Chapter 138: The Poison of Defeat and the Commander's Silence
The day of the truce, heavy and silent, had cast its shadow over the border fortress.
The roar of the drums and the clash of swords had given way to an eerie silence.
A silence broken only by the sound of bodies being dragged across the dirt and the faint moans of the wounded.
Outside, on the vast plain that had been a bloody battlefield the day before, Persians and Medes, side by side in a temporary and fragile peace, were busy collecting their fallen comrades.
No one spoke.
Only tired, sorrowful glances were exchanged between the two armies.
This silence was heavier than any war cry.
The smell of death had filled the entire plain.
But inside the walls of the fortress, the air was poisoned not with sorrow, but with anger and despair.
The air was heavy with the pungent smell of medicinal herbs and dried blood.
In every corner, soldiers with broken faces and empty eyes silently tended to their own wounds or those of their friends.
The pride and confidence that had surged through the camp until yesterday were gone.
In their place were the bitter whispers of blame and regret.
Defeat, like a deadly poison, had flowed into the veins of the Persian army.
In the main courtyard of the fortress, a group of tribal commanders had gathered around a half-extinguished fire.
Their faces, dulled by sleeplessness and fatigue, were flushed with anger.
Gashtasb, the elderly tribal chief, slammed his fist on his knee.
"I said it from the beginning! I said this was suicide!"
"Fighting in an open plain against an army twice our size... this wasn't strategy, this was a childish game!"
His voice was full of bitterness and reproach.
Rostam, the chieftain of the Maraphii tribe, who had lost some of his best warriors, responded with a deep sorrow:
"We were arrogant in our weapons, in our discipline. But we forgot that war is not just iron and discipline."
"Experience... experience is something that child and our troops do not have."
The word "child" spread through the air like a poison.
They no longer called him "Prince" or "my lord."
Now he was just a child who, with his "misplaced pride" and raw plans, had led them to the brink of defeat.
Another commander said with a trembling voice, "Five thousand men! We lost five thousand of our best men!"
"For what? So that a child could show off his genius?"
These whispers were more dangerous than any Median sword.
These were the seeds of rebellion, sprouting in the fertile soil of defeat.
Suddenly, a long shadow fell over them.
Cambyses, his arm wrapped in a bloody cloth, stood before them.
His face was pale from pain and fatigue, but in his eyes, the firmness of a king still surged.
"What are these words I hear?"
"Are you the commanders of Pars, or women sitting in mourning?"
His voice was calm but full of authority.
"Yes, we were defeated. But we fought like men!"
"Have you forgotten how your shield wall shattered their first wave of attack?"
"Have you forgotten that for the price of every one of our men, three Median soldiers fell to the ground?"
He walked among them and looked into the eyes of each one.
"We were defeated, but we were not destroyed."
"We showed them what Persians are made of."
"We wounded them, wounded them deeply. This war is not over yet."
He tried to rebuild their shattered morale with a fatherly firmness.
But he knew that these words were a temporary balm on the deep wound of the Persians' broken pride.
They needed something more than words.
They needed a plan, a new hope.
All this time, Kourosh's tent was sunk in a deathly silence.
The curtain at its entrance was closed, and no one dared to approach it.
The soldiers passed by it with heavy, reproachful glances.
He who until yesterday was the mastermind and hope of the army had now become the main culprit of this catastrophe.
He had hidden himself from these glances, from these whispers, from his own defeat.
In the afternoon, the work of collecting the bodies was finished.
In a corner of the fortress, a mass grave was dug.
The soldiers, in silence, placed the bodies of their comrades, wrapped in white shrouds, side by side.
There were no more shouts or wails; only a deep, silent grief reigned over the space.
This grave was not only the resting place of nearly five thousand soldiers, but the resting place of the pride and confidence of the Persian army.
Cambyses watched this mournful ceremony from a distance.
His heart was clenched with sorrow.
But his other worry was his son.
He looked at Kourosh's silent tent.
He knew that behind that curtain, a battle far harder than yesterday's battle was taking place.
The battle of a genius with his first defeat.
The fate of the war was no longer being decided on the opposing plain, but inside that tent.