The Ten Thousand

by Michael Curtis Ford

  "You're discouraged because the enemy has cavalry and we do not?" Xenophon asked, assuming an incredulous expression. "But cavalry are only men on horseback! I would pit their ten thousand men on parade horses against our ten thousand men on the safe and solid ground any day. No man has ever died in battle from the kick of a horse, only from a sword or spear; and your own blades have spent more time in Persian bellies than ever a weapon was meant to. The Persians are up on the ridge, trying to screw up their courage to attack us, and fearing a fall off their horses as much as they fear Greek iron in their bowels. I'm a trained cavalry man, believe me; horses are frightening because of their size and speed, but they are no advantage against a phalanx of Greek hoplites-except that a coward can retreat more easily on a horse!"

  At this, the men laughed and visibly revived, and there was some scattered clanking of swords against shields in approval. I could see Tissaphernes' cavalry standing still in silhouette on the ridge, watching the matter with interest, even if unable to hear the words.

  "I'll cut my words short. The enemy thought that by destroying our commanders, we would fall into chaos and could be eliminated. But they were wrong. The Persians' troops are foreigners, forced to fight under threat of flogging and execution. They think that because their own army would disintegrate without their officers' whips, all armies are that way. But we are Greeks! By killing Clearchus they will see ten thousand new Clearchuses spring up to take his place. You are all Clearchuses now!"

  The men cheered lustily, and as the sound rolled across the empty plain with the blustery wind I saw scattered Persian horses rear in alarm.

  "If you wish to see your loved ones again, keep your eyes on the road north to the Black Sea. That is the only way we can go. Burn the excess wagons, so we don't travel as slaves to our baggage train. Burn the tents too, sleep like the Spartans. Possessions are a burden, and don't contribute to our fighting. The more men under arms, and the fewer pushing baggage wagons, the better off we'll be. If we lose, all that we carry will belong to the enemy in any case; and if we win, we'll take plunder and use the enemy as our porters."

  Clanging their weapons, the men burst out in a great cheer, and ran off to gather the tents and superfluous supplies for the great fire to be set. The camp followers wept and wrung their hands, but the men ignored them, or brutally wrenched goods from their grasp. They knew that every pound of useless gear eliminated now would allow an extra brace of arrows to be carried, and possibly save the life of the wretch whose goods were being cruelly set aflame. A great cloud of greasy black smoke rose into the air, but lifted only a few feet, for the drizzle had increased to a steady downpour and seemed to press and weigh down on the smoke itself as it drifted across the plain, obscuring the watching Persian cavalry from our view. Xenophon sent riders galloping out on the remaining ponies to keep an eye on Tissaphernes' troops while we broke camp. With the little baggage we had left, this task did not take long.

  I cornered him during a brief moment of quiet. "The Black Sea, Xenophon? It's a thousand miles from here, through Media and the land of the Kurds and across the mountains of Armenia. Winter is coming on. Do you realize what you are demanding?"

  He avoided my gaze as he laced his sandals. "It's the only route we have," he muttered, for the first time allowing an expression of discouragement to cross his face. "You know we can't go back the way we came, over the desert, and there are no passable roads west, across Asia Minor. Our only hope is to strike north, across the mountain passes to the Black Sea. There are little Greek trading cities clinging to the southern shore like a string of pearls-Sinope, Cotyora, Trapezus. We could raise a fleet in one of them and return through the Hellespont to Ionia and the mainland."

  I snorted. "And how do you think to buy a fleet? You expect to extract gold and booty from the mountain tribes we conquer along the way? My recollection from Herodotus is that they're scarcely more than savages."

  He stopped fiddling and finally looked straight up at me, almost angrily. "Who said anything about buying a fleet? Don't you sell me short, Theo. This was not an impulsive decision. Of course we won't buy a fleet. We'll extort one."

  I looked at him quizzically.

  "There are Greeks along that string of trading posts, Theo," he continued, "but does that mean they're our brothers? Hardly. They'll be as dismayed as Artaxerxes was to see us arrive, and as delighted when we leave. They'll trip all over themselves to give us ships. If you were a citizen of muddy little Trapezus, how would you like to see ten thousand ugly, hungry mercenaries camped outside your city walls?"

  I conceded his point, but was still doubtful that this was sufficient basis to drag ten thousand men through the mountains in the middle of winter.

  Xenophon conferred again with Chirisophus as we arranged our battle lines, and they decided to form the troops into a hollow square, with the remaining baggage and mob of camp followers in the middle for protection. Chirisophus and his Spartans would lead and break through any Persian troops attacking us head on, while Xenophon would command the rear guard, fending off any nipping from Tissaphernes' cavalry in its attempts to break through the ranks into our supply train.

  Just before leaving, we were informed by our scouts that a Persian embassy was arriving and Xenophon and I went reluctantly to meet them, wondering what good news they could possibly have for us, and whether any they did bring could ever be trusted. To my surprise Mithradates, a Hellene who had served under Ariaius and had recently deserted to Tissaphernes, came galloping up with thirty horsemen. He affected a warm greeting for his fellow Greeks, but Xenophon remained distant.

  "Be quick about your business, Mithradates, or I'll make your safe-conduct as worthless as the one your Persian puppet masters offered Clearchus. You'll be yapping back to your own lines with your tail between your legs."

  Mithradates set his mouth in a tight expression and dismounted. At a nod from Xenophon, a squad of burly hoplites seized his horse and led it away. They forced his Persian colleagues off their mounts too, and took those horses to the baggage train. Mithradates protested at this treatment, but Xenophon explained. "The gods forbid us from violating a sacred oath of safe conduct for heralds and ambassadors," he said with a bitter laugh, "but to my knowledge they say nothing of our treatment of livestock."

  A crowd started to gather to listen to the parley, and I saw Asteria standing with a group of camp followers, craning her neck to see above the men in front of her. I caught her eye, and she gave me a tight-lipped nod of acknowledgment, barely perceptible, a grim expression in her eyes.

  Mithradates collected his composure, and began. "You know I was faithful to Cyrus while he was alive, and I remain a Greek," he said after a pause, wistfully watching the rich trappings being removed from his animal. "Tell me what you propose, and if I believe you have any chance at all, I will gladly join you, with all the men at my disposal. Think of me as a friend and advisor."

  Chirisophus, who had joined me by that time, scoffed. "We're going home. You can tell your masters we'll be moving fast through the country, taking only what we need and doing as little damage as possible, if we're let alone; but if anyone tries to hinder us they'll be sent back squealing like a pig, whether they be Persian or otherwise." He glowered at Mithradates.

  Mithradates held his gaze evenly, then turned away dismissively and addressed Xenophon again. "It's impossible for you to move through this country without the king's consent. You have no provisions and I see now that you have burnt your supplies. Is the king to provide tents for you now, as well as a safe conduct? Are you going to start complaining about the quality of the wine he sends to quench your thirst?"

  Chirisophus roared in a rage and lunged at Mithradates, his dagger aimed at his throat. I and some others held him back, but Mithradates barely flinched.

  "Mithradates, you're under a safe-conduct, and I'd advise you to leave now while you still can," said Xenophon quietly. "The troops are under control, we have a new command. Remind Tissaphernes of his
men's cowardly performance at Cunaxa. We will be marching through the king's country today, consent or no consent."

  Mithradates glared at him for an instant in a cold fury, then recovered his poise. Taking a deep breath to collect himself, he again pointedly ignored Chirisophus and addressed Xenophon directly.

  "Tissaphernes has one more request," he said. "Release all Persians you are holding as hostages, and he will then consider giving you safe passage out of the king's lands."

  At this, the Greek officers fell silent, looking to one another in bewilderment. My conversation with Asteria the night before came back to me, and as I glanced at her now she avoided my gaze, fixing her eyes on Mithradates alone. Xenophon stepped forward, to the front of the Greeks, and turned to face us.

  "Fellow Greeks!" he shouted in a clear, commanding voice, and all went silent. "Anyone who feels they are traveling under coercion, or who believes it to their advantage to join the Persians, may do so now, unimpeded. I stand here prepared, this very minute, to grant safe conduct to the Persian lines to all who desire." He then stood still and silent, searching the crowd of muttering soldiers from face to face, fiercely holding their stares for a long moment. My eyes locked on Asteria's, and hers, wide and unblinking, focused fixedly on Xenophon, her face bloodless and her lips slightly parted and trembling. I held my breath as I waited for her to react. She stood distraught and tense, poised as if to walk forward at any moment, yet she remained still.

  Xenophon finally dropped his gaze and turned back to Mithradates. "We have no Persian hostages," he said evenly, "and Tissaphernes knows that. Everyone traveling with us does so voluntarily. If Tissaphernes is trying to create a pretext for moving against us, then he needn't go to the trouble. Tell him to simply attack, openly and like a man, and then he'll see what it's like to taste Greek iron, rather than holding back in cowardice as he did at Cunaxa."

  Mithradates stared at Xenophon wrathfully, then turned on his heels and stalked back out of the camp in the direction from which he had come. His Persian assistants followed, wrapping themselves in as much dignity as they could muster, tramping through the mud and horseshit in their thin pointed slippers. Their stallions had already been disposed of. Chirisophus was still breathing hard, but had calmed down sufficiently to stalk back to his own troops, and had them arranged in marching formation in a trice. The camp followers and rear guard took somewhat longer, but by mid-morning the army was ready, and we moved slowly across the plain, leaving nothing behind but a pile of charred remains emitting putrid black smoke, and the last of our dreams of a triumphant return to Greece through the front door.

  CHAPTER THREE

  MITHRADATES GOT HIS revenge for the disgrace he suffered at Xenophon's hands. We had hardly started off that day when he appeared again at our rear, this time accompanied by two hundred cavalry and four hundred light infantry. His herald bore a flag of truce, and although we did not halt our march to receive him, Xenophon and several junior officers held back and waited for him to approach, neglecting to call any supporting infantry for protection.

  This was a mistake, for as soon as a sufficient gap had opened up between Xenophon's group and the army, Mithradates' cavalry whipped their horses along our flanks, seeking to drive a wedge between us and the main body of our troops and cut us down. We galloped frantically back to the safety of our troops, narrowly avoiding being encircled, but Mithradates' near approach nevertheless caught the army unprepared. Both the arrows from the Persian cavalry and the missiles from their well-trained slingers caused a number of casualties among our rearguard before we were finally able to drive them away by sheer force of numbers. We were accustomed to the powerful, body-length bows the Persians used in warfare, which although difficult to handle gave them a range beyond that of our own Cretan bowmen; but we had not counted on the deadly force of the Persian slingers, whose large stones, though not actually killing any of our men, kept them cowering under their shields and exposed to Persian cavalry charges.

  Xenophon ordered pursuit, but without sufficient horsemen we could catch none of the Persian cavalry, and even our fleetest footmen could not gain ground against their slingers and bowmen with such a long head start. By the end of the day the army had covered no more than three miles, and the rearguard troops straggled in from all directions over a period of two hours or more, in complete disarray. Our first day on the march without senior officers had been disastrous, and Chirisophus and the older captains made it clear that there was no one to blame for the debacle but Xenophon. He had allowed himself to be drawn out by the Persians to an exposed position, and then risked his own neck to pursue their retreating troops.

  He listened to their criticisms silently, a blank expression on his face, and acknowledged his blame, speaking only to humbly thank the gods that his first trial by fire had involved only a small Persian skirmishing force, rather than the full strength of Tissaphernes' army. As we were walking back to our tent, I could see that, rather than looking discouraged, he was busily puzzling something over in his mind.

  "The Spartans disdain slingers," he said. "They call their weapons children's toys, unfit to be used by real men with swords and lances. But did you notice how the enemy slingers cowed our troops today, even the Spartans? The Persians were able to stand far beyond our own range, and yet kept us squatting under our shields like turtles. Do we have any slingers in the army to use in the same way?"

  I thought for a moment. "The Rhodians are the most famous among the Greeks for their slinging," I answered. "But no, we have no company of slingers. Our Rhodians are distributed among the other companies according to their various skills-a few are hoplites, most are peltasts and bowmen. I know one-I'll ask him if there are any slingers here among his countrymen."

  I sought out an acquaintance I had made during the march across the desert, a young scout named Nicolaus of Rhodes, and asked him whether any of his compatriots knew how to use a sling. Nicolaus was a dark, slightly built youth, with delicate, almost feminine features and short-cropped hair, as was the custom on his island. He seemed barely strong enough to draw a bowstring. Political events on his island had conspired to drive him and many others like him into exile at a very young age, but the Rhodians' reputation as effective mountain scouts and crack marksmen had enabled them to easily gain employment with mercenary armies around the Mediterranean. The Rhodians were known for their good cheer and relentless endurance under conditions of hardship. Nicolaus was delighted that I had taken the trouble to seek him out, and he smiled wryly at my question.

  "Take me to Xenophon," he said, fishing out a long, tangled sling from deep within his pack, and seizing a walking stick, "and round up a half dozen sheep to be butchered tonight for the troops." As we trotted back, he whistled to several of his friends billeted in the units through which we passed, all as boyish-looking as himself, and shouted to them in his guttural Rhodian dialect to follow along and bring their slings and sticks.

  Arriving at Xenophon's tent, I staked the sheep to the ground in the adjoining field, and while Xenophon and I watched, the Rhodians measured off a distance of one hundred paces from the sheep and stood waiting for us. We looked at the distance skeptically.

  "You think you can hit a sheep from this distance?" Xenophon asked doubtfully.

  Nicolaus smiled. "One hundred paces," he said, "is the distance from which Tissaphernes' Persian slingers can hit a sheep with those fist-sized rocks they use."

  I was astounded. Rocks that size were big enough to knock a shield out of a hoplite's hand, and they could easily dent a man's bronze helmet into his skull. No wonder our men were being pounded by the Persian light infantry. The Rhodians stepped off another hundred paces, while we followed in even more doubt.

  "Two hundred paces," said Nicolaus, "is the distance at which a Rhodian slinger can hit a sheep using a small river stone found on the ground."

  I looked at Xenophon, who was beginning to think this show of bluster a waste of time. Nicolaus stepped off an additional h
undred paces, a total of three hundred yards. By now the sheep were at a ludicrous distance, beyond the range even of our archers, and the Rhodians were laughing and elbowing each other as if this were a joke.

  "And this is the distance from which I can hit a sheep using a lead bullet and my 'walking stick.'"

  Nicolaus produced from a small bag around his waist a collection of what he called lead bullets, each perhaps the length of a man's thumb and twice the thickness, formed in the shape of an acorn, tapering to a point on one end and blunt on the other. He explained that they were called balanoi in his dialect and he kept them for hunting, a practice he had indulged in since boyhood, but he had very few such pellets left. I began to see now why the Spartans disdained such a weapon as these insignificant, soft metal pellets. At the same time, I recalled that it was Nicolaus who had bagged the army's only ostrich during our march across the Syrian desert months earlier. At the time I had not even wondered how; now I was beginning to become interested.

  Xenophon shrugged in resignation. "Well," he said, "you've dragged us out this far. Show us your target practice." Nicolaus deftly slipped one knotted end of his sling into a notch on the tip of his walking stick, which he called a "sling-staff." He chose a bullet, placed it into the leather pocket of his four-foot sling, then looped the other end of the sling, which was considerably longer, around a small burr on the end of the staff and down the shaft to his hand. Whipping the entire contraption around his head two or three times, he let fly the bullet.

  None of us could see it after it left his weapon, but we could hear the device humming evilly through the air for a moment like an angry bee. The sheep scarcely had time to look up in question at the odd sound before we saw the eye of one of them explode in a burst of blood and brains and the animal drop in its tracks without so much as a twitch. The remaining sheep stared dumbly at their fellow, but did not have long to wonder at his fate, for the other Rhodians had limbered up their slings and sticks and sent their own pellets whizzing, straight and true, at their heads. All the sheep dropped as if struck by lightning, in a small puff of blood and fleece, except one that had been hit on the upper neck rather than the head. That one struggled gamely back to its feet and began hopping and bucking about in pain like an untrained horse, as the blood from the deep hole spurted over its dirty white fleece. The Rhodian that had fired that pellet apologized for his clumsiness, calmly loaded another bullet and let fly again at the madly prancing animal, this time striking it square in the face, despite its frantic movements, and dropping it as dead as the others.