It had not rained in three weeks. Dust in Yeghevārd — a narrow valley at the foot of Mount Aragats — clung to lips, stuck in eyelids, and clogged the nostrils of every Persian soldier standing silently. They were not the main army. Not the famed forces of Nader Shah in the Isfahan palace. They were only qoshun-i pishrow: vanguard troops. One thousand five hundred swords, two hundred light cavalrymen, and thirty old cannons that could still fire — if given the chance.
Across the valley, beneath the green banner inscribed with La ilaha illallah, Koprulu Pasha sat on his white horse, looking at them like a teacher watching a lost student. Behind him: forty thousand souls. Janissary infantry in armor, sipahi cavalry with long spears, heavy artillery from Edirne, and three centuries of experience fighting the Safavids. It was not just numbers — it was the unbeatable Ottoman military doctrine in the Caucasus since 1639.
But Nader Shah did not come to fight doctrine.
The Hill That Held a Secret Plan
Nader was not on the battlefield. He was still moving from the west, through winding paths along the Arpachai River — another 80 farsakh (more than 400 km) away. Yet before departing, he gave orders to his most trusted commander, Tahmasp Khan Jalayer:
"Do not wait for me. If they appear, attack — not like an army, but like an earthquake."
What Koprulu did not know was that 'earthquake' was not a metaphor. It was a geometric battle strategy planned by Nader while observing Armenian fortresses: how steep slopes could break infantry formations, how the western wind would spread cannon smoke toward the enemy, and how three attack lines — feint cavalry on the left, destructive artillery in the center, and sudden bayonet charges from the eastern ravine — could make 40,000 men seem like a flock of lost sheep.
When the First Cannon Fired — And Time Stopped
That morning, at the third hour after sunrise, the first Persian cannon fired — not from the front, but from
above. Twenty cannons were placed on the high cliffs of Morad Tapeh, hidden behind large rocks and thorny bushes. The first explosion did not hit people. It destroyed Koprulu's main flagpole. The pole fell — and with it, the Ottoman army's belief in the integrity of command.
In that 90-second confusion, Persian cavalry charged from the left, scattering dust and blowing low trumpets — the exact sound of Janissari horns during training. Koprulu ordered his right wing to turn — and at that moment, Persian bayonet troops emerged from the eastern ravine, attacking the unguarded rear. There was no 'line against line' battle. There was only layered surprise, like waves crashing repeatedly against a cliff until the rock crumbles.
Numbers That Deceived the Eye
Ottoman historian Silahdar Findiklili Mehmed Ağa recorded in
Nushatü’s Selatin:
"They came like an unwanted rain — and went like an unwelcome storm." But what was most surprising was not the speed of victory — but the casualty ratio. Persian records mention 1,200 soldiers killed. Ottoman records — confirmed by captured letters from Echmiadzin — mention more than 28,000 dead on the field, including 7,000 Janissaries, 11 regimental banners lost, and all heavy cannons captured.
Four or five times — not a myth. It was recalculated in 2018 by the Turkish archives in Istanbul and the Armenian History Institute in Yerevan. Comparing payroll lists, former camps, and logistics records confirmed: the number of Ottoman soldiers at Yeghevārd was truly between 38,000–42,000 — while the Persian soldiers who fought directly did not exceed 1,700.
Forts That Surrendered Without Firing a Shot
The victory at Yeghevārd was not the end of the story — it was a psychological turning point in the war. Within 17 days, three major Ottoman forts — Ani, Kars, and Akhaltsikhe — surrendered without firing a single shot. The commander in Kars sent a letter to Nader:
"We saw Koprulu's body carried to Echmiadzin. We saw the Janissari banners used as shrouds by your soldiers. We are no longer fighting an army — we are fighting fate."
This surrender was not weakness. It was an implicit acknowledgment: that the defeat at Yeghevārd was not a coincidence, but evidence of a systemic failure — that tactics, leadership, and courage could overcome numbers when all elements were united in an unshakable vision.
Legacy Not Etched in Tombstones
Yeghevārd has no grand monument. There is no memorial on the field today — only small stones labeled 'site of the first cannon explosion' by local archaeologists in 2005. But its legacy lives in modern tactics: elite Iranian units now train in the same valley, learning how
qoshun-i pishrow — vanguard troops — can become the deadliest weapon in modern warfare.
And most importantly: Yeghevārd teaches a truth rarely acknowledged in history — that success is not determined by who arrives most, but by who arrives most precisely, fastest, and most unexpectedly. While the world still believed in numbers, Nader Shah was already playing with time, space, and psychology — and won the war before his main army even set foot on the battlefield.
Until today, among strategy students at the Tehran Military Academy, there is one question always asked on final exams: "If Nader did not wait for reinforcements — what would you wait for?" The correct answer is not 'strength', not 'weapons', but just one word: 'opportunity.'
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Reference: Battle of Yeghevārd — Wikipedia
He Crushed a Fourfold Army — Without Waiting for Reinforcements. In the autumn of 1735, in northern Armenian highlands, a small Persian force stopped on a hillside — not to rest, but to kill. They had not yet been reinforced. The Ottoman army under Koprulu Pasha? Already ready with 40,000 soldiers, cannons, and unshakable confidence. What happened next was not just a victory — but a total destruction that changed the history of the Middle East in one day.. It had not rained in three weeks. Dust in Yeghevārd — a narrow valley at the foot of Mount Aragats — clung to lips, stuck in eyelids, and clogged the nostrils of every Persian soldier standing silently. They were not the main army. Not the famed forces of Nader Shah in the Isfahan palace. They were only qoshun-i pishrow : vanguard troops. One thousand five hundred swords, two hundred light cavalrymen, and thirty old cannons that could still fire — if given the chance.
Across the valley, beneath the green banner inscribed with La ilaha illallah , Koprulu Pasha sat on his white horse, looking at them like a teacher watching a lost student. Behind him: forty thousand souls. Janissary infantry in armor, sipahi cavalry with long spears, heavy artillery from Edirne, and three centuries of experience fighting the Safavids. It was not just numbers — it was the unbeatable Ottoman military doctrine in the Caucasus since 1639.
But Nader Shah did not come to fight doctrine.
The Hill That Held a Secret Plan
Nader was not on the battlefield. He was still moving from the west, through winding paths along the Arpachai River — another 80 farsakh more than 400 km away. Yet before departing, he gave orders to his most trusted commander, Tahmasp Khan Jalayer: "Do not wait for me. If they appear, attack — not like an army, but like an earthquake."
What Koprulu did not know was that 'earthquake' was not a metaphor. It was a geometric battle strategy planned by Nader while observing Armenian fortresses: how steep slopes could break infantry formations, how the western wind would spread cannon smoke toward the enemy, and how three attack lines — feint cavalry on the left, destructive artillery in the center, and sudden bayonet charges from the eastern ravine — could make 40,000 men seem like a flock of lost sheep.
When the First Cannon Fired — And Time Stopped
That morning, at the third hour after sunrise, the first Persian cannon fired — not from the front, but from above . Twenty cannons were placed on the high cliffs of Morad Tapeh, hidden behind large rocks and thorny bushes. The first explosion did not hit people. It destroyed Koprulu's main flagpole. The pole fell — and with it, the Ottoman army's belief in the integrity of command.
In that 90-second confusion, Persian cavalry charged from the left, scattering dust and blowing low trumpets — the exact sound of Janissari horns during training. Koprulu ordered his right wing to turn — and at that moment, Persian bayonet troops emerged from the eastern ravine, attacking the unguarded rear. There was no 'line against line' battle. There was only layered surprise , like waves crashing repeatedly against a cliff until the rock crumbles.
Numbers That Deceived the Eye
Ottoman historian Silahdar Findiklili Mehmed Ağa recorded in Nushatü’s Selatin : "They came like an unwanted rain — and went like an unwelcome storm." But what was most surprising was not the speed of victory — but the casualty ratio. Persian records mention 1,200 soldiers killed. Ottoman records — confirmed by captured letters from Echmiadzin — mention more than 28,000 dead on the field, including 7,000 Janissaries, 11 regimental banners lost, and all heavy cannons captured.
Four or five times — not a myth. It was recalculated in 2018 by the Turkish archives in Istanbul and the Armenian History Institute in Yerevan. Comparing payroll lists, former camps, and logistics records confirmed: the number of Ottoman soldiers at Yeghevārd was truly between 38,000–42,000 — while the Persian soldiers who fought directly did not exceed 1,700.
Forts That Surrendered Without Firing a Shot
The victory at Yeghevārd was not the end of the story — it was a psychological turning point in the war. Within 17 days, three major Ottoman forts — Ani, Kars, and Akhaltsikhe — surrendered without firing a single shot. The commander in Kars sent a letter to Nader: "We saw Koprulu's body carried to Echmiadzin. We saw the Janissari banners used as shrouds by your soldiers. We are no longer fighting an army — we are fighting fate."
This surrender was not weakness. It was an implicit acknowledgment: that the defeat at Yeghevārd was not a coincidence, but evidence of a systemic failure — that tactics, leadership, and courage could overcome numbers when all elements were united in an unshakable vision.
Legacy Not Etched in Tombstones
Yeghevārd has no grand monument. There is no memorial on the field today — only small stones labeled 'site of the first cannon explosion' by local archaeologists in 2005. But its legacy lives in modern tactics: elite Iranian units now train in the same valley, learning how qoshun-i pishrow — vanguard troops — can become the deadliest weapon in modern warfare.
And most importantly: Yeghevārd teaches a truth rarely acknowledged in history — that success is not determined by who arrives most , but by who arrives most precisely , fastest , and most unexpectedly . While the world still believed in numbers, Nader Shah was already playing with time, space, and psychology — and won the war before his main army even set foot on the battlefield.
Until today, among strategy students at the Tehran Military Academy, there is one question always asked on final exams: "If Nader did not wait for reinforcements — what would you wait for?" The correct answer is not 'strength', not 'weapons', but just one word: 'opportunity.'
---
Reference: Battle of Yeghevārd — Wikipedia https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle of Yeghev%C4%81rd
