I was incredulous as I stood there watching them. The most terrible warriors of the known world, tumbling around like children in the dust. Some of them got too close to the slippery river banks and ended up in the water, or slid into the mud and came out covered from head to foot.
The meat was delicious. I was surprised that it was so tasty, considering the birds were nesting. But after that we had to go back to our supplies, to the flour, wheat and olive oil that every unit carried along. We even had a market travelling with us, but the foods you could buy there cost a lot.
The landscape was changing, becoming bleaker and more arid the further south we went. Even the banks of the Euphrates were barren. The river coursed through a deep bed of sandstone which left no space for grass to grow, let alone trees. The hay and fodder we were carrying were enough at first to feed the pack animals, but then the forage ran out and the animals began to die. They were butchered, then, and the meat distributed to the troops: it was tough and stringy, but there was nothing else.
Cyrus often showed his face and Xeno was able to speak with him more than once, along with Proxenus of Boeotia and Agias of Arcadia. The prince was usually surrounded by the noblemen who accompanied him and by his guard. They were young, vigorous men, splendidly decked out with golden bracelets at their wrists and golden-hilted and sheathed swords at their sides. Their eyes were constantly on their prince, to ensure that his every need was attended to. I remember how they reacted the day we happened to reach a bend in the river. There was vegetation there: grass, flowers and plants, and the column almost instinctively veered in that direction, seeking shelter from the brutal heat. But then one of the wagons got stuck in the mud. It was carrying an important load: javelins and spears, trappings for the horses, even money perhaps. There must have been something precious in those bags, from the way Cyrus frowned. At the merest wrinkle of his brow, all of the noblemen jumped off their horses, dressed as they were with their embroidered trousers and cloaks fringed with silver and gold, and dived into the mire to push the wagon back out, to stop it from sinking.
Day after day we marched, and the conditions grew harsher and more taxing, especially for the women. I travelled on a wagon drawn by a pair of mules because I was Xeno’s woman, but almost all of the baggage animals had died, and I’d often see the others – the slaves and prostitutes – trudging through the dust behind their masters, and this troubled me. There were differences between them too. The prettier ones were on mule-back or on a wagon so they wouldn’t wear themselves out, the others were on foot.
There was no relief until nightfall. Then you could bathe in the river, and although the stream beds were dry, they abounded in withered shrubs and bushes that could be used to start a fire and cook what little we had. The sky extended its black dome over the camp, dotted with an infinity of twinkling lights, and you could hear the cries of the night birds and the howling of jackals from the depths of the immense, boundless desert. Almost none of the men had ever seen the desert. They came from a land of small valleys and high mountains, of narrow coves and golden beaches, a land that changed at nearly every step of your journey, every day and every hour. The desert was always the same, they complained, as vast and flat as the sea in a dead calm. Even the air was unfamiliar, and disquieting. When the moon was full, the white of the chalky terrain and the dark blue of the sky were pervaded by an unreal azure light, still and somehow terrifying in its eerie strangeness.
The further we got from the sea, the more the men felt the need to sing together at night or to talk quietly, sitting around the fire until late. I didn’t understand the words to their songs but I could feel the emotion. It was homesickness. Those bronze warriors ached for their families, for their children and their wives, for the villages where they hoped to return rich and respected, so they could talk about their adventures one day, as old men, tell their stories to children gathered around the hearth on a cold winter evening. The burbling of the river outside the camp and the low hum of the men sitting around campfires inside combined to form a diffuse, indistinct murmur, and yet the voice of the river was created by the ruffling of countless tiny waves and barely visible ripples, and the other sound was in reality made up of thousands of voices telling a myriad of different stories, the stories of each one of the Ten Thousand who had pushed themselves further than any man of their race had ever dared to venture.
SINCE THE START OF their mission, the army had never done battle, except for Menon of Thessaly’s incursion at Tarsus, and for the time being the expedition still felt more like an excursion or an exploratory expedition than like a military endeavour. But every morning that the sun came up, every time the warriors took up their arms and started on their march, their eyes scanned the horizon along its entire breadth, looking for a sign, an indication of human presence, of movement of any sort from that vast, monotonous territory. When would the enemy appear? They had no doubts that it would happen. By day or night, at dawn or dusk, they would make their presence felt. Perhaps at their backs or perhaps face-to-face, barring their way. Perhaps with a swift cavalry raid. And yet the days passed and nothing happened. The dust, the sun, the suffocating temperature, the shimmering of the air on the earth’s scorched surfaces, the midday dust devils: these were their constant companions. When would the enemy arrive?
That’s what I would ask Xeno, and with the question on my lips I’d be gripped by a kind of quiet frenzy, as if I were one of those warriors preparing to face the most formidable trial of their lives.
Then one day a returning group of scouts reported that they had found a great deal of horse dung and traces of passage in an area of the desert near Cunaxa, a village not far from Babylon. They also said they’d seen a reconnaissance patrol passing through a grove of palm trees. Could this be the sign they’d been waiting for?
Cyrus ordered all his men to set off immediately in full battle order, armed from head to toe. Their shields alone would be transported by wagon, ready to be slung on at the last moment.
There was tension, a sense of spasmodic expectation. Groups of horsemen were coming and going continually, reporting, heading out, others riding in, exchanging terse words with their officers. Others were using their polished shields to send off signals, others still waved yellow flags.
The men marched in silence.
Xeno took up arms as well. He was wearing the armour that I’d seen hanging from his horse as he washed himself at the well at Beth Qadà. This time I looked at it closely: the bronze breastplate with its leather shoulder straps finely decorated in red, his greaves which were also made of bronze, smooth and polished. The ivory hilt of his sword extended from an embossed sheath. On his shoulders was an ochre-coloured cloak.
‘Why are you carrying a weapon?’ I nervously asked.
He didn’t answer. The situation must have seemed so evident that there was no need for comment, but I was sorry he wouldn’t speak. I was upset; I wanted to hear his voice. I realized at once that by nightfall everything would be lost – or won – by our warriors: riches, glory, honour, estates. But for me the stakes were much higher. If there was victory I would have more time with the man I loved, although I didn’t know how much. If there was defeat there was no limit to the misery I might suffer. His voice interrupted my thoughts.
‘Oh gods!’
I looked south. The sun was in the middle of the sky, above our heads.
A cloud of whitish dust veiled the horizon as far as the eye could see.
‘It’s a sandstorm,’ I said.
‘No. It’s them.’
‘That’s not possible. It’s too wide.’
‘It’s them, I’m telling you. Look.’
I could see black specks filling the white cloud and then as the distance shortened, I could see glittering. Arms. The tips of the spears, the shields.
Lightning bolts, inside a storm cloud.
‘That’s why we never met with any resistance. Not at the Cilician Gates, not at the Syrian Gates, not on the Euphra
tes at Thapsacus . . .’ said Xeno without taking his eyes off the storm of dust and iron that was closing in with a roar, like the wind at Beth Qadà. ‘Artaxerxes wanted to lure his brother here, here where he’s massed all the forces of the empire, in this endless expanse with nowhere for us to take shelter, or build up any kind of defence. He means to crush Cyrus once and for all.’
‘So this is the end,’ I said softly and I lowered my head to hide my tears.
The bugles blared. Cyrus rode through at a gallop on his Arabian charger, shouting out orders in three or four different languages. Ariaeus had the horns sounded. Clearchus pulled up short on his horse in the middle of the plain and roared out, ‘Men, stand to! Front line here to me! Fall in!’
Like the limbs of a single body the warriors ran in compact groups to take their places on the battle front. One block joined another, the line growing longer and longer, until it stretched all the way to the left bank of the Euphrates.
The enemy army was now in clear sight. There were warriors from one hundred nations: Egyptians, Arabs, Cilicians, Cappadocians, Medes, Carduchi, Colchians, Calibians, Parthians, Sogdians, Bithynians, Phrygians, Mossynoeci . . .
You could plainly see their armour, the colours of their garments, the weapons they held, hear the battle cries, muffled by the din of tens of thousands of galloping horses and hundreds of thousands of marching men. Beneath all this, deep and continuous, a metallic rumbling that seemed to accompany and exalt all the other sounds: it was coming from the flanks, where the cloud of dust was denser.
‘Chariots!’ shouted Xeno.
‘Scythed chariots . . .’ said a voice behind us.
Sophos.
He had appeared out of nowhere, as always. Xeno, who had been about to mount Halys, turned to face him.
‘. . . with sharp blades extending from the wheel hubs, and more under the driver’s seat. If you think you can save yourself by diving under the cart, forget it. They’ll cut you into little strips, lengthwise. Ingenious and effective.’
I was horror-struck.
Sophos was armed. He was holding his helmet under his left arm and his shield was hanging from the horse’s harness. He dug in his heels and headed towards Clearchus.
Xeno took my hand. ‘Don’t you ever move from here. Don’t get off this wagon for any reason. The wagons, with all the food and supplies, will be taken to the centre of the camp and protected. I must go to Clearchus. Do as I say and we’ll see each other tonight. If you don’t do as I say, you’ll die. Farewell.’
I had no time to say anything and maybe I wouldn’t have been able to get any words out anyway, I felt so choked up and breathless. Only when he was too far to hear me did I yell, ‘Come back! Come back to me!’ The wagon’s driver whipped the mules and took me to where the supplies were being gathered. Just a small hillock, really, slightly higher than the plain itself, but high enough to overlook the entire battle scene. I could see everything that was happening without missing a thing. A terrible, yet very privileged, place to be. I was the one who would tell Xeno later the details of the massacre that was to take place.
All of the army units were in motion by then. The Asians were to the left, covering three-quarters of the formation. Cyrus was at the very centre, splendidly armed and dressed, surrounded by his elite troops, archers and cavalry, protected by their shining gold and silver breastplates. They were a wonder to see, and were lightning-quick in their movements. Each of them bore a spear with a green standard flying from its shaft. Far to the right stood Clearchus and his red cloaks.
I saw Xeno break away from the massed troops and head in his direction. For a few moments he was alone in the middle of the plain, resplendent on his white horse. How could he pass unnoticed? What would happen to him before evening? My heart broke just thinking about it. I watched as he galloped, spun about, full of life and strength, and finally stopped his stallion before the high command.
Dreadful images filled my eyes, blinding me to the sight of that splendid young horseman: I saw Xeno falling to the ground with an arrow piercing his heart, covered with dust and blood, I saw him trying to drag himself to safety, wounded, dying, I saw him trying to escape on foot, pursued by enemies on horseback who finished him off. I wanted to scream. I realized that they’d reached the point of no return.
The two armies were about to clash. This was the moment in which the Chera of death passed among the ranks and files to pick her chosen ones.
From the mound I was standing on I could clearly see that the enemy formation was much longer than our own on the left, and it was easy to imagine that they would try to outflank us on that side. Where was Xeno at that moment? Where was his white stallion? Where was he? Where? Where?
I scanned the lines frantically but could not spot him.
The space between the two formations had narrowed to no more than three hundred paces. The centre of the enemy’s army was beyond the far left of our own front line. There was Artaxerxes, standing straight and still on his chariot, resplendent as a star. I could see the red standard that accompanied him on the battlefield.
I saw Cyrus send a messenger to Clearchus. A brief, animated argument ensued, then the messenger rode back.
Two hundred paces.
Cyrus in person abandoned the formation and raced towards Clearchus. The prince seemed to be giving him an order, but nothing happened. Cyrus turned back. You could tell by the way he rode that he was enraged.
One hundred and fifty paces.
I could see everything that was happening in the rearguard of Artaxerxes’s army. Why wasn’t Cyrus standing where I was? From here he would be able to move his units like pawns on a chessboard. I knew why. The commander must show that he is the bravest of all. He has to be the first in the line of danger.
Wrapped in a cloud of dust, the chariot squadrons moved invisibly just behind the front lines on the left wing and the right. They were about to charge Clearchus’s men, about to charge Xeno! How could our soldiers survive the attack of such terrifying machines? I screamed out with all the breath I had in me, ‘Watch your right!’ But how could they have heard me?
One hundred paces.
A roar.
The Persian infantry lines suddenly parted, letting through the chariots, which swooped forward to mow down the red cloaks.
Unexpectedly, Cyrus charged forth with his guard at breakneck speed, cutting across the field and carving a narrow, diagonal path straight for the centre of the enemy formation. Cyrus wanted Artaxerxes! The two brothers, one on one, to the death!
Clearchus had the bugles sounded. The javelin-throwers and Thracian skirmishers ran straight for the chariots, hurling their pikes at the charioteers. Some of them hit their mark and the charioteers fell, leaving their driverless chariots to veer off course and tip over. Others, speeding forward, crashed into the wrecks and toppled over as well into a monstrous tangle of wooden splinters, shards of metal and human and animal flesh.
More mounted peltasts raced towards the chariots, hurling arrows and missiles or jumping onto the chariots themselves to engage the drivers and the warriors in deadly duels. Those chariots that managed to forge on were greeted by more bugle calls: the Greek infantry ranks opened to leave a wide gap in front of each scythed chariot. When they had rushed headlong through the entire formation the archers in the rear turned and aimed their bows at the charioteers and warriors. The driverless chariots were carried off into the empty desert.
Fifty paces.
Clearchus had the bugles sounded again.
Meanwhile, Cyrus’s squadron was engaging the imperial guard – the Immortals, the personal defenders of the Great King – in an ear-splitting explosion of violence.
The sound of pipes soared from the ranks of the red cloaks, who lowered their spears and advanced at a steady pace, in silence, against the enemy. Against the frenzy, the uncontrolled fury, the screaming horde.
In silence, their heavy steps accompanied by the drums and pipes.
The advance of
Artaxerxes’s Asian troops faltered, their lines wavered. Clearchus urged his own men forward with the cry of war:
Alalalai!
No one stood a chance against the red cloaks. The phalanx charged, crashing like an avalanche over the enemy front, breaking it in two. Plunging deep into the opening they’d made, they overwhelmed the entire Persian left wing, cut it off from the rest of the army and took off after the scattering soldiers in hot pursuit. Soon they were covered by dust and I lost them from sight.
The space they’d left empty was promptly filled by swarms of enemy horsemen. Great numbers of them were soon storming forward and lapping at the base of my hill. I was so frightened that I left the wagon, which was in a vulnerable position, as far as I could tell, to seek shelter in a more secluded area. Hidden, I hoped, by a copse of palm trees, I anxiously continued to watch the unfolding battle below.
As long as Cyrus and his crack troops stayed in the fight, most of Ariaeus’s Asian troops held firm. Every now and then, I’d look at the sun, which seemed to be nailed like a burning shield into the empty white sky. The sounds of the gigantic battle raging below reached me muted and confused. Only the shrillest cries of terror or pain pierced the air so thick with dust, blood and sweat. When the wind changed, the whinnying of the horses and the screeching of the chariots ran through me like a sword.
The light of the sun slowly became redder and something happened, right at the middle of the enemy front, something that I couldn’t understand because everything was wrapped in dense soot. But that was the moment in which Cyrus’s army started to break down and was rapidly put to flight.
The Lost Army Page 10