Time: Dawn, one day after the order to march was given
Location: The plains around Anshan
Dawn gently pulled back its gray curtain from the plain of Anshan.
The first trembling rays of the sun set the cast-iron tips of thirty thousand soldiers' spears ablaze.
The earth trembled under the weight of the corps' synchronized steps.
This was no longer the disorderly hum of tribes.
It was an imposing silence, broken only by the uniform beat of war drums, the clash of metal on metal, and the heavy breaths of men ready to make history.
The united Persian army, for the first time in history, poured out of its massive camp like a river of molten steel.
They were on a twenty-day journey towards the borders of Media and their destiny.
In the heart of this roaring river, two soldiers from two different worlds marched shoulder to shoulder.
One was "Arta," the same proud Pasargadaean warrior with braided hair and leather armor that was now adorned with the emblem of the Persian lion.
The other was "Bahram," the young and agile Dehbod from the Dai tribe with keen eyes accustomed to distant horizons.
Three months ago, these two could not have spoken even a single word to each other.
But now, in the silence of the march, an unbreakable bond had formed between them.
Arta shifted the heavy, short cast-iron sword in his hand and grumbled under his breath, "I never thought I'd one day hold a weapon heavier than a blacksmith's hammer. But this weight... it feels like power."
Bahram replied with a smile hidden in his short beard, "This is the weight of victory, Arta."
"My father used to say a sword should be light so you can be fast. But Commander Arash taught us that when ten men move as one, speed is in coordination, not in the lightness of the sword."
He pointed to their ten-man group, which was marching with flawless order.
"Look. We are not ten men anymore."
"We are a moving wall. A steel wave."
These words were the echo of the training that had changed their mindset forever.
Along the way, the unprecedented order of the army astonished the villagers who had gathered to watch.
This was not a military campaign; it was a display of power.
At the head of the army, units of the Construction Corps, with cast-iron shovels and pickaxes, smoothed the path and removed small obstacles.
Behind them, the infantry corps marched with steady steps.
On the flanks, the agile cavalry surveyed the plain like swift eagles.
And in the heart of the army, the scythed chariots moved in silence like sleeping beasts, only the sound of their spinning blades promising a bloody death.
In the middle of one of the thousand-man columns, Hirad, Harpagus's son, marched with armor that was a bit too large for him but with a resolve that was firmer than any other soldier's.
He had his eyes fixed on the red flag of their Hezarbod, on which the image of a golden lion shone.
An older soldier beside him said, "I never believed I would one day fight under a flag that doesn't bear the emblem of my tribe. But this Persian lion... it has a different feeling. A feeling of dominance."
Hirad replied with a calm but firm voice, "This flag is the flag of all tribes. This is the flag of Pars."
"Our lord Kourosh has given us a greater identity."
The morale of the soldiers was at its peak.
They believed in their new weapons; weapons that, in training, had torn through bronze shields like paper.
They believed in their commanders, in Arash and Bagpat, who marched in the dust just like them.
And most of all, they believed in that ten-and-a-half-year-old mastermind who, with his wisdom, had transformed them from scattered warriors into an invincible army.
The stories of his genius had now become legends among the soldiers.
During one of the short midday stops, Arta and Bahram were sitting beside a well that the Construction Corps had recently dug.
Arta gave his waterskin to Bahram. "Drink, Dehbod. We have a long way to go."
Bahram took the waterskin with gratitude. "Thank you, brother."
The word "brother" flowed easily from his tongue.
Arta smiled.
"Three months ago, if someone had told me I would call you brother, I would have laughed so hard my sides would split."
"But now... now I am willing to sacrifice my shield for you."
Bahram looked into his eyes.
"And I am willing to protect your back with my sword."
"This is what Prince Kourosh has taught us."
"We no longer fight for the tribe. We fight for each other."
"We fight for Pars."
This simple dialogue was a sign of the deepest change that had occurred in this army:
The birth of a new homeland and a new identity.
The thirty-thousand-man army, at sunset, advanced across the plain like an endless river of steel and will.
They had left Anshan behind and were on their way to the Median border and their destiny.
Every step they took was a beat on a war drum whose echo would soon be heard in the halls of Ecbatana.