Behind the Median army, a clamor of celebration and revelry had broken out.
The news of the Persians' chaotic and final retreat, like a sweet wine, had sweetened the palate of the entire army.
Azhidahak sat upon his royal horse and, with loud laughter, listened to his commanders' reports of this "great flight."
He turned to his sycophantic commanders and said with a voice trembling with pride, "Did you see?"
"I told you that child is only brave in his theories!"
"With the first taste of real battle, he fled to his hole like a cowardly mouse!"
"Tomorrow, in his city, upon the corpses of his army, we will celebrate our victory!"
Amidst this drunken clamor, only one person stood calm and silent.
Mazares, the elderly general.
His wrinkled face, the product of decades of battle, was drawn with concern.
He was looking at a map in his hand; the map of the plain that led to Pasargadae.
He walked towards Azhidahak with heavy steps.
With a respect in which traces of opposition could be seen, he said, "My king, your wisdom is our guide. But allow me, as an old soldier, to offer a warning."
Azhidahak looked at him with annoyance.
"What warning, Mazares? Do you mean to say these fleeing mice have set a trap for us?"
Mazares replied calmly, "Precisely, my king."
"This retreat is too flawless."
"They are luring us to the exact place that is the worst battlefield for our large army."
"There, our numerical superiority will be meaningless, and our cavalry will not have enough space to maneuver."
"This smells of a trap."
Azhidahak laughed mockingly.
"Fear has made you cautious, old general!"
"They are fleeing because they are defeated! Their morale is dead!"
"I smell victory, not a trap!"
He did not heed the advice of his experienced commander and, with all his might, issued the command to pursue.
"Move immediately!"
"I don't want a single one of them to reach the walls of their city alive!"
The Median army, with arrogance and disorder, set off in pursuit to finally crush the Persians.
On the other side, Kourosh was leading his "game of shadows" with ruthless precision.
He had ordered the army's rearguard, commanded by one of his most loyal disciples, to execute a flawless performance of a collapsing army.
The Median reconnaissance riders constantly engaged with these guard forces.
Each time, they easily pushed them back.
The Persians, in these skirmishes, deliberately acted weakly and did not show serious resistance.
With each retreat, they left behind more signs of a hasty flight.
Carts with broken wheels.
Shields abandoned by the roadside.
And even a few tribal flags that had fallen in the mud.
Each of these was a message to Azhidahak's arrogant mind; a message that said: "We are collapsing. We are defeated."
This performance was so flawless that even the Persian soldiers themselves were beginning to believe they were in a real flight.
The climax of this deceptive performance occurred at this time.
The Persian rearguard, after a short and feigned resistance, suddenly scattered and fled.
In this chaos, they left behind one of their small supply caravans.
The Median riders charged towards the caravan with cries of victory and took it as spoils.
But among the spoils, their greatest treasure was a few "captured" Persian soldiers who had not been able to escape.
These soldiers were, in fact, among the most elite members of Fariborz's network who had been chosen for this mission.
In their interrogations, they recounted the story that Kourosh had designed for them with perfect skill.
They spoke of the army's shattered morale.
Of the tribal commanders who blamed Kourosh.
And of the hatred the soldiers felt for this endless retreat.
This information hammered the final nail into the coffin of Azhidahak's pride.
He was now completely certain that the Persian army was on the verge of an internal rebellion.
And he had to finish the job before they reached Pasargadae.
Ignoring all of Mazares's warnings, he issued the order for a night march.
The tired Median army was blindly rushing into the heart of the trap.