‘If you will take me home, Cyrus, I’ll have the chariot and carts sent out to you later this morning,’ Epyaxa said. ‘As we … discussed.’
The prince reached out and touched her hand, as if there was nothing more natural in the world to him. Epyaxa blushed in the company of the Spartan, though Clearchus found his plate fascinating in that moment.
Cyrus rose and extended his hand to her. His eyes were dark with all the conversations Clearchus had not heard the night before.
‘Come, my love. I will take you back, to your husband and your sons.’
Her eyes glittered with what might have been tears as she stood up. Clearchus watched them both go, chewing a piece of melon rind thoughtfully. He hoped it meant the queen would deliver the coins they needed. He liked Cyrus, but a leader had to pay his mercenaries, or go without them. A month or two might be allowed to pass without sign of silver, but beyond that, all contracts were broken and they would desert. The Greeks knew their own value and the Persians were too used to being paid on time every month. Cyrus was responsible for them all. Clearchus thought of what he’d had to do to get it, though the prince seemed happy enough. Certainly, more relaxed than the Spartan could remember seeing him before. It was interesting to consider the two mistresses Cyrus had brought with him, travelling east with the camp. As far as Clearchus recalled, one of them looked a great deal like the queen of Cilicia.
Clearchus thought of his own wife and sons. It had not been a marriage of love for him, at least at first, though he felt great affection for his Calandre. All Spartans were required to father children before they could walk the mercenary path. It was only common sense, considering the perils of their trade. He sighed to himself. He had known love once or twice in the years of campaigning. It did not seem quite as important as it once had. Yet he could remember how it had been and he envied the young pair, though grief and loss shone in their eyes.
When Cyrus returned, he was accompanied by half a dozen carts and the same charioteer as the day before. Clearchus and Proxenus raced Orontas to peer into the chests within. The three senior men ran their hands through gold and silver coins, laughing in relief. It was surely enough. Of the three of them, Orontas may not have known their destination, but the Persian was not a fool. He understood very well that something important must have gone wrong for the prince to be denied the network of moneylenders. The coins were food and repairs and armour, but also months in the field they would not otherwise have had. The coins were warfare – the time to use the vast force the prince had assembled.
For Clearchus and Proxenus, the chests were the chance to raise a prince to be a king. A good part of it would be handed over to bankers in Persian cities along the Royal Road. For their chits, passed west by bonded messenger, funds could be drawn at the edge of the empire, by Greeks. Those coins would keep Sparta safe and strong, would allow Athens to build ships, write plays and argue in the council. Whatever the noble cause, reality was always bought with gold and silver.
As the vast column moved off two days later, Cyrus seemed glum. They headed away from the border with Cilicia, marching east. The prince spent hours simply watching the marching ranks pass him, as if the tide of men might not take him away with them. They walked with straight backs and took pride in their appearance while he was there, but his gaze was afar, his thoughts in the arms of a woman who had given him only one night. It had not been enough. If she had asked him, Cyrus would have marched his army to rescue her. He would have hanged her husband from his own walls and ridden away without looking back. Yet she had not asked. He thought Epyaxa loved her sons and perhaps also the man she had married. The heart of a woman was a complex thing, he thought. She had given him a night, but it had not felt like an ending.
‘I will return here,’ he muttered to himself. ‘When I have fulfilled my promises. I will see you again.’
The prince’s army marched sixty-six miles over the next three days. The going was easy and the days remained clear, but Clearchus insisted on filling every water barrel and flask whenever they came to a river. It meant entire afternoons were lost when they came to a bridge over running water, but the summer heat was a constant threat and the soldiers drank constantly as they perspired. Cyrus bought salt whenever they reached a market or a city. Men’s sweat dried white and the experienced soldiers knew they would grow weak and dazed without it, unable to keep up.
It was a relief to have the chests Epyaxa had given him. Cyrus had not asked whether her husband would mind her taking a fortune from their treasury and giving it to an old suitor. The prince told himself he would pay all his debts when he had met and faced his brother. Justice would wait on vengeance.
As Cyrus rode alongside Clearchus and Proxenus, or with Orontas and Ariaeus to give them honour in turn, he bent his head whenever he caught a scent of jasmine, as if Epyaxa travelled with him. She had been a distant, half-forgotten ache before he’d stopped in Cilicia. Though he left her far behind, once more in his memories, the pain was sharper and harder to put aside.
In Persepolis, Tissaphernes had bathed and been massaged by imperial slaves before the sun rose. Lit by lamps, he had enjoyed the benefits of civilisation that so much of the world lacked. By the time he rode up the horse steps to the gatehouse of the plateau, he was cool and refreshed. The sun rose on the other side of the walls, so that he stood in shadow, while the world behind was lit gold. Tissaphernes turned in the saddle as he reached the top. He recalled standing on that final step with three hundred Spartans and a young prince at his side, with Darius on his deathbed in the paradise within. The dawn breeze washed over him and he smiled at how things had changed. As he had climbed the steps, he had risen in other ways, in status and influence. He sat on the right hand of the Great King. Even Prince Cyrus had sensed his new authority and been abashed by it.
The gate was opened by soldiers who prostrated themselves to him. Tissaphernes appreciated the gesture, though his formal status was uncertain. His own servants and slaves referred to him as ‘Lord Tissaphernes’, of course, but a man could choose any name in his own household. Tissaphernes knew only too well that he was merely a trusted member of the court, a companion. The lack of official title irked him like a thorn caught under the skin and he hoped Artaxerxes would put it right when he made his report. He had been away from court and comfort for six months. Such a trial surely deserved a reward.
The gardens were perfect as they had always been, with slaves to gather every falling leaf and trim each bush to such perfect lines that they appeared made, rather than grown. Tissaphernes wore loose robes of silk and open sandals. He followed a seneschal along the shaded pathways, though they did not turn their steps towards the pavilion where the old king had died. That had been taken down and a new lawn grown and watered from seed to replace it. Even the stones of the path had been relaid, he saw. Such things gave him more than satisfaction. The sense of perfection was so exquisite, it was almost pain. So much of the world spent lifetimes grubbing in the dirt for enough food to survive. It was joyous to see what could be done with freedom and unlimited wealth. Tissaphernes could not imagine anything better in existence than the Persian court. The royal family were like gods to ordinary men. He realised that made him a companion to gods, which pleased him.
Ahead, King Artaxerxes stood at the edge of a field, carrying a black horn bow in his hands. Tipped in gold, it looked a deadly, baleful thing. Tissaphernes eyed it as he approached. He laid a mat down rather than ruin clean silks, prostrating himself on it and raising his hands to his head in obeisance. Artaxerxes could have interrupted him at any part of the process, but the king merely peered down the shaft of an arrow until it was done. The son had also been raised by his father’s death. Artaxerxes still demanded the rituals of obedience, though no doubt he continued to claim it was for the dignity of the throne and not his own pleasure.
When Tissaphernes came to his feet once again, the king had placed his arrow on the string and was looking across the field at six
female slaves, walking up and down with Spartan shields held overhead. Tissaphernes saw the young women were beautiful, dressed in tunics that left their legs bare to the upper thigh. He raised his eyes at that, but the king was a young man and had not yet tired of that particular hunt. There were tales of girls brought to him from all over the empire, chosen for their beauty. Some he kept for himself, while others were handed over to his guards as a reward.
Tissaphernes recalled it was those who were falling out of favour who were given the task of carrying shields for the king’s archery. It was not exactly a punishment, but certainly a mark of displeasure, or a warning. Tissaphernes sighed. His master was hard on women, but he would grow gentler in time, as all men did.
‘Watch this, Tissaphernes,’ the king said over his shoulder.
He drew and released smoothly, sending the arrow arcing out to the furthest shield. It struck with a thump that knocked the young woman carrying it to the ground in a tumble of kicking legs. The king grunted in satisfaction. He held out his hand without looking and a slave passed another perfect shaft across his palm. He said nothing more for three shots, all of which struck home. No one else fell, though they staggered at the impacts.
‘That is a fine bow, Your Majesty. Your skills have only improved. Truly you are a master of the weapon.’
Tissaphernes knew it was obvious flattery, but Artaxerxes had practised every day and he deserved the praise. Most men thought of him still as the less martial of the two princes. The truth was that he had made himself strong, all unknown to the world. Tissaphernes knew better than most that the king could acquit himself with honour with the sword and war spear, as well as the bow. Some were born to be warriors. All men knew that. They saw that some were more daring, faster and more lithe. They had skills that were like magic to the untrained. Yet there was another way, though it was slower and less flashy. A man could simply work, every day. Artaxerxes was the proof. If a man had discipline, his bones would grow harder, his muscles like ropes, his fitness extraordinary. His body could be trained to react at incredible speed. Artaxerxes spent each morning pouring sweat from his labours. As well as his slaves, he brought sword masters to the court to train him. Prince Cyrus had been born a warrior, so it was said. Artaxerxes had made himself one. Tissaphernes could see it in the way the king moved. The man who had been a scholar had become a leopard in a panelled coat.
After another dozen shots, the king rubbed one forearm with the other, feeling the muscles move and wincing to himself. He handed the murderous-looking bow to a slave and faced Tissaphernes.
‘Very well, Tissaphernes. Report to me. Tell me how my dear brother licks his wounds in the west.’
The king began walking as he spoke, so that Tissaphernes had to hurry to remain at his side. They left the slaves behind and walked across the green field, to where the edge of the plateau cut the sky from the land ahead. Artaxerxes waved his hand at the shield-maidens and they trooped back, heads down so as not to disturb the king. Tissaphernes could not help looking at one or two of them as they passed him, golden shields resting on their shoulders, long tanned legs flashing in the sun. He was sixty-two years old, after all, not eighty.
Artaxerxes walked to the very edge of the plateau, placing his right foot so that half of it lay over a sheer drop and emptiness. Birds flew in lazy circles lower down the mountain, so that Tissaphernes and the king were above them. The first capital city lay spread out at the feet of Artaxerxes in a labyrinth of roads and green gardens, like strands of silver web at such a height. Smoke from cooking fires and bakeries rose in thin streams, forming a haze. Tissaphernes found himself both afraid and enthralled by the scene. It was a long way to fall, so far the mind could not properly understand it. Some part of him knew the danger of such a height and made his stomach try to crawl up his throat.
‘Your Majesty, I met Prince Cyrus on the western edge of the empire, where he still keeps company with Greeks and other mercenaries. I stayed twelve days in Sardis and had many opportunities to observe him and those around him.’
‘And what did you see, Tissaphernes? I sent you because you know him best of all. Is he loyal, still?’
Tissaphernes took a deep breath. He had read his own notes and the reports that had come to his hand many times on the road. He had wrestled with the answer to that exact question over each stage of the endless journey home. The months of travel that separated the west and the heart of empire meant that many things would have changed even as he reported. Yet he had seen much.
‘Your Majesty, I do not believe he is,’ Tissaphernes said.
Artaxerxes jerked round to face him, the view forgotten as his face hardened to a hawklike gaze that reminded the older man of his father.
‘You are certain? Speak carefully now, Tissaphernes. War follows your words.’
Tissaphernes swallowed and went on.
‘Majesty, I spoke to three spies in Sardis. All of them told me the prince has gathered vast numbers of soldiers. Unusual numbers, my lord. In itself, that is not so surprising – there is much talk of some hill tribes and rebellions.’
‘Yet you believe he has turned against me, against his house?’
Tissaphernes bowed his head slowly.
‘He has gathered a dozen Greek generals and more of our own. The Greeks are the key to this, Majesty, to my conclusion. The Persians parade in great squares, but the Greeks are scattered all over the west. I have reports from Crete, from Athens, from Lydia and Cyprus. They train in those places, but they answer to your brother and they take Persian gold.’
‘How many are there?’ Artaxerxes said. He did not seem disconcerted by the news. As far as Tissaphernes could tell, he was pleased.
‘No one can be certain, my lord. I spoke to one man who said thirty thousand Greeks, another who said only eight thousand. That is the heart of my suspicion. If your brother commands the forces of the crown, why keep them apart?’
‘Your conclusion then, Tissaphernes?’
‘I believe he is gathering an army to come here. To take the imperial throne and the empire for himself.’
To the older man’s surprise, Artaxerxes threw his head back and laughed, wiping his eyes.
‘I wish … oh, I wish my father could stand with me to hear you. He predicted it, did I ever say? I will enjoy telling my mother what her misplaced mercy has brought about, what a worm she kept alive and so endangered us all.’ His voice hardened as he spoke, the humour vanishing.
‘Very well, Tissaphernes. I thank you for your labour. You have proved yourself to me and I am grateful. You may have saved my life, so I bestow the title of “Pir” on you. You are a wise elder and all men lower in station will address you as “My lord”, or “Pir Tissaphernes”. My seneschal will alter the records and give you a copy.’
Tissaphernes threw himself full length without unrolling his mat. The dusty ground brought tears to his eyes, which he thought no bad thing in the circumstances.
‘Majesty, I am overwhelmed. You do me too great an honour.’
‘Not at all, Tissaphernes. Should I not reward good news?’
‘Good news, my lord?’
‘Of course! It is my task to bring the imperial army to the field, like kings of old. You will accompany me, Tissaphernes. You have always talked so bravely and well of your time in the army. I will enjoy seeing you remember those golden years of your youth.’
Tissaphernes could only mouth his eternal delight at such a prospect, though the thought of months more on horseback made him want to weep in frustration.
The king stared down at the capital city dreaming beneath them both.
‘If my brother wishes to face me in battle, perhaps I will surprise him, eh?’ Slowly, Artaxerxes closed a fist as if he made an oath, raising it to the sun. ‘My father will watch us both, I do not doubt. If two princes come to a battlefield, Lord Tissaphernes, only one can remain at the end. The other will feed the kites and crows. It is just the way of things.’
15
Cyrus halted the men at Thapsacus, after driving them hard for days. The city was both wealthy and ancient, and he longed for a bath and the privacy of wealth and power. A great white arch loomed above the city and the river Euphrates ran close to the walls. Thapsacus had formed around a great bed in that ancient river, beginning as a place just to water animals and exchange trade goods. Over countless generations, the city had grown to one of the great hubs of the region. Spice and slave markets vied for space and there was wealth enough to support streets and parks and a governor’s palace. It was the last of the west, the final taste of civilisation before the gasping heat of deserts and mountains beyond.
Cyrus took his column into the city, billeting as many men as possible there. The market traders sold news as well as saffron and sugar, ivory and iron nails. Within an hour, Cyrus knew Tissaphernes had reached Susa a month before, resting for just a day before going out. The column had gained on the Persian, reducing his lead. It was a good thought.
By early evening, every stable in the city was filled with men, every basement and storehouse, every home. Cyrus packed the royal park with them, allowing his regiments to rest in gardens designed by his grandfather. They were still too many.
Outside the walls, camp labourers put up tents and carts in rings, assembling forges and workshops, cookshops, tents and latrines. There was little need for shelter in the summer months. Though dust could be raised on scouring winds, most of the column slept out under stars, content with a thin blanket or cloak.
As the sun smeared reds and lilacs across the horizon, his most senior men came through the grounds of the small royal palace to Prince Cyrus, subdued by the grandeur all around them. Oil fluttered in golden bowls and thick tallow candles sat in every alcove. The light itself was a symbol of wealth and power, giving the evening a sense of private revelry, or secret ritual.
The Falcon of Sparta Page 17