Pella (2)

The North Wall continues to struggle, as the Macedonians defending the area near one of the towers start breaking and fleeing. Finally, the Romans capture one of the towers, leading to the ground level, into the city.

Above, the sky was a canvas of fiery reds and oranges, a stark contrast to the cold steel of the Roman shields and the fear-stricken faces of the Macedonian soldiers. The din of battle grew louder as the Roman centurions bellowed orders, their voices carrying over the clang of metal on metal and the cries of the wounded. The smell of sweat and blood hung in the air, a pungent reminder of the brutal struggle unfolding below.

The Roman and the Macedonian legionnaires go straight up to each other until their shields are damn near touching each other, they grab a javelin, cock their arm back, stare straight at each other and with full strength, throw the missiles at each other.

The Roman legionary, a seasoned veteran with a scar across his cheek, squinted as the Macedonian's javelin sped towards him. He had seen this kind of desperate move before, but something in the younger man's eyes told him this wasn't just a simple battle for survival - there was a ferocity there that hinted at something more personal. 

The javelin's iron tip glinted in the fading sunlight, a silent promise of a swift and brutal end. He waited for the perfect moment, his muscles taut like a bowstring, then swiped his shield to the side with a quick, practiced motion, the javelin's shaft burying itself into the wooden barrier with a thud. He didn't miss a beat, lunging forward with his sword, the steel blade flashing in the light.

The Macedonian legionnaires prove their mettle by making a few Romans flee after some hour of fighting, the sun is nearly at the middle of the sky, missiles are flying around as more and more legionnaires from both sides show up into this same street.

All over Pella, fighting like this in all streets, replicating themselves in the brutality.

Elite Roman Cavalry slowly trickle down on the street front, in the front is Aemilius Brutus Papus "Macedonicus", the Killer of Antigonos, fighting personally with his men. The Macedonians are immediately routed and this unit is wiped out.

The Roman cavalry charges at another Macedonian unit, making two of them fly into the air and splatter back down on the cobblestone ground. This entire unit is a grindstone, only one Roman rider is killed.

The chaos grew thicker, as the streets of Pella turned into a labyrinth of death and destruction. The once-beautiful city was now a battleground, its white marble walls stained with crimson. 

The clang of swords and the cries of the dying filled the air as the Roman forces pushed deeper into the heart of the city. The Macedonian resistance was fierce, but the Romans were relentless, driven by the scent of victory and the promise of glory.

The centurion, a man named Gaius, wiped the sweat from his brow and surveyed the battlefield. His eyes fell upon the palace, standing tall and proud amidst the carnage. That was their objective - the heart of the city, and where he knew the final stand would be made.

He bellowed orders to his men, regrouping them into a tight formation as they prepared to press on.

But the Roman cavalry is now being surrounded and pressed as they advanced a few meters to the West Wall, a mass of Macedonian legionnaires whittling more and more of the Elite riders.

From 57, only 34 are left in this unit.

The cobblestones underfoot grew slick with blood, the ground trembling with the thunder of clashing shields and the stomping of warhorses. The air was thick with dust, making it hard to breathe, let alone see. Yet, Aemilius Brutus Papus "Macedonicus" remained unflappable at the forefront of his men, his sword a blur as it cut through enemy ranks.

The Macedonian archers took to the rooftops, raining arrows down on the Roman cavalry like a deadly storm. The air was alive with the whistle of death, and horses and men fell in a tangled mess of steel and flesh.

Gaius watched the grim scene unfold, his heart pounding in his chest. The scent of fear and determination mingled in the air, a heady cocktail that only battle could produce. He knew the tide of the battle could turn at any moment, and the fate of Pella hung in the balance. He tightened his grip on his sword, feeling the comforting weight of it in his hand. The hilt was slick with sweat and blood, a testament to the lives it had claimed and the lives it would take.

Only 10 of the Consul's Guard are left, the Elite riders fighting hard against a seemingly endless mass of Macedonians.

The battle for Pella raged on, the Romans pushed forward, driven by the valor of their leaders and the promise of victory, while the Macedonians fought with the desperation of the cornered. 

Each side knew that the other's defeat was inevitable, yet neither would yield, their spirits fueled by the fires of war.

The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows over the city. The fight grew more intense, a symphony of steel and grit that echoed through the narrow streets.

The once-proud towers of Pella were now scarred with the marks of Roman siege engines, the Macedonian archers on the rooftops had been picked off by the skilled Roman slingers, but their arrows had taken a heavy toll.

The ground was littered with the dead and dying, Aemilius Brutus Papus "Macedonicus" fought like a man possessed, his blade hitting this and that and this again. He had lost count of the Macedonian soldiers who had fallen before him, but the battle was far from over. The city's defenders rallied around their king, forming a human shield that protected the palace gates.

But the day is not to be Roman, as the battle goes on, the Romans are slowly wiped out, and Aemilianus Brutus Papus, fights by himself, and is overwhelmed by the Macedonian numbers.

And not so soon after, he is killed.

2,559 Romans and 4,836 Macedonians showed up to fight in Pella today, and at the end of the day the city was littered with the dead, the Macedonians left to clean up the mess.

2,448 Macedonians and 2,363 Romans lay dead in and out of the city.

The sun had set, leaving behind a twilight that painted the city in shades of deep purple and red, a grim reflection of the day's events, the air heavy with the metallic tang of spilled gore.

The silence that had descended over the battleground was deafening, a stark contrast to the cacophony of war that had reigned only moments ago.

The surviving Roman soldiers gathered in small clusters, their eyes downcast and their spirits crushed by the loss of their esteemed leader. They had fought with all their might, but the Macedonians had proven to be a formidable adversary, their numbers and ferocity overwhelming the invaders.

The Consul will be replaced, at least he didn't run away.

The Romans are still there, and this time, they're heading to Thessalonica with all of their strength.