As far as Cyrus knew, neither Menon nor Sosis the Syracusan who sat at his side had any idea of his true purpose. They had gathered and trained men for his silver and gold. He thought he had every general and senior officer in Greece under his command that year.
His gaze fell on the two Persians sitting at that table, both men visibly uncomfortable with a conversation that had almost certainly been in Greek before the prince arrived. Orontas was the most senior general of the Persian faction Cyrus had brought to fitness over the previous months. Though he was darker than the rest and more slender of frame, if numbers meant anything, Orontas should have been the most senior in authority – as he commanded many more men than the Greeks. The reality was somewhat different, however, Cyrus noted. Orontas sat slightly apart from the rest, so that it was the Spartan, Clearchus, who subtly commanded the table.
The other Persian, Ariaeus, was an arresting figure. Cyrus knew him first by a reputation for horsemanship, in which he was said to excel. The second in command of the Persian forces was a general in his own right. Cyrus might have wished to deal with Ariaeus rather than the dour Orontas. Ariaeus wore his hair to his shoulders and was physically the match for any of the Spartans, with wide shoulders and powerful legs. He was said to enjoy the company of young men and wrote ghazal poems to their beauty in the evenings. The Greeks preferred him to Orontas, without a doubt. Yet at thirty, he was both younger and his family a degree beneath that of Orontas. Whatever the prince might have preferred, Orontas was the senior Persian officer.
As Cyrus entered, they all rose. The Greeks bowed. Ariaeus copied them as if there was nothing strange in it. Orontas caught his colleague’s movement out of the corner of his eye as he braced one hand on the table in preparation for prostrating himself on the floor. Cyrus watched in resignation as Orontas hesitated and stuttered through a deeper bow than the rest, coming back to attention as the prince gestured for them all to sit. Greek manners spread like a sickness through the Persian ranks. On the other hand, if it brought the same courage, Cyrus thought it would be a fair exchange.
Food arrived as a series of steaming dishes, a line of servants appearing at the edges of the room. They were all hungry, but Cyrus could see they were exchanging glances as each one considered how best to tell him something he would not want to hear. His servant Parviz looked practically in tears.
‘Enough of this silence, these guarded glances!’ Cyrus ordered. ‘What is it? Someone say something!’
‘It seems Lord Tissaphernes left a parting gift, Highness,’ Clearchus said. ‘Your line of credit has been disavowed. At this moment, we cannot lay claim to a single silver drachma in Sardis. You will not need me to tell you that you have twelve thousand mercenaries who must be paid on the first day of each month – which is eight days from now.’
‘We don’t have enough food for the rest,’ Parviz said, holding up his leather packet as if Cyrus could see the columns of figures from across the table. ‘We have funds to go on as we are for perhaps another week, but without payment, the mercenary contracts are void; without food, the men starve. General Orontas has presented the tally of grain and meat needed for eighty thousand active men in training. It is … impossible. Highness, we cannot meet the bills. The word has gone round and there is not a cattle farmer or fruit seller in Sardis who will extend our credit for a single day.’
Cyrus had taken up a knife to spear morsels as they appeared on his plate. He tossed it onto the table and rose to his feet.
‘Tissaphernes left this morning. Perhaps the moneylenders of Sardis have closed up shop, but how fast can the news travel? Can I get ahead of it? There is gold in Byzantium, four days’ hard ride to the north. My name and my seal will still be honoured there. How much do we need?’
The men at the table gaped at him. It was his own officer, Orontas, who spoke first.
‘Highness, if you incur new debts to the crown, they will not be honoured. Not only will you beggar the moneylenders in Byzantium, you will damage the reputation of the royal house! Please! There must be another way.’
Cyrus narrowed his eyes as he listened. He shook his head, reminded that Orontas did not know his true purpose and had no understanding of the threats he faced. Even so, it was hard to be civil to the man.
‘General Orontas, Tissaphernes has gone beyond the trust placed in him by my brother, King Artaxerxes. Whatever the rights and wrongs of my choice, I must have gold to pay the men. The greater dishonour would be in releasing an army of mercenaries to carry the news that Persia cannot pay its debts! No. I need …’ he paused to think, ‘another ninety thousand daric archers for what I have in mind. Twice that many if I can get them. Such an amount will give me breathing room, time enough to appeal to my brother and see this matter resolved. Do you understand?’
The Persian thought better of his previous decision to bow and came away from the table to throw himself at Cyrus’ feet. His colleague, Ariaeus, watched him with a glimmer of amusement.
‘I did not see, master, I’m sorry. I understand and serve you.’
‘For which I am grateful,’ Cyrus said wryly, aware of the Greeks watching. ‘Clearchus? I will need an official guard. I cannot walk into a merchant’s home in Byzantium on my own. With your back, I cannot ask …’
‘It will heal as I ride, Your Highness,’ Clearchus said clearly. ‘I would not miss it.’
‘Good. Bring a dozen of your men. Parviz? You too. Run to the palace stables and get the horses ready. If there is a message on the road ahead of us, we must overtake it, or lose everything.’
‘Highness? May I accompany you?’ Orontas said, his voice muffled.
Cyrus looked down and shook his head.
‘No. I will take General Ariaeus. Make your men ready to march, as soon as I return.’
Ariaeus beamed at the decision. He cast a look of pity at Orontas that Cyrus saw. He let it pass, but he was weary of his own officers in that moment. Some of them were more concerned with petty rivalries than their own service to him.
12
Four days of hard riding had taken its toll on them all, but none more so than Clearchus. Despite the legendary endurance of the Spartans, his stitches had begun seeping after just a few miles of jolting around on an animal he disliked and hardly knew how to control. Each day ended with Cyrus ordering the horses and men into a road inn, then waiting for Clearchus to catch up in the small hours. As a matter of pride and personal responsibility, Cyrus would not leave the roadside until Clearchus reached him. It seemed to take longer and longer each day as the Spartan grew pale and his back bled through its wrappings, but he made no complaint, even in the mornings, when the pain was at its worst.
The small party had not been troubled by road thieves or the city guards in Byzantium. Cyrus was chafing at every lost hour by then and would have gone straight to the richest moneylender of the city. It had surprised them when a trembling Parviz reached out and took hold of his master’s rein inside the walls, drawing the animal to a halt. As the prince looked at him in astonishment, Parviz dropped the rein and bowed so deeply in the saddle that he was in danger of being pitched onto the road. Even so, the man spoke.
‘Highness, you are covered in dust and sweat. Forgive me, but … you wear your desperation in the open, where anyone can see. I apologise for my rudeness, but you have come so far. I would not see you throw it away with recklessness now. Please, master. Your father keeps … kept a fine estate in the city here. You can bathe and dress in clothes more fitting to your titles and family.’
‘And if the news from Sardis passes me by while I bathe?’ Cyrus murmured. ‘This wild ride will have been wasted.’
His manservant could only bow his head and Cyrus gathered up the reins, rubbing his thumb along the ornate stitching.
‘I apologise, Parviz. You are, of course, correct. Still, make haste.’
It was barely two hours later when the prince leaped lightly to the ground by the merchant Shaster’s city home, dressed in a fine panell
ed coat and a silk tunic, with the road dust washed from his skin. While he had made himself presentable, Cyrus had sent Parviz ahead to announce his presence, so that the gates opened before him. The prince was quietly pleased he had taken the time to change. He walked with a straight back and carried a jewelled scabbard on his hip that in itself would have fetched five thousand darics. Such a display was important.
He had not met Shaster before, though Cyrus had heard the name a dozen times over the years. Of all the merchants and moneylenders in Byzantium, Shaster was the one most able to survive the loss he would take – when the crown failed to honour the loan. The man was said to be as rich as Croesus, the old king of Lydia.
Cyrus beamed and extended his arms as he sighted the master of the house, coming forward to interrupt the fellow’s attempt to prostrate himself before more than one knee had touched the tiles.
‘Please, Master Shaster, I am a guest. On urgent business of the rose throne. I am only grateful that you were present in the city as I passed by. Byzantium is the jewel of the west. I would not have wanted to take my business on to Sardis.’
Cyrus watched closely as he said the name. He and General Clearchus had agreed the line, in order to observe the man’s reaction. Yet the merchant only kissed his hand, pressing his lips against the prince’s knuckles. Cyrus doubted the beard had ever been cut since it first grew. It covered Shaster’s face entirely beyond his nose, forehead and eyes. The great length of it was constrained in charms and precious gems that rattled with every movement.
‘It is an honour, Highness. I had hoped to meet you for many, many years. My wife will be delighted when I tell her you came to me, to us, over all others.’
Cyrus felt a pang of guilt as he recalled the words of Orontas. It was hard to look a man in the eye and ruin him, but he forced his smile wider. His cause was just. When he was king, he would make all things right. Cyrus clung to that, to help him still the small voice of guilt that groaned in his heart.
‘I am only sorry I cannot stay to see your family, but I have had news of a great rebellion in Thrace. I have twelve thousand mercenaries under my command – the best in Greece. Such men must be paid. My brother, King Artaxerxes, will honour the debts, of course. I will put my ring to it. Do you have ninety thousand here? I have brought men to carry the chests.’
To his alarm, the merchant Shaster wound a coil of his beard through his hands, visibly distressed. He would have dropped to the floor if Cyrus hadn’t reached out to hold his arm.
‘Highness, I am sorry, but such a sum! I have thirty thousand in gold in my personal vault here. If you can give me just two days, I will have the rest brought to your lodgings, or even escorted to your forces as they march. Master, I am sorry. With just a little warning, I could have had it ready for you.’
Cyrus tried not to show his frustration. He patted the old man on the shoulder.
‘Never mind. Thirty thousand will do. Bring me wax and a stylus. I will mark your ledger for the record.’
‘Yes, Highness, of course. I am so sorry …’
‘I cannot delay here,’ Cyrus reminded him.
The merchant left the room as if he was on fire, all unknowing that he had saved himself from bankruptcy.
Thirty thousand coins required two carts that left the city as the moon rose, surrounded by Spartans on horseback. Four more were left in the road, unneeded. The small group took their mood from Cyrus, who seethed to himself. He was not certain if it was because he had been forced to lie or to incur a bad debt – or because he had won only a third of what he needed by doing so.
As the sun rose the next morning, a rider came trotting along the road from the direction of Sardis. That part of the empire was peaceful and yet the man was cautious at the sight of such a well-armed party. He saw them from a long way back and gave them a wide berth. In turn, Clearchus and the Spartans eyed the man’s leather satchel and wondered what message it might contain.
‘Do you want us to take him?’ Clearchus said to the prince.
‘No. Let him go,’ Cyrus said over his shoulder. ‘Whatever news he carries, it does not matter now. My course is set.’
Over the days that followed, the armies began to gather in Sardis, Persian and Greek alike. The plains around the city were marked by latrine ditches, tents and campfires by the thousand. Fields of green wheat and barley were trampled down, the crops lost for the year. Greek hoplites arrived on massive oared vessels at the coast, while fresh Persian infantry marched in from desert posts, their commanders greeting Cyrus in awe and pleasure. Their delight at seeing the commander and first soldier of the empire rarely lasted long as they joined the gathering host. Cyrus had kept his inner circle as small as possible, but as Clearchus had warned him, there was no hiding the purpose of such a sea of armed ranks. Anyone with eyes would know there were no hill tribes in the world that could trouble that army. Nations were won or lost by smaller forces than the one that grew around Sardis.
Cyrus slept a few hours each night, when sheer exhaustion drove him to collapse on a cot pallet, only to rise again when Parviz touched his shoulder. In the evenings, the prince entertained his Persian officers in groups of a dozen, summoning them to test the waters. Clearchus, Proxenus and Netus the Stymphalian were all in attendance at those times, watching their Persian colleagues with disconcerting focus. There were questions that could not be avoided and Cyrus grew less patient each time one was asked. No, they would not be invading the free Greek cities. No, he would not name the enemy they would face, not until the moment was right.
Clearchus had healed of his wounds, applying goose grease and damp bread to one part on his shoulder that festered, until the poison was drained from it. He offered to show the scars to some of the Persians, but they demurred, made uncomfortable by the frankness of the strange Greek generals. It was Clearchus who remained behind each evening at the last, when all the other guests had excused themselves. If they were the sort who would not leave until the hosts had retired for the evening, Cyrus would reconvene his most trusted few in a secondary room as soon as the palace was quiet and the servants asleep.
‘With us, or not?’ Cyrus asked each night.
If the Greeks were flattered to have their judgement taken seriously, they did not show it, looking glumly at each other before they replied.
‘That fellow tonight would not meet your eye at all,’ Clearchus said. ‘Nor mine, when I tried to engage him in conversation. I assume he was not one of your appointments?’
‘You are correct,’ Cyrus said. ‘He dates from before my time, raised to the post by my father. Unfortunately, he is a competent officer and I need him. Proxenus? Your judgement?’
‘I didn’t like him – and I trust my instincts. So I would not trust him further than I could spit.’ The heavy-boned Greek accompanied his words with a shrug that was like mountains moving. ‘Not like that cheerful little one, last night. You are a hero to many of your people, Highness, but not all. It’s my belief tonight’s polemarch, this Arras, or Araz, whatever his name was – he should be left behind, or sent away on some errand. I do not think he will be loyal.’
‘I can’t send away every man who looks sullen or disloyal,’ Cyrus said tightly. ‘If I am to succeed, I need to know I can depend on them, on their expertise and experience.’ He shook his head like a twitch as anger overwhelmed him. ‘I cannot succeed without trusting my officers, but every one of them will come only because I speak for the king. So tell me, how can I bring them to battle against my brother? Is it impossible?’
The prince looked around at the men gathered in his name. The truth was that he trusted the Greeks he paid by the month a great deal more than the Persians who came to him as professional soldiers of the empire. The Greeks wanted to win and that mattered. More, they seemed to have taken a personal dislike to Tissaphernes and all he represented. They brought an almost unprofessional enthusiasm to their work after that particular Persian had one of their number whipped, no matter how well Clearchus ha
d borne the humiliation.
Netus the Stymphalian cleared his throat. At that late stage, Cyrus had accepted that the Greeks had to know the plan. It may have galled the prince to keep his own people in the dark, but at least he could discuss the problems with his most trusted mercenaries without having to play games or lie to them. He looked to Netus, remembering how they had walked together in the gardens of Sardis, discussing the terrible threat posed by Pisidians. The man had not believed it for an instant, which at least suggested his judgement was sound.
‘Highness, I have been thinking about the problem for some time now. It occurs to me that you have no right to sit on that throne instead of your brother.’
‘Careful, Netus,’ Clearchus rumbled without looking up.
‘I meant that your Persian regiments will not want to stand against the true king – and would not – for anyone else in the world but you. You are the heir to the throne, after all. If we bring King Artaxerxes to battle and he falls – if his horse stumbles and he breaks his neck, am I right in saying that you will be king the moment he is dead?’
‘That is true,’ Cyrus said.
Netus nodded.
‘Then perhaps you have a right of challenge. Instead of taking an army to invade and destroy, you are bringing a personal reprisal against your brother, for the wrongs he has done to you. Your army is merely to force him to accept that challenge and keep you safe while you take the justice that was denied to you before. It is my understanding that your personal guard was murdered, that you were put in a cell and held for execution. You are the wronged son, Highness. If your Persians resist, if they dare to threaten mutiny, I would tell them that.’
The Falcon of Sparta Page 14