CYRUS

By

Theseustoo/Astyages

(Continued)

Early the next morning the slave informed Cyrus that the tribes had assembled in the large, open square in the centre of the city which, when the city of Persepolis was first built, had been set aside specifically for that purpose. Neither the Medes nor the Persians had real marketplaces in any of their cities, because they thought it more honourable to bargain with each other in private, rather than haggling over goods and, as they some-times phrased it, ‘forswearing themselves openly in a public place like the Greeks’. Cyrus took up his position on the speaker’s dais at one end of the square and, holding his arms aloft as a signal for silence, he addressed the huge crowd:

“My fellow Persians, I have here orders from our King, Astyages…” He held up a sheet of papyrus so that the whole crowd could see it, “In it he appoints me to be your general. Since this is the case, I command you all now, each man, to go and fetch his reaping-hook; I have a task for you…”

Had anyone in the crowd challenged him to read the scroll, it would have read just exactly as Cyrus had indicated, but although he’d prepared himself for just such a challenge, as it turned out there was no need to have done so, for it never came.

Indeed, as it happened the crowd were not even the least little bit surprised by this turn of events. Ever since Persia was conquered by Cyrus’ own great-grandfather, Phraortes, the Median kings, as overlords, had used the Persian nobility to govern the Persian people for them; being content to extract a large annual tribute in the form of gold, silver and purple, as well as various kinds of cattle, grains and other comestibles, together with an annual levy of troops to help support the Median armies. As long as the Persians kept paying the tribute and sending the levies, there had been no need for the Medes to occupy Persia; and the Persians had made sure always to meet their obligations in order to avoid just such an eventuality.

Furthermore, because Persians had always deemed lying to be the most despicable of all human failings; and because innocence walks hand-in-hand with gullibility, rarely did they ever even suspect that one of their own people might stoop to anything quite as dishonourable as deception. Thus when it was put to them that Cyrus, the popular and intelligent son of the noble Cambyses, should be appointed as their master, it did not raise even the shadow of a suspicion amongst the assembled tribes that this was anything but the truth.

Thus, when Cyrus claimed that he had been appointed to be their leader by Astyages, far from being surprised, most of them were even quite pleased at the news, for it struck them as a wise appointment. After all, not only was Cyrus a highly talented man, but also Astyages’ grandson; thus the Persians all felt that the appointment was perfectly natural; indeed, the wisest heads among them had almost expected something like this to happen anyway, sooner or later, so no-one even bothered to think about questioning the veracity of Cyrus’ story.

Obediently, as soon as they were given their orders, they all dispersed, to return early the next morning, as they had been asked, each man returning carrying with him a scythe or a sickle, just as their new lord had commanded. The following morning, when everyone had finally returned Cyrus then led them to a huge tract of scrubland, between about eighteen and twenty furlongs on each side, and completely covered with black thorn bushes.

Cyrus addressed the crowd once more:

“Now, I want you to clear this whole area of these thorn bushes… this task must be completed by sunset! Tomorrow, when this field has been cleared, everyone is to take a bath and come to me again in the gardens of my father’s palace!”

The crowd immediately moved to obey Cyrus’ orders; but it was extremely arduous work and they constantly pricked themselves. Soon their hands and forearms were all covered with painful and bloody scratches from all the needle-sharp black thorns, as the men cut down the large black bushes while the women collected them together and piled them into a huge heap in one corner of the area Cyrus had roped off.

In spite of their numbers, they had to work fast to clear the area before sunset as Cyrus had instructed, but everyone pitched in and eventually they succeeded, just as the final blood-red sliver of the setting sun slipped below the horizon, and the dark of the evening quickly closed in upon them.

Finally, totally exhausted and blackened from top to toe with grime from the bushes, mixed with the sweat from their own bodies; and bloodied in many places from the countless scratches which now criss-crossed their unprotected arms and legs as they trudged wearily home through the quickly-gathering gloom; wondering as they went what their new master would want them to do tomorrow.

***   *****   ***

Early the next morning the slave informed Cyrus that the tribes had assembled in the large, open square in the centre of the city which, when the city of Persepolis was first built, had been set aside specifically for that purpose. Neither the Medes nor the Persians had real marketplaces in any of their cities, because they thought it more honourable to bargain with each other in private, rather than haggling over goods and, as they some-times phrased it, ‘forswearing themselves openly in a public place like the Greeks’. Cyrus took up his position on the speaker’s dais at one end of the square and, holding his arms aloft as a signal for silence, he addressed the huge crowd:

“My fellow Persians, I have here orders from our King, Astyages…” He held up a sheet of papyrus so that the whole crowd could see it, “In it he appoints me to be your general. Since this is the case, I command you all now, each man, to go and fetch his reaping-hook; I have a task for you…”

Had anyone in the crowd challenged him to read the scroll, it would have read just exactly as Cyrus had indicated, but although he’d prepared himself for just such a challenge, as it turned out there was no need to have done so, for it never came.

Indeed, as it happened the crowd were not even the least little bit surprised by this turn of events. Ever since Persia was conquered by Cyrus’ own great-grandfather, Phraortes, the Median kings, as overlords, had used the Persian nobility to govern the Persian people for them; being content to extract a large annual tribute in the form of gold, silver and purple, as well as various kinds of cattle, grains and other comestibles, together with an annual levy of troops to help support the Median armies. As long as the Persians kept paying the tribute and sending the levies, there had been no need for the Medes to occupy Persia; and the Persians had made sure always to meet their obligations in order to avoid just such an eventuality.

Furthermore, because Persians had always deemed lying to be the most despicable of all human failings; and because innocence walks hand-in-hand with gullibility, rarely did they ever even suspect that one of their own people might stoop to anything quite as dishonourable as deception. Thus when it was put to them that Cyrus, the popular and intelligent son of the noble Cambyses, should be appointed as their master, it did not raise even the shadow of a suspicion amongst the assembled tribes that this was anything but the truth.

Thus, when Cyrus claimed that he had been appointed to be their leader by Astyages, far from being surprised, most of them were even quite pleased at the news, for it struck them as a wise appointment. After all, not only was Cyrus a highly talented man, but also Astyages’ grandson; thus the Persians all felt that the appointment was perfectly natural; indeed, the wisest heads among them had almost expected something like this to happen anyway, sooner or later, so no-one even bothered to think about questioning the veracity of Cyrus’ story.

Obediently, as soon as they were given their orders, they all dispersed, to return early the next morning, as they had been asked, each man returning carrying with him a scythe or a sickle, just as their new lord had commanded. The following morning, when everyone had finally returned Cyrus then led them to a huge tract of scrubland, between about eighteen and twenty furlongs on each side, and completely covered with black thorn bushes.

Cyrus addressed the crowd once more:

“Now, I want you to clear this whole area of these thorn bushes… this task must be completed by sunset! Tomorrow, when this field has been cleared, everyone is to take a bath and come to me again in the gardens of my father’s palace!”

The crowd immediately moved to obey Cyrus’ orders; but it was extremely arduous work and they constantly pricked themselves. Soon their hands and forearms were all covered with painful and bloody scratches from all the needle-sharp black thorns, as the men cut down the large black bushes while the women collected them together and piled them into a huge heap in one corner of the area Cyrus had roped off.

In spite of their numbers, they had to work fast to clear the area before sunset as Cyrus had instructed, but everyone pitched in and eventually they succeeded, just as the final blood-red sliver of the setting sun slipped below the horizon, and the dark of the evening quickly closed in upon them.

Finally, totally exhausted and blackened from top to toe with grime from the bushes, mixed with the sweat from their own bodies; and bloodied in many places from the countless scratches which now criss-crossed their unprotected arms and legs as they trudged wearily home through the quickly-gathering gloom; wondering as they went what their new master would want them to do tomorrow.

***   *****   ***

CYRUS

By

Theseustoo/Astyages

(Continued)

Cyrus was no more surprised at the gift of a hare, when one of Harpagus’ most trusted servants had presented him with it, It was a sharp, clear morning and a light, crisp, early frost crunched underfoot; announcing to the world that summer was over and autumn had begun. A perfect morning for the hunt, thought Harpagus, as he and a servant strode briskly across the plain in search of game; a bronze-tipped arrow already nocked on the bowstring and ready to shoot from his powerful Assyrian recurved bow.

Suddenly a huge hare broke the cover of the heather which had been hiding it until Harpagus and his servant had approached too close for comfort. The endangered animal had finally decided to risk swapping the rapidly-dwindling security of its hiding place for the speed of its hind legs as its means of survival. Bursting from the dense heather just a few paces in front of Harpagus, the terrified animal raced off across the hillside away from him and his servant as fast as its huge hind legs could propel it.

But fast though he was, there was to be no salvation for this hare; the instant the animal had broken cover Harpagus had smoothly but swiftly raised his bow, aimed, intuitively allowing for windage and the speed of the animal as it sped away from him, and let fly his unerring bronze-tipped arrow all in a single graceful, fluid motion which reflected constant practice and many years’ experience.

The missile swiftly found its mark and the unfortunate animal instantly jumped straight up into the air; then fell and, after a few reflex twitches of its huge hind legs, lay still; the arrow had pierced its heart. The servant had quickly followed Harpagus’ arrow and as he retrieved his master’s quarry, he held it up triumphantly by its huge hind legs, enthusiastically admiring the felled beast, “Look at the size of this one Lord! It will make a wonderful stew for our supper!”

Harpagus laughed briefly and said, “No… I’m sorry, my friend! This one is not for the pot! I have a special purpose for this hare. It is a present for Cyrus of Persia.”

As he was speaking, Harpagus took a small razor-sharp skinning-knife from his belt and cut open the rabbit’s paunch, but instead of gutting and skinning the animal he took a small roll of parchment from inside his tunic and inserted it under the animal’s skin. Then, taking a sewing needle and thread from a small wallet he kept inside his tunic, he very carefully sewed up the animal and then smoothed down its fur to hide the stitches. Satisfied that his handiwork was now invisible, he finally gave the animal back to his servant.

“Now…” Harpagus said to his slave in a very quiet voice, although there was no-one to be seen for miles around them on this heath-covered hillside, “You are my most trusted servant; this is a special message for Cyrus; you are to give him this hare and tell him that he must paunch the animal himself; but he is to make sure he is quite alone when he does so. Is that clear?”

“Yes Lord.” The slave replied as he took the animal from his master and instantly set off at a fast trot toward the King’s Highway, which would take him directly to Persepolis, the Persian capital.

***   *****   ***

During the ten years Cyrus had spent in Persia, he had grown to manhood. Handsome, tall and straight, he was well muscled with broad shoulders and strong arms, a narrow waist and powerful thighs and calves. His size, strength and courage, as well as his habitual fairness in all of his dealings with people, not to mention the wealth and nobility of his parents’ social position had all combined to make him the most popular and admired of all the Persian aristocracy.

Indeed, it was clear to everyone who knew him that Cyrus was a man who was evidently destined to wield a great deal of influence, no matter what he should choose to do with his life. But although his father, Cambyses, had tried more than once to persuade Cyrus against a military career, and to steer him into the family business which had made his own clan so wealthy and powerful, Cyrus found that he could not maintain any genuine enthusiasm for business; though he showed a natural talent in so many areas, all he really loved to do was ride and hunt. He found it difficult to choose any one particular business speciality; accountancy was too dry and commerce seemed dishonest to him; but as his twenty-first birthday rapidly approached he knew that he would have to decide very soon; his father, Cambyses, would expect him soon to choose a profession which would help his family’s business, the business which had managed to maintain and even to increase its wealth, in spite (although some people said because) of the tax demanded annually by Astyages.

***   *****   ***

than the guards at the station-posts along the road had been when the same servant had explained its purpose to them. It was common practice, not only among the Medes, but throughout all Asia, for servants to present their masters with just such a gift whenever they needed to ask permission for something; or when they planned to submit a lawsuit and hoped to persuade their lord to give their case a fair hearing. Such small gifts were not bribes however; but merely tokens of respect.

In any case, Cyrus had received gifts from Harpagus each and every year on his birthday and on the anniversary of what he thought of as a kind of ‘rebirth’; the day he’d finally discovered his true identity. Cyrus had heard the whole story of what had happened to Harpagus’ son, and had come to think of these gifts as tokens of Harpagus’ atonement. It seemed to Cyrus that instead of blaming Cyrus for his son’s grisly demise, as a lesser man might, Harpagus had seen events for what they were; and had recognized that the real cause of all his misfortunes was ultimately his own fault, in agreeing to do Astyages’ bidding in the first place; albeit through a third party. Now it seemed to Cyrus that he was trying very hard to do everything he could to atone for his grievous error.

Yet, as it happened, that third party had turned out to be Mitradates, who had then saved his life, so Cyrus knew that he also had much to thank Harpagus for; had it not been for Harpagus’ reluctance to deal with the infanticide himself, Cyrus would surely never have survived even his first night in this world. So this gift from Harpagus came as no surprise to him. But Cyrus was quite surprised however, when, as this servant of Harpagus presented him with the huge animal, he suddenly leaned forwards and whispered to him that he must paunch the beast himself rather than having the kitchen staff perform this messy chore; and that he was to make sure that he was quite alone when he did so.

Intrigued by the man’s secrecy, and most curious about its reason, Cyrus merely nodded silently and gave the servant a small purse of coins for his trouble, then he immediately took the hare to his private quarters where he cut it open to find the note which Harpagus had written to him. He read:

“Son of Cambyses, the gods assuredly watch over you, or never would you have passed through your many wonderful adventures. Now is the time when you may avenge yourself upon Astyages, your would-be murderer. Remember he ordered your death; you owe it to the gods and to me that you are still alive. I think you are not ignorant of what he did to you; nor of what I suffered at his hands because I gave you to the cowherd, and did not put you to death.

Listen to me now, and obey my words, and all the empire of Astyages shall be yours. Raise the standard of revolt in Persia, and then march straight on Media. Whether Astyages appoints me to command his forces against you, or whether he appoints any of the other princes of the Medes, all will go as you could wish. They will be the first to fall away from him and, joining your side, they will exert themselves to overturn his power. Be sure that on our part all is ready; so do your part, and do it speedily.”

Cyrus sipped thoughtfully at a goblet of wine as he deeply pondered the contents of the note. After a few minutes he took a small sheet of papyrus, a goose-quill pen and a small bottle of ink from a large chest at the foot of his bed; and began to write. When he had finished, he clapped his hands together loudly and a servant immediately appeared from the shadows with a polite bow.

“Call an Assembly of the Tribes! I want to speak to them immediately!” Cyrus ordered him urgently.

Without a word the servant bowed deeply and then quickly turned and left to obey his master’s command. It would take some time for the tribes to assemble; but if he sent riders to each of their territories immediately he could have them all here by the following morning.

***   *****   ***

CYRUS By Theseustoo/Astyages (Continued) CHAPTER 5:

The Plot.

One by one; and silently; using the cover of the darkness provided by a new moon and the middle of the night; princes from five of the six tribes which comprised the Median nation slipped like shadows through the silent streets of Agbatana to the house of Harpagus, just outside the city walls. Each man among them was extremely careful to make sure they were neither seen nor followed by any of the king’s guards, who patrolled the streets and the city’s perimeter every night to ensure that crimes were kept to a minimum. They knew that if they were spotted they would certainly arouse the guards’ suspicions; anyone out and about at this late hour was breaking the curfew and could only be up to no good. If they should be caught, they knew that even their exalted status as princes among their own tribes would not save them. To be caught by the king’s guards would mean interrogation by Astyages’ expert torturers; and as soon as their sinister purpose was discovered, as it inevitably would be, they knew that they would most certainly be sentenced to a most cruel and painful death.

One by one the silent shadows slipped through the open back door of Harpagus’ house; usually this door was used only by servants or tradesmen. Harpagus had left it unbarred to avoid even the remote possibility that a knock on the door might be overheard by any of his servants. One by one the five Princes of the Busae, the Paretacenae, the Struchates, the Arizanti, and the Budii arrived. They were all appalled at the rapidly-increasing harshness of Astyages’ rule; for what had been done to Harpagus, almost ten years ago now, was far from the only atrocity the tyrant had committed on his subjects; merely one of the worst. Of the six tribes which comprised the nation of Media, only one tribe was not represented in this small and very select group; the Magi. As the king’s advisors and administrators they of all people must be kept ignorant of the plot. In warm but hushed tones, and with the shutters closed to hide the light of the single oil-lamp they used to find their way into the kitchen, Harpagus welcomed them, one by one, as they arrived. Their need for caution was still just as urgent, even inside Harpagus’ own household, because the spies of Astyages were everywhere; and although the servants had all retired for the night hours ago, they must be careful not to awaken them in case their clandestine conference should be discovered. If one of them should be a spy and inform the king, their coup would be finished even before it started. Once inside the kitchen, however, they could speak a little more freely as this part of the house was at the opposite end of the building from the servants’ sleeping quarters, although they still used only the one dim lamp and closed the shutters on the windows. When the last of the five princes had finally arrived, Harpagus addressed them in a voice which revealed the intensity of his passion, in spite of its quietness. “You all know why I have called this meeting: Our king, Astyages, has become a tyrant; his actions are so capricious and so abominable that they can no longer be tolerated.” Tabalus, the Prince of the Busae was the first to answer: “That is true, Harpagus; and we all know well enough what he’s done to you.

Indeed there is not a man here who has not suffered grievously at his hands.” Here the prince sighed heavily, “But we cannot hope to overthrow him by ourselves; any attempt at revolt would be seen even by our own people as treachery; motivated by our own ambitions… They would never support it!” Artaphernes, the Prince of the Paretacenae concurred: “The Prince of the Busae is right; our own people would never support such an act…” Hystaspes, the Prince of the Arizanti interrupted him, “Unless we can persuade them that we intend to put a legitimate successor on his throne…” Ah, now we’re getting somewhere, thought Artabazos, the Prince of the Struchates, quickly catching Hystaspes’ drift he realized that the people may easily be persuaded to support such a plan as this.

They all knew that apart from his only daughter Mandane, Astyages had only one other legitimate successor; his grandson in Persia, Cyrus. And, he thought, Cyrus was very popular among both the Persians and the Medes. However, he knew that the support of the people on its own was not quite enough. Pensively he added, “And even then we’ll need help from outside of Media; the king’s army alone is large enough to counter our opposition unless we find outside help!” But Harpagus had already anticipated these problems; in answer to Artabazos’ objections he smoothly interjected, “True; and that is precisely why I think we must enlist the aid of Cyrus of Persia, the son of Cambyses and Astyages’ daughter, Mandane… If we can persuade the Persians to revolt with Cyrus at their head, the tribes may be persuaded to follow our lead…” The tribal princes considered this for a few moments; it seemed like a sound enough proposition… Cyrus, after all, was Astyages’ own grandson and thus perfect for their plans; a legitimate and, equally importantly, a male heir… Almost certainly the armies of all the tribes would support this cause rather than risk any of Media’s individual tribes becoming too powerful and dominating the rest of them; especially as the alternatively involved the even more distasteful prospect of Media being ruled by a woman should Mandane ascend the throne after her father’s demise. A woman on the throne might be wooed and won; and along with her the throne, but the fates alone knew who might thus become their king… This was also, the princes all agreed, one more excellent reason for not merely accepting the status quo, for the king had no sons; and unless something happened to change the situation, they knew that Mandane would indeed inherit her father’s kingdom. It was unthinkable that a nation of warriors such as the Medes, should ever be ruled by a mere woman; a member of the weaker sex; such a blasphemy could only weaken the kingdom. Mazares, Prince of the Budii asked, “But will he support our cause? After all, Astyages is his own blood…” But Harpagus had been thinking about this for a long, long time. More than ten years had passed since Astyages had invited him to that macabre supper; and the thought of one day having his revenge had not left his mind for an instant during all that time. In response to Mazares’ question he said, “That is precisely why I have been cultivating Cyrus’ friendship by sending him gifts every year… on his birthday and also on the anniversary of the discovery of his true identity… Both dates will remind him that Astyages tried to have him killed. I am now confident that he sees me as a friend and an ally.

And Astyages has committed so many atrocities against so many people that he has long ago forgotten the evil he did to me and my family! The fool has just appointed me general of his army! Whether he chooses me or one of you as Commander in Chief, victory will fall to us like a ripe plum!” “Very well, Harpagus;” the Prince of the Struchates said softly, “But how can we get word of our plans to Cyrus? The king’s guards are at every staging post along the road; and their suspicions would surely be aroused if one of us were to try to contact him!” “Aye!” Echoed the Prince of the Arizanti, “We must keep it to ourselves; it must remain absolutely secret until the trap is ready to spring… we dare not risk being discovered…” “You need not concern yourself on that account,” the cunning Harpagus reassured them instantly, “I have planned for that also…” *** ***** ***