CHAPTER 3

Rise of the Eastern Star

"Is your master well?" asked the king of Anshan.

The ambassador bowed before Cyrus. "The great king, King Nabonidus of Babylon—yes my lord, the king is well." The Babylonian had difficulty breathing in the thin air of the high Persian plateau, and had not yet recovered from the rigorous trek over tortuous mountain trails.

"I'm pleased he's well," returned Cyrus, "and gratified he sent you to discuss terms of peace."

Cyrus had done well for himself. He grew up as a member of the Achaemenidae family, son of Cambyses I and Mandane, who was daughter of the Median king Astyages. His ancestors had ruled the Pasargadae tribe for generations, but he'd spent much of his childhood hiding from the murderous plots of those who wanted to take over the throne.

More than a match for his enemies, Cyrus became king in spite of their efforts to kill him. He soon gained the support of two neighboring tribes—the Maraphii and the Maspii—and before long secured the allegiance of all the Persian tribes. Now he had become greater than any Achaemenidaen king before him.

Persia lay under the control of the powerful Median kingdom to its northwest, ruled now by Cyrus' wealthy and corrupt grandfather, King Astyages. This ruler had opposed his grandson at first, for he realized that the young man's personal power could threaten the Median throne.

The Persian people, however, insisted that the young man become their ruler, so at last Astyages granted Cyrus the position of vassal king. The Mede sought to prevent trouble by placing restrictions on his powers. He also planted spies in the palace at Parsagarda, but Cyrus uncovered them and reassigned them so they'd have to depend upon loyal Persians for their information.

When the Babylonian envoy came, Cyrus was grateful that none of the spies could hear his voice. His own men would give them a report, but their information would conceal the real purpose of the visit.

"As my envoys told your master," Cyrus continued, carefully wording his proposition, "I want to form an alliance with Babylon."

"Do all that you have in mind," returned the ambassador. The polite phrase meant that he was willing to listen to the proposal.

"There has been friction between Babylon and Media," Cyrus went on. He leaned forward and spoke softly so his voice wouldn't carry to any rooms nearby. "Media wants to seat their king on Babylon's throne."

"My lord has good information." The envoy's eyes bulged as he realized that the 'secret' feud had become public knowledge.

During the reign of Nabopolassar Babylon and Media had become allies in order to destroy Assyria. But undercurrents of hostility strained their alliance almost to the breaking point.

Babylon's military power had decayed during the reigns of the weak kings who followed Nebuchadnezzar. Now Nabonidus sought desperately to strengthen it, but Media posed a real threat. The Babylonian king didn't feel prepared to fight a major rival yet, and needed a few more years to consolidate his forces.

Cyrus looked both ways, assuring himself that no spies could hear him. "I also have a disagreement with Media," he whispered, "and I believe we can help each other."

"Say on," replied the envoy.

"Nabonidus wants time to build and train his armies," Cyrus suggested, "and I can buy him the time he needs." The Persian rose from his throne, descended the steps, and stopped beside the envoy. "If Nabonidus will occupy his armies in the Westland, I'll keep Media off his back."

"We still have a treaty with Media," returned the ambassador, scratching the side of his head. "They'll surely ask for help if your armies get the upper hand."

"Yes," answered Cyrus, hands on his hips. "But you'll find some excuse why you cannot help them. I can defeat Media, but not the combined armies of Media and Babylon."

The ambassador nodded his head. "Sounds reasonable. I can't see why the great king, King Nabonidus of Babylon, wouldn't agree to that." He mentally reviewed the objectives he'd discussed before his journey, and decided that Cyrus' strategy meshed well with Nabonidus' plans. "Yes," he concluded. "King Nabonidus will agree to that."

Cyrus bowed in the temple of his god, offering the sacrifices required by the priests. He had a broad mind and believed that by respecting all the gods, he would have unlimited blessings. Like most Aryan people, he adored a set of nature-gods, but he also recognized a Supreme Being to Whom the Persians had given many names. To this Supreme God Cyrus now paid his humble respects. He expected in return to receive a blessing, and strength to conquer his enemies.

Leaving the temple Cyrus mounted his horse and joined his royal guards. Though watchful of danger, they relaxed as they rode into the hills beyond the edges of the wall-less capitol city. The young king enjoyed the clear air and the magnificent views. One after another, succeeding mountain ranges extended beyond the nearby slopes all the way to the horizon.

The group hadn't gone far when a palace courier galloped up and read Cyrus a message.

"What?!" he shouted, his face turning crimson. "Astyages did what?"

The king hadn't bothered to stop when the page approached, but now he reigned up his horse abruptly. The mounted guards surrounding him bumped into each other in their attempts to avoid colliding with their king. One of them toppled from his steed and rolled down a steep embankment. He sprang to his feet grinning, brushed himself off, and scrambled back up the incline.

"He executed the son of General Harpagus," replied the page calmly. Though messengers of other ancient kings feared to bring bad news—angry monarchs sometimes killed heralds—Cyrus treated his servants with justice.

The intensity of Cyrus' fury made it impossible for him to speak. All the pleasure he'd known only minutes before evaporated at the news of another Astyagean atrocity, and he spurred his mount back toward the palace.

"Grandfather's a tyrant!" he shouted as he exploded into his bedroom. He tossed his riding clothes in all directions as he removed them. The king's valet jogged after him, picking up the clothes and trying to make sense of his rambling words.

"Astyages, the 'lance-hurler'!" The king spit out the name. "There he sits, surrounded with luxury; filling his days with feasting, and drinking, and every sort of pleasure while his people rot in poverty." He kicked over a table beside his bed. "He's been on that throne for thirty-five years— And it all comes down to this!"

Cyrus paced back and forth in the room, striding with quick, stomping steps, gesturing with his fist. "Of all things!" he shouted. He still couldn't believe the news. "He killed the son of his leading general for petty thievery! He'd have only flogged a common beggar for that. Who does he think he is— god?"

It seemed to Cyrus that someone had tied his stomach into knots. His heart galloped at full tilt, and he had difficulty breathing. He'd never before felt such loathing toward anyone like he felt just now toward his Median master. "Where's that messenger?" he barked. "I've got to know exactly what happened."

The page's story remained unchanged. He'd gotten every detail of the sad affair from the general himself while he mourned for his son.

"Grandfather!" Cyrus' face contorted at the thought of the old Median king. "You didn't succeed in killing me, but you got Harpagus' son. Someone has to put an end to you're oppression." He continued his circuit the room. "We've got to give the people a chance to live without fear."

The king stopped for several minutes, stroking his beard and gazing out the window at the distant mountains. After what seemed like hours to the page, Cyrus made his decision. Turning to a scribe who sat on a bench nearby, he issued an order.

"Call up a general conscription," he commanded. "I want every able-bodied man to come to Parsagarda for war. I'm going to put an end to the tyranny of Astyages— Once and for all."

Word of the military build-up reached Astyages with the speed of his spy network.

"Cyrus? Raising an army?" The obese monarch took a handful of grapes, and wolfed them down seeds and all while he listened to his intelligence officer. He grinned as juice dribbled from the corners of his mouth and stained his graying beard. "Whatever for?" He laughed. "Having trouble with his war-like neighbors again?"

"No, my lord," returned the officer, disgusted with the king's filthy manners and his refusal to take the threat seriously. "He plans to march on Media."

"Delusions of grandeur," chuckled Astyages. "The rare mountain air has fogged his brain. He hasn't a chance against my troopers, and he knows it." The king guzzled a full goblet of wine without so much as a breath of air, and handed it to his chamberlain for a refill. "How long do you think he'll need to raise an army?"

"Many soldiers have already gathered in Parsagarda," answered the spy chief. "He talks like he'll be ready to march within the month."

"That rabble he calls an army will need a lot of training before they'll be ready for my men." The Median king belched, and smiled. Visions of beggars, cripples, tenant farmers, and old trades-men trying to learn how to use weapons of war danced in his intoxicated head. "Even if he succeeds in training them to fight, I doubt he'll find enough wagons to transport their supplies across the mountains."

"May the king live forever," the officer bowed, "but my lord's knowledge of the Persians is incomplete." He hesitated to give a negative report for fear he might be executed. "The soldiers I saw in Parsagarda were young and strong and already well-trained. My lord needs to move quickly before Cyrus completes his plans."

"Since when did you become my advisor?!" thundered Astyages. He lunged from the throne and struck the spy chief across the face, knocking him to the ground. "I could have your head for such insolence."

Cooling quickly, the Median monarch returned to the royal chair, breathing heavily from the exertion. His terrified victim cowered on the floor, expecting the palace guard to haul him off for execution. "Nevertheless," smiled the king as if nothing had happened, "you've done fine work." He reached for another fist-full of grapes. "Now go back to Persia and keep me informed."

Astyages giggled as the pale officer slunk from the room, wishing he'd never entered the royal service.

"Page!" barked the king. "Send for General Harpagus. I have a little job for him."

"What do you know about Cyrus?" General Harpagus guided his black stallion along the narrow mountain trail, his army stretching before and behind him for miles.

The general's advisor licked his lips, and deliberated before speaking. "My cousin lives in Parsagarda." He scanned the ridge above them for possible enemy scouts. "Came to see us a few months ago. Told how people in Persia are happy, well-fed, have plenty of work."

"Sounds good," returned Harpagus. "Did he speak of Cyrus?"

"Yes." The advisor grasped for words to express what he'd heard. "People love him. Quick to punish offenders and to reward good service."

The two rode on for several minutes, as the general conferred with a messenger. "The forward platoons are nearly at the summit, my lord," related the courier. "Advance scouts indicate no hostile forces in sight."

"We have to cross two more mountain ranges before we reach enemy territory," returned the general. "Tell my scouts to be careful. Cyrus might have posted lookouts or advanced guards in these mountains."

"Yes, my lord," replied the page as he spurred his mount toward the head of the column. He used care not to slip off the narrow trail into the canyon far below.

"I don't like these twisting mountain trails," complained Harpagus. "Our soldiers march in a long thin line for miles. If Cyrus surprised us in just the right place. . . ." He glanced along the queue as it snaked its way up the winding path from the valley far below. He drew his breath in, making a whistle. "He could destroy us with only a few commando units!"

"He's capable of that, my lord," returned the advisor.

"Oh?" The general stared at his friend.

"My cousin said Cyrus has unique talents for leading men." He uncorked his goat-skin canteen and sipped a mouthful of water. "Fights with them. They're loyal to all his commands."

"That's no different from any other good commander," argued the general. He felt jealous that his trusted friend showed partiality to a man he'd never met!

"Yes— And no." The advisor turned in his saddle so he could face his chief. "I've served you well. My life is in your hands. You're my master, my friend." He wrinkled his forehead. "I've fought at your side in battles large and small. Laughed with you. Wept with you." He deliberately omitted mentioning the death of Harpagus' son.

"I've never knowingly given you false counsel," he continued, glancing at the road ahead to confirm that his horse maintained its place in line. Staring into the distance for several minutes, his eyes traced the lines of the misty mountains, range upon range. They resembled ranks of dominoes as far as the eye could see.

"What are you getting at?" Harpagus' patience wore a thin shell.

"This." The advisor paused again, searching for a way to express his feelings. "My words may sound treasonous, but they come from the heart. Destroying Cyrus will not benefit our people."

"What?" The general couldn't believe what he'd heard.

The counselor lowered his voice. "Cyrus seems a better king— A better man than any monarch I've known." He didn't openly name the Median king they'd served during the past 35 years.

"You mean—" Harpagus stopped. He had longed for a more humane ruler, but had feared to express such thoughts. His grief and anger over the way Astyages executed his son had failed to heal with time. Instead, his feelings toward his master had festered into an inner contempt for the king and all his policies.

The counselor held up his hand for silence. He knew the general understood him, but he didn't want his chief to voice opinions for which he would be required to answer.

The two rode on without speaking, their hearts filled with turmoil. To proceed according to their desires would be deemed treason, punishable by death—if caught. But to carry out Astyages' orders to crush Cyrus—unthinkable.

Just thinking about disobedience to their king cut directly across the web of both their characters. They'd loyally served the Median throne all their lives. Never in thought or word or action could anyone accuse them of working against the best interests of Astyages. Even the idea of treason filled Harpagus with disgust.

Then a mental image of his son floated up before him. The lad had been his life-long joy, his hope for the future. He'd been loyal to his family, hard-working, gentle, manly— How could Astyages do such a thing?! How could he execu. . . .? The memory pierced his heart, starting the emotional hemorrhage all over again. Tears filled his eyes. He fought to control them, hoping his men hadn't seen.

"Let them flow," his counselor advised him, placing a hand on the general's shoulder. "Get it out of your system. The child is gone. We can't bring him back. It's all right to grieve."

The general pondered a new option. He could break away from Media. He could unite with the "righteous" king of Persia, and serve a master who had a heart. He could fight against Astyages and revenge the death of his son. He could. . . . No, it all seemed too radical to his loyal mind.

The two men topped the mountain crest and scanned the twisting column of marching men on the descending trails ahead. They marveled at the range after range of jagged peaks that marched toward the horizon. The clear, thin air foreshortened the scene, causing the faraway mountains to appear close at hand. As the succeeding ranges paraded into the distance they faded into shades of purple, until they disappeared from view under the curvature of the earth.

Harpagus glanced back at the following army still tramping up the steep grade. His heart wept for these poor, misused souls who'd been under Astyages' heel all their lives. What a pity! he thought. Now they go to face one of the great generals of our time. Many will die— And for what? So their families can continue to live as miserably as before?

The general dabbed at a tear that trickled from the corner of his eye. There's no justice in it, he thought. Someone has to rescue them, give them something to live for, something to fight for; give their families hope for the future. His mind warred against itself. He tried to balance his fidelity to a monarch he'd pledged to serve for a lifetime with his love for these men and their families.

A sword whipped through his mind, hacking away at his fanatical loyalty to Astyages. The murderous blade dripped with blood— The blood of his own son. He peered at the countenance of the sneering warrior who brandished the weapon; and his face was the face of— Astyages!

"Look." His counselor-companion pointed down the forward slope, interrupting his superior's mental turmoil. "A rider. Passing our troops up the trail."

"One of my messengers," returned Harpagus without emotion. "Perhaps he has some word from our scouts."

As the page approached, Harpagus gathered from his haste that he carried a crucial message. Perhaps his advanced units had already engaged the enemy.

"My lord." The page nodded his head in the merest reflection of a bow. "I have a communiqué for you from Cyrus, King of Persia."

Cyrus! wondered the general. Why would Cyrus send me a message? Does he fear the might of Astyages? The power of Harpagus?

The messenger handed the general a scroll, and the military man passed it on to his counselor—a trained scribe.

"Peace and good will to Harpagus, general of the armies of Media," the letter began.

Strange, thought Harpagus, that my enemy would address me in such friendly terms. He wrestled to control his chaotic thoughts so he could concentrate on the message.

The counselor continued to read: "I extend to you my warmest sympathies on the death of your beloved first-born son. My heart breaks at the injustice done to you and your family."

Giant comers of grief broke over Harpagus, drowning out his senses, and he waved his counselor silent. He hadn't heard such kindness from anyone—not even his dearest friends. They had all feared to mourn with him, lest the anger of Astyages butcher their beloved as well. The general grappled with his emotions for many minutes before he regained control of them.

"I do not wish to fight you and inflict more grief upon the homes of Media," the message went on. "Come to Parsagarda as my guest. Let us mourn your loss together. We will care for your needs, and send you home to your master rejoicing."

Harpagus couldn't believe his ears. Once he would have considered such a communiqué a mere mockery, a jest sent to incite anger, fight. But the tone of the message matched everything he knew about Cyrus. It touched his heart.

"What a man!" he remarked. "What a contrast to the spirit of the one we've served so long."

"How true." The counselor smiled. He too had seen the sender's sincerity, and felt drawn to know more about this man Cyrus.

"I can't fight a man like this." The general clinched his fist. "I can't destroy a leader who understands the yearning of men's hearts and judges without guile."

The horses began the descent, following the trail without human guidance. Median troops before and behind continued their trek, unaware of the momentous alternatives awash within their leader's heart—choices that would alter and brighten their entire future.

"Page!" called the general. "Take a message for Cyrus."

The herald had withdrawn and now followed several yards behind his leader. Now he urged his mount to Harpagus' side, removed his writing materials from their pouch and prepared to inscribe the message.

"Cyrus, king of Anshan. Greetings." The general contemplated what he'd say, wanting to choose the right words for this, the most important letter of his life. "I accept your sympathy for my dead son, and your invitation to mourn with me. I request safe conduct for myself and my body guard. We will come to you in peace."

"Astyages has gathered a large army, my lord." The herald interrupted the noon meal of Cyrus, Harpagus, and their officers. "He leads them in person."

Cyrus smiled. He'd hoped for an opportunity like this, for he believed the ease-loving king would panic when warfare broke out around him. "Can you imagine his Magnificence actually traveling over those rugged mountain trails?" he asked his companions.

Harpagus laughed. "He may not survive long enough to fight you, my lord. I only wish I were there to enjoy his misery." By now the Median general had pledged his loyalty to the Persian king, joining his immense army with that of Cyrus. Now an angry Astyages came to punish him for his "treason".

"What will be our chances against his army when they arrive?" Cyrus broke off a morsel of bread and ate it after dipping it into a goblet of wine.

"If we fight," replied Harpagus, "he won't stand a chance. I've brought all the veteran soldiers over to your side. He has nothing but raw recruits. Some may show great zeal, wanting to empress his highness, but the battle will surely be ours."

"Can we win without a fight?" Cyrus knew Harpagus might misunderstand. The Persian had no hesitancy in fighting the Median army, but he often sought ways to prevent the bloodshed and grief that accompanied every war. "Can we persuade his soldiers to lay down their weapons, to quit before the battle starts?"

"That would be gratifying wouldn't it?" Harpagus smiled at the flash of imagery flitting across his mind: Astyages shouting "Charge!" but his troops laying down their weapons and refusing to fight.

During the next few days, while Harpagus and his generals prepared to do battle with their brothers, Cyrus recruited Median soldiers for another purpose. He trained them, and sent them alone and in small groups—on different routes—to join Astyages army. Their mission: to undermine the morale of the rank and file, and to destroy their faith in their king.

When the Median army marched into sight of the Persian's wall-less capitol, Cyrus searched the multitude for a sign of its commander-and-chief. Near the rear he spied an ornate chariot, and recognized his grandfather's face. Astyages had made it over the mountains, but the haggard old man appeared so tired he could hardly stand.

While Cyrus watched, he saw the aged king muster what little strength he had left to shout orders to his men. The words drifted out over the restless armies and reached the Persian's ears.

"Attack the rebels!" he screamed. "Show no mercy! Take Cyrus and Harpagus alive!" He began to cough uncontrollably from the strain. His lieutenant gave him a goblet of wine that he upended, and soon had himself under control again. "I want to punish those two," he bellowed. "I want to see them suffer for the trouble they've caused me. I want . . . ."

"Who is Astyages?" cried a Median soldier, near the king's chariot. "We want Cyrus!"

"Seize him!" shouted Astyages. "Slay him here before me!"

The man refused to be quiet. "We want Cyrus!" he sang, and others joined him. Within seconds the entire Median army chanted together: "We want Cyrus! We want Cyrus!"

The earth shuddered with the roar, and Cyrus grinned. His own Persians and Harpagus' Medes joined in the chant until tens of thousands of voices echoed the joyous call: "We want Cyrus! We want Cyrus!"

Astyages flew into a rage, drew his sword, and began hacking away at those who stood near him. Several hapless fellows fell before the king's own body guard disarmed him. They bound the old man and led him through the mob toward the city's entrance where Cyrus stood.

Without command, the two armies rushed at each other, but not a weapon could be seen. Instead, the men charged head-long—arms open wide—joy-fully welcoming their brothers into the service of Cyrus. The men who held Astyages found them-selves surrounded by so many well-wishers that for a time they feared they might be crushed by the throng.

The joy became so infectious that seasoned soldiers threw down their weapons, grasped anyone nearby, and danced for joy. The timber of the chant changed and became a shout of triumph—melting into an oath of allegiance: "Long Live Cyrus! Long live Cyrus!"

A group of Persian soldiers emerged from the city carrying Cyrus on their shoulders. They deposited him on a watchtower where all could see him. And the frolic went on for hours. The Medes had come to fight and die for a tyrant they all hated. Instead they'd deposed Astyages and replaced him with Cyrus—a man of love and justice whom all could serve with honor.

Astyages faced justice at last in Parsagarda. During his trial so many witnesses produced their testimony that even the wicked king himself began to realize how far he had fallen. He accepted the sentence of death without murmur.

Word of Astyages' execution swept through Persia and Media with amazing speed. People rejoiced and praised the wisdom and justice of their new king—Cyrus the Persian.

Cyrus granted Media full freedom and made it the first Satrapy (state) of Persia—called "Mada." They felt magnanimous towards him and called him "King of the Medes," a title of great honor. Persians and Medes became equals and worked together for the benefit of the empire. Cyrus removed all the palace treasures from Ecbatana (the Median capitol) and transported them to Anshan. But for years to come, Persian kings enjoyed sojourning at the beautiful palace of Astyages.

CHAPTER 4