Upon reaching the middle of the river, the water was indeed only hip-deep, just as Chrysophus had reported. This completely dispelled the lingering anxiety in the soldiers’ hearts, and their pace quickened.

The Persian army had been positioned some distance from the riverbank to begin with, and their advance was further hindered by the dense rocks along the shore. Meanwhile, the Greek slingers at the rear of the mercenary column used their superior range to disrupt the Persian formation. As a result, the disorganized Persian army had not even fully reached the bank, their archers having loosed no more than two volleys, by the time the first wave of mercenaries crashed ashore.

Orontes, the great Persian noble who spent more of his time drinking wine and dallying with dancers in his tent than studying the battlefield, had never bothered to conduct a detailed reconnaissance of the area. Faced with the mercenaries’ astonishingly swift and easy crossing, and seeing them now charging toward him like a pack of hungry wolves, he was seized by a complete panic.

Fortunately, his deputy remained calm and urged the infantry to move forward and block the landing.

The first few ranks of mercenaries who stormed the bank were forced to slow down by the rugged, rocky terrain. This gave the Persian army a moment to breathe, and they finally swarmed forward like a tide, gradually enveloping the Greek beachhead.

The mercenaries had never feared close-quarters combat. With the round shields on their left arms protecting both themselves and their comrades, they raised their spears high, thrusting over the top of the shield wall at the enemy before them. The soldiers in the ranks behind them also extended their spears as far as possible, both to protect their fighting comrades at the front and to intimidate the enemy. The soldiers further back, unable to join the melee directly, did not stand idle. They pushed forward with all their might against the backs of the men in front, hoping to use their collective force to drive the enemy line back, or even break it entirely.

The fierce Chaldeanians met the mercenaries’ ferocious charge head-on, returning blows with their own spears without showing any weakness. The Persians’ superior numbers and their position on higher ground also managed to absorb some of the impact of the Greek hoplite charge. In the rear, the Persian bowmen and horse archers frantically loosed volley after volley, trying to counter the ranged attacks from the Greek slingers and archers.

A bloody battle unfolded on the north bank of the Centrites River. If the mercenaries won, they would set foot on Armenian soil and ravage the satrap’s lands—a prospect that Orontes and his Armenian soldiers could not bear to imagine. If the mercenaries lost, they faced annihilation. And so, both sides fought with every ounce of their strength.

The mercenaries still in the river faced the direst predicament. The bone-chilling water was steadily draining their stamina, while the bulk of the Persian arrows fell upon them. They had to use their shields to protect themselves while simultaneously fighting not to be swept away by the current.

Davos watched with his own eyes as a soldier slipped and fell. When the men around him moved to help, they broke the protection of the shield wall. An arrow struck the fallen man, and he tumbled into the water. The wound itself was not severe, but weighed down by his heavy armor, he struggled to get back up.

Where are the Spartans? Davos prayed anxiously.

Orontes, standing on a high rock, had regained his composure as the battle reached a stalemate. Seeing mercenaries periodically struggling in the river before being swept downstream, a sliver of hope began to grow in his heart. He did not see, nor did he care to look at, the great number of his own soldiers who were continuously falling.

Suddenly, a massive uproar erupted from the right wing of his army.

“What is Atukas doing over there?” Orontes looked to his right in annoyance, and he saw an unbelievable sight. The light infantry and horse archers at the rear of his right wing were in a panicked rout. Behind these fleeing soldiers, a thin line of several hundred fully armored Greek soldiers was driving them toward the center of his formation.

“Greeks! It’s the Greeks! Quickly! Quickly!” Orontes was once again seized by panic, shouting incoherent commands.

His deputy hastily led the satrap’s personal guard to intercept the fleeing soldiers, trying to prevent them from crashing into the center. But the Greek soldiers were unlike any hoplites they had ever seen. They ran with astonishing speed, chasing down the stragglers. A swing of a shield would knock a man unconscious; a thrust of a spear would impale another. They were brutally efficient killing machines. The Persians fled from them as if from the devils of hell, and the personal guard could do nothing to stop the tide. In an instant, they too were swept up in the rout, fleeing toward the front and left. The right and center of the Persian formation completely disintegrated.

The mercenaries who had been pinned down on the riverbank now easily broke through the panicked line of Chaldeanians and began their own slaughter.

The Spartan warriors, trained for war from birth, possessed an incredible tactical sense. According to the rough plan they had made, they began to consciously herd the fleeing Persians toward the river. Most of the soldiers, save for a few clear-headed ones, were running blindly with the crowd. When they saw the wide expanse of the Centrites River before them, they broke down in cries of despair.

After his personal guard had escorted him to safety, Orontes saw that of his once-mighty army of over twenty thousand, only a few hundred men remained with him. He let out a great, soul-wrenching wail. He knew that with the forces he had left, he could no longer stop the Greek mercenaries from setting foot on Armenian soil.

The mercenary leaders were ecstatic. Faced with a huge number of surrendered Persian soldiers, they quickly made a decision: the soldiers of other Armenian races, like the Chaldeanians, would be released as a gesture of goodwill. As for the Persians, the choice of all the leaders, including Davos, was slaughter.

Ignoring the desperate pleas of several thousand unarmed Persian soldiers, the Greek heavy infantry formed a dense phalanx. With their shield wall and spears, they drove the men into the Centrites River. They stabbed at them indiscriminately, hurled stones, and fired arrows, causing a chaotic crush in the water. Those who fell into the river, in their desperate struggle to survive, would pull down those next to them, like crabs in a pot, all pulling at each other’s legs so that none could escape.

Before long, Davos looked out at the surface of the river, now densely packed with floating corpses. He let out a quiet sigh and averted his gaze, turning to look at the opposite bank. There was no sign of the Doukias. It was clear that after witnessing the utter rout of the Persian army, they had been scared into hiding.

The rearguard and the baggage train of the mercenary army were now able to cross the Centrites River with ease. The entire army, led by their generals, then occupied Orontes’s abandoned camp. The hastily fleeing Persians had left behind a vast amount of materiel and provisions. After making another sacrifice to Zeus and Oceanus, the army began a wild celebration of their victory.

For every man knew: after crushing Orontes, no one in Armenia could stop their advance. Their confidence in their ability to return to Greece had never been higher.