A Most Graceful Life Ch. 01

Cyrus leered down at the slaves, thankful for more additions to the royal household. He will have need for loyal slaves once he established himself in the capital, as he certainly couldn't use the ones that were now sworn to obey his brother. The men would work the fields, and perhaps the women may find themselves in the royal harem. Cyrus noticed one particular good looking woman, third in line, with an incredible bust and large nipples. He looked over at Papak, and mouthed the number 'three' to him. Papak understood, having been on the receiving end of this ritual many times before.

"This is excellent, noble Yazid, and you'll find much gratefulness from the house of Cyrus for such a gift. A man can never have enough slaves!" Cyrus watched as Papak recorded them into inventory. When he reached the third slave woman in line, she was carefully directed towards the tent that housed the harem, while all the others went to the slave quarters outside the tent.

"Indeed, your royal highness. We are glad to make such an offering. Slaves of this quality will serve your house greatly. In more ways than one," added Yazid, noticing the woman that was separated from the rest. He could only guess that she would be on her back by nightfall.

"Very well, Yazid, I must be going soon. Come, let's share your final gift, so that I may attend to other matters."

"Of course, sire," responded Yazid, pulling the final gift from his pack. His hands actually shook to have the small puzzle trinket in his hands, knowing the power within. Having it so close to his unprotected flesh unnerved him, as did all thoughts of the supernatural world. He could only hope that Cyrus would enjoy this greatest of gifts.

"Sire, may I present, a gift selected by the two eldest members of the tribe of Tamim, an offering that crosses the boundaries of this world and offers a supernatural power of the next. The strongest of bonds await you, a gift without measure. Inside this simple trinket is an incredibly powerful, yet eroti-"

The sounds of trumpets blaring sounded immediately, cutting off Yazid's speech as the noise outside Cyrus' tent reached a fever pitch. From every direction, the men could hear the raising of voices and the incredible sound of an army being roused to action.

"The trumpets! That could only mean one thing," began Cyrus, bolting upright from his chair. "My brother is accepting our offer of battle!"

"Great King, may we finish presenting our gift-" started Yazid, before being cut off again as Cyrus began giving orders.

"Papak! I need you to find Ariaeus and have him form up archers in the center. Send a messenger to find Clearchus, and have him stand firm on the right flank. Send another messenger to find Uzza and tell him to ready the cavalry for my arrival!" Cyrus began to find his battle armor, bolting it to his body as men began to hustle about the tent, springing to action at the roar of their commanders' orders.

"Sire, may we still finish before you leave?" squeaked Yazid, trying to complete the last task before Cyrus spirited away.

"I'm sorry, good Master Yazid, but I must be going immediately. The fate of the entire world hinges on this battle, and I must see to my troops."

"But our gifts, sire?"

"Your gifts will be safe in my quarters. Just leave what you have left in their packs and I can assure you, we will revisit it after battle," stated Cyrus, putting his breastplate on and strapping up the sides.

"But sire-," started Yazid, before being interrupted finally by Cyrus.

"Enough, Yazid. I have spoken. I shall see you after battle."

The color slowly drained from Yazid's face, at the thought of getting another audience with the Great King after a battle. The thought was daunting enough. He only wanted to be rid of the piece of magic still burning a hole through his hands.

"Don't look so glum, Yazid," smiled Cyrus, attaching his sword to his hips. "It is only a matter of time before my dear brother is beaten, and then we will resume this conversation. Stay here in the tent if you like, and enjoy the hospitality of my house. I will be with you as soon as battle is over."

"As you say, Great King," bowed Yazid, knowing he had lost his portion of their personal battle. He signaled to Amit to leave the packs on the table near where Cyrus placed the original bags of frankincense and spices. An unnamed slave of Cyrus' guided them to a separate tent to await the coming battle. Yazid, for one, was thankful that they wouldn't be able to see the carnage outside. It would be bad enough to listen to the groans and screams of men once battle was underway.

At least, safe in their tent, they could await the end of the battle, and the completion of their task.

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It wasn't a long wait. The trumpets and yells of men heard so clearly in the tent was meant to grab the attention of the entire army, as well as the commanders. Artaxerxes' army was on the march, coming down slowly from their slight rise of land where they had made their camp and was advancing on Cyrus' men. Rank after rank of Persian spearmen trampled across the carefully tended fields. Each man standing shoulders abreast with his brothers beside him, with spear clutched firmly in hand, and their large, rectangular wicker shield clutched in the other. The pounding of so many feet as they marched drove up the dust on the field, so that, not long after both armies began moving, nothing much more could be seen or heard but clouds of earth and screams of the wounded.

They came on relentlessly, forming solid lines and advancing with discipline towards the waiting spears of their own countrymen. Soon enough, the archers on both sides began to open up, sending their wooden spindles sailing to the other side, and causing such a great chorus of agony every time a volley was received. Soon enough, both armies were close enough to render the archers useless, and advancing to offer fight with spear and sword. The boom created when both lines collided was enough to draw all nearby attention to the battle. Each man looked for an opening in the man in front of him. Some found it easily, with a simple thrust providing the blood curdling scream of a fallen soldier. Others grappled without mercy, wearing themselves down without scoring ultimate victory, until a random lurch of the spear found opening where careful tactic could not guard.

Men fell and were trampled by their comrades without a second thought being given. Sandals and earth became covered in blood, entrails, and discarded limbs. The roar of sixty thousand men drowned out any other possible noise. It was only once the cavalry charge to the center of the lines was defeated, with its commander slain and beheaded, that the tide of battle began to change. The spearmen that had lined up so confidently that morning suddenly felt a very human feeling began to creep in: fear. Fear besought panic. Panic besought helplessness. Soon, the rear ranks were throwing down their spears and taking flight. What once started as a simple trickle became a flood, as those who were left had no desire to face the spears on their own.

Suddenly, the center caved, and the hard fought victory was earned as Persian spearmen began to mop up the battlefield. It was a rather sophisticated affair for soldiers, that entitled putting the wounded out of misery, and robbing the corpses of any valuables. Bloody affairs for bloody men.

Yazid's eyes saw the men as they entered Cyrus' camp, bloody and worn from a day of slaughter. The discipline that had so categorized the morning gave way to laxity and bloody sacking as men who had just killed found some way to justify what they had just done. Yazid asked no questions, nor did he so much as open his mouth. For it was hard to even express oneself when one's head was severed from the rest of one's body.

Just a few inches below the chin, the ripped and jacked skin that once connected Yazid's head to his torso had been impaled on a nearby spike, a grisly expression of fear and regret still written onto his corpse. Not far away, portly Amit's disemboweled body lay nearby, although his head had not quite been severed completely.

It wasn't only the merchants who had suffered such a fate. All those that had remained in Cyrus' tent had been slaughtered like mere animals. Papak's head also adorned such a spike, as well as that of other advisers and slaves to the Great King. Carnage greeted all those who entered the camp. Carnage and death in the camp of the Great King.

Great King, thought Artaxerxes, giving an ironic laugh at the tenacity of his dear stupid, dead brother. What their father would think of him now, had he not have been dead as well. His entire life had been spent in the shadow of his younger brother, Cyrus. So much that with their father's death, it wasn't long until Cyrus was persuaded to take up the banner of revolt against his own blood, finding themselves here on this very battlefield.

Yet, almost all had predicted that Cyrus would triumph. After all, he was the one true son of Darius, and the one that was supposed to have inherited the throne. Not poor, stupid Artaxerxes. Yet, it was not poor, stupid Artaxerxes who charged headlong with cavalry into the center of a formation. It was not poor, stupid Artaxerxes who thought that charging headfirst into spears with just cavalry was a good idea. And it was not poor, stupid Artaxerxes who was cut down by the front ranks of his brother's troops, leading to his head being cut from his body and impaled on a spear that Artaxerxes now carried. The Great King looked up at the head that used to belong to his younger brother Cyrus.Yes, if only father could see us now, he thought.

"Great King!" Artaxerxes looked in the direction of his commander, Bahadur, who had come galloping up beside him. "We have the Greek contingent on the run. Shall we pursue?"

Artaxerxes shook his head, "No, Bahadur. There has been enough slaughter today. Let them go, for now. After all, they are several thousand miles from home. Their deaths are assured, even if not today."

"As you command, Great King," replied Bahadur, saluting his king.

Artaxerxes continued to ride his horse through camp, as the sounds of the dying continued to fill his ears. It was long before he was presented with the treasure of his wayward brother, enough gold and silver pieces to fill a mid sized chest. Artaxerxes recognized some of the coins within as being of Greek designs. He kept that in mind when it came time for further retribution.

"Great King, what shall we do with all this treasure?" His slave, Maaza, asked, producing a bag in front of him, that had been taken from the merchant room. Inside, he pulled out a small, dark trinket, turning it around in his hands several times, before tossing it back in the bag.

"I want you to gather up twenty of my household slaves, Maaza, yourself included. Come back here, and bring the treasures to my coffers. We will possess what is left of Cyrus' war chest," responded Artaxerxes.

"As you wish, Great King," replied Maaza, springing to action. It wasn't a few moments longer that Maaza returned, directing several slaves to handle the fortune of Cyrus. "Sire, we have found a number of slaves in the pens outside. What do you wish to do with those?"

"What are the counts? How many men and women?"

"By my count, over ten men, and fourteen women," answered Maaza.

Artaxerxes thought for a moment, and then responded resolutely. "Kill the men. I have enough slaves. Of the women, give them to the men to enjoy after battle. They've earned it with the hard fight today," replied Artaxerxes.

"At once, Great King," said Maaza, before leading a small contingent of spearmen to the slave pens. Artaxerxes watched as each of the men were speared in turn, before each of the women, eerily quiet, were led back to the main army camp. They would be enjoyed by many men tonight, a gift for a battle well fought.

As the carnage at Cyrus' camp began to simmer down, Artaxerxes began to return his thoughts back to running his empire. The last few weeks had been consumed with thoughts of Cyrus, as well as assembling an army to defend his throne. Now that his brother was finally dead, he could go back to ruling his lands.

"Maaza," Artaxerxes called, waiting for his slave to arrive at his side. For his part, Maaza moved quickly, appearing beside his king blindingly fast. "Send riders in every direction. Announce to the world that the dastardly usurper, Cyrus the Younger, has met his death at the very hands of the Great King Artaxerxes himself. Tell him that his soldiers have been hunted down like the dogs they are, and slaughtered to the last man. That every man and nation who gave aid or quarter to Cyrus can expect retribution in kind and equal measure." That last line should cause quite a few considerable stir in the coming months and years. Such a thought made Artaxerxes smile fondly.

"I will see to it, immediately, Great King," announced Maaza.

"Excellent. I will be heading back for Babylon tonight. In another week, we will return to Persepolis. It is time for some normality, Maaza."

"It will be good to see home again," mused Maaza, longing to see the Persian foothills once more. They had been gone too long.

"Indeed," replied Artaxerxes, allowing himself to feel joy for the first time in months. Now that his throne was secure, there was little to be feared. What remained of the Greek contingent would be hunted down and slaughtered. Cyrus' treasure would be much needed for governing the empire. And this show of slaying the mighty Cyrus would do much for Artaxerxes reputation and status.

Feeling extremely pleased with himself, Artaxerxes turned his horse around, leaving the field of battle that future generations would call Cunaxa, and with several other slaves, began the slow ride to Babylon. Behind him, his army set about the task finishing up on the battlefield, before being dispersed by their commanders to return to their homes. Artaxerxes' slaves loaded up the treasures of Cyrus onto separate horses, and they were returned in a large convey to Babylon, only a few days behind Artaxerxes. Included in one of the conveys, in one of the hundreds of saddle bags, was the puzzle trinket, the gift of the tribe of Tamim.

With it's intended owner and current keeper no longer of this world, the treasures inside were practically cast adrift. They would languish within the great Persian treasury, with no one knowing the value contained inside. They would be sent back to the Greek world as a talisman when Persepolis was set on fire by the soldiers of Alexander the Great. Two hundred years after that, it would wind up in the hands of Roman merchants who pillaged what remained of great Macedonia.

It was for this reason, for almost twenty five hundred years, the gift of the tribe of Tamim went from being a treasure, to a talisman, to a family heirloom, to a truly valueless trinket. The solid dark coloring of the portal dulled with the passage of time, becoming a dull gray after the passage of hundreds of years. It would travel from the far reaches of Persia back to Greece, and then to Italy, France, and finally England. It would cross the great Atlantic on one of the many great sailing ships of the 19th century.

It would travel from New York to Chicago, following the great rail networks established across the country. In the hands of one family for generations, it would finally be kept in storage for another hundred and fifty years, before being stolen from the youngest member of the family by a homeless beggar.

It is then, after twenty five hundred years of waiting, that the power inside would finally be opened to this world.