"Tissaphernes broke a solemn oath to us, sworn before the gods. Yet we are surrounded by a vast country, with endless provisions, flocks of cattle and sheep, untold quantities of plunder. These are prizes to be won by whichever side has the best men, and by whomever the gods support. Our bodies are better trained than theirs to endure hardship, and our souls are hardier. Most importantly, we are free men, while the Persian soldiers are slaves. The gods are the judges in this contest. Whom do you think they will favor, the lying Persians, or us?
"I say we wait no longer. The enemy will be arriving with the dawn. Count on me to follow you without question if you will lead; or if you order me to lead, I will solemnly do so, and make no excuses for my youth or inexperience."
When listening, the officers were silent, staring expressionless into the crackling fire. But when Xenophon finished his short speech, they looked at each other for a long moment, alert, any semblance of sleepiness or grief shaken out of them, considering his words. Finally Hieronymus of Elis, Proxenus' oldest squad leader, a grizzled and sturdy veteran of thirty years of campaigning who was widely respected by the men and general staff alike, slowly stood and walked over to the fire.
"Well spoken, young Xenophon," he said, peering into his eyes. "Your face is that of a boy, but you have voiced tonight what no one else had the heart to do. I, for one, will stand behind you if you will lead."
Several others stood up as well and joined Hieronymus, and then one by one, some eagerly, others rather more grudgingly, all finally agreed to this proposal, by default electing Xenophon as the spokesman for Proxenus' troops. Xenophon, expressionless, thanked the men for their confidence in him, and then turned again to the matter at hand.
"We have little time to prepare. Split up and go through the camp, finding all surviving officers or squad leaders. Meet here within an hour, and with the help of the gods we will determine our fates."
This we did, while Xenophon withdrew alone to his tent in the darkness. As I wandered through the camp, I could hear it rousing, despite the late hour; men were straggling in, bedraggled and sleepy-eyed, from the fields and the quarters of the camp followers where they had lodged in their despair and lack of discipline. Whispered conferences were held around me, and I heard the name Xenophon muttered in the shadows as men pointed out to each other the location of the fire at which we were to meet shortly.
Returning to Xenophon an hour later, I stooped to make my way through the flaps of the low doorway. Inside I found him sitting cross-legged against the stained canvas wall, his eyes closed, muttering softly under his breath like a naked Indian seer in a trance. The flickering flame from the tiny oil lamp sitting directly on the floor in front of him illuminated a small circle around his body, reflecting the gleaming sheen of perspiration that had beaded on his face and neck. No movement of his body gave the least indication that he had heard me enter.
"Xenophon…" I said with some concern, fearing a sudden outbreak of fever. "Xenophon! The men have gathered and are waiting for you. Do you know what you're going say to them?"
He fell silent, and slowly, with a sigh that seemed to issue from deep within his chest, he opened his eyes and looked at me unblinkingly in the dim light.
"No. I am praying."
I paused in surprise, and stared into his eyes a long moment.
"Alone? Without sacrifice or libation?" When praying for something as precious as survival, one should at least take the trouble to acquire a kid goat and assign a priest, and perform a proper sacrifice in front of the men.
Xenophon shook his head. "There's no time for that. The gods saw within my heart at Delphi, and they see within it now. They know the sacrifice I've made goes beyond a kid goat on an altar. And no, I do not pray for survival."
"Then surely you pray for the enemy's hand to be stayed from us…?"
"Nor that. We will all die, in five hours or fifty years, and in all truth, I don't believe it proper to beg the gods to extend my allotted time. My soul is burdened, Theo; I feel I have been assigned a duty of great weight. I pray merely that whatever time remains to me, the gods may give me the strength to live it as honorably as I can." He looked at me and opened his lips as if about to say more, then fell silent. I motioned with my head in the direction of the men waiting outside. He nodded and stood up, and we stepped out of the tent and toward the light.
As we arrived at the meeting site, I saw that an enormous bonfire had been built, a huge flame that drove away the darkness for fifty feet or more in all directions. It illuminated the expectant and alert faces of a hundred men, most of whom I had seen or had dealings with during our march thus far, but whose names I did not know. Word had spread throughout the camp that a meeting was being held to decide the army's fate. Some of the common troops, too, in their curiosity and fear, had crowded up behind the circle of junior officers around the campfire, waiting to hear what might happen and spread the word among their fellows. The fire crackled and spit, and as the whole logs that had been heaved onto the top gradually caught flame, the blaze began roaring like a river or the crashing sea, sending tongues of flame and sparks licking upward to blend with the stars, an enormous signal beacon flaring defiance to the enemy, beaming out our location, fairly daring them to attack, its warmth beckoning and yet at the same time its fierce, urgent roar dissuading and threatening. The men stared hypnotically into its sun-bright center, their faces, like Xenophon's, gleaming with a sheen of sweat, some of them mumbling as well. I wondered if the men, in losing their hope, were losing their minds also, and whether Xenophon, in bringing them here, was leading them into madness.
Hieronymus approached the fire, the flickering shadows exaggerating the already deep furrows in the skin of his weather-beaten, leathery face, and spoke tersely, in his gruff voice.
"Officers of the Greek army: We meet together this night to devise a common strategy. One among us, young Xenophon, has taken the initiative in this, and I call upon him to speak as he did to Proxenus' officers earlier this evening."
Xenophon got up, and covered the same matters as he had earlier, though more slowly and at greater length. But before he concluded his speech, I looked past the immediate light of the fire and was astonished to see not merely the hundred officers and the straggling companies of curious soldiers; but rather the entire camp, ten thousand men and half again as many camp followers, gathered for hundreds of feet around our meeting place, far beyond the reach of the firelight. Soldiers stood in rank, laundry women lifted each other onto their shoulders to see more clearly, vendors straggled in from the countryside-yet the enormous crowd was silent. All eyes were upon Xenophon, waiting for the words that would decide whether they were to be surrendered up to the enemy for slavery and death, or whether they had reason to hope they might return to their homeland. He concluded his plea to the officers:
"We have an opportunity before us. Ten thousand soldiers have their eyes upon you. For two days they have been despondent, almost without will to live. Yet here they are now, summoning up the little hope still left to them. If they see you are discouraged and afraid, they will be cowards. If they are left wondering what will happen to them, and believe they are helpless, they will remain passive. But if they see you taking control of your fate, preparing against the enemy, and calling them to help you in this task, you can be sure they will follow you and imitate you, and do so cheerfully. In the army, you men are the privileged ones. You carry no packs, you receive higher pay, you direct battles from behind the lines. It is only fair that you should shoulder an extra burden now.
"We know that Tissaphernes has seized from us everything he could until now. He believes we are beaten, and plans to destroy us and rid the country of us. But he is a barbarian! We must turn the tables on him, do what we can to resist him. We have the more powerful weapon-ten thousand strong, skilled, cohesive fighting men. And you know it is not numbers or strength that bring victory in war, but rather fortitude and willingness of soul. Whichever army is more determined, that
is the one that will prevail. Learn this lesson, and apply it. Be men! And you can be sure the others will follow."
The sigh of relief and approval from the hundred men around the campfire was almost palpable. The enthusiasm spread back beyond the fire's light in waves, gaining momentum as it swept away and then bounced back, increasing in strength like ocean tides reflecting off the beach and adding to the cresting force of the incoming waves. The men began talking among themselves, first in a hush, and then in increasing volume, until an isolated voice began chanting "Xen-o-phon! Xen-o-phon!" and was immediately joined by a dozen more, then a hundred, until the entire army was standing, radiating out from the blinding fire and roaring his name. I stood transfixed and disturbed, at the impulse that had been created from just a few short hours before as the result of a troublesome dream. For the second time that night I saw the clarifying and simultaneously destructive force of fire on the fates of men, but I followed Xenophon's advice by placing a confident expression on my face and smilingly chatting with some of the troops while the shouts rained down upon us.
"Do you truly believe he can do this?" Asteria looked up at me skeptically as we sat against a large stone, watching the bonfire die to coals. The last of the soldiers and camp followers had drifted off to their blankets.
I shrugged. "What is there not to believe? He had a dream-a powerful dream, and he feels he has been ordained by the gods."
"Ordained by the gods! Theo, these people are rabble! To the camp followers at least, Clearchus was just a name-they had no knowledge of his history, his skills, his qualifications, they followed him merely because he called himself the army's leader. You mustn't assume they will have any more personal loyalty to Xenophon than they had for him. Cyrus' jester could have stood up and declared himself general, and they would have hailed him just as loudly."
I winced at the mention of Cyrus' name.
"Asteria, Xenophon wasn't acclaimed by the camp followers alone-it was the Greek troops themselves who first supported him this evening."
She looked at me in dismay. "If that gives you comfort, then you are as much a part of the rabble as they are."
I tensed at her words, and noticing this she put her hand lightly on my arm.
"Theo, you are a freedman, not a slave, and even if you were bound to him, these are extraordinary circumstances, when the distinctions between slave and master do not always apply. You need not be beholden to mob rule. You are educated, strong, able to think-why be subject to the passing whims of Clearchus' bullying Spartans?"
I glanced at her dismissively. "I reject your point. It's useless to even entertain such thinking. What am I to do-stand up and count myself as an army of one, protest that Xenophon's credentials as a general are not quite as impressive as I would hope, threaten to withhold my approval? I will take my chances with the rabble, thank you."
Asteria pursed her lips tightly and stared down at the ground in silence, absent-mindedly massaging the fingers of her hands, stiff from hours of carrying water gourds and bundles suspended from thin leather thongs.
"That is not what I meant, and you know it," she muttered softly. "Sometimes I think you purposely act dense."
"You flatter me," I retorted dryly, "by suggesting it is only an act."
"Theo, it doesn't have to be this way. We don't have to live in filth, fearing every day for our lives, wondering where our next meal will come from."
"What are you saying?"
"I have… people over there. We would be welcomed, and for life. You would owe nothing to anyone, in fact you would be honored, and I could…"
Her words began tripping over each other in her excitement, her hands fluttering in an attempt to prop her racing syntax. I seized her shoulders, hard, and turned her to squarely face me as I forced her gaze to mine.
"Are you saying we should defect? Have all these Greek deaths, has Cyrus' death meant so little to you that it comes down to this? Defect to the enemy?"
She licked her lips and weighed her words carefully before answering.
"Theo, you see everything in such black and white. Not all Persians are your enemy, nor all Greeks your friend. Even a single man may simultaneously be both, be of mixed mind and intent, even act at times as if he were two different individuals. Cyrus was a Persian, yet you fought for him. My own father is a Persian, yet… here I am. I was raised among Persians. Artaxerxes always treated me kindly, like a beloved niece, and he would accept you as a… as a nephew."
"What about your father, Asteria? You were concerned he would view me as a betrayal of his honor."
"I have thought about this. Measures could be taken before we departed that would soften his heart… if you were willing…"
I stared into her pleading eyes, losing myself in them for a moment as I vaguely considered her extraordinary suggestion; as I came back to myself, however, I shook my head in wonder that I could ever entertain such a notion.
"It's out of the question. I know you mean well, but I could never leave the Greeks, never betray Xenophon."
She bit her lip and stared at the ground in silent disappointment.
"I won't mention it again, Theo."
I nodded at her silently, a wave of gratefulness and relief washing over me. A disturbing thought, however, suddenly crossed my mind.
"Asteria-at Cunaxa, when you were being dragged out of Cyrus' tent, why did Tissaphernes kill his own guard, instead of you?"
She looked at me evenly, and gently eased my heavy hands from her shoulders.
"It's as I said before-not all Persians are your enemy. And, Theo-"
I remained staring at her silently, waiting for her to finish.
"Not all Greeks are your friends."
CHAPTER TWO
THE NEXT MORNING dawned chilly and cold, with a heavy drizzle that belied our position on a vast, desertlike plain. The clouds hung low over our heads and the hard-baked ground had long since absorbed what little moisture it was able to hold,and now refused to accept any more. The water simply lay on the surface, like an enormous, shallow, muddy pond, reflecting our misery and rejecting our every wretched attempt to find a dry place to sit or stand, or to build a fire.
The men were tired and restless, and there was no breakfast to be had. The soldiers milled about aimlessly, performing their tasks only desultorily, falling back into the habits of despair that had been burdening them since the slaughter of Clearchus and the other officers. Up on the ridge was a growing body of enemy cavalry aligned and facing us, lances poised and pennants fluttering, seemingly preparing a charge, much to the dismay of our own troops, whose entire body of horses numbered no more than forty. Xenophon approached Chirisophus, the ranking Spartan remaining in the army and a fine old soldier, greatly respected by the men. An initial glance at the veteran's weathered skin and flowing, steel-gray hair and beard would cause one to wonder how a man of such years could have survived the difficult march thus far. Indeed he often sat silent and apart from the troops, seeming to doze, like an elderly servant fading quietly into retirement. His appearance was deceptive, however, for Chirisophus was merely a master at conserving his strength. When called upon to act, he was as vigorous as a twenty-year-old ephebe, and if crossed, would erupt in a deafening string of oaths that would curl the beard of the most blasphemous Spartan in the vicinity. Chirisophus had fought at Clearchus' side for twenty years, and was the only man able to stand up to the brutal general's threats and bluster without fear of punishment, possibly the only other soldier Clearchus had truly respected. It was this man whom Xenophon approached.
"Chirisophus, I need your counsel. Your Spartans are breaking camp and maintaining order like soldiers on a parade ground, but the rest of the troops look like old women."
"So I noticed," Chirisophus said dryly, chewing on a blade of grass and observing the sloppy preparations of the other troops and the barely organized chaos of the camp followers. The deep creases at the corners of his eye were not cheerful, as they are in some older men, but r
ather betokened long hours of staring into the glaring sun, and ultimately a sort of weariness or boredom with the world. "And I believe some of them camp followers ought to be put out of our misery."
Xenophon ignored the cruel remark. "Look-last night you voted for me to lead the troops-I saw you. But I am an unknown quantity. The men look up to you. Take a few of your colleagues and fan out among the troops. Talk to them and raise their spirits if you can, speak to them as a fellow soldier. I have no ulterior motives for leading the men, but they may not believe this. Convince them that we need to move on."
Chirisophus looked at him a long moment, as if sizing him up. I wondered whether the old soldier might not choose to simply strike off for home on his own, accompanied only by his Spartan troops, rather than encumbered by a massive crew of inferior soldiers from the other Greek states and a veritable second army of motley camp followers. He apparently decided in Xenophon's favor, however, for shifting the grass blade noncommittally to the other corner of his mouth, he glanced toward his troops and called for three or four of his squad leaders.
While Chirisophus walked about and talked quietly to the men in small groups, Xenophon himself arranged to happen upon their conversation as if by accident, and asked the men to tell him their concerns.
"The cavalry!" One of the men shouted. "How do you expect us to fight our way up the Tigris against ten thousand cavalry, when we have none?"
Xenophon looked pensively up the ridge where the king's cavalry brigade was continuing to grow in strength, and was now hovering over us like an evil black thunderhead ready to explode. He forced himself to gaze back down to the troops, who had locked their eyes on him in silent expectation. I saw their scars, their knotted, muscled shoulders, their long Spartan braids that never failed to strike fear into the enemy. I saw their massive, thirty-pound oak and bronze shields that they swung about as if made of papyrus, and their short but deadly swords, each of which had killed a dozen men in battle, or more. And I knew beyond a doubt that the Persian cavalry, though they were the best horsemen in the world, on the finest mounts, were men like us, but not like us. For they were Persians, and we were Greeks.
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