Menon glanced quickly around him, seeing immediately how that vote would go in the angry expressions of the generals.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘You are not ready to listen, not yet. I will not be the one to complain in time of war, as you say. Play the hero, Spartan. Show the wisdom and judgement that brought us to follow a dead prince, to this desert, surrounded by enemies. I tell you, you will get us all killed.’
Proxenus laid a massive arm over Menon’s shoulder and began to rumble something in his ear. Menon shook it off with a curse. He stalked away from the rest of the group, taking out a baked leather water bottle to refill it in the river. The crowd parted before him, exchanging glances.
Clearchus watched him go, then turned to the rest as if Menon had not said a word.
‘According to the last map I saw, the river Zapatas is to the north of here, two or three days of marching. The hills you can see in the distance are green and there should be animals and birds to hunt where there is water. We’ll eat the draught animals and leave the last of the carts behind us. I imagine our lads can bring desert bustards down easily enough. A few fit archers merely have to follow the birds. They cannot fly far and they tire more easily than we do. It will be a feast every day!’ He smiled, though his eyes remained cold. ‘More importantly, the river is said to be fast-flowing. I would like to put at least one fast-coursing river behind me. I do not think the Persian king will simply allow us to leave, not without a fight.’
‘How far until we are out of his territory?’ Netus asked. He had taken a wound in the fighting and had strapped his left arm close to his chest. Of all of them, he looked the least able to march and Clearchus suppressed a wince at the thought.
‘If they let us go, some two thousand miles – seven hundred parasangs or so. We might try to reach the Royal Road.’
‘Where King Artaxerxes can run us down all the more easily,’ Netus murmured, not quite willing to argue the point.
Clearchus glanced at him before going on.
‘If we head north, we should pass out of Persian lands in a month or so, crossing into uncontested territory. I do not fear hill tribes and savages, gentlemen. Not compared to the entire Persian army. The desert doesn’t last for ever and there are rivers. If you would have me lead, I’ll take us all north, at the best pace we can make. We’ll be thin by the end of it, but I believe we’ll get through.’
‘A month or so may be the pace for soldiers,’ Proxenus said. ‘But there are old women and children in the camp. How fast can we go with them?’
‘You are agreeing with Menon?’ Clearchus replied angrily. ‘You’d leave Greeks to be raped and slaughtered by shrieking Persians? Have you ever seen the rout of an army, Proxenus? Netus? Any of you? I have. I have seen a city sacked and put to the torch. I have given the order to do so.’
He closed his mouth firmly and stood, breathing hard. Slowly, he unclenched his right fist and forced a smile.
‘Well, we cannot change the past. All we can do is protect these people who trusted us to keep them alive. We can send our few horsemen out to keep an eye on the enemy, and we’ll refuse battle as long as we can. If they see we are intent on leaving their territory, they might let us go.’
‘You don’t believe that,’ Netus said wearily.
Clearchus shook his head.
‘No, I think we’ll have to fight, at least once. The king has too many brash young generals – and one old, fat one – who want to nail our skins to a wall. Yet I have seen the quality of the men who stand with us, generals. They found no equal yesterday, not in the Persian lines. Our square marched right over their vaunted Immortals, their noble legions. We gutted them. They will be wary of us now. By all the gods, they are right to be.’
Every man there heard the tumult beginning at the same time, so that they turned towards the sound like a pack of hunting dogs catching a scent. In the crowd, Pallakis felt her heart thump in fear as Clearchus began to give orders in a completely different voice. No longer was he the gruff but kindly leader of men. His tone allowed no disagreement and he sent the others away at a sprint, scurrying to their positions, drawing swords as they went. She stood on her toes to see what was happening, but so did everyone else around her and she was not especially tall, so that she could see only the backs of others. She did feel the hand of a husband who had been frowning at her just before, as it came to rest on her upper thigh. Pallakis slapped it hard and moved away into the crowd, not looking back. Such a man would never have dared to touch her the day before. His arrogance showed how her star had fallen and made her afraid. She decided she would have to get a knife. Perhaps Clearchus would lend her a kopis blade.
Pushing through the crowd, she half-feared a sudden rush of panic as they came under attack. Instead, she saw three men on horseback approaching the neat ranks of Greek hoplites taking post ahead of them. Pallakis was too far off to hear what they were saying, but she saw they held open palms out, as if intent on showing they carried no weapons. A truce, then. She dared not hope, after the terrors back at the camp. The Persians could be kind to those they loved. They were unbelievably cruel to those they considered slaves or an enemy. All foreigners fell outside their castes, so that the lowliest beggar in Persepolis would consider himself her master, or the equal of any of the Greeks. She wondered if Clearchus understood that was how they thought.
Her old status still held with some, so that the crowded Greeks let her through to the front. Clearchus had strolled over to that part of the square, smiling up at the horsemen as if they were not mortal enemies fresh from a battle. Pallakis felt her heart constrict in her chest at the sight. How could her prince be dead? How could Cyrus not be there, in all his youth and greatness, with his visions of Persia reborn? He had inspired her a dozen times with his dreaming and now, somehow, it was at an end and she was alone. She felt tears come and ignored the stares of those who saw it and whispered to one another.
Clearchus looked up at Tissaphernes, the Persian sitting a fine white mount and smiling wryly, as if they had not been trying to murder each other just a day before.
‘You won’t believe me, Spartan, but I am glad to see you survived,’ Tissaphernes said. ‘Have your scars healed from the lash? I imagine they must have done by now.’
‘Why would you seek to annoy me, Tissaphernes?’ Clearchus replied. ‘I might enjoy killing you, as few other men in my lifetime. You are not a fool. Do you want me to strike you?’
Tissaphernes dropped the act and sneered down at him, pleased to be sitting so high above the Greeks.
‘You speak the king’s tongue with a savage accent, Spartan, did you know that? You sound like a herdsman, or a servant. I can only imagine you were taught by one. And it is Lord Tissaphernes. King Artaxerxes rewarded me for what I told him about your plans. Had you realised that yet? I am the one who persuaded the Great King to raise the armies, to be ready in the field for traitors from the west. It was my warning that saved the throne for its rightful owner. I imagine he will reward me with a palace, now it has turned out in our favour.’
Clearchus rubbed his chin, feeling the bristles there. He would have to grow a beard, he realised. There would be no queue to be shaved in the mornings, not for a while.
‘Tissaphernes,’ he began. ‘You came here calling for a truce. Yet you seem determined to taunt me into anger. If there are games being played, I think you are the one playing them. Now, why don’t you simply say what you were told to say. Leave the decisions of war to those who understand them.’
Tissaphernes coloured and shifted in his saddle.
‘Very well, Spartan. I would rather have seen this ended today. I could have brought a hundred thousand men to surround you, to send arrows down your throats …’
‘Were you given some kind of message, perhaps? By the king?’ Clearchus interrupted, wearying of the man’s spite. He would happily have watched Tissaphernes swallow his own tongue and choke to death, but if the man was reluctant to speak, perhaps there was somethin
g worth hearing.
Tissaphernes stared coldly in silence for a time, then spoke as if he was reciting something that left an unpleasant taste as it passed his lips.
‘King Artaxerxes holds no grudge against those his brother paid. He understands the fault lay with the traitor, Prince Cyrus. The king witnessed great bravery on the field from the Greeks. He invites the generals to discuss how best to send them home without further bloodshed or fighting.’
‘There,’ Clearchus said faintly, his thoughts spinning. ‘That is more like it. Where is the king camped, Lord Tissaphernes?’
The use of the title was not lost on the man, but he still shook his head.
‘The army is all around you, Spartan. Yet I will not say where my king resides, not yet. Tell me your answer and I will bear it to him. I will return this evening to guide you to the king.’
‘I accept,’ Clearchus replied.
‘The invitation is to all Greek generals,’ Tissaphernes said, looking over Clearchus to the lines of soldiers and the crowd straining to hear them.
‘I have one or two I would prefer to leave behind,’ Clearchus said, thinking of Menon and the damage he might do if he ever stood before the Persian king.
‘General Clearchus, do you think I am some Persian farmer? Some innocent? We have questioned men who came with you from Sardis. With fire and iron, until they sang out all their secrets. We know how Cyrus damaged the king’s reputation in Byzantium, drawing funds that would not be repaid. We know to the last cup of grain how much you spent, how much you owe, how many you seek so foolishly to protect. The Great King has asked to see the Greek officers who did so much damage to his imperials yesterday.’ The Persian smiled, his features shining. ‘Now, I would rather see you slaughtered where you stand, but I obey the king’s orders. So unless you wish to offend His Majesty, you will be accompanied by Netus the Stymphalian, Menon of Thessaly, Proxenus, Xenias the Arcadian, Sosis of Syracuse, Pasion the Megarian …’
Clearchus raised his hand.
‘Very well, Tissaphernes. I will come. As for the others, we’ll discuss it.’
‘Who knows,’ Tissaphernes said. ‘Perhaps you will refuse. Perhaps you will yet decide to offend my master one last time. I look forward to hearing your answer. Until tonight, Clearchus.’
The three horsemen turned away together, leaving Clearchus to watch them dwindle to specks on the horizon. The Spartan swore under his breath and Proxenus chuckled to hear it.
‘You think it is a trap?’ Proxenus asked.
‘I have no way of knowing,’ Clearchus admitted. ‘It could be. Brother, I am at a loss. I would not give Menon the satisfaction of agreeing with him on anything, but the truth is, I don’t see how we can protect these people in this place. Perhaps I should have marched straight out and left them all.’
‘No,’ Proxenus said firmly. ‘I would not have followed that order. I would not hear the cries of these children in my last moments. You would not have left them behind.’
‘Menon would have,’ Clearchus muttered, looking over the crowd. He saw Pallakis there again, somehow snagging his gaze as it drifted across the faces of strangers.
‘You are not Menon,’ Proxenus replied. ‘You are a better man. I will come with you tonight. If they mean to betray us, I’ll take that fat fool down.’
‘It is a risk,’ Clearchus said. He made his decision and the terrible tension left him. ‘Very well, Proxenus. I will stand with you, however it turns out.’
‘Or we could just run. I am open to that idea as well.’
Both men looked over a crowd that included small children, old men and women, the lame, the slow. The camp had trundled along on carts since Sardis. If they ran, they would not last a day.
‘Will they have wine at a truce discussion, do you think?’ Proxenus asked.
Clearchus brightened considerably.
‘I imagine so.’
22
Clearchus rubbed a finger down his cheek, where a line of sweat itched him. He missed the rituals and routines of the camp proper. With Persian horsemen appearing out of the gloom, it had seemed only sense to abandon everything that could not be made to roll or run in instants. As it was, the remaining oxen plodded along at a pace so feeble they could be caught by a small child on a mule, never mind imperial cavalry. He would have ordered them slaughtered and jointed if there was an easy way to carry the meat. Still, he missed the simple order of the cooking lines. He missed the tents and servants who made his comfort their priority. They seemed to have vanished, either killed or enslaved. He hoped it was not the last. The Persians used slaves poorly, so that they rarely lived long. He preferred the Spartan style, where a man’s slaves were prized and kept fed. Clearchus had four helots of his own in the ranks. They considered him a father, almost, he thought. He suspected they cursed his name when he made them exercise or sent them off on a long run around the hills, but they had to be fit. Carrying his kit and watching his back required both stamina and patience.
He did not run that day, with the weight of decision on him. Some of those who had abandoned the camp had brought a little food with them. Others went out hunting ostrich and bustard, three of them coming back with a fine buck deer like conquering heroes. It was more trouble to find firewood enough to cook the meat. One of the families had to be held back as they watched their only cart broken up to be burned. Clearchus looked at the old fellow who still cursed and gestured crudely in his rage. The gods were capricious, though it hardly seemed the time to remind him. The Spartan wondered if the man’s indignation said something wondrous about the Greeks, that they could raise their fists to Fate and the gods themselves, or whether it simply meant some of them were fools.
The thought did not improve his mood, though a thick slice of venison was being browned for the generals who would go to meet a king that evening. His stomach creaked at the thought.
The news had spread quickly through the camp, so that all twelve senior men had come in to discuss it or give him advice. No doubt the smell of venison played its part in that as well, but Clearchus greeted each one warmly.
Menon was the last to come in, looking sour and nettled. The sun was beginning to set by then and as far as Clearchus knew, the man had eaten nothing all day. Menon approached him with obvious reluctance, his mood confirmed by the first words from his mouth.
‘You’d have us all approach you on bended knee, I suppose. I can see why you got on so well with the Persian prince, Spartan. You have the same arrogance. Shall I throw myself to the ground for you? Would that please Your Highness?’
‘I think you should stay behind, Menon,’ Clearchus replied, ignoring the taunts. He found Menon petty and bad-tempered, but his men had fought well. Apart from his resentment of other classes of Greek, Menon actually did know his trade.
Menon looked at Clearchus, then the faces of the others. He knew Proxenus and Netus were as thick as thieves with the Spartan. One or two of the others had agreed with him in private that they found the man arrogant, but still they faced him as a group, as if Menon were the outsider.
‘I am a general of twenty years of service,’ Menon said. ‘The last I heard, you had been disavowed by your own ephors in Sparta. You found a prince willing to pour gold down your throat, but that does not make you the leader here, no matter what these fools think. What, because Cyrus said you were? Perhaps we should hear from the prince now, then? Raise your hand, Prince Cyrus, if you think Clearchus should rule us. No? Nothing? Then I will decide my own fate, Spartan – and the fate of my men, who look to me.’
‘You are a poisonous little bastard, aren’t you?’ Proxenus said. ‘Clearchus is giving you a pass, Menon. In case there is treachery tonight. Don’t you understand?’
‘Your friend is a thinker,’ Menon replied. ‘As far as that goes. As much as that is worth. I wonder what the Persians offered him this morning, when they came to speak for the Great King. I can’t help wondering if General Clearchus has shared all they said. Keep your peace
, Proxenus. I wouldn’t trust you further than I can throw you.’
‘Very well!’ Clearchus snapped. ‘Come with us, then. Perhaps I thought to spare myself your whining, Menon. Proxenus, you should stay.’
‘Not me,’ Proxenus said immediately. ‘I will be at your side.’ His tone allowed no disagreement, but Menon spoke over them both.
‘Whatever you two have planned together, I will discover. What is it, then? Is Proxenus to move the camp away while we are distracted? No, I would like to see Proxenus at my side as well.’
Clearchus found he had closed his right fist and was silently measuring the distance it would take for two quick steps and a blow to knock the Thessalian cold. It was a satisfying prospect, but he strangled the urge to lose his temper, as he had been doing since he was seven years old. The lessons of Sparta had been harsh, but they had given him a will like bands of iron. Instead, he smiled at Menon and bowed his head.
‘As you say, then. We’ll walk together into the lion’s cave. And if it swallows us up, I will have your name on my lips, Menon.’
‘You make a fine speech,’ Menon said with a shrug. ‘But you will not leave me behind. That I can promise you.’
Tissaphernes returned as the desert evening came, the sun drawn from a clear sky to the underworld beneath. He found all twelve Greek generals waiting, looking fresh and rested. They carried no spears or shields under the protection of a truce, but each man had decided to keep his short sword and, in the case of Clearchus, a kopis blade that rested across the small of his back.
Thousands came to watch them leave, standing in silence. Tissaphernes looked back at so many and scowled to himself. They did not look beaten or afraid. He could not understand such strange people, who did not even seem to know when they had lost.
‘It is the king’s order that your followers remain here while you are gone,’ the Persian said with a sniff. ‘My lord Artaxerxes will guarantee a truce while they are in this spot, but not if they move forward or back. Is that understood?’
The Falcon of Sparta Page 26