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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
A Time for War - Prologue
The forests of Paphlagonia
Spring, 272 B.C.
Dusk
Mithridates' gaze drifted westward, his weary eyes settling on the wooded shores of the great Halys River. How long had it been since his ancestors had repelled the armies of King Kroisos from this very same river? He couldn’t remember. He could only hope that his fortunes would fare better than those of the fabled King of Lydia.
A cough tore through his worn body, far harsher than the winter winds of his people’s homeland. Mithridates could feel his bones rattling inside of his chest, and he pulled his woolen cloak tight over his shoulders. It didn’t help. Nothing did anymore. His cough was bad when he left Amaseia that winter, and travel had only made it worse. Taking one last look, he turned and made his way towards the soldiers’ encampment.
The air was warm and smoky as he pulled back the flaps of his tent. A servant tended a roaring fire, offering a spit of roasted goat to the old Basileus, but Mithridates wasn’t hungry. There was business to attend to.
As he made his way to the back of the tent, he saw a portly figure rise from the bedding laid down by the servants. A smooth voice broke through the crackling of the hearth. “My king, we must hold council.”
Mithridates nodded at his Chief Eunuch. “Have a servant call for my son.”
Alkimos Herakleotes ran a nervous hand through his thick dark hair. “We are in a precarious position, Basileus, and we both know how Ariobarzanes feels about our alliance with Seleukeia. Perhaps it would be best if we spoke in private first?”
Mithridates let out a sigh. “Yes, you are right. My eldest does not yet understand the importance of keeping our enemies close. What news of the war in the south? ”
“The war between Antiochus and Ptolemy lies stagnant. It is the east which I worry about.”
The old king raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“I fear that the other successors are planning to revolt against Antiochus. They see opportunity while Seleukeia is tied down fighting in Celesyria. If this is to be the case, then Antiochus will be eager to end this war with Ptolemy. He will be forced to deal with this rebellion, and that means…”
“…that means that Antiochus will view us as another threat, whether we join in the rebellion or not. It will only be a matter of time before the might of his armies comes crashing down upon us.”
“Yes, my king. I believe your judgment is correct.”
“I must sit.” The Basileus removed his cloak, his joints creaking as he made his way to the bedding on the floor. “If war is looming, then we must prepare to fight it. Perhaps this rebellion will be a blessing? It will delay the inevitable retaliation from Antiochus and the dogs who beg at his heels, impatient to pick apart our homeland for themselves.”
The eunuch gave a solemn nod. “If we are to prepare, then we must expand our grasp if we hope to survive."
“What do you suggest, Alkimos?”
“Our spies report that our rivals to the north are weakened. Constant raids along the coast have drained their manpower, and their armies are far from the city, dealing with the Galatian invaders. We should strike while the iron is hot.”
Mithradates nodded. “The people of Sinope have close ties with the Hellenic city states. A move against them would risk open war,” he sighed, “but it is a risk me must take. Send a messenger to my son in law. Tell him to march his army to the city of Sinope.” The eunuch nodded, and silently left the Basileus’ tent.
The venerable king looked into the crackling flames of the hearth. He wondered if he would ever see his Palace at Amaseia, he wondered if he would ever hold his wife in his tired arms, he wondered if he would even feel the warmth of the next sunrise. Shutting his eyes and casting out doubts, he spoke softly to the fire before him.
“It is time for war.”
Later that evening...
Ariobarzanes smiled as Alkimos left his tent. He rarely enjoyed the company of his father’s chief eunuch, but he was always open to good news. Two winters had passed since he last saw his brother in law, six since he last saw real combat, and his kopis felt far too heavy in his hand. He was getting soft, and he knew it. A chance to take to the field would be welcome, even if it wasn’t against those damnable Seleukeia Satraps to the south. Gods, how he hated them! “Father underestimates our kinsmen,” he said to no one in particular. “Why can’t he understand that the best time to strike against our rivals is now, while Antiochus is pressed hard in the south and the east?” Pacing back and forth, the crown prince struggled to calm himself. It would do no good to fret now. A long day’s march awaited him.
The Pontic Coast
Summer, 272 B.C.
Ariarathes Herakleotes was tired. Two years of chasing Galatians across the hills of Anatolia was hard on a man, and the dozens of skirmishes against the Gallic barbarians had taken their toll. Death and desertion reduced his command to half of what it had been when he set out from Amaseia, and he was reluctant to admit that his soldiers spoke ill of him behind his back. The orders from his father in law brought little comfort. More bloodshed was the last thing he wanted to engage in, but honor demanded it.
For weeks he rode north east, urging his scouts onward to search for signs of the Basileus’ encampment. The letter proposed that they meet south of Sinope, in order to join forces before the siege. Ariarathes wondered what little help he could provide. He was restless, but he found himself to be surprisingly relieved when his scouts brought back word of his father in law’s encampment, just a day’s march away.
Cheers greeted him as he marched his soldiers into the Basileus’ encampment. Friends and strangers alike grasped hands and patted backs, and the camp sergeant’s looked the other way while the men enjoyed their wine, but Ariarathes had not come to drink. As he made his way towards the king’s tent, he wondered how the last two years affected the old man. Offering a short prayer to Hermes, he entered the tent.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
A Time for War - Prologue
The forests of Paphlagonia
Spring, 272 B.C.
Dusk
Mithridates' gaze drifted westward, his weary eyes settling on the wooded shores of the great Halys River. How long had it been since his ancestors had repelled the armies of King Kroisos from this very same river? He couldn’t remember. He could only hope that his fortunes would fare better than those of the fabled King of Lydia.
A cough tore through his worn body, far harsher than the winter winds of his people’s homeland. Mithridates could feel his bones rattling inside of his chest, and he pulled his woolen cloak tight over his shoulders. It didn’t help. Nothing did anymore. His cough was bad when he left Amaseia that winter, and travel had only made it worse. Taking one last look, he turned and made his way towards the soldiers’ encampment.
The air was warm and smoky as he pulled back the flaps of his tent. A servant tended a roaring fire, offering a spit of roasted goat to the old Basileus, but Mithridates wasn’t hungry. There was business to attend to.
As he made his way to the back of the tent, he saw a portly figure rise from the bedding laid down by the servants. A smooth voice broke through the crackling of the hearth. “My king, we must hold council.”
Mithridates nodded at his Chief Eunuch. “Have a servant call for my son.”
Alkimos Herakleotes ran a nervous hand through his thick dark hair. “We are in a precarious position, Basileus, and we both know how Ariobarzanes feels about our alliance with Seleukeia. Perhaps it would be best if we spoke in private first?”
Mithridates let out a sigh. “Yes, you are right. My eldest does not yet understand the importance of keeping our enemies close. What news of the war in the south? ”
“The war between Antiochus and Ptolemy lies stagnant. It is the east which I worry about.”
The old king raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“I fear that the other successors are planning to revolt against Antiochus. They see opportunity while Seleukeia is tied down fighting in Celesyria. If this is to be the case, then Antiochus will be eager to end this war with Ptolemy. He will be forced to deal with this rebellion, and that means…”
“…that means that Antiochus will view us as another threat, whether we join in the rebellion or not. It will only be a matter of time before the might of his armies comes crashing down upon us.”
“Yes, my king. I believe your judgment is correct.”
“I must sit.” The Basileus removed his cloak, his joints creaking as he made his way to the bedding on the floor. “If war is looming, then we must prepare to fight it. Perhaps this rebellion will be a blessing? It will delay the inevitable retaliation from Antiochus and the dogs who beg at his heels, impatient to pick apart our homeland for themselves.”
The eunuch gave a solemn nod. “If we are to prepare, then we must expand our grasp if we hope to survive."
“What do you suggest, Alkimos?”
“Our spies report that our rivals to the north are weakened. Constant raids along the coast have drained their manpower, and their armies are far from the city, dealing with the Galatian invaders. We should strike while the iron is hot.”
Mithradates nodded. “The people of Sinope have close ties with the Hellenic city states. A move against them would risk open war,” he sighed, “but it is a risk me must take. Send a messenger to my son in law. Tell him to march his army to the city of Sinope.” The eunuch nodded, and silently left the Basileus’ tent.
The venerable king looked into the crackling flames of the hearth. He wondered if he would ever see his Palace at Amaseia, he wondered if he would ever hold his wife in his tired arms, he wondered if he would even feel the warmth of the next sunrise. Shutting his eyes and casting out doubts, he spoke softly to the fire before him.
“It is time for war.”
Later that evening...
Ariobarzanes smiled as Alkimos left his tent. He rarely enjoyed the company of his father’s chief eunuch, but he was always open to good news. Two winters had passed since he last saw his brother in law, six since he last saw real combat, and his kopis felt far too heavy in his hand. He was getting soft, and he knew it. A chance to take to the field would be welcome, even if it wasn’t against those damnable Seleukeia Satraps to the south. Gods, how he hated them! “Father underestimates our kinsmen,” he said to no one in particular. “Why can’t he understand that the best time to strike against our rivals is now, while Antiochus is pressed hard in the south and the east?” Pacing back and forth, the crown prince struggled to calm himself. It would do no good to fret now. A long day’s march awaited him.
The Pontic Coast
Summer, 272 B.C.
Ariarathes Herakleotes was tired. Two years of chasing Galatians across the hills of Anatolia was hard on a man, and the dozens of skirmishes against the Gallic barbarians had taken their toll. Death and desertion reduced his command to half of what it had been when he set out from Amaseia, and he was reluctant to admit that his soldiers spoke ill of him behind his back. The orders from his father in law brought little comfort. More bloodshed was the last thing he wanted to engage in, but honor demanded it.
For weeks he rode north east, urging his scouts onward to search for signs of the Basileus’ encampment. The letter proposed that they meet south of Sinope, in order to join forces before the siege. Ariarathes wondered what little help he could provide. He was restless, but he found himself to be surprisingly relieved when his scouts brought back word of his father in law’s encampment, just a day’s march away.
Cheers greeted him as he marched his soldiers into the Basileus’ encampment. Friends and strangers alike grasped hands and patted backs, and the camp sergeant’s looked the other way while the men enjoyed their wine, but Ariarathes had not come to drink. As he made his way towards the king’s tent, he wondered how the last two years affected the old man. Offering a short prayer to Hermes, he entered the tent.