"Yes, Your Majesty!" Tissaphernes bowed deeply, but his thoughts lingered on Masabates' grim expression. It was no mystery why the eunuch looked so troubled. If Queen Mother Parysatis discovered her beloved youngest son had been beheaded and his hands severed, her wrath would know no bounds.
"Tissaphernes, do you think the Greeks will surrender?" Artaxerxes' voice was calm but laced with tension.
"Your Majesty, based on my understanding of the Greek mercenary leaders, I fear it will be very difficult. However, some among them may comply with your orders," Tissaphernes replied cautiously, choosing his words with care.
Artaxerxes' fingers tapped his chin as he considered the response. Yesterday's ferocious charge by the Greek hoplites lingered in his mind, a memory that made his pulse quicken. "Even if we sow discord among them, it will be enough. If they refuse to surrender, drive them out of the country. Too many Persians have already died in this rebellion. I will not allow these rough, barbaric Greeks to continue plundering our lands and slaughtering our people!" His sigh was heavy, betraying the burden he carried. By nature, Artaxerxes was gentle and avoided conflict. His hesitation in dealing with Darius had led to this chaos. If not for his ministers' firm resolve and unwavering support, yesterday's battle might not have even taken place.
"Your Majesty, your benevolence shines as brightly as the sun over the empire. It is an honor to serve under such a compassionate ruler!" Tissaphernes' sincerity was evident, and his words struck a chord with the king. It was Artaxerxes' gentle nature that had secured the loyalty of his ministers and nobles, preserving the empire's stability despite the rebellion.
"Your Majesty," Tissaphernes continued, a hint of urgency in his tone, "I have an idea. Why not drive the Greeks northward?"
Artaxerxes' eyes narrowed as he pondered the suggestion. Tissaphernes sought to prevent the Greeks from wreaking further havoc in Asia Minor. "Northward..." The king's gaze darkened as he envisioned the fierce, unruly mountain tribes—the Carduchians among them. Let those savages deal with the Greeks, he thought. A faint smile tugged at his lips.
"You will oversee this matter personally. I will await your good news in Persepolis," Artaxerxes declared, eager to return to the capital. Reports of disturbances in the eastern regions of Persepolis demanded his attention. And, though he didn't say it aloud, he missed his queen, Stateira.
Morning mist cloaked the Cunaxa plain in a pale veil. The Greek camp was still, most of its inhabitants lost in uneasy dreams.
Juleios emerged from his tent, his steps tentative as he surveyed the unfamiliar landscape. He was no longer the man he once was. His soul had been pulled from 21st-century America and cast into this ancient world. Back home, he had been a diligent government official, toiling for years before finally earning a promotion as director of a high-tech development zone. That night, his friends had thrown him a celebration. He had drunk too much, passed out, and awoken... here.
In the early hours after his arrival, he had pinched his thigh repeatedly, convinced he was dreaming. The faint ache lingering in his leg now confirmed otherwise.
The memories of the body he now inhabited painted a grim picture. This Juleios was a Thessalian mercenary, driven to this life by poverty. His hometown had been raided by Macedonian cavalry, his family slaughtered or enslaved. Alone and desperate, he had joined Menon's company to fight for Darius the Younger. The echoes of his former life haunted him, but his will to survive outweighed his despair.
Last night, as his companions spoke in hushed tones, he had listened. Their words filled in gaps of knowledge, confirming what he feared. A 21st-century man with an interest in military history, he had once read about the Ten Thousand Greek Mercenaries' Retreat in Anabasis. The pieces fit all too well. Darius had died recklessly in battle, and now these mercenaries would be forced to fight their way home.
The realization had left him sleepless. As dawn broke, he stepped outside to confront this harsh new reality.
Row upon row of tents stretched into the mist. Soldiers stirred, some offering him brief greetings, which he returned with cautious smiles. He recognized a few Thessalians among Menon's ranks. Familiar faces eased the gnawing loneliness within him, even as his mind raced with plans for survival.
A sudden commotion near the supply area drew his attention. Guards stood at the entrance, blocking the path of frustrated soldiers. Beyond them, penned animals and the remains of looted supplies hinted at the camp's dire state. Food was scarce, tempers high. Juleios turned away, unwilling to risk confrontation.
As he wandered, the sun burned away the mist, revealing the vast plain in all its stark beauty. Somewhere beyond the horizon lay Babylon, the fabled city of the Hanging Gardens, nestled near the Euphrates. Would he live to see it?
His reverie was shattered by shouts from the camp. Soldiers emerged from their tents, their faces etched with unease. The whispers that reached his ears carried a chilling truth: Darius the Younger is dead.
His heart sank. This was it. The retreat of the Ten Thousand had begun. Would he survive the journey, or would this ancient world swallow him whole?