Cyzicus, early spring 491 BCE
The dawn sun painted the calm waters of the Propontis gold as hundreds gathered along the docks of Cyzicus. The city's banners fluttered gently in the sea breeze, and incense curled into the air from ceremonial braziers lit to honor Anahita, goddess of water and protection. The people had come to witness a solemn moment—the departure of their fleet.
From the high terrace of the palace, Daniel watched in silence. He wore a deep blue cloak trimmed in bronze, the insignia of his station pinned over his shoulder. His gaze scanned the harbor below, where twenty ships stood ready. Fifteen were sturdy penteconters, each crewed by oarsmen and marines trained over the past year. The other five, leaner and more aggressive, were triremes—sleek warships with reinforced bronze rams and high decks for archers.
Over six hundred men would depart: sailors, rowers, marines, a few trained officers, and three dozen cavalry horses stabled on larger cargo vessels. Along with them went food, water, grain, olive oil, spare rigging, and tools for ship repair. Every detail had been calculated.
Daniel stepped onto a stone podium at the water's edge, addressing the crowd and the departing soldiers. "You carry not only shields and spears, but the dignity of this city. You are sons of Cyzicus, bearers of our future. Let your names be spoken with pride across the sea."
A chorus of cheers rose, mixed with the quiet sobs of mothers and the tense pride of fathers. A priest of Ahura Mazda offered final blessings, sprinkling water upon the lead ship's prow.
As the fleet set off, drums beat slowly from the docks. Oars dipped in rhythm. Sails unfurled. The people waved from the walls, from rooftops and terraces, until the last mast vanished beyond the horizon.
The journey was long and disciplined. The fleet moved south along the coast, stopping at Persian-held harbors to resupply. Daniel had appointed a loyal captain named Andravaz to command the Cyzican contingent and had sent letters of coordination to Artafernes in Sardis and Datis near the southern coast.
From ports in Ionia to the Aegean islands, news traveled with them: Eretria had openly defied the Great King. Athens too.
By early summer, the Cyzican fleet joined the main force off the coast of Ionia, just as Datis's vast fleet began its crossing. Daniel's men witnessed firsthand the scale of imperial power—hundreds of ships flying the royal standard, contingents from Phoenicia, Egypt, Cilicia, and the Levant. The Achaemenid war machine had awakened.
Daniel did not travel with the fleet, but reports were sent to him in regular intervals. He received one such scroll beneath the shaded courtyard of his palace weeks later. A soldier read aloud:
"The fleet has taken Naxos. The defenders burned their own city and fled. Eretria fell after six days of siege. The sacred temples were burned by Datis's command."
Another report followed days later:
"We have landed at the plains of Marathon. The Athenians are here. They have formed ranks. The battle will come within the week."
Daniel's advisors asked if he wished to send more men, but he declined. "This is not our war to lead. Let our duty end where our shores begin."
But his thoughts remained on the plains of Marathon. He could picture the clash—the glittering bronze of hoplites under the midday sun, the fierce formations of disciplined Greeks, the Persian cavalry galloping over dust and blood.
He wondered if this would be the end of Athens—or the start of something even greater.
In the gardens that evening, Daniel walked alone. The sun dipped low, reflecting off the sea like fire. Below, his city lived in peace. For now.
And across the waves, history was already being written in blood.
The summer of 490 BCE scorched the lands of Greece and Asia alike, and the great gears of empire turned steadily toward war. In the city of Cícico, Daniel stood atop the watchtower of his palace, eyes set on the horizon. Though the fleet had long departed, carrying soldiers and grain across the Aegean, his mind lingered on the outcome. He would not march to Marathon, but he would feel every tremor of what was coming.
Across the sea, the Persian armada, vast and efficient, reached the shores of Euboea. Artafernes and Datis, veteran commanders loyal to Darius, moved like the hammer of Ahura Mazda. With Eretria already razed in vengeance for aiding the Ionian revolt, the next target was Athens.
In the plains of Marathon, the Persians disembarked under the cover of pre-dawn fog. Ships with curved prows and painted hulls landed silently. Thousands of infantry, archers, and cavalry poured onto the sands, their discipline drilled into them by years of imperial campaigns.
The Greeks had not been idle. The Athenian strategos Miltiades had anticipated the Persian landing. Rallying nearly 10,000 hoplites and aided by a contingent from Plataea, he chose to meet the invaders directly. The Athenians prayed to Zeus and Athena, knowing they were outnumbered perhaps three to one. But they knew their land. And they had conviction.
At Cícico, Daniel received fragmented news from scouts and merchant ships. In the agora, debates flared over the likelihood of a Persian victory. Daniel convened his council to discuss fortification efforts, knowing that a Persian defeat could invite Greek retaliation. Still, he trusted Datis and Artafernes.
Then the day came.
The Battle of Marathon.
Persian lines stretched wide along the plain, cavalry posted on the flanks, archers nestled behind the infantry. They expected the Greeks to hesitate. But Miltiades struck first. The Greeks ran down the hills with astonishing speed, closing the gap before the Persian archers could fully unleash their deadly volleys.
The clash was thunder.
Bronze met iron. Spears shattered. Shields slammed. The Persian center held, but the wings faltered as Greek hoplites encircled them with brutal efficiency. The cavalry failed to reposition in time, pinned by the terrain and Greek skirmishers.
Back in Cícico, Daniel read the message brought by a swift Ionian courier: "The Persians have been defeated at Marathon. Heavy losses. Datis and Artafernes survived, retreating to the ships."
The council fell into stunned silence.
Daniel clenched the tablet in his hands, then breathed deeply. "Begin preparations. We must reinforce the port. Increase watch patrols. Raise grain prices slightly to prevent hoarding. And send messages to Susa. They must know that Greece will not fall easily."
Though not on the battlefield, Daniel knew this was a turning point. Not just for Persia or Athens, but for the world.
And Cícico, resting at the edge of empire, would soon find itself no longer a quiet province, but a vital cornerstone in the next great war to come.