Year: 570 BCE
Location: A plain near Pasargadae
The sky was the color of blood and dust.
A crimson haze rose from beneath the hooves of thousands of horses and the feet of a hundred thousand soldiers. It hid the setting sun behind an eerie veil.
The light shone, weak and sickly.
The air was heavy. From the shouts of men, the terrified neighs of horses, and the relentless clash of steel on steel.
The vast sea of the Median army, with its banner of the blazing sun and bronze armor gleaming in the faint light, crashed like a roaring wave upon the small but steadfast rock of the Persian army.
Wave after wave.
Ceaseless and merciless.
Aiming to crush and swallow this fledgling force that had dared to stand against them.
In the heart of this storm, the Persian infantry held like a wall of steel.
Their long cast-iron lances, their tips sharpened in the secret furnaces of the Zagros, were aimed at the enemy. Their large, curved shields were locked together in a phalanx formation.
A commander of ten, his face drenched in sweat and blood, screamed, "Hold, sons of Pars! For your homes! For your children! Do not let this wall break!"
His soldiers answered with a roar from the depths of their souls, pushing back another wave of Median soldiers who had charged them with short swords.
But this resistance came at a heavy price.
With every wave, a few shields would collapse. A few soldiers would fall to the earth.
Small but fatal cracks were appearing in this human wall.
Atop a wooden watchtower, an eleven-year-old Kourosh, with eyes that held no trace of childhood, watched this horrific scene.
His pale face was a stark contrast to the simple purple robe he wore.
He paid no attention to the hand-to-hand combat in the center. His gaze, like an eagle watching its prey from above, was fixed on the army's flanks.
There, where the agile Persian cavalry, despite all their courage, was being swallowed by the sea of Median horsemen. He saw how their lines were bending and breaking.
On the right flank, Rostam, Kourosh's young disciple, was shouting with all his might, "Fall back! Hold the formation! Don't be fooled!"
But it was too late.
The Median cavalry, with the experience inherited from generations of battle, had outflanked them and was cutting off their path of retreat toward the center of the army.
On the left flank, the situation was the same.
The Persian army was like a ship breached on both sides, with water rushing in under pressure. This image was the final confirmation of a bitter truth that Kourosh had been processing in his mind for the last few minutes.
His heart clenched at the sight of the brave soldiers falling one after another.
For a moment, all the theories, all the books, and all the plans he had drawn in the solitude of Behistun faded in the face of the brutal and bloody reality of war.
This was no longer a game of chess. These were Persian fathers, sons, and brothers.
His initial pride shattered like thin glass.
But behind the pain, a cold, analytical mind awakened. He knew that continuing this resistance would lead to nothing but complete annihilation.
This battle was lost.
But the war was not.
He turned to the messenger who stood beside him with an anxious face.
His voice, when he spoke, was calm, decisive, and free of any tremor. A voice that did not match his eleven-year-old frame.
"Ride to the king. The message is: Retreat! Order all forces to retreat towards the walls of Pasargadae! Execute the plan!"
The messenger hesitated for a moment. He was shocked.
Kourosh locked his eyes on him. A gaze so cold and full of authority that the young messenger involuntarily bowed his head and shouted, "At once, my lord!"
And he ran.
Cambyses was fighting in the heart of the battle. His sword was red with Median blood.
He had witnessed the collapse of the flanks with his own eyes. Despair was creeping into his heart when Kourosh's messenger arrived.
Panting, he delivered the message.
Cambyses hesitated for a moment. But then he remembered his son's determined eyes in the war council. He had trusted this plan.
With all the strength in his chest, he roared, "Retreat! To Pasargadae! Retreat!"
The command, like a wind through the reeds, swept through the Persian ranks.
The sound of the retreat horn filled the entire field.
First, disbelief, and then panic. But the iron discipline of their training took over. The commanders of ten and a hundred, with shouts, forced their units into an organized retreat.
In the eyes of the enemy, this move looked like nothing more than a frantic escape.
Shouts of victory and mockery rose from the Median army.
"They're running! The cowards are running!"
The discipline of the Median army, which was not very strong to begin with, completely disintegrated in the euphoria of victory.
From a distance, Azhidahak, standing on his royal horse, let out a triumphant laugh.
He turned to his commanders and shouted, "Follow them! Today, we finish the Persians for good! No one is to be left alive!"
His commanders, themselves arrogant from this easy victory, without thinking to maintain their military formation, ordered their soldiers to advance with all their might.
Author's Note:
When we speak of the Achaemenids, the first image that comes to many minds is the splendor of Persepolis or the power of Darius. But the roots of this mighty empire were formed not in Persepolis, but in a quiet and fertile plain called Pasargadae; a city that the Greeks called Pasargadae and in Old Persian meant "Pārsagāda," meaning "City of the Persians."
Before Cyrus the Great raised the banner of rule over the lands, this plain was the home of the Persian tribes, especially the tribe from which Cyrus himself arose: the Pasargadae. From the heart of this very tribe, a new destiny was forged for Iran.
In the year 550 BCE, in this same plain, Cyrus defeated the Medes in a fateful battle. His victory was not only the end of Astyages's rule but the beginning of a new world. To immortalize this moment, he founded a city; a city that, more than being a chancellery and a center for daily affairs, was a symbol of victory and a memorial to the founding of the empire.
Pasargadae had a palace with tall columns and gardens that formed the first "Persian Paradise" (pairi-daêza); a place where water, trees, and stone together created the ideal image of a new empire. And among all these structures, the simple yet magnificent tomb of Cyrus stands; a structure that to this day remains a symbol of humility and greatness side by side.
Although Darius the Great later made Susa and then Persepolis the centers of administrative and ceremonial affairs, Pasargadae never lost its status. For the kings after Cyrus, this city was not merely a capital but the birthplace of their legitimacy. The coronation had to take place before the tomb of Cyrus; as if the Achaemenid kings borrowed their power from his memory and from the soil of Pasargadae.
So if we consider Persepolis the showcase of the empire's splendor, we must call Pasargadae its "founding home"; a home that, within a tribe, became a city, and from a city, an empire was born.