'War is the father and king of all: some he has made gods, and some men; some slaves and some free.' - Heraclitus
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-Lydia, Anatolian Plains, 464 BC-
The wind blew across the vast and vibrant plains off the satrapy of Lydia, near the far western coasts of the Persian Empire; Ionia.
In these rolling plains, one could see a massive army, 30,000 strong, march onwards stalwartly toward the west. Towards the fallen city of Ephesus.
At the head of the endless columns of men was a large procession of horsemen, all dressed in finely crafted armors and billowing capes. These men were the generals, aides, and tacticians of the Lydian army.
A man stood out amongst the military aristocracy, he like the rest, was donned in intricate armors. But what made him stand out was the golden crest on his breastplate and billowing cape, an emblem of a golden scorpion. The golden scorpion represented the Tylonid clan, a noble house that produced many capable kings and generals throughout its ancient history.
As the noble entourage rode through the rolling plains, the cool breeze provided ample comfort from the sun's radiant glare from above.
"My Lord General, It appears we have company..." A bespectacled aide who rode beside the scorpion-clad general warned.
Upon closer inspection of the next rolling hill which in the glaring sun emitted oasis-like waves of heat, the Lydian general, Taraxus, soon noticed a pair of galloping light horsemen heading their way.
"Mm, it appears to be a returning scouting party," Taraxus said, calming his aide's nerves.
'Let us hope it's good news...' Taraxus thought, though deep down he knew that whatever tidings these scouts had to bring was going to be ominous. Taraxus could still remember the expression on Pissuthnes, the governor of Lydias, face when he commanded him to lead an army against the Greek invaders.
Naturally, as an experienced veteran, Taraxus knew that the Greeks weren't so foolish to invade the Persian Empire without a massive force, something that his army of 30,000 simply couldn't stand against.
However even after incessant pleas, Pissuthnes only response was a fishlike stare, implying that should Taraxus not follow his orders, there would be dire consequences. Thus, without any alternatives, Taraxaus said his goodbyes to his family and led his army against the Greek scourge.
As a war veteran against the Greeks during the campaigns of Xerxes, Taraxus naturally had some confidence but that didn't mean he was suicidal. In order to buy time for any possible reinforcements, Taraxus had frequently ordered his army to rest and set camp using the excuse of needing a well-fed and rested army to stave off his officer's doubtful eyes.
Weeks had passed and it seemed his luck had run out, watching the ever-closing scouts galloping with haste towards his procession.
It wasn't before long that the frothing horses and wide-eyed scouts arrived before him, looking at their general in a daze, one of the scouts reported, "Lord General! The greeks are 10 leagues ahead, stretching endlessly into the horizon!"
(A/N: 1 league= 1hour on horseback)
Hearing the scout's report, the reaction amongst the aides and generals was mixed, with some in despair but most being inexperienced and young were exalted to finally be able to fight their mortal foe.
Face turning grim, Taraxus dismissed the tired scouts and turned to his generals. Without wasting time, he quickly dished out orders and assumed command.
"To battle formations! Shock units at the center and infantry on the flanks, station our cavalry in reserve to protect the archers!" Taraxus, having hastily dished out his orders, watched as the tens of thousands of armored men moved into position with discipline, and soon the formation he had ordered to his various officers began to take shape.
The flags of the imperial Shahbaz intertwined with his own golden scorpion banners snapped in the wind as men stood at attention, their spears pointed to the heavens and shields at the front.
Satisfied with the result, Taraxus commanded, "Move out!"
And with his command, the ranks of the Persian elite marched forward in unison.
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-Lydia, Anatolian Plains, 464 BC-
Opposing sides clashed, hurling spears at one another in tandem sending men hurling backward. In the clash, greek hoplites braced their feet steadily onto the soft earth below while the Persian stormtroopers threw themselves above the iconic aspis shields of the Greek defenders.
The stormtrooper's eyes were wild, high on adrenaline and unknown concoctions brewed by the ever-elusive Magi. A Persian stormtrooper donned in light scaled armor and only armed with a saber, deftly hopped atop a bracing hoplites shield, propelling him into the greek phalanx rearguard.
With complete disregard for his own life, the young man began hacking and slashing at any unexpecting greek hoplites exposed back. Slashing his saber horizontally across a clueless hoplites neck, instantly decapitating him and spilling a fountain of blood on his nearby comrades, it wasn't before long that the greeks took notice of the Persian stormtrooper and unanimously pin-cushioned his body into Swiss cheese.
Similar scenes played out throughout the din of battle. It wasn't long after the initial clash of armies that horns sounded from the Persian camp, which was soon followed by screams and shouts.
"Incoming! Chaaarioots!"
"Make way! Make way!"
These shouts came from both sides, as Persian light infantry scrambled out of the way to make room for the scythed chariots and the already weary Greek hoplites braced themselves for another intense battle.
What came first was the whining sounds of the scythed axles, then, bursting like a dam the chariots appeared through the gaps in the Persian lines. Had any Persian hesitated for too long, then all that awaited was excruciating pain as his legs were dismembered by the scythed chariot wheels or the trampling hooves of the massive war horses.
The Greeks, well disciplined, quickly reacted.
"Into formation men!"
"By Ares's grace, we hold!"
With their commander's words, the Greek hoplites shifted from their static line formatting into various V pockets, reacting accordingly to wherever chariots charged. By caving in their formations, they reduced the chariot's impact and effectively encircled them.
A scythed chariot quickly rode into the Greek formations. The charioteers, already bracing for the satisfying crunch of breaking bones and tearing limbs were surprised when instead what awaited them was an empty pocket in the hoplite's formations.
For a moment, the lead charioteer thought that perhaps the Greeks had broken at the site of his majestic chariot, but after a quick glance around, the poor man realized he was encircled. With no reverse shift on a chariot, the charioteer could only watch in dismay as his twin war-horses reared back in fright at the now surrounding porcupine wall of spears.
The hoplites made quick work of the charioteer's horses, skewering them through the eyes and limbs. Having gotten rid of a chariot's mode of transport, the charioteers were now reduced to sitting ducks.
The trio of charioteers braced themselves for the fate that awaited any charioteers caught by a frustrated infantry squad, a painful death.
But just as the enveloping greek formation moved in to slay the stranded charioteers, war cries broke through the din of battle. Turning, the greeks noticed that the Persian light infantry that had disengaged to make way for the chariots was charging back in.
Reminiscent of beasts, some of the Persian stormtroopers even charged on all fours, whatever they could do to gain as much speed and as much traction as possible to bring the pain to the Greek phalanxes.
Like a tidal wave, the Persian shock infantry tore into the exposed formations of the Greek hoplites.
A man screamed as a wicker shield caved into his skull;
"Aghgh!"
Another yelled in dismay when he was pierced through the bowels by a spear;
"Blrghg!"
All around was bloodshed and carnage, no man escaped unscathed. Arrows rained and horses whined. It seemed to be the end of the world.
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-Lydia, Anatolian Plains, 464 BC-
"Lord General! It appears the Greek lines are breaking!" A young adjutant squealed in excitement, much to his ear's dismay.
Nodding exasperatedly at the young man's naivety, Taraxus spoke, his plumed helmet in between his forearm and bicep, "That appears to be so..."
Signaling to his cavalry commander to mop up the Greek pelters, Taraxus sighed and returned to his thoughts.
'It's damn lucky we ran into an advanced army before the main force, this greek general seems to be foolhardy and glory-ridden for he sent his entire force into the fray without bothering to wait for reinforcements.'
As Taraxus finished his thoughts, he watched the opposing force of around 25 thousand men begin to break and collapse. The greeks had begun a full rout.
"They're fleeing like cowards my Lord General! The victory is ours! The glory is yours!" Perhaps infected by the young man's enthusiasm, many other aides and advisors began cheering and praising the victory.
"Ahuramazda has blessed us this day!"
"Thank the God King for his blessings!"
"Glory to Taraxus! Glory to the Tylonid clan!"
Taraxus, hearing such cheers of celebration could only pray; 'By the grace of Ahuramazda may our good fortune continue...'