Disclaimer: All real character names and locations mentioned in historical records referenced in this series have been meticulously verified against the original sources to guarantee their accuracy. However, this exception pertains to fictional characters that do not exist in reality. Kindly note that the setting of this narrative is set in Ancient Greece.
***
“The King’s army is coming! The King’s army is coming!”
A scout on horseback thundered in from the distance, his voice raw as he repeatedly bellowed the warning in both Persian and Greek.
The soldiers, who had just been preparing to stop and rest, erupted into a commotion.
“Pategyas, is it true? Has Artaxerxes[1] really come?!” Cyrus the Younger[2] demanded from his mount, his impatience palpable as he addressed the scout who had just vaulted from his horse.
“Yes, Your Highness. Artaxerxes is here! So is Artagerses[3]! And that… that damned Tissaphernes[4] is here too!” Pategyas gasped, his voice raspy as he fought to catch his breath.
“Excellent, my friend! Excellent! He’s finally here!” Cyrus leaped from his horse, his excitement blazing. As his attendants rushed to fasten his breastplate, he shouted to his second-in-command, Ariaeus[5], “Inform the entire army to prepare for battle!”
“Yes, Your Highness!” Ariaeus urgently summoned a messenger. “Ride to the Greeks at once! Tell them to form up quickly on our right flank! Prepare for battle!”
The messenger galloped away without a word.
Ariaeus then called the Persian commanders together. Cyrus ordered them to deploy their soldiers on his left flank, while he himself would command the eight hundred cavalrymen in the center.
The ever-meticulous Artapates[6] asked a critical question. “How many of them are there?”
“About sixty thousand… or maybe eighty thousand…” Pategyas recalled the sight, a flicker of dread clouding his face.
“That many!” the attendants gasped, their faces paling with fear.
“Haha! Are you afraid, my friend?” Cyrus stepped forward and pulled Pategyas into a powerful embrace, completely unbothered by the man’s sweat- and dust-caked body. Then, turning and vaulting back onto his horse, he boomed to those around him, “Friends, are you afraid?!”
His followers and personal guard, of course, were quick to profess their courage.
“No matter how many soldiers Artaxerxes has, he is still the same coward!” Cyrus’s crude words drew a wave of boisterous laughter. “Don’t forget, a little hound is enough to make him piss himself!”
His gaze swept over his men, and each man he looked at straightened his back, puffing out his chest with pride. “And I have you! I have my army! Together, we defeated the mighty Athenians, the same Athens that defeated our Persia time and again!”
“And we have the valiant Greeks!” Cyrus declared, glancing toward his right, where the Greek hoplites were beginning to slowly form their phalanx. The sight filled him with unshakable confidence. “We are unstoppable! We are invincible!”
“Victory!” Artapates roared first. The cry was instantly taken up by the others, who scrambled to shout over one another. “Victory!”
Buoyed by the surging morale, Cyrus raised his right hand. “Friends! Warriors! After this victory, I swear to the supreme god, Ahura Mazda,[7] that I will repay your friendship and your sacrifice with everything I have!”
“Cyrus the Great!” someone yelled. In an instant, the cry erupted like a flash flood, a thunderous tide of voices.
***
“Hey, Matonis. Anything happening?” Davos couldn’t resist nudging the soldier in front of him again.
“How many times are you gonna ask? No! Nothing!” Matonis swiped a hand across his sweat-drenched neck, his voice frayed with irritation. “Why haven’t the bastards shown up yet? The sun’s right overhead! Any longer and its flames are gonna roast me alive!”
“Even if you were cooked through, Matonis, I wouldn’t want a whiff. I’m so sick of eating meat I could puke,” a nearby soldier quipped, drawing a round of coarse laughter.
“Shut your mouth, Olivas!” Matonis shot back, waving a brawny arm menacingly. “You horny bastard, you keep talking and I’ll shove that hand of yours right down your throat so you can taste your own damn flesh!”
“Ooh, I’m so scared!” Olivas feigned terror, and the men roared with laughter again.
“Alright, straighten up! Stop messing around! Menon’s[8] coming!” Hylos had barely finished his warning when a shrill voice cut through the air.
“What do you worthless grunts think this is? Your family’s dinner table?”
A well-built warrior with a red-crested helmet stood before the phalanx, pointing and cursing at them. “This is a battlefield! If you don’t give it everything you’ve got, then Hades[9] will be more than happy to pay you a visit!”
“Menon the motormouth!” someone muttered from within the ranks.
“Who said that?! Step forward right now!” The men choked back their laughter, watching with unconcealed glee as Menon hopped about in a sputtering rage.
Just then, someone shouted in a sharp, urgent voice, “Look, up ahead!”
The soldiers’ eyes snapped forward. The smiles on their faces quickly vanished, replaced by looks of stark terror.
At the very edge of their vision, a vast cloud of dust rose into the sky, blanketing the hills, trees, and buildings in a hazy, gray shroud.
A moment later, a thin black line emerged from the dust. It began to stretch to either side, growing thicker and thicker…
Soon, the soldiers could just barely make out the silhouettes of the enemy. Then, countless points of light began to flash under the blinding sun, dazzling their eyes.
The cold glint of armor, spears, and shields stretched out before them like a boundless, shimmering river of stars in the night sky. The sound of marching feet, of shouting voices, of neighing horses, all merged into a deafening wave of sound, a rolling thunder that made the very earth tremble, to say nothing of a man’s legs.
Just as Olivas felt his knees about to buckle, he heard Hylos roar, “Prepare for battle!”
“Prepare for battle!”
“Prepare for battle!”
The Greek mercenaries quickly donned their helmets, slung their round shields from their shoulders onto their left arms, and, gripping their spears, began to beat their shields.
THOOM! THOOM! THOOM!
The thunderous, rhythmic booming reminded Olivas and the other soldiers that they too were part of a mighty force, and slowly, their frayed nerves began to settle.
***
The King of Persia’s army continued its slow, orderly advance. The scythed chariots[10] rolled in the vanguard, followed by the unarmored archers, then the light cavalry. In the rear were the infantrymen with long shields and those with wicker shields and spears. The heavy cavalry was split into two divisions: one formed a protective circle around the King, while the other was deployed on the army’s far-left flank.
The vast Persian host advanced like a thick bank of storm clouds, slowly pressing forward, their immense presence suffocating.
***
At that moment, Cyrus was galloping with a few attendants along his battle line, issuing final instructions to each of the Greek mercenary generals.
Accompanied by a continuous wave of cheers, he reached the far-right end of the Greek formation, so close he could see the roaring Euphrates River[11] not far away.
“Your Highness,” Clearchus[12] saluted him.
Cyrus looked down at the Greek man he trusted most. Pointing across the field toward the center of the King’s army, he said, “Once the fighting begins, I want you to lead your men and strike directly at the enemy’s center. Crush Artaxerxes, and the victory will be ours!”