Arsaces, an old man, and, in all truth, not undignified to look at, showed his annoyance in true barbarian fashion at having to walk, and kept calling for his horse; for his horse had been killed with him, both pierced by the same blow from a Thracian targeteer in the fight with the Cappadocians by the Araxes. Arsaces was riding, he told us, a long way ahead of the rest, when the Thracian, standing his ground and crouching beneath his shield, parried his lance, and, planting his pike beneath him, pierced both man and horse with it.

How, Crates, could that be done by one blow?

Very easily, Antisthenes. He rode to the attack with his twenty cubit lance levelled, but the Thracian parried his thrust with his target, and, when the point had passed him, bent down on one knee, and, meeting the charge with his pike, wounded the chest of the horse, which impaled itself by its own fire and force, while Arsaces too was run right through from groin to buttock. You see what happened; it was done, not by the Thracian, but rather by the horse. However, Arsaces was annoyed at having no more honour than the rest, and wanted to come down on horseback.

Oroetes had very tender feet, and couldn’t even stand on the ground, much less walk. All Medes are just like that, once they’re off their horses; like men walking on thistles, they go on tiptoe and can hardly move. So he threw himself down and lay there and defied all efforts to put him on his feet. But Hermes, excellent fellow, picked him up and carried him all the way to the ferry. How I laughed!

So did I, when I came down. I didn’t mix with the rest, but left them to their groans, and ran on ahead to the ferry, and made sure of a comfortable place for the voyage. During the crossing, they cried and were seasick, but I found it all most enjoyable.