The Rise Of An Empire In Ancient Europe
Chapter 90 The Battle of the Riverside Plain (Part I)

Chapter 90: Chapter 90 The Battle of the Riverside Plain (Part I)

The Greeks halted their pursuit and began regrouping, their lines tightening with deliberate precision as they advanced steadily forward.

Opposite them, the Lucanian allied forces were a cumbersome mass of over 9,000 warriors. Excluding the wounded from Picossis, Vig, and other cities, this assembly stretched for miles from south to north. Under the banners of Grumentum, Nerulum, and Laos, the warriors scrambled to form their ranks, their sheer numbers creating disorder and delay.

In stark contrast, the Greek mercenaries, numbering a mere 2,000, appeared insignificant. Yet as they drew within a hundred meters of the Lucanian lines, their movements transformed. Suddenly, like a predator seizing an opening, they accelerated, veering sharply to the left.

The leaders of the Lucanian coalition, caught off guard, could only watch in shock as the Greeks surged toward the disorganized right flank of their formation. Warriors, still fumbling to form up, were horrified to see the Greeks hurling javelins with deadly precision before charging with unrelenting ferocity.

In mere moments, the right flank of the Lucanian allied forces crumbled like dry clay under a torrent of rain.

"Despicable Greeks!" Severa bellowed, his voice shaking with fury. "They broke the truce by attacking before we finished forming our lines!"

Akpiru stood at the center of the chaos, his mind racing. He now understood his error. Sending a massive, sluggish force against a smaller, agile enemy was akin to a lumbering bull charging at a nimble mouse—powerful but woefully ineffective.

"Sound the horns! Order the troops to attack immediately!" Akpiru commanded, his voice carrying over the cacophony. "Encircle them! Do not let them escape!"

Across the field, other Lucanian leaders barked similar orders, their voices fueled by anger and desperation.

Unleashed from the constraints of discipline, the Lucanian warriors surged forward like a pack of hounds freed from their leash, driven by rage and humiliation.

The Greek mercenaries turned on their heels and fled eastward, casting aside shields, spears, and swords to quicken their pace. Their retreat was calculated, a bait to draw the Lucanians deeper into the snare.

The pursuing Lucanians gave chase, their formation stretching into a dense column miles long as they rounded a mountain ridge. The Greeks, swift and tireless, led them down a sloping path toward the east. For nearly ten miles, the Greeks ran, their breath labored but their discipline unbroken.

As the Greeks approached the Tino River, they descended into the famous hot spring marshlands on the opposite side, entering a vast riverside plain. Here, the terrain shifted. The moist, soft soil clung to their feet, yet the flat expanse allowed them to maintain their speed. The Lucanians, unwilling to lose sight of their prey, followed.

"Hold on, brothers! Just a little further... we’re almost there!" gasped Philesius, the grizzled captain leading the vanguard. At over forty years old, the grueling run had drained him, yet his resolve never wavered.

The Greeks crossed the plain and climbed a gentle slope. As the Lucanians reached the crest, their eyes widened in horror. Below them stood ranks of fully armed Greek heavy infantry, shields gleaming like a wall of bronze in the sun.

"It’s an ambush—!" a leading warrior shouted, but his cry was cut short as a Greek spear struck him down.

Exhausted from their pursuit, the Lucanian warriors were too drained to resist effectively. The Greek spears plunged into their ranks with ruthless efficiency, cutting them down in droves. One by one, the Lucanians fell, their cries of agony echoing across the plain.

Behind the Greek lines, reinforcements from Tarantum stood ready. Nearby, the mercenaries who had lured the enemy rested briefly, gulping down bread and water handed to them by logistics personnel—slaves, attendants, and women moving with urgency to replace weapons and shields. The mercenaries knew they had mere moments to recover before returning to the fray to seal the encirclement.

Meanwhile, Melsis led a detachment of fully armed guards, accompanied by slaves from Thurii and slave squad leaders—about 1,000 men in total. Their task was to establish a defensive line on the narrow mountain path to block any reinforcements from the Lucanian camp.

Elsewhere, commanders like Drakos, Adrianx, and Sesta led 1,500 mercenaries to ambush the flanks of the riverside plain. Spread thinly over two miles, their line was bolstered by 700 light-shield soldiers, 700 light infantry, and 700 armed slaves from the mines. At the center of the formation stood Juleios, flanked by his personal guard.

"Leader!" Asistes galloped up, his face alight with excitement. "Our forces are advancing rapidly toward the western mountain path!"

Juleios nodded, his expression calm despite the surge of adrenaline coursing through him. The plan was unfolding perfectly. Below, over 8,000 Lucanian warriors—more than half the coalition’s forces—were trapped on the riverside plain. Factoring in the casualties from the previous day’s battle, fewer than 5,000 troops remained in their camp. Crippling the force before them would shatter the Lucanian coalition’s hold on the Sybaris Plain.

"Light infantry, attack!" Juleios commanded, his voice resolute.

Epitines and Zipetes led the light-shield soldiers forward, slipping through the Greek lines as Alpensus signaled the slingers and archers to ready their volleys.

The Lucanians, crammed into the narrow plain, began to panic. Many had discarded their shields and helmets in the earlier pursuit, leaving them vulnerable. As the Greek light infantry rained javelins, arrows, and stones upon them, the tightly packed warriors had nowhere to hide. Each missile struck true, sowing chaos and fear.

"Retreat quickly!" some shouted, while others, consumed by rage, tried to press forward.

The confined space turned into a scene of utter bedlam. Warriors trampled their comrades in a desperate bid to escape, their cries of terror mingling with the screams of the dying. Leaders shouted in vain, their commands lost in the cacophony.

Severa, his towering form cutting through the chaos, roared above the fray. "Fight your way out! Follow me!" Wielding a spear, he charged toward the slope, rallying a handful of warriors to his side.

From his vantage point, Zipetes spotted Severa. With practiced precision, he readied his javelin, a strip of cloth tied to the shaft for added spin. As Severa deflected a javelin with his shield, the force of the blow caused him to stumble. In that instant, Zipetes released his weapon.

The javelin flew true, spinning with deadly force. It pierced Severa’s linen breastplate, driving him to the ground.

The Lucanians’ cries grew more frantic as their leader fell.