The Rise Of An Empire In Ancient Europe
Chapter 82 The Battle of Thurii (Part IV)

Chapter 82: Chapter 82 The Battle of Thurii (Part IV)

Akilos stood at the rear of his faltering formation, surrounded by the chaos of war. He could not see the full scope of the battlefield, but the signs of disaster were undeniable. His warriors were retreating, their screams of pain and shouts of confusion reaching him through the clamor. To his left and right, scattered groups of Lucanian warriors had begun to flee, their courage shattered. A mix of rage and dread boiled within him. The great chief of Picossis knew that if his line collapsed, the entire Lucanian alliance would fall with it. Akpiru, the dominant leader of Grumentum and his in-law, would not forgive such failure. The humiliation—and the consequences—would be severe.

Akilos had little time to contemplate his next move. His Picossis warriors were fully engaged and beyond his immediate control. His only remaining option was the Brutti warriors of Vigg, held in reserve.

"Go!" he barked to his guard. "Order the Brutti to advance and stabilize the line! Tell Sedolum this: if we lose here today, the Lucanians will never forgive Vigg for failing to act!"

At the Brutti camp, Sedolum, chief of Vigg, watched the battlefield with narrowed eyes. Beside him stood his young advisor, Saru, who seethed with indignation.

"Great chief, the Lucanians are insufferable! Akilos arrogantly refused our help earlier, thinking he could crush the Greeks on his own. And now that his forces are collapsing, he blames us?" Saru spat.

Sedolum remained silent, his gaze fixed on the battle. The sight of the Greek mercenaries pushing back the Lucanians filled him with a mix of awe and apprehension.

"These Greeks are formidable," Saru continued, his tone shifting to hesitant admiration. "They’re outnumbered, yet they’re breaking the Lucanian right wing. Perhaps... perhaps we should retreat. If the Lucanians lose, it could be an opportunity for us to break away from their dominance."

Finally, Sedolum spoke, his voice measured. "Even if the Lucanians are defeated today, how many will truly fall? The Greeks may win the battle, but they will not dare venture into the mountains. The Lucanians will regroup and retaliate. Unless we wish to abandon our lands and force a confrontation with Croton to the south, we have no choice but to fight."

He straightened, his decision made. "Order the warriors to tighten their formation. Advance on the right flank."

The Brutti warriors—2,000 strong, clad in leather armor and armed with wooden shields and long spears—formed a dense phalanx. As the Picossis line buckled, the Brutti moved into position behind them, their disciplined ranks pressing forward.

The arrival of the Brutti reinforcements halted the retreat of the Lucanian right wing. The fleeing warriors, finding their path blocked, were forced to turn back and fight. Panic began to subside as the combined Lucanian-Brutti line regained its footing. Though their casualties mounted, the reinforced formation became an impenetrable wall of flesh and steel. The Greek mercenaries, their earlier momentum waning, began to feel the pressure.

The mercenary line, stretched thin, could not withstand the combined weight of the Lucanian and Brutti forces. Their cohesion faltered as the melee intensified. Though their combat prowess remained unmatched, the sheer mass of their opponents drove them to a controlled retreat. Step by step, the Greeks fell back, maintaining discipline even as exhaustion set in.

Juleios, ever the vigilant commander, rode along the rear of his line, his sharp eyes taking in every detail of the battle. Unlike generals who immersed themselves in combat, Juleios prioritized oversight, issuing precise orders through messengers. Earlier, when the Lucanian right wing teetered on the brink of collapse, his hopes had soared. But as the tide turned, his disappointment was evident. Still, he knew better than to demand the impossible from his men. They had fought with unmatched ferocity, but even the most seasoned warriors had their limits.

To buy time, Juleios ordered his light shield-bearers, who had retreated to the rear, to flank the enemy’s far right. But their efforts, though valiant, could not shift the tide. The arrival of the Brutti reinforcements had turned the balance decisively against them.

On the Sybaris Plain, nearly 30,000 soldiers clashed in a life-or-death struggle. The air was thick with dust and the metallic tang of blood. For over an hour, the battle raged, and the Greek forces began to falter. The Lucanian alliance, bolstered by an unexpected 2,000 Brutti warriors, now outnumbered the Greeks by a staggering 6,500.

The center of the Greek line, composed of mercenaries, Thurii citizen-soldiers, and freemen, was in disarray. The mercenaries, fighting for pay, prioritized survival when victory seemed impossible. The citizens, driven by the need to protect their homeland, pushed themselves to their physical limits. The freemen, motivated by the promise of citizenship, fought with less urgency, knowing they could flee to another city-state if defeated. These disparate motivations fractured the Greek center, leaving it vulnerable to the relentless assault of Grumentum’s warriors.

As gaps widened in the Greek line, the Lucanians exploited them mercilessly. The center crumbled, soldiers fleeing in every direction. Seeing this collapse, Juleios sighed deeply, his face a mask of controlled frustration. He had hoped to turn the tide, but now his priority shifted to salvaging what he could.

"Sound the retreat," he ordered, his voice steady despite the chaos around him.

The retreat signal, unique to Juleios’s forces, began with a long, resonant note, followed by a melody identical to the charge signal, repeated thrice. The Lucanians, confused by the unfamiliar tune, hesitated. Seizing the moment, the Greek mercenaries executed a coordinated withdrawal. Their rear ranks launched a final volley of javelins, sowing chaos among the advancing Lucanians. With precision honed by rigorous training, the mercenaries turned and retreated in perfect order, their discipline preserving their lives even in defeat.

The battlefield, once a chaotic clash of wills, now bore the scars of war. Bodies littered the plain, and the cries of the wounded echoed in the fading light. The Lucanian alliance had emerged victorious, but at a steep cost. Their ranks were thinned, their strength diminished.

Juleios, riding at the rear of his retreating forces, cast one final glance at the battlefield. Despite the defeat, he felt no shame. His men had fought valiantly against overwhelming odds. Today’s loss was but a Chapter in a larger story—one that was far from over.