The Rise Of An Empire In Ancient Europe-Chapter 3 - The Aftermath of Cunaxa: Uncertainty, Betrayal, and a King’s Decree

"Brothers, I brought some food for you," Xilos said as he squeezed into the cramped, dimly lit tent.

The silence shattered instantly. Several men who had been lying in weary stillness sprang up, their eyes wild with hunger as they pounced on the food in Hylos' arms like wolves on a carcass.

"Xilos, if you hadn't come, I'd have starved to death," Matonis said between ravenous bites of half-raw horse meat. The grease slicked his hands and face, but he didn't care. Normally, such food would have turned his stomach. Now, it was ambrosia.

"I got it from Antonios. Menon organized a team to gather dead and injured horses from the battlefield. They even risked Persian attacks to bring this back," Xilos explained, his voice heavy with weariness. His eyes flickered to the far corner of the tent, where a figure lay unmoving. "How is Juleios? Has he woken up?"

"He woke up, but it's like he's not really there," Georgilos replied grimly. "He stares at nothing, doesn't recognize us, doesn't speak. I think he's asleep now."

"Maybe he fell into the River Lethe while riding Charon's boat and lost his memory," Oryphus muttered, his tone bitter.

"Shut up!" Matonis growled, shoving Oryphus back.

Xilos stepped between them, his voice sharp. "Enough! We all come from the same town in Thessaly. We're thousands of miles from home, surrounded by enemies. If we don't stick together, we'll never make it back."

The tent fell into uneasy silence. The distant sounds of the camp—clanking armor, low murmurs, and the occasional cry of a wounded man—seeped in like a reminder of their fragile reality.

Sensing the heavy atmosphere, Xilos spoke with forced optimism. "I've seen soldiers with head injuries before. They were confused at first, but most recovered after rest. Juleios might greet us with a smile tomorrow morning."

"How could he fall during a pursuit?" Oryphus muttered under his breath.

Matonis glared, his temper flaring again. "Say that again, and I'll make sure you fall harder!"

"Enough," Xilos interrupted firmly. He turned to Georgilos, who voiced the question weighing on everyone's mind.

"Xilos, did Prince Darius win or lose?"

Xilos hesitated. "Darius led the cavalry. Whether he won or lost, he can leave the battlefield easily and meet us tomorrow. We'll fight the Persian king again."

"But the Persian king already outnumbers us," Georgilos said, his voice laced with worry. "If Darius was defeated, we'll have even fewer reinforcements tomorrow."

"What's there to fear?" Matonis declared. "We have over 10,000 heavy infantry. The Persians are cowards. Tomorrow's battle will be even easier!"

"And don't forget," Xilos added, "they suffered heavy losses today. We crushed their left flank. They'll have fewer soldiers tomorrow than they did this morning."

"Those damned Persians looted our camp and took my silver coins!" Matonis spat. "Tomorrow, we'll take everything back."

The group nodded, united in their anger.

"Not just ours," someone said, "we'll take theirs too!"

Oryphus suddenly brightened, his voice tinged with mischief. "I heard that Darius' women were taken, except one who escaped. You know, the Milesian woman..." He grinned lewdly. "The one I told you about. Clearchus took her to his tent. Probably having the time of his life right now..."

"Watch your mouth!" Xilos snapped.

Matonis smirked. "If you're so bold, Oryphus, go fight the Persian king tomorrow and take a woman for yourself."

"Great idea," Oryphus shot back. "I'll let you choose one too."

Before Matonis could respond, a hoarse voice from the far end of the tent silenced them. "Haven't you considered that Darius wasn't just defeated... but killed?"

Tissaphernes entered the Persian king's opulent tent, his heart heavy with apprehension. The eunuch Masabates greeted him somberly. "The Great King is expecting you."

Inside, the air was thick with the mingling scents of frankincense and herbs. Artaxerxes lay reclined on a gilded couch, his chest swathed in bloodied bandages. A beautiful maid attended him, her hands massaging his shoulders. Nearby stood the physician Ctesias, watching over his patient with a cautious eye.

Tissaphernes knelt. "Your Majesty, I lost the battle and come seeking your punishment."

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Artaxerxes was silent, his gaze piercing. Tissaphernes held his breath, the tension stretching unbearably. Finally, the king spoke.

"You lost, yes," Artaxerxes said, his tone measured. "But at least you dared to attack. I know of your maneuver to strike the Greeks from behind. Though you failed, you showed courage."

Tissaphernes exhaled, relief washing over him.

Artaxerxes' voice hardened. "I, too, fought with courage. Darius dared to challenge me, but I brought him down myself. His spear struck me, but my armor held."

Tissaphernes suppressed his surprise. He had heard it was Mithridates who delivered the killing blow.

"Your Majesty's bravery is unparalleled," Tissaphernes said. "You are truly the King of Kings."

Flushed with pride, Artaxerxes gestured toward a large jar on the table. "Inside are Darius' head and hands. Take them to the Greeks. Demand their immediate surrender."