They Speak of Alexander

It has been half a year since the Romans posted outside of the City, and Bylazora looked like a shadow of its former self. The once gleaming towers were now chipped and scarred, the grand walls that had stood tall and proud for centuries were now crumbling under the constant barrage of siege engines.

The Romans were fought off in their skirmishes each time, but every time it's sapping the city's strength, while the Romans are always well rested and drilled, having the comfort of training and sleep while the defenders are too afraid to even sneak up on them in the dark.

And they themselves are without restful sleep, watching the every move of the Italian hunters, and they the prey.

The old armor and standards of the Macedonians are slowly replaced by the tunics and small swords of the peasant force, and while the meager gold left in the city invested in tassels to add a bit of glory to their appearance, you can't help but fear the green feathered Romans.

You can't help but fear the Eagle when you're the prey.

The once bustling marketplaces were now empty, the laughter and chatter of merchants and shoppers replaced by the echoes of distant battles and the cries of the injured. The air was thick with dust and the acrid smell of smoke, as if the very soul of the city was being choked by the relentless siege.

The city's defenders moved with a grim determination, their faces a mask of fatigue and resilience. Their eyes held the grit of men who had seen too much, yet had not given in to despair. The children, who had known nothing but the shadow of war, played silent games of war in the streets, their wooden swords and makeshift shields a sad imitation of the brutal reality unfolding outside the city walls.

The grand hall, once a bastion of opulence and power, was now a command center, with strategic discussions and the clank of armor replacing the whispers of diplomacy and the rustle of silk garments.

The walls, adorned with pictograms depicting the triumphs of their ancestors, now bore marks of hasty repairs and the scent of fear. The grandeur of Bylazora had been stripped away, and it will only go downhill from here.

These few more years, might be the twilight years of Bylazora, unless resistance in Greece, specially the Macedonians disappear quickly. The Romans might salt the ground if this goes on.

A few more weeks went on, the citizens getting used to the shouting and yelling of the Romans outside of the walls, but today was different.

A tension hung in the air, a palpable sense of unease that made even the bravest of souls feel a shiver down their spine. The Romans had brought in something new, something that could spell doom for the city.

The sound of distant cheers grew louder, and the clanging of metal on metal grew more insistent. The defenders of the city looked to the horizon, where a cloud of dust billowed upwards, obscuring the view of the approaching threat.

As the dust cleared, the monstrous form of a giant siege tower appeared, its wooden frame looming over the already tall Roman ladders.

The tower, adorned with the emblem of the Roman eagle, was a stark reminder of the power that lay outside the city walls. It was a creature of war, built to conquer, to overwhelm, to destroy.

These are the Romans, they maraud, take, attack and destroy, but they're good at it and they're not.

The citizens gathered atop the walls, watching with a mix of horror and fascination as the tower creaked and groaned its way closer. The defenders braced themselves for what was to come, their eyes locked on the Roman soldiers marching alongside it, their shields and swords gleaming in the sunlight.

The tower was a symbol of the Roman's relentless pursuit, a declaration of their intent to break the will of the city.

The anticipation grew with each step of the tower, until the moment when it stopped, its shadow casting a dark pall over the city gate. The silence was deafening as both sides took in the gravity of the situation.

In the middle of the camp of men, atop his horse in his glinting armor reminiscent of Generals six decades ago, is the King of the Macedon, Antigonos II Gonatas looking at his men.

Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, his pudgy cheeks treble a bit as he finds the words to speak. He looks back at the City, the Palace of Philip, the Kingdom's beating heart, where Alexander first planned his conquest. Most likely the last time his mortal eyes are laying their eyes upon them.

We will not yield to the conquerors! We will fight to the last man, to the last stone!

… was what he wanted to say, but honestly all of this would make him sound like an impertinent old man.

"I know I have disappointed you all. By staying in castles talking to diplomats all day, and haggling with officials and gripping on their politics, and in the few battles I fought I may not have been the best commander, but today is either the last day or the medley to it."

"Surrendering to Hades is preferable to these Romans, so will you fight for Macedon, even if it's just for today."

…

Prince Euenios is in Thessalonica, quickly building the biremes needed to secure the defense of his transport ships. Anyone strong enough in the city is being employed in a time like this, even some captured slaves put to work, but the construction is taking time.

Transport ships can re requisitioned, but they have to be retrofitted for the army's use, then the slaves to be trained as rowers, and more navigation experts, repair materials, wood, nails, cloth, and rations for the long voyage, lest the men start eating each other.

The prince's mind raced as he looked over the blueprints and listened to his advisors argue over the best course of action.