Mediterranean Hegemon of Ancient Greece Chapter 1182: Tragic News

Agesilaus exhaled a long breath, his face pale. "Quick!" he said, his voice dazed. "Sound the retreat bugle!"

The guards stared in astonishment. "What retreat bugle? We don't have one!"

Agesilaus finally snapped back to reality, a silent, bitter smile surfacing on his lips. He had prepared meticulously for this pitched battle, even adopting some of the Daionian Army's more effective tactics:

For instance, rather than fighting on the front lines, the commander remained in the rear to observe and control the overall battlefield. Naturally, if any other commander of the Spartan army had suddenly attempted this, the Spartan Warriors would have universally condemned him as a coward. But given Agesilaus's advanced age and frail health, his presence in the rear was entirely logical.

Furthermore, to manage the battle and respond to emergencies, a commander needed to hold a reserve force, just as Daionia did. Yet neither the Spartan Warriors nor the Greek mercenaries would ever accept standing idly by during a pitched battle. Thus, Agesilaus had relied on the Thracian peltasts, and in truth, the Tegean Army had served as a reserve force of sorts...

However, the armies of the Greek Mainland, Sparta included, had always been led by commanders who personally fought in the fray. Once the formations were set and the troops advanced, a commander embedded in the ranks lost all control over the army at large. Like a loosed arrow, the army could only press forward until the battle concluded. Under such a system, how could they possibly have a designated retreat bugle? This was a martial tradition forged over decades; Agesilaus could not simply invent a new horn signal on the spot, nor would the soldiers have understood it.

Agesilaus briefly considered reassigning a detachment of Thracians to reinforce the left wing, but recalling their earlier resentment, he realized they would likely refuse such an order.

By now, Agesilaus realized he was utterly powerless to influence the battle's trajectory. He stood frozen for a moment before suddenly bending down to grab his cane beside the wooden chair. "Come!" he said, his voice heavy. "We head for the right wing!"

Agesilaus had finally made his choice. Abandoning the mercenaries in the center and on the left, he would hurry to join his own warriors, determined to guide them through the impending rout and safely back to Sparta.

Agesilaus's assessment was correct. Ever since Oliphus discovered that the enemies opposing him were not genuine Spartan Warriors, he felt he had been played for a fool. He ordered the trumpeters to blow the offensive charge continuously while personally pacing behind the ranks, shouting to rally his men and intensify the assault, eager to show these impostors the true might of the fourth legion of Theonia.

Spurred on by their Legion Commander, the soldiers of the Fourth Legion launched an even more ferocious assault. The men in the very front ranks even discarded their spears, drawing their short swords to engage the enemy in close-quarters slaughter.

The left wing of the Spartan formation had been hastily cobbled together from heavy infantry drawn from Ionia and various city-states in Asia Minor. Slapping uniform Spartan Warrior armor onto them was never going to magically unify them into a cohesive force. They inherently lacked battlefield coordination, and to make matters worse, this was their first time facing Daionian legionaries. The Daionians' masterful sword-and-shield coordination left the mercenaries completely overwhelmed. Casualties mounted rapidly, and the entire front line began to buckle, barely held together by the sheer depth of their columns.

The fierce flank attack led by Tegetus and his Mountain Scout Corps became the straw that broke the camel's back. While traditional Greek Heavy Infantry boasted formidable defense in a frontal clash, they were terrified of attacks from the rear. Encased in their Corinthian helmets, the men in the formation suffered from restricted vision and muffled hearing, making them highly sensitive to their surroundings; the slightest disturbance sent their imaginations running wild. Once panic took root in the left wing of the Spartan formation, it spread rapidly. The initial, scattered desertions swiftly snowballed into the total collapse of the entire left flank.

"Legion Commander, we've won!" a Staff Officer cheered excitedly. "We're the first to break the enemy!"

"There is nothing to boast about. We merely defeated an army of impostors masquerading as Spartan Warriors," Oliphus replied modestly, though a smile betrayed his words.

The collapse of the Spartan left wing ultimately triggered a rout across the entire army.

During the Battle of Leuctra, although the Theban coalition emerged victorious, they reaped relatively few tangible gains because they swiftly withdrew to their camps following their triumph. The Daionian Army, on the other hand, had a longstanding tradition of exploiting their victories to maximize enemy casualties. Furthermore, on Plintors's advice, Crotokatax had dispatched messengers to the Legion Commanders, ordering them to press the pursuit relentlessly and eliminate as many Spartan Warriors as possible.

The Macedonian Cavalry, having previously been repulsed by the First Cavalry Legion, had proven incredibly tenacious. Whenever the Daionian cavalry halted their pursuit, the Macedonians would instantly stop fleeing and wheel about, feigning a return to the battlefield. This forced the First Cavalry Legion to remain locked in a perpetual chase, unable to break off and support the main battle lines.

Now, with the battlefield completely overrun by fleeing Spartan troops, the Macedonian Cavalry finally gave up their harassment and fled for good. With the threat gone, the First Cavalry Legion confidently joined the hunt for the routed enemy.

The pursuit continued mercilessly until the scattered survivors finally vanished into the eastern mountains, forcing the Daionians to call off the chase. Thus, the pitched battle between the Daionian Army and the Spartan Coalition finally drew to a close.

Dusk had arrived. The sun, as if drained of all its strength, sank slowly behind the western peaks. Its pale, heatless twilight washed over the Plain of Tegea. The once-idyllic countryside—formerly a vibrant tapestry of red flowers and green wheat, alive with singing birds and fluttering butterflies—was now a macabre wasteland strewn with corpses and awash in blood. The agonizing wails of the wounded writhing on the ground mingled with the harsh cawing of crows circling overhead, casting a grim and desolate pall over the land.

Crotokatax, however, was in a rather good mood. The Daionian Army under his command had just won a victory in the pitched battle, even if most of his orders had stemmed directly from Plintors's suggestions. Wearing a faint smile, he listened attentively as the Staff Officer, Muklu, reported the battle's results: "The Spartan army left behind 2,150 corpses on the battlefield. Of those, 482 belong to Spartan Warriors—"

"How could you tell they were Spartan Warriors?" Crotokatax asked curiously.

"Your Highness, it is customary for Spartan Warriors to wear red cloaks and maintain long braids," Plintors chimed in to explain. "Although they disguised themselves with different armor for this battle, they did not cut their braids."

Crotokatax nodded in sudden understanding.

"We also took 5,417 prisoners, 2,900 of whom sustained varying degrees of injury," Muklu continued, consulting his tally board. "Among the captives, 921 are Spartans, alongside over 300 helots..."

"That means the Spartans have lost nearly 1,500 warriors. That is no small sum. It will make our impending invasion of Spartan territory far easier," Plintors noted. Despite his words, his brow remained furrowed as he spoke with a solemn expression. "Now, tell us our own losses."

"Uh..." Muklu glanced at his board, his voice dropping to a murmur. "...uh, we lost 1,560 soldiers in battle, and the wounded approach 1,500. Our medics are currently administering emergency treatment—"

"Such heavy casualties?!" Crotokatax exclaimed in shock.

"The casualties mainly come from the First Legion. During their pursuit of the 'routed' troops, they were caught in a pincer attack by the Spartan Warriors and the Tegean soldiers—" As Muklu explained, Crotokatax abruptly cut him off. "My brother... Adoris, the third captain of the First Legion... how is he? Is he alright?!"

Ever since learning that the First Legion had faced the true Spartan Warriors and been ambushed from both sides, Crotokatax had been eaten alive by anxiety for Adoris. But remembering his father's stern warning—"There is no room for personal sentiment on the battlefield"—he had buried his fears deep in his heart. Now, hearing the staggering death toll of the First Legion, he couldn't hold back the question any longer.

"Your Highness..." Muklu averted his eyes, unable to meet Crotokatax's desperate gaze. He looked toward Plintors before whispering, his voice choking with difficulty, "...Captain Adoris died a hero's death on the battlefield..."

The moment the words left Muklu's mouth, Crotokatax felt a sudden wave of dizziness, and his body slumped from the saddle of his horse.

"Your Highness!" Plintors, who had anticipated the shock, lunged forward and caught him.

"Where is my brother?! I want to see him!" Crotokatax pushed Plintors aside. He spoke frantically, his voice trembling on the verge of a sob.

...

Crotokatax stumbled through the camp, shuffling past row after row of neatly arranged Daionian corpses. Time felt incredibly drawn out. Again and again, he demanded frantically, "Why aren't we there yet?! Why aren't we there yet?!"

At last, the First Legion officer guiding them halted his steps. "These are Captain Adoris's remains..." he said, his voice heavy.

Crotokatax's heart clenched. He focused his eyes on a body lying just a short distance away. Unlike the others, it was draped entirely in a white shroud, hiding Adoris's face from view. Standing beside the corpse were Ctesus and several other officers of the First Legion.

Ignoring the salutes of Ctesus and the others, Crotokatax approached with heavy steps. He slowly knelt down, and with trembling fingers, he reached out to lift the white cloth.

"Your Highness... Adoris sustained catastrophic wounds, and his face is severely disfigured," Ctesus whispered beside him, trying to stay his hand. "It is best you do not look..."

A fresh tremor ran through Crotokatax's heart, but the warning only steeled his resolve to pull back the white cloth. Beneath it, Adoris's breastplate was shattered, his torso riddled with bloody spear thrusts. In the center of his face was an egg-sized bloody hole, mangling his features beyond recognition into a gruesome, terrifying ruin...

"Ah!" Crotokatax let out an involuntary cry of horror at the sudden sight, shutting his eyes in agony. But a moment later, he opened them again. Without a shred of hesitation, he reached out and gently laid his hands upon the dead man's face.