The Falcon of Sparta

by Conn Iggulden

  ‘Rise up, Chrisophus. I am relieved. I thought you had lost your mind. Have you captured guides? I have four, so I can lend you a couple. Perhaps there is a way around this pass. I would not like to drive through it.’

  As Chrisophus stood up, the Spartan put out his hand and Xenophon took it on impulse. No more needed to be said between them.

  ‘I captured a few myself, strategos,’ Chrisophus said. ‘I will question them. There is often a small path over the hills, good enough for goats and shepherds. That is how the Persians overcame us at Thermopylae. It would give me pleasure to find such a path here.’

  Xenophon called to Philesius nearby. ‘Bring me those damned Carduchi – and someone who speaks Persian.’ He could only hope the tribesmen understood the imperial tongue, or they would be useless to him.

  Philesius found one of the Greeks who spoke enough Persian to ask simple questions. To demonstrate the urgency of the situation, Philesius had some of his Thessalians batter two of the Carduchi to unconsciousness with steady blows, before turning to the remaining pair and asking if there was another path.

  One of the remaining two was a man in his forties, weathered and yet pale, as if he never saw the sun in that place. He swore the pass was the only way through that part of the mountains. He made vows by Zoroaster and Ahura Mazda, promising them he spoke only the truth. Xenophon saw the eyes of the other turn to him, widening at the awful oaths he was hearing.

  ‘Take the older one away,’ Xenophon said. ‘Release him unharmed with the other two. I have no more use for them.’

  He smiled at the last man, not far from his own age, watching him warily.

  ‘Tell him we know his friend was lying, but do not understand why. Tell him we can be merciful, or cruel. The choice is his.’

  The Greek soldier translated his words into the simplest Persian he knew and the young man bit his lower lip, thinking. After a time, a sudden torrent of words spilled out, much faster than their translator could echo in Greek.

  ‘He says … the other man did not want to tell you of a path … over the hills, because his daughter has a home in that direction, but it … does exist, there is a narrow route that takes you around the pass ahead of us. He asks that the older man be killed if he has not been released, or he will tell the elders … he will say this young man helped an enemy and his life will be over.’

  Xenophon gave a quick order and the man they had been about to release was killed instead. The younger one grinned when he saw that, visibly relaxing.

  ‘He says the old one was a friend of his father and he is pleased … to see him dead.’

  Xenophon blinked to have been used in such a way.

  ‘Show us where this path begins,’ he said.

  29

  Xenophon called for a force of volunteers, the fittest and fastest. He accepted four captains and two thousand of the men, explaining their task and the speed it required. They grinned to hear it, preferring to go racing up hills than plodding along in line with all the rest.

  ‘This pass has to be important, or they would not have gathered in such numbers to defend it,’ Xenophon said. ‘You cannot fail in this, gentlemen. Go now …’

  As he spoke, rain came down from the mists like a curtain drawn across the valley. They were all drenched in an instant, bowing their heads against drops as it settled into a steady downpour. Xenophon cursed under his breath. Rain would make all things harder. The mists seemed to creep down with every passing moment, so that none of the peaks were visible overhead and even the pass was just a vague outline against a brighter sky.

  ‘Heed the guide. We will be ready,’ Xenophon said.

  He watched as two thousand of his youngest and best men went jogging away. They left the floor of the valley and he watched the Carduchi guide run with his hands tied behind his back. The young man led them across a canyon to where an animal trail vanished into thick ferns. It did not look as if it went anywhere, seeming to die out in the rocks. Its true extent was hidden from below and Xenophon knew they would not have found it without him. It gave him some small satisfaction that the ones Chrisophus had captured had suggested nothing of use.

  For a time, he could do nothing. The rain continued and his people were still shivering and miserable. Without a sighting of the sun, it was hard to tell how late it was, though he thought evening had to be close. He made a quick decision and ordered the column forward in good order – just far enough for those waiting at the pass to know they were advancing. At that point, Xenophon ordered them to rest. There was no sign of arrows or rocks coming from the crags above. He wondered if that was because those men too were drenched in the rain. Archers complained bitterly when they were forced to work with wet strings, he knew. Or perhaps they had heard the steps of two thousand Greeks up there and they sensed they were hunted. Either way, it helped to raise his mood despite the rain. It was getting dark, definitely. His men would spend a cold night up on the peaks. He only hoped the mists cleared by morning, so that he could see the Carduchi surprised by them.

  The floor of the valley ran with rivulets and there was no dry place. Xenophon saw many of the camp followers settle in pairs or groups, back to back so that they could keep some part of themselves out of the damp. Even with that cooperation, it would be a miserable night.

  Pallakis came to sit by him as the light faded. She wiped a hand across a wide, flat stone and perched on it, crossing her ankles and drawing her legs in close to keep some heat. She had a sleeping blanket that was already dark with moisture. Even so, her teeth chattered and he wished he had shelter for her. Greeks and the cold did not do well.

  ‘You look like a half-drowned bird,’ he said, though he smiled. The hair that massed in thick curls had become limp, clinging to her face in long tendrils. She drooped in the wet.

  ‘I feel like one,’ she replied. ‘Are we to stay here then, for the night?’

  ‘Until we can clear that pass, we must.’

  ‘What if we can’t?’

  ‘Then there is a harder path to be climbed. One way or another, we will go on tomorrow.’

  At that moment, the night ahead seemed to stretch for ever. He realised he was shivering as well. His teeth made a sound he could hear and his hands were white and shook visibly.

  ‘You are freezing, Xenophon!’ she said. ‘Sit next to me. My blanket is damp, but it is better than nothing.’

  ‘Where is Hephaestus?’ Xenophon asked without moving.

  She stiffened, a double line appearing on the smooth skin between her eyes.

  ‘I am not his, Xenophon.’

  ‘You are not mine, I know that,’ he replied, quicker than thought or sense.

  She said nothing for a long moment, staring at him.

  ‘I … thought that was what you wanted, for a time. But I saw you were overwhelmed, with all you had to do to keep us alive. I understood, Xenophon. Are you saying now that you want me to come to you? That you want me in your bed? Play no games with me, Xenophon. Speak or be still. Ask, or go without.’

  He swallowed, staring at her. It seemed he had to say it. Yet it was madness. They sat in hostile mountains with little food and enemies all around. He realised he wanted the appearance of love, but not perhaps the reality. He wanted to exchange looks of longing with a beautiful woman that did not take too much time. He had no place in his life for lingering conversations, for laughter or song. All he wanted could be had in instants – and though he ached for her, he understood that would not be enough.

  Her days were not filled with events and decisions. He could not be a distraction for Pallakis. And if she distracted him, they would all perish. He tried to remember the points as they spun in his thoughts. The silence enlarged around them both and he realised he had not replied for too long.

  ‘There you are!’ Hephaestus said, striding along the stones. The younger man held a warm blanket and draped it around Pallakis’ shoulders without another word. Once again, it seemed he claimed her, to Xenophon’s eye, in the w
ay his arm remained.

  Xenophon knew Hephaestus was very aware he had interrupted something. Each flashing glance took in the soft stain of her cheeks, or the intense stare that Xenophon had to blink to break. Hephaestus too became flushed, his movements awkward.

  ‘There is a little food, further back,’ he said. ‘Dried meat, boiled with a few herbs. A cup of wine. It all tastes pretty foul, but it’s better than starving. Will you come before it’s gone?’

  He addressed the question to Pallakis and she rose easily, busying herself with the sodden blanket and gripping the dry one close. She looked once more at Xenophon before she turned away. His gaze was on the ground between his feet. An expression of exasperation, almost of fury, crossed her face. Her bottom lip thinned to nothing and she took Hephaestus by the arm, surprising him. The darkness came down over the hills and the Greeks dozed and shivered under blankets, waking over and over with cold water trickling down their skin.

  The rain had stopped as the mists lightened overhead, showing them more of the mountain crags than they had seen before. Xenophon roused the rearguard while Chrisophus gathered the Spartans at the fore, ready for whatever came. They were all starved, but there was cold, clean water and though they were still wet, they stank a little less. Some of the men steamed as they limbered up, shedding heat in the morning.

  The army of Carduchi began to move in the pass. They had no ranks and, to Greek eyes, looked for all the world like a hive roused to action. The sky brightened beyond them, so that they appeared as capering black figures, but so many that there was no way through. The Greeks formed before them, making them face the threat. Xenophon had the column ready with shields as he ordered them forward and then halted once more. The swarm had grown still as the Carduchi waited, but the Greeks stared back, not two hundred paces from the narrow point they had blocked.

  Xenophon thanked the gods as horns sounded above. The note was muffled, but it echoed in joy for him. He’d been worried the two thousand he’d sent had lost themselves in the darkness up on the heights. They’d spent a night in silent shivering, enduring the rain with even less protection than those below. Yet they’d crept up on the enemy at first light and he could have blessed them.

  He saw consternation in the Carduchi. They knew warfare in the peaks and they had a horror of being overlooked, that much was clear. As his men came roaring down the slope, Chrisophus sent the Spartans forward at double time. They began to sing the paean, the song of death. It tugged right into Xenophon’s chest and he joined in with the words, filling his lungs with air. Some of the Greeks around him looked at him in astonishment.

  The Carduchi gave up the blockade at the pass, fleeing like rats. Xenophon heard a great cheer go up from those still coming down the flanks. The secret path had led them right around the pass, so that they were already heading to a valley beyond. For his part, all he could do was march with the rearguard in good order, passing tree branches and spikes that had been knocked aside. The Carduchi were gone, and though he could hear hooting start up behind him, it was a sound of mourning rather than a challenge.

  Sun broke through the low clouds as the Greeks came through, tracing beams like fingertips on green ground. Xenophon saw clusters of houses and herds of goats and sheep. His mouth twinged at the thought of roasted meat. The valley may have been narrow, but it had a green floor and it was clearly a rich part of the hills, a hidden heart. For all he knew, there was nowhere else like it in the entire range. He looked for Pallakis, to smile at her. She was lost to view, somewhere up ahead, with Hephaestus as her companion.

  The following noon, one of the old men of the Carduchi came to the house Xenophon had taken. The stranger bore bruises he had endured just by approaching Greek sentries, though he held out his empty hands and kept his head down, accepting humiliation to be heard. Xenophon brought up the young warrior who had revealed the second route around the pass. He strolled up to the old tribesman and slapped him across the face, leering at him. Xenophon had to order the man back.

  The old Carduchi spoke in their tongue and when prodded with a spear-butt, the warrior translated with bad grace.

  ‘He asks you not to burn the houses here. He says his people wish to be left alone, but he is lying. They sent an old man because he has no value. Kill him if you wish, it does not matter.’

  The scrawny old man began to struggle and kick at the younger long before the words had been translated into Greek.

  ‘What’s that? What are you saying?’ Xenophon said.

  The young man shrugged, muttering his own language, though the other hissed insults at him.

  ‘We make war to win. There are no rules. If this old fool is here, I would check your guards and make sure no one is out there cutting throats. We have many warriors.’

  The old man spoke once again as Xenophon was listening to the translator. He did not recognise Greek as true words and so chattered over the sound, still making his case. Xenophon held up a hand for silence and pinched the spot between his eyes. He had eaten well and taken delight in the stores these people had gathered for a long winter.

  ‘Tell him this. All we want is to get through. I will not burn his houses if he returns the dead to me for burial and consecration to the gods. Tell him that and add nothing more.’

  The Carduchi warrior did so mulishly. Though some parts defeated the translator, the old man took his hand and bowed at the end. Xenophon waved him away, weary of them all. As they were taken outside, he decided to tour the edge of the camp and check the guards were in place and still alive. He did not trust the Carduchi.

  That night, the bodies of Greeks appeared on the edge of the Carduchi village. The guards gave an alarm when they saw shadows moving, but those who rushed up with torches found only the corpses of men they had known, laid out on the ground. They took them up with reverence, as brothers. No one slept that night, as they offered prayers over the dead. The bodies were cleaned and anointed by the women of the camp, then dressed once more. Wounds were sewn shut and beards oiled. No weapons had been returned with the dead men, or they would have been shared out among his friends and allies. All they could do was dig one great grave and lower the bodies in. It was a cruel thing to see by torchlight and Xenophon heard the women wailing. He wondered if the Carduchi would understand what they were doing, or whether they would open up the grave the moment the Greeks were past. He put the thought aside. They could only do so much. They laid the bodies in with dignity, with prayers and weeping, before gently tamping down the earth.

  The sun rose on a determined group marching out of that valley. They left the homes unburned and there had been no slaves to take, but once again they had snatched up everything that could be eaten, including herds of goats and sheep they drove along in the midst of them. The column had reformed in fine style and their spirits were higher than they had been before.

  The first stinging attacks began before the sun could be seen above the crags. Carduchi crept above them by the thousand and from that height even a thrown stone could knock a man out. Worse was when the tribesmen rolled great boulders down the hill, skipping and bounding and crushing anyone too slow to get out of the way. At least those could be seen. The mists lifted all day until the highest peaks sparkled in a winter sun. The temperature seemed to plummet, but the fighting kept them warm.

  Xenophon and Chrisophus worked out a routine between them. If the Carduchi hit the front of the column, Xenophon would send men from the rear onto side paths, looking for height. The Carduchi disliked that above all things and abandoned positions as soon as they were flanked in such a way. If Xenophon came under attack, Chrisophus would do the same with his Spartans, sending men up and back in support.

  It was hard and brutal work, so that the end of the winter’s day found them exhausted and frustrated. The Carduchi had chosen to defend one peak, perhaps because they saw no way down. With snow crunching underfoot, they had offered battle to the Greeks. It was their bad luck it happened to be a group of fifty Spar
tans. They left the snow splashed red and threw Carduchi heads at the next group as they charged.

  When darkness came again, the toll of bodies had increased. Xenophon wondered if he would be offered another deal to return his dead, but there were no more houses for him to spare. They wanted nothing from him and he did not see them as the sky cleared and terrible cold frosted the camp. He wondered how much longer they could endure – and how many miles he and his men had covered that long day. He closed his eyes on a prayer.

  He dreamed of breaking chains, of iron fetters falling away. In the morning, he sought out Chrisophus to tell him. It had to be a good omen, a message from the gods. Xenophon found he’d woken in better spirits than he had known since entering the mountains. The dream was responsible.

  He told it to the Spartan and saw the same old smile return to the man’s face. Xenophon was pleased to see it. He missed the friendship that had sprung up between them, separated as they were by the column itself. Men needed moments of warmth and laughter, or they began to wither. Pallakis seemed to be avoiding him, which meant Hephaestus was no longer near to hand. Only Chrisophus remained – and he looked exhausted and thin. The Spartan’s beard was matted and showed a great patch of white on the chin.

  ‘That is a good dream,’ Chrisophus said. ‘I will tell the men. Perhaps we should sacrifice the goats we brought out.’ He waited for permission, but Xenophon didn’t hesitate.

  ‘We’ll bleed them as sacrifices, but take the meat with us. It will not be long now, Chrisophus.’

  The attacks were sporadic over the next two days. Arrows flew from clefts in the hills around, arcing high and usually caught by a shield. A Spartan was killed by such a shaft on the second of those mornings, taken through the side so that he coughed red and sat down, unable to get up. There was no earth to bury him, nor tools to break ground, so they built a cairn of smooth stones and added to it until it stood as a hill.

  The young Carduchi warrior Xenophon had captured escaped in the night, having either chewed or rubbed through the ropes that bound him while he slept. Xenophon remembered the dream about fetters falling away and hoped it had not meant his prisoner escaping.