He pressed a fist into his stomach when it groaned and murmured, sounding for all the world like a little voice. The first share of the meat had to go to the soldiers, of course, then the children who did not have their reserves and could not survive on air and water for very long. In theory, the others would get their share after that, but it was barely a broth by then, though they did their best to eke it out to fill as many stomachs as possible.
As he had the thought, footsteps sounded and he saw a light growing as someone came up the steps. Xenophon rose to his feet, irritated to be disturbed even in the small hours. He felt obscurely disappointed when he recognised the Spartan, Chrisophus. The man bore a bowl of something that steamed in one hand and a flask in the other.
‘You have not eaten, general,’ he said.
‘Have you?’ Xenophon countered.
Chrisophus shrugged. ‘I am a Spartan,’ he said, as if that was answer enough.
Xenophon raised an eyebrow and waited, ignoring the bowl and flask held out to him. Chrisophus sighed and relented.
‘We never had enough food when I was a boy. I can remember feeling full perhaps twice in my life, both times at a royal feast. We were encouraged to steal bread, of course, but I was never very good at that. I think …’
‘You were encouraged to steal?’ Xenophon asked in surprise.
‘As I say, we were not well fed. If we managed to outwit the cooks and snatch a little extra, that was never punished. Unless we were caught – though we were punished then for being caught. We believe hunger makes a boy quick, where being full makes him slow and stupid. I think that is probably true.’
‘But you are hungry now?’
‘Of course. We resist the flesh, general. The flesh is a fat and foolish thing that seeks to control us. It is a slow horse, if you understand me – a horse that doesn’t understand why it is slow. But do not mistake me. You must eat, because you need to be sharp tomorrow. Beyond a certain point, hunger is life.’
‘I have no appetite, Chrisophus. However, share the bowl with me and I will eat. That is an order.’
The Spartan looked down at the bowl he was holding out. He ran the tip of his tongue over his lips, allowing himself to enjoy the odour of whatever beans and flesh had gone into the thick stew. He gestured with it and Xenophon took the bowl and the flask from him, sitting cross-legged to eat. Chrisophus produced a small loaf from under his arm and broke it in two, handing over one half. Each man scooped up the stew with a piece of bread and ate it slowly, refusing to rush or reveal the desperate urge to speed up. Xenophon slowed right down, determined not to be outdone by the Spartan, though his body cried out for sustenance.
‘We cannot stay in this place,’ Xenophon said at last. ‘If they surround us, we will have lost. Pass the word as you go down, would you? An hour, perhaps two, no more than that. We need to stay ahead of our pursuers.’
‘That will not be easy,’ Chrisophus said softly. ‘There are no pack animals now, not after tonight. The children will have to walk or be carried.’
‘Have the labour shared, then, a dozen men and women to bear each child in turn. If they slow us down, we will be eaten up from behind. We cannot hope to protect the camp followers and take the war to the Persians.’
‘No?’ Chrisophus asked. He had watched a Greek square roam almost at will on the battlefield.
‘No,’ Xenophon said. ‘You wanted me to lead, Spartan. Do not question my orders now. Our aim is to leave the lands under the control of King Artaxerxes. Not to challenge him again where he is strongest. All we have to do is stay ahead of them.’
‘They have cavalry now, in great numbers. We have, what, two hundred horse? It is not enough, I think.’
‘It is enough to screen the rear …’ Xenophon said. He knew the Spartan was an experienced soldier. For all he did not enjoy being pushed and prodded, he understood there was a point to it, just as when Socrates asked him a dozen times to say what love was.
‘We are slow,’ Chrisophus said, counting off one finger. ‘We have too few slingers, so we are vulnerable over distance. We are intent on retreating at a steady pace …’
‘They will become bold,’ Xenophon admitted. ‘When they see they cannot make us stop. They will harry us and nip our heels. What I wouldn’t give for the prince’s personal guard! Those six hundred horsemen could hunt and hold them back for a month. Without them …’
He trailed off, staring at the points of light in the distance.
‘These Persians prefer not to camp too closely to us. I do not know why that is.’
‘Even so many fear a night attack,’ Chrisophus said. ‘We are famous amongst them for our tricks. They do not trust us when we are close.’
‘If that is true, it means that we will begin each day ahead of them,’ Xenophon said. ‘And if they camp closer, we might risk a raid and scatter their horses.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ Chrisophus replied. Yet the Spartan looked grim and Xenophon caught his mood.
‘You think we can get away?’
There was no answer for a long time, until Xenophon thought the man would not reply or had dozed off.
‘It does not matter what I think,’ Chrisophus said. ‘We march, river to river. Four or six hundred miles – it is not too far. Yet they will try to bring us down, like dogs after a deer. Whether we succeed or die, it does not change what we must do. So I will set off with a glad heart. My people are all around me and my enemies are all behind. It will be a good day.’
To Xenophon’s surprise, Chrisophus patted him on the shoulder as he rose up and stretched his back.
‘Try to sleep, general. We’ll need you up early tomorrow.’
‘I’ll come and wake you,’ Xenophon said. He felt rather than saw the Spartan smile in the darkness as he went back down.
The Spartans in the square all knew one another as they gathered to march once more. They greeted friends and murmured comments about the long day ahead, or the strange city around them. The night had been warm enough to sleep in the open, rather than risk scorpions in long-abandoned houses. They emptied bladders and sipped waterskins, though thirst remained acute in all of them.
With the moon still in the sky and no sign of dawn in the east, the entire force set off, the camp followers contained in their own ranks within the square, making a rolling, restless heart with soldiers on all sides. They left the city behind and marched with goosebumps of morning chill on their skin. Some looked back, fearing a great howl or the sound of hooves rushing down upon them, but there was nothing but stillness and the night’s silence.
By the time the sun finally rose, they were a dozen miles from the city and still going. Xenophon sent orders to Hephaestus to keep scouts out behind as well as ahead. Having horses brought them eyes and range, where before they had been almost blind. Yet there was no sign of the Persians and it was hunger that forced them to halt by two villages. They found penned goats on scrub earth and a winter store that was full of pistachios and almonds, ready to be sold. The villagers made no protest as they watched the cellars emptied, but nor were they killed or taken as slaves. Xenophon had to give orders on the last. They could barely look after the camp followers they had, never mind if they added to their number.
The scouts came cantering in before they had spent a half-day in the village, but it was enough time to refill every vessel and even to put the youngest children on two small carts drawn by mules once more. The owners watched disconsolately as the Greeks moved on.
They saw the Persian cavalry before evening came. A line of them rode up to observe the marching square, all large and powerful warriors who held out sabres and scimitars with unmistakable threat. There was no sign of the king himself, nor any of his lords. Xenophon was pleased not to see foot regiments alongside them. Cavalry alone could not break their formation, not against spears. He dared to hope the king might have given orders simply to escort them from his lands.
That night, they were kept awake by horsemen riding c
lose to the camp. They had found a small stream and waded through it to rest on the far side, but any chance at sleep was hard when howls and shrieks sounded in the darkness. Hephaestus wanted to ride out and draw blood, but Xenophon refused. They needed to keep safe the few horses they had. Sleep was less vital than that protection, at least for a time.
The stars had circled their camp when warning horns sounded. Scouts came barrelling in, roaring incoherently, stirring those around to gather arms. Xenophon roused himself, itching one armpit where sweat had grown into a rash. Exhaustion had dragged him into a deeper sleep than he had known, but his yawns died stillborn as he looked up. The light was grey in the pre-dawn, but he could see an ocean of dark soldiers approaching in silent ranks, barely four hundred paces from where he stood. They had marched closer, advancing in the last breath of darkness. As the light grew to gold, Xenophon saw Tissaphernes sat his mount in front of that mass of men, the man resplendent in white.
Xenophon felt his heart thump in panic. The Persian tapped his breast in mock salute. The enemy ranks roared as one and charged.
26
Xenophon cursed as sweat stung a gash on his cheek. It had been a glancing blow from an arrow, but it just kept bleeding. Every time he wiped perspiration, his fingers opened the wound again.
Tissaphernes had thrown his entire force at the Greek square, trying to bring an end to the chase in one strike. He had come close. Xenophon tried not to think of the first moments of savagery. He’d seen a woman running after her screaming daughter, right across the Persian charge as it came in. They’d run her down, so that both woman and child vanished underfoot.
Perhaps a hundred had been left behind as the square formed and lurched forward, still open. Persian cavalry had darted in like wolves cutting out the old and sick. They took women, men, anyone they could reach. Some over-eager Persians were cut down by hoplites scrambling to close the formation, but that was no comfort to those who were caught. Most of them were killed on the spot, while others were kept alive to scream and hold out their hands in pitiful appeal, pressed across the saddles of laughing men.
The square closed and the Greeks marched on, stung and furious at the attack. Xenophon felt angry gazes on him, while he wanted to string Hephaestus up for not giving enough warning. He called the Athenian over and saw the man looked as mulish and dark as he had ever done on the streets of the city.
‘Where were you?’ Xenophon asked. He kept his voice quiet, in part because the responsibility was his, regardless of how Hephaestus saw it. He could not blame the inexperienced gang leader for not keeping a proper watch.
‘I left the scouts an hour out from camp,’ Hephaestus said.
He hung his head as he spoke and for a moment he looked about ready to burst into tears. Instead, he steadied himself with an effort of will that impressed Xenophon.
‘I went out with them, but then … I rode back to camp. I’m sorry.’
Xenophon looked at the young man. Hephaestus could neither read nor write his own name. He had learned to ride on the trek east into Persia. If there was a fault, it lay with the one who had left him alone, without anyone to advise him.
‘Tell me what happened,’ he said.
Hephaestus looked away, unable to meet his gaze.
‘They must have had horsemen waiting – with archers.’ He gestured sharply, cutting the air. ‘A few of the lads got clear, but we lost a lot of men. They came on fast, Xenophon. I was still on my way back. By the time I was able to shout an alarm, they were almost on us. I’m sorry.’
He fell silent, ready for whatever judgement awaited him.
‘I should not have left you without more experienced officers,’ Xenophon said. ‘The error is mine, do you understand? I do not blame you for my own mistake.’ He made his voice brisk, as if the matter was already forgotten. ‘Now, for tomorrow night, you’ll need to place scouts in pairs, but always in range of one another. If one rider or a pair is brought down, the others hare back to camp. Always in sight, Hephaestus. That is the lesson to learn from this.’
‘I am sorry,’ Hephaestus said again.
Xenophon looked blankly at him.
‘You have no need to be. Learn from this. They have won a minor skirmish, raised their spirits. It doesn’t change anything! How far have we come already? All we have to do is stay ahead.’
As he spoke, fresh shouts went up from those who watched the Persians in their wake. A moan of fear sounded from the open centre of the square, the first time Xenophon had heard such a sound from them. He clenched his jaw, angry at himself but also at an enemy who would not just let them go.
As he headed back along the flank of the marching square, Xenophon saw a mass of cavalry riding at an easy canter, as if on parade. They passed the Greeks at a distance of six or eight hundred paces, too far for spear or arrow. The Persian horsemen turned to watch the enemy they were leaving behind, of course, but they were riding ahead of the marching Greeks, using the advantage of speed and mobility.
Xenophon watched as Chrisophus came alongside. The Spartan looked healthy, barely breathing hard, despite the bronze and leather breastplate he wore.
‘Any new orders, general?’ Chrisophus called.
Xenophon was beginning to know how the man thought. The Spartan was more comfortable with subtlety than Clearchus had been.
‘None for now,’ Xenophon said. ‘Any thoughts on those horsemen?’
‘I imagine they will set an ambush ahead of us,’ Chrisophus said. He had made his way to the flank to make sure Xenophon understood that exact point. ‘They’ll find a place where the road narrows, perhaps in the hills. They’ll fell trees or roll stones, whatever they can find to hold us in one spot. Those behind will attack at the same time. It is what I would do.’
‘I cannot stop them going ahead,’ Xenophon said. ‘Nor can we scatter the ones still trailing us. If we stop and offer battle, they can withdraw at the same pace. And if they accept our challenge, our camp followers will be left vulnerable. That is the heart of our position.’
He blinked at having said it, feeling suddenly hopeless. Aware of the eyes of those around him, he shook his head slightly, putting such fears aside. A commander had to appear confident, even to experienced men like Chrisophus. He had to be beyond doubt and weakness.
‘Still, we do not want to engage with these Persians. We have shown they are no match for us on the field. There is no glory in tormenting them further. No, our task is to walk out of their territory. I intend to do that, Chrisophus. If they take the high ground, we will march through with shields held overhead. If they attack us on foot, we will cut them down until they desist. We’ll fight if we must, but our victory will be when we reach the Black Sea. There are Greek cities on the coast in the north. When we reach those, we’ll be in range of home.’
Chrisophus bowed his head as he walked.
‘Press on in good order, general. Understood.’
He grinned like a boy then and Xenophon felt his mask crack as he smiled. He had given voice to the problems ahead, but just by saying them aloud, he saw they were not insurmountable. He felt cheerful, for the first time that day.
‘Carry on,’ he said.
They marched a dozen miles to a river, where a wooden bridge had been built over the torrent. Xenophon gave orders to halt on both sides of that point, controlling the crossing long enough to take on water. Spartans stood with shields and spears ready for any sudden charge while the camp followers refilled every waterskin and flask. Though the deserts were behind, life still existed between rivers in that place.
All the while, Tissaphernes sat his horse some way off, leaning over his saddlehorn in the centre of a line of bearded Persian warriors. They stared at their enemies, as if they were the wolves and the Greeks were fawns come to drink. Xenophon smiled at the thought. His men were warriors without equal, as they had proved at Cunaxa. That bitter draught for Persian sensibilities was all that was keeping them alive.
Tissaphernes let his
men edge close and threaten those who waited to cross, but they offered no charging line, no advance of spears and swords. Not against the red-cloaked Spartans who sat talking or stared idly back. Some of the Greeks splashed and washed themselves in the shallows, throwing up spray and laughing. Others sang or recited poems to one another, declaiming to small groups. They knew such scenes would infuriate the watching enemy, but Xenophon found his own spirits raised by the insouciance of his people. Why should they dip their gaze in fear, even from so many? The Spartans were arrogant, of course, but it was an arrogance that had been earned.
Even without the cavalry, the Persian regiments stretched across the land – tens of thousands of them. Tissaphernes seemed to sense when the Greeks had filled their last gourds and skins and were making ready. The movement amongst the Persian lines became agitated, soldiers whipping themselves to rage with chanting and exhortation, driving each other on. Some of them came close enough to throw spears and Xenophon cursed under his breath at the sight of dark thorns arcing over. He gave the order to complete the crossing, passing the word quietly through the captains.
The Persians grew more frenzied and two groups ran forward with no warning. The first stopped short at the spears, a forest they could not pass. They sensed the Spartans would not break rank and so stood just beyond the points, roaring and jabbing the air.
Along the other flank, a pair of horsemen broke out of the Persian regiments and galloped in, low over their saddles, then rising to throw javelins with huge force. Both of them struck men from their feet, the spears finding spaces between shields. The riders howled in triumph, raising their arms to their comrades behind.
One of the Corinthians stepped out of rank in three quick strides, launching a long spear. It passed right through one of the riders, so that he fell from his horse and lay suddenly still, all life and noise gone from him in an instant.
It was the turn of the Greeks to laugh and jeer, while the rest pushed on across the bridge. Every new step brought Persians pressing closer, forcing them on. Xenophon rode onto the bridge with the final lines of his men, showing his back to archers and warriors in panelled coats, who snarled and closed the whole way. He reached the other side as the crossing became a wild rush.
The Falcon of Sparta Page 31