Pallakis bit her lip between her teeth, feeling tears come. Clearchus had gone trustingly into the nest of vipers that was the king’s pavilion. His loss, so soon after Cyrus, made her want to fold into a child’s posture, with her hands about her knees to hug them close. She could not go on. She considered becoming the slave of some Persian soldier or lord and despaired. She would never see Greece again. She wept, though she made no sound. She watched as Ariaeus repeated the message once more and saw how he flinched as Tissaphernes raised a hand to gesture. Ariaeus may not have been a prisoner, but he was no longer the golden general she had known.
Pallakis watched them turn their horses, the light of their torches visible in the night for a long way as they rode back. She wiped her tears then, feeling trails of them hot on the back of her hand. No doubt the kohl of her eyes had smeared. The night air was cold and though she knew she trembled, it helped to be hidden in the darkness. A thousand whispered conversations began around her and she was no part of any of them. Yet little by little, the camp fell quiet once more. They had suffered too many shocks and reverses in too short a time. The last blow had stunned them all, to see their generals go out so full of confidence and hope, only to vanish for ever. It was too much to bear. The stars turned overhead and Pallakis thought she would not sleep. It was her last night of freedom, after all. She tried not to think of what would come with the sun.
Xenophon watched Ariaeus and Tissaphernes leave. He stood in the shadows a few paces from the torches, invisible to them. He thought half the camp had turned out to hear what was happening – Greeks were curious enough when their lives weren’t at stake. The news that Clearchus would not be returning was like being struck in the chest. Xenophon cursed softly. The idea that anyone could have overcome the Spartan seemed impossible. Yet there was no mistaking the poisonous triumph on the face of Tissaphernes. The man was a snake, but such men often prosper, as Socrates always said.
Xenophon walked to where he had laid a sheet on the sandy ground, sleeping on his back with his hands folded across his chest. He considered lying down, but knew sleep would not return. He had eaten a little earlier, the remains of some poor pack animal that was more bone than meat. He picked a piece of it from his teeth as he stood, looking up at the clear sky and the stars overhead in a great band that stretched across like mist.
He started violently when Hephaestus spoke at his shoulder.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Zeus! Did you have to creep up on me in the dark?’
Hephaestus shrugged, barely visible under the moonlight. Xenophon glared at him. He had taught the Athenian gang leader to ride a horse and ever since the man seemed to look to him for guidance, as if he would have all the answers. Xenophon gnawed a piece of skin on his thumb. It was hard to admit he had no idea. He was still reeling from the news that Clearchus and Proxenus and Netus and Menon were gone with all the rest. Some he had admired, while others were strangers to him. To have them all suddenly swept from the board shook him badly.
A thought struck him and he lurched into movement. Hephaestus hesitated only an instant before following and catching him up.
‘What is it? Have you heard something? What are we doing?’
Xenophon stopped, finding himself breathing hard. He turned to the younger man beside him, nineteen years old and hardened by a life of violence and unreliable meals from his earliest years. It was still a mystery why Socrates had suggested he accompany Xenophon. Hephaestus responded to most challenges with his fists, or sometimes with a stone held in his fists. He had proved a difficult companion, though he did have a surprising way with horses, Xenophon had to admit.
‘I need to speak to the captains of Proxenus. There were two of them standing close to the Persians.’
He said nothing more, closing his mouth on a need to babble out the wild plan that had sprung fully formed into his head. To a man like Hephaestus, it would have seemed madness. Xenophon walked back to where Tissaphernes and Ariaeus had sat their mounts. One torch still burned there, the stick pressed deeply into the sand. He saw the two captains were close by, their heads bowed in worried conversation. Xenophon approached them, keeping his voice steady, though it came out first as a croak.
‘Gentlemen, if I had wine, I’d raise a cup to our last night.’
The two men scowled in his direction.
‘You think so?’
‘The king killed our generals, captain. He will do the same to us. The night is passing. When the sun rises, we will see them coming, I do not doubt. I am just surprised … but no, it is too late.’
‘Too late for what?’ the younger of the two asked him immediately, clutching at anything that might give him hope.
‘If we go meekly to the king’s hands, it is all over for us. This is the man who cut the head off his own brother. What can we expect from such a king? Most of us will be killed, the rest made slaves. None of us will ever see home again. Yet half the camp has gone back to sleep! I thought there would be more fight left in them. We were not beaten on the field, after all. No, we endure heat and cold and exhaustion better than any Persian, yet they expect us to just hand over our swords and shields and show our necks for the blade?’
More men wandered over to hear Xenophon speak. The two captains turned sharply to see who it was, suspicious of everyone.
‘You think we can fight that great Persian host on our own?’ the older captain said. ‘With ten thousand camp followers to protect? With food for no more than a few days?’
His tone was not one of scorn, Xenophon realised. The man spoke without anger, but almost with need in his voice. He truly wanted Xenophon to have an answer and waited for him to reply. Xenophon responded as Socrates had taught him to, thinking it through aloud, so that his voice remained calm and reassuring.
‘They could not break our formation on the field,’ he began. ‘Not once. Numbers seemed to mean little. Yet we have only six horses, too few. So if they attack, it will not matter if we win: we won’t be able to chase them down, where the real damage is done. And if we lose, they can send in horsemen to butcher our people. Yes, cavalry will be the greatest threat.’
He paused to look around at the dozen captains who had come to listen. He needed them to understand what he was about. He would not just talk to hear the sound of his voice or to while away the hours. He had once asked Socrates how a man should live, and the philosopher had replied, ‘Thoughtfully,’ saying it was what separated us from dumb animals.
‘Each of you was raised by Proxenus or Netus to have authority over others. When we have made a plan, I would be willing to follow you. I know you will not just remain here, like lambs and goats, waiting for an enemy to still our voices. We are Greeks. We talk – but then we move. So …’
He smiled at their attention, at the way his confidence was beginning to affect them so that they stood straighter. It did not matter that his stomach churned with fear if he did not show it.
‘Before we march, we must seek out those within our number who hunt with a sling or a bow. We need some way to hold off Persian horsemen, or they will ride rings around us and send arrows in all day to pierce our square. They could not do it in the battle, but if we are to march on open ground, they will whittle us down to a stub. Nod then, gentlemen! Let me know you agree, that you understand! It cannot be many hours to the sun’s rise and we have to be moving by then. Why make it easy for those who murdered better men at their table? Why give them anything they want? No, we need slingers at the edges. After that, in the words of Clearchus, we’ll need food and shelter …’
‘This is madness. You’ll see us all destroyed.’
Xenophon broke off at the voice of a man he didn’t know. Others around him grumbled at the interruption, giving him the fellow’s name. Xenophon raised his hand for silence and was pleased when it came.
‘Apollonides, is it? Perhaps it is you who will lead us tomorrow. What do you suggest?’
The man blushed in the torchlight,
looking uncomfortable.
‘I’m not asking to lead, but I would ask the Persian king for mercy for us all. There’s no chance of safety without his permission. We are in a desert, just about, surrounded by his cities and his regiments. We won’t be going anywhere without his seal on it.’
The captain raised his chin as he stopped talking, almost in challenge. Hephaestus was watching them both with an astonished expression. They wanted someone to lead them out of an impossible situation. They needed one man to at least look as if he knew what he was doing. It was like a draught of wine in Xenophon’s blood, to have them wait for him to reply. He could almost hear Socrates laughing at him, but he shook his head to clear it of all old voices. Perhaps Captain Apollonides spoke the fears of them all, but he could not be allowed his point. Xenophon could see the path they had to take. In the instant of speaking, that man had become his obstacle. Xenophon made himself breathe out all his anger. He wondered if this was how Clearchus had felt every day.
‘You were here when we agreed a truce with the king, Apollonides. When Clearchus and Proxenus and all the rest went out in good faith, without their shields and spears, trusting the word of Artaxerxes. I pray now that they are truly dead and not being tortured and insulted by our enemies. You would have us trust the word of one already proven in his deceit? Should we bend our knees to Tissaphernes, who betrayed the prince?’
Xenophon read the stances of the group of captains and realised they were not supporting the man who had spoken. They glared at Apollonides. It made his own anger surge back without restraint. Xenophon stepped closer and made himself a threat.
‘If that is your wish, I say you are not one of us, Apollonides. I say your weakness will cost the lives of all those we have brought to this place. That makes you my enemy, Apollonides – and no Greek.’
As the man spluttered, Xenophon turned to the others.
‘The choice is yours, gentlemen. My view is that this man should be stripped of his position and made to bear baggage as we move into the desert.’
‘How dare you speak so to me!’ Apollonides replied. He began to draw the short sword on his hip, but his wrist was gripped by another, so that he gaped and struggled but could not move.
A Spartan captain named Chrisophus reached up and tugged at an earlobe, though Apollonides jerked away.
‘His ears are pierced like a Lydian,’ Chrisophus said. ‘I have wondered about him before.’
‘Lydian? I am a Greek!’ Apollonides replied hoarsely. He fought as his sword belt was removed, but he could not prevent it and stood panting.
‘Walk into the desert,’ one of the other captains said. ‘I will not watch my back for spies and traitors.’
Apollonides turned in mute appeal to the others, but there was only implacable anger on their faces. He had become the focus of all the despair and betrayal in that group and there was no mercy to be had from them. With a poisonous glance at Xenophon, he turned on his heel and walked away into the darkness.
As they raised the torches to watch him go, more soldiers were revealed, their eyes reflecting the light. Every captain and pentekoster in the Greek force had come to hear the conversation. They looked for leaders and Xenophon felt once more as if he had drained a cup of wine. He was in the right place at the right moment, he could feel it. There were many voices whispering, but when he raised his own, they fell silent to hear.
‘All we know is that our generals have been betrayed. Twelve good men will not return from the grasp of the Persian king – a man without honour. But that is not the end. Our first responsibility is to those who look to us: the soldiers and the camp followers. It is our task to meet the enemy with laughter and violence. Let them see we are not downhearted! You are officers, after all. Let them see the courage that brought you better pay!’
He paused a beat for them to chuckle and murmur that it was not so much. If there was one thing soldiers enjoyed it was to complain about not being paid well enough.
‘The Persians took our officers because they thought we would be unable to act without them,’ Xenophon went on. ‘They do not understand Greeks, gentlemen! Before the sun rises, we must choose new generals from amongst those who have the respect of the men. They are dispirited in the darkness, their paths at an end. It will be our task to raise hopes once again, so that instead of saying, “What will happen to me?” they ask, “What action will I take?” Our task is to restore that animating force that makes us the terror of nations.’
A grumble went around the group, spreading further in the darkness. There were thousands outside the ring of torches, with more still coming in to hear their fate. Yet Xenophon realised he could not speak directly to those men and women. He had pushed a stone down a hill and he had to run alongside it for a time.
‘I have seen before,’ he said, ‘that those who seek to save their own lives are more likely to lose them. Those who seek only to fight with honour are most likely to remain alive when the battle is past. Indeed, I have known them reach old age and spend their years in philosophy, the violence just a memory.’
He knew he spoke as a man who had seen a lifetime of military service, whereas the truth was he had only ever known Cunaxa. Yet it had been a cataclysm and he thought it true enough that all those who stood there in the deserts were veterans. They had seen the oracle and washed themselves in blood.
‘That is what you must bear in mind, if we are to survive the day to come.’ He pointed east, taking the direction from the North Star. ‘When we see the light again, we must once more be regiments, with generals, with officers, with order. Do not mistake me, we will need greater discipline than before. Orders cannot be challenged when the whole world stands against us. We must be ten thousand Greeks, ten thousand Spartan generals. The Persians can never understand such a thing, nor copy it. If we can do that, we will see home again. We will march out of Persia and we will see Greece.’
The silence was as thick as heat in the air when he stopped. Xenophon could hear men breathing and shifting where they stood, but no one else spoke up to have them beg the king for mercy. It seemed he had found the words to reach them.
The red cloak Chrisophus wore set him apart from the captains of Proxenus. More, he had twenty years of service under his belt and he was not one to wait on ceremony or manners. Instead, he cleared his throat loudly and deliberately.
‘Until this moment, Xenophon, I knew you only as an Athenian and a horseman. I knew Prince Cyrus and General Clearchus trusted you, however. You’ve spoken well. Thank you. I think now the captains should elect new generals, so we are ready for the Persian approach when the sun rises.’
Xenophon bowed his head in reply. They moved away from him and he felt his heart sink. For just a few precious moments, he had seen them looking to him to lead. He knew he could, though whether it was something born in him or something he had learned in his discussions with Socrates, he did not know. Yet they would choose new generals from among their own. He was thirsty and sore, with bruises he could not remember picking up in the battle. For just a while, he had been lifted high by their trust and faith, if he had not imagined it. To be left behind while the real soldiers went to pick leaders was as if he carried a weight that bowed him down.
He started when he felt a light touch on his shoulder. Xenophon turned sharply and his eyes widened at the young woman who stood there, her fingertips still pressed against his skin.
‘I think you spoke well,’ Pallakis said. Her voice was barely a whisper, as if they could still be overheard. ‘You gave them hope. I could see it in the way they stood.’
He clenched his jaw and dipped his head. She took her hand away and he realised he could still feel where she had touched him.
‘Thank you. I must admit, I thought for a moment that …’
Approaching footsteps interrupted what he was going to say, so that he turned, his hand reaching for a knife in case it was the man he had helped to banish. Instead, he saw Chrisophus as he came back. The other capt
ains were behind him and they strode in with new purpose.
‘We have discussed it, Xenophon,’ Chrisophus said. ‘We have a Spartan, an Arcadian, a Stymphalian and a Boeotian. We’ve found men willing to lead in place of those who were killed.’
The man paused and Xenophon looked at him in confusion.
‘And we’ve elected you as leader, sir. As general. You’ll be our strategos.’
Xenophon felt a smile spread slowly across his face, beyond his control, though he sensed he should be serious and determined. Chrisophus chuckled at the sight.
‘I am glad to see it meets with your approval, General Xenophon.’ He dropped his voice slightly, glancing at Pallakis who stood open-mouthed at Xenophon’s side. She was a striking woman, Chrisophus thought.
‘I – I’m … er …’ Xenophon said.
‘Take a moment, sir. You seem to know what to do – and no one else stood up before you. That matters. We await your orders. I’ll make sure they’re carried out when you’re ready.’
In the distance, a line of palest rose could be seen on the horizon. Xenophon saw it and felt his heart thump faster.
‘The day is upon us, captain. Rouse the camp. We stand or fall on how we greet this dawn.’
Chrisophus went to clap him on the shoulder and thought better of it. Instead, he bowed.
‘Yes, general.’
‘Chrisophus … do you think that man was truly a Lydian spy?’
‘Apollonides? Perhaps. But he would have argued until the sun came up. That much I do know.’
The Spartan grinned and tapped his fist on his breastplate in salute before jogging away, raising his hands to his lips, to bellow the camp awake.
24
‘Burn the rest of the carts. We must learn to march, and the carts and wagons are the slowest part.’
Xenophon gave the order and was pleased to find the protests were little more than a rumble through the crowd, a sigh rather than a voiced objection. Everyone there had heard the fate of Clearchus, Proxenus and the others. As they had not before, they understood that their lives were at stake, that the rising sun could set on their bodies. The Greek soldiers made a point of moving among them, looking for bulky items they tried to conceal. Everything went on the fires and they sacrificed the last of the rams to give as many as possible a good meal.
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