Britons

The first problem the refugees and Hoplites faced in the shores of Iberia, is disease. In a few days, the people started developing fevers, sore throats, coughs, and lethargy spread throughout the camp.

The fleet of ships that had brought them here had been a welcome sight at first, a respite from the endless horizon of the sea. They had sailed from their homelands in the dead of night, fleeing the wrath of the Romans. Each vessel was crammed with weary soldiers and their families, all hoping for a fresh start in the untouched lands of the north east.

But now, no one wants to see those ships anymore. Prince Euenios sends the navy back to Greece, in hopes that when it arrives it can pick up his entire family. He watches as they slowly shrink into the horizon, feeling a pang of longing mixed with fear. 

The second problem is food. The local wildlife is scarce, the sea teeming with sharks that drive away the fish. They are forced to ration their supplies, and soon, desperation creeps into every meal. The children's eyes follow the adults' movements, hoping for an extra mouthful.

Prince Euenios quickly sent a group of Hoplites to look for mercenaries to lead them the way to a settlement. Prince Euenios did not come in peace, they are colonizers, conquerors, and Iberia will be their new breeding ground.

The third problem they encountered was the Iberian resistance. The natives of the region were not keen on sharing their land with more Greeks. The first skirmish was swift and brutal. 

The Iberians, armed with crude but effective weaponry, attacked the Hoplites in a fierce display of territorial defense. The Greeks, despite their superior military training, found themselves outmatched in the dense forests and unfamiliar terrain.

The morning of the first glare of the sun, the heat is close to unbearable, but a thousand Macedonian Hoplites are in formation. Included in their number are 80 Iberian javelin throwers, and on horseback is Prince Euenios and his guard riding at front.

The entire group starts marching forward, following the river Ebro. They are told there is a large settlement up north, ripe for the taking. They march for days, the sun burning their skin, the river their only source of relief.

The water is sometimes murky, but it is the only thing that can quench their thirst and wash away the stench of sweat and fear. But as they march, the air changes. The scent of smoke wafts through the camp.

They know it isn't from their own fires. The Iberian scouts they had brought along whisper of a village nearby. The Hoplites tighten their grip on their spears, and their shields move closer together. They can feel the tension rising, the anticipation of battle.

They know that this is the battle that might define their legacy… and after the ten year wait the Hoplites are asking themselves why they have weapons in the first place, so they are eager for battle.

As the Greek and Iberian forces approach the distant smoke, the sound of clashing metal and shouts of war echo through the air. The smell of burning thatch fills their nostrils, and the acrid taste of fear lingers on their tongues. 

The village is surrounded by a wooden palisade, and from the top, they can see figures moving frantically. The Iberian scouts, their faces grim, confirm that it is indeed a Iberian settlement under attack.

The attackers they see on the distance, fielding a large army of what looks to be like Chariots, Phalanxes, Berzerkers, and Archers, all dressed in the distinctive garb of the local Celtic tribes. The Iberian scouts look nervously at each other, recognizing the insignia of the Briton, a fierce and unrelenting tribe known for their brutality. The Greeks, on the other hand, stand firm, their discipline unwavering despite the overwhelming numbers before them.

Prince Euenios calls a quick war council with the mercenary leaders. The Iberians, with their intimate knowledge of the land, suggest a tactical retreat, but the Greeks are stubborn. They've come too far to turn back now. Instead, they decide to use the river to their advantage, setting up a defensive line along the bank, with archers and javelin throwers positioned on the higher ground.

The army forms into a tight phalanx, shields overlapping like the scales of a giant metal serpent. The Iberian javelin throwers are spread out on the flanks, ready to harass the enemy's approach. The archers line the rear, arrows at the ready. The heavy infantry, with their bronze shields and long spears, stand in the center, their eyes locked on the horizon where the Celtic forces are expected to appear. The horsemen, lightly armored but swift and agile, hover on the edge, ready to strike at the first sign of weakness.

Riding with the flanks, Prince Euenios moves his army forward, uniformly as the two armies in front of them are busy fighting each other.

The Celtic chariots charge first, their wheels kicking up dust that obscures the view for a moment. The ground trembles beneath the thunderous hooves, and the war cries of the Berzerkers pierce the air.

The Greeks brace themselves, their shields raised in a wall of bronze that gleams in the midday sun. The chariots crash into the phalanx, and for a moment, it seems as if the Greeks might be overrun.

But their discipline holds. They stand firm, their spears pointed outward, creating an impenetrable barricade. The Celtic charioteers, unable to break the line, are impaled on the very spears that they had hoped to overwhelm.

The horses, maddened by the scent of blood and the pain of their wounds, bolt, pulling the chariots away in a chaotic routes, then out of the dense woodland, the Briton phalanx emerges.

The Hoplites watch as the Briton phalanx formations, nearly mimicking their own march forward, their shields emblazoned with intricate Celtic designs, a contrast to the Greek's uniformity. 

Some of the Britons don't even have shields, planning to just charge with just their pants, and shirtless bodies. The Britons' battle cries are heard throughout the battlefield, as much noise is being made.

The lightly armored Britons, rush forward like a sea of bronze hair and bluish tunics, their hair styled to stand in intricate shapes, their faces adorned with paint flanking their faces. Prince Euenios grips his doru as the Britons reach a few meters from their center.