17 The Battle

It wasn't a long wait. The trumpets and yells of men heard so clearly in the tent was meant to grab the attention of the entire army, as well as the commanders. Artaxerxes' army was on the march, coming down slowly from their slight rise of land where they had made their camp and was advancing on Cyrus' men. Rank after rank of Persian spearmen trampled across the carefully tended fields. Each man standing shoulders abreast with his brothers beside him, with spear clutched firmly in hand, and their large, rectangular wicker shield clutched in the other. The pounding of so many feet as they marched drove up the dust on the field, so that, not long after both armies began moving, nothing much more could be seen or heard but clouds of earth and screams of the wounded.

They came on relentlessly, forming solid lines and advancing with discipline towards the waiting spears of their own countrymen. Soon enough, the archers on both sides began to open up, sending their wooden spindles sailing to the other side, and causing such a great chorus of agony every time a volley was received. Soon enough, both armies were close enough to render the archers useless, and advancing to offer fight with spear and sword. The boom created when both lines collided was enough to draw all nearby attention to the battle. Each man looked for an opening in the man in front of him. Some found it easily, with a simple thrust providing the blood curdling scream of a fallen soldier. Others grappled without mercy, wearing themselves down without scoring ultimate victory, until a random lurch of the spear found opening where careful tactic could not guard.

Men fell and were trampled by their comrades without a second thought being given. Sandals and earth became covered in blood, entrails, and discarded limbs. The roar of sixty thousand men drowned out any other possible noise. It was only once the cavalry charge to the center of the lines was defeated, with its commander slain and beheaded, that the tide of battle began to change. The spearmen that had lined up so confidently that morning suddenly felt a very human feeling began to creep in: fear. Fear besought panic. Panic besought helplessness. Soon, the rear ranks were throwing down their spears and taking flight. What once started as a simple trickle became a flood, as those who were left had no desire to face the spears on their own.

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Suddenly, the center caved, and the hard fought victory was earned as Persian spearmen began to mop up the battlefield. It was a rather sophisticated affair for soldiers, that entitled putting the wounded out of misery, and robbing the corpses of any valuables. Bloody affairs for bloody men.