“No sooner did we hear the news that the young prince we loved so well had died thus, than we assembled all the forces yet left to us from your swords and fetters.  Even old men and boys flew to arms to revenge our noble Spargapises, and sacrifice themselves, after his example, for Massagetaen freedom.  Our armies met; ye were worsted and Cyrus fell.  When Tomyris found his body lying in a pool of human blood, she cried:  ‘Methinks, insatiable conqueror, thou art at last sated with blood!’ The troop, composed of the flower of your nobility, which you call the Immortals, drove us back and carried your father’s dead body forth from our closest ranks.  You led them on, fighting like a lion.  I know you well, and that wound across your manly face, which adorns it like a purple badge of honor, was made by the sword now hanging at my side.”

A movement passed through the listening crowd; they trembled for the bold speaker’s life.  Cambyses, however, looked pleased, nodded approvingly to the man and answered:  “Yes, I recognize you too now; you rode a red horse with golden trappings.  You shall see that the Persians know how to honor courage.  Bow down before this man, my friends, for never did I see a sharper sword nor a more unwearied arm than his; and such heroic courage deserves honor from the brave, whether shown by friend or foe.  As for you, Massagetae, I would advise you to go home quickly and prepare for war; the mere recollection of your strength and courage increases my longing to test it once more.  A brave foe, by Mithras, is far better than a feeble friend.  You shall be allowed to return home in peace; but beware of remaining too long within my reach, lest the thought of the vengeance I owe my father’s soul should rouse my anger, and your end draw suddenly nigh.”

A bitter smile played round the bearded mouth of the warrior as he made answer to this speech.  “The Massagetae deem your father’s soul too well avenged already.  The only son of our queen, his people’s pride, and in no way inferior to Cyrus, has bled for him.  The shores of the Araxes have been fertilized by the bodies of fifty thousand of my countrymen, slain as offerings for your dead king, while only thirty thousand fell there on your own side.  We fought as bravely as you, but your armor is better able to resist the arrows which pierce our clothing of skins.  And lastly, as the most cruel blow of all, ye slew our queen.”

“Tomyris is dead?” exclaimed Cambyses interrupting him.  “You mean to tell me that the Persians have killed a woman?  Answer at once, what has happened to your queen?”

“Tomyris died ten months ago of grief for the loss of her only son, and I have therefore a right to say that she too fell a sacrifice to the war with Persia and to your father’s spirit.”

“She was a great woman,” murmured Cambyses, his voice unsteady from emotion.  “Verily, I begin to think that the gods themselves have undertaken to revenge my father’s blood on your nation.  Yet I tell you that, heavy as your losses may seem, Spargapises, Tomyris and fifty thousand Massagetae can never outweigh the spirit of one king of Persia, least of all of a Cyrus.”