The dawn after the battle, the plain of Pasargadae had a different face.
The clamor of war was gone; only a heavy and imposing silence reigned.
A silence that was broken by the faint moans of the wounded and the sound of the wind whistling through the defeated Median flags.
The sun was slowly rising from behind the mountains.
Its golden light illuminated a horrific but magnificent scene.
A vast plain that was adorned with thousands of abandoned shields, helmets, and weapons, like a carpet of metal and leather.
Amidst this, the lifeless bodies, like silent statues, were the eternal witnesses of a battle that had decided the fate of a kingdom.
But amidst this devastation, a new order was taking shape.
Under the direct supervision of Kourosh, who had not slept since the night before, the Persian army was cleaning the field with incredible efficiency and speed.
They were divided into different groups.
One group, with wooden stretchers, moved silently among the bodies, collecting the wounded, both Persian and Median, with equal care.
Another group was responsible for collecting usable weapons.
And the largest group was digging deep and honorable mass graves for the dead of both armies.
This act, which was the first display of the "Persian Art of War" in peacetime, astonished the captured Median commanders.
They, who were accustomed to ruthless plunder, desecration of corpses, and the enslavement of the wounded, were left speechless in the face of this chivalrous behavior.
Mazares, the elderly general, with eyes wide with astonishment, said to one of the younger commanders beside him:
"I have never seen such a thing in my entire life."
"They are tending to our wounded..."
"They are digging graves for our dead..."
"Who... who are these people?"
In one of the large medical tents, Persian physicians were working tirelessly.
A young Median soldier who was severely wounded looked with fear at the physician who was cleaning his wound.
"Why... why are you helping me? I am your enemy."
The Persian physician, without raising his head, replied calmly:
"Our enmity was on the battlefield, soldier."
"Here, you are just a wounded human being."
"This is the law of our king."
This law, this new philosophy, was washing away the hatred and animosity of the war like a calm wave.
The Median soldiers, who were expecting death or torture, were met with clean water, food, and medical care.
This behavior, far more effective than any sword or spear, was breaking down the last walls of resistance in their souls.
They had not been defeated by a power.
They had been defeated by a wisdom that was beyond their comprehension.
At that moment, Arash entered the command tent with a tired face but eyes that shone with pride.
He unrolled a scroll.
"My lord, the final casualty count is complete."
A heavy silence fell over the tent.
"We... we have lost about a thousand of our best men, and we have nearly two thousand wounded."
Upon hearing this news, Cambyses let out a deep, painful sigh.
A thousand Persian soldiers.
A thousand families who would no longer see their father or son.
Kourosh, with a calm face but eyes that were darkened with sorrow, asked, "And them, Arash?"
Arash replied, "The initial count of the bodies estimates the Median casualties at about five thousand."
"Your war machine has reaped them, my lord."
These horrific statistics were a confirmation of the terrifying efficiency of the new Persian strategy and weapons.
But on Kourosh's face, there was no sign of the joy of victory.
He rose and looked out of the tent, at the vast plain that had now become a graveyard.
"Six thousand men..."
"Six thousand men who will no longer see the sunrise."
"Because of our decisions."
His voice was calm and heavy.
He turned to Cambyses and Arash.
"This is a great victory. But we must never forget its price."
"Each of these men, whether Persian or Median, had dreams."
"Our duty is to build a government that is worthy of this great sacrifice."
These were not the words of a conqueror.
They were the words of a wise emperor.