The Death of Cyrus the Younger (Part Two)

Clearchus stared at the enemy's significantly thicker central phalanx, then at their left wing, which extended even longer than his own. Though he had fully supported Cyrus from the start, that didn't mean he would obey blindly. He refused outright: "Your Highness, I believe we should first crush the enemy's left wing, then strike their center from the flank. That would be more prudent."

"I know Artaxerxes, I know the Persian army, and I know your Greek phalanx! Trust me, my friend, your troops will easily defeat Artaxerxes' center! If Artaxerxes is beaten, all his other soldiers are useless!" Cyrus urged.

Clearchus shook his head stubbornly: "Sorry, Your Highness. I will not expose the phalanx's flank to the enemy's main force!"

Cyrus frowned, glaring at Clearchus, but had no time left to craft words to persuade him. As for giving a direct order—these were mercenaries, not his own men.

"Fine, do as you say!" Cyrus wheeled his horse, yanked the reins, and galloped back.

...

When the two armies were about five hundred meters apart, the Greek soldiers began singing the hymn to Ares, god of war, and advanced.

By the time the hymn ended, the distance was less than two hundred meters.

"Ares!!!" the soldiers roared in unison, breaking into a jog that grew faster and faster... The thunderous pounding of ten thousand Greek heavy infantry's footsteps gathered like rolling thunder about to split the pitch-black night with lightning!

The Persians opposite seemed utterly terrified by the overwhelming tide of steel bearing down on them. As the Greeks drew nearer, apart from a few scythed chariots that charged straight into the Greek ranks—accompanied by screams, the churning of severed limbs, and finally fading into silence—the rest, paralyzed by fear, forgot to shoot arrows or raise their shields.

When the two forces were still a dozen meters apart, the Persians broke and fled.

The Greeks hadn't expected victory so fast; still full of pent-up energy, they chased the enemy with even greater fervor.

At first, squad leaders like Silos kept reminding their comrades: "Keep formation! Don't run too fast! Keep formation..."

But eventually, the lines scattered completely. Every Greek was caught up in the exhilaration of the pursuit.

In the center, Cyrus hadn't expected victory on the right to come so quickly; for a moment, he was stunned.

"Hail Cyrus the King, long live!" his attendants began waving their spears, shouting victory.

"Your Highness, shall we follow in pursuit?" Artapates asked him.

He shook his head, his gaze fixed on his left front.

He knew well that only by killing that man could he win the supreme crown.

"Send orders! Halt Ariaeus's left wing and prepare to defend!" Cyrus commanded immediately. In his heart, he knew that his strongest force was the Greek mercenaries. Since they had already routed the enemy's left, there was no need to rush his left wing—clearly outnumbered—to clash head-on with the enemy's right. If they too collapsed quickly, this battle would become troublesome. Better to delay as long as possible, waiting for the pursuing Greek mercenaries to return. Then victory would be certain.

But as he patiently waited for the enemy to close in, their center stopped advancing.

Soon, his expression changed.

Because the enemy's center began splitting into two parts, with the left portion wheeling to the rear left.

"No! They're going to attack the Greeks!" Artapates cried out.

The dispersed Greek heavy infantry, chasing the routed foes, could easily fall into chaos if struck from behind, reversing the tide of battle.

"Artaxerxes, you dare shift formations on the battlefield? You think because I have few cavalry I won't attack?" Cyrus laughed coldly, making a swift decision. He raised his spear and pointed forward: "Order the right wing to advance! The cavalry, charge with me!"

"Your Highness, put on your helmet!" an attendant hurriedly handed him his helmet, but Cyrus had already spurred his horse forward. The attendants scrambled to catch up, soon forming a guard around him.

Over eight hundred cavalry formed a wedge formation, charging straight at the Persian king's center.

The Persian center commander Artagerses hadn't expected Cyrus to attack at such a moment; he hastily ordered cavalry forward to meet them. But the army was in the middle of redeploying, and the shifting, massive infantry blocks blocked the cavalry's path. After much difficulty, they squeezed out barely a thousand horsemen from the gaps, but Cyrus's galloping cavalry was already upon them.

With shouts of men and horses, the hastily assembled Persian cavalry line was torn apart in an instant.

Then Cyrus's cavalry, like a sharp dagger, plunged deep into the backs of that part of the Persian king's center which was turning rearward.

Cyrus was fierce and bold—he had once killed a black bear single-handedly. Birds of a feather flock together; his attendant cavalry and followers were also brave men. Facing enemies with their backs to them, they didn't even waste their spears (since there were no stirrups, a charging horseman who struck an enemy had to let go immediately or be thrown off by the recoil), using the momentum of their high-speed charge to smash into the ranks and trample the enemy.

Already shaken by the collapse of their left wing and now suddenly struck hard, the first Persian infantry began to flee. Cyrus's cavalry pressed the assault. Through the dust and haze, Cyrus caught a glimpse of the Persian king's chariot. The rout of the left part of the Persian center had opened a huge gap, exposing the Persian king at the rear.

"Left!" Cyrus shouted excitedly, waving his spear. He veered around the Persian center's right wing, which was rushing to help, and slanted toward the Persian king's rear guard. Several dozen cavalry followed close behind.

"Form ranks quickly! Protect the king!" the Persian king's personal guard commander Artagerses yelled, leading the few dozen cavalry guards around him to meet the attack.

Facing the surging enemy riders, Cyrus showed no fear. He drew his Greek sword, gripped his horse's flanks with his legs, and at the right moment, used his right-hand spear to parry Artagerses' vicious thrust, then extended his left-hand sword. Without needing force, as the two horses passed, the momentum of the charge sliced open Artagerses' throat with the Greek sword...

With superb skill and horsemanship, Cyrus killed several men in quick succession. Soon, his cavalry caught up and blocked the remaining enemy riders. Between him and his brother King Artaxerxes, only the ring of royal guards around the chariot remained. He could even clearly see the terror on his brother's face.

Thinking of how Artaxerxes had imprisoned him, how he occupied the throne that should have been his (this was merely Cyrus's delusion; the old Persian king had never considered passing the crown to him), rage burned in his chest. "Artaxerxes!" he bellowed, hurling his spear with all his might. Amid shouts of alarm, the spear flashed like lightning through the gaps in the royal guards and struck the Persian king's chest.

The king gave a sharp cry and slumped over in his chariot.

Seeing the Persian king fall and the chaos before him, Cyrus's anger finally vented. He laughed wildly, as if the Persian crown were already his, not hearing the urgent shouts of his attendant cavalry behind him: "Watch out, Your Highness! Watch out!!..."

The laughter cut off abruptly. From the chaotic crowd, a javelin flew out, striking him right in the eye socket.

He didn't make a sound; he toppled from his horse instantly...