to die on the front lines, or worse, under his watch.

Quite ironically, given my sloggish writing pace, I am already thinking quite well into the future, and I can't wait to get to explore more of the Phil-Alexandra relationship. I freely admit he's become something of my stand-in character, and he's definitely the one who best knows how to "handle" Alkaios's flights of fancy, where Lu usually encourages them and Isokrates stopped trying and focuses on rulership. This leaves him in the perfect position to serve as a wise older mentor to Alexandra, should she follow in her father's crazily brilliant footsteps.

 

[Eludio]

The Hot Gates of Cilicia​

“Thermopylae!” Leonidas shouted, with all the air that was left in his lungs. The men cheered; some, ignorant of the Spartans’ fate, others, stirred at the idea. “As in those days of old, outnumbered, we Greeks hold our ground! Cilicia surrendered meekly to our rule, it’s governors wise to the fact that they could do naught to halt us. Now the Romans seek to take it back… well I say let them try! Leonidas, my father named me, having been warned by the gods in dream! This is my destiny, to hold these Hot Gates. AND NONE OF YOU WAS NAMED EPHIALTES, AM I WRONG!?” he roared, like the old lion that he was.

The army roared back. Not three hundred, nor forty-two they were, but ten thousand strong men. The six taxeis of the Empire’s heartlands, Arian veterans and Persian recruits alike, accompanied by a horde of dismounted Turkic archers. He knew that whoever heard him cried out no, but those words were quickly lost in the sea of mindless shouting that followed any commander’s battlefield speech.

It mattered little. Even the greenest of the recruits had spent months on end drilling, and they needed nothing more than the sound of a horn to send them into formation. When it finally came, the phalanx moved as one great wave, slow and fearsome as they spread out to fill the whole of the Cilician pass. Indeed, they were outnumbered… but this was no desperate last stand.

“You’re almost as inspiring as our glorious leader…” came a sardonic scoff from Leonidas’s left. Pyrrhos all but galloped away as the other man turned to face him. At first, Leonidas had been flattered by how much his friend still felt the injustice that had been done upon him. Now, every stare and sarcasm made him feel as if though he were once more under judgement. As if though Pyrrhos considered him a coward, simply because he held no grudge against Alkaios for a misrule that his brother, not the King, had committed.

“Have your ile ready, should any Roman maniple get through!” Leonidas shouted at the fleeing figure. And then: “He’s angry… but he’s no traitor,” he whispered, to nobody but himself.

“Thermopylae!” Leon the Corinthian simply stared as his Emperor postured, the christogrammed standard bright red behind his back. “What soldier, born in Greece, has not dreamt of retracing the steps of the ancient heroes? And now, now that we are standing at the gates of the Empire, to hold a narrow pass against the Persian horde, you would suggest we beat retreat?”

“Bardas...” the soldier began, forgetting himself, only to be corrected by a quick and icy glance. “Your August Highness, I would not suggest that we leave the Gates of Asia open to them. Simply I say: let them come to us. As you’ve said, this is like Thermopylae. We both hold a side of the pass… let the Persians attack us, and this time no goatherd’s path will weaken our wall. Let the might of this Hellenophile Turk smash itself against the shields of Rome, and let these be proven stronger than even those of the Spartans.”

Throughout the speech, the officers of the pretender Emperor’s corps had begun to smile. Had he been Basileus himself, instead of a mere advisor, Leon was certain they would have cheered his speech. He had grown up selling half-worn hammers to armies that swam in gold… he knew how to work a crowd. Even Bardas was sporting a half-face’s grin, despite his best intentions. And then the Emperor shook his head, and the magic disappeared, and the smiling pigs returned to the shape of obedient crewmen.

“You speak fair words, Leon, and there is wisdom in them. Perhaps wisdom enough that, were matters different, I would be an utter fool not to heed your advice… but the matters are such: that fool Narses burns through the countryside in Trebizond and his fleets harass my navy in Achaia. Cilicia is the last province faithful to our cause that remains strong. If we do not contest the Persians in the pass, we betray this Cilician faith.”

At that, Bardas sighed, yet spoke out before his second could intervene: “No, my friend, we will fight the Persians at the Gates, not because it is the safest choice, but because it is the only choice. If I lose Cilicia, my bid to the throne is over. Worse, if I let Cilicia be lost to the Persian horde, I do not deserve the throne. On this, I agree with the usurper Narses: the monster in the East is, as it has always been, the greatest threat to our survival. He will not surrender his crown for the greater good, but I will not be that hypocrite. I would rather lose my seat in Constantinople if it means that I have burned down Persepolis.”

“Thermopylae!” Chrysantos spat out, from under a leonine helm. He was but days promoted to Seleukos’s place and still half-drunk on something that clearly was not wine. Alkaios showed no sign of having heard him, and certainly no sign of caring. Philandros knew that look, and Chrysantos clearly did not. Which, naturally, meant that Phil prepared himself for a laugh at the other man’s expense, having no desire nor will to warn the younger upstart about the nest of vipers those words were dragging him into.

“They’re already calling it the modern Thermopylae,” the sycophantic commander repeated, earning only a half glance from the Great King. A wiser man would have taken it as a request for silence. A truly wise man would have seen the anger beneath the request. Chrysantos of Maracanda was neither. “And what genius of yours, Great King, to send a man called Leonidas to hold the passes,” he attempted, hoping perhaps to capture his lord’s attention with personal flattery, where good news had failed. “Clearly, a god must have whispered in your ear, or perhaps both Athena and Apollo have counselled you, since this action is mired with both strategy and poetry!”

Philandros had never been the most pious of believers, far more concerned with matters of purity and the safety of his own soul, yet even he cringed at the blasphemous overcomplimenting. Alkaios finally decided to heed the other man’s words, however, the King’s grass-green gaze now fixed upon his newest ilarch. Again, Phil found himself doubting how one would wish upon himself that stare, so clear it was to him that there was no love in his cousin’s eyes. And, again, Chrysantos did not share his concerns.

“Truly, my lord, you were like the hand of Fate itself, moving the hero into the sun, that he may shine brightest…”

“Hardly,” Alkaios mercifully interrupted the younger man’s tirade with curt decisiveness. Philandros was already applauding his cousin’s restraint, perhaps bracing himself for another of Chrysantos’s stubborn assaults on their intelligence, when the Great King decided that curtness, no matter how decisive, was not sufficient.

“Hardly, ilarch, did I move any heroes into the sun,” he started, his tone only slightly higher than usual. “For there were no heroes to be moved. There was a capable officer, who could have been named Cyrus or Kineas or Achilles, and there was a task to be done. A simple, straightforward, task, but an important one. Which meant I could not trust an impatient child, freshly promoted from the rank and file,” at that, Philandros smirked cruelly, “and chose an older man who would do his job meekly.”

“If the gods above want to delight themselves with the rhyme of ancient names with modern deeds, that is their prerogative. As for the men of the army, I would rather that they look at their own achievements, and realise that, while the reserves hold a narrow pass against a broken Empire, we are carving through the richest Kingdom in the Caliphate. A Sultan lies dead,” he suddenly raised his voice, starting to pace the room as he pointed towards the faraway battlefield where the crows still feasted, “his army, twice the size of ours, now struggles to crown a new head to meet our fury, and you would sing of the modern Thermopylae? Sing of the modern Granicus, sing of the modern Plataea, for you are relieving these myths with every sword that you raise!”

​

“The Greeks lost at Thermopylae! The Persians killed them all and passed through!” Alkaios nearly shouted, much to the younger man’s dismay. And then he grew silent and sober, perhaps having realised the irony of his words. Phil certainly had. “Leave, ilarch, I have no need of you anymore,” he growled, and Philandros took pity, gesturing for Chrysantos to obey, before the young man could dig his grave deeper with further attempts at leaving it.

“Can you believe it?” the King asked when Chrysantos had left the room, and only then did Phil notice that his cousin’s hand was on his dagger’s hilt. “Syria is all but ours, Egypt within our grasp, and they worry about whether Leonidas does his duty? I have toiled tirelessly with our Roman spies, I knew when and how the pretender would take his legions from Cilicia, all the while preparing our march towards Alexandria… I have been crafting them a new myth for months, but the man wins one battle, and he is suddenly their hero? When did the Greeks ceased to cheer the name of Achilles, and started to worship Phoenix?”

At the sight of Alkaios’s near feverish stare, an image sprung to Phil’s mind. A short flash of a day long passed, when he’d been laying bedridden, and his Achillean cousin had gleamed with joy at the thought of being surrounded by modern heroes. A statue of the Kronid lord, Leonidas had been that day. Now, he was apparently old Phoenix.

“These kids, they are still enamoured with children’s stories and ancient names, and are unable to admire the world that we are building…”

“Yes,” answered Phil, “yes, my dear cousin. Truly, it is a shame, when men lose themselves in myths, and forget to live their present.”

​

Author's notes: a less image-filled chapter than I'd envisioned, but those will be added as soon as I have my main computer back on hand. For now, let me describe by words the events that occurred while our modern Leonidas fought at his modern Hot Gates. As promised whilst professing Only Ambition, Alkaios's armies are now fully engaged in their two campaigns: in the north, the Spartan's successor marched through Cilicia with very little resistance, and was accosted by Basileus Bardas of the Byzantine Revolt. In the South, the Great King himself leads some ten thousand odd men against the Sultan of Egypt, killing the man himself in pretty much the first battle. With this, Egypt went to some cousin of the Sultan, but more on that later. For now, most of the Levant lies open to the Hellenistic armies, with only the Roman bastion in Jerusalem fully safe, and Alkaios can continue his march towards Alexandria in Egypt (because he has so few in his Empire...). In game, these are a Great Conquest for the Kingdoms of Cilicia (as Bardas himself said, most of the Roman Rebellion's lands) and the Kingdom of Egypt, into which most of the former de-Jure kingdoms of Syria and Jerusalem have drifted.

Done with the game technicalities, onto the the historical part. I do not think I need to spend further words on Thermopylae, Leonidas or the traitor Ephialtes (who our modern hellenes probably also imagine as disfigured as Zack Snyder did). Two terms that I might or not have already used and explained: an ile is the division of Macedonian cavalry, and an ilarch is its commander (Chrysantos having been promoted to the position after Seleukos was sent - apparently with Alexandra - back to Assyria). On the Roman side, I took the chance to show Bardas standing not next to an Aquila, but a standard with the Christogram (Chi-Rho) which was another common insignia in Byzantine armies, probably even moreso than the double headed eagle. Speaking of Bardas, he was supposed to be a background non-character, but I was pleasantly surprised when I got the chance to give him a few inches of depth, through the fortunately named Leon.

Back on the Hellenistic side: everyone knows Achilles, maybe not everyone knows Phoenix, the hero's older mentor and a minor hero in the Iliad. Truly, not a man to scoff at, but certainly a demotion when compared to the King of the Gods.

 

[Midnite Duke]

On to Egypt. Thank you for updating

 

[Specialist290]

Thermopylae! A name that rings down through the centuries, laden with symbolic value to those who understand its significance. Fascinating to see how both the Amyntids and the Byzantines are filtering things through much the same lens despite their differing perspectives.

Alkaios seems to be getting a bit jaded as he ages -- which, I suppose, is only an occupational hazard for someone who has been as wildly successful as he has for so long. As Phil notes, there was a time when he would have reveled at the thought of his subordinates being praised on the same level as the ancient heroes of old. I can't help but wonder if, despite his words, he still suspects his old friend Leonidas's loyalty on some fundamental level, perhaps deep enough in his subconscious that he can't even honestly admit it to himself.

 

[Eludio]

Thermopylae! A name that rings down through the centuries, laden with symbolic value to those who understand its significance. Fascinating to see how both the Amyntids and the Byzantines are filtering things through much the same lens despite their differing perspectives.

I've always planned to do a follow up to this AAR and title it something related to "The Diadochi", but in truth I feel as if though this is a fight of Successors already: the last two bastions of an Age long past, successors to the greatest empires of Antiquity. That they both speak Greek is an added bonus!

There is also the fun twist that, whilst both sides choose to focus on the quasi-mythical holdout of the Spartans against the Persians, there in fact was a second significant Battle of Thermopylae, fought between Rome and the (Hellenistic) Seleucid Empire of Persia in 190 BCE. Luckily for our heroes, the Hot Gates of Cilicia favoured them more than the Hot Gates of Greece had favoured the Seleucids.

Alkaios seems to be getting a bit jaded as he ages -- which, I suppose, is only an occupational hazard for someone who has been as wildly successful as he has for so long. As Phil notes, there was a time when he would have reveled at the thought of his subordinates being praised on the same level as the ancient heroes of old. I can't help but wonder if, despite his words, he still suspects his old friend Leonidas's loyalty on some fundamental level, perhaps deep enough in his subconscious that he can't even honestly admit it to himself.

A very fair point, and a deeper investigation into Alkaios than I had done myself. I sometimes regret my choice of not having chapters that follow his point of view as an adult, and I always appreciate when readers like you are able to peer into him anyway, and uncover things that I'd left veiled. Indeed, his flattery aside, I agree that the Great King thought he was sending Leonidas on a significant but gloryless task, having no intention of raising the man back to popularity. Memphis, Alexandria, the potential conquest of Cairo... perhaps even a visit to the Oasis of Siwa in Ammonion! How could the capture of Cilicia ever compare?

On a similar note, Philandros, King of Sogdiana, is left in subordinate command of a few taxeis, and not given leave to enact independent operations. In game this was just me trying to improve Phil's commander skills without risking a whole chunk of my levies, but it works well to add some depth to Alkaios. As younger men, he wanted nothing more than to see his cousin actually put some work in, improve, and shine. Now that Phil actually has led some of his own campaigns and is a respected man in his own name, he wants him close, where the comparison to himself is always apparent, and where any glory that Phil might earn will only serve to increase Alkaios's, never to outshine it.

There may well be a reason for the saying “those whom the Gods love die young”… and he may not be old, but Alkaios certainly no longer qualifies as young!

 

[filcat]

At that, Bardas sighed, yet spoke out before his second could intervene: “(...) but I will not be that hypocrite. I would rather lose my seat in Constantinople if it means that I have burned down Persepolis.”

Bardas seems to be a knowledgeable bloke, as he is able in giving fine-tuned references on what happened at and after the Battle of the Persian Gate 330 bce.

“Yes,” answered Phil, “yes, my dear cousin. Truly, it is a shame, when men lose themselves in myths, and forget to live their present.”

And so is Alkaios, a well-learned one, wise enough to know not to cling on to self-glorification through obscure myths.

I have been crafting them a new myth for months, but the man wins one battle, and he is suddenly their hero? When did the Greeks ceased to cheer the name of Achilles, and started to worship Phoenix?

Apart from the Achilles-Phoenix comparison:
If deliberate, then Phoenix is a another neat reference, otherwise an interesting coincidence it becomes; considering the king’s dynastic claim, and more so since it was clearly accepted as Hephaestion by him, instead of other possibilities. Will stop now to avoid any accidental-potential spoilers, even though one can already check it from Iliad as you wrote.

 

[Eludio]

Bardas seems to be a knowledgeable bloke, as he is able in giving fine-tuned references on what happened at and after the Battle of the Persian Gate 330 bce.


And so is Alkaios, a well-learned one, wise enough to know not to cling on to self-glorification through obscure myths.

Indeed, Bardas is no mere fool, no matter what the “rightful emperor” might like to think. He started from nothing to become one of most powerful lords of the Empire, and still managed to win over half of the Roman nobility to his side. Not an upstart hick. As for Alkaios… I did write Phil’s line with a bit of irony in mind, but I do agree that he’s more likely to loose himself in his own myth than in ancient ones

Apart from the Achilles-Phoenix comparison:
If deliberate, then Phoenix is a another neat reference, otherwise an interesting coincidence it becomes; considering the king’s dynastic claim, and more so since it was clearly accepted as Hephaestion by him, instead of other possibilities. Will stop now to avoid any accidental-potential spoilers, even though one can already check it from Iliad as you wrote.

Quite the catch fil!! Quite the catch indeed. I myself had not made the connection! Though who knows, perhaps Hephaestion’s father also claimed descent from his namesake!

I’m certain the choice, amongst all the older heroes, of the one that has lost his kingdom and been given one by his liege, was not casual. Alkaios seems to have mistakenly cast himself as Peleus, rather than Achilles, however…

 

[Eludio]

Philip and Alexander​

That woman is not the princess. The idea came to Seleukos out of the blue and became certainty as quickly as the thunderbolt crosses the skies. What a fool he’d been. Princess Alexandra, who grew up racing horses and wrestling with the pages, now refused to leave the ladies’ pavilion, and would only ride in her mother’s carriage? The Great King’s daughter, practically swaddled as a babe in bronze panoply, now would only walk around veiled, like a Christian priestess or a Persian noblewoman? That woman is not the princess.

And yet… how could she not be? The Queen treated her with the regard and familiarity only a daughter deserved, little Cleopatra hugged her and called her sister, the eunuchs of the guard treated her as if though it were King Alkaios himself that had stepped into their presence. If, truly, this was not the princess, then it meant that the whole noble family knew, and this was not a flight of fancy, but a conspiracy. Why? There were so many whys, that one had but to choose. Perhaps all the offers he’d been teased with were lies and misdirection, and the Great King’s daughter was being sent in secret to some foreign lord’s court, to be married off to the Kings of Armenia or some Khagan of the steppes, in exchange for gold and men. Or perhaps she merely travelled in disguise, hidden amongst the servants, for fear of some ambush or murder. There was, Seleukos had to admit, some sense to all that.

Still, he wondered whether he should send a message, write to the Great King and reveal that he knew that that woman is not the princess. A show of wit. A warning, should this conspiracy not have involved him. But how could it not have? Then, his written words might become a warning to whichever enemies the conspiracy was supposed to confuse. Even worse, they might show that he knew too much, and risk signalling him as a traitor, undoing years of honest fealty. No, Seleukos would play the fool and remain silent, rather than speak and risk confirming himself as one.

And still… the though kept gnawing at him. That woman is not the princess. And you weren’t told.

“He’s getting suspicious…” Lu whispered, as if though deep in thought, while she rustled some papers close to her nose. Inside the improvised gynaecium of the women’s pavilion, the lanterns were lit to be suggestive and soothing, offering an oasis of peaceful respite from the tortures of the bright Assyrian sun, yet providing little aid in the pursuit of reading.

“The King? Have you received letters?” Javaneh asked, her auburn locks falling limply around her shoulders as she carefully removed her – or rather Alexandra’s – veil. There was a tinge of fear in her voice, but she did not seem paralysed by the prospect. Good, Lu-Ling thought.

The Queen shook her head, only to realise that her cousin was showing her back and did not see her. “Not my husband, no,” she answered, then grimaced. “Or if he is, he is being coy about it. But in truth, he never noticed much of our courtly life, unless it happens inside his encampment, or he was directly involved in it. No, cousin, I meant our Satrapal escort.”

“Lord Seleukos? Do you think he could prove troublesome?” the other woman asked, still distracted, focusing more on her own body - reflected in a large steel mirror - than on her cousin’s words.

“Troublesome? Nothing I could not handle,” Lu mumbled, almost to herself but loud enough that Javaneh would hear. “But, were I you, I would try to make myself less visible to him…” she left the word hang, and finally her cousin turned to face her, half disrobed and never so vulnerable. For a moment, it seemed as if though she were ready to retort something. But their gazes met, and instead she grew meek and silent.

“Yes, my Queen. I shall do my best.”

Two or three major engagements, at worst a few sieges; but most cities give up easily, and minor forts we can just ignore. The rest is just a lot of marching and looking fierce; and hoping that our foragers can win any skirmish against their foragers. That’s all there is to a campaign, and though it seems like very little now, it is quite a lot when it’s being fought.

Alexandra had never asked Philandros whether he’d lied to her. There was simply no need for it. Just from his constant tirednes, she could tell the campaign for Egypt was like none he’d ever fought. In those first weeks, when he’d settled her at the edge of his pavilion under the guise of some military hyperetes, she took care as she walked back, to not chance upon one of her uncle’s concubines sneaking off into the night. She knew of them, and took note of them, but would rather avoid having to talk to them. Recently, however, Phil fell early to exhaustion, and sought solace only in the arms of Morpheus.

So, too, did Alexandra see the difference in her father’s attitude. Or rather, in the Great King’s. She’d followed him on campaign before, had witnessed both his private and public masks, had even seen him wear his own face. Never, in her memory, had Alkaios ever looked as he did under the Levantine sun. It seemed to her as if though he no longer bothered with any mask. Not two or three engagements, but closer to ten pitched battles had they already fought with the Egyptian armies, and on each occasion her father had gleamed and beamed, half a shining God and half a merry child. And, sometimes, Alexandra would wonder whether he were a child indeed, the way he played with the enemy.

At first, she had though that she was witnessing the fall of her hero. Feared that, after long years of brilliance, her father’s genius was finally spent. Even wondered whether the grey-eyed goddess had abandoned Alkaios’s side to come at hers, so easily did she notice his mistakes. She relayed Philandros’s orders, received those from her father’s messengers, and knew them to be wrong. Saw an opening that could be abused, saw an enemy squadron that could be cornered… and yet her father seemed not to. But after ten great engagements, she finally understood. His sight was as clear as hers. They simply did not share the same aim.

As the Egyptian line routed before them for what seemed like the hundredth time, and the men around her waited impatiently to hear the horn of pursuit, Alexandra knew that it would not sound. Because her father had no desire to kill the men of Egypt, whose arms could hold his banners or row on his ships. The Great King sought to kill their morale, as they broke again and again against his unshakable wall of spears. And, perhaps, he simply enjoyed the sight. Of his phalanx proud and unmovable, as it faced down a shattered enemy, rather than as just another army of butchers, busier during the rout than during the fighting.

And then, as if though Pallas truly had whispered in her ear and turned her head, her gaze was captured by the gilded figure of a caparisoned horse, proud and panoplied in emerald and gold even as it fled the field. She had never seen the rider before, had barely ever heard his name, yet she knew him immediately as the Sultan of Egypt and Syria. And, as the image risked escaping her, the goddess spoke faster in her ear. Reminded her that Philandros was still on foot, fighting as he often did with the hypaspists, and that she sat atop an officer’s horse, the only figure of command for the centre flank’s reserve ile. The Goddess told her these things, but it was Alexandra who took the reins. Alexandra who raised her spear and shouted the order. Alexandra who led the charge.

​

She had held the pike. She had fought in the phalanx, and no man had been any the wiser, for she had fought as well as any of them. Better, even, when the fury of battle had overtaken her, and she had dropped the sarissa for the sword. And yet, as her Marwari stallion leapt forwards beneath her thighs, stronger and prouder than any of the enemy’s horses, Alexandra felt a new type of elation. This was like no ride she had ever experienced. For the first time in her life, the princess rode not as the wind, but as the storm. And behind her, the thunder of hooves followed, as a hundred riders heeded her call.

A dozen gaps had formed in the Egyptian line. Alexandra could have unleashed her retinue and let them cut through the stragglers. But she had eyes only for that green and gold caparison. After years spent in Alkaios’s camps, the commands came to her like a second nature. She pumped her fist once, her trumpeter sounded the call, and the wedge closed around the princess, pressing for the charge. Unwitting royal companions, one and all. What remained of the child Sultan’s bodyguard melted before them, trampled and speared, and still, Alexandra had eyes only for that green and gold caparison.

Young Nafi barely had time to turn towards her. Perhaps she even recognised her, Alexandra fooled herself into believing, proud at the thought that her name would graze the man’s lips as he died. And died he did, for the princess was now a warrior, and her lance struck true. The heavy metal tip tore through the man’s mail aventail and pierced deep into his jaw, breaking against the back of helm and leaving Alexandra with but the stump of a weapon. A lesser man would have wasted time in cheer. She simply tumbled her lance in her fist, holding it one handed like a javelin, as she turned her ile and put the xyston’s back tip to work, spearing and slashing while she led her wing through the broken Arabic infantrymen. Half of them still had their backs turned. The other half had dropped their weapons. Alexandra made no distinction. She would have called herself the hammer to the phalanx’s anvil but, in truth, her wedge simply cut through the enemy like a scythe through grain.

Her silvery elephant’s head’s, Philandros had taken away, fearing it too visible and gaudy. Yet, as Alexandra came charging through the back of the enemy’s lines, bloody and triumphant and glorious, the simple bronzed helmet her uncle had given her shone like the sun. It lasted for an instant but, as she broke out of the Egyptian ranks, the princess saw the whole phalanx stare at her in awe. And then, their true sun shone through, and her star was cast into the shadow, as if though it had never been anything more than a grey rock.

As if though he were Zeus descending from the heavens, as if though he truly were the god of war that the soldiers made him out to be, Alkaios of the Line of Amyntor emerged from the ranks of his phalanx, and these parted before him like clouds. The crumbling remnants of the Egyptian army still well in sight, he nevertheless rode bare-headed, crowned only in his own golden curls, the lion-mane helm hanging beneath his shoulder. Her father, he was not. Only her King.

​

At first, Alexandra was afraid. She knew not why, knew not how, but she felt as if though utterly paralysed by the thought of what Alkaios might say. Of what he might think of her. And then, as he drew nearer and nearer, not in the gallop of an angered commander, but with the slow pace of a pleased lord, she instead began to feel eager. Began to look forwards to the meeting with the Great King, and to the moment where, like in the Ballad of Mulan, she could take off her helm and reveal herself. She imagined the shock in her father’s eyes, imagined how the phalanx would gasp at the revelation, as if though they were but one man. In the depths of her heart, perhaps, Alexandra even imagined how it would feel to have so successfully fooled her father. And what a prank it was! With but one great charge, Alkaios would be cast back into the role of old Priam, and she would become proud Hector, and the armies would cheer her name, and hers alone.

As they drew closer, the Great King with his retinue of companion and the masked princess with her following of auxiliaries, finally their gazes met. Already, Alexandra’s hand was undoing her chinstraps, already she had taken off the mail aventail that had masked her face, already she was prepared to open up her cheek pieces and show her face. And already, to her extreme horror, Alkaios knew. Still carrying his great shield, Philandros was rushing towards them on a borrowed horse and yet, even without his cousin’s counsel, her father had recognised her. Alexandra could tell by his placid smile. By the caring gaze that he had kept only for her, ever since her childhood. As she prepared to remove her helmet, Alkaios winked at her, as if though to reassure her that yes, he had seen through her pitiful ruse. And suddenly, she lost all interest in whether the army would gasp. Because, suddenly, hers was not a deception anymore.

“All my life, men have called me the successor of Great Alexander,” Alkaios spoke out as their two horses halted in the middle of the field, loud enough that all of his companions and all of hers could hear. “Yet for once, I find myself riding with the boots of Philip…” he paused, a long enough time for his daughter to finally act out her great move and pull the bronzed helm from her head. The companions, all young noblemen raised with her in court, indeed gasped as they recognised her face. “And of my own Alexander, I could not be more proud,” Alkaios smiled warmly at his daughter.

And, suddenly, Alexandra knew that she could not care less about the companion’s awe. Because, suddenly, she realised that it was not their adoration that she had sought. Her uncle Philandros arrived, panting, and she shared with him only a quick smile, so taken was she by her father’s approving gaze.

“As Hephaestion our ancestor before us, as I before her… my daughter too, is Alexander!”

​

Author's Notes: I've been playing around with the idea long enough, and now I've thrown it in as a title. Whether both names refer to Alkaios, or whether he's truly stepping out of Alexander's shoes and into the elder King's... that's for the reader to decide. The princess Alexandra certainly has her opinion on that, but it needn't be the right one. Speaking of Alexandra: game wise, this is when she was first made "Shieldmaiden" and thus allowed to lead troops as a woman. Which means that young Sultan Nafi was officially killed by Alkaios, not his daughter. Hence the inspiration for him "stealing the scene" as soon as he steps into the battlefield.

Also tied to gameplay: the Egyptian campaign did indeed see a lot of pitched batttles, especially compared to the much slower conquests in Persia. At this point in the story, I was barely at the height of Jerusalem, yet already they'd lost two Sultans in something like ten battles.

Otherwise, little history to be explained here. Of Alexander and Philip much has been said, and I don't think anyone here will wonder who the heroine in the Ballad of Mulan is.

 

[Specialist290]

I do have to pity Seleukos just a bit -- forever out of the loop, smart enough to realize that something is going on and that he's been left out, and not learning the full picture until well after the fact.

It's also interesting to note the difference in Alkaios's attitude toward warfare, even if we only get it second-hand this time around. Where once he rushed to the glory of battle and the thrill of the chase in pursuit, he seems to be showing a bit more restraint, almost as if he's been putting some thought into the long-term stability of the realm. Perhaps he'll finally master the one feat Alexander the Great never got the chance to manage -- passing on his legacy to a proper heir.

Speaking of: Who is Alkaios's legal heir at the moment? I know the last time we visited the topic it was his elder brother Isokrates, and it doesn't look like Alexandra has the telltale crown on her portrait, but I can't for the life of me remember if Alkaios has actually had a son and heir to pass his empire onto. In any case, hopefully royal fratricide is the one Argead tradition that the Amyntids won't aspire to...

 

[Midnite Duke]

The family martial genes run true. Proud Papa Moment. Thank you

 

[Eludio]

I do have to pity Seleukos just a bit -- forever out of the loop, smart enough to realize that something is going on and that he's been left out, and not learning the full picture until well after the fact.

True, I’ve used Seleukos as one of the main “court involved” narrating voices… but he’s not as involved as he’d like to. Perhaps not even as involved as he thinks he is. The bit about Alkaios considering him as a suitor for Alexandra was because I myself had considered him, and that’s because he was one of the only landed dukes that would accept a matrilineal marriage. He’s becoming more influential, but at the end of the day he’s still a small time officer who just happened to earn the Great King’s favour

It's also interesting to note the difference in Alkaios's attitude toward warfare, even if we only get it second-hand this time around. Where once he rushed to the glory of battle and the thrill of the chase in pursuit, he seems to be showing a bit more restraint, almost as if he's been putting some thought into the long-term stability of the realm. Perhaps he'll finally master the one feat Alexander the Great never got the chance to manage -- passing on his legacy to a proper heir.

Here’s hoping, Specialist! For both Alkaios, and my save game! Though I’m not sure nation building is the main reason our King wants to keep Egypt intact… but more on that in the next two chapters

Speaking of: Who is Alkaios's legal heir at the moment? I know the last time we visited the topic it was his elder brother Isokrates, and it doesn't look like Alexandra has the telltale crown on her portrait, but I can't for the life of me remember if Alkaios has actually had a son and heir to pass his empire onto. In any case, hopefully royal fratricide is the one Argead tradition that the Amyntids won't aspire to...

As far as the game goes, I’m still on Elective, and Isokrates is still carrying the vote (by a wide margin of 13 to 2). A few Emirs are voting for themselves, but pretty much every Hellenistic governor is on Isoktates’s boat.

As far as the story goes, I honestly don’t know what I would have written, had Alkaios died at this point in the campaign. As you’ve pointed out yourself, Macedonians were not the most straightforward bunch, when it came to royal successions. Would Phil pull a Ptolemy and steal Alkaios’s body? Would Leonidas try to rule through fame by conquering Byzantium? Would I get bored and close the AAR? Probably not the third one.

Still, I think I’ve already shown my hands with regards to me planning a follow up to this story, and the question of succession will be a big factor both there and in the next chapters of this tale, albeit in a different way

The family martial genes run true. Proud Papa Moment. Thank you

You know by now how much of a sucker I am for wholesome family moments! From the moment I got the mission to induct Alexandra into the warrior lodge, I knew this was not going to be some cold medal giving matter!

 

[RustyHunter]

Just got caught back up, and it was an excellent read as usual! I enjoyed all the complex interactions you've got going on, especially as Alexandra is becoming a major player in the story.

Just a side thought, but Phil and Alkaios' discussion about the future, particularly just how far Alkaios wishes to conquer, really reminded me of Kineas and Pyrrhos.