Only Nasiq remained standing, seemingly transfixed at the sight of the Greek soldiers, their horses, and my sudden departure. After warily appraising the archers while they packed their weapons and remounted, she walked calmly over to the horse on which I lay miserably blinking in the blinding sunlight, and took my large hand in her tiny one. She patted my limp paw as would a little girl comforting a doll, smiling gently and chatting to me in her language, confident that I understood her or that I someday would. As Nicarchus walked over to tether my horse to his own animal to lead me, Nasiq reached up to stroke my forehead once more. As she did so, however, I noticed for the first time the small white blotch on the otherwise flawless skin of her hand. I involuntarily shuddered and jerked my head away. Nasiq, following my gaze, instantly dropped her hand and thrust it into her robe, her eyes welling with tears. She stood watching motionless as my horse set off at a painful, bumpy trot. It took no more than two hours to ride back to the Greek camp, where my arrival in this degrading position was obscured by nightfall.
Among my people I recovered quickly. Cyrus sent a message congratulating me on my survival, and good-naturedly threatening to return me to my mule as this was the second of his horses I had lost. He also arranged for my recovery to be monitored by his personal physician, a Persian well versed in the ways of treating desert sicknesses. The physician once came to visit me accompanied by Asteria, who behind his back shook her head in silent contradiction of the learned doctor's diagnosis. As he was leaving my tent, she lingered and stealthily slipped me a small earthen jar of a bitter herbal substance with her own wax seal upon the cap, pouring me the first dosage administered in a large goblet of water, and indicating that I should ignore the physician's suggested remedy of daily bloodletting. In return, I presented her with a small ostrich plume I had come across in the desert on an earlier outing, which I had been saving for the appropriate occasion.
Since that time, not a day has gone by that I have not taken a quiet moment to ask the gods' blessing on gentle Nasiq, forever virgin Nasiq, and to request forgiveness for my treatment of her. As a libation, I offer a cup of pure, cleansing water, the most sacred substance known, savoring the sensation of its flavorless coolness, marveling at the notion of its somehow containing, in reduced or distilled form, the ancient elements from which the earth was formed, the holy rain from the heavens, perhaps even some vague essence of immortality.
CHAPTER SIX
THE MEN'S NERVES were already on edge when the riot broke out. For days our scouts had been reporting signs that the king's forces had recently passed along the road before us. The forward troops were soon tramping through the droppings of several thousand horses, which were so fresh they had not yet even been coated by the layer of fine dust that settled on everything from food to a sleeping man's face if left exposed for more than a few hours. Villages and orchards we encountered were still smoldering from having been recently torched to prevent our procuring supplies. Deserters from the king's forces began appearing in increasing numbers, but interrogating them yielded contradictory accounts. Clearchus was of the opinion that they had even been sent purposely by the king with orders to exaggerate the numbers of his forces to create alarm among our troops. The men maintained a state of heightened alert, which combined with their growing anxiety at being hundreds of miles from the sea, and their physical exhaustion, greatly raised the level of tension in the army.
When a fistfight broke out between several of Menon's and Clearchus' soldiers, Clearchus broke it up; after hearing their dispute, he decided that Menon's men had started it and had one of them severely flogged. This did not sit well with them and later that day, when Clearchus was trotting his horse through the camp, one of Menon's men threw a hatchet at him. The blade buried itself to the haft in the horse's flank, causing the lamed horse to rear in pain and spill Clearchus to the ground. Uninjured but furious, he stood up stiffly, and was astounded to see that several other men from Menon's troops had gathered, not to assist him, but rather to stone him while he was down. Clearchus bellowed like a bull, seized an enormous stick lying nearby and swinging it like a cudgel, nearly killed one of his tormentors with a tremendous blow to the neck, even further infuriating Menon's men.
Fortunately for Clearchus, who though unrivaled as a fighter was no match for the number of gathering Thessalians, one of his captains nearby heard the tumult. Thinking that a skirmish had broken out with a squad of the king's soldiers, he summoned some Thracian infantry, who rushed over in battle formation. They linked their enormous oak shields in a phalanx behind Clearchus, while a detachment of Spartan cavalry stormed into Menon's camp just behind, cornering the now-terrified Thessalians against a rock wall with their skittish mounts, lances poised to kill.
Proxenus, Xenophon, and I, who were nearby, came running up unarmed and surprised, as did Menon, who flushed pale in his fury at seeing forty of his troops on their knees begging the Spartans for their lives. Clearchus was in a rage.
"Did you see these madmen?!" he roared, stalking back and forth before Proxenus and me, spittle flecking his beard and an enormous swollen blue vein throbbing visibly on his forehead. "These fucking traitors?! By the holy gods, I'll dice their balls like apples and send them home in a dung-cart before they betray the entire army in its sleep some night!" He raised his cudgel as if to strike and all forty of Menon's disarmed Thessalians simultaneously winced and cowered in terror.
Proxenus, though subordinate to Clearchus, assumed a commanding air. "Let go the club, Clearchus, and call off your men. Let's settle this privately between officers, not here in the presence of camp followers and knot-headed Persians." He glanced over at the growing number of native troops gathering on the side, watching expectantly, attracted by the prospect of seeing the Hellenic troops beat each other into the dust.
Clearchus was in no mood for discussion. "I was practically stoned to death by these stinking, camel-lipped bastards!" he sputtered. "They lamed my horse! They were still in diapers when I was killing their goat-fucking fathers in Thessaly, and I'll be damned if I'll allow the entire god-damned army to have its throat slit in the night by these cowering dogs who attack unarmed officers…"
Just then Cyrus and eight of his bodyguard came thundering up, roughly pushing the onlooking men to the side with their horses and forcibly shouldering past Clearchus' steady-eyed troops, still with lances poised to slaughter Menon's entire company the second their general gave the word. Cyrus' face was flushed with anger as he surveyed the scene in silence. Clearchus slowly lowered his club, but retained his defiant expression.
Finally the prince spoke, in a voice that was steely, yet so soft the men went silent and instinctively leaned forward to hear what he said. "Clearchus and Proxenus, and all the rest of you-you have no idea what you are doing. I have over a hundred thousand men under my command, but if I lose my ten thousand Greeks I have nothing. If there is any dissension among your ranks, the unity of my entire army is threatened. You'll see then that the wrath of the king will be nothing compared to that of the men surrounding you now." We looked up to see that thousands of Persian troops had gathered, and were continuing to flock to the site of the dispute in expectation of some dreadful event.
At this Clearchus' eyes lost their fanatic gleam, and he came to himself. He sullenly ordered his men to dress arms and return to camp. The terrified Thessalians stood up and shamefacedly made their way back to their individual tasks, and the crowd began to disperse. Cyrus looked at Xenophon and me, and shook his head warily, as if clearing his mind of a dreadful dream. "I'm glad the Greeks are ready to fight," he muttered as he climbed back on his horse. "I think we'll be able to make use of some of that excess energy in a day or two."
CHAPTER SEVEN
SHE WAS SOMETHING more than a slave but less than a peer, more than a consort but less than a sister, educated as a man yet wise in the ways of the harem. Her role in Cyrus' lodgings and heart was vague and undefined, a source of intrigue and curiosity to those living witho
ut, yet as accepted and comfortable as that between cousins for those inside. The time has long passed for me to define Asteria's place, to formally introduce her into the narrative, yet I have resisted until now, whether for lack of skill and objectivity or from pure ignorance-may the reader be the judge.
I came to know her over the course of several months, yet racking my brain as I have, I am utterly unable to define precisely when, or on which occasion, that defining moment of familiarity occurred. I have related already my first sight of her in Cyrus' tent in Sardis, yet when talking with her much later she swore she could not recall that portentous meeting, much to my disappointment. The vision I had created and developed in my own mind, through hours and days of refining that single memory until it glittered like a gemstone fresh from the polishing of the sand wash, had for her been nothing more than a chance encounter, a brief glance at one of the dozens of visitors her master received in his quarters every day. A shining recollection was shot out of the sky like a grouse by a slinger, leaving a small residue of surprised feathers drifting lazily down, briefly marking both the height the bird had attained in the air, and its final point of impact with dusty reality.
Yet by the time of my disastrous, and somewhat humiliating near-encounter with death in the desert, we had somehow come to know each other. Of this I am certain, because during my two or three days of recovery she was sufficiently confident to actually visit me in my tent, arrayed like all harem dwellers in gauze and veils from head to toe, and to leave me mementos of her affection-or at least that is how I perceived those stray touches, the unnecessary but welcome hint of jasmine scent in the medicinal water she gave me, the longer-than-required glances through the anonymity of the facial screens. When, then, did this familiarity develop? As for me, my own recollections have already been fatally discredited by her utter failure to remember my first sight of her. In fact, she herself suffered from the same inability to remember the precise instant when her attitude toward me changed from one of indifference or, at best, mild curiosity, to something more. What I can say is that during the course of those months of the desert march, I became a zealous student of the hunt, not so much of ostriches and asses, but of pinfeathers woven intricately into dark strands of hair, of kohl-lined eyes with lightly hooded lids, of a slight, girlish form tripping gracefully over the matted grass or scrub of the campsite, unable to be disguised by the voluminous folds of the robes and veils. Like a trapper, I sought my quarry where it would be most likely to be foraging away from the secure enclosure of her tent, surrounded by the glaring Ethiopians: among the physicians' quarters on the edge of the army's encampment, where she spent hours discussing the medical arts with the learned doctors; at the deserted edge of the camp, where she would stroll quietly with the other denizens of her harem colony; at bookstalls in the markets of the cities through which we passed, lingering in conversation with the scribes, while being tugged impatiently at the sleeve by her uncomprehending attendants. My hunt, however, was clandestine, and went unperceived, I believe, by observers. I had taken Proxenus' original warning about her to heart, and was determined to keep intact every valuable cell of my nether anatomy.
Given my secretiveness, did she notice me as I pursued her? I personally have no doubt that she did, and in fact once, in a moment of weakness on her part, I even gained her grudging admission to this effect, though she gave no indication of it at the time. A hulking, brooding foreigner, standing a full head above the surrounding crowds, and seeming to be present whenever she emerged into view from her lodgings, would be a hard sight for her to miss. Here the hunter and hunted metaphor breaks down, for if she had indeed been some sort of human prey and I the pursuer, it would not have taken her long to learn to avoid me, to post watchful and giggling sentries, to keep a sharp eye out for my stalking approach and thereby to passively dishearten me in my unwanted attentions. As it happened, she did not do so, and so by default gave impetus to my chase, even casting a smiling eye of encouragement to me now and then when my patience seemed to flag.
Who, then, was the hunter, and who the hunted?
Even today it is a question I cannot answer.
BOOK FIVE
CUNAXA
The victor's cause is pleasing to the gods,
But girls prefer the vanquished…
– UNKNOWN
CHAPTER ONE
THE PERSIAN SCOUT galloped furiously up to Cyrus on his frothing horse, his beard wiry and dusty from the sprint, a wild expression in his eyes. He shouted in Persian and in camp Greek, sometimes intermingling the two, his tongue tripping over itself in his hurry.
"The king… the king is marching toward us in battle array! Today is the day, Lord Cyrus! The hour of your glory is at hand!"
Word spread quickly down the line, raising panic among the camp followers and confusion among the men. Officers marching in the front, near Cyrus' party, immediately wheeled and began racing back to their units, colliding with the troops advancing behind. Concerned that we might be attacked at any moment, and on unfavorable ground, the prince dispatched officers the length of the army's march to begin making order out of the chaos and to provision the troops. Other riders he sent up into the surrounding hills to observe the king's forces, and to identify favorable terrain for a battle. Cyrus himself hastily donned corselet and greaves. Within a half hour the army had arranged itself into full battle formation along the crest of a low range of hills running perpendicular to the river. We were just outside the tiny hamlet of Cunaxa, six months and a thousand miles distant from Sardis, a mere three days' march from Babylon itself. The Spartans anchored the pivotal right line against the Euphrates, with Proxenus' division beside them, along with a thousand Paphlagonian horsemen from Cyrus' native troops, all of whom would be commanded by Clearchus. Menon held the left wing, adjacent to Ariaius, while the remainder of the native troops were positioned in the center. Behind the long ranks of soldiers the motley thousands of camp followers had gathered in shuffling order, bearing gap-toothed grins of anticipation and wielding makeshift weapons they had assembled from broken remnants of the drilling field. All carried sacks or baskets, for they did not intend to return empty-handed from their task. Behind them the quartermasters worked frantically, arranging the supply wagons into a compact, organized array, leading the vast herds of beasts into temporary enclosures, and setting up field hospitals and officers' quarters. The five hundred Lydian guards Cyrus had posted over the camp arrangements, in continued punishment for their sorry performance before Queen Epyaxa, stalked impatiently among the chaos, irritated at being assigned to camp detail. Sitting on his horse motionless in the middle of the front ranks was Cyrus, easily recognized by his bare head and flowing hair, surrounded by his six hundred cavalry, their polished armor glittering in the blinding sunlight.
We stood in silent formation, facing the hills to the east whence the king's troops would be arriving. Hardly a man stirred. The only movement was the occasional distant rider galloping from or toward the army, retrieving messages from the outposts and carrying Cyrus' orders to his far wings. The moment was otherworldly and eerie, tens of thousands of men motionless and silent-that brief moment before engagement when the lines are orderly, the troops confident, the horses calm, and the Homeric glory of battle is most apparent and anticipated.
The distant hills facing us began shimmering in the mid-afternoon heat, becoming hazy and ill-defined. Small flies buzzed about our faces, and sweat trickled down my sides under the corselet. My scalp burned and itched under the helmet, the felt caul lining my head underneath already drenched with perspiration. The initial tension, the sharp knot I had felt in my stomach while making my preparations, had given way to a dull, throbbing ache, a weight in the lower belly and knees, a pervasive background presence of anticipation and fear. Some men, even officers, became restless in the heat, shifting on their feet, gulping fetid water from their skins and chatting idly with their companions. A few set the rims of their heavy shields on the ground leaning aga
inst their knees, to free up their hands while they wrung out their caps. Others simply sank down into the dust where they were, grunting loudly as they sat, concluding that whatever repose they were able to afford their tense limbs was worth the difficulty of standing up again under the weight of their gear.
The sun beat on us relentlessly, turning the outside of our armor and helmets hot to the touch, steaming our bodies inside like loaves of bread in an oven. The haziness increased, and we had almost begun to doubt we would be seeing action that day at all, when we noticed the distinct outline of a brownish cloud floating up from the horizon. At first it was so distant and faint that when I pointed it out to Xenophon, he simply dismissed it as the effect of heat waves on the sand as the sun burned hotter. After a few minutes, however, we saw that the cloud was drifting closer, becoming denser and more ominous as it approached-the dust raised by the million marching feet of Artaxerxes' army.
The horizon at the top of the distant hills darkened to black, and then thickened in a wavy line, from the downstream course of the Euphrates at the right of our present location, in a wide arc almost to the farthest left of our view-and then the line began spreading and thickening like the dark shadow of a cloud, moving toward us, inexorable and plaguelike, as the massed forces of five times a hundred thousand men and horses approached us in formation. Certainly no sight ever seen by mortals, not the sacking of Thebes nor the destruction of Ilium, surely not even the war between the gods and the Titans, was a match for this sight of the king's enormous army, for pure, destructive splendor. Here and there shone sparkles of light as the sun reflected off glittering armor and polished bridle bits, and within moments the occasional shouts of officers' orders, the whinnying of horses and the thunderous, rhythmical tramping-above all the tramping-were carried floating and wafting to our ears by stray gusts of wind.
The Ten Thousand Page 17