Clearchus stared at the enemy center, a visibly deeper and more substantial formation than the rest of their line. He then glanced at the enemy’s left flank, which extended even further than his own right. Though he had supported Cyrus the Younger from the very beginning, it did not mean he would obey every order blindly. He refused without hesitation.
“Your Highness, I believe it would be more prudent to first crush the enemy’s left flank, and then strike their center from the side. That is the safer course.”
“I know Artaxerxes, I know the Persian army, and I know your Greek phalanx[1]!” Cyrus countered, his tone insistent. “Trust me, my friend. Your army will easily defeat Artaxerxes’s center. Once he is beaten, the rest of his army, no matter its size, will be useless!”
Clearchus stubbornly shook his head. “I am sorry, Your Highness. I will not expose the flank of my phalanx to the main body of the enemy’s army.”
Cyrus’s brow furrowed and he glared at Clearchus, but there was no time to persuade him. As for forcing the order, these were mercenaries, not his own subjects.
“Fine! We will do it your way!” Cyrus wheeled his horse around. With a sharp tug on the reins, he galloped back the way he came.
***
When the two armies were about five hundred meters apart, the Greek soldiers began to march forward, chanting a paean to Ares[2], the god of war.
By the time the hymn was finished, less than two hundred meters separated them.
“Ares!” the soldiers roared in unison. They broke into a jog, which grew faster and faster until the thundering footfalls of ten thousand hoplites—THOOM! THOOM! THOOM!—sounded like a gathering storm, a rolling thunder building the energy to tear the dark night asunder with a bolt of lightning.
The Persians opposite them seemed utterly petrified by the overwhelming tide of steel and bronze flooding toward them. As the Greeks drew nearer, the Persians, consumed by fear, forgot to loose their arrows, forgot to raise their shields. Aside from a few scythed chariots that charged headlong into the Greek lines only to be swallowed with screams and a spray of mangled limbs, the rest of the enemy line broke.
When there were still more than ten meters between the two armies, the Persians turned and fled.
The Greeks, stunned by such a swift and effortless victory, channeled their unspent energy into a ferocious pursuit.
At first, junior officers like Hylos could be heard shouting reminders to their men. “Hold the formation! Don’t run too fast! Hold the formation!”
But in the end, the ranks dissolved completely as every Greek soldier was swept up in the euphoric frenzy of the chase.
***
In the center, Cyrus the Younger was momentarily stunned by the speed of the victory on his right flank.
“Hail, King Cyrus! Long may he reign!” his attendants were already brandishing their spears, cheering the victory.
“Your Highness, shall we join the pursuit?” Artapates asked for his command.
Cyrus shook his head, his gaze fixed on the field to his front-left.
He knew all too well that only by eliminating that man could he claim the supreme crown.
“Send word! Order Ariaeus on the left flank to halt his advance and prepare to defend!” Cyrus commanded immediately. He was keenly aware that his most powerful troops were the Greek mercenaries. Since they had already routed the enemy’s left, there was no need to rush his own left flank, which was clearly outnumbered, into a head-on clash with the enemy’s right. If his own left flank also crumbled quickly, the battle would become far more complicated. It was better to delay and wait for the Greeks to return from their pursuit of the routed enemy. Victory would then be all but certain.
However, as he patiently waited for the enemy to press their advance, their center line suddenly stopped moving.
Then, his expression changed.
The enemy’s center began to split into two parts. The section on the left was turning, heading toward their own rear.
“This is bad! They’re going to attack the Greeks!” Artapates cried out beside him.
If the Greek hoplites[3], scattered as they were in their pursuit, were attacked from the rear, they could easily be thrown into chaos, and the tide of the battle would turn.
“Artaxerxes, you dare to change formation on the battlefield?” Cyrus sneered. “Do you truly think my cavalry is so small that I would not dare to attack?”
His decision was made in an instant. He raised his spear and pointed it forward. “Order the right wing to advance! Cavalry, with me! Charge!”
“Your Highness, your helmet!” an attendant cried, rushing forward with it. But Cyrus had already spurred his horse on. His guards scrambled to catch up, quickly forming a protective ring around him.
The eight hundred horsemen formed a wedge and charged directly toward the King of Persia’s central command.
The Persian center commander, Artagerses, had not expected Cyrus to attack at such a moment. He frantically tried to redeploy his cavalry to meet the charge, but his own infantry, now in the middle of a complex maneuver, blocked their path. By the time a thousand horsemen managed to squeeze through the gaps in their own ranks, Cyrus’s charging cavalry was already upon them.
Amid a storm of neighing horses and shouting men, the hastily assembled Persian cavalry screen was instantly torn apart.
Like a sharpened dagger, Cyrus’s cavalry plunged deep into the back of the Persian infantry that was in the process of turning.
Cyrus himself was a fierce and formidable warrior, having once hunted a black bear alone. As the saying goes, birds of a feather flock together, and his retainers were all brave warriors in their own right. Facing an enemy with their backs turned, they didn’t even bother wasting their spears. In an age without stirrups, a charging horseman who speared an enemy had to release his weapon immediately or be thrown from his horse by the force of the impact. Instead, they used the sheer momentum of their charge to smash into the enemy ranks, trampling them underfoot.
Already shaken by the rout of their army’s left wing and now struck by this sudden, heavy blow, the Persian infantrymen at the forefront of the charge began to flee. Cyrus’s cavalry pressed the advantage, cutting them down. But through the dust and chaos, Cyrus caught a glimpse of the King’s chariot. The collapse of the main force on the Persian left had created a massive gap, exposing the King’s position.
“To the left!” Cyrus roared, swinging his spear in excitement. He veered around the Persian right wing that was rushing to the rescue and cut diagonally toward the King’s rear guard, a few dozen of his riders close behind.
“Form up! Protect the King!” Artagerses, the commander of the King’s personal guard, shouted as he led a few dozen of his royal cavalrymen to intercept the charge.
Facing the swarm of enemy riders, Cyrus showed no fear. He drew his Greek sword and clamped his legs tight against his horse’s belly. Seeing his moment, he used the spear in his right hand to parry the vicious thrust from Artagerses, and with his left, he simply extended his sword. He didn’t even need to apply force. As their horses galloped past each other, the forward momentum of his own mount was enough to slice Artagerses’s neck wide open.
With superb skill and horsemanship, Cyrus cut down several more men. Soon, his own cavalry caught up, shielding him from the remaining enemy riders. Now, only the ring of royal guards around the chariot stood between him and King Artaxerxes. He could even see the look of pure terror on his brother’s face.
The memory of his imprisonment, the thought that his brother occupied a throne that should have been his, ignited a fire in his chest. “Artaxerxes!” he roared, and with all his might, he hurled his spear.
Amid cries of shock, the spear flew like a bolt of lightning through a gap in the royal guards and struck the King in the chest.
Artaxerxes let out a piercing scream and collapsed in his chariot.
Seeing the King fall and the chaos erupting around him, Cyrus finally felt the burning rage inside him dissipate. He let out a wild, unrestrained laugh, as if the crown of Persia were already in his hands. He was so lost in his triumph that he didn’t hear the desperate shouts of his own riders behind him.
“Watch out, Your Highness! Watch out!”
His laughter stopped dead.
From the swirling chaos of the crowd, a javelin[4] flew through the air and struck him squarely in the eye.
He didn’t make a sound. He simply toppled from his horse.