The general saw Proxenus watching in surprise and he flushed. Clearchus was not a man given to long speeches and yet he had reached out to the prince. Cyrus was an easy man to like, it seemed. Clearchus put the thought aside. Though he led ranks and files and armies, he was not immune from the desire that curled and whispered in all of them – to follow a worthy man. For the right prince, Clearchus knew his armies would walk into flames. He would himself.
‘Highness, it is … sometimes difficult to keep the state of Sparta in my mind. I have given my life to her, my blood, my sweat and all my youth, but it is hard to keep her in my thoughts in the rain, when my straps chafe and I am weary. My Calandre is easier.’
‘I have known a great love,’ Cyrus admitted. ‘Only one. But she married another.’
‘Perhaps she will reconsider your suit if you are successful here,’ Clearchus said.
Proxenus snorted and both men turned to see him chuckling into his cloth as he wiped a sore nose.
‘I would go to a Spartan for advice on war, Highness. I would not go to one for advice on love. They choose their women from those who win races.’
‘That is not true,’ Clearchus said. Cyrus looked wide-eyed at him. He shrugged. ‘Sometimes, that is true. Fast women make strong sons.’
‘Fast women with fine, silken moustaches,’ Proxenus said.
Clearchus looked calmly at him and Proxenus considered his words, looking at his feet. The Spartan barked a laugh then, clapping the sniffling general on the shoulder, hard enough to send him staggering.
‘Prince Cyrus,’ Clearchus said, ‘you have gathered good men to you. If you give me a year, I will turn them into an army that can shake the world. I cannot make Spartans of your Persian regiments. Yet I might make Corinthians out of them, or Athenians. Possibly even Boeotians. That will be good enough.’
Proxenus took a swipe at him and Clearchus leaned away, chuckling. The rain increased its force, though their mood had lightened beneath the downpour. All three were at ease as they turned to see a messenger skidding on the muddy ground as he ran up the slope. The boy was Persian and he unrolled a mat then lay on it, holding out a scroll case of polished stone. Cyrus frowned at it as he broke the seal and tapped out a roll of parchment. The rain spattered against it like the skin of a drum, smearing the ink and making the letters run. His mouth tightened.
‘I do not think we will get the year you need, general,’ Cyrus said. ‘It seems my brother has sent an old friend to inspect the armies of the west. Tissaphernes has arrived in Sardis and requests my immediate attendance on him.’
Cyrus rolled the message up, though it was too sodden to put back into the holder. He broke the tube over his knee and whistled for his horse to be brought, leaping up and throwing a leg over without a mounting block. As he gathered the reins, both Proxenus and Clearchus touched their left shoulders with their right hands and bowed their heads.
‘General Clearchus, General Proxenus. I would value your counsel in Sardis. I would be interested to hear your impressions of this Persian lord. Shall I have horses saddled for you?’
Before the Spartan could refuse, Proxenus spoke over him.
‘If you order it, Highness, of course. We took an oath of service, after all.’
Clearchus glared at the Boeotian, unable to say then that he would rather walk. Cyrus hardly hesitated, thinking ahead to a meeting with a man he would rather see killed than walking free.
‘It would be faster, Clearchus.’
‘You could ride behind me if you like, general,’ Proxenus said.
‘No, I won’t be doing that,’ Clearchus replied. He bowed his head and clapped his right hand against his left shoulder once more. ‘As you command, Highness, of course.’
Tissaphernes had been in the palace at Sardis for a week by the time Cyrus rode in with just forty men. A personal guard of six hundred soldiers accompanied the Persian lord. Cyrus supposed it had taken some bravery even so, after what had passed between them on the plateau. As the prince rode into the open courtyard and jumped down, he found himself facing silent ranks of Immortal soldiers, their black uniforms unmarked. He could not help wondering if any of them had been there in Persepolis, when his life had hung in the balance.
The horsemen with Cyrus raised a cloud as they too jumped down and passed the reins to slave boys. Dust drifted over the armed forces of Tissaphernes, like a stain in the air.
Cyrus could feel his heart beating. He could not be certain his brother hadn’t given an order to have him killed. He’d considered bringing thousands back with him, but more than anything else, such a display would have tipped his hand. He had to act as if all was forgiven between them, as if he did not consider Tissaphernes and Artaxerxes his enemies. Even if it meant his life, he had to act the part.
Accordingly, he strode forward and gave no sign of noticing the tension rise in the Immortal ranks. Cyrus smiled and held out both hands, embracing the older man and kissing him on his cheeks and lips in formal style. As he did so, the prince remembered an old Greek tale of a man who had found a viper frozen in the snow. The man took pity on the dying thing and pressed it to his breast to bring it warmth. As it revived, it sank its fangs into him and stole away his life. Cyrus had nursed a viper to his breast when he’d seen Tissaphernes as a friend. He would not make the same mistake again.
As well as Proxenus and Clearchus, General Netus the Stymphalian had accompanied the prince. He too came forward to greet the Persian, though Tissaphernes wrinkled his nose at the smell of sweat and horses coming off the men like heat as they gathered around to be introduced. His personal guard reached out to stop the Greek general coming too close and Netus gave the man’s fingers a sharp twist that made him shriek in surprise. The look Tissaphernes turned on his officer then was pure poison.
‘Perhaps you should go and see if the kitchens are ready for us, captain,’ Tissaphernes said.
The man flushed in anger, his eyes glittering as he glared at the Stymphalian. Netus didn’t appear to have noticed what he’d done, though Cyrus was delighted to have spoiled the display Tissaphernes had intended. It was bad enough to meet an enemy – but to be welcomed to a royal palace as if Cyrus were the guest and Tissaphernes the host was galling.
The prince smiled and rested his arm on Tissaphernes’ shoulders, turning him. He knew the man’s dislike of physical closeness rather better than most, so Cyrus hugged him tightly as they went inside.
‘I am so pleased to see a familiar face in this place, old lion. I have missed you. I thought you were still angry with me, for …’ he waved a hand in the air, ‘all that went on before in Persepolis. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I thought it best to stay away, far to the west, at least for a few years while my brother settles in as Great King and god-emperor.’
‘I see,’ Tissaphernes said. He cast a doubtful glance at the three Greek generals walking behind them. He wondered if any of them spoke the royal tongue. ‘Though I see you still consort with Greeks, Highness.’
To his surprise, Cyrus wagged a finger at him, as if to a naughty child.
‘Well, you cost me my guard of Spartans, old lion. I had some apologies to make on my return to these parts. And the payments to their families! You cost me gold enough to outfit a regiment that day – and for what? I have always been loyal, you’ve said so yourself. I have served the throne and my father all my life – and I am willing to spend my life in service to my dear brother as well. You know me, old friend. I have put our unpleasantness behind us. I can only apologise and leave the past in the past. What else is there?’
Tissaphernes found himself relaxing under the torrent of words, all accompanied by the pressure of his old pupil’s arm around his shoulders. He still could not resist playing the host as they went further into the palace corridors, leaving the heat of the sun outside.
In addition to his guards, Tissaphernes had brought a household of servants with him, including assassins, cooks, poisoners, saddlers, any sort he felt he might p
ossibly need. Each of Cyrus’ associates was taken in hand to be bathed and rubbed down before the meal Tissaphernes had prepared for them. He saw no sign of resentment in the prince, not even a flicker of it.
‘Dinner will be served at sunset, Highness,’ Tissaphernes said. ‘My chef has been busy for days in preparation.’
Though he was reluctant to admit it, it looked as if he would report good news to King Artaxerxes. Tissaphernes had not wasted his week in the city. His best three spies had gone out to seek what information there was to be had. Each city had a royal network that reported back to imperial spymasters. It was only a matter of time before Tissaphernes would know every step Cyrus had made for the previous six months, each conversation, each action and decision. The spies were writing it all down as it came in, forming a picture he would read for himself. More importantly, he would dine with the prince and spend days observing him. Tissaphernes had known Cyrus from his earliest years and if there was deception in him, Tissaphernes would surely learn it. The old tutor felt his shoulders go back and his chest rise in pride at the trust in him. His judgement was literally a matter of life and death, with entire armies waiting on his word.
Tissaphernes gestured for two young slaves to accompany him. He loved to be bathed and he was feeling expansive, his mood light. He was, after all, the right hand of a Great King, the dagger of the royal house. The idea pleased him.
Dinner that evening was an intimate affair. Though Tissaphernes had brought men enough to stand on every corner and corridor of the palace, he allowed only six into the dining chamber to stand along the walls. The man himself was dressed in dark gold cloth, the loose robes keeping him cool, though he had put on powdered folds of fat since Cyrus had seen him last.
The windows were set high in the walls of that room, where King Darius had once entertained a satrap of India and hidden rubies in a bowl of plums to amuse the man, tossing them to his children like sweetmeats. A cool breeze blew through, funnelled down by the design of the tiled roof outside, a miracle of ingenuity from the original architect.
The table itself was topped with dark green marble so highly polished that it showed the beams of the ceiling above between the dishes, and the faces of the servers as they leaned over. Prince Cyrus sat at the head of the table, with Tissaphernes at his right hand. Clearchus sat on his left, with Proxenus and Netus the Stymphalian further away along the length.
Tissaphernes continued to play the host, recommending particular dishes. He watched to see if Cyrus would hesitate over any of them, but if the prince feared poison, he showed no sign. The lack of suspicion was promising, Tissaphernes could admit to himself. A man guilty of treachery might expect it in others. Yet Cyrus tore bread with his fingers and gulped red wine with every sign of relaxed enjoyment.
‘These Greek fellows, Highness. Do they speak our tongue?’ Tissaphernes asked.
To his surprise, both Proxenus and Clearchus the Spartan nodded, though Proxenus held up his hand and waggled it back and forth, as if to indicate less than perfect ability. General Netus watched the action with complete blankness, looking around him as if they barked like dogs to one another. Tissaphernes could see it was not an act, in that slight rudeness. The Greek did not see the sounds as real language, so treated them as the chatter of birds, a sound to be ignored, or even spoken over.
‘As you see, old lion, Persian is the language of both trade and war, at least amongst those who make war their trade.’ Cyrus spoke easily, as if they were friends still.
‘I see. I will take care not to be indiscreet, Highness. Though your brother asked me to make a judgement on the readiness of our forces here. It is my task to inquire as to our strength – those under arms for us. Do you have those numbers?’
‘Of course,’ Cyrus said, spreading a ladleful of tiny white eggs across his bread and fish. ‘I will have my seneschal make all those accounts available. You taught me calculations, Tissaphernes. I would be ashamed if you found fault with them now.’
Tissaphernes laughed as he emptied his wine and had it refilled. It brought a warm glow and he smiled at the prince. Perhaps the younger son of Darius was a greater and more forgiving soul than he had known.
‘The food is very good,’ Clearchus said in Greek.
Tissaphernes frowned at the man’s bad manners, though Cyrus was quick to translate. Netus brightened at that, the first words he had understood.
‘Ah. I brought my cook with me,’ Tissaphernes replied. ‘Honestly, I could not travel without him at my age. Nothing else agrees with me unless his hand has prepared it.’ He patted his stomach ruefully. ‘Beware the acids of old age, Cyrus.’
For just an instant, Cyrus found himself smiling as if they actually were the old friends they had once been. He reminded himself that the man at table with him had been willing to see his head struck from his shoulders. There was neither friendship nor kindness in the fat old tutor chewing a paste of meat and oranges. It took no more than a glance at the guards along the walls to see they stood ready to defend their master. They watched Cyrus as an enemy, reminding him that he actually was one. Still, it was a fine meal and Proxenus groaned as they rose. They had sat through a dozen courses and wines, with Tissaphernes commenting eagerly on each one, singing the praises of his cook until Cyrus wanted to strangle him. The Greeks ate little, he noticed, though perhaps that was the example of Clearchus, who merely tasted each course as if he was checking it for poison. As of course he probably was.
In the twilight, after a long day, it was not hard to yawn. Cyrus leaned his head back and patted at his open mouth.
‘Tomorrow, old lion, I will have some of our best regiments parade past for you. I have spent fortunes on them, but I think you will agree, it has not been wasted.’
‘I hope not, Highness,’ Tissaphernes replied, a note of warning in his voice.
Silence fell then and Tissaphernes saw the young prince raise an eyebrow. He realised Cyrus was expecting him to prostrate himself. It did not feel quite correct to do so, not to a man he had come to judge. Stiffly, Tissaphernes bowed from the waist. He flushed, and as he rose, he saw Cyrus staring.
Tissaphernes gave a weak chuckle.
‘It is a new age, Highness …’ To his surprise, he saw Cyrus’ face harden.
‘No, Tissaphernes. I am my father’s son. I am brother to the Great King, Artaxerxes. Is it your intention to show disrespect to my family, the royal house?’
Perhaps it was petty, but then Cyrus had endured an evening with a man he detested, weighing every word said for what it might reveal of him. He seized on the moment and refused to let go, holding the older man’s gaze until Tissaphernes blushed more deeply and lowered himself down, knee by knee, until he lay flat.
‘It is important to remember which of us is the host, and which the guest,’ Cyrus said softly. He made his voice change then, forcing lightness into it as he reached out and helped Tissaphernes to his feet.
‘There. These Greeks don’t seem to understand the importance of showing respect to a prince. It makes me homesick, Tissaphernes, to see you do it so very well.’
‘Thank you, Highness. You honour me,’ Tissaphernes said, though his voice had a strain to it that made Proxenus snort and then blow his nose to cover his amusement.
10
The exact status of Tissaphernes as a guest could not be defined. Not a drop of noble blood ran in his veins, but he carried seals of state that lent him the authority to act in the king’s name – and he clearly believed he had come to oversee the western part of the empire. His manner was far from that of a supplicant as he sat his mount on the parade ground in Sardis. The local governor had asked himself to the event, as well as every wealthy local family able to bargain, flatter or threaten for an invitation.
With the sun baking a vast, green training field, Tissaphernes watched regiments parade and wheel before him. He and Prince Cyrus were given relief from the heat by woven squares of bamboo and white linen, wafted by slaves. Cyrus tried to relax an
d enjoy the sight, but the thought that it would all be reported back to his brother soured the day for him.
In more innocent times, Cyrus would have enjoyed showing his best men and most difficult manoeuvres to his old teacher. He might have hoped then that news of his successes would find their way back to his father’s ears in Persepolis. He could not do less that afternoon, not when he’d gathered vast numbers of men and trained them for months. Thousands of Greeks and as many Persian regiments marched across the field in complex patterns, demonstrating feints and small-group actions against one another. Cyrus had planned a climax of a staged attack to impress Tissaphernes, as he might easily have done before. Now he thought it was all too much. He sweated as he smiled and called for cool drinks.
The prince and Tissaphernes were the only two mounted on that vast field, with all the other guests and visitors arrayed on white curved benches around them, as if they were the crowd at a Greek theatre. The mood was light as the merchants and nobles enjoyed the sun. More than a few had brought unmarried daughters and they tried to catch the eye of a royal prince who seemed to scorn parties and balls and was rarely seen in public.
Cyrus wondered if there was any morsel of gossip that would fail to find its way to the ears of Tissaphernes and through him to his brother. He doubted it. Until Artaxerxes produced an heir, Cyrus was in the direct line to inherit the throne. His love affairs, or lack of them, were very much the concern of the crown. He cursed himself for not putting up a better front in the months he had been given. He’d thrown himself into the labour of gathering a vast host, regiment by regiment. It had not occurred to him that his brother might send a man to ask in seeming innocence whether the prince had visited the theatres, or courted any women of high families. His two Greek mistresses did not count.
The Falcon of Sparta Page 11