They Speak of Alexander

The Battle ended soon after, the Roman Cavaly was surrounded as the infantry was eventually picked off, the fleeing men getting their heads caved in as they ran for their lives, surrounded by Greek Iron.

Prince Euenios looking down at the men from atop the hill the losses, can't be described. Half a year's work, wiped out just like that.

After the pile of corpses were tallied and the weapons and armor collected, 623 Greeks lay dead in the battlefield. The Roman bodies were counted, to 241.

The night was cold, the fire was warm, and the wine was flowing, as the Greeks sang songs of valor and victory. The wounded were tended to, the dead were mourned, and the survivors were praised.

Prince Euenios and Dionysus reach it back to the camp, and they sit down in somber. The Romans as they might admit, are heroic. These men while outnumbered are fighting this hard, what more if there's a full legion of them?

There's still about 953 men in this camp.

"We need to warn them," Euenios says, his eyes never leaving the horizon where the last Roman had disappeared. "If the legion comes, we won't stand a chance."

"Maybe this is why the garrison in Bylazora are calling out for aid. There's probably even more Romans closer to the city. We let 11 of them escape, and we can expect more Romans soon." Dionysus says, closing his eyes in thought.

The mercenaries have looted the bodies of the Romans, their coins, armor and even feathered hats.

Euenios nods in agreement. "We must prepare. We can't let our guard down, not even for a moment." He glances around the camp, his gaze lingering on the faces of his comrades. Their expressions mirror his own fear and determination. He knows that every one of them is ready to fight to the death for their freedom.

In the face of Romans, there's no Greek or Macedonian, there's only war, a common enemy to them all. These people to the west slowly encroaching into their homes.

They march back to the camp, their steps heavy with the weight of their decision. The sun beats down on them, the sweat mixing with the dust and the smell of death. Their lips are dry, parched from the exertion and fear. They need water, rest, but there's no time.

They gather their provisions, and as fast as they could, they march forward to Bylazora, hoping the Romans haven't broken through.

Euenios's eyes scan the horizon, searching for any sign of smoke or movement that would indicate an attack on the city. His heart races, but he keeps his fear in check, setting a firm expression for his men to follow. They march in silence, each man lost in his own thoughts of the battles to come and the loved ones they are fighting for.

Some of the mercenaries have no more family, but they still hold on to the grief and their feelings of vengeance, the heart gripping fear, resolve, anger against their oppressors. That the proud Greeks have fallen this far against barbarians.

They marched for hours, the sun setting in a fiery blaze, leaving only the light of the moon to guide their way. The city of Bylazora grew larger with each step, its walls standing tall and strong, a bastion of hope in the sea of chaos that surrounded them. Yet, the silence was deafening, the absence of the usual bustling sounds from the city sent a shiver down Euenios' spine.

He looks over to the mountain, the same mountain that shields the city from large marauding armies are now housing the Romans, the lights on the slopes.

The Greeks had to act fast, before it's too late. They doubled their pace, their armor clanking rhythmically like a grim symphony of war. The city walls grew clearer with each step, and as they approached the gates, they could see the fear etched into the faces of the sentries.

The gates swung open, and they were met with a scene of urgent preparation. The citizens were organizing themselves into makeshift defense units, and the air was thick with the scent of burning torches and the acrid smell of fear.

Euenios and Dionysus wasted no time in speaking with the garrison commander, a grizzled veteran named Archelaus. His eyes were weary but determined as he listened to their report. He nodded gravely, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword. "The Romans have been harassing our lands for too long," he said, his voice like gravel. "We knew this day would come. But I never thought it would be like this."

The City where Philip II's palace is, under threat from external forces beyond our control, if Alexander was around the Macedonians would have never been cowering in fear like this.

Every time Prince Euenios looks at the people in this city, he sighs to himself. Are these really the same Macedonians sixty years ago? Trembling in fear, their pride almost nowhere to be found.

"We need to bolster our defenses," Archelaus continued. "We can't let them take Bylazora."

Euenios nodded, his resolve solidifying. "We will fight with you," he said firmly. "We are all Macedonians now."

The garrison's morale lifted at their arrival, the news of their victory spreading like wildfire through the city. They were not just mercenaries anymore; they were the defenders of Bylazora.

They worked through the night, repairing walls, setting traps, and strategizing. The city was a fortress now, a bastion of Greek resistance against the encroaching Roman tide.

The City of Philip II is being prepared to resist this one time.

As dawn broke, the first signs of the Roman legion appeared on the horizon, a sea of green and gold glinting in the early light. The Greeks took their positions, their eyes fixed on the approaching threat. The tension was palpable, thick enough to cut with a sword.

Euenios stood on the battlements, the wind whipping his hair around his face. He felt a strange calm wash over him, the kind that comes before a storm.