Time: The first week of training
Location: The training ground of the Anshan camp
The next dawn, with Cambyses's command, the sound of war echoed across the plain of Anshan.
But this time, the sound of the horns was to summon thousands of warriors to the vast training ground.
Arash, in a leather armor he had just received from the workshop, stood on a wooden platform.
His young but determined face had a firmness that captured the attention of all the warriors.
Before him stood a sea of men.
Men with different faces, clothes, and weapons, each group representing a tribe.
Pride and independence surged in the eyes of every single one of them.
Their whispers in different dialects were a sign of the invisible walls that still stood between them.
Arash took a deep breath.
He knew that the first and hardest step was to break these very invisible walls.
He turned to the crowd, and his voice echoed across the plain:
"O men of Pars! You have come here because you answered the call of unity."
"But unity is not just standing next to each other."
"Unity means becoming one to achieve a single goal!"
"From today, there is no such thing as the Maraphii tribe or the Germanii tribe."
"From today, there is only one name for you: Soldier of the Persian Army! And only one goal for you: to follow Prince Kourosh to overthrow the rule of the tyrant king of Media!"
A heavy silence fell over the crowd, broken by whispers of astonishment and sometimes discontent.
Many of the warriors looked at each other.
Arash continued, paying no attention to the whispers:
"Your loyalty is no longer to your tribal chief."
"Your loyalty is to the man who fights beside you, to your commander, and to the future king, Kourosh!"
"We have not come here to be hundreds of small groups. We have come here to build an iron fist!"
He then ordered his subordinate commanders to take the soldiers out of their tribal ranks and organize them into new ten-man groups.
Chaos began.
The commanders, with shouts, guided the soldiers, who reluctantly separated from their tribal companions, into the new lines.
In each ten-man group, warriors from different tribes were placed side by side.
Then, Arash issued the next command.
From each group, he chose the most worthy and skilled individual, regardless of his lineage, as the "Dehbod" (commander of ten).
This action ignited the first sparks of resistance.
In one of the groups, a young man named "Bahram" from the small Dai tribe was chosen as the Dehbod.
But in his group was a large-statured warrior from the powerful Pasargadae tribe named "Arta."
Arta, his face flushed with anger and contempt, threw his wooden training sword to the ground.
"Me? I take orders from a shepherd's son from the Dai tribe?"
His voice was full of mockery.
"My clan has fought alongside kings for generations. I will not draw my sword under the banner of someone whose tribe's name I haven't even heard!"
Bahram, the young Dehbod, with a pale face but determined eyes, took a step forward.
"Arta, the name of the tribe has no meaning here. Commander Arash has chosen me. You either obey, or..."
Arta cut him off with a loud laugh.
"Or what? You and your tribe of sheep-herders are going to punish me?"
He charged towards Bahram, but before he could do anything, Arash's roar echoed through the field like thunder:
"Halt!"
Arash descended from the platform and walked towards them with heavy, deliberate steps.
A deathly silence had fallen over the entire field.
He stood before Arta.
He was shorter than Arta, but the authority in his eyes forced the proud warrior to retreat.
"What is the name of your tribe, soldier?"
Arta replied with pride, "Pasargadae."
Arash nodded.
"A noble tribe. But it seems you have mistaken nobility for arrogance."
"Here, in the Persian army, your nobility is judged by your sword, by your discipline, and by your loyalty to the brother beside you, not by the names of your fathers."
He then turned to Bahram.
"And you, Dehbod. Why did you hesitate? He disobeyed your command. Your duty was to enforce discipline."
Bahram lowered his head in shame.
"Commander, he is from a great tribe. I..."
Arash cut him off.
"You are a Dehbod of the Persian army! In this position, you are higher than any tribal chief! Your authority comes from me and from Prince Kourosh himself!"
Then he looked at Arta again.
"You have only two paths here, soldier."
"Either you bow and apologize to your Dehbod and return to your place in this iron fist."
"Or you lay down your weapon right now, return to your tribe, and tell everyone that you did not have the courage to become one with your brothers."
Arta's eyes trembled with anger and doubt.
For a moment, it seemed his pride would win.
But when he looked around and saw the determined eyes of thousands of other soldiers staring at him in silence, he understood that the old era had ended.
He slowly bowed, not to Bahram, but to the new order that was taking shape.
"Forgive me, Dehbod."
These words, though they came from his throat with difficulty, their echo resounded throughout the entire camp.
This was the first victory of the united Persian army; a victory over its greatest enemy, disunity.
In the following days, the coordination exercises continued with full intensity.
The ten-man groups learned how to move together, fight together, and attack together.
They were no longer ten lone warriors; they were the fingers of one hand that, at the command of their Dehbod, turned into a deadly iron fist.
The sound of their coordinated steps on the ground heralded the birth of a force that was destined to change history.