Perhaps they were tempted to voice their outrage, they who were descendants of the heroes of days gone by, but they limited themselves to stating a more realistic appraisal: something might go wrong. Something unexpected might push the situation out of control. It was a possibility they had to consider.
The chief of the ephors admitted that the objection was well put and that they had already paid it heed. For this reason, a regular Spartan officer, one of the very best, was on his way to join the army, with precise orders that could not be revealed. A secret mission that must remain so at any cost. Only when the situation was resolved would the kings be informed.
The man chosen for such a delicate mission – which required courage but also intelligence and above all, absolute loyalty and obedience to his orders – would be leaving next day on a ship from Gythion. The kings would learn of his identity six days after his departure.
The session was ended at once and the two kings went back to their homes, distraught and disillusioned, in the middle of the night.
A few hours later the Spartan envoy was awakened by a helot and accompanied to his harnessed horse. The man mounted his steed, secured his bag and galloped off. The sun was rising from the sea when he arrived within sight of the first houses of Gythion. A trireme of the war fleet was waiting at anchor with a light blue standard flying aft: the signal that they were expecting him.
He crossed the gangplank and led his horse aboard the ship.
THE ARMY left their quarters in Dana at dawn. Before the bulk of the troops set off, Cyrus asked Clearchus to send a detachment of his men to another pass that gave access to Tarsus – the capital of the kingdom of Cilicia and the biggest city in the region – from the rear. If the Cilicians refused to admit him, the detachment could attack from the west and force a resolution to the situation.
Clearchus chose Menon of Thessaly and gave him orders to move his battalion towards a pass in the Taurus chain that opened on to the plains west of Tarsus, while the rest of the army would transit through the narrow Cilician Gates and arrive at the capital from the north.
Menon left when it was still dark, while Cyrus waited until dawn and then headed towards a rest stop at the foot of the mountains. From the moment when the road began its steep climb, there would be no opportunity to make camp until after crossing the pass; this was true not only for such a huge army as his but even for a mere caravan. It was thus necessary to divide the journey in two stages. After spending the night at the foot of the Taurus chain, Cyrus led his army towards the Gates. It was dawn, they would be there before dusk. The road was little more than a winding mule track often flanked by deep gorges.
If the king of Cilicia decided to oppose their march, he could easily pick them off one by one, or decide to hold them in check for days and days, perhaps even months.
Tension was high among the ranks. The soldiers couldn’t help but look upwards, at the rocky, towering peaks that surrounded them. What really disturbed them was that the road – usually heavy with traffic, since it was the only route for caravans from Mesopotamia heading towards Anatolia and the sea, and vice versa – was deserted. Not a single donkey or camel, only a few scattered peasants hauling basketfuls of goods on their shoulders. Some of the locals gathered by the road to watch the passage of the incredibly long column. Surely the word was out that something dangerous was bound to happen along that route, and no one dared use it, nor would they until the whole army had passed.
Before venturing through the pass, which was cut into the solid rock and allowed the passage of a single pack animal at a time, the prince sent scouts forward to reconnoitre. They reported back that there was no one at the top but that they’d spotted a camp on the other side which seemed to be completely deserted. Perhaps there had been an early plan of resistance that was later abandoned. Cyrus and his men crossed the pass with no trouble and settled into the camp while the long column continued its climb, all night long. When the last man had arrived at the top, it was already time to set off again.
In the meantime Menon and his battalion were crossing the western pass. They were moving quickly and without much worry because their guide had assured them that the area was clear.
The pass was found at the watershed of two streams: one flowed towards the Anatolian high plains, the other descended towards the sea. The first part of their route climbed upwards with a rather constant, moderate slope. They were covering open countryside and the view was clear all around. But when Menon had crossed the saddle and reached the slope beyond, he could see that the valley of the second torrent was steep and rugged, a deep gully buried at the foot of high, craggy walls. The descent was much steeper, and the water raced much faster.
Everything seemed nonetheless to go well at first but then, little by little, as the battalion entered the ground flanking the gully, worrisome signs started to appear. First, a flock of crows rose suddenly from a copse, evidently startled by something. This was followed by a cascade of pebbles rolling down the valley. Menon had no sooner shouted ‘Watch out! Take cover! There’s someone up there!’ than a volley of arrows rained down from above. Three of his men were hit and fell to the ground. More arrows followed in a dense, relentless hail, striking many among the ranks.
Menon shouted, ‘Shields up! Let’s get out of here, now! Out, out!’
His men raised their shields to cover their heads as they started to run, but the slope was very steep and the gully very narrow. Many stumbled and fell, those behind surged forward and pushed against those in front, causing both to lose their footing. As they struggled to advance, their path was strewn with the dead and dying. For a moment it seemed as though the lethal rain had stopped, but it was only the calm before the new storm. A huge crash was heard, and an avalanche of rocks and pebbles was unleashed from above, cutting down more and more men. When at last they were able to rally at a clearing beyond the enemy’s range, Menon counted his men. Seventy were missing, killed by the arrows and stones.
‘We cannot go back to gather our dead,’ he said. ‘More of us would fall. But we can avenge them.’ And as he pronounced those words his blue eyes turned as cold as ice.
6
THEY DESCENDED on Tarsus unannounced.
They were just over a thousand but they seemed like one hundred thousand. They were everywhere at once, and then they were everywhere else. They attacked, burned, butchered.
What was most terrifying was their silence. They did not shout, they did not curse, they did not rage. They killed without ever stopping.
They came in, went out. Leaving only death behind them.
They looked all the same, seemed a single man. The ghostly mask of their salleted helmets, their bronze breastplates and black, silver-rimmed shields: they were the men of Menon of Thessaly avenging their dead, unburied comrades.
By the time they were done, the city was at their feet, bloodied and maimed. The king had fled to the mountains.
Clearchus arrived the following evening and entered through open, unguarded gates. He advanced with his men down the city’s main street, stunned by the sight of countless dead bodies strewn outside the houses, or at the threshold, or inside. The Chera of death had been through here, brandishing the scythe that spares no man.
He expected to meet her, wrapped in her black mantle. He found Menon of Thessaly instead, sitting in the centre of an empty square, wearing only his white cloak.
‘You’re late,’ he said.
Clearchus looked around in dismay. The city seemed dead. Not a lamp, not a voice. The last gleam of sunset tinged the place with a red glow.
‘What happened?’ he demanded.
‘I lost seventy men,’ he replied as if he were talking about the weather.
Clearchus widened his arms and turned in a circle, gesturing at the devastation that surrounded them. ‘And all of this? What does all of this mean?’
‘It means that whoever kills Menon of Thessaly’s men pays a high price.’
‘I never gave you o
rders to take out an entire city.’
‘You never gave me orders not to.’
‘I should punish you for insubordination. You must do only what I command you to do. Nothing more.’
‘Punish me, you say. I don’t think that sounds like a good idea.’ As he spoke he had risen to his feet and was staring Clearchus straight in the eye.
‘Get your men out of here and set up camp near the river. Stay there until I tell you.’
Menon crossed the square. In the silence that weighed on the city the only sound to be heard was the wailing of an infant. It stopped, and the only sound left was made by Menon’s boots. His steps rang out in the deserted square like the steps of a giant.
Cyrus arrived much later, after night had fallen, and he flew into a rage at the sight of the massacre, but when he discovered that all that damage had been done by Menon’s battalion alone, his mood changed. If a single unit could accomplish so much, what would the whole contingent be capable of when the time came to unleash it? He then received a message from the queen asking to see him in private, and this further buoyed his spirits. They met at a villa not far from the sea where Cyrus arrived accompanied by a numerous retinue.
No one ever learned what was said in that encounter, although Cyrus had been escorted by his personal bodyguards. All that leaked out was that the queen was incredibly beautiful. She wore a light, nearly transparent gown in the Ionian style, was made up like an Egyptian and wore a black pearl from India on a pendant between her breasts and a pair of exquisitely crafted earrings bought from a merchant from distant Taranto.
There is no doubt that Cyrus had one more reason the next morning for not being too harsh with King Syennesis of Cilicia, who had run up to the mountains to hide in his burrow like a rabbit.
Advised by a messenger that the danger had passed, the king descended to the valley and exchanged every manner of pleasantries with the prince of the empire. His face was evidently the only thing he had left to save.
The following night, the moon was completely covered by clouds when a warship bearing neither insignia nor standard approached so close to the coast that it nearly ran aground in the shallows near the mouth of the Cydnus river. The crew lowered the gangplank and a man walked over it, leading his horse by the reins. As soon as the steed’s hoofs hit the water at the end of the plank, the man leapt onto his back and urged him to shore. In the distance the fires of a large camp could be seen, and the man headed in that direction at an easy canter, without making the slightest sound.
The ship withdrew the plank and, as silent as it had arrived, made its way out to sea, where it would join the squadron waiting offshore at anchor, all lights out.
CYRUS REMAINED a few days as the city’s worst wounds were attended to, but he was ready to proceed. They had arrived at the sea. At this point the problem was no longer the Cilicians or the inhabitants of Tarsus. The problem was his ‘Yauna’ mercenaries, as he called them. The Greeks. He had kept his final plan a secret for as long as possible, but among the soldiers and officers there were a good many who knew what it meant to arrive at the sea from the Cilician Gates. Anatolia lay behind them and their journey was leading them south – straight towards the heart of the empire. All kinds of strange rumours spread among the men, and the strangest of all was started by Xeno himself when he confronted Proxenus of Boeotia, his friend Proxenus. Not in the intimacy of his tent but while he was eating his dinner, surrounded by his men.
He appeared suddenly in the halo of light cast by their campfire and he spoke loudly and without even taking a place among them. ‘Do you have any idea of what is going to happen in the next few days?’
‘What kind of a question is that?’ replied Proxenus.
‘You have no idea?’ he repeated.
‘I don’t think it’s my concern.’
‘Oh, but it is. It concerns you most closely! You and all of your men!’
‘Look, look who we have here!’ exclaimed one of Proxenus’s lieutenants, a man from Tanagra called Eupitus. ‘The writer! Why aren’t you in your tent giving your pen some exercise?’
Xeno paid him no mind and continued, ‘We’re walking straight into the lion’s den!’
Many of them started laughing, others dug their elbows into those who were snickering, trying to get them to stop. Some of the men leaned forward to hear better.
‘What the hell are you spouting off about?’ said Proxenus, visibly irritated.
‘I’m talking about the truth, and all of you should listen. Cyrus lied to us and so has Commander Clearchus, who is surely in on the whole thing. Off to fight the barbarians in Pisidia, are we? Pisidia has nothing to do with this expedition. We left it behind us ages ago. We’re in the Gulf of Cilicia now. Do you know what’s down that way?’ he shouted, pointing at a spot behind him. ‘Egypt, that’s what. And do you know what’s beyond that mountain range? Syria! And after Syria, Babylonia.’
‘How do you know that?’ asked one of the soldiers.
‘Because I do. What I’m saying is true. And we’re heading in that direction, I’m sure of it.’
‘And who the hell told you we’re going to head that way?’ demanded another.
‘My brain, idiot!’
‘Watch who you’re talking to!’
‘You watch who you’re talking to. If you don’t know what you’re saying, shut up and listen to someone who knows more than you do!’
A fight was about to break out when the officer from Tanagra stopped them. ‘Enough! I want to hear what the writer has to say. Spit it out, then. I’m all ears.’
Xeno calmed down and started to explain. ‘I thought some time ago that there had to be another reason for this expedition and that Cyrus had lied to us. At the time, a plausible hypothesis occurred to me: I imagined that the Great King had asked for his brother’s help to conquer a land in the Orient. But from what I’ve heard, there’s no love lost between the two of them, and so it didn’t really make sense for Artaxerxes to ask his brother of all people to be at his side in such a difficult and ambitious endeavour. What’s more, nothing was ever said about such a venture. So later I thought that Cyrus wanted to carve out a kingdom all for himself, I don’t know, Egypt, for instance: Egypt would be easy to defend, easy to conquer, too, if you don’t interfere with their beliefs. But then I realized that there was a much bigger game being played here. Cyrus is too ambitious, too intelligent, too crafty. He is convinced that he’s much better than his brother and he’d never put up with submitting to him, living in his shadow. Men, Cyrus wants nothing less than the throne of Persia. Cyrus wants to lead us against the Great King!’
‘You’re mad!’ said Proxenus. ‘That’s totally impossible.’
‘Then you tell me what we’re doing here in Cilicia. And why Cyrus executed the governor of Dana and his military commander when they were guilty of no crime. He had them put to death because he knew they were loyal to his brother. Maybe they asked him to account for what was happening, maybe they demanded to know what such a big army was for and where we were headed. They may even have managed to inform the Great King about this expedition. That’s why they’re dead!’
The argument had attracted other soldiers. Many were elbowing their way forward to hear what was being said. Others had begun to cry out, ‘Our commanders have to tell us where they’re leading us! We have the right to know! We want to be told what’s happening. They can’t keep us in the dark!’
Their indignation mounting, many of the men were determined to take the question straight to Clearchus. Just then Xeno noticed a man he’d never seen before, sitting on horseback, riding past the crowd of soldiers. He was armed and wore his hair long, gathered at the nape of his neck and pinned back, in the Spartan manner. He was heading towards Clearchus’s tent.
Xeno turned to the men thronging around the campfire. ‘Leave Clearchus alone for now,’ he said. ‘He’s got visitors.’
The men glanced up in surprise, jostling to get a look, and a certain calm briefly se
ttled over the gathering. But word was quick to spread that the expedition was marching against the Great King, the Lord of the Four Corners of the World, and disorders of every sort broke out in the camp. The commanders had a struggle to keep order, and the rioting and brawling went on all night. After two days of turmoil, Clearchus attempted to start moving the army again, as though nothing had happened, but the men stood up against him resolutely. Some even threw stones. Clearchus ordered them to cease all activity for the time being, until he could call an assembly, and went to Cyrus’s tent.
‘Prince,’ he said, ‘my men demand to know where we are going. They are furious because they say they’ve been deceived. Many want to turn back. The situation is becoming uncontrollable.’
‘So this is the famous discipline of the Greek troops? Order them to return to their ranks and prepare to fall in.’
‘That is simply not possible,’ replied Clearchus. ‘Discipline for them means holding their place in the battle line and executing orders during a campaign. But they are mercenaries, and thus everything depends on the rules of engagement. They were hired for an expedition in Anatolia, not for . . .’
‘Not for what?’
‘For a different mission altogether. They know full well that we’re not in Anatolia. The rumour is that we’ll be fighting against your brother. Against the Great King.’
‘That’s perfectly correct. We’re going to challenge my brother. Don’t tell me you didn’t know that.’
The Lost Army Page 7