The Ten Thousand (37 page)

The grandeur, the warmth and gaiety, the exuberance of my past, the exhilaration of life in Athens, the guileless joy of youth, were overwhelming in their contrast to my current state, and it was only with great effort that I forced my mind elsewhere. It is a weakness in a man to let his thoughts slip thus into needless melancholy, yet I did not have the strength to move from my position, nor even to open my eyes. My body was exhausted, it is true, but even under the harshest of circumstances, during times when I have been near death, I have always been able to move my physical being. This, however, was different, something I had never experienced—a complete emotional exhaustion, a draining of my very will to live, a crushing of the spirit so complete that my body, hardened and lean as it was from the months of campaigning, was completely immobilized.

After a long while I found the will to turn onto my back and open my eyes, and I gazed in wonder at the clear and frozen night sky. On the vast, treeless plain on which I lay, with the vault of the heavens stretching from horizon to horizon, the light from the millions of stars was overwhelming. When I moved my head to the side I saw the stars' light reflected again in a billion bedazzling drops of frozen dew that had formed on the blades of grass and flower leaves, eliminating the horizon line that gives people their bearings and balance, their sense of proportion and of their very place on earth, leaving me floating in the ether. I felt as though surrounded by infinite specks of light on all sides, supporting me from below and suffocating me from above, quivering and flashing, throbbing closer and closer in rhythm with the beating of my heart, while the ancient Syracusan chorus from my childhood welled up from the very depths of my bowels, irrepressible, threatening to burst out at any minute and completely stifling my thoughts and my existence. I felt as if I were drugged, or mad, for the lights around and above and below me were spinning and pressing me down, as if into the vortex of Charybdis, while the unintelligible chorus inside swelled to a deafening roar. I would go insane if I did not put a stop to this, and mustering all the strength left in me, or given to me in my desperation by a passing god who took pity on me, I sat up and screamed with all my life, a frantic, throaty, stentorian bellow, which after seconds left me gasping and hoarse.

As my cry died away, the maddening terror of the inner music stopped instantly and the fragrant night air rushed furiously back into my lungs. The stars returned to their normal places, and the sparks of frost fell back into formation, lined up neatly along the horizon and no longer threatening to break rank. I sat as if paralyzed, gazing around at the plain, as if in the Land of Dreams where the burnt-out wraiths of mortals dwell. I listened to the silence in wonder, as intently as I had listened to the impending rush of madness, daring it to return, forcing my will to face it and defy it, even trying unsuccessfully to bring again to mind the hellish harmonies that had filled my being so completely a moment earlier. My soul had returned to me, and was again firmly attached to those murky recesses in a man's body where it lurks, like a bat roosting in the darkness, eyes glittering in watchfulness.

Strangely, sitting there in the vast silence, a soft sound became evident: so soft I thought I had not heard it, and yet so near that the hair bristled at the back of my neck. I froze, and listened more closely: again it came, the same almost imperceptible rubbing sound, the slightest scraping, not inches from where I sat. I lay silently on my side and placed my face close to the ground, at the point from which I thought the sound had come. It stopped for what seemed a lifetime, as if its maker were considering what meaning to ascribe to this large-headed being that had placed its shaggy, sweat-drenched body so close to it. Slowly emerging beneath my eyes, softly reflected in the glittering blackness, I could make out the translucent gleam of an earthworm, carefully, blindly feeling its way out of the tiny hole it had spent its life digging. The minuscule particles of dirt it shoved aside as it slowly moved made the softest of scraping sounds to my overly sensitized ears, and as a comrade worm emerged from its own hole a few inches away, I heard yet another soft scraping sound, made by the tiny cap of dirt being pushed away from the top of its hole.

To this day, I am not sure what effect this stealthy consideration of a microcosm had on my spirit; for after my soul's wandering to its past, and the almost fatal crushing of my being by the revolving heavens and earth, this tiny dose of the most tactile reality—a vibrant, gleaming earthworm pulsing with life, pushing a speck of dirt from its hole into the starlight—seemed to be the antidote to my precariously balanced sense of proportion. I watched the worm almost without stirring for the rest of the night, slowly regaining my strength as my spirit rested and my mind emptied itself of all its fears of the past day and worries for tomorrow. I observed the worm and thought of nothing but how it busied itself with pushing insignificant quantities of dirt to and from its hole in its search for a dead thing for nourishment, and I took pleasure in this, as if it were a secret, known by no other being in the world—just myself and the worm.

As I watched, I marveled at the fact that even this insignificant creature, toiling anonymously, Sisyphus-like in its dark confines, was somehow able to make a small difference in the world; and it occurred to me that this tiny worm, rather than being a confirmation of death and decay and futility, was actually an affirmation of the persistence and stubbornness of life.

Though the mysterious music often returned to my mind for brief spells, like the lingering sleeve-tugging of some ancient deity afraid of being forgotten, it never again tormented me to madness.

COLLECTING OURSELVES ONCE again after the disastrous crossing, we set out across the plain, heading endlessly, unremittingly north. We were a day removed from the river when we were met by a small group of horsemen in ceremonial garb, among them the governor of the land through which we were passing, who entreated us not to harm his villages and livestock. Xenophon and Chirisophus, having been through this routine many times before, scarcely looked up from their trudging to address these nobles. They merely muttered their assurance to the barbarians that our only intention was to reach the Greek colonies along the Black Sea as quickly as possible, and that in passing through their land we would take only the provisions we needed to survive.

The governor and his envoys looked on in astonishment, though whether in response to Xenophon's weary rudeness, or to the army's overall aspect of complete exhaustion it is difficult to tell. Perhaps he felt pity for us, or mistrusted our ability to prevent the men from plundering, or possibly he felt that in our ignorance and weariness we might stray from our path and thereby tarry longer in his land than was absolutely necessary. In any event, after watching for an hour as the army limped slowly past his horses, he exchanged quick words with his advisors and then galloped back up to the vanguard, where Xenophon was marching this day in company with Chirisophus, and offered us the use of his chief advisor as guide. He explained that though our destination was not far ahead, no more than a hundred miles, the road passed through lands hostile to his own tribe, and that it would behoove the Greeks to have a reliable guide and interpreter for our own safety.

"We haven't had much luck with volunteer guides in the past," I pointed out to Xenophon, not even bothering to keep my voice low out of politeness. "What assurance do we have that this man will lead us to safety, and not into ambush?" Xenophon straightened up and eyed the governor suspiciously.

The barbarian snorted, overhearing my complaint. "I don't see that you're carrying anything worth taking," he noted observantly.

"Neither did the tribesmen in the interior," Xenophon snapped churlishly, "yet that didn't seem to dissuade them."

The governor softened his expression. "We bear you no ill will; in fact we often trade with the Hellenes along the coast. But if you insist on assurance, take my advisor as a hostage. If you do not spy the sea within five days, you have my permission to kill him."

The fixed smile on the advisor's face wavered briefly at this. Shrugging his shoulders, Xenophon merely grunted his assent and told the advisor to lead on. First, however, he gestured to me to seize the man's horse. I calmly walked over and grasped it by the reins.

"We don't ride horses in the army when on the march," I told him sternly. "We have too many sick and wounded in need of them. You're able-bodied; you can walk like the generals."

The guide glanced in dismay at the governor, who simply nodded as the man reluctantly climbed down and stood in the mud in his thin slippers. Xenophon sidled up to me where I stood, about to walk the horse back to the baggage area.

"Rather than loading it with gear," he said softly, his eyes steadily holding my gaze, "you might check with the Rhodian slingers. I understand they have some sick among them who would probably benefit from riding in a litter."

I gratefully nodded yes, and trotted off to find Asteria.

The guide proved true to his word, leading us not only on a direct route, but also showing us shortcuts and easier paths which we would have never found by simply using our crudely drawn maps. As soon as we passed over the boundary of his country on the third day, however, the man noted that we had entered the territory of his tribe's traditional enemies, and began urging that we burn every grove and field in our path. This, then, was the true motivation for the governor's kindly volunteering of his advisor as a guide. Xenophon refused the bait. Not only did he not wish to incur any further enmity on the part of the local inhabitants—a famished army of ten thousand marching through one's country is bad enough—but he was unwilling to delay the army's journey any longer to engage in mere plunder, or otherwise distract us from our one overriding goal—reaching the sea.

On the fifth day we reached the foot of the mountain known by the locals as Theches. It was surrounded by other formidable peaks, but this one stood out both for its overall height, towering above its brethren, and for its aspect: a smooth, cone-shaped slope rising to a flattened top, with sides of loose gravel and boulders, heavily wooded at the bottom and with the trees thinning out near the summit. The road meandered back and forth along the mountain's flank and through the trees, rarely affording any glimpse or view from the side of our approach, and requiring that the army climb in a single file, two abreast at the most, because of the roughness of the terrain. The road wound directly to the top of the mountain and down the other side.

This approach made the officers nervous. The troops would be stretched out for miles, unable to properly defend themselves in the event of an attack. It increased the likelihood that we would lose stragglers and the sick and wounded, and it would be virtually impossible to push and pull the bulk of our provisions and equipment up the steep, loosely graveled trail.

"We have no choice," Xenophon told his captains in resignation. "Leave the remaining wagons and supplies; we'll drive the livestock and pack animals between companies, with the sick and wounded to follow. We're vulnerable to attack; every soldier marches armed, in full panoply."

The next morning Chirisophus' soldiers led, as usual. The army was slow to move, marching singly or in twos, and it was almost three hours later that the rear guard was finally able to assemble in marching order. Shortly after the last scouts had pulled up their spears and begun climbing, we heard faint shouts from miles ahead, echoing through the ravines between the mountains. Xenophon's eyes narrowed.

"What are they shouting? Is it an attack?"

I could not distinguish the words, nor even the tone of the voices, but twenty minutes later the shouting had become more distinct and ever louder. We could now make out the clashing of weapons on shields.

"It's an attack," shouted Xenophon. "Double-time!" Then muttering more to himself than to anyone nearby, "I knew the sons of bitches would be watching our formation."

The men began trotting, groaning as they strained up the steep ascent in their gear, dreading the thought of yet another battle, and fearing for their safety in an extended, strung-out column. The troops' stepped-up pace created a ruckus all its own as the captains shouted orders and the armor and weapons clanged noisily, and for over an hour this obscured from us the source and quality of the sound we had heard. The men eyed the summit nervously, but it gave us little indication of what we were facing, for as each company ahead of us crossed over the lip and onto the flat plateau, they simply disappeared from our view. Chirisophus had sent no word back to us on the army's status or his needs for reinforcement, and we expected the worst.

Xenophon could finally bear the suspense no longer. Racing back to our makeshift cavalry, still headed by Lycius but now serving more as an ambulance and transport squad than as a fighting unit, he seized a horse and told Lycius to cut the provisions and litters loose from the animals. Lycius' face beamed at the thought of finally engaging in true cavalry action again.

Xenophon and twenty riders went trotting up the hill, forcing aside the ranks ahead of us to pass, as the shouting and clanging ahead grew louder. Suddenly reaching the lip and climbing over onto the flat of the mountain top, we encountered a sight that burst the heart.

The entire army that had arrived thus far, perhaps two-thirds of the total, was in complete and utter disarray; some of the troops had gathered in circles and were kneeling in the mud, their arms encircling each other's shoulders, praying to the gods. Others were maniacally slamming their shields against those of their comrades, like boys playing at combat, or pounding with their fists on each other's shoulders, even running aimlessly in circles. Still others simply stood as if transfixed, staring at the horizon to the north. Above all was the noise—deafening, steady, relentless shouting, a mixture of chants combined with sobbing and wails, the whole melding together, transformed into an orderless, indistinguishable, indescribable mass of sound. The words were incomprehensible, until one looked into the faces of the soldiers and saw tears not of desperation and fear but of rapture, and until one realized from their gestures that those praying were not beseeching the gods for deliverance but praising them in thanks, and until one read the lips of those quiet ones simply standing still and weeping, their mouths forming those words so long denied us in our terrible march across the deserts and over the mountains:
"Thalatta, thalatta!"
—"The sea!"

Men seized Xenophon and lifted him high onto their shoulders, laughing and bellowing his name in the chant they had cried when they had first acclaimed him general so long ago. They pummeled his back as he gazed proudly around at his warriors, a broad smile creasing his face and flashing through his thickly grown beard. I stood alone, watching in a daze, a mixture of ecstasy and ache, as the men that had been marching behind me continued to pour over the crest of the mountain to their own first, rapturous view of the sea. After a moment, however, I sensed a presence I had long given up hope of encountering again, and turning around I found that I was not alone, for Asteria stood silently facing me, her eyes hollow and tear-filled, her cheekbones prominent on her gaunt face, but with a gentleness to her expression that stopped my heart just as surely as if a goddess had appeared before me. I opened my arms and she stepped into them as if she belonged there and had never left.

I looked up and there, just visible in the smoky, distant haze, shimmering like the blade of a sword catching the light of the sun, was the narrow blue line of the sea. So true it is, that tears belong to joy and sorrow alike.