The Persian army, tired and seemingly broken, had reached a few leagues from the city of Pasargadae.
In the vast plain that was soon to become the final stage for their grand performance, they had set up a temporary camp.
This camp no longer had the iron discipline of the Anshan camp.
The tents were scattered in disarray.
The soldiers, with dusty faces and tired eyes, were silently engaged in their daily chores.
A month of continuous retreat had worn down their morale.
Whispers of doubt slithered among them like a venomous snake.
Even the tribal commanders looked at each other with worried glances, fearful of the fate that this "great trap" would bring them.
Just as the afternoon sun was casting its last weak rays upon the plain, the watchmen on the watchtower saw a black dot on the horizon.
From the direction of the Zagros mountains.
A dot that grew larger and larger with an unnatural speed.
It was a lone rider.
He was riding at a frantic speed, as if all the demons of the world were after him.
Upon reaching the camp, he jumped down from his exhausted horse, which was foaming at the mouth.
Ignoring the guards, he ran straight towards the command tent.
He was a messenger from the Shahbaz Valley workshop.
And he carried news that could change the fate of the war.
The dusty and tireless messenger fell to his knees before Kourosh, Cambyses, and the commanders.
They had quickly gathered upon hearing the news of his arrival.
Panting, he pulled a scroll from under his leather armor.
"My lord... news... news from the Shahbaz..."
Arash took the scroll from his hand and broke its seal.
Upon reading the words, his eyes widened in astonishment.
He turned to Kourosh and, with a voice trembling with excitement, shouted, "They succeeded! By Ahura Mazda, they succeeded!"
The news echoed through the silent tent like a thunderclap.
The first five ballistas were fully prepared and tested.
Two thousand crossbows, along with tens of thousands of steel bolts, had been made and were ready for transport in sealed crates.
For a moment, an absolute silence fell over the tent.
Then, a murmur of joy and disbelief arose.
Gashtasb, who until moments ago was looking at the plan with doubt, whispered with wide eyes:
"Two thousand crossbows... this means two thousand of our soldiers will have more power than the best Scythian archers."
A glint of joy and confidence shone in Kourosh's eyes.
This was the last piece of his plan's puzzle falling into place.
He no longer had any doubt.
He rose and, with a voice that now had the firmness of steel, issued the final command:
"Bring them to the walls of Pasargadae through the secret mountain paths."
"Move at night. No one must know of their existence."
"Azhidahak thinks he is facing a defeated army. Let him be surprised by the roar of Persian thunder!"
This command erased the last particles of doubt from the hearts of the commanders.
They now understood that this retreat was not just to tire the enemy; it was to buy time.
Time to prepare a weapon that could completely shift the balance of power.
The morale of the camp was transformed in an instant.
The whispers of doubt gave way to excited chatter about the "Persian thunder."
That same night, in the solitude of his tent, Kourosh wrote the final message to his hidden ally in the heart of the Median army.
He wrote in code on a small piece of paper:
"The fish is nearing the net."
"In the peak of the chaos, hunt the old lion."
"The fate of Pars and the future of Media are in your hands."
He entrusted this message to one of Fariborz's network spies, who was waiting in the guise of a shepherd.
The spy hid the message in the layers of a loaf of bread and disappeared into the darkness of the night to reach the Median camp.
Kourosh looked up at the starry sky.
All his pieces were in place.
Now, he only had to execute the final act of this grand performance with flawless perfection.