Hello fellow FF readers and writers. Once again, I have decided to put up another short recalling one battle I carried out in a campaign on Rome: Total War with Parthia and Pontus.

As always, units will be measured on the HUGE scale. Enjoy.

The farmhouse and the crops to his back and right, the rolling hills and fields of grass ahead and to the left, mountains a few miles away before them and some behind them. To the … south, was it? … was the sea, and from there to Rhodes. Small clumps of trees dotted the immediate vicinity around the farmhouse, yet his eyes were focused on a point a few hundred metres away, situated at the top of a big hill.

They stretched across it, seemingly from one end of the valley to the other, their many horse archers waiting patiently, observing them as if they were some kind of predator, awaiting their prey to make the first move so they could chase them down and tear them asunder. All that was needed in such a scenario was one mistake, one little thing to go wrong, and it would be a nightmare.

And for Herakles right now, that was what he was faced with. A terrifying, inescapable nightmare (unless one were to consider the morbid way out for him and his men).

How many of the horsemen that stood opposite the great field between the two sides, he did not know, but it had to be at least 1500. Their bright attire made them visible from quite a distance, and while others his people, the Pontics of north Asia [modern day Turkey] had contended with in this part of the world had been far more terrifying (and some smellier and rugged) in their appearance, their skill had been far inferior to theirs.

The mighty Seleucids, for instance, had come to meet them in battle with their vast chariots and piked militia and men who bore a mixture of the hallmarks of the Greeks and the various peoples of the east. The result though was their humbling, and they had been humbled many a time since then. It had cost them Tarsus in Cilicia, Antioch in Syria, and even Sardis in Ionia (though that had been down more to a clever skill of coin and word on the part of a Pontic diplomat). Before long, they had been confined to their city state in far-away Babylon, as others like the men of the Pharoah to the far south and the tribes of the hills of Armenia had attempted to take hold of any settlements the Seleucids had been unable, or even simply did not bother to defend.

Herakles thought back to those days while taking a moment to observe his men, all 240 of them, and one of him. Dressed in their loose blue fabric with sandals tied around their feet, and a shawl covering their heads and parts of their faces, each wielding a spear and a small shield (as if that would protect them the bitter thought came once more to his mind), they stood loosely in somewhat of a formation. Sixty across and four deep; himself positioned near the top right next to the standard bearer, a short, stocky, bearded one by the name of Singes. They were nervous, and the shawls did nothing to block the tension. Having been a commander for a number of years, he learned to see, and some would say even feel when his men were apprehensive.

Given what faced them now, it was hard not to be nervous.

Such words would have been unthinkable many years earlier, all the way to the days of his grandfather. The Pontics by that time had spread across Asia, taking Lycia, the land of Galatia and even snatched Bithynia from the meagre Greek force guarding the territory's capital, Nicomedia. Though they lacked the numbers of the hordes of the Pharoah, nor held the extreme discipline and skill of their smaller, yet incredibly resilient neighbours, the Greek in Phrygia, Pontus had carved out an impressive empire for itself. Word had reached them that their leader, King Pharnaces, had plans to sally forth against Armenia and into the lands south and east of Syria, and even north across the great sea to a land called Bosphorus. Some believed it possible, others scoffed, chortling at the idea of being able to go further.

Why wouldn't they? Herakles remembered one diplomat saying once in a conversation with a local Galatian, the name now long forgotten by him. The borders are secure. The Greeks are occupied, the Pharoah is busy in Arabia, and Armenia is a useful buffer, its mountains and our own are an unbreakable barrier. Even old Persia could not hope to cross them.

It was something the diplomat, himself having passed into the world beyond this life not long after his confident boast, was soon to be corrected.

While the words were largely lost, and somewhat distorted to him, Herakles knew the general picture for it was hardly arcanum. Sometime after the Seleucids had largely fled to the land of Babylon, word began to spread of Armenia being overrun by the very people he would soon face head on. Though it was not a short conflict, the end result was the people of that mountain kingdom were forced to bend the knee to a people known as Parthia. While they had men on the ground, it was their horse archers that terrified any who came to face them. Nimble and fast, deadly and precise, at one point first, then suddenly everywhere next, they made short work of their enemies, even if outnumbered and backed into a geographic and/or strategic corner. Supposedly, they were further north too, but this hardly mattered because here they were more numerous, and more deadly.

It was only natural that they and Pontus would come to blows at some point. Who started it? Herakles blamed the Parthians for crossing the natural boundary between the now occupied Armenian territories. Soon they were fighting there and in Armenia itself. The Pontics crossed the coastal pathways, trying to surprise the Parthians, but even when an army laid siege to Kotais, they were quickly surrounded and crushed by their faster, horse-riding foes. Another defeat near Mazaka of a mighty force led by King Pharnaces himself proved to be crippling and soon they were on the retreat, with said city falling just a few months later. Sinope would also be besieged, but the Parthians were driven back, though not without inflicting severe casualties on the defending Pontics.

That was where it had ended, save for a few naval skirmishes across the sea to the north, and that was where it should have ended. These eastern riders (or 'horse-lovers', as was often the less than savoury term thrown around about them) largely disappeared, apparently going to war with the Pharoah's armies (that was about as much as he knew, at least until fairly recently). By that time, his father had been about the same age as him, 27, and was, at least by his standards, doing well as a mere (and often occasional, diving his drinking habit) infantryman (something Herakles would try to avoid mentioning).

Why had mother now been with someone more ambitious?! A naval warrior, or even a warrior committed to his cause?!

The blow of a distant horn and increased muttering amongst his men made him look up to see large units of men marching from behind the horsemen and taking up positions ahead of them. Most of them wore the expected lightened attire, but some were bare-chested and wore a type of long cloth that hung around their thighs with strange helmets upon their heads. Their lower legs were covered with a type of shiny armour that stopped just above their sandals and in their hands were their weapons, a crescent moon shield in one and a large, sharpened sickle in the other.

Mercenaries. Herakles hated them. He hated their way of life, their barbarity, their lack of commitment, their impossible financial standards, and how when battles normally occurred they would be the first to break and run.

Damned be those who hire them! Damn them!

Well, Hades would greet them soon. If only he could be there to witness them shivering in fear as the Great Lord of the Underworld prepared to meet them, towering over them like one of the Titans of old.

He watched as the mercenaries – Thracian, to be exact – let out a war cry and charged down the hill towards them. Two units, each numbering about 160. Herakles barked out a command for his men to stand ready. Shields lowered, spears pointed ahead, some crouched low ready to meet the oncoming threat. Herakles whipped out his sword and stood battle-ready.

"Stand firm!" he barked, shooting a glance to see if they were remaining in place. "Stand firm!"

The noise of the yelling mercenaries grew louder, as did the thunderous sound of their running. The standards bearer swallowed hard, feeling something warm running down his leg. Another of the Pontic eastern infantrymen found himself shaking so bad that he looked as though he was ready to throw down his weapons and run away as fast as he could. Yet their stone-faced commander stood at the ready, waiting for the coming wave to slam into them.

With a cacophony of metal against metal, cries, roars and shouts, the Thracians collided with the Pontics, knocking much of the first line aside or down. Those few that remained were quickly set upon by their enemy. The battle has begun.

Herakles charged into the fray, throwing off a thin mercenary with the flick of his arm and cleaving him across the chest with a swing of his sword. The man cried out and crumpled, his sanguinary insides spilling out to the ground, but his opponent had moved on. Herakles threw himself at a pair of the half-naked soldiers who were busy clashing with the standard bearer, knocking one of them over and forcing the other back into the midst of colours as the Pontics charged forward from the second and third lines to keep the mercenaries at bay. Herakles then finished off the Thracian with a swing of his sword that decapitated the warrior and sent the head rolling away.

Looking down at his standard bearer, who sported a wound to his upper right chest, he held out a hand and pulled him to his feet.

"Stand tall, standard bearer!" he ordered, grabbing the mercenary's weapon and tossing it to him.

A spear whizzed past them, impaling itself in the back of a Pontic soldier, who let out a strangled cry and fell forward. Another two Pontics fell on top of him, one with his chest split open, the second with a stab wound to the stomach. Herakles went to bark an order at the standard bearer, but the man was quickly grabbed and pulled into the carnage by a large mercenary, screaming and wrestling all the way.

Chaos! Herakles thought, mind racing like an Olympian horse running at full sprint, head turning wildly as bodies, guts and blood and heads rolled and fell around him.

He caught sight of about twenty Pontics be forced back, forming a sort of circular shield wall as they went. The Thracians leapt at them, trying to score a hit. One rushed the Pontics and was rewarded with a spear through the gut that levelled him. Another followed up quicky behind his fallen comrade and grabbed the Pontic as he was trying to free his weapon and was pulled into the waiting sickles of the Thracians. More charged at the Pontic spear wall. Some of the Thracians were cut down, but the Pontics were forced back towards a grove of trees. A few of their brethren ran past; mercenaries in hot pursuit.

They were doomed if he did not reach them. They needed him to rally them, to get back their fighting spirit, to-

"Enemy!"

Turning, he saw a huge man stomping towards him. At least 6ft 5, with broad shoulders, thick arms, strong legs and wide torso that would have been almost as big as two of Herakles standing side by side. In his left hand was a sickle, in his right was his large helmet with blood dripping off the side and front. This behemoth's face looked hard as rock, mouth open in a snarl, showing his cragged teeth (Herakles briefly thought that he probably ate meat raw). His cheeks were lined with scars and the rough stubble around his lower face was covered with blood. What really stood out were his eyes, or eye as one of them was missing and a long thick scar running down his forehead and across towards the ear was visible, leaving only the white of it left.

Herakles withdrew a step, seeing several of the Thracians standing nearby, eagerly awaiting the upcoming spectacle. The cries and shrieks of battle from nearby still raged, but it had subsided largely.

The Thracians standing nearby, joined by a few more upon them seeing their larger comrade fixated on something, began to bang their sickles against their shields. Some chanted: "Kill him!" or "Rip him apart, Bassus!", accentuated further with a few shouts and taunts at the direction of the Pontic. Herakles looked all around him, seeing more of the Thracians fill up the rest of the circle not too far behind him, sickles and shields at the ready in case he tried to run. He caught a brief glimpse of blue, hoping it was the group of infantry he had seen moments earlier coming to try and break him out, but was disheartened to see it was a lone soldier of his unit be picked up by another large Thracian. Though he not as big as the 'Bassus' that stood to challenge him, he was clearly still very strong and he tossed the Pontic to the ground, where he was set upon by two more Thracians, his screams filing the air as they hacked away at him.

A loud growl made him face the towering behemoth, who tossed his helmet to one of his fellows, then twirled his sickle in his hand, a small menacing grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Fight me!" he growled, his voice deep and sonorous.

Herakles breathed in deep, calling on all the gods, most especially the one his namesake was from, to guide him, protect him, and for his sake grant him victory and escape.

He looked up at the huge man as he barked at him to come and attack him, opening his arms, a clear: Come, I am open. Strike me.

Herakles gave a small, cocky grin. Direct attack was a waste, so he resorted to an old trick sure to rile up this … man's? bloodlust.

"You first, M'Lady,"

The effect was instant. His enemy's face turned sour and ugly as he snarled a nasty snarl and charged towards him, raring to strike him down.

Herakles grinned. Perfect.

He kicked at the ground, sending dirt and debris into the man's face. His enemy, Bassus, grunted in surprise as some of it hit his eyes and he turned sideways, dropping his sickle to rub them clean. Herakles rushed forward, sword at the ready. Now was his chance.

He leapt and kneed Bassus right in the side of the head with a whack that almost knocked him over, then followed it up with a punch right into his exposed side, right at the ribs. Bassus cried out and fell to one knee, clutching his side, though he felt adrenaline course through his veins as he shot up and turned to face his Pontic opponent, who now stood about ten feet away, wielding both his sword and the sickle, the latter of which he twirled in his hand. He gave a cocky grin.

Too slow.

Bassus glared at him, huffing deeply like some kind of mountain beast, furious at how his smaller foe had easily landed not one, but two blows against him. And right in front of the other mercenaries. Oh, he was going to make him pay, and he would do it slowly, painfully, willingly.

He snatched the helmet out of the hands of the Thracian nearest him and, lunging forward, tossed it at Herakles. The smaller Pontic, startled at the sudden burst of speed by a man this size, just about knocked the helmet aside with the sickle, but was met by a wall of muscled fury that slammed into him like a bull, or the famed minotaur of the fable of old. He crashed to the ground, something warm ran down his head, but a large hand the size of his head wrapped itself around his throat and hoisted him above the ground, dropping both his weapons as he tried to free himself, but it was no use.

Bassus stood tall, holding the Pontic in a grip so strong that it would have rivalled that of the famed Herakles himself. Had he known the name of the one he was fighting, he would have laughed, or possibly been furious at how so mighty a warrior could have been embodied by so tiny, so pathetic a mortal. One that was and was only prey.

He turned and broke into a small run, then tossed Herakles with all his might ahead of him. The group of mercenaries quickly scattered as Herakles' body came crashing down into a heap, splitting his forehead open again and more blood fell down his face. Bassus stomped over, grabbing his sickle and barking at one Thracian who wanted to take a swing at Herakles to keep away. It was his kill, no one else's.

Herakles groaned as he pushed himself up, mind spinning, one eye stained with blood. It's going to take more to fight this one.

The strong hand seized him again around his messy crop of brown hair and pulled him to his feet, spun him round, and delivered a backhand that almost knocked him down again. A few voices nearby jeered he thought, but the Pontic couldn't be sure. Another hand gripped him around the throat and pulled him close so their noses were almost touching.

"Dead meat, you are," Bassus growled, his breath stinking of bad meat and alcohol and made Herakles cough.

He tried to push him away, but Bassus delivered a headbutt that broke his nose with a sickening CRACK that made even a few of the Thracians nearby wince. Herakles cried out as he was pushed to the ground once more, a large foot slamming onto his chest and cracking his ribs. Bassus pointed his sickle at Herakles and raised it above his head.

The Pontic, gasping and shaking at the pain running through his body, looked up into the eyes of the man, this monster, this behemoth standing over and on him like Zeus himself ready to deliver a thunderbolt of judgement onto a wayward human. Maybe it was what he deserved; his namesake he had tried to live up to, yet it was in vain, and now he was beaten, a humiliation to his people and to his heritage.

Perhaps this was what the gods preordained for me.

He closed his eyes, wanting his last thoughts to be not the coming stroke that would kill him, but of his mother, who he would never see again.

"SIR!"

That voice! He remembered it!

Bassus looked over his shoulder to see a man dressed in the Pontic attire, about the same height as the one he was about to slay, nursing two wounds on his upper chest and a deep cut around his leg, slice through the back and side of a Thracian, leaving him a bloodied mess on the ground. Another he ran through the midsection before the warrior could react.

Herakles, though wounded and battered, could not stop himself from giving a momentary sigh of relief. The Standard Bearer.

Bassus took his foot off Herakles as he turned to face the newly arrived Pontic warrior, who was busy swinging his sword as the hired mercenaries tried to surround him. One was grazed across the stomach and staggered back, clutching the wound. The Standard Bearer swung at another, his eyes wild, ignoring the blood that continued to run from the wounds he had received. He had been hurt, but he was not out. The larger Thracian that had grabbed him a moment ago, he had dealt with him by taking off his head, and then the arm of another that tried to rush to attack him from behind. When he saw his unit commander in danger, he had rushed to his defence.

And here they were now.

With his back still turned, he did not see the huge mass of Bassus stomp up to him and grab him by the hair with his huge fist. He struck the Standard Bearer with back of his sickle, crushing his nose and spilling blood down his face and chest, and, knocking the smaller man's sword out of his hand, pushed him onto his knees.
Herakles, grunting as pain flared up and down his body, looked over to see Bassus with his sharpened sickle raised high. Fear gripped Herakles like the hand of Zeus Almighty himself grasping him. The Standard Bearer was in trouble! He had to help him!

He picked himself up, gritting his teeth to control the pain, feeling like his ribs were going to burst out of his chest at any moment. He saw one of the Thracians, a young looking one who looked to be no older than 19, go to move towards him, but one of his companions grabbed him and yanked the young warrior back, chastising him and nodding at Bassus.

Cannot say I blame them for being nervous.

A cry rang out, and what he saw made him seethe with rage. He reached under his uniform for his undergarments.
Bassus pushed the body of the Pontic, now sporting a deep wound in the head, to the ground and wiped his weapon clean on the fallen man's uniform. That had been satisfying, but there was now one more to-

Those in front of him shouted out in warning.

Something sharp dug into his gut. He let out a strangled cry and collapsed into a heap. The all-too familiar ruby red substance flowed from the wound on his stomach, and as Bassus rolled over, he looked up to see the Pontic he had been fighting moments earlier leaning over him, one arm across his bruised chest, blood dripping from his broken nose, face wearing a tired expression of satisfaction.

Got you!

Someone rushed over and the Pontic barely had time to react before a shield slammed into his face, knocking him out cold.

Beside him, the great Thracian warrior, Bassus, once feared among many from his tribe for his size, strength and durability, breathed his last; many of his comrades looking on exasperatingly.

Atop his horse, Artaxerxes looked out at the returning band of mercenaries. Many were bloodied, some were missing an arm or a leg, some were carried by their comrades given the aforementioned and unmentioned wounds. A few chatted amongst themselves, but most were silent, the haunted look of battle palpable. Though victory had been achieved, with only around 30 of their original 320 (from the two units) having been lost, it was still a bloodbath. A few had escaped, but they wouldn't get far. If the wildlife around here did not get them, then any bandits said to be operating in this valley and the surrounding mountains would.

The young Parthian prince – tall, broad and with a small, but thick beard with stubble up the sides of his face – could not help but feel apologetic to the house owner. It was going to be one big mess to clear up.

"Sire!" one of his horse riders trotted over, pausing in front of the prince and giving a small bow with his hand on his chest. "We have a prisoner."

Artaxerxes, with a bored sweep of the valley, the 'battlefield' (if one were to be extremely generous, even the skirmishes in the south against those who stood with the Pharoah were more battles than here today), gave a nod and gestured for the prisoner to be brought forward.

The man nodded and turned away into the nearby crowd of Parthian infantrymen, some of whom began jeering and shouting, some mockingly, others venomously. Another rider trotted up to the prince, adorned in heavy armour across the body, save for the head which had a white shawl around it to protect them from the heat.

"A prisoner, Sire?" the man, aged around 30, asked.

The Parthian prince nodded. "Surprisingly, the Thracians haven't torn him apart. One of their best, Bassus, was felled."

A moment later, the horseman came back, pulling another man by a rope tied around his neck, hands bound before him. His face was bloodied and sporting a black mark across his cheek and one of his eyes was swollen shut. His blue uniform was torn across the chest and arms, revealing several cuts and lacerations and bruises, likely the result of a beating rather than a sword through the chest. He coughed, spitting up a mixture of spittle and the typical ruby red that everyone knew. The rider gave him a shark yank and pulled him from the crowd, with three Parthian infantrymen following close behind; their comrades holding back a group of Thracians that had tried to barge their way through to get to him, murderous looks in their eyes.

Ironic Artaxerxes thought. That we, his enemy, are now the only thing keeping him alive.

The prince moved forward; the white shawled rider alongside him. He ordered the one dragging the Pontic to stop, then had the other Parthians turn back to stop a few Thracians from rushing the man. One Thracian tried to elbow his way past, only to receive a sharp whack around the head and few strong invectives as the Parthians pushed and pulled him away, the sounds of their cursing and shouting and hollering filling the air.

When the raucous crowd had been dealt with, Artaxerxes looked down at the Pontic, meeting his defeated enemy's weakened, yet still defiant gaze.

"Name?" he spoke in the Pontic tongue.

The blue-uniformed enemy was silent for a moment, quite honestly shocked that this horse-rider spoke the same as he did.

Yet, he did not falter. "H-Herakles," he croaked, wiping some blood away from his mouth.

Artaxerxes made a noise, whether it be one of surprise or contempt (or possibly even sympathy), Herakles knew not.

"A rather odd name, don't you think?" He asked rhetorically, looking over the young man who, while strong and athletic, was not exactly the picture of the famed hero of lore the Parthian had heard so much about. "Your lack of a large body and of any divine power is apparent. Wouldn't it be more appropriate to have been named something different?"

Herakles gave a small smirk, definitely one of contempt for his opponent. "Well, my namesake was never divine, I'll have you know," he retorted, looking over the Parthian leader. "A prince, aren't you?" A pause as he gave a mocking grin. "I thought at least you of all people would know that."

Many of the soldiers around the two shared surprised and nervous glances, some wondering if the leader was going to snap and bark for the Pontic's head be removed. A few wanted it, it was clear in their eyes. Even one or two Thracians who stood nearby thought of stepping forward and volunteering to do it themselves. They wanted to avenge their fallen friends, their comrades, their brothers in arms, so that their spirits would rest and be proud of them.

"Besides," Herakles continued, sparing a glance at those around them, as if daring them to come forward and finish him off. "He was famed not only for what he could lift with his bare hands but in not giving up even when the odds were against him."

The Parthian prince gave a small nod of acknowledgement. "Very true, though I do not think marching out with a force barely a mention above my own was exactly a prudent step, and certainly not the best testament to one of your heroes. And to be struck down by those who are quite similar to your own people, I might add." He leaned forward a little, close enough to spit on the Pontic, but such a thought did not cross his mind. "Rather confounding, is it not?"

Herakles bit his lower lip, wanting to retort angrily, but he composed himself. Keep your wits strong. Do not let them get to you.

"Yes, but not so different as to your own who would happily turn to the coin." He chided. "I wonder how much Pharoah was willing to pay?"

Artaxerxes cleared his throat. "Well, that I do not know, if you excuse me. But I hardly doubt Pharoah has the capacity to do so; already, he must be down the Nile with his ancestors," he informed the Pontic captain, taking a moment to internally enjoy the momentary flash of shock he gave in response to his words. "A lesson for you and your people," he added as he dismounted his horse and walked over to Herakles, his strut almost lazy, nonchalant. "Do not underestimate us."
Herakles chuckled, looking away to one side as if trying to find someone to join in with his laughter.

He went to speak, but Artaxerxes held up his hand. "And please spare me with the usual defiant answer." He began to walk in a circle around the bound man, brushing a bit of dust and dirt from his shoulder almost absent-mindedly. "You are a prisoner, not a speech giver,"

A snort. "Well, aren't you being factualist."

Artaxerxes stopped in front of him. "And I will be more factualist for you." He spoke with an air of boredom, yet not misunderstanding the importance of his word to the captured Pontic. "Your stand against us is at an end. No Leonidas against the might of the Persians, nor a Perseus standing strong against a lion in a cave, or whatever cultural dream you wish to have."

"Nor a David against Goliath," the white shawled rider spoke up.

Artaxerxes rolled his eyes and gave a slight annoyed shake of his head. "It is not always about your people's history," he remarked, giving him an irritated look.
The rider turned away, muttering under his breath, but the Parthian ignored him. The soldiers and mercenaries looked on, waiting to see what would happen next as the prince turned back to the Pontic.

"I'm sorry, he gets caught up in his people's ways." He said to Herakles. "Before long, we will be hearing him talking of the two lovers in the garden." He added in a grumbling voice.

Herakles rolled his eyes. "Clearly."

"Anyhow, let us not waste any more time. I will be more factualist, if you like, Herakles," he added a rather snide tone on the name. "You are our prisoner, but if you wish to leave, then-" he waved his arm in the direction of the mountains. "-by all means you will be free to go, though I doubt your condition will get you far."
"Oh, you would like me to run, I bet you would. So, your archers could pick me off at a distance," Herakles growled.

"Well, my archers would not do so, unless on my order," Artaxerxes continued. "And why would I even waste their time when surrounding wilderness would make short work of you by nightfall. And even if you survive that, bandits out there would be happy to make short work of you." A pause as he looked behind Herakles. "But they will not," he pointed to a large group of Thracians standing behind them in the crowd of soldiers, all of them glaring daggers at Herakles.

The Pontic went to reply, but stopped himself. His gaze went from the Thracians to the swords and sickles they held, some of which were still red with blood and/or matter. While he was not afraid of death, that did not mean he wanted his life to be thrown away so wastefully. And judging by the expressions the mercenaries were giving him, it was clear a short and quick opening of the gut or the removal of his head was far from their thoughts.

As much as he hated to admit it, being with the Parthians, and not with the Parthians and the Thracians, was going to be his best chance of survival. Oh what a nightmare this turned out to be.

Artaxerxes seemed to notice this because he walked over to Herakles and, gently cupping his chin between his forefinger and thumb, turned his head to face him.
"Your decision?" he asked.

With a heavy sigh, Herakles bent the knee. "I yield," he spoke lowly.

A triumphant grin, the Parthian patted the man on the head akin to how one would when their dog had been a good boy. He jabbered in his native tongue to two of the Parthian soldiers to have him follow their army as they continued west. Ancyra had already fallen, so now it was on to Sardis.

As the Parthian prince remounted his horse, he looked down at Herakles as he was led away from the crowd, specifically the Thracians, who began muttering to themselves and gesticulating angrily at him with their weapons.

"Try not to be so down, Herakles," he said to the Pontic. "While it is time to wake up, you may still indulge in whatever fantasy you have of your namesake. No one will stop you."

Herakles gave a fake smile: Very generous of you. "By the way, horse-lover," he called to the prince, who stopped and looked back at him as he had already half-turned to begin conversing with the various captains within his army. "It was Theseus who fought against the Minotaur, not the lion nor Perseus. And it was in the Cretan labyrinth, not in a cave."

Artaxerxes gave a small smirk in return. Impressive. He had to admit, despite his enemy being rather embarrassing, this Pontic knew how to use witty rhetoric. Whilst some commanders of his own people would immediately have him flogged and/or his tongue ripped out, he [the prince] could admire that.

"Noted," he replied, then called for wine and food to be brought to the prisoner and for the medic to tend to his wounds before disappearing into the mass of activity as the Parthians prepared to march.

For Herakles, as he was led away into the crowd – at a noticeably quick pace in particular from the Thracians – it became clear that he was well and truly at the mercy of the Parthians now. Alive, yes, but not completely out of the woods. What fate awaited him? He had no idea.

If it was under this prince, then it should be tolerable.

That was all he could hope for now.

In the years after, dear readers, Artaxerxes would take Herakles with his force as Parthia marched on the remaining Pontic cities of Sardis and Halicarnassus. In a display the Pontic could not quite understand, when the cities were taken, any oracles or temples to the man's namesake were left untouched (even at the expense of others that were to be replaced with the shrine and buildings of the Parthians lords).

What was more, the Thracians who longed for the blood of the one survivor were thrown first into such battles and further subsequent engagements with the Pontic armies as Parthia marched on Pergamum, yet said Pontic was made to watch the city's people crumble and fall beneath the sword of the eastern riders, much to his dismay. Were he more like his namesake, he would have dealt with them one-by-one personally.

It would be three years later, Parthia would clash with the remnant Pontics one last time at the Bosphorus strait that led from the 'Greek Sea' (Aegean) to the 'Northern Sea' (Black). Herakles could only watch as the few remaining hundred of his fellow people fell beneath a shower of arrows; the survivors to be picked off by the Parthian infantry (the Thracians were all long gone by this point, all having fallen in battle).

It was probably the most ironic act of mercy a man could have Herakles told himself the night Bithynia was taken, and with it the end of the Pontic Empire.

Afterwards, not much is known, save for Artaxerxes falling victim to plague. Some say that Herakles was 'disposed of' by the new Parthian ruler of the region of Asia; others that the white shawled associate of the Parthian prince convinced for him to be released and sent him on his way back to his native land of Mazaka. Either way, by the time Pharoah's kingdom had fallen under the leadership of famed captain Favrati in the south, Pontic Herakles was gone.

And maybe it is in the fact that he lived and not died that turned out to be his worst nightmare.