The Rise Of An Empire In Ancient Europe
Chapter 46 Battle of the Mountain Ridges

Chapter 46: Chapter 46 Battle of the Mountain Ridges

With the medical camp now running smoothly, Juleios decided to assign Xilos, his trusted guard captain, to oversee its operations temporarily. Xilos, known for his calm demeanor and sharp mind, was someone Juleios intended to cultivate as a key aide. Asking him to oversee a medical camp felt like an underutilization of his abilities, but for now, there was no better candidate. Juleios resolved to find a more fitting role for him in the future.

By the time Juleios returned to his command tent, the sky was painted in hues of orange and purple as dusk settled over the camp. The air carried the faint aroma of smoke from campfires as soldiers prepared for their evening meals. Some laughed, others sat silently, reflecting on the battles fought and those still to come.

Finally, with a moment to himself, Juleios began his nightly routine of reflection. He replayed the day’s battle in his mind, analyzing the weaknesses in his strategy and pondering better responses. Every evening, he compared his experiences with the military knowledge from his past life. It was a methodical habit, one he believed would accelerate his growth as a commander. Some generals spent their entire lives at war and remained mediocre, while others, even in youth, turned warfare into an art form. The difference, he thought, lay in their approach—whether they viewed war as a mere task or as a craft to be mastered.

The lessons of recent battles weighed heavily on his mind. The chaotic trampling caused by fear in tight formations had highlighted the spatial limitations of infantry in ancient warfare. The earlier battle also exposed the ineffectiveness of archers against heavily armored infantry.

Juleios paused, considering another possibility: What about javelins against heavy infantry? They were undoubtedly more lethal than arrows. He remembered asking Matonis to test a javelin against discarded armor. The weapon had easily penetrated heavy armor at close range and even left dents in bronze shields. So why hadn’t Tissaphernes employed such tactics? The answer was clear: Tissaphernes lacked trained javelin troops. In contrast, the Greek mercenaries had nearly 3,000 light shield bearers, mostly Thracians, who were among the best javelin throwers in the Mediterranean.

His thoughts shifted to the Roman pilum, a weapon designed to bend upon impact, rendering enemy shields useless and forcing their bearers to discard them. What if Tissaphernes had such tools? Or better yet, what if he had heavy infantry of his own? The Greeks might have been forced to surrender. Even Hannibal at the Battle of Cannae had relied on superior cavalry to envelop and crush the Roman forces. In this situation, the Persian cavalry outnumbered the Greek forces dozens of times over.

As he continued to jot down his observations, a soldier entered the tent.

"Leader Juleios, someone is here to see you."

"Olivers! You’re back! Are you fully recovered?" Juleios asked, his expression brightening at the sight of his soldier. He didn’t notice Olivers’ slightly awkward demeanor.

"I’m fine. Helpus allowed me to return," Olivers replied, omitting the fact that he had pressed Helpus to release him from the overcrowded medical camp.

"You should still be resting, not on duty. Where’s Xilos?" Juleios asked, only to remember that he had left Xilos in charge of the medical camp. "Never mind that. Who’s here?"

Without a word, Olivers stepped out and returned moments later with the visitor.

The figure entering wore a flowing chiton, complemented by a loose himation (cloak). The soft linen fabric barely concealed the elegant curves beneath. As she stepped closer, she reached up with snow-white hands to lower her cloak, revealing a radiant face.

"Cristoia!" Juleios exclaimed in surprise.

The visitor smiled softly and greeted him. "Leader Juleios."

Olivers smirked knowingly before quietly exiting the tent, his footsteps fading into the night.

For a moment, Juleios stood frozen. He recalled how Olivers had once described Cristoia as having a beauty akin to Aphrodite’s. Now, seeing her up close, he couldn’t disagree.

Noticing his distraction, Cristoia teased, "Is Leader Juleios not pleased to see me?"

"Your presence fills me with such joy that I’m at a loss for words, and your beauty robs me of all thought!" Juleios replied with a playful smile. Though his body was 19, his soul carried 35 years of experience, giving his words a balance of youthful charm and mature wit.

"Leader Juleios, you truly know how to flatter," Cristoia said, her smile deepening. "In the past few days, I’ve heard everyone in the baggage camp speaking of your victories. Both Mithradates and Artoxus, two of Darius the Younger’s most trusted generals, fell before you. No one doubts your abilities anymore. I came to offer my congratulations—though I hope I’m not too late?"

"Your words mean more to me than a thousand praises from others," Juleios replied warmly. "But surely you didn’t come all this way just to congratulate me."

"You’re right," Cristoia admitted, her expression turning serious. "I have a request. You once told me I could come to you with any request."

"Of course. Speak freely."

"I want to join your medical camp," she said firmly.

"What?" Juleios was taken aback. "Has someone mistreated you?"

"No," she replied. "Mersis has been kind to me. But while everyone else is busy, I feel useless. I’ve visited the medical camp a few times and seen what the slave women do. I know I can do the same—perhaps even better."

"Are you sure? The medical camp is no easy place. You’ll face gruesome wounds, blood, dirt, and pain. Some patients may even lash out in delirium..."

"I’m not afraid," Cristoia interrupted, her eyes steady. "I’ve seen how the soldiers treat the women working there—with gratitude, not disdain. I want to help."

Juleios regarded her for a moment. She reminded him of modern women, determined to prove their worth through meaningful work.

"Very well," he said. "I agree."

"Truly?" Cristoia’s eyes widened in surprise.

"Yes, truly," Juleios affirmed. His modern perspective of gender equality made her request seem reasonable.

Overjoyed, Cristoia stepped forward, and without thinking, Juleios extended his arms. For a moment, they stood embraced in a quiet moment of understanding.

Outside the tent, Olivers grinned. "Juleios’ springtime has arrived!" he whispered to Georgilis, who had come to take over the shift. "The gods must truly favor him—to win the heart of the most beautiful woman in the camp..."

The following day, Juleios rode his horse with a spring in his step, a sense of triumph radiating from him. His thoughts lingered on the previous night’s encounter with Cristoia. Not only was she stunningly beautiful, but her charm had captivated him entirely. They had spent a night together, deeply connecting beyond words. Yet, Juleios understood the transient nature of their circumstances—an uncertain future loomed, and survival remained the priority.

As the mercenaries marched, the Persian forces reappeared, shattering Juleios’ reflective mood. This time, Tissaphernes employed harassing tactics, sending swift cavalry archers to disrupt the Greeks. The hit-and-run assaults kept the mercenaries tense, slowing their advance and sapping their morale. Though casualties were light, the psychological strain was undeniable.

Navigating through the rugged terrain of the Dukia Mountains compounded their challenges. The Greek phalanx struggled to maintain its formation amidst steep ridges and narrow paths. To adapt, the leaders restructured their units, positioning smaller companies on the flanks and rear to fill gaps and counter the persistent cavalry harassment. After days of grueling progress, they reached the base of the first mountain ridge, relieved to leave the plains behind.

However, as they rested in the valley between ridges, the attack came without warning. Arrows and stones rained down from the heights, plunging the camp into chaos. Soldiers scrambled to retrieve their shields, while the unarmed and untrained baggage train personnel suffered heavy casualties. The Spartans, led by Clearchus, reacted swiftly, charging uphill to engage the attackers.

Juleios, witnessing the disorder, barked orders to restore some semblance of order. "Asistes, relay to the officers: form a shield wall and secure the baggage train!" he commanded. The heavy infantry, veterans of countless skirmishes, moved quickly to shield the vulnerable center.

The medical camp, under Cristoia’s quick thinking and Xilos’ leadership, had already raised a protective shield wall. Cristoia had instructed the staff and wounded to seek cover under the wagons, buying precious time for the soldiers to organize. Juleios felt a surge of relief and admiration upon learning of her decisive actions.

Meanwhile, Clearchus and his Spartans pressed their uphill assault. Despite the relentless volleys of arrows, they maintained their discipline, steadily advancing toward the summit. The Persian light infantry, unwilling to engage in close combat, began to retreat as the Spartans neared their position. Clearchus left a contingent to secure the ridge, ensuring the safety of the mercenaries below.

Back in the valley, Clearchus convened a meeting of the Greek leaders to discuss their next move. "These Persians rely on mobility and ranged attacks," he began. "We must counter their hit-and-run tactics before they regroup."

Clearchus proposed a pincer maneuver. "I’ll lead the vanguard in a frontal assault on the next ridge," he explained, drawing a crude map in the dirt. "Meanwhile, a flanking force will circle to the right, cutting off their escape."

The leaders nodded in agreement, recognizing the necessity of taking the fight to the enemy. The plan was set in motion, with the mercenaries preparing for another grueling climb.

As night fell, Juleios stood at the edge of the camp, gazing toward the mountains ahead. The hardships of the day weighed on him, but the thought of Cristoia’s courage and resilience brought a faint smile to his face. Tomorrow would bring another battle, but tonight, for a brief moment, he allowed himself the comfort of hope.