The Ten Thousand (19 page)

This set the officers to grumbling, for it looked like the coward's way out—a mere cut and run. No one else had a better idea, however, so by default the officers voted it as their plan, sacrificed to the gods, and each went back to catch what few hours of sleep he could before rousing the exhausted army the next morning and embarking on a forced march.

I lingered for a time in the shadows by the fire, reluctant to return to the tent, my mind whirling and my body tense and restless. Despite the awfulness of that long, bitter day—the burning of the dead, the confrontation with Phalinus, the exhausting march in the dark to Ariaius' camp—I had scarcely been able to think of anything but the event of the night before. My thoughts raced with the vivid dream I had experienced, my near certainty that I was about to die at Asteria's hands from having unknowingly committed some crime of concupiscence, like one of those sticklike male insects I once watched in horror as a child which, even during the very act of mating, is calmly devoured by the female headfirst, right down to his still rutting abdomen. After wandering aimlessly across the camp for some time, I realized with a jolt that my feet had carried me, almost instinctively, to the quarter of the camp followers.

Picking my way through the confused jumble of wagons and tents in the women's section, I sensed the burden of mournful and accusing glances pressing upon me from every shadow and shelter. I wandered blindly and fruitlessly for an hour, uncertain that I would ever be able to find her—-when suddenly, seemingly from nowhere, I felt her soft hand slip into mine and tug me gently away. She led me to the edge of the camp, and I tried to pull her close to me, but she stiffened, resisting me, and continued to guide me forward in the dark until the mournful sounds of the camp had been left far behind and we came to a small rock outcropping, sheltered by a forlorn shrub. Here she finally stopped, and without sitting down, turned toward me, her face shadowed in darkness and her body tense.

"Theo, last night was... last night I was afraid of everything, and what we did was wrong. I am sorry."

I remained silent, waiting for her to continue, for I had nothing to contribute to a statement such as this.

"You know me but you know nothing about me," she said. "I am a child of the Persian court. I was beholden to the prince, and before that to his family. Yet here in the desert I have nothing. I can bring you only misery."

"Asteria, if you mean a dowry, that is not something I am concerned with. I too have nothing of my own. And a marriage is impossible for the time being anyway, under these circumstances."

She paused for a moment, seemingly puzzled, before I saw a faint, sad smile briefly flit across her face. "That isn't exactly what I meant. It is a question of family honor. My father..."

I interrupted her, glowering. "You are concerned about honor and your father—why, because I have no rank? I am a soldier of Athens, a warrior. I have no money, but I have a strong arm, and the vast heritage of my city. Who is your father, what does he have to boast of?"

She sighed. "Theo, you don't understand. If it were merely his disapproval, that I could endure. It is something far more than that, though, something I fear I could not live with. How can I betray my father?"

"Betray him? Where is your father now? Of what possible threat can I be to him, or him to me?"

"I'm not even sure myself..."

"Asteria—look at our situation, look at
your
situation. A woman must take protection where she finds it. I am here, and he is not."

She paused for a long time in the darkness, peering into my face, seeming to perceive me as clearly as if it were light, again attempting to divine the response of the gods before acting. After a moment she moved toward me, and I felt her warm, fragile body press against me. I bent down to breathe in her scent, the same powerful perfume of charred wood and crushed flowers that had lingered in my nostrils since her visit the last night. As we settled on the sparse, dusty grass beneath us, I began fumbling clumsily with her tunic, attempting to slip my hand beneath.

"Wait," she said, "we haven't time. The sun is beginning to rise already." The eastern sky had indeed begun to lighten and the camp was beginning to stir with the sounds of morning activity, though hardly anyone had slept more than a few hours.

I relaxed and an almost overwhelming sense of weariness and release washed over me, leaving me grateful for the opportunity merely to lie still with her in my arms. She, too, seemed content, worlds away from the tension and desperation of the night before. Still, the terrible doubts I had harbored earlier continued to nag at me.

"Asteria," I began haltingly, "last night, when you were leaving, I think I had a dream—it was as if you, and your knife..." I was at a loss for words, for how do you speak to someone about such an experience? I looked at her face, which was gradually becoming more distinct in the graying sky, her limpid eyes almost glowing in the ethereal gray light, yet still colorless as shadows. Her expression was blank, almost quizzical, as she gazed calmly back at me.

"We don't know from where dreams come," she said, "or why they fade. It's not important. You dream of death but it's only a dream. Our lives move forward."

For the second time in my life I heard four words that struck me, leaving an imprint not to be removed, like a scar, or a family tattoo on the neck of a baby. I held her close and observed the return of Eos, and then for a short time I slept, mercifully free of dreams.

The next day we traveled uneventfully as far as a small cluster of villages without catching sight of any enemy forces, although we were shadowed the entire way by Tissaphernes' cavalry scouts traveling singly or in groups of two or three, keeping well beyond arrow range. That night, the first in over a week that the army had had a chance to rest from sundown to sunup, the men were spooked. Sensing their restlessness, Xenophon asked me to quietly make the rounds among them, to try to identify their fears.

"It's not necessary, Xenophon," I said. "I know what they are feeling. The men have seen too much. They're horrified at losing the prince so far from the sea and home. They fear the Greek gods of their past have left them, and that weighs heavily on their minds."

Xenophon pondered this, but I could see from his expression that he remained skeptical.

"Those are all general concerns," he argued, "but these men are veterans—they have experienced loss as well as victory. Surely the entire camp can't be on the verge of panic because of a vague feeling of abandonment by the gods?"

"There is one thing more," I admitted, as he stared at me expectantly. "The Greek troops, unlike the officers, did not swear an oath of loyalty to Ariaius' men. They don't trust them, particularly given their desertion of the camp followers at Cunaxa. The native troops' camp is only a mile away, and they outnumber us by a factor of ten. Our men can't shake the feeling that a dark shadow has been cast directly over them."

Xenophon gazed out over the camp in understanding, and began walking slowly back to Clearchus' quarters. The sky was dark and glowered with thunderheads, blotting out the moon and stars, and the troops huddled close to their fires and to each other for comfort. Every shout from a neighboring company, every oath from a soldier banging his finger while splitting wood, every whinny of a distant horse made the men jump and peer fearfully into the darkness. Everyone knew, or imagined, that we were surrounded by stealthy Persians, Tissaphernes' assassins or Ariaius' traitors, creeping unseen through the darkness, ready to pick off stragglers with a quick slash across the throat, or whole companies of us by a volley of arrows as we passed in silhouette in front of our bonfires.

Even by the second watch, none of the Greeks had gone to sleep. They began consolidating into larger groups as men sought out those of their own dialect and country for comfort. Twice fearful commotions arose as someone shouted that there was an attack and everyone rushed for their weapons. The army would never survive the night intact—it was on the verge of a riot, and men were ready either to kill their commanders out of fury at the loss of their dreams of wealth, or to break and run wildly into the night, each trying to save his own skin by abandoning what he felt was the certain death of the others.

As the night went on, a third panic fell on the Greeks, this one encompassing the whole camp, and an uproar ensued like one might expect from a surprise enemy attack. Clearchus despaired at the men's fears. He had the trumpets blown, and sent around his veteran herald, Tolmides the Elean, who had a harsh, grating voice that could be heard like a broken bell above the hubbub. At Clearchus' orders Tolmides bellowed for silence, and issued a proclamation from headquarters:

"Let every man know this! Your commander Clearchus beseeches you to return to your individual companies and to remain still, under penalty of death for abandoning the line and rank; and he hereby offers a reward of one talent, or fifteen years' pay, for information leading to the identification of the man who let the wild ass loose in camp and created the unholy commotion that is disturbing the commander's sleep."

To those certain of an enemy attack, the news that the uproar had been caused by a mere runaway donkey brought welcome humorous relief, and reassured them sufficiently that they were able to rest for the remainder of the night. Those who were wiser, who knew the enemy was not present, but who were even more afraid of the army's potential for self-destruction, were calmed at Clearchus' foresight in claiming that he, for one, was sleeping soundly. A few enterprising individuals even spent the night peering into every tent, searching for the rogue donkey.

As for myself, I passed the rest of the evening pondering what the deities could have been thinking, to have blown their poor Greeks, like Odysseus, so far off course.

Proxenus woke us early the next morning, in a cheerful mood.

"Tissaphernes' ambassadors are arriving! Clearchus just received word from our outposts that heralds from the Persians have requested entry to the camp!" I put on a clean tunic, and began sand-polishing Xenophon's armor and mine. Cyrus was dead, yet the king and Tissaphernes appeared to be as wary of the Hellenes as we of them, or they would not have sent a party bearing a flag of truce to parley with us.

In the meantime, Clearchus did not miss the opportunity to make Tissaphernes' ambassadors feel some discomfort. He sent word to the outposts to detain them out of sight of the army until he was ready. Then he called together his commanders to issue orders.

"Form the army into battle array along the top of the ridge," he said. "Place the heavy armor in the center with the targeteers along one side and cavalry on the other. Make sure the ranks are at least three deep, and keep the baggage wagons and camp followers down in the valley. No need for the king to be reminded that he outnumbers us a hundred to one."

When the envoys arrived moments later, he ordered that they be disarmed and dismounted, with even their ceremonial lance bearing Tissaphernes' golden winged-horse pennant taken away. They were escorted by the most hulking and heavily armed Spartans, past a field where six of Proxenus' Boeotian engines were conveniently engaged in horrific practice, to Clearchus' headquarters. This he had arranged something in the manner of a tribal throne, drawing upon the experience of his years spent in Byzantium, inside an enormous tent he had hastily cobbled together from several others. The interior was sumptuous—all armored attendants, veiled harem girls lounging on cushions, priceless carpets and tapestries and worshipful slaves awaiting his slightest order. The whole scene was so foreign to the rest of us who, unlike Clearchus, had no experience with Persian ways, that it was all we could do to keep from laughing, especially at the sight of our austere Spartan leader so surrounded by luxury. He gave us such a black look, however, with his terrible, scarred face and single, bushy eyebrow that ran without pause the entire length of his forehead, that he silenced us dead in our tracks. He then composed his expression into a haughty scowl to receive his guests.

The Persians were impressed with the scene, having at first, outside the tent, mistaken Proxenus for the chief officer because of his commanding appearance. After being suitably berated by a guard for their lack of respect, they were ushered into the dim, smoky coolness of the "throne room." There were three of them—generals, from the looks of their haughty military demeanor, fine silk sashes and robes and carefully oiled and curled beards. As they strode proudly onto the carpets inside the tent, Clearchus reclined sipping a cup of wine, affecting a pose of utter indifference. The envoys launched into the carefully prepared introduction and formulations that precede all Persian court palavers, reciting the litany of honorific titles that garnish the Great King's name like jewels in a crown:

"General Clearchus: On behalf of Lord Tissaphernes, Commander of the King's Cavalry, who speaks for the great King Artaxerxes, King of kings and Judge of men, Ruler of multitudes of lands and peoples, Conqueror of races far and wide across the entire breadth of the earth, Brother of the Sun, Omnipotent among Mortals, Invincible and Exalted, a Persian and son of a Persian..." The interpreter raced to keep up.

Clearchus leaned forward and interrupted the florid speech, waving his hand wearily and dismissively.

"I don't have time for your boot-licking introductions," he sneered in his grating voice. "You spew idle flattery like droppings from a fucking she-goat." I prayed that the interpreter was a clever one, or at least not too fluent. "I ran your crack troops into the ground at Cunaxa like a bevy of Chian flute girls. My camp followers ground their bones for meal, and they are eager for more. If your cloven-footed king wishes a truce to arrange matters going forward, he'll have to do better than send dung-eating rump-scratchers like you. Tell Artaxerxes that my army has not yet had breakfast, and that we do not do business on an empty stomach. Greeks don't eat dog turds and thorns, as I'm told Persians do, so if the king is unable to provide some proper provisions willingly, as a sign of good faith, we will have to obtain supplies on our own terms." At that, Clearchus, the ascetic Spartan, leaned back into the darkness with an evil smirk, beckoning one of the trembling girls to refill his glass.