A few weeks have passed since then, the words that came out of his lips hanging in his mind, in the beginning they would have regular contact, but only after 10 days, she contacted him less and less, and in all honesty he is worried, about her safety and all of those complicated emotions a Prince shouldn't have.
But he has a duty to complete, and it will not stop for one woman, and in the past few weeks he has been negotiating with various mercenary bands in Thessaly and Northern Macedonia near Bylazora to join his campaign.
He's not seen his brother Gyros since that fateful encounter, but the whispers of his brother's derisive laughter follow him wherever he goes. It fuels his resolve.
The palace in Thessalonica has become his fortress, his makeshift headquarters. He's gathered a ragtag army of mercenaries, men from all corners of the Greek world, all desperate for gold and a purpose.
Euenios walks the halls, his footsteps echoing against the marble, his eyes scanning over maps and troop counts. He's lost weight, his cheekbones more pronounced, his skin a little paler than usual. The burden of his knowledge weighs heavily on him.
In order to finance himself in the past few months, he has basically emptied his treasury and led a few skirmishes against the Thracians, who are known for their barbaric ways, stealing loot, and selling slaves, but it's not enough.
He's managed to convince some of the wealthier merchants of the city to fund his cause with the promise of Iberian gold and spice (probably no spice there, he's just making things up). They don't believe in his dreams, but they believe in the allure of wealth and power, as usual these merchants sent their henchmen to his court.
He's also sent messages back to Corinth, begging for more men, more supplies, more gold. The responses have been few and far between, and none have been favorable. It seems the council is still skeptical, still unwilling to act.
The mercenaries are growing restless. They want action, they want to fight. Euenios knows that if he doesn't give it to them soon, they'll turn on him. So he finds himself in the occasional battle or so up and down the peninsula, attacking brigands and rebels.
He sits at the large oak desk in the library, his head in his hands. The candles cast a warm glow on the ancient tomes surrounding him, their pages filled with the wisdom of the ages.
He looks up, his eyes falling on a map of the Mediterranean. His finger traces the route to Iberia, his heart pounding in his chest.
This is it, down the Ionian, through Carthage and straight west…
He needs a miracle, or a fool's luck, and he's running out of time.
He's running out of time for what exactly? He doesn't even know. Maybe he's just running from the truth, from the doubt that whispers in his ear every night.
But he can't stop now. He's come too far, and there's no turning back.
The next morning, as he's about to leave the palace to meet with the mercenaries again, a messenger arrives. His breath is ragged, his clothes dirty and torn.
"Your Highness, I have urgent news from Bylazora!"
Euenios' heart skips a beat.
"The Romans! They betrayed us. We had a ceasfire, now Bylazora is besieged."
Euenios leans on one of the pillars, feeling the blood draining on his face.
"What of father?"
"The City is holding on."
"I can't get derailed in my plans, we…. Our descendants will return to Macedon… To save our people we need to grow our power elsewhere."
The messenger nods solemnly, understanding the gravity of the situation.
"But Highness, your brother Gyros has called for your aid. He says Bylazora is the key to the north and without it, our people are lost!"
Euenios clenches his fists, the decision tearing at his soul. He can't leave his people to the mercy of Rome, but he can't abandon his dream of Iberia either.
The room feels smaller, the walls closing in. He knows what he must do, but it's not what he wants.
"Men, we march to battle."
…
..
.
The column of men stretch three kilometers, marching in order along the road to Bylazora. A few months of drilling and proper nutrition has turned this ragtag mob into green uniformed soldiers of Macedon, a group of Greeks, Thracians, and even some Celts, all carrying the black and gold banner.
They march with purpose, their eyes on the horizon, their lips tight with determination. The sun beats down on their heads, their armor glinting like a river of molten metal. They march through the valleys, up the mountains, and across the rivers, their destination ever present in their minds.
Euenios rides at the front, his horse's hooves kicking up dust as he goes.
The baggage train is the factor slowing down the group, and it will take fifteen days for this entire group to even reach Bylazora, the men are polishing their armor and boots, and in this communal setting, men start shitting on the spot, the ground filled with droppings.
The smell of sweat and metal fills the air, the rhythmic sound of their footsteps and the occasional clang of weapons against shields their only company. The countryside they pass is scarred by the ravages of the Thracians, abandoned farms and burned-out homesteads serving as grim reminders of the fate that awaits them if they fail.
Their morale is high though, they have a leader who's been in battles, a leader who's fought alongside them, who's shared their food and their pain.
And as they march, Euenios can't help but think of the prophecy that brought him here, the fiery destruction of Corinth.
Is this it? Is he leading them to their doom?
Or is he leading them to victory?
Time will tell, but for now, all he can do is march onward, into the heart of the storm.