New Macedonian Man

254 BC

Prince Euenios in two short years finds himself knee deep in the oily mess that is Iberia, the only way from Oscapolis and Mastiapolis to the south is this narrow sea path similar to Thermopylae that hugs the Mediterranean.

And among the tribes of the peninsula of the World's edge, the Turdetanii, Cauvetanii, and what else kept harassing his incomplete supply lines... Oscapolis is on their own.

In the dusty heart of Mastiapolis, Prince Euenios' eyes darted over the parchments laid out before him. The scribes had done their best to keep the ink from smudging in the oppressive heat, but the lines blurred like the loyalties of the Iberian chieftains he sought to unite. The air had the scent of sweat, iron, and the lingering aroma of last night's wine. Above the clamor of the city, the cries of traders and the grunts of laborers, the tension of war was palpable, a silent drumbeat that pounded in his chest.

If it's possible... it's possible for all of Iberia be put under Macedonia's black sun.

His soldiers, some retired to settle in the promised land allotted to them, while some new soldiers joined, levied from Oscapolis and Mastiapolis, the serene heart of the sea.

With a full army at his command, Prince Euenios had to navigate the treacherous geopolitics of Iberia, where alliances shifted as swiftly as the sands beneath their feet. The Turdetanii and Cauvetanii, once fiercely independent, now saw an opportunity to gain favor or at least survive the coming storm.

The prince knew that to conquer, he must first divide, and so he worked tirelessly to sow discord among the tribal leaders, playing upon their greed and fear. His words, like sharpened javelins, pierced through the air, promising gold and power to those who bent the knee to the Macedonian throne.

The problem is understanding these people, far from barbarians, these people knew of chariots, phalanxes, and they have berserkers, unlike the Britons, these people did not have the intricate warpaint, or the hair gel, but they possess technology as well, that we have to be weary of.

The same as the Celts and the Gallic who invaded Greece during the Wars of the Diadochi, these people are not stupid.

Prince Euenios stood on the ramparts of Mastiapolis, the sea breeze whipping through his hair as he surveyed the land before him. The horizon was a jagged line of mountains, the promise of more battles to come. The sun was setting, casting the world in a bloody hue that reflected his mood. He had come to a decision, one that would either secure his place in history or ensure his downfall. The Iberians had to be conquered swiftly and decisively, lest they band together and drive him into the sea.

Euenios is also happy, eager to hear of news from his family, the return of the Navy is the most important order of action. And he has halted going on campaign, and has been busy with administrative works in preperation.

To make Mastiapolis presentable, he has built a few structures reminiscent of Pella and Thessalonica, a few temples for Zeus here and there. He whistles in his step, wondering what will his family think of this new place? Will they be happy?

They should have went with him in the beginning, he warned them in private that it's time to go but alas, his older brother became King and his sons had to stay, Damasos and Cleopatra also stayed behind, and his father... He's heard of his death.

Now, as he stared at the setting sun, his thoughts were not of home but of war. He had heard whispers of a gathering, a coalition forming among the Iberian tribes. His spies spoke of a leader, a warrior queen named Gadiris, who had rallied the disparate factions under her banner. The reports spoke of her fiery eyes and a tongue sharper than a sword's edge, a woman who could command the loyalty of men with a single glance.

People like this are dangerous and must be killed.

The last letter he got from his family was about Cleo's pregnancy. It looks like she succeeded after all.

He found himself walking the hall back and forth.

"Are you thinking about your family?"

Euenios nearly trips as Lysandra's voice chirp behind him.

"Ahh what does it look like, woman? I'm thinking about my family!" Euenios turns around exasperated. 

Lysandra Pervica, now his most trusted advisor, steps closer, her expression a blend of concern and pragmatism. "Your family is safe heading here, your primary duty entrusted by King Antigonos II is to manage Iberia..."

"And what of the unborn child?" Euenios snapped, his eyes not leaving the horizon. "What kind of uncle am I to bring a child into this world of blood and steel?"

"Silly." She laughs with mirth. 

"The letter is from a while back, so the kid must be running around by now."

"Right..." Euenios exhales deeply, his tense grip on the railing whitening his knuckles as he stops by one of the balconies. 

Lysandra's eyes follow him, her smile fading as she senses his turmoil. She knows the prince is torn between his love for his family and the ironclad duty he has sworn to his kingdom. 

Really, it's one in the same but, the Antigonid Dynasty will fall one day, and Euenios doesn't want Macedon to fall with it.

Lysandra stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "The gods have chosen you for this, Euenios. Your family is a part of your strength, not a burden. The child will be born into a world of change, and perhaps it is you who will shape it for the better."

Euenios turned to face her, his gaze intense. "But what if I fail, Lysandra? What if the price of this 'better' world is too high?"

"Hah, what do you fear, stupid man? You made it all the way across the world." She quips.

"I hope those aren't the empty words of an advisor." Euenios turns back and disappears into the Palace.

Lysandra shakes her head in exasperation. 

...

..

.

The horses coming in and out of Mastiapolis throw up dust in the air as their heavy hooves hit the ground, mixing with the salty sea breeze that sweeps through the city. The marketplace is a mess of languages and bartered goods, because the city's a burgeoning commercial hub.

The Iberian artisans, once isolated in their own territories, now mingle with Greek and Macedonian traders, sharing techniques and materials. The clang of metal on metal echoes from the nearby forges, where local blacksmiths work tirelessly to equip the growing army. The scent of roasting meats and exotic spices fills the air, mingling with the distant odor of the tanneries and the sea.

Slaves of various nationalities, marked by their ragged clothes and bruised bodies, move through the streets with a sense of urgency. Their eyes, though often downcast, gleam with hope as they hear tales of a world beyond their shackles.

Naturally, as any repopulation efforts, Euenios got quite a few thousand slaves working in their territories, some of them captured in Iberia, some of them sold by the Carthaginians, and some even taken from the northern shores of Africa.

The children of the conquered, once destined for a life of hard labor, now run alongside Macedonian soldiers, eager to learn the art of war. The city's transformation is in hand, cultures forced together by the hand of conquest.

Cultures that won't matter in their distinction, as there is the new Macedonian man.

Euenios' vision for Mastiapolis was clear: a bastion of Hellenistic culture nestled on the edge of the barbarian world. The city buzzed with life, as the inhabitants of various backgrounds melded together.

The agora bustled with activity, as merchants haggled over the price of amphoras filled with olive oil and spices from distant lands. Greek tutors whispered lessons to eager Iberian children, their young minds eager to absorb the knowledge of the civilized world.

Of course, indoctrinating the young is key, as of now Mastiapolis operates as a military base built from the ground up, out of nothing. The location is chosen because of the proximity of the Silver and Iron in the mountains.

The city walls bore the proud insignia of the Antigonid Dynasty, contrasting the primitive carvings that adorned the stones under it.

Mastiapolis had grown in a way that seemed organic yet deliberate, a blend of Macedonian might and Iberian influence. The city's layout mirrored the grid system of Greek cities, yet it was surrounded by a thick wooden palisade, a nod to the defensive structures of the locals. 

The streets were wide, to allow for the passage of chariots and soldiers, lined with houses and shops that grew more extravagant as one approached the central square. Here, the marketplace thrived, noisy, smelly, and colorful.

The City is prosperous.

For politics, the City is mostly governed directly by Prince Euenios, but if like in Oscapolis he is not present, the usual council of old people take over civilian affairs. Euenios clearly just copied what worked in the Greek City States like Athens and Corinth.

The council is composed of Macedonian citizens of Mastiapolis, mostly retired soldiers and merchants who had found their fortune here. They met in a council chamber that was once an Iberian chieftain's hut but had been transformed with marble and frescoes.

An old tribe was living here and abandoned the place, so this will make do.

In the city's center stood a grand theater, its acoustics designed to carry the words of poets and philosophers to the ears of the populace. It was here that the citizens of Mastiapolis gathered to escape the grind of daily life, to listen to the tales of heroes and gods that united them under the banner of Greek culture.

Achilles

Ajax

Heracles

Agamemnon

Perseus (and all his fat ass cheeks)

... and so on.

The city's rhythm was punctuated by the beat of military drums and the bark of drill instructors. Soldiers of various ages and origins marched through the streets in disciplined lines, their armor gleaming in the sun.

The Macedonian military machine had been transplanted to this foreign soil, and it thrived. The gymnasium was a hive of activity, with young men and women alike pushing their bodies to the limits of human endurance. They trained in the art of pankration, a brutal form of combat that left no room for mercy or quarter.

In this frontier territory, there's no more space for an exclusive patriarchy of strength. There's not enough men to begin with and so the decision to essentially double the pool of recruits was made.

Since the locals do the same, Euenios didn't see the need to reject. After all this isn't really Greece anymore, and look at what's happening there, he bets the Romans already beat the Greek cities to submission, and his brothers are holding the line.

Women and men train side by side, their muscles glistening with sweat, their eyes focused on the prize of survival. The city's culture was being shaped by necessity, and Euenios knew that in a world where alliances were as fleeting as the morning mist, a strong, unified populace was their best defense.

Staple foods like rice entered the diet of the Macedonian. Euenios himself was forced to eat lots of it, sometimes just rice in the years he spent here.

The city's cuisine had evolved to include a blend of Greek dishes with Iberian flavors. The locals had introduced them to a variety of game meats, and the Macedonians had shown them the wonders of baked goods, or idk, gyros (nuh uh this is 1920s stuff mb).

But amidst the growth and change, the shadow of war loomed large. The coalition of Iberian tribes, led by the fiery Queen Gadiris, grew stronger by the day. Euenios knew that he could not ignore this threat much longer. His spies had reported back the chilling efficiency with which she had unified the disparate groups under her rule.

But facing them, is the new Macedonian man.