Heroes of bronze:

The storyline

500 BC

The year is 500 BC. The tension between the Achaemenid Persian overlords of Ionia and the Greeks who settled the coastline area, has reached its boiling point. A revolution is in the air.

Discontent with heavy taxes, not willing to put up with the contempt they are treated with, the citizens of the island of Naxos decide to follow the example of Athens. In 499 BC, they chase out the oligarchic rulers of their city, establishing a democracy.

…Cries above the clay roofs. Crowds massing on the streets. Bright red spots of burning fire. A revolution was underway. A large group of people gathered around a pyre in the lower town. A single man was dragged out in front of them, badly beaten. A Persian, by the look of his clothing, a rich one at that. He was forced to the ground, facing a tall man with a maul in his hands. "My king will know of this...," he growled in rough Greek through his bloodied lips. "You will all pay..."
The Greek man in front of him sneered, then exclaimed so that everyone could hear: "Let him come! You think we're afraid of your perfumed majesty?"
A loud cheer erupted from the maddened crowd. Cries of hatred, cries of violence. Coughing with pain, the Persian only laughed in response: "You will all die, you mad dogs. Your city will fall, your women and children -"
He didn't get to finish his sentence. In that moment, the wooden maul hit him square in the face. The leader of the crowd towered above the writhing figure of the bloodied man, his voice calm and dangerously low.
"Maybe. Maybe not. But I know one thing - YOU will be the first one to die. Give my regards to lord Hades... or, whoever the fuck rules your underworld. Kill him!"
Without a moment of hesitation, the bloodthirsty crowd plunged upon the man. Their leader, no longer interested in the screaming Persian, frowned and his gaze wandered up, towards the top of the city hill. Towards the rich houses of the aristocrats."I've had enough of this!" he spit on the ground, then shouted: "Everyone, follow me!"

This, of course, does not go unnoticed by the Persian officials in the area. Lord Artaphernes II, nephew of Darius the Great himself, immediately reaches Miletus to inquire upon the matter. There, in the largest and most prosperous city of Ionia, he meets with the aristocratic tyrant Aristagoras, a man appointed by the Persian king to rule over the city.

A few months later, in the Persian administrative capital of Susa, the news of the Ionian unrest reach the ears of Darius himself. There are many opposing factions and influences at the court of the Great King - not just those who would see the insubordinate Greeks crushed, but also some who sympathize with them. Chief among them Histiaeus of Miletus, Aristagoras' uncle and a former tyrant of Miletus. Upon gaining too much power and popularity in Ionia, he was ordered to leave his home and come to Persia, to serve as the King's right hand man. What may have seemed a great honor, was in fact the king's attempt to prevent Histiaeus from gaining more power in the region.

Histiaeus stepped forward: "If I may my king, I believe Aristagoras didn't want to solve the problem by force. I am saddened to say so, but the mood in Ionia is currently not too favorable towards your Majesty. A show of force, directed against a democratic revolt such as this, would surely not help the situation."

The room filled with voices.

"That is an outrage, majesty!"

"We should punish them all!"

"Silence!" Darius raised his voice, tapping the scepter on his stone. The noise immediately subsided. Only the echo of Darius' powerful voice was still lingering in the corners of the hall.

The king was visibly irritated now: "I am getting weary of this. Weary of your Greeks, Histiaeus."

Histaeus quickly prostrated himself below the King's feet, spreading his hands wide in front of him.

"I only relay the best information I have..." he said with a apologetic tone.

Darius frowned at him from his golden throne and an uneasy silence lingered in the room for a long while. Then the king turned to the Persian group gathered around Artaphernes.

"What is your opinion on this matter, Artaphernes, my dear cousin?"

"I believe Histiaeus is right," replied the man, not looking too pleased while saying it. For a moment, he was piercing the bowing Greek with his gaze. "The Ionians are restless. The major cities and their leaders are your loyal subjects. However, the mood of the people has been long turning against the empire. The Greeks are on the edge. There is turmoil... even talk of independence. However foolish that notion might seem."

Tapping the edge of his seat, the king turned back to the Greek: "What do you suggest, Histiaeus?"

"Send me there," answered the greying man eagerly. "I will solve the situation, my king. I know the islands, and many people still support me. I personally know the captains among the Ionian fleets, as well as the other tyrants. They are good subjects, king. I don't think I would be able to sway the people of Naxos… still, I could bring together a fleet that would easily subject the island."

Darius mulled it over for a moment, frowning. Then he shook his head: "No. I need you here, Histiaeus. Especially if this Ionian situation gets out of hand, I will need your immediate counsel."

Histiaeus' shoulders sagged, but he knew better than to speak out. Instead, he just bowed again.

The king smiled at him: "I know your loyalty, Histiaeus, you have proven it to me many times over. However, I am also tired of waiting. For ten years now, I've been told to have patience with your Greeks. In the meantime, they have grown insubordinate all over the Aegean. Rabble now thinks they can throw down their rightful lords and nothing will happen to them. Well, they are wrong. Swift action needs to be taken, before this escalates any further."

Darius tapped the scepter again, stood up and turned towards the other end of his court.

"Megabates?"

A young, darkly tanned Persian dressed in a scaled tunic, stepped forward. "Yes, my lord?"

"You were begging me to prove yourself as a general, cousin. Well, now is your chance. I will set aside a part of the treasury and assemble several hazarbaram. You shall lead them to Naxos and resolve this problem - with decisiveness, but also with caution and wisdom."

A smile appeared on Megabates' face and he bowed deeply: "You honor me, majesty. I shall depart at once."

Row upon row, regiments of Persian and Mede infantry flowed into the city. Like a river, they filled Miletus with their multi-colored attires. Among them, the armored riders of the heavy cavalry, long spears held high, bronze armor pieces and gold jewels glistening in the sun.

A crier in a long yellow-red robe walked in front of the column, shouting at the top of his lungs: "Hear hear! From the order of Darius, the King of kings, the army of Miletus shall assemble in two days time. Our great lord appeals to each loyal subject - join this expedition, to discipline the foolish Naxians for defiling the god-given order of the Empire."

A large crowd of Greeks has gathered, watching the procession with mixed emotions. Some were cheering, some arguing. Most were frowning in silent disagreement.

Philippos and his son Sophron were standing at the edge of the middle of the gathering, right in front of the marching solderis. Philippos looked as stony-faced as ever. Sophron, on the other hand, was watching the procession with wide open eyes, gazing at the glory of the empire's armymen.
"Don't they look magnificent, father?" Sophron said, his expression filled with awe.
"Keep quiet, Sophron," Philippos growled back at him. "You should know better. And hide that thing!"
Sophron looked around, snapping out of his excitement. Then, understanding, he nodded slowly.
The two Greeks closest to them seemed to be eying them with resentment. Sophron reached to his belt and hid the Persian dagger under his cloak. The gift from Arynam was drawing unwanted attention.
A heavily muscled man right next to them spat on the ground. A sailor, by the looks of it. "So, they've finally come. To put their imperial boot onto our necks."
His stocky companion growled: "Well, I for one am not scared of them."
"Bloody Persians," continued the big man in his harsh, guttural tone. "Always sticking their noses where they don't belong."

A magnificently dressed Persian officer stopped in front of them. He turned, piercing them with his sharp brown eyes. Swiftly, he made a few steps towards them and stuck his spear into the ground.
"You! Is there a problem?"
The crowd was taken aback. The Persian spoke in fluent Greek.
"Answer!"
The big man grew pale. He opened his mouth to reply, but no words escaped him. The Persian officer sneered: "You think us ignorant - not knowing your language? Do you think we do not understand your bickering?"
Seeing the man's growing anger, Philippos stepped in, he in turn speaking in Persian: "Excuse my fellow citizen, friend. It was just an innocent grumble, nothing more."

Now it wast the officer's turn to be surprised. He thought for a moment, then, a smile spread across his face.
"Ah, a man of culture, I see? That gives me hope. What is your name, Greek?"
"Philippos. It is a pleasure to meet you - and welcome you to our city," said Philippos, bowing a little.
"The pleasure is mine, Philippos," the man bowed back and added: "My name is Vaxšuvarda... though I believe, you would pronounce it Oxartes."

Philippos smiled at him, nodding respectfully. Then he nodded at the men next to him: "Ignore these men, please. I will deal with them myself."

Oxartes frowned at the two, who now seemed they would rather be anywhere else but there. Then, he grabbed the spear and replied in Greek: "Very well... I will leave this in your hands, Philippos of Miletus. I hope I won't need to be harsher next time."

In the end, Aristagoras is appointed a leader of a joint invasion force comprised of Milesian and Persian forces. His co-general is Megabates, the hot-headed cousin of Darius the Great. Together, the joint forces embark on an expedition to re-conquer the small island of Naxos for Persia. Megabates’ hate for Greeks, however, soon proves to be a serious issue, complicating the whole campaign.

499 BC

Caught in the conflict, there is Philippos of Miletus and his family, including his son Sophron, who’s just turned eighteen. That means - fighting age.

Sophron didn't need encouragement. He strapped the armor onto his chest, letting one of the slaves help him fasten the side strings. He then tightened the shoulder pieces and presented himself in front of the gathered household.

"Like Apollo," nodded Irene.

Philippos emerged from the side entrance of the house, carrying a different bag.

"Don't encourage him, love," he said with a soft smile. "Next thing, he'll start acting like the fool Achilles!"

"It is splendid mother," laughed Sophron. "Thank you!"

"Well, it is for your protection...," muttered Irene slowly, frowning a bit. "So it is as much a gift to me as it is to you..."

"And to not call me a tyrant, here is a gift from me," said Philippos, unpacking the bag in his hands. "So that you don't embarrass me with that old helmet of yours."

He pulled out a beautiful Corinthian, with a magnificent orange-black crest and an octopus engraved on its cheek pieces, and handed it to Sophron.

Now it was awe that appeared in Sophron's eyes. He slowly raised the beautiful helmet and with something resembling reverence, he put it on.

It fit him perfectly. Immediately when the helmet snapped onto his head and his eyes disappeared in the dark eye-slits, their son has changed. A menacing armored man was now peering at them from a solid layer of bronze. The helmet always had that unsettling effect...

Philippos, himself a Persian-sympathizer and a veteran of previous Persian campaigns in Scythia (512 BC), nevertheless hates the idea of being dragged into a Greek vs Greek conflict.

Not having much of a choice, in 498 BC they reach the island, storming its beaches in a lightning strike attempt to conquer the city.

“Brace!” ordered Philippos and went down on one knee, getting ready to land.
Sophron did the same, falling right behind him. He was his epistates, the second-ranker. The moment they land, he would form up behind his father.
Even as everything went silent around him, the loud thumping sound of his racing heart was back. Everything else was muted. Shouts on the beach ahead. A distant rumbling of hundreds of hoplite legs. Arrows whizzing. It all seemed surreal. Just the thumping was real.
He chose to focus. He bore his eyes into his father’s back, fixating on the familiar sight of the white linothorax.
And then, there was the unmistakable sound of scraping on the hull. Slowly, expertly, Georgios delivered them on the beach. Amphitrite shuddered, the stern came up and then gently, the whole trireme slowed to a halt.
With a deep breath, Sophron lowered his Corinthian helmet over his eyes. His vision narrowed and all sounds became hollow. Still, he could hear his father’s mighty shout.
“Marines, off the boat! Go!”
Philippos’ massive frame moved with astonishing speed. It was surprising, seeing his otherwise cautious and deliberate father move so quickly. The trierarch sprung forward, and with a massive leap, he swung over the ship’s side, landing in the shallow water of the beach. He looked like Ares come to life.
The feat took Sophron’s breath away. He hesitated for a moment near the Amphitrite’s prow, looking at his father in awe.
Then he turned his gaze and saw the swarming mass of the Naxian phalanx closing in on them. The size of it was ridiculous. Fear stabbed his heart once again. This was no adventure. This was real.
And then, someone pushed him forward. Marines were forcing him forward, out of the trireme, towards the enemy.
His mind went blank. He held his breath - and jumped.

Unfortunately for the invaders, the Naxians seem to be well prepared for their attack. They are successful in stopping the advance force and manage to resist inside their walled city. Aristagoras and his forces have no other choice but to hunker down and prepare for a long siege.