The Ten Thousand (12 page)

"Men!" he bellowed. "The prince tells me he intends to march to the River Euphrates twelve stages away and engage his enemy Abrocomas. If Abrocomas is there when he arrives, he will destroy him and disband the rebel army. Cyrus invites us to go with him, though if we refuse, he will let us depart as friends and will give us a guide for an overland march. To sweeten our decision, he offers every man half again as much pay as before—instead of one daric per month per man, one and a half..."

The men broke out cheering even before he had finished, and there was no hesitation as to what the decision might be. The troops disbanded happily back to their units.

That evening, in response to Xenophon's questioning glances, Proxenus laughed and told us that he was bound by oath not to disclose the conversation that had taken place in Cyrus' tent. I later found out, however, that the prince had not even been present in the tent—he had left camp the day before on a boar-hunting expedition, and had not returned until after sundown the following day.

"IT ALL STARTED when my old rooster died," Nicarchus said, his eyes bleary in the firelight but with a sly grin spreading across his face. That night, unable to sleep amidst the sounds of singing and celebration surrounding us, Xenophon had awakened me for company. Approaching a fire that had been built high and was particularly well attended, Xenophon was hailed by the men, who invited us to join them and have a swig or two from their wineskin—they seemed to have already spent the extra
darics
Cyrus had promised them.

Nicarchus the Arcadian, one of Proxenus' sergeants, had been laughing so hard at a joke that I thought he would burst his gut. When he saw us approach, he gained control, clapped Xenophon on the shoulder, and ceremoniously dusted off a space on a log for us to sit down. Normally a reserved, even rather morose individual who spoke slowly and with the drawn-out vowels of his native country, his face was ruddy from the unaccustomed wine and he was feeling especially voluble tonight.

"What a pleasure you're able to join us, Cap'n," he drawled, overcompensating in formality to offset his lack of concentration, and passing me the dripping skin. I looked around the fire and saw twenty faces in various states of inebriation grinning at me, and I wondered if I might have better spent my time that night continuing to try to sleep. "We was just singin' a few old songs and discussin' the glorious history and culture of my dear native land." He reached back over to reclaim the wine.

"Don't listen to him, sir," said Gellius, a hard-bitten old veteran who alone among the others seemed to be maintaining his sobriety. "As if Nicarchus ever had anything to contribute to Arcadia's glories! He's just a drunk old farmer too much into his cups to even tell a story straight."

Nicarchus drew himself up in indignation. "A drunk old farmer, you say?" His eyes struggled to focus. "I'll have you know, I was the biggest egg producer in all of Arcadia, and would still be livin' the good life there today 'stead of settin' here on my arse with you lice-bitten pig turds, if it warn't for that damned rooster." He looked around the campfire expectantly, waiting for someone to take the bait. I saw a few of the men smiling and shaking their heads in exasperation.

After a few seconds of silence, my own curiosity got the better of me, and against my better judgment I asked Nicarchus, "What rooster?" Several of the men groaned.

"Well now, sir," he said thoughtfully, "it's quite a story, and I might add, an instructive one at that." I began to think we might end up seeing sunrise out here, but the men were happy, the wineskin continued to be passed, and I made myself comfortable.

"Y'see, I had a large farm, with the biggest hen coop in those parts—a hundred and eighty laying hens, I had, at least they
were
layers, until a fox got my rooster. I depended upon those eggs for my livelihood, y'see, so I go into town to the poultry dealer, and ask for the best cock he has, because I have a lot of hens that need servicing.

"The dealer reaches into his cage and pulls out the biggest rooster I ever seen. He has a huge red comb, muscles bulging on his legs, and a Spartan
lambda
tattooed on his shoulder, which was shaved. Shit, if Clearchus were a rooster, this would be him. 'His name is Leonidas,' the dealer tells me, 'and he'll cost you a bundle, but he'll keep your hens satisfied.'"

The men chuckled, and Nicarchus leaned forward to poke at the fire.

"Well, I take Leonidas home and throw him in with the hens, and sure enough, he struts around like the overgrown sack of chickenshit he is, picks out the hen he wants, jumps on her, and before she can even let out a squawk, he keels over dead. I pick him up by the neck and think, 'What the hell did that bastard sell me? This old buzzard barely got it up once before he fell down cold.'

"That same afternoon I take my dead bird back to the dealer and show him what happened. Well, I have to admit, the dealer was nice enough about it all, even apologizin' for Leonidas' sorry-ass performance, and I almost begin to feel sorry for the feller. So then he reaches back into his cage and takes out another rooster, even bigger than the first. This one has a bright yellow comb and blue eyes—looks like a fuckin' Scythian—and I'll be damned if he isn't wearin' a spiked leather band around his neck like Cerberus the hound, and kickin' the shit out of the other roosters in the cage. Well, I take him home and throw him in the coop with my hens, to see if I can get my money's worth out of this one.

"That blond rooster, I swear, he don't even strut around. He just jumps on the first hen he sees, does his duty quick-like, jumps onto the second one and nails her to the wall, goes for the third and isn't even breathing hard, when all of a sudden—he just up and dies too, like old Leonidas. I'm beginnin' to think there's something wrong with my hens."

At this, Nicarchus sighed sadly and reached out for another swig of wine, as if to quench his sorrows.

"Well," Nicarchus finally drawled, "I grab that old blond giant of a rooster and drag him back to the poultry dealer and shout, 'Listen you son of a bitch, my business is going to hell in a handbasket, all because you can't sell me a bird that can keep his peter straight for two hours before he dies on me! You give me a working cock right now, you camel-jawed ape, or I'll burn your piece-of-shit store to the ground.' So the guy begins to look a little worried, and he reaches into his cage and pulls out the scrawniest, wrinkled old bird I ever seen. His comb is drooping down over one eye, he don't have more than two feathers on his entire body, and he can barely stand because of the kicking he received the day before from the Scythian bird. But that sorry-ass old rooster still has a bit of life gleaming in his eye, and the dealer says, 'I wouldn't inflict old Polyphagus here on anyone, but you're desperate, and he's my last bird, so here you are.'

"Polyphagus. Wretched name and pathetic bird. I'm furious, I can tell you, but I see no other choice, so I just take that pitiful old fowl home and toss him in with the chickens, without a lot of hope. I'm not even goin' to bother to stay and watch—don't think I can bear it—but then just as I'm turnin' to leave I see old Polyphagus stand up straight and tall, and I tell you, I am amazed to see that the old brute is hung like a donkey. He looks all around hisself at my one hundred eighty hens, gets a evil grin on his beak, and goes through every one of them chickens like there is no tomorrow, and then the dumb bastard musta lost count, because I'll be damned if he doesn't go back through every one of them a second time. There's hens layin' around on their backs everywhere with silly smiles on their faces, and when I go to look for Polyphagus I find he's punched right through the wall of the chicken coop and is trying to rape my dog.

"Well, you can bet I'm amazed. I grab him by the neck and lock him in the woodshed that night so's the hens can get some rest, but the next morning I go fetch him and throw him in the coop again. Old Polyphagus is practically frantic at having been kept celibate for, what, a whole twelve hours? and before I can catch him again he's gone through every hen, my boarhound, a prize sow and two of my cows. I finally seize that priapic son of a bitch, give him two smacks upside the head to calm him down and throw him back in the woodshed so's I can patch up my animals.

"The next morning when I go to get Polyphagus again, I find the old bastard has drilled right through the wall of the shed and escaped. The chicken coop is a shambles, a hundred eighty hens lying around everywhere panting and worn out, the hound trembling in the corner, and my old sow sitting in her water trough trying to cool down. I'm afraid Polyphagus has taken off to the neighbor's farm, so I go grab my mule, who's staggerin' around bowlegged, and I take off to catch that bird before he does any more damage.

"You can imagine, at least his trail isn't hard to find. Shit, the road is littered with casualties. Limping goats and sore-assed sheep. A quivering tortoise climbing back into its shell, three lame quails. I even find a big old hairy-assed boar tryin' hard to stifle a smile. Finally, I come around a corner, and there's old Polyphagus lyin' flat on his back, motionless, his tongue hangin' out, while two vultures are circlin' low overhead. I guessed Polyphagus had finally had enough, and the best rooster I ever had was now one with the gods.

"I yell, 'Polyphagus! Nooo!' and I slide off the mule onto my knees.

"But damned if that old rooster doesn't open one beady eye to look at me, nod over toward the vultures and whisper, 'Stop shouting! You'll scare them away!'

The men roared, and I reached over to claim the wineskin again. Xenophon had just taken a swig, although unfortunately it was precisely at the story's conclusion, and he was now alternately laughing and gasping as he spattered wine from his nose over the feet of the man next to him.

"A fine yarn, old man," he choked hoarsely, tears streaming from his eyes. "I'll think of you whenever I eat eggs!" As we took our leave the first pink rays of dawn began arching across the eastern sky.

Trudging back to our tent, Xenophon gazed at the vast expanse of glowing sky, and we paused on a small rise to view the entire extent of the camp. The thousands of tents were laid out in neat rows almost to the horizon, a city sprung from nowhere, as if commanded into existence by the very hand of Zeus. Men were beginning to emerge, scratching and yawning, stirring up their fires from the night before. Smoke drifted lazily, hovering shadelike in low pockets or in hazy swirls, before meandering almost reluctantly to tree-height where it dissipated in a breeze as yet unfelt by those below. The stifling heat of the previous day was only a distant memory, or a faint worry of the harshness to come, and the crispness of the air, the wafting scent of oil simmering over a fire, and the stark beauty of the vast desert emerging from the night filled us with a sense of elation.

In Cyrus' compound at the side of the encampment I saw several of the women emerge from their tent, cloaked head to foot in the veils they wore for modesty when in the presence of men, even at this hour of the morning. They chattered gaily with each other as they bustled about their tasks, though I could not make out their words, and presently I saw Asteria, whom I recognized from her graceful movement and slight build even without seeing her face. As she emerged from the tent she stood motionless for a moment, gazing up in our direction, though I could not tell whether she was looking at us, or at the streaks of pink light arching across the sky. I gestured to her faintly with my hand, not enough to draw the attention of others, but sufficient that if she were looking at me, she would notice. She stared motionless for a moment longer, and then turning away briskly she skipped cheerfully over to the older women nearby, from whom a moment later I heard peals of laughter.

Turning back to Xenophon I found him already facing the same direction as me, his thoughts focused on the same sight. He looked at me and smiled.

"A fine sight to start the day," he said. "Dawn and her attendant goddesses."

And he raced me down the hill, just as we had done on those warm summer days in Athens so long ago.

THE MIGHTY EUPHRATES. The two words are inseparable, like twins joined by the rib cage, like the Great Nile, like Olympian Zeus. Even here, five hundred miles from its mouth, the river was a half mile wide, larger than any flow we had seen in our lives, a king among rivers. The flood plains extended for miles on either bank, and the irrigation channels alone, which had been built by men generations earlier, could each have served a city the size of Athens. How far must this river have traveled, from what distant rainy lands or glacier-studded mountains, to bring such quantities of water to this desert, otherwise bereft of any moisture? The locals showed us fish they had caught, ancient creatures longer than two men together, fearsome things with reptilian snouts, from which the men would remove the eggs for their own consumption, then release back into the stream. Such monsters would have given men pause even if found in the vastness of the sea. Here in a fresh-water flow, their presence was terrifying. The river at this point could be crossed only by a long pontoon bridge, but we saw that the one that had once been there had been recently burned. The two ends were still smoldering from the fire set only days before. Abrocomas had decided not to keep his date with Cyrus at the intended place, and had fled with three hundred thousand men across the river to combine his forces with those of King Artaxerxes.

The army camped here for five days while Cyrus pondered his next move, and on the fourth evening the prince assembled the Hellenic officers in his tent compound for a feast and a council of war. Xenophon invited me to accompany him, and I gratefully accepted, even if I was not permitted to do other than stand quietly in the shadows near the doorway, with the other squires and guards. The enormous tent had been decorated inside as a monumental battle trophy, a brilliant move by Cyrus designed to hearten and bring out the warlike spirit of his guests. They had scarcely settled on their couches when Cyrus stood up.

"Captains," he said, eschewing the typically flowery speech Persians reserve for such formal occasions. "I will not mince words. Ordinarily, in order to gain power, the second son of a great king, like myself, either resigns himself to some minor satrapy or resorts to an assassin's skills. His position is nebulous, he remains always at the mercy of others. I prefer war. In war, a man either wins or loses. The outcome is clear. The gangrenous member is lopped off cleanly, the wound does not fester.

"Abrocomas fled before us in fear, his tail between his legs, even though his forces outnumbered ours by a factor of three. It is his misfortune that combining his army with those of my brother the king will not increase his strength; a company of cowards only makes those around them more cowardly. We will now have a million men to rout, instead of three hundred or seven hundred thousand. Tell your men to rest their sword arms with special care—the killing we have before us is much more than we had any right to hope for."

Cyrus then sat back down at his place, and calmly sipped from his goblet. All in the tent had fallen to stunned silence at this display of bluster. Hardly a man moved but for the slaves padding softly among the diners, filling their cups. Xenophon shot a cautious glance over at me where I stood in the shadows.

Certain of the captains, namely Clearchus' Spartans, nodded their heads and began banging their fists enthusiastically on the table in front of them, shouting their approval. Others, however, muttered under their breath, despairing as to how they would break the news to their men, who were already pressed to the limit by the long march and unwilling to venture any farther from the sea than they already had. After a few minutes, Proxenus stood up, and the room fell silent again.

"Prince Cyrus, permit me to speak openly, anticipating the reactions of our men." Cyrus nodded in assent.

"We have loyally followed you this far, first in our belief that we were to punish the Pisidians, then the Cilicians, and finally Abrocomas here at the Euphrates. Each time we pushed the men farther from Ionia. But pushing Greeks away from the sea is like herding cats from a plate of fish. The men will say that your true intent all along was to engage the king's army, and that you hid this from them; that you prevented them from returning weeks ago when we were camped in Cilicia; and now that we have advanced as far as the Euphrates you have deceived them again, as it is even more difficult to return home now. Prince Cyrus, I tell you with all respect, it is at your own peril that you attempt to cross the Syrian deserts and fight the king with a Greek army, unless you make amends with the Hellenic troops and convince them that it is in their interest to continue following you."

I held my breath at Proxenus' audacity. Cyrus, of course, was not dense. Proxenus' hint was so broad as to be bordering on extortion, but the prince did not flinch. He gazed evenly at Proxenus, who remained standing, staring back at the prince impassively, as the other officers shifted uneasily at their places. Finally he smiled, and standing up he raised his cup to Proxenus.

"And I thought I was a man of direct words," Cyrus said as the men chuckled tensely, though in some relief. "Proxenus, you know my circumstances as well as any man here. For practical reasons I cannot carry wagonloads of gold to distribute to the men each month. But I acknowledge that the men may have had... other expectations." The officers nodded at this, and Cyrus paused for a moment as if thinking, his eyes still locked on Proxenus.

"Let us strike a bargain, then, which you will carry back to your men. When we reach Babylon, each man will be entitled to five
minas
of silver." A general buzzing started up among the men in the tent, and even the slaves paused in their tasks to listen more closely. The sum was huge. "And," he continued, "I shall double their current wages to a full three darics per month until their safe return to Ionia."

The officers gasped. Proxenus, inscrutable as always, paused briefly before raising his cup to the prince in return. "A generous offer, your lordship. I shall convey it to my men, and though I cannot yet speak for them, I feel confident that under those conditions they would follow you to Hades and back."

The officers erupted in loud exclamations, standing up and raising their goblets to the prince, and clapping each other on the shoulders. Xenophon, however, was slow to raise his cup and stood quietly in place beside Proxenus, saying not a word while the men around him chattered enthusiastically with each other. He would tell me later that he imagined that the sorceress Circe had cast her weird spell on the greed-blinded men and turned them to swine. I wondered what old Gryllus would have said, when told of a war fought by Greeks not for pride or principle, but for three Persian
darics
a month.

The banquet proceeded in a merry way. Cyrus' slaves poured copious amounts of pine-aged, resinous Thasian wine carried all the way from Greece for the enjoyment of the guests. Steaming stacks of roast fish were brought in fresh from the river, drenched in syrupy pomegranate and peach juices and garnished with leeks and other greens, followed by thrushes served on steaming beds of asparagus. Just as the guests' appetites had been whetted, a chorus of oboes sounded and six men staggered into the tent carrying a roasted ox spit between two poles. Laying it carefully upon a wide, flat board, one of them drew a scimitar, and with three enormous blows split open the beast's belly from sternum to crotch. The attendants leaned their arms into the cavity up to their shoulders, for what we expected to be the removal of the viscera, only to proudly emerge with a roasted sheep, steaming and dripping with onions and herbs, the sauces pouring from its sides. The man with the scimitar then split this open, spattering the nearby guests with fragrant juices. A roast pig emerged from the mess, its own belly neatly sewn up. The scimitar man gave a sigh of mock exasperation, to the delight of the guests, and with another blow split open the pig. It had been stuffed with a kid goat, the empty spaces filled with baked apples that had been simmering for hours inside the entire concoction, lending their perfumed fragrance to the meat of all the animals surrounding them. The scene continued, each animal containing another one smaller—a fat goose, a chicken, a partridge, an ortolan, a nightingale, and several animals more, no doubt down to a final grasshopper or grub, though I was too far in the back of the tent to see what precisely the cook was displaying. The servants soon ensured that every man was happily gnawing a favored limb, and watched carefully that no empty space appeared on a guest's plate without another slab of steaming meat or a chunk of flat, toasted bread being heaped on.

A banquet by Cyrus would not have been complete without entertainment, and this he provided in abundance, from the talent he had brought with him or later recruited among the camp followers. The Spartans looked on in dumb amazement and no little consternation as jugglers and tumblers, whose services they thought they had banned months ago from the army's presence, pranced through the tent, sometimes performing several acts at once for various groups of eaters. Clearchus, because of his fierce countenance, was a favored foil of the jesters and magicians, though amazingly, he took it in good humor. Lovely, nude flute girls from Syria supplied even more active entertainment, dancing and contorting their limber bodies through ever-spinning series of hoops tossed into the air and caught in time with the music, or juggling small, razor-sharp swords, glittering in the lamplight. One girl danced and writhed on the floor with an enormous trained snake, and it was remarkable the things she had taught it, or perhaps she had drugged it.

Suddenly, however, at a signal from Cyrus, all the slaves simultaneously snuffed out the lamps along the walls, to the consternation of the always tense Clearchus and his captains. The callipygian beauties then danced wildly with flaming torches, threatening constantly to set the tent or the Spartans' long hair afire, but never failing to complete their intricate steps in perfect precision. The cheering for their performance was deafening. On their way out, they stepped delicately among the diners, seeking spare coins, pausing here and there to good-naturedly slap a wayward hand that had accidentally worked its way too high up a slender, brown thigh.

To the surprise of all, Clearchus then stood up with a serious expression, pounding the table with the flat of his hand for attention until all were silent. He expressed his thanks to Cyrus in a gravelly voice, and swaying slightly on his feet, moved seamlessly into what we soon perceived with dismay was a military harangue.

"Fellow officers: These girls have proven that they have no less natural ability than men, but lack only judgment and physical strength. No one who witnesses these amazing feats of swordplay and fire can deny that courage is a trait that can be taught, when these fragile girls throw themselves so daringly onto the sharp blades. Just so, we Spartans must also teach our troops, by rote if necessary, to heed the call to arms and to exhibit such courage that..."

Cyrus, exasperated at this unexpected and unwarranted interruption of his celebration, tossed a hunk of hard bread at Clearchus, striking him in the throat and stopping him in mid-harangue. The Spartan looked up, shocked at this violation of protocol and military solemnity, and peered fiercely through the darkness and haze of the tent in an attempt to see the source of the offense. Cyrus' cheerful voice rang out through the silence.

"Sit down, Clearchus, and shut up. Tonight I don't give a damn whether you are a Spartan general or my old grandmother. There is a time to show courage, and a time to be merry. No one questions your superiority in matters of war. But if you persist in demonstrating your inferiority in matters of sociability, I will not hesitate to throw you bodily out of the tent!" With this he clapped twice and two enormous Ethiopians stepped to his side, all but invisible in the dim light of the tent but for the whites of their eyes and gleaming teeth, who stared avidly at the astonished Clearchus. The men roared at this unprecedented slap to the fierce general, and he sat back down on his couch with a sheepish expression. The Spartan captains, unused to the quantities of wine they had been drinking, spontaneously broke out in a Spartan victory song, clumsily attempting to make up for Clearchus' awkward digression, and the musicians gamely accompanied them as the other officers joined in.

As the dancers and flute girls drifted back toward the rear entrance, Cyrus began looking expectantly toward the front, barely able to maintain his concentration. The officers' table conversation had resumed, and the tent was again filled with raucous laughter, the boasts and taunts of happy men. Finally, the prince was rewarded as the tent flap was pulled aside and Asteria stepped into the room, looking for all the world like Artemis or golden Aphrodite, her small lyre under one arm, her eyes cast demurely down to her feet, a shy smile on her face. She wore a diaphanous gown that allowed fleeting glimpses of her girlish profile as she passed in front of the lamps. Her waist-length black hair had been elaborately braided and coiled about her head, with an assortment of colorful feathers threaded through the locks, forming a lovely contrast to her bare, unadorned neck and arms. She was barefoot and wore only the lightest of rouge on her cheeks, for her naturally olive complexion already lent her a radiant glow in the lamplight. She was heart-breakingly young and beautiful, though the gentle swell and quiver of her breasts visible through the thin fabric of her backlit gown betrayed the fact that she was a grown woman, and one who was fully aware of the enervating effect she was having on the room.

A eunuch silently drew a low chair onto the carpet in the middle of the tent, gleaming in the torchlight with its inlaid whorls of silver and ivory. The master craftsman who had made it for Cyrus' ancestors centuries ago had added a low footrest under the seat, mortised into the very frame, a perfect design for a musician to rest a foot while plucking the lyre. Over it all was draped a heavy fleece for comfort. Asteria gently sat down on the magnificent chair, and the room went silent.