The Lost Army

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  I tried to imagine what those people must be thinking. They had probably lived in peace since they were born, eking out the same poor, monotonous existence as the folk in the village I came from, but having everything they needed, food and shelter. All at once they no longer had anything. The fire had cancelled their past, present and future.

  War.

  When Xeno came to lie beside me, I asked, ‘What will we live on?’

  ‘What we find,’ he answered.

  I asked no more questions. I understood well what he meant. From that moment on, we’d be consuming the resources of the territories we were crossing, like a flock of crows, like a swarm of locusts, leaving a desert behind us. All the men were sleeping now, thinking perhaps of the wives and the children they’d left at home, but tomorrow they would once again become the Ten Thousand, the demons of war, hiding the humanity of their faces behind the mask on their helmets, because from now on, every day and every night, for many days or months or even years, they would have to fight and win, or face death.

  The next day there was just smoke rising from the plain, and Tissaphernes’s army was drawn up to defend the Great Crossroads. They thought we would try to turn back! But none of us could even begin to contemplate a direct clash with the most powerful empire on earth.

  We set off on our way, leaving the Great Crossroads behind us. The road we travelled flanked a torrent that swirled and foamed as it rushed towards the Tigris. One of the warriors tried to test how deep it was, but his spear disappeared completely under water without touching the bottom.

  Xeno and I had loaded our baggage on the backs of three mules, tied together to form a little train. I was at the front, pulling the first by its halter. I scanned the crowd trying to spot Melissa, but couldn’t find her. The path was not very wide, and the bulk of the army preceded us in a long line which was beginning to unwind at the end of the valley in the direction of a pass that we could now see clearly ahead of us, whenever the rays of the sun broke through the cover of dark clouds and illuminated the mountain peaks.

  We started our climb up the mountain road which was strewn with sharp stones. At times the path would jut out above the valley or slope steeply over the raging torrent below, its water boiling with white foam, coursing over the gigantic boulders that poked out of the river and loomed at its edges. The mountainside was covered by forests full of age-old trees with enormous gnarled trunks.

  The march was very tiring but exhilarating at the same time: I had never walked uphill for such a long way and I was suffering from the strain, from the scrapes to my arms and the cuts to my feet, but I was excited by the sensation of going higher and higher with each step.

  I was used to travelling long distances, but always with the same field of vision, always surrounded by the flat, endless expanse of the steppe and the desert. But this was magnificent, the view changing constantly at practically every turn of the road. I was wonder-struck.

  At a certain moment, I turned around and my attention was attracted by two different scenes, one in the distance, where Tissaphernes’s army was moving off westward like a long black snake slithering over the desert sand. The other was much closer: there was the pregnant girl I’d seen on her wagon.

  The Persian general was leading his army towards Anatolia and towards the sea, to take possession of the province in Cyrus’s place. He was sure we’d all soon be dead amidst the steep mountains and precipitous peaks of the north, the region where the roaring wind was born. The girl, on the other hand, was lying at the side of the path, frantic, unable to move. For her, and for the child she carried, there was no tomorrow. No one stopped. The warriors marched past her, leaning on their spears, their cloaks sometimes brushing her face, but there was not one of them who reached out a hand.

  I slowed down, taking advantage of the fact that Xeno was far off, bringing up the rearguard with his horsemen, and then I stopped. I tied the leading mule to a small oak tree and approached the girl.

  ‘Get up now,’ I ordered her.

  ‘I can’t!’

  ‘Don’t be stupid! Do you want to be devoured by the beasts of the forest? They’ll eat you alive, a little at a time, and then they’ll start on that little bastard you’re carrying in your belly. Get up right now, you idiot, or we’ll fall behind and it will be all over for both of us!’

  I was convincing, and with a little help the girl managed to get to her feet and follow me to where I’d left the mules.

  ‘Now hold on to the tail of the last mule and let him pull you. Don’t you dare let go, or I’ll beat you to death myself. Are you listening?’

  ‘I’m listening,’ she answered.

  ‘All right. We’re moving on, then.’

  I wondered where Melissa was, and I was afraid that she wasn’t much better off than that girl holding on to the tail of my third mule. I wondered too what had happened to Nicarchus the Arcadian, the boy who’d saved us all by overcoming the agony of his torn gut to raise the alarm. I would have liked to ask the surgeons what had become of him. They surely knew, but I was afraid of getting an answer that I didn’t want to hear, and this stopped me. I’d already understood that certain things you’re better off not knowing.

  We soon reached the pass, a saddle between two forested peaks. The army had already started down the other side. When it was our turn to cross, I caught a glimpse of several villages nestling in the folds of the mountain, built of the same stone as the cliffs. It was difficult to distinguish them from the surrounding countryside. The atmosphere was strangely calm. At first there was birdsong and then not even that. Perhaps they’d been hushed by the imminent storm, announced by the dark clouds gathering at the peaks. We finally reached the valley and entered the villages.

  There wasn’t a living soul.

  Our men looked around in bewilderment. It was clear that those houses had been inhabited until just a few hours earlier. There were animals in the pens, pots on the tables, fires going out in the hearths. I brought the pregnant girl into one of the houses so she could warm herself at the fire and get something to eat. It was very cold outside.

  The soldiers started to sack the houses but Sophos stopped them. He climbed up onto a rocky spur and spoke out. ‘I want no one to touch anything here! Listen to me: we take only what we need to eat, nothing more. They’ll understand that we don’t have hostile intentions; let’s hope that will suffice to hold them back. Look around you: we have to cross all these mountains, using passes like the one we just came through. They’re waiting somewhere, and they can tear us to pieces if they want to. They know every inch of their territory. They could be anywhere, and we wouldn’t even know it; they could easily strike at any moment. Our strength is in the phalanx, standing shoulder to shoulder on open ground. Strung out in long lines we are completely vulnerable. We have to do all we can not to make enemies.’

  The men grumbled a little, but obeyed. I’d come to understand, that in that army, the orders were carried out, but the soldiers had to be convinced first by their commanders that they were doing the right thing.

  They searched the villages and gathered all the provisions they could find at the centre of a little square, calculating how many animals we could bring along to guarantee our survival as long as possible. As they were searching they realized that there were women and children in some of the caves, hastily hidden behind the vegetation. They were rounded up and put under guard. Maybe they had refused to follow their men up to the mountains, perhaps there hadn’t been time. It was an important find, and the commanders were cheered: they had hostages now, who could be exchanged for our unhindered passage. But I did not share their enthusiasm, and I didn’t think the inhabitants of those villages would bend so easily.

  THE COLUMN OF our men on the march was so long that when the last ones arrived it was already getting dark. They didn’t bring good news. After crossing the pass, they’d been attacked from behind by the natives. They’d lost four of their comrades, felled by a hail of arrows and stones, an
d they were carrying about ten wounded with them. Their welcome into that wild land.

  Xeno and his rearguard had captured a few prisoners: shepherds who hadn’t wanted to abandon their flocks.

  At that point, everyone looked for shelter for the night. Competition was fierce. The officers were first, and settled in the houses. The others scrambled to find a space in the remaining structures. No one wanted to sleep outdoors because it was very cold and the night promised to be damp. Obviously, the buildings could not house even a quarter of our soldiers. Those who had managed to locate their tents pitched them, others built makeshift shelters using leafy branches and mats or settled under the canopies meant to protect the animals.

  I wondered what would become of that poor pregnant girl the next day, and whether I’d be able to drag her along to the next pass hanging on to the tail of my mule.

  Xeno had the servants pitch our tent and I even managed to cook something for dinner. He hadn’t given up writing. By lamplight he opened his case, extracted a white scroll, fastened it to the edges of the cover, as if it were a table top, and proceeded to trace out letters in his language. I wanted so badly to know what he was writing, but he’d already told me what he thought; that it ‘wasn’t necessary’ for me to know. There were times, when he was in a good humour or after we’d made love, that he read me what he’d written. Many of the things he talked about I had noticed myself, but I’d seen them with different eyes. Actually, I’d seen and noticed much more than what he’d thought to write, things he took no account of. I would tell him about them, precisely and with an abundance of details, but I knew they’d never be included on the white scroll that he unwound a little nearly every day, filling it up with tiny, regular marks, perfectly aligned. That’s the way he thought, after all: precise, organized, and in a certain way predictable, and yet here and there I saw a leap, a stumble, a sudden quickening of the characters, and I thought, that’s where he’s expressing emotion.

  I went outside before lying down to rest and I looked around. I wasn’t alone. There were many others looking northward because the mountaintops were studded with fires: our enemies were observing us from up above. I called out, ‘Xeno!’

  ‘I know,’ his voice answered calmly. ‘There are fires on the mountains.’

  ‘How do you know if you don’t come out to see?’ I asked.

  ‘I can hear the talk of those who are outside watching.’

  He was so absorbed in what he was writing that he wouldn’t be persuaded to leave his white scroll. I started back in, but something attracted my attention: a figure wrapped in a shawl approaching the house of one of our commanders, Cleanor. I thought I recognized a certain swing of the hips under a rather close-fitting gown, but it had become dark and I couldn’t completely trust my eyes.

  When Xeno extinguished the lamp I was already half-asleep, in that torpor that lets you hear and feel what’s happening around you but won’t let you move. For a long time, I continued to hear the calls of the sentries, who were shouting out their name and unit in order to stay alert, then fatigue overcame me and I sank into silence.

  WHEN I OPENED my eyes Xeno wasn’t there. In no time, the tent was struck and folded by our two servants and I stood there alone under the open sky swept by darkening clouds. The wind had started to blow furiously and I could hear a distant roll of thunder. Up high on the mountains I could see white columns of rain descending from the heavens and the oaks bending under the raging wind. I gathered all our things together as quickly as I could and loaded them onto the mules, making sure that the case with the white scroll was secured.

  Xeno was with the other commanders who were meeting with Sophos to decide on the day’s business. I soon saw a group of our men departing with one of the prisoners, heading towards the pass. They were going to negotiate, to ask for free passage in exchange for the hostages. I didn’t think success was likely.

  Our envoys soon returned. One of them had been wounded by a flying stone, and was limping. They hadn’t even been allowed to get close.

  The only thing we knew about our enemy was their name. They were called Carduchi, Kardacha in their own language, and they considered themselves enemies of the Great King. From what I could see, they certainly were. The fact that we were also his enemies made no difference at all to them. At the end of their meeting, Sophos gave the orders that had been decided upon. All disabled animals would be abandoned and the prisoners freed, except for a few of them. To make sure that his orders were respected, he put a dozen officers along the road. Any of the soldiers caught trying to sneak off with a pretty girl or, depending on their taste, a good-looking boy, chosen from among the prisoners, was immediately stopped and forced to return them to the villages.

  I saw that the dealer who hired his prostitutes out to the soldiers had left three or four of the girls behind. A couple of them were limping; they must have twisted an ankle on the rocky path we’d taken and they were certainly in no shape to continue climbing. A couple of the others weren’t well; they had caught some kind of fever. That bastard could have allowed them to ride on one of his mules, but he was evidently more worried about the animals than the women, given the situation. As much as it vexed me, there was nothing I could do. I was already saddled with one of them, and Xeno certainly wouldn’t have allowed me to help anyone else. He cared about the mules as well.

  Sophos had shown the natives that he did not have hostile intentions, seeing that he hadn’t taken hostages, hadn’t allowed rape or violence, and not even plunder, forbidding the men to take any of the many bronze objects they’d found in the houses. But his show of good will had not helped in the least. Those savages were convinced of one thing alone: whoever set foot on their land had to die.

  The army began to ascend towards the pass, and I ensured that the pregnant girl was hanging on to my mule’s tail and was tagging behind us. Every once in a while I’d call out to make sure she was still there, well aware that if she stumbled, no one would stop to help her.

  Each of the warriors wore his full war gear. I could tell why they all had such big, muscular legs: ever since childhood, they’d practised walking for days at a time with the weight of their arms upon them. Their strength was impressive: they advanced with an enormous shield on their arms, chests covered with a shell of bronze, a heavy sword slung over their shoulders and a long, solid spear held tight in their fists as if it were all just a part of their bodies.

  The army had a voice of its own, that changed with changing situations. It was a confused sound made up of all their voices and all the noises that accompanied them. On the plain, the roll of the drums and the wail of a flute helped measure their steps, but in the mountains it was different. They marched on as best they could, slower at times, or faster, and there was no room for drums or flutes. The silence was filled by the thousands and thousands of voices of warriors on the move. The sound they made was quite strange: the sum of many words, of sudden shouts, of braying and whinnying, of clanking metal at every step. There was no common beat, no harmonized chord, and yet the sounds united in a single voice. That voice could be suddenly hushed, at times, or turn gloomy. The jangling of the weapons might grow dominant and then the army spoke with a cutting, metallic voice, or the utterances of men might prevail, and be expressed as a buzzing or a deep grumbling, in a sound like mounting thunder or in a screeching as keen and sharp as the mountain peaks towering above us.

  The path was getting steeper and steeper and yet our march continued unobstructed. But the sky was black with bloated clouds and it soon started to rain hard, a cold, dense, heavy rain that completely drenched me. I felt a trickle of water slipping between my shoulders and down my back and my hair was plastered to my forehead. My clothing clung to my legs and even made it difficult to walk. I was terrified of the lightning: rivers of fire that gashed the leaden sky and tore through the big black clouds that galloped dishevelled across the sky, enveloping the peaks in a thick, dark fog. The claps of thunder were so loud that they
made my heart tremble inside my chest.

  The warriors did not seem perturbed by the fury of the storm. They continued to advance at an even pace, planting their spears to mark their stride. They had lowered their helmets over their heads and with every flash, every bolt of lightning, their gleaming armour sparkled with bright bursts of light.

  I turned around to look at the girl, who seemed to be totally depleted; I was counting the steps until she would certainly drop. She was thin and pale, livid with the cold, and her belly seemed huge and impossibly heavy. All the warmth she had in her body was defending the child within her, but soon he too would feel the cold, and that would be the end. She slipped and staggered and her utter fragility contrasted with the powerful stride of the bronze-covered soldiers. Whenever she stumbled her hand shot forward to protect her belly and she was continually cutting and wounding herself on the sharp rocks. I kept thinking of how long and difficult our journey was sure to become.

  The clouds grew closer and closer. Ever since I can remember, the clouds I’d seen were high in the sky, tiny and white, but now I wondered what it might soon feel like to touch them. The path took a sharp turn to the left and I watched as the entire column paraded before me. There was Cleanor, not too far away, cutting an imposing figure even in this rain. He was followed by his horse and two servants, and then by a strange apparatus: two mules, one in front of the other, harnessed together carrying two long beams on which a makeshift carrier had been fashioned, covered with tanned hides. A shelter of enviable wellbeing given the miserable conditions we found ourselves in.

  What treasure was guarded in the litter swaying with the gait of the mules? I did not doubt for an instant that the treasure was Melissa, with what she kept warm between her thighs.

  At that same moment I heard a cry and a group of Carduchi charged at our advance guard. The bugles blared and the warriors ran towards the head of the column, scrambling up the slippery slope, until they could draw up in frontal formation. The attackers lunged against a wall of shields, were impaled on the spears pointing forward, and many of them fell at first impact. The others were surrounded by our skirmishers and massacred. The march resumed under the pounding rain.