His bow, gently curved, carefully polished, has seen many lands. Their mountainous homeland, the land of streams, the Armenian hills, the Celtic plains. They travelled through wealthy Lydia, past the ruins of Troy and crossed the sea. On they marched, through Thrace, Macedon and Thesalia where Olympos stands.
Did the Greek gods intervene when they saw Xayarsa walk at their feet? Did the oracle spell doom and destruction? They did not, and therefore they must bless Xayarsa' enlightened liberation of the Hellens.
The soldier has taken position on the slopes, for archers should have a good view of the battlefield. Below they march. Shiny banners and bright clothes, their beards well groomed, black curls falling over their shoulders. Grim, but handsome faces of the bravest men of Persia. The immortals...
Line after line they march as one, disciplined and orderly, a splendid sight. And behind them, on his chariot, Xayarsa, the king of kings, mightiest ruler of the world. Yet in spite of his gold and power, he is not pampered. Here he stands, erect and in full armour, the reigns in his sunburned hands. He is a warrior like them. A bronze helmet, decorated with gold, covers his flowing locks and at his side there is a long curved blade.
The king of kings came to elevate the Greeks and show them how a true king rules. The Persians have heard of their chiefs, merciless tyrants making war upon eachother constanly. But Xayarsa is merciful. He will bring peace and prosperity. They will show those Greeks how civilized people treat one another.
One by one their petty kingdoms fall. Their rulers cast themselves in the dust before the great Persian king. And Xayarsa is mild, as a Persian ruler should be. He gives them as he promissed, for unlike the cunning Greeks, the followers of Zoroaster will not lie.

They reach the Hot Gates at the shore of the Aegean, one of the many mountain passes towards the south. Xayarsa sends his envoy, but he does not return. He and his men have heard of these warriors... The Spartans.
On their peninsula they rule, an inhumane people. Like red ants they flowed over Peleponesos and they killed until they could kill no more. The natives were reduced to slaves. Helots the Spartans call them, but of course they are the true Lakonians.
Spartans... A race of soldiers with only one purpose in life: Destruction.
They do not create art or works of beauty. Their women are not ashamed to walk around naked. And when they bear a child it is valued on its strength alone. The weak are cast into a sandy pit. What kind of people kills its own children?
At age seven, the survivors are dragged to the barracks to become beasts. They are starved and beaten and all humanity is whipped out of them until they know only the language of violence. And then, when they have completed their training, the Spartan king opens the hunt. Not a hunt for lions or bears, but for people. Spartan youths wash their spears in the blood of their innocent servants. Defenseless Helots are slaughtered by the murderous beasts.
The Persians have heard of their methods. The Spartans lie and deceive as much as they kill. They are the servants of the Devil and do everything forbidden under Persian rule. They are naught but monsters.

The soldier sees them, barely a thousand. Like dogs infected with rabies they growl and shout, appearantly unaware of the difference in numbers. Why would Xayarsa have mercy with those beasts? But he has. He offers them peace without bloodshed and promisses them wealth and freedom within his empire.
But what use is it talking to dogs? They tear the messenger apart and charge.

The soldier aims his arrow. He is skilled and could shoot the Spartan king in his eye from here, but Xayarsa has declared that they should be chivalrous. A rain of arrows comes down upon the Greeks, but only a handful falls. The king hopes to awe them into submission, for he does not enjoy killing.
Yet as could have been expected, the Spartan beasts are only enraged by the arrows. Like wounded boars they rush forward, killing all who stand in their way. The soldier sees them fall, his comrades, men with wives and children. He aims again and the sky is darkened by a cloud of arrows.

A horn is sounded, a signal given and the troops make space to let them through. The magnificent core of Xayarsa's troops, tenthousand immortals march towards the Spartans. Curved blades meet long spears and the warrior knows this battle will be over soon.
What a horrible sight! The long robed, tall dark men, Persia's finest, engaging the murderous Spartans. Broze strikes flesh and blood sticks to the immortals' shiny clothes. Neither the invincible Spartans, nor the eternal Persians show invulnerable. The king shakes his head at so much bloodshed. He will bring peace to the Hellens, even though it means he has to destroy Sparta...
The soldier too is shaken by this battle. He draws his bow and aims an arrow at the Greek chief's eye.