The Ten Thousand

by Michael Curtis Ford

  "We don't know from where dreams come," she said, "or why they fade. It's not important. You dream of death but it's only a dream. Our lives move forward."

  For the second time in my life I heard four words that struck me, leaving an imprint not to be removed, like a scar, or a family tattoo on the neck of a baby. I held her close and observed the return of Eos, and then for a short time I slept, mercifully free of dreams.

  The next day we traveled uneventfully as far as a small cluster of villages without catching sight of any enemy forces, although we were shadowed the entire way by Tissaphernes' cavalry scouts traveling singly or in groups of two or three, keeping well beyond arrow range. That night, the first in over a week that the army had had a chance to rest from sundown to sunup, the men were spooked. Sensing their restlessness, Xenophon asked me to quietly make the rounds among them, to try to identify their fears.

  "It's not necessary, Xenophon," I said. "I know what they are feeling. The men have seen too much. They're horrified at losing the prince so far from the sea and home. They fear the Greek gods of their past have left them, and that weighs heavily on their minds."

  Xenophon pondered this, but I could see from his expression that he remained skeptical.

  "Those are all general concerns," he argued, "but these men are veterans-they have experienced loss as well as victory. Surely the entire camp can't be on the verge of panic because of a vague feeling of abandonment by the gods?"

  "There is one thing more," I admitted, as he stared at me expectantly. "The Greek troops, unlike the officers, did not swear an oath of loyalty to Ariaius' men. They don't trust them, particularly given their desertion of the camp followers at Cunaxa. The native troops' camp is only a mile away, and they outnumber us by a factor of ten. Our men can't shake the feeling that a dark shadow has been cast directly over them."

  Xenophon gazed out over the camp in understanding, and began walking slowly back to Clearchus' quarters. The sky was dark and glowered with thunderheads, blotting out the moon and stars, and the troops huddled close to their fires and to each other for comfort. Every shout from a neighboring company, every oath from a soldier banging his finger while splitting wood, every whinny of a distant horse made the men jump and peer fearfully into the darkness. Everyone knew, or imagined, that we were surrounded by stealthy Persians, Tissaphernes' assassins or Ariaius' traitors, creeping unseen through the darkness, ready to pick off stragglers with a quick slash across the throat, or whole companies of us by a volley of arrows as we passed in silhouette in front of our bonfires.

  Even by the second watch, none of the Greeks had gone to sleep. They began consolidating into larger groups as men sought out those of their own dialect and country for comfort. Twice fearful commotions arose as someone shouted that there was an attack and everyone rushed for their weapons. The army would never survive the night intact-it was on the verge of a riot, and men were ready either to kill their commanders out of fury at the loss of their dreams of wealth, or to break and run wildly into the night, each trying to save his own skin by abandoning what he felt was the certain death of the others.

  As the night went on, a third panic fell on the Greeks, this one encompassing the whole camp, and an uproar ensued like one might expect from a surprise enemy attack. Clearchus despaired at the men's fears. He had the trumpets blown, and sent around his veteran herald, Tolmides the Elean, who had a harsh, grating voice that could be heard like a broken bell above the hubbub. At Clearchus' orders Tolmides bellowed for silence, and issued a proclamation from headquarters:

  "Let every man know this! Your commander Clearchus beseeches you to return to your individual companies and to remain still, under penalty of death for abandoning the line and rank; and he hereby offers a reward of one talent, or fifteen years' pay, for information leading to the identification of the man who let the wild ass loose in camp and created the unholy commotion that is disturbing the commander's sleep."

  To those certain of an enemy attack, the news that the uproar had been caused by a mere runaway donkey brought welcome humorous relief, and reassured them sufficiently that they were able to rest for the remainder of the night. Those who were wiser, who knew the enemy was not present, but who were even more afraid of the army's potential for self-destruction, were calmed at Clearchus' foresight in claiming that he, for one, was sleeping soundly. A few enterprising individuals even spent the night peering into every tent, searching for the rogue donkey.

  As for myself, I passed the rest of the evening pondering what the deities could have been thinking, to have blown their poor Greeks, like Odysseus, so far off course.

  Proxenus woke us early the next morning, in a cheerful mood.

  "Tissaphernes' ambassadors are arriving! Clearchus just received word from our outposts that heralds from the Persians have requested entry to the camp!" I put on a clean tunic, and began sand-polishing Xenophon's armor and mine. Cyrus was dead, yet the king and Tissaphernes appeared to be as wary of the Hellenes as we of them, or they would not have sent a party bearing a flag of truce to parley with us.

  In the meantime, Clearchus did not miss the opportunity to make Tissaphernes' ambassadors feel some discomfort. He sent word to the outposts to detain them out of sight of the army until he was ready. Then he called together his commanders to issue orders.

  "Form the army into battle array along the top of the ridge," he said. "Place the heavy armor in the center with the targeteers along one side and cavalry on the other. Make sure the ranks are at least three deep, and keep the baggage wagons and camp followers down in the valley. No need for the king to be reminded that he outnumbers us a hundred to one."

  When the envoys arrived moments later, he ordered that they be disarmed and dismounted, with even their ceremonial lance bearing Tissaphernes' golden winged-horse pennant taken away. They were escorted by the most hulking and heavily armed Spartans, past a field where six of Proxenus' Boeotian engines were conveniently engaged in horrific practice, to Clearchus' headquarters. This he had arranged something in the manner of a tribal throne, drawing upon the experience of his years spent in Byzantium, inside an enormous tent he had hastily cobbled together from several others. The interior was sumptuous-all armored attendants, veiled harem girls lounging on cushions, priceless carpets and tapestries and worshipful slaves awaiting his slightest order. The whole scene was so foreign to the rest of us who, unlike Clearchus, had no experience with Persian ways, that it was all we could do to keep from laughing, especially at the sight of our austere Spartan leader so surrounded by luxury. He gave us such a black look, however, with his terrible, scarred face and single, bushy eyebrow that ran without pause the entire length of his forehead, that he silenced us dead in our tracks. He then composed his expression into a haughty scowl to receive his guests.

  The Persians were impressed with the scene, having at first, outside the tent, mistaken Proxenus for the chief officer because of his commanding appearance. After being suitably berated by a guard for their lack of respect, they were ushered into the dim, smoky coolness of the "throne room." There were three of them-generals, from the looks of their haughty military demeanor, fine silk sashes and robes and carefully oiled and curled beards. As they strode proudly onto the carpets inside the tent, Clearchus reclined sipping a cup of wine, affecting a pose of utter indifference. The envoys launched into the carefully prepared introduction and formulations that precede all Persian court palavers, reciting the litany of honorific titles that garnish the Great King's name like jewels in a crown:

  "General Clearchus: On behalf of Lord Tissaphernes, Commander of the King's Cavalry, who speaks for the great King Artaxerxes, King of kings and Judge of men, Ruler of multitudes of lands and peoples, Conqueror of races far and wide across the entire breadth of the earth, Brother of the Sun, Omnipotent among Mortals, Invincible and Exalted, a Persian and son of a Persian…" The interpreter raced to keep up.

  Clearchus leaned forward and interrupted the florid speech, waving his hand
wearily and dismissively.

  "I don't have time for your boot-licking introductions," he sneered in his grating voice. "You spew idle flattery like droppings from a fucking she-goat." I prayed that the interpreter was a clever one, or at least not too fluent. "I ran your crack troops into the ground at Cunaxa like a bevy of Chian flute girls. My camp followers ground their bones for meal, and they are eager for more. If your cloven-footed king wishes a truce to arrange matters going forward, he'll have to do better than send dung-eating rump-scratchers like you. Tell Artaxerxes that my army has not yet had breakfast, and that we do not do business on an empty stomach. Greeks don't eat dog turds and thorns, as I'm told Persians do, so if the king is unable to provide some proper provisions willingly, as a sign of good faith, we will have to obtain supplies on our own terms." At that, Clearchus, the ascetic Spartan, leaned back into the darkness with an evil smirk, beckoning one of the trembling girls to refill his glass.

  The Persian generals stood frozen in horror, their barely contained rage flushing their cheeks. I had to pinch my arm black and blue to keep from guffawing on the spot, and I could see Proxenus' jaw muscles tensing as he worked to stifle his laughter. The embassy filed out silently, only to see that our men had been arranged into two long files outside the tent entrance, between which the ambassadors had to pass for what seemed an eternity before they finally arrived at their horses and were given back their weapons. As they mounted, on a signal from Proxenus the troops raised a deafening roar and began banging their spears loudly against the bronze rims of their shields. The suddenness of the clamor so frightened the already skittish Persian horses that they bolted, and it was all the enraged generals could do to hang on to the beasts' necks with both arms to keep from falling as they leaped away, back over the ridge to the Persian camp.

  Clearchus' ruse succeeded, for the ambassadors were back that afternoon, bearing a considerably humbler and less formal demeanor. This time, he kept them waiting almost two hours before summoning them in to his august presence. Without further introduction, they informed him that Tissaphernes felt his request was more than reasonable, and that as a sign of good faith, he would lead them to a village of suitable size where they could camp comfortably as long as they liked, have ready access to a market for food, and make preparations at their leisure to complete whatever arrangements were agreed to between the king and the Greek leadership.

  Clearchus dismissed the ambassadors to a meager supper he had arranged for them (a thorn branch courteously placed on each plate in order, he said, to make them feel more at home), and consulted with his council. It seemed best not to overplay his hand, for sooner or later Tissaphernes would discover the Hellenic forces' true strength, and it would not do to insult him further before a proper truce could be arranged. Clearchus waited an appropriate time, letting the ambassadors become so fearful of the outcome that they hardly touched their food; and when even the Greek officers themselves began questioning whether he might have a change of heart, he finally summoned the ambassadors back and ordered them to return to the king and arrange guides for his army at first light.

  CHAPTER TWO

  SUSPECTING THE KING'S potential for treachery, Clearchus marched the army in full battle array. The physical obstacles we encountered, oddly enough, were not of the gods, mountains, or rivers, or even the desert, but rather man-made. The land was riddled with dozens, perhaps hundreds of ditches and irrigation canals that could not be crossed without first building bridges, which we did by cutting down date palms and lashing them together. Clearchus himself set the example in this effort, wading into the mud with the younger men and carrying logs on his shoulders. At one point, spying a shirker resting in the reeds munching on bread he had saved from that morning, he dragged him out by the hair, threw him into the mud at the bank of the canal and beat him brutally with a heavy wooden rod he carried to pry embedded logs. The man was bleeding and unconscious before Clearchus finally laid off the punishment. The troops had gathered around silently and now stood staring, some reproachfully, others in fear and wonder at the harsh treatment.

  Clearchus climbed onto the bridge footing and glared at the men. "What the fuck are you all staring at?" He bellowed hoarsely. "Cyrus is dead and you are marching on your own, in enemy territory! By the good grace of the gods, you ass-humpers have been blessed with a Spartan for a general. When I lead men, I expect nothing less of myself than what I order them to do. And I expect nothing less of my men than unquestioning obedience! When a Spartan leads an army, that army is Spartan! And you will work as Spartans and behave as Spartans, or by the gods you will die as Spartans."

  The men dispersed sullenly, avoiding Clearchus' harsh gaze, but there was no further shirking as they redoubled their efforts to move the army and its baggage over the rough roads. Xenophon sidled up to me on his horse a few minutes after the incident, his face red with outrage.

  "Did you hear him, Theo? The man's a tyrant! 'Work as Spartans or die as Spartans.' That dog-breathed jackass is going to have the men deserting like our Thracians if he doesn't give them a better reason to follow him than the threat of being beaten with a stick in the mud."

  "Such as starving in the desert, perhaps?" I suggested evenly. "Or being picked off on the sly by Persian outriders? Those might be good motivations."

  He glared at me fiercely, but I held his stare, and he wheeled his horse and galloped off.

  When we arrived at the village three days later, we were relieved to see that the conditions were just as the king's ambassadors had promised. There was plenty of wheat, palms, and dates, and the natives had filled cisterns with a kind of date wine, to which the troops immediately took a liking, much to the officers' chagrin. Not only had the men lost their tolerance for drink during the long march from Sardis, but this particular wine had a tendency to immobilize them with a blinding headache. Clearchus banned its consumption, but not until half his army had been knocked supine for a day, during which time Xenophon and I prayed that the king's promise of safe conduct was trustworthy.

  Tissaphernes finally arrived with his retinue, which included the queen's brother, the three ambassadors whom we had already met, and a long train of slaves bearing gifts and supplies. Up close he was an older man than I remembered when I saw him in the chaos of the fighting outside Cyrus' tent, much more so than one would have expected for a cavalry commander. He was tall, however, long-limbed and rangy, with leathery skin and a wispy beard, constantly moving about with a kind of nervous energy that belied his age, and with a commanding bearing that indicated he would brook no dissent. His eyes were sharp and pale, a light blue or gray, and after entering the tent with the quick, confident step of a victor, he suddenly stopped short and gazed openly around the space, as if looking for someone in particular. I saw Asteria, standing in attendance behind Clearchus, shrink back behind the slave girl next to her, seeking to avoid his piercing gaze.

  Tissaphernes was not so easily cowed as the king's previous representatives. He locked his raptorlike glare on Clearchus, ensuring that he would be received as an equal or a superior, until the Spartan dropped his gaze. Having settled this matter of rank without yet even uttering a word, he further secured his position among the Greek officers by an elaborate distribution of gifts of golden chalices and other luxuries. Xenophon was allotted a beautifully ornate Persian bridle bit crafted of brass and silver, embarrassingly lavish for an officer of his rank, or for any officer serving under Spartan command. He gravely nodded his thanks to Tissaphernes' steward upon receiving this gift, and then handed it off to me, wishing to be rid of it, before returning to his place with the other Greek officers standing along the wall of the tent.

  After the ritual opening statements, during which Clearchus ostentatiously yawned, though with no apparent effect on Tissaphernes, the Persian turned and addressed not merely him but all the officers. He used an interpreter, though he was perfectly fluent in Greek.

  "Gentlemen," he said, in a surprisingly high-pitched and unctuous v
oice. "As you may know, my home country is a near neighbor to yours, and I have taken the liberty of proposing to the king that I escort you home personally, on the occasion of a journey I had already previously planned to visit my estates. My hope is that this will earn me the gratitude of you and your country, and would also be to the king's advantage by ridding him of a foreign army occupying his soil.

  "The king promised he would consider this plan. But he first told me to ask you why you make war upon his country. Your army is too small and your supply lines too long to establish any permanent presence here; yet you are strong enough to cause considerable damage before you are ultimately defeated. I urge you to forgo your harsh treatment of Persian ambassadors, and to answer my question with all due thoughtfulness, so that I may give a favorable response to the king and thereby assist you in resolving your difficulty."

  Clearchus' face softened slightly, as if he were much taken with the general's good sense. Although Tissaphernes was not as humble as might be hoped, at least he was not prone to the idle boasting with which the earlier ambassadors had offended the Greeks. After consulting with Proxenus for a moment, Clearchus replied with an effort at politeness:

  "Lord Tissaphernes: We did not originally intend to make war on the king, but rather on the Pisidians. Cyrus convinced us, however, through promises of glory and wealth, to assist him in his true goal, which we did out of loyalty and friendship to him. We have no intention of establishing a presence in your country, nor do we bear you any ill will. Cyrus is dead. We have no further business here, and would like nothing better than to march peacefully home, provided that we are not harassed along the way. Any aggression we will meet with deadly force."