“Yes, Your Majesty!” Tissaphernes couldn’t help glancing at Masabades, thinking: No wonder this fellow looks so grim. If Queen Mother Parysatis finds out that her beloved youngest son was beheaded and his hand cut off, she will never let this rest!
“Tissaphernes, do you think the Greeks will surrender?”
“Your Majesty! … From what I know of the principal Greek mercenary commanders, I’m afraid… that will be difficult. Still, a few might be willing to obey Your Majesty’s will!” Tissaphernes said cautiously.
“If they can be made to quarrel among themselves, that would be good too!” Artaxerxes tapped his chin lightly with his fingers. The fierce charge of the Greek heavy infantry yesterday still unsettled him when he thought of it: “…If they refuse to surrender, then… drive them out of my lands. This rebellion has already cost too many Persian lives! Do not let these rude, barbarous Greeks continue to plunder our property and slaughter our subjects on my soil!” Artaxerxes sighed deeply. By nature, he was gentle and disliked conflict; otherwise, he would not have indulged Cyrus the Younger for so long, allowing this great chaos to brew. Even when Cyrus raised his army, he had hesitated and considered retreating eastward. If the ministers had not strongly dissuaded him and given him their full support, the battle yesterday might never have happened.
“Your Majesty, you love the empire’s people as if they were your own children! I am overjoyed that the empire has such a benevolent ruler as you!” Tissaphernes spoke from the heart. Indeed, it was precisely because of Artaxerxes’ character that he enjoyed the backing of the vast majority of ministers and nobles, and although Cyrus the Younger had rebelled, the core regions of the empire had not experienced major upheaval.
“Your Majesty, I have an idea! … Why not drive the Greeks northward…” Tissaphernes said.
Artaxerxes pondered. He understood that Tissaphernes did not want the Greeks to trample his own satrapy again—Asia Minor.
“North…” His eyes lit up. He thought of those unruly mountain tribes that refused to submit, such as the Dukeyans…
Let these barbarians fight each other like dogs! He thought, a faint smile appearing on his lips.
“I leave this matter entirely in your hands! I await your good news in Persepolis!” Having said this, he could hardly wait to return home. Word had come yesterday that another disturbance had broken out in eastern Persepolis. He had to hurry back to the capital to take charge. Besides, he was beginning to miss his queen, Statira.
…
At dawn, a thin mist shrouded the Cunaxa region. The entire Greek camp was peaceful; most were still asleep.
Davos walked out of his tent, curiously surveying this unfamiliar place.
Yes, he was no longer the original Davos. His soul came from twenty-first-century China. As a government civil servant, after years of hard struggle, he had finally been promoted to director of the city’s High-Tech Development Zone. His friends had thrown a banquet to celebrate, and he had gotten utterly drunk. When he woke up, he found himself in a strange place, having become a stranger.
He had pinched his own thigh again and again, only to prove he was dreaming, and even today his thigh still ached faintly.
After the long night of adjustment, he no longer agonized over why he had ended up here. His adaptability was strong: when he first entered government service with the highest score in the city’s civil service exam, he was assigned to a remote and impoverished mountain village as a village official, where he stayed for several years. Not only did he endure, but his excellent performance won him the favor of the county leaders, who recalled him and entrusted him with important tasks.
… But his parents, and the girlfriend he was about to marry… now separated across time and space, never to meet again… He took a long breath, trying to blow away the sadness in his heart.
After walking a short distance slowly, his mood calmed slightly. He wiped the tears from his eyes and told himself: Since I’ve come to a new world, I must first survive tenaciously here!
From the fragmented memories of this body, he knew that “he” was a Thessalian. Two years ago, barely seventeen, he had left his village with his peers to earn money as a mercenary, driven by hardship. A year earlier, when conflict broke out between Macedon and Thessaly, Macedonian cavalry had raided his hometown, killing his parents and capturing his relatives… Now he was truly alone. This time, he had followed the mercenary leader Menon to fight for the Persian prince Cyrus the Younger.
Last night, his comrades thought he was asleep, but he had actually been listening to their conversations. From their talk, he learned more. As a decent young man of the twenty-first century, he could barely be called a politically conscious netizen. During his village official days, to get through the long, lonely nights, he had mostly spent his time online, venting on military forums as a side hobby. As a result, he had picked up a fair amount of historical military knowledge and knew he was likely in the period after the Peloponnesian War.
As for Greek mercenaries helping a Persian prince rebel and usurp the throne, which part of Western history was that? For someone without a professional history background, it was too demanding, and he simply couldn’t recall. Not until someone mentioned “our ten thousand Greek hoplites” did a buried memory stir.
Once, on a forum, someone had boasted that to understand ancient Western history, one must read certain books. Among the listed titles, *Anabasis* had piqued his curiosity: Did the ancient West also have a “Long March”? Since the author happened to be a historical figure he knew, he had looked it up online and learned it came from the famous ancient Western historical event, the “Ten Thousand Greeks’ Retreat.”
Because Davos vaguely remembered that the rebellious prince in that event had died recklessly in the chaos of battle, he blurted it out in alarm. But he didn’t expect that everyone else, to varying degrees, held the hope that Cyrus would win and they would all get rich, so they completely rejected his guess.
Faced with one question after another, fresh off the boat, he didn’t want to ruin his relationships with his comrades. Perhaps deep down he still clung to the illusion that this might not be that historical event. So he fell silent.
As a result, they parted on bad terms. He hadn’t slept well that night. The unfamiliar environment and fear of the future made him toss and turn, unable to fall asleep.
Early the next morning, he stepped out of the tent, facing this strange new world for the first time. What met his eyes was tent after tent stretching seemingly endlessly into the distance.
Breathing the damp, fresh air, he mustered his courage and walked forward. Occasionally, someone came out of a tent and greeted him; he smiled back. Some warriors who knew he was wounded even asked about his injury. He would stop to thank them and seize the chance to chat a bit, picking up information from others. Clearly, it wasn’t because he was anyone important that everyone treated him kindly. Rather, among Menon’s mercenaries, many were Thessalians, and quite a few had fought alongside him for over two years, so they knew each other well. As he walked, his sense of strangeness gradually dissolved.
Not far away, the neighing of horses and bleating of sheep drew him forward. In Davos’s memory, this large area fenced with wooden stakes, located at the center of their camp, was the baggage camp of Menon’s mercenary contingent. Inside were not only many pack horses and pack mules, but also cattle and sheep plundered along the way, as well as a batch of food given to Menon by Cyrus. Merchants were stationed there too, and when they passed through big cities, prostitutes from nearby would even come to earn money.
As he reached the entrance, a squad of guards with long spears blocked him.
“No one is allowed in without Menon’s order!” From behind the guards, a short, fat man shouted angrily.
Davos glanced at him, turned around, and walked away. He didn’t want trouble. Behind him came the fat man’s scolding of the guards: “Next time anyone comes, be fiercer, or you won’t be able to scare off these thieves! Since last night, we’ve lost five sheep already. If Menon punishes me, I’ll punish you!”
So the mercenaries are seriously short of food! He wondered how much food the Persian soldiers had snatched when they broke in yesterday. Walking and thinking, he soon found himself facing a rough fence made of branches and sticks loosely thrust into the earth, blocking his way. Although there were still rows of tents ahead, he knew that was another mercenary camp.
By this time, the sun had risen high, the thick mist gradually dispersing, allowing the view to extend far. The sky was vast, the fields open, the wind clear and fresh—for a moment he was lost in the scene… His comrades had said the city ahead was Babylon, and not far away flowed the Euphrates River: one was the capital of one of the four great ancient civilizations, with its legendary Hanging Gardens beckoning; the other was the mother river of the people of the Mesopotamian plain. He wondered if he would ever get a chance to see them.
But suddenly, the camp burst into turmoil, jolting him out of his reverie. A sense of unease washed over him, and he quickly turned back.
By then, soldiers were emerging from their tents, their expressions anxious and tense, excitedly discussing something. The words that reached his ears all boiled down to six: Cyrus the Younger is dead!
His heart sank: This really is the Ten Thousand Greeks’ Retreat! So from now on, I’ll be spending my days fleeing for my life!
Four Daves