The Falcon of Sparta

by Conn Iggulden

  ‘Majesty, you know I taught Cyrus when he was a boy. These hands have beaten him when he left a black cobra in my room.’

  ‘And an ostrich,’ Artaxerxes replied, chuckling. ‘Yes, I remember.’

  Tissaphernes did not share the king’s amusement at the memory.

  ‘I know him well, Majesty. Well enough to suspect he would not easily forgive the loss of his Spartan guards, nor how close he came to losing his head. If not for your mother’s intercession …’

  ‘Yes,’ the king replied. ‘Though his death would have left us weak. The nations look to us for stable rule, Tissaphernes. Cyrus knows our armies better than any man alive. Perhaps in time I will replace him, but as mother said, to do it so soon after our father’s death would be to invite chaos.’ The admission seemed to strangle his voice as he went on. ‘Sparing my brother’s life was a wise decision.’

  Artaxerxes leaned forward. The slave girl had drawn her thigh up against his bare leg. Tissaphernes thought he could hear the whisper of her skin sliding over the king’s. He dared not look down, not while Artaxerxes watched him as intently as the cobra both boys had placed in his room so many years before. Tissaphernes had always been terrified of snakes. He’d screamed like a woman then, only to hear two princes almost choking as they hung helplessly on each other, red-faced in their laughter.

  ‘Unless you have new information, Tissaphernes …? What do your spies report? Is my brother loyal?’

  ‘Who can tell the secret heart, Majesty? Yet I have reports of huge sums being drawn on the royal treasury. Sixty, eighty thousand darics, more.’

  ‘What of that? Perhaps he builds new barracks, or trains more men. The army is the strong right arm of the empire, Tissaphernes. You do not appreciate the costs involved. I think half my treasury goes to feed soldiers each year, perhaps more. The horses, the armour, the arrows alone! I remember my father’s pride in the sheer number of men we could put in the field. Do you understand? My father did not complain of the cost, no, he took pleasure in it! Who else could afford such a host of hosts? If not my family? Tissaphernes, if that is all you have, you have disappointed me.’

  Tissaphernes nodded. The king was listening intently, his slave girls forgotten. It was time to ease the hook back and hold him fast.

  ‘Perhaps you are right, Majesty, though the amounts the prince demands are twice as great as the year before. I am concerned, though, at the number of Greek soldiers he has engaged.’

  ‘As auxiliaries? We know his liking for those mercenaries, the Spartans above all others. What of it? A few thousand here and there to train and inspire our Immortals. Tissaphernes, my brother has administered the armies for years. As much as we may have … disagreed on certain things, he would not endanger the empire, not for a million Spartans.’

  ‘Majesty, I have reports of many thousands. He sends them north and east. He trains some in Thrace, some in Crete. Yet they are all in reach of him. A suspicious man might say it begins to resemble an army of conquest, Majesty. I do not know how many Greeks he has brought in, but he has raised thirty or forty thousand Persian soldiers under his direct command, all over the western cities. Perhaps more by now.’

  Artaxerxes began to reply, but then thought better of it, becoming thoughtful. Tissaphernes did not interrupt him, but waited with his eyebrows raised. He had one last stone to place on the board.

  ‘Majesty, you know I would not bring you wild accusations, mere wind and spite. Over the years, I have kept a few eyes watching, a few scribes writing, all over the empire. Some are men close to Cyrus. I have never heard a word of doubt about his motives. Not once.’

  ‘And it is different now?’ Artaxerxes said, his face growing hard.

  ‘No, Majesty. Now, they say nothing at all. The birds no longer fly to me – and I wonder what could be happening over on our western border.’

  Artaxerxes stroked the hair of the slave sitting by his knee, as he might have with a favourite hound. Tissaphernes risked a glance at her and found her smouldering resentfully up at him, her expression almost scornful. He flushed and looked away.

  ‘Very well, Tissaphernes. I know you well enough to respect your instincts. If you say there’s something in the wind, I would be a fool to ignore you. Go yourself, to the west. Take only a few men, but meet my brother. Judge if he is still loyal.’

  Tissaphernes shifted uncomfortably, thinking of the months he would have to endure on the road.

  ‘Majesty, the last time I saw your brother, it was to escort him to his execution. He will not look kindly on me, no matter his other loyalties. Perhaps I could …’

  ‘Do as I have told you,’ Artaxerxes said. ‘I have allowed my brother to resume his old titles and authority. I have put aside orders I gave in grief at my father’s death. If he kills you, I will know he is still angry. You see?’ Artaxerxes smiled, showing white teeth. ‘Even in death, you can be useful to me.’

  Tissaphernes knew better than to argue further. He prostrated himself at the king’s feet.

  ‘You honour me, Majesty. I will go and return to you with the truth. Or I will die. Either way, I serve the empire.’

  Xenophon stood in the sun and watched as a furious Greek sailor pitted his strength against a frightened horse. The man had seemed competent enough at sea, but as the rest of the recruits were lined up on the docks, Xenophon could only stare at the way he was trying to bully the whinnying animal. The whites of its eyes were showing and the sailor was swearing and lashing it with a strip of leather – as if the fury and pain would make the horse come to him! It had braced its legs on the walkway from the ship’s deck to the dockside, with all its weight pulling back. With just one furious sailor pulling the other way, it looked as if the animal would remain there until nightfall.

  Two hundred young men of the Greek cities were still trundling down a second gangplank to the docks, with no more than a few dozen on the soil of a foreign port, waiting for someone to tell them what to do. Xenophon clenched his jaw as he looked for the officers who should have been there. They were not the same sort as the one he’d signed with, unfortunately. Xenophon had been disappointed not to see that man again. Instead, he’d been passed into the care of a couple of old soaks, with thirty years under their belts and maps of their travels in the veins of their cheeks and noses. As soon as the ship had been tied up at the dock, both of them had stepped down without a glance back, no doubt heading to their favourite drinking house. The young Greeks who had come to fight for Prince Cyrus had been left to their own devices.

  The docks were busy with ships loading and unloading for as far as Xenophon could see. He reached under his new leather breastplate as he stood there, trying to scratch himself. He’d seen some of the other men rubbing stones against the inner layer and he understood better then, when the itching drove him to distraction. Experienced men knew where to spread a smear of oil, or how to smoke fleas from their coats, or just the importance of carrying a good flask of water. Xenophon knew none of the thousand little things that made the difference between misery and comfort. He was learning as fast as he could, but … He swore under his breath.

  The sailor had lost his temper and was bawling at the mount, red-faced with embarrassment as a crowd began to form. Xenophon strode towards him and he was in time to see the horse give a great toss of its head, flinging the man back and forth as if he weighed nothing. As soon as the sailor found his footing, he raised his lash again.

  Xenophon took it from him with a sudden jerk, throwing it aside.

  ‘You are frightening an animal stronger than you. Do you want to see it break a leg on this dock?’

  The man was so deep in his rage that he considered striking the young man who stood before him. Xenophon could see it in his eyes, then saw the urge fade. The sailor had no idea who he was, but he knew well enough that there would be a terrible punishment for striking or offending one of the officers. It was enough to give him pause, while Xenophon took the reins from his unresisting hand.


  ‘Let’s get him calmed down, shall we?’ Xenophon said more gently, as much for the benefit of the horse as the sailor.

  The man muttered something foul under his breath that Xenophon ignored. In truth, the sailor was relieved to be able to stand clear, though he did not go far and remained with his arms folded and a sneer on his face. Xenophon understood the man would wait to judge his efforts, as he felt his own had been judged. The difference was that Xenophon did not care what the man thought of him.

  The horse had watched the change of grip on its reins with bulging eyes. Xenophon had wondered many times how much the animals understood. He suspected horses were intelligent enough to be spiteful, or even to put on a show.

  ‘There. Now, let’s have a look at you, shall we?’ he asked. ‘What a fine coat.’

  He kept a good grip on the reins, though he did not pull, or throw his weight against a stallion that could have dragged a man for miles. As he talked, he turned aside, as if he was just about to walk away.

  The horse remained on the walkway as if rooted there. Xenophon saw the sailor grin out of the corner of his eye. The man leaned over to say something to the person next to him. Xenophon glanced at them and frowned when he recognised Hephaestus standing there.

  The young man had joined on the same day he had, with the same recruiter. No doubt that Spartan had earned a bonus for himself. Xenophon had spotted Hephaestus on the docks in Athens as they’d gathered and he was still not sure what to make of him even being there. They were not friends, that much was certain. They hadn’t exchanged a word on the crossing, though both men were aware of the other.

  Xenophon still wondered if Socrates had persuaded Hephaestus to join up, rather than waste his life on the streets. The more troubling thought was that the old man might have put Xenophon up to it just to look after Hephaestus. The years Socrates had spent as a soldier had been relatively happy ones, so he always said. It would not have been beyond him to recommend a few seasons of marching and fighting to put the rest of their lives, the rest of their troubles, in some kind of perspective.

  ‘Come on, Hippos,’ Xenophon said, speaking to the horse. ‘You don’t want to be standing there all day, do you? There are others behind you, you know.’

  Xenophon was intent on the horse when Hephaestus stepped up alongside him.

  ‘Tell me what to do,’ the young man said.

  Xenophon raised his eyebrows in surprise, but then he nodded.

  ‘All right. We’ll speak calmly for a while, to let him know there’s no danger here. I should think he’s still a little uncomfortable from the crossing. Horses can’t vomit, Hephaestus. They just get sick – and angry, sometimes. Go on and pat his neck, though be careful if he tries to bite you. He’s still a little wild about the eye.’

  Xenophon watched as the shaven-headed young man of Athens reached up and touched a horse for the first time in his life. The animal’s neck trembled as if flies had landed, but the stallion did not snap at him. Hephaestus began to chuckle in sheer delight at the touch of the skin.

  ‘I can see his veins,’ he said in wonder. Xenophon smiled.

  ‘Yes, though I think his great heart is slowing now. They respond to touch. Just keep stroking him. There, old fellow. I think you might come down off this old plank now, yes? It must have felt like madness for you to walk out on it while it shook and bounced? Yes, I imagine it did. Come on.’

  Xenophon turned away once more and the horse followed him down, with barely a trace of the skittish fear it had shown before. He walked it up and down on the dock, with Hephaestus alongside the whole time, patting it or just keeping a hand on the mount’s shoulder. Great ripples ran along the skin under his touch, but Xenophon saw the animal grow calmer, its head drooping.

  ‘You have a feel for it,’ he said.

  Hephaestus looked at him in surprise, utterly vulnerable in that moment, before he looked away.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I wish I could ride. I’ve always wanted to learn.’

  The watching sailor waved a hand at the two of them in disgust and went back up the gangplank to fetch another. Across the docks, the two officers were returning, refreshed and lubricated, ready to take command once more. They saw Xenophon and Hephaestus standing with the horse and called them over.

  ‘You’re the one who knows the mounts, then?’ the older of the two said.

  Xenophon nodded. He had no idea what had been marked against his name, but he knew horses could be frightening to those who had not grown up around them.

  ‘I am. My father bred them.’

  ‘Good. A couple of lads who know what they’re doing might find themselves in demand out here, believe me. It’s a hundred miles to Sardis – four or five days of marching in the heat. If you two look after all the horses, you might find better rations coming your way. There’ll be proper cavalry in Sardis as well, in case you were wondering. Good ones, not like these bony old nags.’

  Xenophon saw Hephaestus cover the ear of the horse he still held, as if to shield him from the comment. The action was so ludicrous it made Xenophon smile. Socrates had promised him new experiences. The old man who claimed to know nothing was wiser than he knew.

  8

  The wind was constant under the sun, though Cyrus hardly felt it as he trotted a fine stallion along the edge of a plain that stretched right to distant blue mountains. He had been observing the training since the sun rose, with Parviz at his side. The man who had been the first to give the prince water had become his loyal manservant and could hardly believe his good fortune or the rise in status. Parviz rarely left his presence. Cyrus found he enjoyed the man’s brisk outlook and disdain for problems. All walls can be climbed, Parviz said, which was a strange motto for a fortress guard.

  On the plain by Sardis, six hundred Corinthian hoplites marched and halted, split apart along lines Cyrus could not discern, then attacked one another in ritualised mayhem. It was war as theatre, perhaps. Cyrus had heard the Greeks enjoyed the spectacle of great tragedies played out before them, to weep or laugh and come away somehow refreshed. He had no interest in such things, though he wondered if they played a part in the training. When no enemy was present, he could see little difference between the forces of the Greek cities and the legions of home. Persians too could march and wheel and deploy in various formations.

  Yet when the horns sounded, when the swords were drawn for blood and savagery, the Greeks went through Persian lines like a great iron sickle, sweeping them down. It was a mystery. Even regiments of Immortals did not fare well, especially against the Spartans. Cyrus knew it mattered to the Greeks that they held their father’s shield, a brother’s sword, an uncle’s bronze helmet. They sometimes carried the honour of an entire family into battle. Though they could be killed, they could not be made to run, not with the souls of braver men watching.

  General Netus the Stymphalian had been as good as his word, Cyrus noted. The man had trained new soldiers and salted older ones amongst them, making a fine force of twelve hundred in all. With the Spartans, they rose an hour before dawn and ran the hills around the plain for hours before returning to break their fast and begin weapon training. It was hard not to compare them with the Persian officers. Those men lived like the nobles they were, rising to be tended by slaves at a late hour and rarely breaking a sweat themselves. Netus, Clearchus, Proxenus and the rest all ran with their men, seeing no shame in it. There were lessons there.

  From across the plain, he saw two riders galloping at dangerous speed. Cyrus winced at the sight. There was no need to risk their lives and he could see the horses were of fine stock even at that distance. Though the plain was flat, there could always be a loose stone, or a hole to trap a flying hoof. Both men had placed leopard skins over the horses’ backs and sat high, perched with their knees gripping the shoulders as they plunged. One of them rode beautifully, as balanced as a tumbler, or a child running along a wall. The other was not skilled at all. He seemed rigid to the prince’s eye, gripping the ma
ne as if he thought he would surely fall.

  Cyrus loved horses and the sight was a rare one, though insane. He saw the galloping animals were heading straight for the lines of marching hoplites. They too had spotted the approach and come to a halt, with orders roared at them. The men drew into solid lines, raising shields like a wall that gleamed gold in the sun. Spears stood as dark bars behind them. It was well done, but the two horsemen did not slow. They came at the lines like an arrow shot through the air.

  While the hoplites looked on in astonishment, one of the riders whipped and jerked his horse to the front and then leaned out at such an angle it was clear he must fall. Cyrus watched as the young man lunged low down for reins that had been flapping loose. He understood in the instant that the lead horse had bolted and run mad, its rider utterly helpless, unable to reach the reins at all.

  With the leather straps wound about his hand, the lead young man turned both horses neatly, bringing them to a halt. Cyrus trotted his own mount forward, wanting to exclaim on what he had seen. His presence did not go unnoticed, however. General Netus brought the entire force of six hundred to attention as if for inspection. They crashed a step together and stood shoulder to shoulder.

  The young rider had dismounted to check the legs of both horses. He looked up when Netus called the men to order, but when his companion tried to lay a hand on his shoulder, Cyrus saw him shake it off in anger. Both of them turned as the prince drew up and leaped to the ground. Their expressions went from fury and shame to wide-eyed surprise as they recognised him. The man whose horse had bolted only bowed. The one who had caught him went down on one knee. It caught the prince’s interest.

  ‘What is your name?’ he asked the kneeling man.

  ‘Xenophon, Highness.’

  ‘That was a brave act, Xenophon. You risked your life to save this man.’

  ‘To save the horse, Highness. The horse is one of our best mounts. Hephaestus here should not have tried to ride him until he was more skilful.’