But the victors also suffered. Their loss was heavy in men, but worst of all they had lost their Great King. Cyrus at the head of the Guard had ridden into the press and restored the battle. When the assault on their rear caused the Touranians to give back, he had followed furiously. Then an arrow struck him in the neck just above the collar of his coat-of-mail, inflicting a deep wound. He reeled from the shock, plucked out the weapon with his own hands, and then fell fainting from his horse into the arms of Otanes, who carried him back out of the battle.
CHAPTER II
AN OATH
THE wounded King was tenderly borne to his pavilion in the camp, and his injury was dressed by the most skillful surgeons in the army. He was weakened by loss of blood, however, and suffered much pain. He became feverish. The surgeons had but little skill in those days; and the wound was deep and infected. He suffered the pain with heroic resignation and, after a while, fell into a restless sleep, in which he tossed about and muttered continually.
Meanwhile the King of Iran, having taken chief command, pushed the victory to completion and recalled the troops to their camp from the bloody plain only when the last enemy had disappeared or died.
Prince Darius and the Imperial Guard pursued the fugitives as long as they held together in a body, but when they scattered, some crossing the Jaxartes and others taking refuge in the southern hills where it was difficult to follow them with heavy horse, he left further pursuit to the light-armed cavalry and returned to camp with his shouting, singing troopers. He did not learn of the King’s condition until within bowshot of camp, where an orderly from his father met him bearing the sad news. At once the shouts and songs of his troopers were turned to sighs and tears. They entered the camp in silence. They were dusty, blood-stained, and weary, and their joy of victory had given place to dejection. The Great King’s headquarters were in the midst of the camp. The Prince caused his battalions to form around the pavilion in a square, with their faces toward it. Then, leaving them still mounted, he went in to inquire concerning the King’s condition.
It was almost sundown. The herons, which had fled away in the morning, were now returning with heavy wings to the marshes along the river. They did not alight, however, but hurriedly flapped away when they found the marshes filled with the dead bodies of men and horses.
The Prince found the chief captains of the army assembled in the outer room of the pavilion. His father was wearily reclining on a couch, while the others stood near in whispering groups; but he rose as the Prince entered, and embraced him and kissed his cheeks, exclaiming:
“My son, to the Guard belongs much of the glory of our great victory. Never have I seen a movement so well made or a blow struck at more opportune time. But alas for the Great King! He is sorely wounded and has a fever. He is now sleeping, but he mutters and tosses in his sleep.”
“May we go in and see him? The Guard waits anxiously to hear his condition,” inquired the Prince.
The King of Iran called the chief surgeon out of the inner room where the wounded monarch lay and, after a whispered consultation with him, bade his son follow and went into the inner room with him. The stricken man lay on a silk-covered couch, apparently asleep, while an attendant waved a fan above his head. Aroused by their entrance, the Great King opened his eyes, half-raised himself upon his elbow, and stared wildly at them. The surgeon gently sought to repress his movements. He quickly recognized the King of Iran and the Prince and smiled as he sank back upon the couch.