‘Have I injured you in any way, general?’
Wordless, Orontas shook his head.
‘Why then this betrayal? Am I not my father’s son? Are you not sworn to serve my family?’
‘No, Highness,’ Orontas said. He spoke in reproof, his voice growing louder. ‘I am sworn to serve the crown. I thought to do that by joining your brother, the king. I … am sorry. I considered my actions for a long time. I did not want to stand against you, my prince. You have been nothing but kind to me. The men sing your praises. Yet … I did not feel I could go on.’ He raised his head, though tears glittered in his eyes. ‘I have made my choice, Highness. I accept the consequences.’
Cyrus did not reply for a long time. He knew he had but to give the order and the man’s life was at an end. All those who watched expected it from him. Still, he sought a way to keep Orontas alive. For all the petty irritation he felt around him, Orontas was a fine soldier and respected in the regiments. If there was a command or a single word that could have won Cyrus his loyalty, the prince would have spoken it aloud in an instant. He looked to Clearchus for something he could not have named, anything. His appeal was met by silence and Cyrus sighed.
‘Take this fallen man from my sight,’ he said to his guards. ‘Make his ending quick, a single blow – and treat him with honour as he prepares himself.’
He turned back to the prisoner watching him. Cyrus took a knife and cut the ropes that bound the man’s wrists, so that Orontas rubbed them, watching the prince he could not follow.
‘May I write to my family, Highness, before your sentence is carried out?’
Cyrus repressed a surge of anger that would have seen Orontas dead at his feet. Yet he was a prince and his father’s son. He mastered himself.
‘Of course,’ he said, turning away from the man for the last time.
They all heard Orontas sigh, his resignation to his fate. In that moment, Orontas knelt and prostrated himself before a prince of the house Achaemenid, though his own death lay heavy on him.
‘General Ariaeus?’ Cyrus called.
The man was ready for his orders and was kissing sand before Cyrus could say another word. The prince nodded to him as he rose.
‘You are in command of the Persian forces, general. Take this gentleman who is cousin to Orontas as your second in command. Give orders to all but the Greeks – and take the orders of Clearchus. Is that understood? Will you serve me loyally on those terms?’
‘I will. I will take this honour to my grave, Highness,’ Ariaeus said. ‘I will make you proud.’
‘Just do better than the last poor bastard,’ Cyrus said.
He turned his mount, in time to witness Clearchus bowing his head to Orontas before he dug in his heels. Proxenus and Netus rode with the prince back to the column, leaving Menon to follow in their wake. The Greeks were serious in their manner, as befitted the loss of a colleague, but not one of them disagreed with the prince’s decision. The column would march deeper into the deserts by that evening. They would leave the body of Orontas behind them, for the sun to wither, for the birds of prey to tear and snag.
In camp that evening, Prince Cyrus came to the fires of the Spartan section to share their food. He regretted not bringing his own when he saw how little they would consume, with cold water as the only refreshment. Even so, they made him welcome and he sat cross-legged with them on the hard ground, raising his head to Clearchus as both men accepted a thin slop of grain and curdled milk, with a piece of goat’s cheese and an ancient fig.
‘What brings you to us, Highness?’ Clearchus said when they had all finished and wiped out the bowls.
‘Orontas intended to ride to my brother,’ Cyrus said, staring into the flames as they burned low. He thought to ask for the fire to be built up before he recalled they had to carry every stick of wood with them in those barren wastes. Life struggled in such a place, without water, without warmth in the dark. The night was already growing chill, so that his teeth chattered as he went on, clenching his jaw.
‘He believed the royal forces to be close. He told me he would ride out ahead to hamstring those who burn crops and poison wells. It was a good idea then – and it is now.’
‘Leave it with me, Highness,’ Clearchus said. ‘I will put some of my lads in command. Or that Athenian, perhaps, who was so put out at having his horses taken from him.’
‘Yes …’ Cyrus said. ‘We need eyes far ahead of us, to know where my brother pitches his tent. But … I do not know about the men Orontas chose. Can some of my own guard be traitors? It seems hard to believe. How can I trust them now?’
Clearchus reached to a pack by his side and produced a flask. It looked like yellow ivory in the firelight, with figures carved on the surface. Peering through the shadows, Cyrus thought they might have been involved in sports, though it was not likely.
‘The last of my supply, Highness. Perhaps it is the night for it.’
The prince accepted the flask and drank deeply, his eyes widening as it burned him.
‘Is that made from grapes?’ he said hoarsely.
‘The skins, I believe,’ Clearchus said, chuckling. He raised the bottle and smacked his lips.
‘Highness, Orontas was a leader of men. I know he had some connection with one of your noble families, but he rose because he was sharp and strong – and he had that quality that other men will follow.’
‘Is that why you bowed your head to him?’ Cyrus said.
‘Ah, you saw that, did you? No, Highness. That was to give him honour for the manner of his death. He took the news like a Spartan. That is a rare thing. I have seen grown men complain to the ephors because they were bitten by another man’s dog. Like children! We are soldiers, Highness. We understand tomorrow could be the last day. Or the day after. A soldier has so little control over the time or manner of his ending. He can always choose how he faces it.’
They were silent for a time, passing the flask back and forth until it was empty. Cyrus found the burn eased and became almost pleasant.
‘The others?’
‘The others thought they were carrying out your orders, Highness. I would not think more of it than that. Some men learn to lead – I do not believe it is born in us. Most are willing to be led. They ask little from life beyond wine and food and warmth – and later, children and a home. They do not want to decide which way, whenever the road forks. They do not want others to come clamouring to them, crying “east or west?”, “live or die?” That is left to hard and lonely men like you, Highness.’
‘And like you,’ Cyrus replied.
‘Ah, well, I’m a son of Lacedaemon. I have a silver skull and molten bronze in my veins. I have walked the streets of Sparta and tasted the water of the Eurotas river that runs in a dry land. I have stood on the acropolis of Sparta and called out my adult name.’
He smiled as he spoke, but the words sounded like a ritual and sent a shiver through the prince.
Clearchus yawned suddenly and stretched like a child. He looked up at the stars and shook his head.
‘The night is old, Highness. I will send my lads out with horses tomorrow. We’ll find these raiders and hang them. Or we’ll find your brother’s army and cut them to pieces. That’s what we came for, after all. Orontas should have waited a little longer.’
The prince came to his feet, his spirits lifted by whatever he had drunk and the Spartan’s words. He inclined his head just as Clearchus had done to Orontas, then staggered away through the dunes to where he had left his own blanket and pack under the stars.
Clearchus rose to stretch, looking after the prince until he had vanished. The Spartan liked the younger man, for all his insecurities and need to be reassured. He would make a fine king, if he ever got the chance.
18
Alarm horns blew in the darkness. Bearded soldiers stumbled from their blankets and tents, rolling out bleary-eyed, swords and shields ready to hand. The noise of galloping horses could be heard, followed by the roars of polemarchs
and pentekosters summoning their men to the line. It took time to strap on greaves and breastplates, though their breath came fast and sharp. They sat in clusters, wrenching at knots and belts. No immediate attack sprang at them. Officers stalked amongst the seated groups, urging them to speed, reminding the men to lace their boots and push the helmets right down. The growling tones were almost soothing in the ritual, words they’d all heard a thousand times before. There was chaos somewhere, no doubt, but not in those lines. Or it was just another drill, no doubt ordered by that Spartan general who seemed to delight in such practices, while good men should have been deep in slumber.
They came into squares without panic, each regiment forming with shouts in the darkness.
‘Line here, on Demetrios of Athens!’ or ‘First four assemble on the horn banner!’ Regimental officers called out their men by name and rank, summoning them to the positions they had learned over months. It took a long time, though it seemed just moments. With gruff calls of farewell and good fortune, the camp followers drifted back, leaving lovers and friends and masters. The warriors of Greece and Persia waited alone in a great curved line drawn in the sands. The alarm horns died away, the work done. They stood without speaking, though never in silence. The creak of leather, a gauntlet tapping nervously on a shield, the screech of ungreased armour, dried by sand and heat – all of it made a noise like metal in the desert, as if a great dark creature of scale and bronze had woken and was stirring itself to fight.
The more experienced of the men had not drawn their weapons, though their hands opened and closed for the comfort of them. If there was to be killing that day, they would need every trick to keep their strength when the sun rose. They feared its heat by then. They were all darker than they had been back in Sardis or Greece, though some still peeled in great patches, where the sun had burned them almost to the bone. The rest were lean from small rations, their skin made leather by sand and the bites of flies and lice.
They had come a long way in the footsteps of the prince. Though many were nervous, they took comfort from those around them, waiting for whatever had caused the horns to sound. Hundreds made peace with the gods, touching amulets or keepsakes from home, raising them to their lips and murmuring brief prayers. Then such things were put away. They pissed into the sand where they stood, so that steam drifted up.
Banners rose high above the regiments, unrolled by boys from the camp who carried the poles with great pride. The Pegasus, the bull, the owl and the Spartan lambda stood above the ranks of the Greeks, while Persian regiments stood under lion, falcon, griffin and sun. Boys brought water to anyone who called for it, or went scurrying back for some forgotten item, noticed by the soldiers only as they came to a halt. The boys shouted and called at first, though their high voices fell to whispers as they passed between the standing ranks of men, awed by the presence of that dark army under the starlight.
A pale band appeared in the east, bringing with it the first faint breeze of the day, as if the night would be scoured away in a layer of sand. It revealed the barest outlines of the army of Prince Cyrus. They faced the direction of travel, looking east as all men will, to the source of the light, to the rising sun that burned away all childish fears. They faced that grey band and waited for the first warmth on their faces, instead of the terror of being blind and afraid, each man alone amongst his fellows.
The horizon had been a dark blade, separating land from sky. As the paleness grew across its length, those with sharpest sight cried out in warning, while the rest still stared and asked what was happening. In among the Greeks and Persians, there were thousands of men whose far sight had become little more than a blur, though they could fight well enough in sword’s range. Those men grabbed boys from the camp, turning them to the light and demanding to know what was out there over those dark hills.
The boys strained their eyes, seeing the horizon ripple as if the land itself moved. They pointed and shouted when the first light caught the tips of banners there. All those who had come with Cyrus heard the rumble that came to them, though it sounded more like the fall of stone in distant mountains, a long growl that went on and on. Far away, they saw a line that seemed to be the earth itself, resolving into black shields and the dust of horses. The army of Persia was in the field to face them. They marched as a host of hosts, darkening the earth.
Some of the regiments roared their defiance, howling at the imperials, rousing one another to a battle fervour. The sound increased at first, then caught and failed, dwindling until once more they stood in awestruck silence. The lines ahead of them had continued to grow until they could fill the entire world. No man there had ever seen so many soldiers in one place, an uncountable sea.
Cyrus had brought a hundred thousand Persians and twelve thousand Greeks. Thousands more stood in horror behind his regiments as the camp pulled back step by step. They had walked lightly into the green hills of Babylon and on, into the desert, taking confidence from the strength of numbers. All that dwindled in the face of so many, come to destroy them, without ceasing, without chance of mercy. Those who had walked from Sardis with the prince felt their scrotums tighten, their stomachs and bladders ache, while sweat trickled cold along their ribs. They despaired.
Cyrus threw his helmet to one of his personal guard then dug in his heels, understanding as an instinct of leadership that his men needed to see him. He rode out with his hair unbound, with banners flying, his servant Parviz and six hundred horsemen riding with him over sandy ground. He did not turn his head to his brother’s army, preferring instead to look across the ranks of those who had come so far in his name. They were his, in a way that was difficult to describe. Their lives had been wagered on his word. It was a bond as deep as any family, with the stakes as high as they could possibly be.
Clearchus and the Greeks settled the right wing close to the river Euphrates so that they could not be flanked or encircled. Cyrus came to a halt in the centre, raising his personal banner, a falcon on a huge square of silk, set with jewels. He looked left and right, taking pride in the hundreds of regimental symbols, the life’s blood and traditions of the army held on spears for anyone to read.
On his left, the Persian regiments stretched away under Ariaeus. Cyrus held the centre because it was where his men expected him to stand. Yet as the sun rose and he watched his brother’s army come closer and closer, he looked for the royal eagle of Achaemenid in the centre of the line ahead – and could not see it.
A runner came pelting through the ranks to him, already shining with sweat as the man darted around horses and dipped down close enough almost to vanish under the hooves of the prince’s mount.
‘General Clearchus asks for final orders, Your Highness. He wishes you to know that all the leaves of the forest cannot overcome a sword.’
Cyrus felt one side of his mouth quirk. The Spartan could not resist trying to raise his spirits. Clearchus was a father figure to them all, at times.
Before the prince could answer, he saw his personal guard pointing over to the left and shading their eyes against the rising sun. Out of the furnace, they called the name of his brother. Cyrus peered east and swallowed as he understood. His brother was in the centre after all. Yet his army was of such a size that the centre of it was past the furthest edge of the prince’s forces. For the first time, Cyrus felt himself tremble, the breath stop in his throat. His brother, or perhaps Tissaphernes, had anticipated him.
He looked over his right shoulder then, past the young Greek who waited for orders, to the entire wing under Clearchus, Proxenus and Netus. Menon the Thessalian was there too, though his men made the buffer into the Persians, so were the leftmost section of the Greek force – and least honoured, as Cyrus understood it. The Greeks bickered and fought amongst themselves, falling out on the march and in camp. Yet they were the advantage his brother did not have. The one force the Great King could not match and could not answer. Cyrus sent a prayer to Ahura Mazda, closing his eyes into the rising sun.
; ‘On your feet, boy,’ he called to the messenger. ‘Here is my order. General Clearchus is to advance the entire right wing at speed – away from the river, across the face of our army, before the enemy is in range. They are to strike at the centre of the royal lines, where they see eagle banners – on the left of where I stand. Repeat that to me.’
The messenger’s Persian was perfect as he said the words without a mistake, though his eyes were huge. In the end, he bowed and half-knelt before racing away, his skin already bright with sweat.
Cyrus watched his brother’s lines come closer with a sick fascination, as a man standing under an avalanche might watch the mountain fall, yet remain rooted to the spot.
Clearchus noted the messenger racing back to him. The lines were silent on the right wing as they waited for the enemy to come within range of stone and spear. The mood was serious, though the mercenaries of Greece were confident enough. They had seen the standard of Persian soldiers in those who had trained with them. The prospect of facing similar men in battle did not trouble them unduly. Yet sheer numbers had smothered laughter and talk. Watching an army tramp towards them like a tide coming in across a bay was a sobering experience.
‘I … have orders … from the prince,’ the young man said.
‘Shouldn’t you be fitter?’ Clearchus replied. ‘You might have to do this all day, son.’
‘Sorry, general,’ the man panted. ‘The prince says to advance your forces against the enemy centre, over there, sir.’
The messenger pointed, though Clearchus did not bother to look. Proxenus was not far away, the man happier in the saddle than Clearchus had ever been. Clearchus signalled for the messenger to wait as Proxenus came close enough to raise his eyebrows in question.
‘Prince Cyrus would have us push ahead of his Persians, to attack the king’s guard in the centre. Apparently, it’s over to our left. I can’t even see it from here.’
‘Leave the river?’ Proxenus said immediately. ‘That is … a rash move.’ He peered into the distance and shook his head. ‘The enemy are … very close to be trying something like that, Clearchus. I don’t know if I can even get my men moving before they’re on us.’
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