It was not how they had intended this endeavour to go, but if there was one thing to be said for the very thorough planning exercises that Achilleas has insisted on it was that they had prepared for almost every eventuality. Krysto, the other captains and Achilleas himself had spent hours pouring over maps of the Egyptian coastline, over the latest reports from their informants. A veteran of the last conflict in Egypt, the new King was not about to be cowed by this latest twist of fate.

The beach Urion had steered them to was sheltered by small rocky outcrops either side of the white sand, a narrow gorge carving a path away from the sea. It was in the protective shadow of such cliffs that the Taengeans had settled themselves, sheltered from the threat of arrow fire, and with the easily defensible path the only land route to their base.

A stocktake of their supplies almost immediately upon landing, when the skies were still pale and grey, had seen men despatched to find water, and take what they could from a nearby village: the egyptian fisherfolk staring wide eyed at the Greeks who had plundered their homes for as much as they could take. The temptation to ensure their silence by killing them was dismissed by the King, for it would buy them a day or two at most, and these were not soldiers but simple men and women. They posed no threat to the greeks and so Achilleas was content to let them live. Perhaps the threatening blades and the motions to say silent would be enough to see them hold their tongues anyway.

It meant at least there was rice for the men to eat and fresh water and a handful of goats. There was little glory in such raids but it was enough to make the difference between well-fed and energetic soldiers and those who were weary and lacklustre. They would need the former to hold their own against the Egyptians.

Some efforts had been made toward patching up the damage inflicted to the ships in the storm, though Achilleas had dismissed all thought of being able to sail homeward with no run-ins with their hosts was dismissed on the second day when the sentries had seen two Egyptian horsemen looking down from the clifftops. That had decided it; the Taengeans would have dig in and hope that their Colchian allies had Apollo’s winds at their backs.

The promise of battle hung over their small camp, the men restless, anticipatory. For many of them, this course of action made more sense and felt more natural than their stealth actions of the days before. These men were soldiers through and through, hand-selected for their skills for this mission. They were none of them faint of heart or scared to fight.

When dusk had fallen, the greeks had lit fires, sung songs and sacrificed one of their precious stolen goats. The black one, for Hades, for all men about to go into battle were aware of their own mortality, and wanted safe passage to the underworld. It’s pitiful bleating has been silenced by the blade drawn across its throat, blood spreading into a dark shadow across the sand.

Achilleas has let his own blood drip to join it in honour of the God of War. A King’s blood would surely be worthy an offering? The sting of the slice across his palm was grounding, and he closed his fist around it, letting the crimson seep out so it fell and mingled with that of the creature already slaughtered in offering. Ares’ fierceness thrumming through their veins as they met the Egyptians would be a welcome gift.

What little wine had been brought with them was shared amongst the men, and when prayers had been offered, most of the camp fell into a quiet, inward facing, taking the time to sharpen blades or scrawl letters home. Those that could write found themselves popular of all of sudden.

Achilleas, having moved amongst the soldiers for the better part of the evening, settled himself down next to Krysto, one knee drawn up, close enough to the fire that flames let light and shadow fight for claim over his features.

“How many nights have we spent like this?” He asked, a seemingly idly enquiry though he was trying to gauge the mind and mood of his long time friend. “You should sleep. Dawn will be here before you know it”

And with it would come the call to arms, the Greeks would meet their foes over the rise of the sand dunes, this war would become a reality for them all. Achilleas glanced over the soldiers who were all making their own preparations for such a happening, his gaze first passing over and then returning to the Judean amongst them and here he turned to Krysto with some curiosity. “ What have you tasked our little stowaway with doing?” There was no room for idle hands in war, after all.


@ares @hades

The Captain had done all he could to prepare and organize the camp. Sighting the two Egyptian scouts atop the rocks that brought that all consuming calm that often settled in Krysto's shoulders when a battle was imminent. From there on, most thoughts of home and Eurydice was pushed to the wayside. Now, his goal was to ensure that the men of this camp were safe, protected, and fed. He had immediately instructed Isaiah to cook with a few of the others who could also prepare food. Then he had moved on to organizing the tents, keeping them settled toward the inside of the rocky cliffs. It would be safer there, he knew.

That was, unless, their enemies came from the other side of the shore, which wasn't out of any realm of possibility in war. The Egyptians knew this land far better than the Greeks did.

Taking what he could from the small raid on the neighboring village, Krysto directed the supplies here, there, and everywhere, making sure that everyone would be split evenly between the men. They would all need their strength, and they would not have it if they did not eat. And ensuring that they were strong was now Krysto's job.

He had sat and silently prayed during the offering to both Hades and Ares, but once the men dispersed further into the camp, Krysto had settled himself at one of the fires, papyrus in his lap and stylus in his hand. The first thing he had written had been a letter to his betrothed. He would likely never get to send it, but it was better to have his thoughts and goodbyes ready just in case he did fall in battle. It was likely just because they were outnumbered, though not an actuality. He hadn't died in the last Egyptian war and he had been seriously untested back then. Now, he was experienced and had the backing of years of training.

The second item he wrote was a poem, thinking carefully on each and every word in the way that his mother had coaxed him a million times over in his lifetime. He had found an arrow to spare and searched his own soggy pack for some of the healing herbs that he had stocked in his own things. Valuable as medicine, Krysto took a few of the bay laurel leaves from his stock and had arranged his poem, the arrow, and the herbs in a small offering to Apollo, praying for health for his men and himself, as well as for his young betrothed and unborn child. Eyes closed, he had only just finished his prayer when the King settled down beside him.

Krysto looked up toward his friend and then back to his offering for his patron god. He let out a deep, unwavering breath. "Too many times," Krysto admitted quietly, staring hard at the objects before him, "We have come out alive from each and every battle before, I can only pray that we do the same this time as well," he said calmly, glancing toward Achilleas when the king mentioned that he should get some rest.

"You should learn to take your own advice, Achilleas," Krysto noted, entirely dropping the man's title in favor of speaking to him as his best friend. "I'll rest when you do, and not a minute sooner," Krysto asserted before glancing toward one of the fires and to the Judean man. "I've had him working with the cooks to prepare meals," the captain continued, "Keeps him out from underfoot and watched closely."

@apollo

There was always a thrill that began in the pit of his stomach, the anticipation of the battles and conquest to come burned like a fire that spurred him on. Could it possibly be so easy that the Greeks were turned back after this? That they could pursue a track north to take the green lands of Taengea that he had been so enamoured with during his brief visit to the north. A smiling face danced in his mind and he couldn't help the slight grin on his own lips at the thought. Seeing Selene again, even in such circumstances would be all the thrill he needed. Especially if he could convince her to return to the southern lands with him.

His goal was set in his mind, and he'd given his men the order before they left the encampment of the day before. There were two men he demanded be taken alive. Vangelis of Kotas and Achilleas of Mikaelidas would be the keys and leverage needed for his plans to succeed. With her betrothed as his prisoner, it could be easy to exchange his life for the promise of a broken betrothal. With her king, well. That could solve all of his problems at once. Sparing the life of a king and holding him ransom could sort out more than just the issue of his marriage. Until the time came though it was all simply speculation.

Osorsen's men had pulled their chariots into a circle, sorting and mending any armor and weapons to be sure they were in peak condition for the battle that was to come shortly. He'd left the setting of his tent in the hands of Rafa, allowing the Greek slave the time away from the eventual battlefield, choosing to ride Altair instead of the chariot. If any of the Greeks below looked up they might see a familiar figure, he'd done the same when he arrived in Vasiliadon astride the same black stallion. Altair had been intended as a gift for King Stephanos, but he'd been unable to leave the precious beast in the hands of the weasel that was Prince Irakles, returning with him instead and spending the time training him further as the warhorse he'd been destined to become.

The slave on the ground caught his attention from their heavy breathing before they spoke, and Oso tore his gaze away from the collection of Greeks below with their broken boats and pitiful force. This would be too easy to make mistakes in. Underestimating an enemy that appeared to be weaker than it was could have deadly consequences, and in his mind he was already formulating the plan of how his men would be best used. The news that the pharaoh wished to speak with him had him nodding and setting off toward the old man's tent, gaze casting about for Sutekh as he moved and calling for the prince to follow.

He'd promised his lover that he would keep her brother safe, and he wanted eyes on him as often as possible. It would be no easy feat to keep the pharaoh from trying to conveniently be rid of his one perceived rival. Dismounting as he reached his destination, Oso dropped to his knee and bowed his head in respect, his right arm crossed over his chest in a sign of fealty. For all the hate boiling within him for the man, this was war and they had won many together before. They could fight their petty squabbles and hold their bitter feelings known and unknown when the day was one.

"My pharaoh. You asked for me." Standing at attention he couldn't help but smile slightly, the memories of times past still fond in his mind. Until a few months ago he had considered the man before him his brother, a trusted leader and guide. How the world could change. He had lost not only the love of his woman, but the unfailing faith in his brother.

"The force below is small, their ships appear badly damaged. It could be easily won, if we are cautious."

Moving around his tent, preparing himself for the battle ahead, Sutekh could not ignore that the weight of the khopesh felt foreign at his waist. This wasn’t his weapon of choice, far from it actually. Anyone who knew Sutekh was more than well aware that the newly instated prince would never pick the blade when he had the choice of his chariot or his arrows. Those were Sutekh’s specialties as he had been trained in those arts since he was a boy. After all, there was a certain refinement to these forms of warfare that were sacrificed for hand-to-hand combat. What use did a noble family like the Sheifas have for training a son in the messy and brutal art when they had no real intention of ever letting their heir face this kind of danger? They had been overly reluctant to even let him go be a soldier in the first place and likely had only been placated by the fact that his chosen art forms offered a strange form of distance on the battlefield. An archer was only useful away from the main conflict and a charioteer could ride away if he was trapped into a tight spot. It was only logical that in a kingdom where men specialized in one form of weaponry that Sutekh never touched a khopesh unless it was for basic training.

Which was likely why Sutekh was now wearing one. He was not blind to the fact that the Pharaoh wanted him dead nor was he unaware in regard to the fact that sending the Prince out on the front lines of the war was the easiest way for the man to be rid of him. If Sutekh fell to an enemy blade, the blood would be on the foreigner’s hands and no one else. It might even be useful for Iahotep’s war campaign as the death of the prince could give the Egyptians something to rally behind. From a logical perspective, his death would be clean and free from scandal. The best-case scenario for everyone, but Sutekh, of course.

Needless to say, the boy did not want to die today. His wish was like most men who would rather prefer not to think about the subject at all. But if Sutekh had to choose, he would like to go to Anubis after living a grand, full life and dying peacefully in his sleep as an old man. Not being skewered on some battlefield because his only real role in this wretched war was to become a martyr for a man that wouldn’t be Pharaoh if history had played out a little differently. Had the truth come out about his parentage while Imopehatsuma had still been alive… there was a decent chance that the man who was desperate for an heir might have seen Sutekh legitimized. He would have been Pharaoh ten years before and none of these men would have been present on this shore, preparing to die for a man who had only gotten the crown through his marriage to Sutekh’s sister. The prince could not promise that this war could not have happened at some other point as he knew how battle-ready some of those mangy dogs to the north could be… but at the very least this battle would not have occurred. That he could guarantee.

This wasn’t something that Sutekh often thought about. The what-ifs were too troubling for him as they brought up questions that he would rather not see answered. It was not pleasant to think that perhaps he either had the blood of a monster or a liar flowing through his veins. Nor was it fun to recall the few times that Sutekh had seen the Pharaoh while he had been living. Did Imopehatsuma know that the Sheifa heir was really his blood? Did he even care? As much as the Prince would have liked to push these questions aside, they crept in like a heavy shadow as the Prince had to reckon with the fact that he was likely to die today, especially if his fears were confirmed and the boy was sent in with the sword rather than the bow he loved. He didn’t want to die. There were too many questions that were still unanswered, too many chances that he could have to set things right and return to the only real family he had ever known. Sutekh was not done with this life, there were so many things that he had to do, but it was all going to be snuffed out today.

Just because of who his father was.

It didn’t matter that Sutekh had no right to the throne and no real desire to sit in that coveted seat after all that he had been through. His blood was a threat. Sutekh was a pest. He was in the way of Iahotep’s reign being completely unchallenged with no possible heirs other than the one that grew his newly-found sister’s belly. For that reason, he needed to die. Even though the Prince tried to tell himself that he wouldn’t let that happen, that the gods would be on his side and that they would protect him due to the sheer injustice of it all… no one could predict what would happen on the battlefield. Sutekh could live, Sutekh could die. There was no way to guarantee what the outcome could be. The best that the Prince and the Pharaoh could hope for would be that the winds of fate were on thier side rather than the other man.

However, learning from his father, his real father, Onuphrious that one should never leave these sorts of things to the chances of fate, Sutekh was preparing the best that he could that he would be able to bring his bow onto the battlefield. A royal slave had spent the whole night readying his arrows and shining his bow, making sure that his preferred weapon was in peak condition just in case the Prince found a way to sneak them onto the battlefield. He had expected some kind of order from Iahotep that he was to join the khopesh unit of the Naddar army, but as Ra gave the Egyptians more daylight to prepare their enemy’s slaughter with, no such instructions came. With the men readying, Sutekh felt emboldened enough to sling his sheath onto his back and take some comfort in the familiar weaponry instead of the strange one. He was so used to the weight of it that it almost felt like a second skin, completely unnoticeable when another royal slave barged into the Prince’s tent, conveying the orders that Sutekh was to meet with the Pharaoh immediately. Having been expecting this, but not really being emotionally prepared to meet with his would-be murderer on the morning of his demise, Sutekh forgot to shed this weaponry from his back as he took his leave after the slave.

It was only after the two of them were out of the tent did the boy realize his mistake, but with the messenger returning to his master at such a brisk pace, Sutekh did not have the time to correct this. He could only hope and pray that the Pharaoh did not notice the sheath on his back when the slave brought the two of them face to face. Out of the corners of his eyes, Sutekh could see that others were there including General Moghadam and Haikiddad, which brought Sutekh a small bit of comfort. These were both men that he had the time to speak with in the period since he had lost his Sheifa name and they had both been more than pleasant to him. Sutekh did not anticipate that he would receive any ill will from them. That clearly could not be said about the man whose mere presence demanded Sutekh’s reverence and respect in spite of the fact that the both of them knew that Iahotep wanted him to die.

“My Pharoah,” The Prince quietly said, bowing in the proper way that one did when they were in the presence of the Morning and Evening Star, “You wished to see me?” Sutekh’s tone was neutral, refusing to give this man the satisfaction of knowing how terrified he was of dying today. After all, the Prince held no power in this situation, no chance to escape his fate. However, he was not going to demean himself in the process. That had already been done more than enough times. Though, as he straightened himself once again, Sutekh was nervous about how he was going to react if Iahotep told him to discard the bow. He might have been mentally preparing for those words, but it would be a difficult emotion to contain. His only saving grace were the other two men who were present, especially Oso as he knew that Sutekh only had basic training with the blade and that he was at his strongest with bow in hand.

However would the other men care enough to stand up to the Pharaoh or find some way for the Prince to work around this restriction so he might live to see another day? Or would the threat that this man was be too grand to risk such a thing?

It was an uneasy rest found on the even of battle, already the hackles raised in anticipation of what was to follow, the nerves alight and the senses honed. None of this was unfamiliar to Achilleas or the men that had travelled with him from Taengea. It might not have been their aim to engage the Egyptians directly, but they had been prepared for it none the less. If there was one certainty in war, it was that nothing was certain, and therefore you should consider most every outcome.

Their Colchian allies were en-route, the Crown Prince himself had pledged his aid, and so Achilleas was confident that in time, they would have support at their backs. Athenia had been resolutely silent: his last missive sent alongside one from Lord Fotios to see if another connection could be exploited, but the King had sailed before a reply could be expected. What was not on their side was time. Achilleas reckoned the Colchians at least two weeks behind them, maybe more, and so the Taengean’s focus had to shift from their primary mission to cripple the Egyptian fleet, to the most primal: survival.

The numbers were not in their favour, nor had the storms been kind to their provisions but Achilleas had to be confident that the Gods were at their backs in this. They would not desert them when the threat came from rootless heathens who worshipped a false pantheon. He had read a text once on the Egyptian faith, struggled through with the characters swimming before his eyes, but had taken away enough to understand a belief system that made no mention of Olympus. There was a comfort to be found, surely, for the Gods would not abandon the faithful in the face of the faithless? Achilleas gazed at Krysto’s small shrine as he considered such a thing, a frown etched deep onto his brow.

He slept for a few hours, fitfully, and when his eyes opened to see the threat of light beginning to steal over the horizon, he knew they had waited long enough. There was a calm to the encroaching day that belied what he knew to lie ahead, and as Achilleas stood from washing in the shallows, he stopped for a moment and looked back over the sea into the grey gloom, back toward home and what they were here protecting.

On the beach, Krysto was already moving amongst the men, rousing those still sleeping. Achilleas let him and the other Captains do their job, returning to the dying embers of the fire and beginning the process of strapping on armour. There had been no room aboard ships for retainers, for anyone that did not have a purpose, but Achilleas did not mind the ritual. The smell of leather and metal, the slight pinch of the straps that held it in place, they were all things that grounded him. Cuirasse, bracers, greaves. The latter were fiddly, and he struggled for a few moments until they were strapped into place.

The terrain lent itself to one approach. If the Phalanx could hold the narrow gorge then the Egyptians’ advantage in numbers would mean nothing, Achilleas had discussed it at length with Krysto and the other captains when they had landed, and he had made that first initial foray into where they had washed up. Let the sand rats hurl themselves upon a wall of spears for as long as they were willing.

It had been years since he had fought in such a formation, but there was no sense in making himself a target, and his skill did not lie with the bow to support the archers who would stand behind, so the King would stand shoulder to shoulder with his men when the time came. Needlessly, he tested the edge of a blade already killing sharp, habits formed over years that made up the traditions of many such dawns over many different days. Achilleas huffed a small laugh at himself when his skin split on the keen edge of the sword, sucked at his finger and let it be another reassurance as to his readiness.

Tucked beneath the cuirass and next to his chest was that parchment Theodora had gifted him with as they stood on the shore. He had debated whether to destroy it because it should not fall into the hands of any other but somehow had not been able to make himself throw it into the flames as he should. Silly perhaps, but he liked the thought of having it with him, and his hand came to settle over the metal that concealed it when the sound of his name on another’s lips had him push away such sentiment and turn, keen-eyed to regard the Captain who’d approached.

“All is well?” he asked of the man, gaze drifting from the one Captain to Krysto who followed closely behind. Achilleas waited for the men to offer their reports, to assure that the men were ready and that before the sun bled its light and warmth over the sea, the Greek Phalanx would march to meet their Egyptian hosts.

The last few days had passed in a blur for the young man who was getting his first real taste of conflict with the greeks from across the sea. When word had first come of the greeks setting fire to a group of Egyptian boats, Kissan was sure that would be his first real encounter with the vile men, but the Pharaoh had commanded he stay by his side. A ploy it seemed had been played and soon by staying quiet and listening to the Pharaoh's discussions with various generals, Kissan had learned that the true Egyptian navy was safely hidden away. His Pharaoh it seemed was more of a brilliant man than Kissan had even dreamed.

Now as a grecian force was found stranded upon the sands, Kissan waited hopefully for the command to follow his Pharaoh into battle. The command came soon enough and Kissan saw to it that the Pharaoh's chariot was quickly readied by the Pharaoh's entourage of slaves. The chariot soon seemed far more crowded than his own small hunting one as the Pharaoh, a slave, Kissan and one of the Pharaohs guards all stepped in. The slave seemed responsive but resigned to his role. The guard, stoic as always, stood as if he was a grecian column. Kissan, while trying to appear as at attention as possible, clung to the side of the chariot as the Pharaoh made sharp turns and came to a quick stop.

Kissan did not meet the eyes of either of the generals, especially his uncle, and instead scanned the lines of troops and the distant enemy as if watching for any stray arrow or rogue greek soldier who might endanger his Pharaoh. He nodded briefly at the Prince out of respect but made sure to stay silent and continue his scan of the horizon. He had found that the Pharaoh seemed most pleased when he was a silent observer and quick study and so he had devoted himself to doing so as much as possible. He had already learned much by making himself as invisible as the gods allowed and had no intention of changing tactics. The Pharaoh it seemed, preferred silent, compliant students and Kissan had no desire to anger him.

He heard the uncertainty in his uncle's voice and felt a tang of concern mixed with regret. The reality that this could be the last time he saw his uncle alive had not truly hit him until now. His eyes moved to meet Narmer's and his lips opened as if to say something but he quickly thought better of it and looked down and then away to the horizon once more.

The king gave a nod of acknowledgement as his captains expressed their readiness. The time had come to move an to ensure they at least claimed some stake in terms of this fight. With a narrowed, assessing gaze, Achilleas looked down the beach at the rank and file of men. Not enough, not nearly enough.

At the back of his mind, carefully hidden behind a calm expression, there was the small voice that pointed out the odds in this confrontation and demanded he be rational and consider the very real possibility that all these men would be slaughtered, that it would be greek blood that darkened the sand. If he listened, that same voice would tell him that he would probably not walk upon Taengea’s good earth once more - that his legacy would be this, a hopeless stand in the face of insurmountable numbers.

Through some resilience fuelled by pride and stubbornness, the King found it within himself to silence the voice of doubt that gifted nothing, and instead he focused on the belief that if they could just dig in if they could hold on, then their allies would arrive. There would be a different story to tell. And the pride he had in the men before him was not misplaced. Together, they were an organised and formidable force, and whatever happened, there would be no easy takings for the Egyptians. Death before dishonour, the words and the sentiment etched into him as surely as the detailing on the cuirass he wore.

With a deep breath, he turned his eyes away from the dull gleam of metal, and looked back to Krysto, frowning slightly at the mention of the Judean. “If he keeps to the beach he should be out of harm’s way. And he can assist with any injured.”

It was Achilleas’ aim that they would hold this beach for themselves. Unless the Egyptians chose to approach by ship also then the terrain leant itself well enough to the idea. But dawn would come to show if their plans would hold true. And they had not long to wait, so he nodded, took the helm that was tucked under one arm and pulled it on.

“Let us begin this thing then.”

Not a small man by any means, the king made for a rather intimidating figure at the best of times, but when clad in bronze and hefting sword and spear, there was no doubt that he would make a fearsome opponent to meet upon a field of battle. And now he moved with Krysto to stand before the Taengean soldiers. The words he offered were brief, yet the conviction that they held lingered longer, and Achilleas joined Krysto in the front row of the Phalanx that would march out to meet the Egyptians. The score of archers they had fell into rank behind, and the greeks moved with almost silent efficiency to the lip of the gorge that led inland from their small claimed strip of sand.

Row after row of men, a solid wall of shields and sharp-tipped spears. They waited.