Silence fell between them and Cyrus waited, amused to be able to test his resolve against that of a Spartan. They finished the plate of dates and a servant brought a platter of thinly sliced meat and roasted garlic cloves, sitting on the board like tiny white eggs. Clearchus loved garlic and took a handful, crunching them.
‘Highness …’ he said after an age.
Cyrus chuckled, interrupting him.
‘You are a good man, Clearchus. As much as you detest this sort of thing, you volunteered to be the one to ask me about paying the men. I told you before that I had sent messengers, did I not? That is why I took us so far out of our way. I have a friend in Cilicia who will help us.’
‘You know the king?’ Clearchus said, belching into his fist. He raised his wine cup to the gods and took a long draught of it to clear his mouth of garlic. As he did so, he noticed Cyrus’ expression darken.
‘He and I … are not friends. I knew him when we were both very young, but we fell out and it has not been right between us since then.’
‘Did he take her from you, or did you take her from him?’ Clearchus said.
Cyrus snorted into his wine, spilling some of it on the tabletop.
‘Must you always be so … Spartan, general? So blunt?’
Clearchus shrugged.
‘I find such things are usually simpler than we make them out to be.’
‘Well, in this case, yes, we both loved a woman. And she loved me, but married him! How is that for simple? No wondrous tale of young lovers here, Spartan! She chose the wrong man.’ The prince sighed in memory, his eyes dark in the evening sun. ‘I miss her still.’
Clearchus sat up straighter in his chair, though he emptied his wine again and hardly noticed as a servant drifted in to refill it.
‘Some men can be petty and small, even in their victory. Yet you have brought an army into his territory – an army I assume he could not possibly match. Is it for conquest, then? Will you kill him?’
Cyrus looked at the general for a long time, considering. He rubbed one hand over the palm of the other, feeling the calluses that had formed under the reins each day.
‘If I could have him fall from his horse and die, I would,’ he said slowly. ‘But she loves him and she has borne two children for him. I know she loves me, but she chose him. You cannot go back, Clearchus. Never.’
‘Women,’ Clearchus replied, raising his wine. ‘They are a source of wonder to us all.’
They clinked the cups together and drained them. Both men were feeling the effects by then.
‘I love her,’ Cyrus said. ‘I have always loved her.’ He blew air out, emptying himself. ‘We are at the edge of Cilicia, barely on the border. I have sent messages to say I am here – and she has replied. I do not know whether she will help me, general, but there is no one else.’
‘Will she come to you? Or shall I have horses brought up?’
‘She’ll come to us, so the messenger said. Tomorrow. In the afternoon.’
‘And did she mention her husband … even in passing?’ Clearchus said.
Cyrus shook his head and the general raised his eyebrows.
‘Well, that sounds promising.’
‘No. She loved us both, but she chose him,’ Cyrus said miserably, drinking once more. His teeth had taken on a crimson stain from the wine and his eyes were glassy. Clearchus slapped the table suddenly, startling the prince from a reverie.
‘Then we’ll show her what she gave up, Highness! I’ll have the men put on a fine display. Let her see the dashing young prince, the war leader. Is her husband a tyrant? Cruel, old, ugly, short?’
‘No,’ Cyrus said with a wave of his hand. ‘He is merely a man, like any other. I cannot see his virtues, but as I said, she …’
‘Chose him, yes,’ Clearchus finished. ‘Leave it with me, Highness. And do not drink any more, or you will be no good to us tomorrow. With your permission, I will return to the men.’
Cyrus waved him away and leaned back, raising his cup to have it refilled once more, though his eyes remained closed. Clearchus chuckled, wondering if he’d ever had such a poor head for drink. He decided he had not. The general strode away into the darkness, beginning to jog when he thought of all that had to be done.
Cyrus woke at dawn and vomited great streams of yellow acid. There was a lake on the grounds of the estate and he swam in that, then ate eggs and cheese to settle his stomach. By the time he had managed to get dressed and his servants had helped him mount from a block, it was late in the morning and the sun had risen into an empty blue bowl, with heat that built and caused his headache to thump. He found some comfort in keeping his left eye closed as he approached the camp and was challenged. The guards stepped respectfully back when they completed the ritual, though they all knew him on sight by then. He heard one of them mutter a coarse remark about hangovers, but had neither the will nor the stomach for a reprimand.
As he became more aware of the bustle around him, Cyrus assumed the Spartan general had not slept at all. Each regiment was busy with polish and brushes, with lampblack and oil, making themselves as unnaturally shiny and neat as it was possible to be. Cyrus sat his mount in a state of confusion. Had he ordered a presentation parade? He could not recall. Some details of the evening were lost to him, or returned in flashes to make him cringe in embarrassment, his eyes widening. He had talked of his love to a Spartan general! Cyrus covered his face with a hand.
‘Highness?’ came a voice.
Cyrus looked down to see the young master of horse. The Athenian. As the prince stared blearily at him, Xenophon went on, looking disgustingly healthy and cheerful. ‘Highness, if you would dismount for a time, I could brush Pasacas here and plait his mane and tail, ready for the inspection.’
‘The inspection?’ Cyrus said slowly. He felt a thread of memory come to him and sweat trickled down his back. He looked up at the sun and swallowed as he saw how late it was. He’d spent the morning being so ill he could hardly do more than sweat and groan. It came back to him then and he felt his chin and cursed softly at the feel of bristles.
‘Xenophon, I need Parviz, my manservant.’ He dismounted, sliding off his horse as if he’d lost the use of his legs and staggering into the Athenian. ‘I need to be shaved and I need fresh clothes. Parviz, sir. At your fastest pace.’
Xenophon jogged away with the reins looping behind him, forcing the warhorse to follow. Cyrus squinted at the sun. He would never drink again, he swore it. The cost was just too great.
‘Highness, there you are!’ came the voice of Parviz.
The man who had once kept watch on a desert fortress had grown into his new role with both pride and energy. Cyrus saw Parviz was carrying a folding chair and he sank into it gratefully. Servants gathered around him, with bowls and cloth and oil. Parviz began stropping a razor on a piece of leather, then a piece of rough cloth and finally the wind itself, turning the razor into the breeze. He would allow no one else to shave the prince and it had become something of a ritual for them both. Cyrus closed his eyes.
‘Shade here!’ Parviz yelled in his ear. ‘Fetch a shade for the prince. And fresh clothes. Privacy here – is this a market? Bring those panels and place them around His Highness.’
It was a relief to let Parviz take over and Cyrus opened his eyes at the press of a cup into his hand. When he saw it was only dear, sweet milk, he smiled in relief.
‘Thank you. More of this, please, Parviz. Bring the entire cow if you have to.’
As the sun began the long slow drift through the afternoon, the regiments remained in squares, their ranks perfectly measured. Each man stood with his feet slightly apart, waiting for the inspection of a queen. Stretcher-bearers had come in from the camp followers, knowing that men who stand in the sun can suddenly faint. There were always a few and because they fell like trees without putting out their hands, the injuries were sometimes appalling. The rest of the camp had been made to march three miles further back, so the queen would not have her view s
poiled by whores and urchins.
Cyrus found he could not keep still. He walked his horse Pasacas up and down the front ranks as he waited for her to appear. He had not laid eyes on Epyaxa for six years. He had become a man in that time, where he’d been almost a boy before, certain that she would choose him, too certain of himself. His stomach had settled and his headache had dwindled almost to nothing, for which he thanked God.
‘There she is! She comes!’ Parviz said at his side.
Cyrus looked up to see a chariot drawn by a pair of black horses and surrounded by running soldiers in dark breastplates and leather kilts. There must have been eighty men jogging alongside their mistress and he was reminded once again that she was another man’s wife and queen. He rested his hands on the saddle pommel and waited as the chariot approached, wondering if she would look the same and what she would see when she laid eyes on him.
Horns sounded along the lines, though they were heralds blowing welcome rather than the battle blast. The chariot aimed for the prince sitting a warhorse ahead of them all, turning in a great circle so that it almost faced the way they had come.
Queen Epyaxa of Cilicia extended her hand to her charioteer and stepped out. Cyrus felt a pain in his chest that had nothing to do with the amount of wine he had drunk the night before. Her dark hair had been bound into a rope that moved like a cat’s tail down her back. It swayed as she stepped to the ground and she was the same, undiminished by time. The prince dismounted and watched as she dipped a knee to him. As he looked down on the nape of her neck, he found himself wondering if the Greeks understood the significance of her gesture. There were twenty-eight nations in the empire – and the kings and queens of those states would bow or drop a knee to a member of the imperial family. When the Greeks did the same, rather than a proper prostration, they were assuming the airs of royal houses themselves.
Cyrus blinked, realising that he had not given permission for her to rise. He could see a flush had appeared on her neck, a subtle stain of colour. She thought he was angry with her still.
‘Please rise, Epyaxa. I was struck by how little you have changed. It is as if I stood here then, a younger man.’ He took her arm as he spoke, though his hand dropped as her charioteer shifted uncomfortably. Her guards were not used to seeing their mistress touched by anyone.
‘Ah,’ she said to them, smiling. ‘Prince Cyrus is an old friend. I am in no danger here. Captain Raoush, you have delivered me safely and you may leave. I will send a messenger to you when I am ready.’
The captain prostrated himself on the dust immediately, choosing an angle that honoured his mistress a touch over Cyrus, though included them both. The charioteer clambered back to the ledge-seat and took up the reins. Cyrus looked at the vehicle in envy, and spoke before the man could unfurl his long whip.
‘My lady, I have arranged for you to inspect these few men of mine. If you order your charioteer to return with the rest, I would be honoured to take his place.’
The queen inclined her head and the charioteer set down his whip and reins without a word of protest, though he glared as he watched Cyrus take them up. Epyaxa opened a small door to reach the padded bench at the back. She leaned against it then rather than sitting down. The sun was too warm and the breeze too good on the skin for anything else.
With a grin, Cyrus snapped the reins and the chariot lurched forward, scattering the queen’s guardsmen before they could be run down.
‘Sorry, just getting used to it …’ Cyrus called over his shoulder.
His passenger thought correctly that he had done it on purpose. Cyrus snapped the reins again and both horses surged into a gallop. She heard the prince cheer them on, faster and faster as they looped out, far away from the army he had gathered to impress her. The speed was terrifying and exhilarating at the same time, bringing back memories of Cyrus and his friend racing one another along the banks of a great river. He still had the touch, she thought. As they went, relying on his skill and strength, Epyaxa watched his back and his balance, remembering the way the muscles of his arms had moved when he held her. She felt tears come to her eyes and could not have said if it was in memory of youth lost, or love lost, or just the wind and dust.
14
After he had agreed to bring her back from that first wild loop across open ground, Cyrus drove the chariot at a more sedate speed along the waiting regiments. He even stopped at intervals for the young queen to step down and speak to his senior officers. Epyaxa seemed to enjoy herself in the presence of Greek and Persian alike. Cyrus watched Clearchus become almost fatherly, the Spartan’s wide chest expanding even further as he answered questions from the young queen. General Orontas blushed as deeply as a young boy when she took his hand. Epyaxa patted them and smiled and put both men at their ease. At her side, the prince stood as if he had invented her, delighted by a day that had begun so badly and somehow ended so well. He could not help thinking how his life might have been different if she had come to him that last time, while he waited in a cypress grove. It had been the longest night of his life and when the dawn came, he’d mounted his horse and ridden away.
They were under the sun without shade for what seemed an age. Some of the men did faint and were discreetly collected and laid down out of sight to recover. Both Cyrus and the queen found themselves strangely weary by the time they returned to a pavilion Parviz had erected for the evening meal. The regiments themselves were dismissed, to march the three miles back to camp. There, they would eat and rest after a day spent under the sun. The men were all hot and sweating, but they smiled at the prince’s obvious adoration of the young woman at his side. Many of them made crude signs with their hands as they passed, but not when an officer was watching who might have had those hands struck off.
Orontas, Ariaeus and Clearchus joined the other generals at a long table that had been assembled with bolts and beams that very day. Cyrus and Epyaxa sat at either end, beyond arm’s reach. Clearchus noted that the prince laid his right hand on the cloth between courses, palm up as if in entreaty. Clearchus could not have said if Epyaxa responded deliberately, but she laid her left forearm on the table. She might have been reaching to him, and the Spartan smiled to himself.
Orontas attended to the food with visible interest. Cyrus had laid on the very best for his guest and the Persians in particular sighed at dishes suffused with saffron, cardamom and rose petals – herbs far too expensive to flavour the ordinary meat and bread given to the regiments.
Around the table, the other Greek generals had been allowed to attend the prince and his guest. Proxenus was there, guarding a wine jug he seemed to consider his own, though servants flitted in and out like hummingbirds. Netus the Stymphalian laughed uproariously with the Thessalian, Menon, then looked startled as they found themselves the centre of attention. Wine flowed and the aches and sunburn of the day faded, though half the men there could feel heat coming off their skin, as if they held some part of the light within themselves. They were all experienced men and Clearchus was not the only one to note the casual placement of hands on that table. As a result, they made light conversation for the form of it, but ate swiftly and refused extra helpings. One by one, each of the officers drained his cup for good manners and cleaned his knife on a tablecloth, then stood, bowing to Prince Cyrus and the queen in turn.
The prince had drunk no wine that night, claiming his stomach would not allow a second attempt to ruin it. As the last of his generals left, musicians entered on padded slippers to fill the air with a gentle song and the notes of a lyre. On impulse, Cyrus stood suddenly, making his way down the table to sit next to Epyaxa.
‘There,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I could hear you over the music. Thank you for coming to me. This has been a perfect day – a jewel in a time of hardship. You saw the army, the men. They are rough company at times. This, though – it makes me miss the conversations we used to have. Do you remember?’
‘Of course,’ she said.
He took the hand she laid on
the cloth in his. He found she was trembling. It was a sudden intimacy and it allowed him to speak of other things, that mattered more.
‘I waited all night, before I was sure you were not coming. For the longest time, I told myself it was still dark, until I could see the whole grove around me and the green hills beyond.’
‘I should have sent someone to you,’ she said softly. ‘I am sorry.’
‘No, you made your choice. It was better for me to leave and go on with my life.’
‘You did not marry,’ she said, leaning in closer.
He shrugged, though her words were like a knife in him. He forced a laugh.
‘I could not find another … who was your equal. Isn’t that ridiculous?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I have wondered many times …’
He saw her hesitate.
‘What did you wonder? We are private here, Epyaxa.’
‘I wondered what my life would have been if I had gone to you that night.’ She turned her hand in his, so that it rotated in his palm like a bird making a nest. Yet she did not pull away from him. ‘Syennesis is a cold man. You would hardly recognise him. He does not say one word to me for days or weeks at a time. Yet if I had not gone to him instead of you, I would not have my sons. It is confusing. If not for them, I think …’
She shook her head and closed her eyes, so that a tear spilled from under kohl-dark lashes, staining her cheek. Slowly, he drew her hand to his lips and kissed it, feeling the shiver that ran through her.
‘I have thought of you each evening, as the sun sets,’ he said.
‘Please. No more talk. Send the servants away,’ she whispered.
In the morning, Clearchus walked the three miles from the camp to the pavilion to find Cyrus and Epyaxa enjoying a breakfast outside in the early sun. The day was cool and there was dew on the ground, though it would burn off.
‘General! I hope you will join us,’ Cyrus called.
Clearchus bowed to them both and greeted the queen courteously as he sat down and was served slices of melon, figs and a light cheese. In such company, Clearchus would certainly not mention the empty coffers, or anything he suspected was going on between them. He ate in silence for a time and watched the way the pair looked at one another.
The Falcon of Sparta Page 16