Chapter 5 - The Ebbing Sea
The Palace of Nikaia
Spring, 253 B.C.
“How could he do this to me?” Arsames asked, staring blankly towards the storm gathering outside his palace window.
Anaxibius Rhizaios frowned. “Strategos, we must prepare to flee.” The restless diplomat scratched at his scrawny neck. “Without a proper garrison, we cannot hold the city. Already the crowds call for a free Bithynia. How much longer before they call for your life?” His beady eyes darted towards the door.
Arsames turned toward the diplomat. “No. I will not give up the city. The Basileus has commanded me to hold Nikaia, and that is what I will do.”
“Arsames, listen to reason. Your kinsmen make forty five in number. Without the support of the Koiranides’ men, we cannot – “
“Don’t call him the Koiranides!” The strategos’ face burned bright red under his thick black beard. “You and I both know that my nephew is a traitor, and soon my brother will know as well! He is breaking the treaty before we can gather our strength, and there is no honor in attacking Seleukeia unprovoked. His actions will cost him dearly, you can be sure of that.”
Anaxibius looked away in shame. “I am sorry, strategos, I did not mean to upset you, but we cannot deny the truth any longer. The levies follow him without question. He promises them victory, and he gives it to them. And if I may speak to you truthfully…I have served your brother for most of his life. If Mithridates’ siege is successful, then his actions will be commended. The Basileus will never declare his son to be a traitor.”
Darkened eyes bored into the diplomat. Calmly, Arsames raised his arm, and struck the diplomat with the back of his hand. Blood flew from the man’s mouth as he fell to the ground. Arsames’ voice became a shrill scream. “Get out! Get out of here before I hang you as a traitor as well!”
The broken diplomat crawled away, a whimpering dog, crying and begging for mercy. He grunted as a heavy boot caught him between the ribs. “Get up, you ****, get up!” Rough hands grabbed Anaxibius and lifted him to his feet. Blood and snot and tears ran down his face.
“Call my sword bearer.” Arsames black eyes burned into the diplomat. “We will defend the city.”
Anaxibius eyes widened. “Strategos, you cannot –“
Arsames raised his gloved hand again and the diplomat was silent. He loosened his grip. His voice was calm. “I will not ask you again. Call my sword bearer. Alert my kinsmen. I will not flee.”
The Road to Ipsos
An iron blade of a xyston reached for his heart. Mithridates twisted his muscled body, and the spear glanced harmlessly off his side. His kopis came down with a sickening thud, splitting the face of his attacker. The man spit out broken teeth and flesh and tongue.
The Koiranides looked around. Blows exchanged between his kinsmen and the companion cavalry of Antiochos Pontikes, son of the Seleukoi king and governor of Ipsos. Antiochos had foolishly marched his soldiers north to engage the Pontikoi in the field, and Mithridates had laughed as his larger force encircled the Seleukoi army.
Another blow lunged towards him, but the aim was poor and there wasn’t enough strength behind the arm to pierce his bronze armor. A quick thrust of his kopis and the warrior fell dead, holding his throat together as he tumbled backwards off his horse. Sweat poured down the prince’s brow. His arm felt like fire, but the Seleukoi army had become a cornered dog, and Mithridates knew the fight would soon be over.
The Road to Ipsos
The shame was too painful to bear. Hippomachos averted his gaze as he galloped away from the ensuing battle. There would be no victory today. The main force was left encircled in the forest, and Galaktikoi skirmishers waited eagerly, ready to cut down any Seleukoi able to escape.
The companions had fought bravely, but fortune favored the Pontikoi. Hippomachos had watched as his brothers fell before the wrath of the Pontikoi kinsmen, throwing themselves in front of Antiochos Pontikes, shielding him from harm with their own lives.
Only 13 of them remained, and now they huddled close. If the King fell, than he knew the city was all but lost. Hippomachos would die before he saw that happen. “Friends, companions, we must break through their lines. Ahead of us stand fierce warriors, Galaktikoi men who would gut you in front of your screaming wives and babies. Who among us would refuse to fight them?”
The hetairoi were silent, their faces grim with determination. Antiochos Pontikes sat listlessly in his saddle. The governor had never before commanded men in the heat of battle, and his sense of tactics had proved to be as poor as his sense of strategy. Nevertheless, the hetairoi were sworn to defend him. “Strategos, we must break through the enemy lines. Give us your orders!”
Rluctantly, the governor consented with a weak nod. The hetairoi formed a line in front of him. The cries of the barbarian Galaktikoi grew louder. Spears were lowered. Crests were removed. Prayers were offered. Hippomachos drew a long breath.
“Chaaaaaaarge!”
The hetairoi crashed into the barbarians like a storm upon a mountain. Bodies were thrown into the air, shins were shattered, and skulls were crushed. With no opening to be found in the enemy line, the companions made their own opening.
After some time, Hippomachos felt a dull ache. He looked down at the barb that was embedded in his torso. He grunted through clenched teeth as he pulled out the sharpened javelin. Dark wet liquid flowed from the wound, staining the hardened layers of his linothorax. Unwashed hands grabbed at his fine cloak, as the Galaktikoi tried to pull him from his horse. He looked up. He could see his companions in the distance, and among them he saw an ornate helmet adorned with a white and black crest.
He smiled as he was pulled from his horse. “I did my duty,” he thought.
Nikaia
The courtyard of the palace lay silent. Dust began to gather in the halls which had been so busy that morning, as servant and slave alike had made preparations to flee the city of Nikaia. Arsames hoped that they would find refuge amongst friends of the Pontikoi. He didn’t expect them to stay and fight. That was not their duty.
“No,” he thought to himself, “it is my duty. I was the one tasked with conquering Bithynia. I was the one tasked with ruling her people. And now I find myself at their mercy.” He laughed in spite of himself as he scrutinized the motley garrison of young boys and old men who were arrayed in lines before the strategos. No more than five hundred defenders stood in the city square, and Arsames could weep, knowing that these loyal subjects would soon fall before the wrath of an angry populace. Mustering his courage, he offered what comfort he could to the tired Pontikoi garrison.
“Friends,” he called out, “we may have been born of a different cloth, but today we stand here as equals under the Basileus! No doubt there are those of you who were born in this city that are asking yourselves, ‘why should I fight for some foreign usurper who knows nothing of my culture.’ To you, I would offer these words. The gods will always smile upon men, whose cause is just; and, I tell you now there is no cause more just than fighting here with me today, for only with the help of the Pontikoi can Bithynia stand proud and free against her greater enemies to the south and against the unwashed barbarians across the Sea of Marmara. I came as a conqueror, but I will stay as a defender of your people, no matter the opponent. To see you stand here with me and fight against all odds is more than I could ever ask of you. Always remember that today you are honoring your gods, your fathers and your children.”
A bitter murmur arose amongst the garrison. Arsames had no doubt that half his soldiers would flee if given the opportunity, but he also knew that opportunity had long since passed. Twice the angry mobs had stormed the plaza, and twice the Pontikoi had kept them away. Many had died, and now the crowds were demanding blood. Through the streets they came, brandishing sticks and stones and spears and axes, spitting and shouting curses, shouting for the death of the Strategos whom they called usurper.
The lines met for a third time. The remaining Pontikoi fought tooth and nail against their opponent, but this time their enemy was determined. Men poured out of their homes, some armed only with their cooking knives, united in their purpose. The streets which had been so quiet now echoed with the sounds of battle.
Arsames drove his horse into the fray, and at once he was surrounded. He drew his xyston and swung it wildly towards his foe. It came back bloody, and he pressed forward without even looking at the man he had just slain.
Around him his kinsmen cut a bloody swath through the mobs…
…but for every man they slew, four more arrived to take their place. Arsames stared hopelessly at the carnage surrounding him, finding himself alone against the onslaught What had once been forty kinsmen were now four.
Still swinging, Arsames felt his armor buckle as a spear tip plunged into his side. Ignoring the pain, he continued to swing. The air was thick with dust, and it bit at his eyes and caused him to choke. He coughed, and blood came spurting out. His vision blurred, and he couldn’t distinguish the faces of his opponents any longer.
Suddenly, a rock flew and struck Arsames on the temple. As he fell dazed from his mount, a Bithynian drove a spear through the scaled armor and into the liver of his horse.
Atop of Arsames the horse fell, crushing the Strategos’ legs underneath the weight of a hundred stones worth of hide and hair and muscle. Immediately the crowd was upon him. Arsames went for his sword, but found that his fingers lacked the strength to hold it. A dozen arms grabbed the dying strategos, pulling him from underneath his dying horse. He cried at the sight of his mangled legs, and spit as the angry mob stripped his armor off and tore his cloak to ribbons. Standing over him, a Bithynian raised his arms high. Arsames could hear his skull cave in as the heavy stone was brought down upon his face, once, twice, three times. He didn’t feel anything.
A camp outside Ipsos
Summer, 253 B.C.
Mithridates grinned at his cousin. “What better prize could be offered to my father than this city? The lands of Phrygia are rich, and if we manage to take Ipsos, the Seleukoi in control of Sardis will be hopelessly isolated.” His eyes gleamed. “Artaxerxes, we could win this war in one stroke!”
Artaxerxes Herakleotes laughed. “Don’t be too eager, Koiranides. We still have a battle to win. The walls of Ipsos are strong, and I don’t believe Antiochos Pontikes plans to face us anytime soon. We don’t know how many reinforcements the Seleukoi are capable of bringing to this fight.”
The Koiranides dismissed him with a casual shrug. “We won’t have to wait for them to arrive. Our siege engines will be ready at the end of the summer, and I will not wait any longer. We will take the fight to them.”
Artaxerxes nodded. “Yes. I don’t like our options, but given the possibility of Seleukoi reinforcements, a direct attack seems appropriate. I will make plans to –”
“Koiranides,” a breathless voice called out as a haggard man with beady eyes burst into their tent. “I have news from the north! I was a diplomat under the service of your uncle, and I bring ill news! The people of Bithynia are revolting. The city of Nikaia has fallen. And…and your uncle has fallen as well.”
Artaxerxes stood up and howled. “This insult cannot be borne! Cousin, we must postpone our attack and march our forces north immediately! Honor demands it!”
The Koiranides was silent for a long while. He stared at his cousin blankly. Finally, he broke the silence. “No. It is unfortunate, but we cannot abandon our efforts. There will come a time when we can deal with these rebels properly, but it is not now.” He turned to the diplomat. “You will offer my condolences to my father. I believe he was very fond of his brother. No doubt this news will cause him much grief.”
Artaxerxes stood dumbfounded. “Friend, I beg of you to reconsider. The –”
“My decision is made. I will not reconsider. Do not forget that I am the Koiranides. Now go. I am making it your duty to inform the men. Many of them served under our uncle, and they should learn of his passing.”
Resigned to his duty, Artaxerxes left the tent, followed by the diplomat, who closed the flaps behind him. Downing his cup of wine, Mithridates sat down and smiled.
