Chapter 4

“Yes, Great King!” Tissaphernes couldn’t help but glance at Masabates, thinking, No wonder the man looks so grim. If the Queen Mother Parysatis[1] finds out that the head and hands of her most beloved son have been cut off, she will never let this go.

“Tissaphernes, do you think the Greeks will surrender?”

“Great King,” Tissaphernes began cautiously, “based on my understanding of their primary leaders… I fear it will be difficult. However, it is possible that a minority among them might be willing to obey Your Majesty’s decree.”

“Inciting infighting among them would be good as well,” Artaxerxes mused, lightly tapping his chin. The memory of the Greek hoplites’ ferocious charge yesterday still sent a shiver of fear through him. “If they are unwilling to surrender… then expel them from our lands. Too many Persians have already died in this rebellion! I will not allow these crude, barbaric Greeks to remain in my domain, plundering our property and slaughtering our people!”

Artaxerxes let out a long sigh. He was by nature a gentle man who disliked conflict; otherwise, he would never have tolerated Cyrus for so long, allowing the situation to fester into such a major crisis. Even when Cyrus first raised his army, the King had been indecisive, considering a retreat further east. If his ministers had not vehemently dissuaded him and offered their full support, yesterday’s battle might never have happened at all.

“Great King, you cherish the people of the empire as if they were your own children! This servant is overjoyed that the empire has such a benevolent sovereign!” This time, Tissaphernes’s words were sincere. In fact, it was precisely this gentle nature that had won Artaxerxes the support of the vast majority of his ministers and nobles, ensuring that despite Cyrus’s rebellion, the core of the empire remained stable.

“Great King, this servant has an idea,” Tissaphernes said. “Why not… drive the Greeks north?”

Artaxerxes fell into thought. He understood Tissaphernes’s motive: he didn’t want the Greeks trampling through his own satrapy of Asia Minor again.

“North…” The King’s eyes lit up as he remembered the fiercely independent mountain tribes who refused to submit to his rule, like the Carduchians…

Let the barbarians tear each other apart, he thought, a faint smile touching his lips.

“I grant you full authority to handle this matter. I will await your good news in Persepolis[2].” Having said this, he was already eager to return home. News had arrived yesterday of another disturbance in the eastern part of Persepolis, and he needed to return to the capital to oversee the situation. Besides, he was beginning to miss his queen, Stateira[3].

***

At dawn, a light mist blanketed the region of Cunaxa. The entire Greek camp was quiet, with most of the men still lost in sleep.

Davos stepped out of his tent, curiously surveying the unfamiliar surroundings.

He was, in fact, no longer the original Davos. His soul hailed from 21st-century China. A civil servant, he had toiled for over a decade before finally being promoted to director of the city’s High-Tech Development Zone. His friends had thrown a banquet to celebrate, and he had gotten blind drunk. When he next awoke, he found himself in a strange place, having become a stranger to himself.

He had pinched his thigh over and over again, trying to prove it was all a dream, and it was still faintly sore today.

After a long night of acclimatization, he was no longer agonizing over how he had ended up here. His adaptability was strong. Back when he had entered government service with the top score in the city’s civil service exam, he had been dispatched to a remote and impoverished mountain village to serve as its chief official, where he remained for several years. Not only did he persevere, but his outstanding performance won him the favor of the county leadership, and he was recalled to be given an important position.

…But his parents, and the girlfriend he was about to marry… they were now separated from him by time and space, with no hope of reunion. He took a long, deep breath, trying to exhale the grief from his heart.

After a short walk, his mood finally stabilized. He wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes and told himself: Since I’m in a new world, my first priority is to survive.

From the residual memories of this body, he knew that “he” was a Thessalian. Two years ago, at only seventeen, he had left his village with his friends to earn a living as a mercenary. A year ago, conflict had broken out between Macedon and Thessaly. Macedonian cavalry had raided his hometown, killing his parents and carrying off his relatives. Now, he was all alone. This time, he had followed the mercenary leader Menon to fight for the Persian prince, Cyrus the Younger.

Last night, his companions had thought he was asleep, but he had been listening to their entire conversation. Through their talk, he had learned more. As a young man of the 21st century, he had been something of a ‘angry youth. During his time as a village official, he had spent most of his long, lonely nights online to pass the time. Venting and posting on certain military forums had practically become his side gig. As a result, he had picked up a fair bit of historical and military knowledge, and he knew he was likely in the period following the Peloponnesian War.

As for which specific event in Western history involved Greek mercenaries helping a Persian prince in a rebellion, that was too much to ask of a non-history major. He simply couldn’t place it. It wasn’t until someone mentioned “over ten thousand of us Greek hoplites” that a latent memory was sparked.

He recalled once seeing a post on a forum claiming that to understand ancient Western history, one had to read certain books. On the list was a title that had piqued his curiosity:(The Long March Record). The ancient West had a Long March? Because he happened to recognize the author as a famous historical figure, he had looked it up online and learned that it originated from the famous historical event known as the “Ten Thousand Greeks’ Great Retreat.”

Remembering vaguely that the rebel prince in that event had died rashly in the heat of battle, Davos had blurted it out in a moment of panic. He hadn’t expected his companions, who were all clinging to the hope that Cyrus had won and that they would all get rich, to be completely unable to accept his theory.

Faced with a barrage of questions, and being a newcomer, he didn’t want to alienate his comrades. Perhaps a small part of him also held onto a sliver of hope that this wasn’t that historical event. And so, he had fallen silent.

The group had dispersed on bad terms. He had not slept well that night. The unfamiliar environment and his fear of the future left him tossing and turning, unable to find rest.

Early the next morning, he had left the tent to face this strange new world for the first time. His eyes were met with a sea of tents, stretching out seemingly without end.

Breathing in the damp, fresh air, he summoned his courage and walked forward. Occasionally, someone would emerge from a tent and greet him, and he would respond with a smile. Some soldiers who knew he had been injured even stopped to ask about his condition. He would pause to thank them and take the opportunity to chat, gleaning what information he could. It was clear their friendliness wasn’t because he was some important figure, but because a good portion of Menon’s mercenaries were Thessalians, many of whom had fought alongside him for over two years. They knew each other well. As he walked, his feeling of being a stranger began to fade.

The sound of neighing horses and bleating sheep drew him forward. In Davos’s memory, the large, centrally located area enclosed by a wooden fence was the supply camp for Menon’s mercenary force. It contained not only packhorses and mules but also cattle and sheep plundered along the march, as well as a batch of food allocated to Menon by Cyrus. There were even merchants stationed there, and when they passed near large cities, camp followers would sometimes come to earn money.

As he approached the entrance, a squad of spear-wielding guards blocked his path.

“No one enters without Menon’s order!” a short, stout man shouted angrily from behind the guards.

Davos gave him a single glance and turned to walk away, not wanting any trouble. He could hear the stout man scolding the guards behind him. “Next time someone comes, you be fiercer, or you won’t be able to keep these thieves in line! We’ve already lost five sheep between last night and now! If Menon punishes me, I’ll punish you!”

It seems the food shortage is severe, he thought as he walked away, wondering just how much the Persian army had plundered when they overran the camp. Lost in thought, he soon found his path blocked by a simple fence made of branches and sticks loosely planted in the dirt. Though more tents lay densely packed beyond it, he knew he had reached the edge of another mercenary force’s encampment.

By now, the sun had climbed high into the sky, and the thick fog was beginning to dissipate, clearing the view to the far horizon. The vast sky, the wide-open wilderness, the crisp and clean air in which for a moment, he was completely captivated. He’d heard his companions say that the city ahead was Babylon, and that the Euphrates River was not far away. One was the capital of one of the four great ancient civilizations, its legendary Hanging Gardens a place of wonder; the other was the mother river of the Mesopotamian plain. He wondered if he would ever get a chance to see them.

Suddenly, the camp erupted into a chaotic roar, jolting him from his reverie. A sense of unease washed over him, and he quickened his pace, heading back.

Soldiers were now pouring out of their tents, their faces etched with anxiety as they talked excitedly amongst themselves. The words that reached his ears all translated into three simple words: Cyrus is dead.

His heart sank.

This really is the Ten Thousand Greeks’ retreat. Does this mean the rest of my life will be spent on the run?