The Falcon of Sparta

by Conn Iggulden

  On the third morning after the valley, the seventh since they had entered the mountains, they came to a cleft in the path that led down a steep slope of loose scree to a vast plain beyond. From that height, they could see a full day’s march. A huge river ran not half a mile from the crags.

  Beyond it, on a plain of green and gold, an army stood waiting for them. Cavalry regiments camped on the plain, smoke from their fires rising like threads of rain into the air. On low hills, squares of infantry gleamed. They had sought out high ground, though there was little of it to be had, so they clung to the crests of slopes like islands on an ocean. Chrisophus called Xenophon to the fore when he’d reached the final pass. Despite the enemies waiting over the river, they gripped one another by the hand and shoulder and laughed. The mountains were behind.

  ‘I wonder at a satrap who waits for us in winter,’ Chrisophus said, sheltering his gaze as he peered into the distance. ‘He must owe the Persians a great favour to freeze out here.’

  Xenophon hid his disappointment. He had cast fetters aside, but he’d hoped to leave battle and bloodshed behind him in the mountains. He’d endured enough, and the thought of fighting again was exhausting. Whoever the enemy were, whatever their loyalties or promises to Persia, they waited for him – and they stood in his path.

  ‘We need to get across that river, to go home,’ he said.

  ‘You’ll find a way,’ Chrisophus replied. Xenophon looked to him, but there was neither mockery nor humour in his expression. ‘You have before.’

  30

  In silence, the Greek column came skidding down the slopes, carving arcs with each long step. Some of the camp followers went tumbling, but the hoplites spread out in good order, placing each foot with care. Those at the rear went even more slowly in case of attack, until they too felt the delirium tugging at them. They were out. They were alive. They began to run in great bounding leaps, faster and faster. Even the air tasted sweeter than the dank mists of the mountains. They laughed and called in delight to one another as they reached warm earth below. The crags of the Carduchi were blades behind them, in all senses.

  Xenophon marched up and down the flanks, exhorting them to collect themselves and move into proper formation. He missed his horse. All men had been boys once, looking up to their fathers. He wondered if the simple act of raising their heads made them more likely to obey, stirred by their earliest memories. It was not quite as easy to command large bodies of men at their own eye level.

  They had space once more to form the square within a square. It was almost comforting to see old ranks around them, though too many faces were missing. Hundreds had been killed in the mountains, as well as a dozen women snatched away in the running battles, borne off screaming. Those who stood in that place had survived, but it was not without memories that would haunt them for a lifetime.

  Xenophon felt he had aged by ten years. He looked on the army waking up to his presence on the other side of the river with a sort of dull rage. He didn’t know who they were, nor why they had come to that plain. He was angry with them because they stood in his way – and he was weary of those who dared to stand in his way.

  He found Chrisophus waiting patiently for orders, with the Spartans in neat blocks. They looked unkempt somehow, after all they had endured. It was not just the beards and braids, but a sense of being worn down, as if even these could not go on for ever. It was a disturbing thought to have, Xenophon realised. He had relied on their endurance above all the rest, using them first and hardest. Yet, they were only men. The long red cloaks showed light through them in rents and tears, or flapped ragged where cloth had been cut to bind a wound. Many of the Spartans wore red bands on their thighs or arms, darkened by blood. Helot slaves stood amongst them, bearing shields and spears in silence. Together, they were an elite and Xenophon knew he could not have reached that place without the blood they had shed.

  They gazed on him without anger, waiting for orders. In turn, he met their eyes without flinching. They had played their part, but so had he. Xenophon looked across the river, to where tramping regiments of foot soldiers were still assembling, driven to excited madness by the presence of the enemy. There were perhaps three or four times as many as the Greek hoplites, some thirty thousand or so. It might have seemed a great army for anyone who had not stood at Cunaxa. As it was, Xenophon gestured across the water and shrugged.

  ‘Who are these fools, to stand against us?’ he said, making his voice carry and ring with his anger. ‘We, who walked through the army of the Persian king without challenge. We, who crossed the Carduchi mountains and lived! So it seems Lord Tissaphernes had messenger birds in his dancing troupe. Those men over the river have never seen Greeks. They have no idea what they will encounter in us.’ He grinned at them. ‘Imagine their faces when they realise!’

  Even the grim Spartans responded at that, picturing an enemy in disarray. They allowed themselves few pleasures, but that was certainly one of them.

  Behind the ranks by Chrisophus, the great square of Greeks waited. They too looked battered and thin, worn down to sinew and will. There had been too little food for too long – and too many days spent fighting for their lives. The edges of their blades had been blunted and not one of them had washed in over a week. Yet he felt such pride in them it might have burst his chest.

  Xenophon stared over the river. He had brought them to that place. It was a weight on him, but he would not have put it down for a chance to drink that night in Athens and sleep in his own bed.

  ‘Walk with me to the river,’ he called to Chrisophus. ‘Bring your longest spears and a few shield-bearers to keep them safe. We’ll find a ford and show these vassals of a Persian king who we are.’

  A small party walked forward with him to the river’s edge. Xenophon could see banners he did not know waving in the wind on the other side. The men there wore armoured coats like the Persians, though they decorated their flags with strange symbols and seemed smaller in stature. It was hard not to despair at the sight of so many, but Xenophon forced himself to stroll to the river bank as if he saw no threat at all.

  The river was much wider than he had realised, stretching at least a hundred paces to the far side. It flowed too with a fast current, creasing the waters in shapes that resembled flights of geese. Xenophon watched as impudent enemy archers decided to test the range on the other side, coming as close as they could and bending their bows. There were around thirty of them and Xenophon had to stand behind two bronze shields raised by Spartans, trying not to react to the thump and hiss of iron arrows aimed to kill.

  In between volleys, spears were dipped into the water all along the bank, but no fording place revealed itself. Time after time, the longest spears disappeared right to the hand holding them. When one of the men was struck by an arrow and taken back swearing and cursing, the Greeks retired out of range. Xenophon felt Chrisophus looking at him as they walked away. He raised his eyebrows in question, unsure how to go on. He’d assumed the enemy forces knew the river. It looked instead as if they’d come a long way to answer the summons of their Persian masters, no more familiar with the fording places than he was himself. Either way, without a place to get across, he could not answer their challenge.

  He felt a little deflated as he walked back to the waiting Greeks. They would just have to search further. He’d seen from the heights that there were no bridges, as far as the eye could see. They had to find a spot where the river ran shallow, where some ancient shelf of stone or gravel still resisted the flood. Worse was the thought of spending a night on such a bare plain. The wind had grown stronger, tugging at cloth and hair. More importantly, the Greeks needed to eat.

  ‘We could send hunting parties back into the foothills, for bird eggs, perhaps,’ Chrisophus said, echoing his thoughts.

  Xenophon was already looking beyond the square of his people, to the crags of grey and green that had vomited them forth. Movement in the high pass caught his eyes and he squinted before shaking his head.
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  ‘I don’t think they will allow that,’ he said, pointing.

  Where the Greeks had come out of the mountains, the Carduchi had assembled in vast numbers – more than Xenophon had known they could summon. Thousands of them jerked spears and bows into the air and hooted, though the sound was made weak by distance and the breeze.

  ‘Ah. So we cannot go back and we cannot go on,’ Chrisophus said. ‘I think we should have a day to mend, sir. To use the last food and wine. To heal and restitch wounds as well. Some of the men are feverish and we have too many on litters. Let the Carduchi howl up in their peaks.’ The Spartan shuddered as some memory flashed across his inner eye. ‘While they do, we will rest and grow strong.’

  ‘I will ask Athena to show us the way forward,’ Xenophon said.

  Chrisophus bowed his head at the name.

  ‘We honour her. Shield-maiden, mistress of both war and wisdom. How can we not? She is a very Spartan goddess. Perhaps she sent you the dream of breaking chains.’

  Xenophon smiled in memory.

  ‘I think so. It gave me hope at a moment when I was close to despair.’

  Chrisophus stopped, a look of surprise on his face.

  ‘Close to despair? You showed no sign of that.’

  Xenophon looked away.

  ‘Let us say I am pleased to be out of those mountains. I feel as if we crossed the land of the dead and are once more in the world. Do you understand?’

  ‘Of course,’ Chrisophus said. ‘But we did come through.’

  There was no one close enough to hear them as they walked back. The other men had gone ahead as the two leaders strolled together, enjoying a moment of peace.

  ‘I … It has been an honour to lead Spartans in war,’ Xenophon said, awkwardly.

  ‘Yes. It always is,’ Chrisophus replied. After a beat, he grimaced and went on. ‘I saw that young friend of yours, Hephaestus. He had his head bent towards the mistress of Prince Cyrus … what was her name?’

  ‘Pallakis,’ Xenophon said softly. The sound was a breath on his lips and Chrisophus took note.

  ‘Would you like me to have a couple of the lads warn him off? She’s yours if she’s anyone’s.’

  Xenophon shook his head, glaring at the ground as they walked.

  ‘No. I won’t force her. She’ll come to my hand of her own will, or not at all.’ He opened his mouth again to begin an argument with himself, but thought better of it.

  ‘They seemed very friendly,’ Chrisophus said.

  Xenophon turned sharply on the Spartan, making him laugh.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m just teasing you.’

  ‘I thought Spartans didn’t laugh,’ Xenophon replied, unwilling to see the humour.

  ‘Who ever said that? If we didn’t laugh, at least at love and war, it would be a sad old world. I saw a leopard drop on a man once. Ten years have passed and the memory of his expression still gives me joy.’

  That night, Xenophon slept fitfully, waking half a dozen times, so that he believed he had not slept at all when he saw the sun again. After seven days in the high crags, he sat up to enjoy the dawn over the plain. The river was a ribbon of gold and even the Persian vassals summoned to obstruct them took on grandeur in that light. There was, in such moments, the very meaning of being alive, he thought. More than joy, it was a sense of beautiful awe. He tried to capture the thought, to be able to describe it again to Socrates. There were so many things to tell the old scoundrel! Chief among them all was the desire to thank the philosopher for the suggestion to leave. Athens had grown sour to Xenophon, though he had not been able to see it. After Cunaxa, after their long trek out of Persia, he could finally understand how small his old concerns had been. He could know peace again and put aside the corrosive anger that had eaten at him.

  ‘Good morning, general,’ Chrisophus said. ‘I have two young men here. I think you’ll want to hear what they have to say.’

  Xenophon stifled a yawn, feeling unwashed and bristly in the morning as he rubbed his eyes. His birthday had passed weeks before, almost unnoticed. He was twenty-seven, but felt older at the sight of the young Spartans. They stood wearing almost nothing beyond their sandals. One had his cloak tossed in a thick rope over his shoulder and clasped at the throat. He wore a sword belt like a loincloth, while the other was nude and completely untroubled by it as he stood there. They looked extraordinarily healthy, Xenophon thought, rubbing his chin.

  ‘Yes, gentlemen. I was enjoying the dawn. Tell me then, whatever it is.’

  ‘My brother and I were looking for kindling, strategos. We walked for an hour or two last night, some thirty stades downriver. It was getting dark when we saw an old man and woman hiding clothes or cloth in the stones on the other side of the river. They had some bread and cheese. We thought it might be a place we could swim across, so …’

  His brother interrupted him in their excitement.

  ‘So we put our knives between our teeth and waded out, but the water never came higher than our waists the whole way. By the time we reached the other side, the old couple had gone and so we came back.’

  ‘Were you seen? Did you disturb the clothing?’ Xenophon asked, now fully alert.

  He saw Chrisophus grin at his reaction, but ignored him. Both brothers shook their heads in reply. Xenophon clenched his fist in delight.

  ‘Then you have earned my thanks, both of you.’

  ‘Well done, lads. Go back now and check the kit,’ Chrisophus said. ‘I don’t think we’ll be resting today.’

  Xenophon smiled.

  ‘I have a plan, Chrisophus.’

  ‘Of course you have.’

  With the last of the food a memory, delay only weakened the column. It took a little time to rouse the camp followers to their feet, but the sun was still climbing in the sky as Chrisophus led the entire force along the banks of the river, with the two brothers acting as scouts. The fording place was barely two miles away, but the moment of true danger lay in the crossing. Up to their waists in water and fighting a strong current, they would be horribly vulnerable. In the history of Greece, more than one army had been caught at a ford and utterly destroyed.

  On the other bank, the enemy forces watched them break into movement. Indecision showed in their response to the move. Formations of cavalry began to shadow the Greeks along the bank, while thousands of foot soldiers remained on the outcroppings and plateaus of higher ground, preferring the classic positions of advantage to being drawn away.

  On the mountains behind them, the Carduchi too were awake. They swarmed on the high ridges, observing everything. Xenophon kept an eye on them as he marched with the rearguard. He still had little understanding of those tribesmen. He could not plan for them.

  As soon as Chrisophus moved clear, the Carduchi edged further down the loose slopes than they had dared before, skidding and leaping almost to the plain. They may not have intended to attack, but if a chance presented itself, it was clear they would fall on the Greeks like wolves on spring lambs. The Carduchi had taken a terrible mauling in their own mountains and their pride still stung.

  ‘Steady, Hellenes,’ Xenophon called over them.

  The captains knew what he was about to do and had approved it. The crossing was just too narrow and too vulnerable a spot to try and force their way across against a well-armed host. More, the Greeks were weaker than they had been; there was no longer any point in denying that. They needed good food and rest for a month or more to be back in fighting trim.

  On the opposite bank, thousands of horsemen milled. While messengers galloped back and forth, the rest barked orders at one another, clearly confused or afraid there was a crossing point nearby. Xenophon shaded his eyes, trying to see the rest of their forces far behind. Perhaps they thought it was a feint or a ruse. Perhaps Tissaphernes had warned them against Greek treachery. He showed his teeth.

  ‘Rearguard! Captains and pentekosters … on my mark … Now!’

  His voice cracked across them and the first ranks with Chriso
phus stormed into the waters, sending spray that caught the sun like glittering wings.

  At the rear, in the same instant, half the hoplites turned away and ran back along the river bank. They scrambled along as if they were in a race, pushing and yelling to one another, so that the effect was astonishing, a torrent of Greeks. Only the camp followers remained, as they had been ordered, waiting on the bank. Some of them carried swords and spears, in case they came under attack. That had been the hardest decision, but Xenophon had given the order. No army could manoeuvre on the field with ten thousand civilians to protect at the same time. Xenophon prayed to Athena to bring the camp followers to safety, while he ran like a boy and laughed for the strangeness of it in that place.

  On the other bank, the sudden reverse and dashing away of five thousand Greek soldiers brought instant chaos. The commanders of cavalry saw a trick they could defeat only with speed, their single greatest advantage. Half the horsemen who had gathered to block the first crossing galloped back ahead of Xenophon’s running men, shouting for those they had left behind to be ready. Marching regiments of archers who had been converging on the river ford were halted and drawn back at a jog, stringing their bows as they went.

  The Greeks with Xenophon were clearly heading to another ford further upriver. If they made it across uncontested, they would be able to attack on two fronts. There was utter chaos in the dark ranks shadowing Xenophon. Regiments already moving encountered others who had been ordered to halt along the banks, so that men were knocked down and commanders bawled conflicting orders.

  Xenophon breathed well. He was fit, but thin. Somehow, watching the complete disarray he had caused gave him the sense that he could run all day. His was the feint. There was no second crossing.

  ‘Make a noise, then! Raise your swords and spears!’ he called to his captains.