As the sun cleared the eastern hills, they stood ready and determined. Very few had known Xenophon before that day, but he had been accepted by the Spartans and the captains under Proxenus. There was no vagueness in his orders and most of them were content to shuffle into lines and watch their life’s belongings burn, though they wiped tears away in the licking heat of the flames.
Before they were able to move off, a force of thirty horsemen appeared, with an unknown officer at their head. Xenophon and Chrisophus went out to meet him, enjoying his evident confusion.
‘My name is Mithridates, gentlemen. Lord Tissaphernes sent me to accept your surrender.’
‘From your speech, you are a Greek?’ Chrisophus asked. ‘One of us? You share the same blood, the same gods? And yet you sit with Persians. You serve a king who murdered our generals. It is very odd, Mithridates.’
A stain of colour crept into the man’s cheeks, but despite the light tone of his words, the Spartan watched him unblinking, a sense of stillness in him like a snake about to strike.
‘Will you surrender, Spartan?’ Mithridates said. He looked nervously at the blank-faced Persians on either side of him. Tissaphernes was a subtle man. No doubt a few of them spoke Greek well enough to report every word.
‘We have considered your offer,’ Chrisophus said, ‘and we have decided our answer is no. Instead, we have a counter-offer for you. We will leave the king’s territory, doing as little damage as possible. If we are attacked, we will fight. Do you understand me, traitor? Can you take those words back to your masters over the hill? I imagine they are not far away.’
Though his colour deepened, Mithridates made an effort to shrug, trying to be more casual than he was.
‘You talk to me, but it is a dead man talking. You …’
‘Go on, Mithridates,’ Xenophon said, suddenly. ‘We have a long march ahead of us. I will not waste any more time on you.’
He and Chrisophus walked away from the gaping Greek. With a curse, Mithridates wrenched his reins around and headed back the way he had come. Only then did Xenophon and Chrisophus turn to watch him go.
‘We need to move quickly,’ Xenophon said. ‘Give the order.’
‘I was not one of the generals we elected,’ Chrisophus said.
‘Well, that was your choice, Spartan. Tell the men to move in my name, then.’
Chrisophus bowed his head and jogged away. Bonfires still spat and flickered across the camp, sending greasy black smoke into the clear sky. The square of hoplites formed around the camp followers, all standing in ragged ranks. Some of them had placed young children on their backs and shoulders. They seemed a parody of soldiers in their lines, but they looked determined enough. Xenophon turned his back on all that lay behind. He saw Hephaestus had brought his horse and nodded.
‘Thank you, Hephaestus,’ he said. The young man who had led a dozen robberies in the markets of Athens was not much in evidence in that moment. Hephaestus had learned to ride and march and stand in line while the world went to hell around him. He had left a great deal of his youth on the battlefield of Cunaxa. When he leaned in, he was utterly serious.
‘Can you lead?’ Hephaestus said, his voice a murmur. ‘Truly? Tell me you know what you are doing, Xenophon. Tell me this is not some game to you.’
Xenophon considered. He had known Socrates, Clearchus and a prince of Persia, learning from them all. He put his foot into the clasped hands Hephaestus held out and settled himself on the saddle. He had witnessed despair the night before. In the face of utter defeat, Xenophon had simply spoken to them. He’d asked the questions that revealed what they already knew – and they had accepted him. He knew he had to keep them moving, so they never had a chance to consider the odds against their survival. In that moment, he understood he could not share his own fears with anyone.
‘You know me, Hephaestus,’ he said. ‘Of course I can lead.’
In his brown eyes, Hephaestus seemed to weigh the man who had taught him so much, desperate to believe. Xenophon looked steadily down at him. After an age, Hephaestus patted the horse on its shoulder and stood back.
Xenophon saw Chrisophus watching the exchange and so Xenophon raised his arm almost in a salute and dropped it, sending them on. Behind them, both Tissaphernes and the king of Persia would be hearing of their refusal to surrender. Xenophon recalled an army that had been like a dark sea. He did not doubt the response would be savage, but he was still proud they had not gone meekly into captivity. They were a long way from home, but at least they would not vanish from the earth without a fight.
They had marched all morning and part of the afternoon when the four scouts rode back to report a village some eight miles ahead. It was just a walled compound by a stream, with a few fields of barley and wheat, some trees and half a dozen skinny cattle. Such places clung to the land by the tips of their fingers, barely holding on to life. Yet it meant food they needed desperately. Xenophon reminded his officers not to take slaves or kill the people they encountered. They wished only to be left alone by the Persian army and had no need to antagonise them. Food was vital, of course – any cattle or sheep would be driven along with the few animals they still had.
As they pushed on, intent on reaching that place before the sun set, word spread that the enemy were closing on their rear. Xenophon turned his horse and rode back, with Chrisophus peeling off to run alongside him. Together, they stared south, shading their eyes.
‘Not as many as I expected,’ Chrisophus said. ‘How many do they have there, two hundred horse? Those men on foot can’t have much armour, not at that pace. My eyes are not as sharp as they once were. Do they carry javelins?’
‘Bows,’ Xenophon said darkly. ‘Mithridates has returned with archers and cavalry, to strike at us from a distance. Two hundred cavalry … no more than four hundred archers.’
‘There must be more marching to intercept us,’ Chrisophus said. ‘Such a small force can only seek to slow us down.’
‘We are already slow,’ Xenophon replied. He shook his head. ‘We need to reach the village ahead of us. Pass word to increase the pace. Bring our shields to the rear. Your Spartans, Chrisophus. We cannot outrun this many cavalry, nor men who can hold the tails of those horses and run almost as fast. Yet we can make them work to reach us. It won’t make their aim any better, at least.’
Chrisophus raced off, giving orders that brought a line of shield-bearers to the rear. It was barely soon enough as the Persian horsemen came on fast as soon as they spotted the Greek ranks in the wilderness. Some of them cantered, pulling men behind them. Others galloped in alone and threw javelins in swooping arcs. They struck with great force, but the shields held.
Xenophon remained at the rear, watching and thinking, cursing softly when one of the men was hit and had to be carried forward by his mates, dazed and bloody. More javelins flew. Some of the ones on the ground were snatched up by Greek warriors and thrown back with savage accuracy.
Far worse were the archers, once they got into range. The Persians seemed to know there were only a few Cretan bowmen left after the battle. Persian archers walked in a wide rank almost at a stroll, fitting their bowstrings and shafts as they went and sending out the first shots. They could advance at the same speed as the retreating square and they could hardly miss the lumbering beast that tried to stay ahead of them.
Xenophon felt Hephaestus flinch at his side and turned sharply on him.
‘Would you stop that? You will embarrass me in front of the men.’
‘Right. Sorry,’ Hephaestus said.
He held himself rigid as four hundred archers jogged after them like wolves, sending shaft after shaft into the air. The range was not far off their maximum, for which Xenophon was thankful. If he’d been in command of the Persians, he’d have made them close up to a hundred paces, to pick their shots. At over two hundred, his men had time to see shafts coming. The shield-bearers in the rear were almost enjoying themselves, raising the bronze discs to pluck arrows out of the ai
r as if it was a competition. They were cheering each other on until one of them was struck cleanly through the neck. There was no chance to stop and recover the body. The rest of them fell quiet as they watched him left behind, step by step. The Persian archers cheered as they bore down on the corpse. The Greeks watched as they picked up the dead man and hacked him to pieces.
‘Pass the word for the last three ranks to charge on my order,’ Xenophon said to Hephaestus. He needed a formal aide to carry his instructions, but Hephaestus was all he had. He had made the Athenian gang leader a horseman. He wondered if he could make him a soldier.
Hephaestus gaped at him.
‘Pass …? How do I?’
‘You go to a general, or Chrisophus, the Spartan who leads but accepts no title – and you repeat my order. They pass it on to the captains and pentekosters, who organise the men.’
‘What if they refuse?’ Hephaestus said. He watched Xenophon’s expression tighten in surprise.
‘We are at war, Hephaestus, facing the enemy. If they refuse my orders at such a time, their lives are forfeit. However, they will not refuse. They elected me with the understanding that discipline, above all else, is the key to our survival. We need to be ten thousand Spartans, Hephaestus, do you see? Or we will not make it home.’
‘I see,’ Hephaestus said.
‘Then pass on my order! And ride fast. The village cannot be far away now.’
Xenophon sat his mount and stared back over his shoulder for what seemed like an age, the ache in his neck eased only when he turned the horse in a full circle to survey the enemy. They seemed to have brought a good supply of arrows, he thought with ill temper. His first hope had been that they would run short, but the cavalry seemed to hold spare quivers. If anything, the rate of shots intensified rather than slackened off.
Xenophon saw the last three ranks were watching him, ready for his command. They were part of the Spartan contingent and he was grateful for that, knowing that they would carry out his order without any bickering or discussion.
Some of the rearmost hoplites walked backwards with their shields held out, while others had strapped them to their shoulders to walk on as if they were not beset by enemies. The Spartans all wore bronze helmets, so that they stood tall and scorned the threat from behind. They looked fresh enough. Xenophon hoped that was so. Still, he ignored the stares until one of his scouts came back to warn him the village lay only a mile further.
Xenophon pointed twice at the enemy archers, his hand moving sharply. In response, the rearmost ranks suddenly turned and charged, nine hundred men detaching and covering the ground with astonishing speed. The Persian archers were two hundred yards behind and they knew they had no chance at all against armoured hoplites in a hand-to-hand fight. They sprinted away like hares as soon as they saw what was happening.
Xenophon watched in rising anger as the archers who had stung them for hours raced clear. He saw the distance between his charging ranks and the rest of the square increase from a hundred paces to three, then four, so that they appeared smaller to his eye, with dust clouds still rising. He shook his head.
‘Horns,’ he called, cursing under his breath. He’d hoped for a sudden slaughter. ‘Bring them back.’
He waited grim-faced while the Spartans halted their charge, visibly reluctant. Xenophon imagined they might be able to run the men down over a long enough distance, but he could not expose the rear of the square. They came back in good order, but before they rejoined the main force, arrows returned thick and fast, injuring three who had to be carried forward by others into the safety of the square. Xenophon growled in frustration. He could see exactly where to send a cavalry charge to break up the hornets that stung them – but they had no horses.
The village wall of mud brick was barely higher than a man, but still worked to provide shelter and shade. More importantly, it meant that neither the Persian archers nor the horsemen could continue their attack. If they came close enough to threaten, they would be in range of javelins or another sudden rush. On the dusty ground outside the village, the Persians halted in silence, their ranks dropping to one knee to rest. They remained there for an age, but at the first sign of twilight, their officers gave new orders and marched them away.
In the village square, Greek soldiers sat and panted. They would have welcomed a direct assault, but it did not come. The sun began to dip towards the west and the shadows of villagers could be seen running away across the fields in the distance.
Those few who remained were treated kindly on Xenophon’s order, though it was in part because they amounted to half a dozen old ladies and a crippled Persian boy who could not run. As far as Xenophon was concerned, the attack gave them the right to take slaves and loot, whatever they wished, though the village was a poor place to begin. There was food and wine, with enough barley for the horses, so they posted guards and settled down to rest.
As shades of purple and rose touched the sky, Xenophon sent an order to summon the captains and generals. He knew Chrisophus, but not any of the others. As they settled themselves in the village square, he realised he would have to learn the strengths and weaknesses of each of them, to use them well. They nodded to him as they gathered and it was clear they did not blame him for the pointless charge that day. It had accomplished nothing, but it had demonstrated the priority, if they were to go on. He took a deep breath and leaned forward slightly, wanting them all to hear and understand.
‘Gentlemen, our greatest weakness is the lack of cavalry and archers. I had the men charge today, but they could not close with a lightly armed enemy supported by horsemen. We found shelter tonight, but every day to come there will be an attack – and we have no defence on the march.’
‘What then is your answer?’ Chrisophus said.
Xenophon glanced at him, but the man was smiling. The Spartan could be infuriating. He was so clearly a natural leader that Xenophon wondered why he had chosen to follow him. He hoped it was because Chrisophus saw the same ability in him, but when the man grinned like that, it seemed that he simply amused himself.
‘I said before we need slingers. That need is urgent now. I’ve seen men of Rhodes among us. They are famous for their skill with the sling. Some of them must have the ability and they can train the rest. Before we leave tomorrow, I want leather slings cut for four hundred men and as many hours of practice as they can get. They have range as good as a Persian bow, just about, but they do not need to be accurate. We are not going to attack, after all. Their task is to make the enemy think twice about sitting in our shadows and picking us off one by one. We can mask the good slingers in the stones of the rest.’
There was an olive tree in that square, wide and ancient, with a trunk so twisted and gnarled it might have stood for a thousand years. A man Xenophon did not know leaned on it with an outstretched right arm. He was a rangy fellow, sunburned and fit-looking, with a thick brown beard that needed to be trimmed. He came forward, taking a position to face the rest. Xenophon knew him then for one of those who had been chosen to replace the murdered generals. He did not step back, though he waited for the man to speak.
‘I am Philesius of Thessaly. Nephew to Menon. I stand for him.’
Xenophon felt tension creep over him, as if his skin had been varnished. He had not agreed to lead with a council of generals. While an enemy was literally prowling around them, they could not afford to debate each order. Such a course would mean their destruction.
‘Some of you know my uncle was a difficult man at times, though I think he was in the right more than most. Still, there are one or two who have come to me in the night to say I should lead. I speak today because I will not be silent. We can survive this, if we make fewer mistakes than the Persians who wish to see us left for carrion. Xenophon was chosen first by the captains of Proxenus, but I accept him. If I did not, I would keep my peace even so – for the one thing that will bring us down is petty argument and the bickering of factions. We are one blood, one culture. So I say to t
hose who whisper and complain, that I am deaf to you. That is all I have to say.’
The man strolled back to the tree and leaned once more. His chest moved as if he breathed hard, but there was no other sign of strain. Xenophon inclined his head in astonishment and relief.
‘Thank you, Philesius. The … er …’ He paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. ‘The old women of the village say there is a wide river, half a day from here. I would think it was eight miles, some sixty or seventy stades. They say there is a shallow ford by a copse of ancient olive trees. I will send two men this evening to ride out and find it. There will not be time tomorrow to wander the banks. Our slingers might hold the Persian forces back for a time, but we need a way across. For now, I say eat what you can and sleep well. We are as safe here as anywhere – and those few men we saw today will fear an attack from us in the night. They have pulled back in their cowardice, but we will wake before them and be on our way to the river.’
‘And after that?’ one of the captains asked.
The officers of Proxenus seemed to take a proprietary interest in him, as they had helped to raise him up. Xenophon let a beat pass before he answered, though he stared at the man, watching him flush.
‘After that, I will see what lies ahead,’ he replied. ‘And I will do what needs to be done.’
Xenophon turned away rather than invite a discussion. He saw Hephaestus and in that moment the Athenian seemed a friendly face in that square. Xenophon headed over to him just to have somewhere to walk. It was only when he drew close that he saw the woman he had noticed before standing behind him.
The Falcon of Sparta Page 29