The Ten Thousand

by Michael Curtis Ford

  After entering Cyrus' tent with Proxenus and Xenophon I lingered near the door, while the other two advanced to Cyrus' chair and table. Cyrus amiably asked them to stand at ease, while he finished up some current business he had with his advisors. Since this was the first time I had ever visited the quarters of a wealthy Persian, I glanced around curiously, taking in the rich carpets and brocaded drapes, which kept the tent refreshingly dark and cool, and the heavily armed guards standing at motionless attention on either side of the door.

  A tall, aquiline beauty slouched languorously behind Cyrus, gently fanning him with a large wicker screen and occasionally whispering orders to various serving girls and guards who kept up a never-ending parade of activity in the shadows between the table and a low rear exit, which communicated with another chamber of the tent. This consort, though breathtakingly beautiful, looked completely bored, and did not deign to make eye contact with any other person in the room.

  I heard a rustling in the shadows in the opposite corner, though, and when I looked more closely, I noticed two dark, almond-shaped eyes peering at me with interest, coolly appraising me, and not averting themselves from my gaze as the eyes of Persian women usually did. I held their stare for long seconds, and was finally rewarded by the flashing of white teeth in a quick, shy smile as the girl silently giggled at her own audacity. She leaned forward slightly, her face emerging from the shadows into a thin beam of sunlight invading the tent through an open flap, and my heart stopped at her beauty-she was perhaps eighteen years old, her skin fresh and seemingly unmarred by any additional cosmetics, her only adornment being a bright yellow feather threaded carefully through her hair. Her face revealed an innocence and joy of expression that belied her inexplicable presence in Cyrus' tent, surrounded by fierce-faced Ethiopian guards and the bustling of military couriers. She smiled at me once more, then turned back to her task in the shadows-which I now saw involved handling a thick scroll. This astonished me more than anything else about her, for never before had I seen a woman reading.

  Cyrus' advisors left after a few moments, and Proxenus stepped forward casually to the prince's table, informing him that he had brought a friend who was joining the expedition.

  "Well done, Proxenus," the prince exclaimed. "Between you and Clearchus I'll have half of Greece fighting for me before we're through!" He flashed a friendly grin. "Xenophon of Athens, son of Gryllus?"

  Xenophon seemed momentarily taken aback, but quickly recovered and stiffly replied, "Yes, sir."

  Cyrus stood looking at him for a moment in some amusement. "At ease, my man! By the gods, who do you think I am, King of Persia? I've heard much of your father-all reports of the very highest order, I assure you, though I don't imagine he would say the same about me." The prince chuckled and stood up to walk around his table to where we stood. I was surprised to note how short he was. I somehow always imagine men's influence to match their height, and never fail to be disappointed at how modest in stature most great men are, or for that matter, how tall I am.

  "I understand you're a follower of Socrates of Athens?" Cyrus asked. Xenophon glanced questioningly at Proxenus, surprised again to find how much Cyrus already knew of him, but Proxenus gave a slight shrug as if to say that he was on his own with his responses. "Indeed, you have company here among us," continued Cyrus. "One of my Athenian generals, Menon, is also a disciple of his-perhaps you know him? I regret never having had the opportunity to sit at the great man's knee myself, as I have never been to Athens and Socrates has refused all invitations to visit me here in Sardis. But Menon has been kind enough to repeat for me as much as he can recall. Indeed, I was most impressed with Socrates' justification of a soldier's life, and I am told that Socrates himself is an old veteran, and a well-regarded one, besides. As I recall, he said that to fall in battle is in many ways a desirable thing. A man is granted a splendid funeral, worthy of an archon, even if he dies poor, and though penniless, he is praised by great orators, who do not offer compliments lightly."

  Cyrus paused for a moment to murmur something to his tall consort, who slipped away through the rear flap without a word, and then he turned back with his broad grin. "In any event, there will be no danger of any of my men dying in penury," he laughed. "And," he said, looking straight at Xenophon, "I'm delighted to have a man of culture in my camp. The Spartans are the most dour, ignorant mob of bullies you can imagine, and frankly, Proxenus, your Boeotians are a bunch of country jackasses, though I'll admit your engines are a marvel. Xenophon, I hope your duties won't be so heavy that you can't find the time to join me for some good Greek wine in the evenings, to tell me what your friend Socrates' latest outrages are that have your city's leaders so riled up." Cyrus began to walk us to the door of his tent.

  "I'd be delighted to join you at any time, your lordship," Xenophon replied stiffly.

  "So," said Cyrus with a wry smile, "I presume that Proxenus has found an appropriate position for you in our little army? Something that will loosen you up, I hope, before you turn into a Spartan yourself. I can't promise more than a daric or two a month as pay, but you can count on wealth beyond your imagining in the form of booty, if we are successful."

  Xenophon considered how to respond as the three of us left the tent together, but hearing the sound of steel sliding on leather, I turned to find that the prince, with a playful grin, had drawn his sword and was brandishing its tip under Xenophon's chin. Proxenus looked on in barely controlled alarm.

  Before anyone could move, some passing, mischievous godlet, some playful spawn of a satyr who was eavesdropping on our conversation, triggered the defensive reflexes I had developed during the long ephebe training in Athens. Without thinking I stepped in front of Cyrus and gave him a tremendous blow to the wrist with the heel of my hand. His sword went flying high in the air, impaling itself in the roof of his tent and eliciting a small, frightened shriek from within, and as I finished my swipe, I placed a hammerlock with my forearm around the prince's neck. In a trice, eight enormous Ethiopian guards had locked their spear points into position inches away from my face, but I fixed my eyes on Xenophon's, as I had been trained to do, as if in a trance, waiting for him to give the word before I broke the neck of the Prince of Persia. It was only then that my reasoning caught up with my body, the nasty satyr scampered away chuckling, and I realized with horror what I had done.

  Xenophon was petrified and hoarsely ordered me to let go, with visions of spending the rest of his life in a Persian dungeon before he had even started on his adventure; but Cyrus, after the initial moment of shock, burst out laughing.

  "Well done!" the good-natured prince exclaimed as I let him go. Proxenus was white as a sheet. Cyrus rubbed his wrist and babbled incomprehensibly to his guards, telling them in their barbarian tongue not to skewer us. "I asked for that one! I meant to show you that if you're going to do battle against Asians, you'll have to get used to treachery. I should have known that the Spartans aren't the only fighters in my camp. If you surprise the enemy as well as you did me, you'll be a general before the year is out!"

  Proxenus glared, but I could see a wave of relief wash over his face at the happy outcome of the mock attack, and perhaps a glimmer of pride. Cyrus clapped his hands on the two men's shoulders as he walked us back to our quarters, while I walked alongside, and Proxenus kept a wary eye trained on me to be sure I didn't further endanger his livelihood.

  "Proxenus, we're marching in three days. Find Xenophon any armor and weapons he needs, and make sure he has a horse to ride instead of that mule I'm told he straggled into camp on. And don't neglect our touchy friend here," he said, nodding at me. "If there's anyone in this camp I want to keep happy it's him!" And flashing another of his grins, he strode off through the tent alleys, to the approval of his men and the exasperation of his trailing counselors and bodyguards.

  That evening, after the day's business was complete and Xenophon, Proxenus and I were washing up in the officers' bath, I mentioned the brief vision I had had of the love
ly girl in Cyrus' tent. Proxenus looked at me strangely for a moment, then sighed.

  "So you're in lust with Asteria. Line up behind the rest of us."

  Xenophon looked questioningly at him, and then quietly admitted, "I saw her too. Reading, no less."

  Proxenus grunted. "She's a rare bird all right. Cyrus keeps an entire harem, of course-even travels with them on campaign, and it's usually that tall Phocaian bitch, the one standing behind him, that keeps his dog happy." He smirked for emphasis. "But it's Asteria the Milesian, the one you noticed, who is his favorite. She stays in his tent all the time, I hear, though not for the reasons you might think. And she's not a concubine-remember that at all costs. Cyrus once had a steward flogged for calling her one. Men say she's the daughter of one of old King Darius' satraps, and that she's somehow related to Cyrus as well-a niece or a cousin. She was raised in the harem in Persia along with the king's own children. She speaks Greek better than I do, recites Homer aloud when the prince wants to relax, and plays the lyre like a goddess. She also knows the medical arts, from studying with the king's physicians. I'm told she nursed Cyrus back to health after his bear adventure, when his own doctors had given him up for dead. Go ahead and admire her, but take care it's from a distance. If Cyrus catches you even looking cross-eyed at her, you'll be joining the ranks of his eunuchs faster than you can say, 'Bless me Uranus.' I have yet to meet a woman who's worth that."

  Thus my first contact with Asteria, a girl who could read Homer, and who was to have such an impact on the rest of my life. Had I entered Cyrus' tent twenty minutes before or later, or had I not peered curiously into the dark corner, it is entirely possible I never would have looked into those kohl-lined eyes. So much of the future hangs upon the most ephemeral of webs spun by the Fates, the remote likelihood that one of a thousand possible results will be chosen by the deities. If a man were ever able to unravel such threads, he would have finally solved the mystery of the universe and attained the wisdom of the gods. In so doing, however, he would be struck down by those very deities in defense of their existence, as was Icarus upon approaching the sun.

  Perhaps it is best to resolve not even to try to unravel those threads; but such resignation flies in the face of one's own humanity. It is a quandary.

  CHAPTER THREE

  OUR DEPARTURE FROM Sardis on the ninth day of March was splendid, a day of sunshine and confidence, and the entire city turned out along the route to view the spectacle. The men began marching at first light, and by midday not even half the enormous army had taken to the road yet. The tremendous cloud of dust raised by the tramping feet obscured the sun so that no one could see the entire army in a glance, but watching the thousands upon thousands of solemn faces as the troops passed by in their wide columns gave sufficient indication of power as to impress even the gods. Only Clearchus and his most recently recruited troops were absent, as they would be joining us later on the march.

  The procession was led by long trains of surly pack camels, followed by herds of goat and sheep for the daily sacrifices, to obtain the gods' favor before battle and hazardous river crossings. These were followed by big-eyed, lowing oxen trailing enormous wagons laden with the troops' heavy equipment and supplies. The animals' early lead would allow them and the gear to arrive at the daily campsites first and begin seeking forage, and would allow the quartermaster's slaves to start setting up tents and cook sites for the arriving troops. The oxen were followed by forty elephants, which Cyrus had acquired from Indian traders. They were the first such beasts I had ever seen, and were fearsome, seemingly holdovers from the age of the Titans. They stood as tall as a small tree and were hairless and wrinkled, from a distance appearing to have a tail at both ends. If one didn't know better, they would seem to be walking backwards, although I soon learned that the large, flapping ears were a reasonably accurate indicator as to the location of the head. These creatures, however, were merely for show during the grand departure from Sardis. The forage they would have required would have been too difficult to support during a normal march, so after the grand review was finished, Cyrus ordered them to be circled back to the city to continue assisting in the construction of its defensive works.

  Cyrus' native troops followed next: a hundred thousand Persians, Lydians, Egyptians and even Ethiopians, bedecked in their own country's armor and clothing, each with their individual drummers and pipers to keep the marching feet in rhythm, their native officers shouting orders in barbaric tongues. The pennants and standards of the native brigades flew proudly, and each unit tried to outdo the others during this lead march out of Sardis before the prince's watchful eyes.

  Behind the infantry, led by the prince himself, rode the Persian cavalry, thousands of identical white Arabian stallions, prancing and snorting, their proud riders sitting erect and motionless, wearing pointed bronze helmets and chain mail that glittered in the sun like the squamae of fish. Surrounding them were ranks of pantalooned Medes marching in perfect precision, bearing gilded and bejeweled lances topped with silken banners woven in the form of dragons; as the breeze blew through their gaping jaws, they seemed to hiss with rage, their long tails fluttering behind them on the wind. Following the cavalry, in the place of honor usually reserved for the general's bodyguard, came the proud Greeks, marching in unison, their scarlet cloaks fluttering in the breeze and the long, oiled braids of the Spartans among them carefully dressed and flowing down their backs. It would have been wonderful to roll out a walking display of Proxenus' Boeotian engines, but the crowd was too pressing for it to be safe, and Clearchus, who detested the machines in any case, had vetoed any discussion of the matter among his captains, even during his temporary absence. Proxenus and Xenophon, along with the other officers, rode alongside the columns of marching troops, though not so much to keep them in order as to keep the crowds contained. So enthused were the onlookers by this time that it was difficult to restrain the women and girls from flitting into the columns to plant kisses on the men's faces, or the male bystanders from thumping our Greeks stoutly on the shoulders in a jubilant display of well-wishing and hope for success against the upstart Pisidians. Following close behind were Cyrus' six hundred cavalry bodyguard, his "Immortals," in demeanor and discipline every bit as fearsome as the Greeks. These men were hand-picked from every nation under Persian dominion, but were uniformed and armed identically, and had been trained for years to serve no personal desire and to favor no master before their duty of protecting Cyrus. They were somewhat put out at having to march behind the Greeks in the army's column, but during the course of the next few months, Clearchus made special efforts to ingratiate himself with them, as far, at least, as he was capable, given his lack of social skills. Eventually the Greeks and Cyrus' Immortals gained a grudging respect for each other.

  The rear of the column consisted of more native infantry and the army's twenty "scythe chariots," the curved blades on their hubs sheathed for safety but still cutting ominously through the air, to the delight of the crowd and the utter disdain of the Spartans, who loathed any such gimmickry. Behind this was Cyrus' personal retinue, an enormous mob: the quartermaster general, with his ninety subalterns, responsible for billeting and feeding the troops; a company of haughty horsemen, couriers for the prince and the senior officers; and carriages bearing dozens of Persian seers, priests and their assistants. They were accompanied by an equal number of vehicles loaded with their supplies: lavish robes and other garments, ceremonial knives, chalices, incense, scrolls, and vessels. Next were the covered wagons bearing the royal wardrobes, which despite their size were dwarfed by those bearing the wardrobes of the Persian generals, much to the scoffing and hilarity of the Greeks. The importance of the marchers and goods declined rapidly from this point: fifty empty carriages and wagons used for reserve, an entire herd of unmounted horses, each led by a Persian boy in pantaloons and slippers, and an unending parade of vehicles reserved for the prince's concubines, valets, physicians, barbers, footmen, apothecaries, scribes, porters, tailors
, laundry women, the head cook and his fourteen assistants, the prince's taster and two replacement tasters, engineers, historians-one's head spins.

  After this came the real show-the enormous, straggling, jeering and cheering crowd of camp followers-leather tanners, con artists, prostitutes, water sellers, musicians, jugglers, seamstresses, money changers, laundry women, wives and children of the soldiers themselves, and a horde of beggars and tramps trailing behind, a complete representation of the entire lower strata of Persian and Greek society, a veritable city of thousands, half again as many as the soldiers themselves, who made their living serving and fleecing the army by day and entertaining it by night, or perhaps the other way around. They were despised by the officers and army regulars, but ultimately tolerated and even protected, because otherwise the services they provided would have to be rendered by the troops themselves, and trained fighting men were too valuable to be wasted on mundane camp tasks.

  I shall not go into excessive detail regarding the daily progress of our march. For the most part the routine was uneventful. Cyrus had arranged for sufficient provisions from the outset, so we were not dependent upon foraging from the countryside as we passed through. Consequently, our arrival in each city and village was not feared by the inhabitants, but was instead an occasion for cautious celebration. The prince traveled with an ever-present chest of copper coins, which he would toss in handfuls to the crowds on either side, with the expansive gestures of a benevolent father. The crowds would mill frantically around the caravan, competing with the native company of beggars from Sardis, and create an uproar as they scrambled in the dust for the tiny coins that became trampled underfoot. Cyrus and his minions rode past, solemn, imperious, only the occasional tight-lipped smile breaking the gravity of their demeanor, watching as their subjects rolled in the filth at the feet of their horses.