Alas! This image was swiftly replaced by another: suddenly, what was to have motivated Abradate's soldiers to stay close by, was the very cause of their desertion. The excessive danger he was in drove away those who were to stand with him and heightened the fear of the Egyptians towards those remaining. I witnessed most of his men forsaking him and watched as he was encircled by enemies. However, I saw him forge a path through the enemy lances, javelins and missiles. I watched him thin their ranks, overturn everything in his path, smash the chariots that stood in his way, slay their operators, assault and defend simultaneously, and ultimately triumph over everything that opposed him. But following the erection of a trophy in your and his glory using his own hands, and after displaying to your men the path to victory, having coated the battlefield in blood, strewn with death, shattered weapons and ruined chariots, those very men he had slain, those very weapons he had shattered and those very chariots he had ruined, overthrew Abradate. Had he defeated fewer enemies, he would not have been defeated himself: those he had beaten were more lethal than those still in battle. Eventually, I saw Abradate weighed down by their numbers, his body covered in wounds, fighting for his life until his very last drop of blood. Horrifying sight! I saw Abradate fall, yet in dying he vanquished those causing his demise. And indeed, Cyrus, your men fought harder for the corpse of Abradate than they would have for saving a living Abradate. 
Imagine the state of my soul at such a ghoulish spectacle. But this was nothing compared to what I felt seeing Abradate's chariot return, laden with enemy spoils, and atop this grim victory, the body of my hero, covered in wounds, lifeless, dead, and bloody. Cyrus! Panthea! Staggering victory! What a vision for my eyes, and what pain for my heart! My grief is so vast that I am shocked my physical body has not yet deprived me of this torment. Everything I see fills me with despair, everything I feel is of excruciating pain. Cyrus, recall when the unjust passion of Araspe gave me legitimate reason to lament, and had I chosen death, I would have saved Abradate's life, preserved my honor and you would have had no motive to accuse a man you esteemed and held dear. I would have satisfied my husband, my personal honor, and great Cyrus. Admittedly, I should have respected him by not lamenting his friend. If I had been judicious, death would have kept me from mourning then, and weeping, now. But fate decided differently. May the gods see fit that in this tragedy as dark as Abradate's death, I may exhibit to future generations that Panthea was a worthy wife to Abradate and was not unworthy of Cyrus's protection. I perceive through the splendor of the adornments you sent me that you mean to celebrate the funeral of my beloved Abradate. But presently, his glory is all that I can pay heed to.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

               69