After Cyrus

So, the fall of the Assyrian Empire had not meant the end of history after all - at least, not right away. Rather than peace and general happiness after the destruction of the great oppressors, new wars, larger than the world had ever seen before, had shaken the foundations of the earth, and a new empire, larger than any that had ever been, had arisen to take the place of the Assyrians. But, perhaps this was the fate of mankind - for all to be united underneath a single, universal ruler, a King of Kings. Cyrus had extended civilization and governance as far to the east as the distant river Indus and as far to the west as the mysterious Aegean Sea, beyond which lay an entire continent, unknown and uninhabitated but for unenlightened barbarians. They would have to be incorporated into the Persian Empire next. But Cyrus would not be the man to do it.

Cyrus died in 530 BC, battling wild barbarians north of the Jaxartes River in Central Asia. The moment of his death was a tense one for the Persian Empire. Dynastic struggles and inheritance disputes had been the ruin of more than one empire before. Could Cyrus’s achievement outlast his death?

Cyrus had seen this, and had carefully provided for the succession of both his sons. The elder, Cambyses, was made the King of Persia, Lord of Lords, and was given dominion over the entire empire. To the younger, Bardiya, went the province of Bactria, the richest and most important of the eastern provinces, where he would be responsible for monitoring the frontier where the great king had died. 

And so, as the corpse of Cyrus was laid to rest in a sarcophagus of gold, in a magnificent mausoleum in the city he had built with the plundered wealth of the world, Pasargadae, Cambyses moved to ensure his succession. Bardiya would guard Bactria, and watch the barbarians responsible for his father’s death. Cambyses, with his brother watching his back, turned his eyes to the other end of the empire, his heart set on conquest. One great power of the old world order yet remained, and this one was the wealthiest and oldest of all.

Cambyses would conquer Egypt.

For four years the Persian war machine gathered and prepared. This was an army that never went to war without knowing everything about their opponent. Intelligence was gathered. The great trading cities of Tyre and Sidon on the coast were marshaled, and for the first time the Persian king became the master of a mighty navy. Levees were brought up from all over the empire, supply depots were laid out. At last, the Persian army moved out and marched upon Egypt. Ever well-prepared, they met the Egyptians in battle with cats pinned to their shields. The horrified Egyptians were unable to fire upon the sacred animals and so were quickly routed. The oldest kingdom in the world fell in a few weeks to the might of Persia.

But digesting such treasures takes time, and so Cambyses remained in Egypt for four more years. As he did so, he grew distant from the court in the capital in the far-away Zagros, and he grew less Persian and more Egyptian. It seems he spent so much time ordering his new dominion that he forgot about his ambitious brother.

And so it came to pass that in the summer of 522 Cambyses, King of Persia, was shocked to hear that his younger brother Bardiya had gathered a huge army and was marching on Babylon, to seize the empire. Furious, Cambyses mounted his horse and rode hard, day and night, to get there before his brother, his army struggling to keep up. He rode through Sinai, through Judea, through Lebanon and into Syria, before at last his reckless pace caught up to him. As he was mounting his horse one day, he wounded his thigh with his sword. Gangrene set in, and within weeks, Cambyses was dead. Bardiya, now confident of his victory, withdrew to spend the summer in cool Ecbatana, the old capital of the Medes. But while he was confident no one could challenge him for the title of ruler of the world, conspiracy and rumor still swirled across the lowland plains. 

The sudden death of Cambyses left the supporters of the old king in a difficult situation. Bardiya was the only heir to the throne, and so by rights king of Persia. He would surely purge the supporters of his brother in the aborted civil war – their lives were forfeit. 

And so, the evening of Cambyses’ death, seven men gathered in his tent one last time. All were of the highest ranks in the Persian court. There was wealthy Otanes, one of the richest men in the empire, who was said to have his eyes on the throne. There was Gobryas, a bodyguard of the king, and his young nephew, the lance-bearer of Cambyses, Darius. With Darius was his brother, Artaphernes. 

They had time, but not much. On the great Khorasan highway that ran from the Zagros to Sardis in Lydia stood the royal army. It was leaderless, but for how long? Otanes argued that they should wait, and gather more conspirators. Darius said otherwise. He contended that only by moving quickly, seizing the initiative before Bardiya could become aware, could they survive. 

Darius won the day. Desperate not to lose their chance, the conspirators rode down the Khorasan highway, at that time the most magnificent road in the world. Behind them slowly followed the great Persian army, still without a leader, still waiting for a king. Ahead of them, somewhere, descending from the Zagros, was Bardiya. Practiced horsemen all – for never had there been a Persian nobleman who was not raised in the saddle – the men reached the base of the mountains by September. 

The progress of the Great King was obvious. Merchants covered the road as far as the eye could see. The many and varied traffic on the road assured the conspirators that the King had indeed left his summer palace at Ecbatana, and was somewhere ahead of them – and, isolated from his great cities and bodyguards, on the road, still unaware, he was vulnerable. 

Nevertheless, amid the clamor and the clarions and the color, traces of the ancient order still remained. On the sides of the highway, in the old clover-rich pastureland, stood an awe –inspiring sight. The ancient Medians, before the slavery of the Assyrians and then the duties of empire, had been nomads, horse-trainers. Now, the evidence of their ancestry was right in the face of the conspirators: Horses, white horses, covered the plain, thousands upon thousands of them. It was said that there were 160,000 white horses that fateful autumn. They were held to be sacred by the Medians and by the Persians – one was sacrificed, in fact, every year before the hallowed tomb of Cyrus himself.

Perhaps Bardiya, too, was aware of this. Perhaps, he, too, was seeking some connection to his past. Whatever the reason, the fact remains that on September the 29th, 522, a man calling himself Bardiya was staying in a small fortress halfway between Ecbatana and Babylon, and it was there that Darius finally tracked him down. 

They rode hard, up to the very gates of the fortress, and told the over-awed guards there that they had urgent news for the king. Once in the courtyard, as the seven approached the royal chambers, did anyone think to challenge them. It was too late. They drew swords, overwhelmed the courtiers in front of them, and burst into the royal chambers, surprising Bardiya, who, it is said, was with a concubine. He attempted to stave off his attackers with the leg of a wooden stool, but it was to no avail. Artaphernes, the brother of Darius, was the one who finally plunged the dagger home. 

Bardiya, last son of Cyrus, King of Persia, slumped dead on the ground. 

The conspirators now were faced with a choice. They had just killed the King of Kings, the sacred personage of the king himself! The people would never stand for it – they would be dragged into the streets, tortured, and killed as regicides and traitors.

Or would they?

The conspirators emerged, bare minutes after Bardiya’s death, and told an incredible story. That man, they claimed, was not Bardiya at all. No, Cyrus’s son was long dead – he had been murdered, years before.

That begged the obvious question: Then who had the conspirators killed? The revelations took a more sinister turn. The imposter had taken on the role of a royal prince of Persia – and had played it well, for years, enough to fool his own family and household! It could only be blackest necromancy. And who could do such deep magics but one of the ancient holy men of the mountains, the Magi?

It was one of them, Gaumata by name, who had perpetrated the foul deed. But he had failed to conceal one crucial detail – his ears had long since been cut off by Cyrus for some unknown crime. Otanes’ daughter, Phaidime, who was the wife of the king, had happened to brush his head one night and discovered the ugly truth. She had told her father and thus had set in motion a long train of events that culminated on this night, in this tiny fortress on the Khorasan.

The Persian people let out a collective sigh of relief at this tale. They had almost been subjected to rule by a liar! Such a thing was unimaginable to the Persians. They were said to be taught three things since birth: To ride, to fire a bow, and to tell the truth. 

Truth was the reason that Ahura-Mazda, greatest of the gods, had created the universe. Truth gave things beauty and order. Truth, or Arta, was responsible for life, and was symbolized by the flame of a fire. But there are few fires without smoke, and the black smoke was Drauga. Drauga was the shadow of Arta. Drauga, the Lie. Mortals were forced to choose between light and Truth against shadow and the Lie. Was it not said, “The wretch who weaves deceit will bring death into his country”? How much more deadly, then, if such a wretch had been able to seize the throne with his foul deception?

The conspirators, then, were not squalid traitors, but were in fact patriots of the highest order. They had not only saved Persia, but had redeemed the entire cosmos from the Lie, and served the will of Ahura-Mazda. 

But now the great throne stood empty. The line of Cyrus was ended. Who would succeed him? A king would have to be found. And so the seven rode into the night, out into the great plain of horses, for hours. At last, they reigned in their mounts, faced east, and waited for dawn in the mountains. When the first rays of the sun lit over the earth, and fell upon the conspirators, it was the horse of Darius who reared up and neighed to them in greeting. And so the other six dismounted and fell to their knees in homage to Darius, the new King of Kings.