The Falcon of Sparta

by Conn Iggulden

  Clearchus did not reply for a time. His eyes seemed unnaturally bright in the gloom.

  ‘It is understood,’ he said at last. ‘Truce if we stay, war if we move.’

  He spoke in a way that made it seem more a threat than a reassurance. It was Tissaphernes who looked away and nudged his horse to movement.

  When they had walked some thirty stades, or the passage of an hour, the darkness had come.

  ‘How much further is it, do you think?’ Proxenus asked in Greek. ‘My legs are stiff.’

  ‘How would I know?’ Clearchus replied. ‘If they are stiff, I am willing to run for a while.’

  ‘Where would we run? Do not forget I am wounded,’ Netus said, indicating his bound arm.

  ‘How could we forget it? You mention it all the time,’ Menon replied, glaring at him.

  ‘It’s barely a wound, anyway. I’ve had worse from my wife,’ Proxenus added.

  Netus pushed past him suddenly, his bound arm flapping up and down.

  Tissaphernes looked on in astonishment as a dozen Greek generals broke into a run, shoving each other like boys in a race. For a while, they surged ahead, then settled into a training lope. Tissaphernes could hear their laughter and curses as they went.

  The Persian raised his eyes to heaven and urged his horse to a trot to keep up. The fires of the king’s camp came into view in a hollow between the hills ahead and, of course, the Greeks called out the sight to one another. They no longer needed to be guided in. If anything, the pace increased, so that the Persians were left behind.

  Tissaphernes could feel the eyes of his companions on him, two serious young men who had not known Greeks before. They looked to him for some explanation, but he could only shrug.

  ‘They are mad,’ he said, stung by their staring. ‘Who can understand such men?’

  The three Persians caught up to the Greeks and passed them before they reached the outskirts of the camp. To his irritation, Tissaphernes found he was sweating in the warm air. The Greek generals were grinning as servants came to take the horses. Tissaphernes wondered if he should change his robes before heading to the king’s side, but his orders had been to return promptly. He wondered if Artaxerxes had expected him quite so soon, however.

  ‘Follow me,’ he said in court Persian. Tissaphernes gestured. He knew some of them spoke the tongue, but it suited his sense of superiority to wave them along like children or the simple-minded.

  For their part, the Greeks walked in a tight group, their good humour vanishing at the sight of Persian soldiers watching them. Tight ranks stood to attention on both sides of the path into the camp, making an avenue of Imperials. To his confusion, Tissaphernes saw Clearchus drift to one side and stop by a great bull of a man, staring glassily at nothing. Tissaphernes watched in astonishment as the Greek straightened the man’s tunic and said a few words into his ear that brought a twitch of humour to the gash of his mouth, hidden deep in a black beard.

  The action seemed to amuse the others and they called to the Spartan in their liquid language. The progression along the path became an inspection, as if the Imperials had been assembled for Greek approval. Tissaphernes set his jaw. They were barbarians and, more importantly, the king’s guests that evening. He could only smile tightly and wave them on, waiting for them.

  ‘Does the fat one speak Greek, do you think?’ Menon said.

  ‘There will be someone who will,’ Clearchus replied. ‘Say nothing you would not like overheard.’

  ‘You are a wise man, Spartan. In many ways, you remind me of my mother.’

  ‘I think I met her once …’ Clearchus began. Whatever he was going to add was lost as trumpets blared ahead. The opening to a great pavilion was pulled apart, so that light spilled into the darkness around them.

  It was hard not to stare as the Greeks entered a royal tent that had been constructed on the desert floor only that day. Far from sand or mere rugs laid on bare earth, the floor appeared to be made of polished stone. Above them, the roof rose to multiple peaks and the air was thick with strong fragrances and flavours. Dancers moved languidly in time to some stringed instrument, women wearing just a simple kilt, boys with rouge and kohl painted on their skin. There must have been hundreds of Persian soldiers lining the walls like black or white beetles, their faces bright with heat and narcotics to fire the blood. The air itself was thick, though whether it was the warmth of the desert or the scent of oils rubbed on bare skin was hard to say.

  The twelve Greeks entered in pairs, with Clearchus and Menon in the lead, Proxenus and Netus behind them. Menon had not chosen to stand on the Spartan’s right hand, but found himself there as he gaped and blinked in the light of a thousand tongues of flame. The lamps rested on bronze spikes sitting in holes in the stone, or held in the hands of slaves whose only task was to provide light as needed.

  The centre of the pavilion was a feast table set with knives and seats and bowls, all on a blood-red cloth. A great lamp turned slowly above the table’s length, dragging the flames of white candles round and round. The table stretched left and right in front of the Greek generals, with Persian officers watching them from behind its bulk. Clearchus felt a strange mixture of emotion as he saw Ariaeus among their number. His first thought was relief to see him alive. Beyond that, the man’s tight smile and guarded expression were clear enough. Clearchus should not have been surprised to see a man like Ariaeus restored to the king’s graces. The Persian was a survivor, above all else.

  Clearchus nodded to Ariaeus. He owed the man no more courtesy than that, though the Persian dipped his gaze to the floor in reply. Clearchus looked then to the one who dominated that scene, King Artaxerxes. The god-emperor of Persia bore some resemblance to Cyrus, so that there was no mistaking him, even if he had not been surrounded by slaves and so richly dressed and painted, he resembled a golden carpet. The king was also heavier of frame than Cyrus had described, a warrior rather than a bookkeeper. Artaxerxes wore loose robes of some light cloth, so that he appeared cool despite the heat of the tent. His beard had been oiled and drawn to a point. Clearchus saw the king wore an Egyptian breastplate in golden bronze under the sweep of cloth and a dagger through his sash. Yet Artaxerxes was smiling almost dreamily and there was no immediate threat.

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ a man said, dragging their attention to him. The fellow bowed and Clearchus thought he had the look of a high-ranking servant.

  It should not have been a surprise to hear Greek spoken. Yet Clearchus still blinked at being addressed in the language of home, so far away from all he knew and loved. He tried not to see voluptuous figures writhing together out of the corner of his eye, though the musicians and their plucking did not completely drown the hiss of skin. There was, in that place, a dangerous emotion on the air, a smell of blood perhaps, overlaid by strong perfume. It was a place of heat and desire, rather than coolness and safety.

  Clearchus reached the huge table, surprised by the size of it as he approached. He went down on one knee, bowing his head. He and the others had discussed the best way to greet the king, from what they knew of Cyrus. They’d all agreed Artaxerxes would expect them to lie flat on the ground, but at the same time Proxenus had argued it would show weakness – and that such men as the king would only be inflamed to violence by such a display. Clearchus knew it was a risk, especially in front of the king’s court followers and his whores. He dipped down and heard a hissing susurration go around the pavilion, though whether it was a murmur of astonishment or amusement he could not tell.

  ‘Well, I told you,’ Menon whispered in reaction at his shoulder. ‘You have killed us all.’

  Without raising his head, Clearchus replied in a low voice, ‘You lie flat then, Menon, if you think it will save you. Seriously.’

  ‘Not me. I am a Greek as good as you, Spartan. Better than you.’

  Clearchus rose to his feet and smiled at the king. He spoke in fluent Persian.

  ‘Your Majesty, we come under truce to your pavilion. I see y
ou have spared General Ariaeus and I give thanks for your mercy. My name is Clearchus of Sparta. It has been my honour to lead these men in peace and war.’ One by one, he introduced the others standing behind him. Those who did not speak the tongue still knelt as they were named.

  The king remained silent for the entire performance. Clearchus saw he was glassy of eye and flushed, as if Artaxerxes had already been drinking hard that evening. The general waited to be given leave to sit. He knew from his association with Cyrus that the Persians took the customs of hospitality very seriously. If he and his companions were welcomed to the king’s table, they would be his guests. After that, any small breach of manners or custom could be forgiven. Clearchus waited, though he could feel fresh lines of sweat run from his scalp to darken his tunic.

  Tissaphernes swept past the generals he had brought to that tent, prostrating himself and then taking a place at the far end of the table. Clearchus saw he did not dare to sit down without permission, but his arrival had broken the tension. The Great King of Persia blinked slowly, as if his gaze returned from the infinite to that place of heat and sweetness.

  ‘You are welcome, Clearchus of Sparta. Please have your followers sit. You are all guests at my table this evening.’

  A subtle tension went out of the room, as every soldier of Persia heard the words and knew they would not be called upon to strike the impudent Greeks down. Clearchus let out a long breath, though he made little of it. He had felt the gaze of many men who would have been happy to see him killed. The Spartans were the most famous enemy Persia had ever faced, the unconquered foe. Clearchus hoped he had added a few lines to that legend at Cunaxa, when he had shown he could go wherever he wanted on the battlefield. It was his private belief that if Cyrus had not fallen so quickly, they would have smashed the Persian army, though it would have taken a month to kill the last of them. He did not think that would be an opinion he shared at table that evening, however.

  The Greeks took seats as they were guided to them, hiding their discomfort at having so many strangers and enemies at their backs.

  Clearchus looked up into the eyes of the king. He could not help gauging the width of the table, finding it just too far to lunge with his kopis. It was the sort of detail Cyrus had loved, he recalled. No doubt there was a story of the thing’s construction, though how it had come to a plain in the middle of a desert was beyond him. The Greek general could only marvel at the numbers of slaves around the Persian king. It made sense that the royal camp would have been ten times as great as their own – a Sardis or even an Athens on the march. Great tables, taverns, a royal mint, jewellers and weavers, carvers in ivory and stone. In a single night, they had raised a civilisation in the desert, and yet he still wondered if he would see the sun rise again. Clearchus took a deep breath and smiled. He laid his hands on the table in front of him and was pleased to see they were steady.

  ‘Do you toast the fallen, man of Greece?’ Artaxerxes asked.

  Clearchus nodded.

  ‘We do, Your Majesty, to give them honour and speed them on their way.’

  The king gestured in the air and servants filled goblets in front of each man. Menon looked at his with a dark expression, but he knew better than to insult their host by refusing. The king rose to his feet and all twelve generals copied him, holding their cups high. The tension returned to the room as the Persian soldiers touched swords and made ready to draw at the first sharp movement.

  ‘My brother Cyrus was a traitor and … a fool. But he was my father’s son. May God find him a place in eternity. My brother Cyrus, gentlemen.’

  ‘Prince Cyrus,’ Clearchus said.

  He heard Ariaeus’ voice join the rest as they said the words and then sat, all too aware of the sudden threat of violence they had felt. Artaxerxes appeared not to have noticed. He smiled as the first steaming dishes were wafted in, addressing his attention to the particular way the food was presented. Clearchus waved the first few morsels onto his plate and refused anything else. He had no appetite and he could see Proxenus too had chosen a bowl of soup and something in fried flour that could be dipped. Menon was heaping his plate full of everything on offer and only shrugged when he sensed the gaze of the others.

  They ate until each man there had refused the servants many times, until Clearchus was fed up being asked. The king belched into his fist and emptied his wine yet again. The Spartan had kept count and knew it was the eighth time the king had seen the bottom of his cup.

  ‘What am I to do with you Greeks?’ Artaxerxes said suddenly.

  Clearchus saw Tissaphernes look up from his own plate as he wiped it clean with some sort of flatbread.

  ‘Majesty, we are mercenaries,’ Clearchus replied. ‘Hired men. We wish nothing more than to be allowed to withdraw back to the Royal Road.’

  ‘Yet you came into Persia as an invading force,’ Artaxerxes said.

  The sense of danger had crept back into the room and Clearchus was glad he had not eaten too much and made himself slow. He could feel the threat rising in the stiff movements of armed men who thought they were unobserved. It was all the more dangerous for that and he felt a sense of resignation. They were surrounded. If the king meant to harm them, there was no chance at all that they would walk out, not from that place.

  ‘We came for gold and silver, Your Majesty. Your brother Cyrus paid us to march. We are the same as saddlers or carpenters, though our trade is the sword. When our employer is killed, we hope to withdraw. In victory or disaster, we seek no grudges.’

  Artaxerxes grunted a laugh.

  ‘You may be disappointed here. In Persia, we have long memories, general. You came into my lands seeking my head, my throne. You came to destroy everything ordained in me. And yet you expect to just walk away at the end, to take my hand in friendship! General Ariaeus has told me the truth of it, how he was forced into service by my brother. As he is a Persian, it was enough to break him back to the ranks, to be used by my guards for their entertainment.’

  Clearchus glanced at Ariaeus, seeing the grief and humiliation in his eyes. No longer a favoured man, it seemed. Ariaeus shook his head a fraction back and forth, warning him. There was pity in his expression and Clearchus felt his stomach clench.

  ‘But you …’ the king went on. ‘Truly, it is as Lord Tissaphernes has said. You Greeks, you are all barbarians … savages. Now, the meal has finished. Do you understand? Have you eaten your fill, each one of you? Can you complain to the gods that I treated you with disdain, or broke my oath of hospitality to you, my guests?’

  There was a perfect stillness in the pavilion. Even the writhing women stood as statues and the last notes of music faded, seeming to hang in the air for a long time. Clearchus felt a powerful arm curl round his neck from behind. He drew his kopis and dug it into the elbow joint, making his assailant scream in his ear. Yet there were dozens of soldiers willing to grapple the seated Greeks. Proxenus broke the arm of one over the edge of the table, making the man shriek and fall away. Menon came to his feet and punched another Persian cold before he was brought down, swearing and cursing with every breath. The table rocked and almost went over in the struggle. Yet there could be only one end to it. In that small place, the Greeks were stabbed and overwhelmed in moments.

  Artaxerxes rose to his feet once more, looking down at his fallen enemies. One or two still writhed in the grip of those strangling or knifing them. He saw awareness remained in the eyes of the Spartan, though the man’s face was as red as the cloaks of his people.

  ‘How will your Greeks fare now, general? Without their leaders? I tell you, they will not leave my lands alive. Take that knowledge with you as you die.’

  He thought Clearchus was trying to say something. The king frowned in surprise when he saw the man was laughing, but the Spartan’s blood ran down his chest in a great slick and Clearchus was dead before Artaxerxes could ask him to explain.

  23

  The guards roused the camp with horns when they heard horsemen approaching. W
ith the Persian king just a few miles away, the response was instant. The horns had Spartans and Thessalians stumbling up from their blankets, swords bare as they came to answer the threat.

  Torches were brought in the deep of the night, to see the riders. Behind them, lines of men formed with spear and shield. They did not stand down when they saw only a few dozen men had approached the camp. Clearchus and the generals were absent and there was no one to order them back to their blankets. Nor would they have gone if there had been.

  Two captains of Proxenus stood deliberately ahead of the rest as the riders drew up and halted. Slaves ran alongside the Persians, holding torches out to the side where the oil could not drip down onto bare skin.

  Pallakis stood beyond the light, not daring to come any closer. She recognised Tissaphernes once more, with Ariaeus looking grim and grief-stricken at his side. She did not know if the Persian general was a prisoner, though Ariaeus seemed to ride unbound. It was Tissaphernes who addressed himself to the captains standing in his path – and then raised his voice to anyone who could hear him in the darkness beyond.

  ‘In truce, I approach this camp. I have grave news for you all, with a decision to make before dawn. Your generals are dead. They displeased King Artaxerxes and they have been beheaded. You are ordered to surrender. If you do so, you may expect some form of mercy. You will be made slaves, but most of you will be allowed to live. If you do not give up your arms as the sun rises, you will be hunted down like dogs and killed, one by one, as an example to all those who choose silver over honour. The Great King does not approve of mercenaries. You have until dawn to make your choice. Do you understand your position?’

  He addressed the last to a pair of captains, who spoke not a word of Persian. Sensing his gaze and tone meant they had been asked a question, they both shook their heads. Tissaphernes raised his eyes in frustration, waving a hand to Ariaeus, who moved his mount a step further and translated his fellow Persian’s speech into Greek for all those who listened.