The Ten Thousand (23 page)

After securing the camp the night before, our immediate task had been to put the souls of the murdered men to rest—which would be difficult, as we were unable even to place the customary obols in their mouths to pay the boatman Charon, or to oil their bodies for burial. The Persians kept their remains and no doubt performed atrocities on them, as they had on Clearchus'. We held a hasty ceremony, improvising eulogies, sacrificing a precious ox in their honor, and burying a single effigy in a grave, representing all the men who had died that evening.

Oddly enough, despite my grief at Proxenus' death, I felt my thoughts returning again and again to Clearchus, and to the terrible loss we had suffered by his treacherous assassination. I had not loved the man; he was incapable of giving love, and would have viewed receiving it as the worst of weaknesses. In fact, I hated him for his arrogance, his testiness, his complete inability to accept compromise and any philosophy other than "might makes right." Nevertheless, I had worshiped him in a way, as one does a harsh god, as a small boy does an overly severe father. I had thought the man to be practically immortal or indestructible, and I was unable to reconcile my mind's vision of Clearchus with the bruised, rotting head lying like a discarded cabbage in a sack in the dust.

In any land but Sparta he would have been crowned king, and have been remembered in history as one of the greatest and most brutal. But he was from Sparta, the only land in the world where such men are in surfeit, and he was Clearchus, the only man in the world more Spartan than even the Spartans, and therefore destined, perhaps, to a death more tragic than Sparta's itself. As unlikely as an encomium to such a man may be, Clearchus, no less than any other of the personages populating this halting record, deserves to be remembered for his accomplishments and excused for his shortcomings, even if belatedly by fifty years. His body was dead, but I prayed, for the sake of our very survival, that his spirit would remain with us some while longer, and settle on a man worthy of bearing it.

BOOK SEVEN

... from deep, chaotic beds of mortal sleep

The gods darkly revealed what erst had been,

and what is now, and what shall follow yet.

—EURIPIDES

WE SLEPT A restless sleep, each dreaming his own dreams, for dreams, like Muses or men, bear a superficial similarity to one another, but are never truly alike. It is as confounding to say, "I dreamed of a man," as to say, "I felt the sun." The first statement tells us nothing useful about the man, nor the second whether the sun was the benign orb that sustains our existence, or the harsh, killing fire that parches our throat and saps our strength if we attempt to defy it. A dream is the dreamer's alone, and no one can know its meaning without knowing the fears and aspirations of the dreamer. We shift from the dreamer to the dream, from the man to the Muses, seeking to reconcile the halves, to make them one, though dreams, by their very nature, are rarely consistent. Nor, for that matter, are men.

Some call dreams the ruminations and calculations of the unconscious mind, as the spirit assumes control over the intellect, unhampered by pain and the pleasure-seeking conceits of the mortal body. Others claim that dreams are direct messages from the gods, capable of being received only when both the body and the mind are lying dormant and vulnerable. A man takes his life into his hands each night in sleep, as he plunges unarmed and naked into a fast-flowing river of changing perspective, where not even the beating of his heart or the rhythm of his breath would be sufficient to sustain him if he were in his wakeful state. In sleep, the dead sometimes venture into his presence, to entice him to cross or to urge him back to his suffering and worldly condition. It is no accident that Hypnos, blessed god of Sleep, is joined by birth to a twin with whom he works in deep collusion—Hades the Winged One, God of Death.

It is strange that we think so little about sleep, even cursing it for diminishing the useful time available to us. Perhaps a certain humility is required to appreciate such a gift, a humbleness not native to the spirits of most men. When asleep, the philosopher and the traitor are scarcely different from each other, a king can hardly be distinguished from the beggar outside his door. Only the gods, who see of what things dreams are made, could tell the difference, if they cared to.

And who knows? To the extent that the deities are too preoccupied with their own petty squabbles to concern themselves with the daily lives of humans, to the extent that a man actually controls his own destiny, a man's mind, particularly his sleeping mind unburdened by physical weakness, is his god, and a dream the act and consequence of reasoning unbiased by material concerns. Whether sent from outside by the deities, or created from within by a man's own godlike spirit, a dream is a frightening thing to receive, its mandates not to be taken lightly.

Perhaps most frightening is to be sent a dream such as one has not received in years—since childhood perhaps, when the boundaries between one's physical and spiritual worlds are less solid, and dreams and their recollection more forthcoming—to be sent such a dream, and to not know what its mandate is. For such was the dream Xenophon received in his restless sleep the night after Clearchus' death, as he collapsed at my side before the fire. One would think that a dream so portentous and vivid would have been clear in meaning as well, yet to this day I cannot say whether it was an evil omen, or a sign of hope that the gods were watching and would guide us.

"I saw myself standing outside my father's house," he told me, "not at Erchia or Athens, but on a vast, treeless plain—alone—a plain covered in asphodel.

"Huge thunderheads had rolled in," he continued, "but they were not the heavy gray of rain and storms. They were the brightest, most brilliant white, and the warm sun shone down on me, heating my scalp and my aching shoulders with its soothing fingers. I felt surrounded by peace and calm. Looking up, I could see the serene face of Zeus in the thunderheads, a magnificent presence dominating the entire heavens, gazing down on me and smiling gently. I felt overwhelmed by his love and approval.

"But while I stood motionless, watching the god in awe, I saw his huge face suddenly crack into a grimace, with a mouth full of rotten teeth and a livid scar along the temple. Black Spartan braids blew from the back of his head as if in a high wind. As I watched, a thunderbolt shot from the god's eyes, hurtling down to earth with a whine and a hiss like that of a hundred lead missiles hurled from enemy slings. They struck my father's house with a blinding explosion, leveling it in an instant and setting all around me to blazing."

For long minutes afterwards his eyes remained wide, and after taking a long swig from a wineskin to settle his nerves, he stoked the fire, wrapping himself in a cloak against the damp, late-night chill. I repeated his dream silently to myself, searching for an answer as to what it might mean. On the one hand, it seemed a good sign, that despite all the dangers through which we were passing, we were still surrounded by the light and benevolence of the gods, and Zeus was watching us from the heavens; yet the dream was also to be feared, because Xenophon was certain it had been sent by Zeus himself, and portended the destruction and ruin that would result from any attempt to leave this place.

I broke my head with him over this conundrum for an hour, but I am no seer, and have little imagination or skill, much less patience, at divining the meanings of dreams. The thought that kept coming to mind with increasing urgency, however, had little to do with the sorcery of Xenophon's unconscious mind that night, and everything to do with the tactile, fleshy reality of the situation at hand. I found I was becoming disgusted at both myself and the other Hellenes for our lack of discipline, as the night wore on and we did nothing to safeguard against the enemy attack certain to arrive with the morning's light. The troops were scattered randomly about the camp and the adjoining fields wherever they happened to have collapsed from fatigue and despair. Many expected simply to die in their sleep under the sharp hooves of the galloping Persians as they poured into our camp to finish off the destruction they had started. If we fell into the king's hands, we would most surely die, after being subject to terrible torture and cruelty. Hadn't the king cut off the head of his own stepbrother Cyrus, to be mounted on a pole and placed in front of his tent? And hadn't Tissaphernes flayed alive the very Greeks with whom he had feigned friendship just minutes before? No one was preparing for this eventuality. Indeed, there were few officers left in the camp to give orders to the men, and those who had survived were as immobilized by fear and grief as the lowliest squire. I voiced my thoughts on these matters to Xenophon.

Unable to return to sleep, he rose in the moonlight and walked about the vast, chaotic camp, stealthily waking and calling together Proxenus' squad leaders, most of whom were, themselves, resting only fitfully. They emerged filthy and bedraggled from the scattered shrubs and ditches where he found them, sometimes accompanied by a sleepy-eyed camp follower, though most were alone, having lost or given up contact with the troops for which they were responsible. They seemed grateful to have a reason to rise and begin moving about, even if at the request of one with no authority over them. When he finally succeeded in locating and collecting some twenty disheveled men in varying states of numbness and grief, he spoke quietly to them over the blazing fire I had built up.

"It's impossible for me to sleep tonight, and I'm sure it's the same with you, for thinking about the king's forces. Ever since we defeated them at Cunaxa they have held off from attacking us, unless they saw a point of weakness. We allowed them to lead us away from their soft vitals, Babylon—we were only fifty miles away after Cunaxa!—and now we are in the middle of the wilderness, in the country of the Medes no less, and they have killed our leaders. That is the weakness they have been waiting for. They will be watching us from afar in the morning, through their spies and scouts, to see whether the murder of our officers has had the desired effect, and whether now is the time for them to destroy us once and for all.

"Tissaphernes broke a solemn oath to us, sworn before the gods. Yet we are surrounded by a vast country, with endless provisions, flocks of cattle and sheep, untold quantities of plunder. These are prizes to be won by whichever side has the best men, and by whomever the gods support. Our bodies are better trained than theirs to endure hardship, and our souls are hardier. Most importantly, we are free men, while the Persian soldiers are slaves. The gods are the judges in this contest. Whom do you think they will favor, the lying Persians, or us?

"I say we wait no longer. The enemy will be arriving with the dawn. Count on me to follow you without question if you will lead; or if you order me to lead, I will solemnly do so, and make no excuses for my youth or inexperience."

When listening, the officers were silent, staring expressionless into the crackling fire. But when Xenophon finished his short speech, they looked at each other for a long moment, alert, any semblance of sleepiness or grief shaken out of them, considering his words. Finally Hieronymus of Elis, Proxenus' oldest squad leader, a grizzled and sturdy veteran of thirty years of campaigning who was widely respected by the men and general staff alike, slowly stood and walked over to the fire.

"Well spoken, young Xenophon," he said, peering into his eyes. "Your face is that of a boy, but you have voiced tonight what no one else had the heart to do. I, for one, will stand behind you if you will lead."

Several others stood up as well and joined Hieronymus, and then one by one, some eagerly, others rather more grudgingly, all finally agreed to this proposal, by default electing Xenophon as the spokesman for Proxenus' troops. Xenophon, expressionless, thanked the men for their confidence in him, and then turned again to the matter at hand.

"We have little time to prepare. Split up and go through the camp, finding all surviving officers or squad leaders. Meet here within an hour, and with the help of the gods we will determine our fates."

This we did, while Xenophon withdrew alone to his tent in the darkness. As I wandered through the camp, I could hear it rousing, despite the late hour; men were straggling in, bedraggled and sleepy-eyed, from the fields and the quarters of the camp followers where they had lodged in their despair and lack of discipline. Whispered conferences were held around me, and I heard the name Xenophon muttered in the shadows as men pointed out to each other the location of the fire at which we were to meet shortly.

Returning to Xenophon an hour later, I stooped to make my way through the flaps of the low doorway. Inside I found him sitting cross-legged against the stained canvas wall, his eyes closed, muttering softly under his breath like a naked Indian seer in a trance. The flickering flame from the tiny oil lamp sitting directly on the floor in front of him illuminated a small circle around his body, reflecting the gleaming sheen of perspiration that had beaded on his face and neck. No movement of his body gave the least indication that he had heard me enter.

"Xenophon..." I said with some concern, fearing a sudden outbreak of fever. "Xenophon! The men have gathered and are waiting for you. Do you know what you're going say to them?"

He fell silent, and slowly, with a sigh that seemed to issue from deep within his chest, he opened his eyes and looked at me unblinkingly in the dim light.

"No. I am praying."

I paused in surprise, and stared into his eyes a long moment.

"Alone? Without sacrifice or libation?" When praying for something as precious as survival, one should at least take the trouble to acquire a kid goat and assign a priest, and perform a proper sacrifice in front of the men.

Xenophon shook his head. "There's no time for that. The gods saw within my heart at Delphi, and they see within it now. They know the sacrifice I've made goes beyond a kid goat on an altar. And no, I do not pray for survival."

"Then surely you pray for the enemy's hand to be stayed from us...?"

"Nor that. We will all die, in five hours or fifty years, and in all truth, I don't believe it proper to beg the gods to extend my allotted time. My soul is burdened, Theo; I feel I have been assigned a duty of great weight. I pray merely that whatever time remains to me, the gods may give me the strength to live it as honorably as I can." He looked at me and opened his lips as if about to say more, then fell silent. I motioned with my head in the direction of the men waiting outside. He nodded and stood up, and we stepped out of the tent and toward the light.

As we arrived at the meeting site, I saw that an enormous bonfire had been built, a huge flame that drove away the darkness for fifty feet or more in all directions. It illuminated the expectant and alert faces of a hundred men, most of whom I had seen or had dealings with during our march thus far, but whose names I did not know. Word had spread throughout the camp that a meeting was being held to decide the army's fate. Some of the common troops, too, in their curiosity and fear, had crowded up behind the circle of junior officers around the campfire, waiting to hear what might happen and spread the word among their fellows. The fire crackled and spit, and as the whole logs that had been heaved onto the top gradually caught flame, the blaze began roaring like a river or the crashing sea, sending tongues of flame and sparks licking upward to blend with the stars, an enormous signal beacon flaring defiance to the enemy, beaming out our location, fairly daring them to attack, its warmth beckoning and yet at the same time its fierce, urgent roar dissuading and threatening. The men stared hypnotically into its sun-bright center, their faces, like Xenophon's, gleaming with a sheen of sweat, some of them mumbling as well. I wondered if the men, in losing their hope, were losing their minds also, and whether Xenophon, in bringing them here, was leading them into madness.

Hieronymus approached the fire, the flickering shadows exaggerating the already deep furrows in the skin of his weather-beaten, leathery face, and spoke tersely, in his gruff voice.

"Officers of the Greek army: We meet together this night to devise a common strategy. One among us, young Xenophon, has taken the initiative in this, and I call upon him to speak as he did to Proxenus' officers earlier this evening."