Xenophon's jaw dropped. "By Zeus!" he said at last, "How many Rhodians are you in the army?"
"No more than two hundred, sir, but all of us can fire a sling."
"Gather them all here in a quarter hour. I have a proposal."
Nicolaus looked at me, his eyes sparkling gratefully. "I'm in your debt," he said.
"Nonsense. It's proper recognition for the only man in the army able to kill an ostrich."
He grinned happily, and ran off to search for his countrymen.
That evening Xenophon organized the army's company of slingers, promoting Nicolaus to captain them and promising to pay them double wages for their services after we had returned home safely. In return for this, he gained their permanent gratitude and unquestioning loyalty. That night also, a cartload of axes and tools were confiscated from the camp followers for their lead cores to be melted down into uniform bullets for the slingers. The camp's blacksmiths were ordered to stay up all night if necessary, to produce sixty balanoi for every man. Nicolaus himself taught the blacksmiths how to cast them, and added the further innovation of having them carve a shallow spiral groove around each bullet, running from the tip to the back and around the pellet five or six times. Such a groove was chiseled into the soft metal after the cast bullets had cooled, and left rough-edged burrs that could cut one's hand if they were not handled carefully. When I complained to Nicolaus about the considerable additional effort it took to perform this step, he grinned and added mysteriously, "It makes them sing." The Rhodians themselves, when they each received their allotment of bullets, joyously took out their knives and began personalizing the missiles with small marks or carvings, the better, they said, to be able to reclaim them after target practice. Some of those who could write even carved taunting inscriptions-Die, dog or Eat this-the impact of which would certainly be lost on any enemy soldier in whose throat such a bullet might be buried.
Meanwhile, twenty horses were scavenged from among the pack animals, and additional baggage was eliminated to make up for the loss of their carrying capacity. Cavalry fittings were improvised from various leather scraps and blankets. When combined with the thirty horses that had been confiscated from Mithradates and his men the day before, as well as a few strays remaining from Cyrus' household guard, Xenophon found that he now had a squad of almost a hundred cavalry at his disposal, over which he appointed a young friend of his, Lycius the Athenian, as commander. A hundred cavalry, almost half of which were swaybacked pack animals, was ludicrous in comparison to Tissaphernes' ten thousand, but it would have to do.
We did not have to wait long to test the mettle of our newly appointed slingers and horse troops. The next morning the army departed at daybreak, forgoing breakfast. We had to pass through a narrow ravine during the day, and hoped to arrive before the Persians. Mithradates, meanwhile, had been encouraged by his success against our troops the day before with such a small number of men. He convinced Tissaphernes to give him a thousand cavalry and four thousand light troops, promising the surrender of the entire Greek army and the delivery of Xenophon's head by nightfall. At least, so said Mithradates' herald later that afternoon, when insolently demanding our surrender.
This time Xenophon had spent a great deal of time discussing with Chirisophus and the other older officers exactly which troops would be allowed to range out, which would be required to stay with the rear guard, and the precise role of our slingers. The Spartan hoplites were not informed of our experimental tactics until just before Mithradates' approach. When they saw the young, delicate-featured Rhodians, with their boyish physiques and "children's weapons," move into position, the scarred, muscular Spartans hooted in derision, some even turning away in disgust that Xenophon would risk the army's safety by assigning these hairless Ganymedes twirling overgrown sandal-laces to the front lines.
Mithradates did not bother with a complicated plan of action, as successful as his method had been the day before. When his troops caught up with our rear guard, we let their cavalry and slingers approach in a mass within the confines of the ravine, until their missiles began to inflict damage. At a signal from Xenophon, our heavy troops parted, and the two hundred Rhodians stepped through the front lines, wearing light armor and helmets but carrying no shields, and oblivious to the Persian arrows darting past them. At that close range the Persians were practically point-blank targets for the skilled Rhodians, and as planned, the Rhodians did not even attempt to fire through the enemy's heavy bronze breastplates or helmets. Instead, they aimed their deadly lead "bees" directly at the unprotected necks and flanks of the horses, and we watched with a mixture of admiration and horror as the rough-edged pellets drilled deep holes into the horses' neck muscles and windpipes. The spiral grooves on the balanoi had the "singing" effect Nicolaus had intended-a terrifying, high-pitched scream as the burrs on the missiles spun rapidly through the air. The combined effect of a hundred of these eerily whining bullets at a time, and the moist, thwacking sounds they made as they slammed into their fleshy targets, drove the enemy horses into a frenzy. Within seconds the Persian lines had reverted from the confident march of cavalry and infantry bent on destroying the foe and returning home in time for supper, to utter chaos and devastation. Horses reared and fell, toppling and trampling their riders, and the Persian bowmen and slingers were unable to maneuver their large and ungainly weapons in the close quarters and crush of men.
The Spartan hoplites shook their heads in wonder. As the enemy finally managed to flee back into the ravine, our new cavalry troops doubled out in pursuit, followed by the Spartans, trampling and slashing at the terrified Persians they encountered along the way. Xenophon and I watched the rout in admiration and delight.
"By the gods," he said in amazement, "if only I had an entire army of these boys. Each of them is worth five Spartans, and they sure as hell eat less!"
I laughed, but immediately became serious. "They're grateful to you, Xenophon, for uniting them and recognizing their skills. They're the most loyal troops you have in the army."
Xenophon gazed thoughtfully at the pursuing Greek cavalry, which had now receded far into the distance in their chase. "And that loyalty must not be taken for granted," he said. "There may come a time when we'll need it. We must take good care of our Rhodians-especially Nicolaus," and he trotted back to the lines to confer with the officers.
Eighteen fine Persian horses were captured unharmed during the pursuit, which made a useful addition to our cavalry, and fine meals in the months to follow. As for the Persian dead, after much discussion with Chirisophus, Xenophon reluctantly ordered them mutilated and dishonored, Persian-style, to strike terror into the enemy. The Spartans praised what they called Xenophon's "beekeepers" as only Spartans could, solemnly chanting the victory hymn to Ares, the god of War, and awarding simple myrtle crowns, the Spartans' highest military honor, to the beaming young Rhodians.
Tissaphernes continued to dog our steps, but now kept a prudent distance. Thus we marched for three hundred miles, moving north along the left bank of the Tigris to the ancient cities of Nimrud and Nineveh, which had once been inhabited by the fearsome Medes but had been conquered by the Great King one hundred and fifty years earlier. To think that any Persian army such as the one tormenting us now had once been able to overcome such fearsome fortifications as these was staggering. The walls of these cities were twenty-five feet thick and a hundred feet high, their positions seemingly impregnable. But the Great King was much more of a man than was his unfortunate descendant Artaxerxes-unfortunate, I say, because King Artaxerxes' inferiority was acknowledged not only by the peoples and troops of both sides, but also by himself. It is a sad thing for one to have to submit so humbly to the obvious excellence of one's ancestor. It is as if one has become a disappointment to the procreation of the generations, an offspring as sterile as a mule, not in terms of fecundity but of strength and honor. It is terrible to look back on the glorious history of one's family, and to see its many and famous branches converge to an insigni
ficant point, like the drooping and wilted tip of an immense hemlock tree, and to realize that such a laughable, incongruous apex of the generations, such a shadow of a great name, is oneself.
We gazed in wonder at the ruins of these mighty cities, now half filled with sand and dust, their baked clay walls crumbling to rubble. The only inhabitants were hyenas slinking through the alleys, howling at their own shadows, and vultures perched on the ancient battlements, their pink heads raw and boiled-looking, their brains ingrained with ancestral memories of rotting cadavers piled against the city walls, which had not furnished sustenance for them for five generations or more. Only the occasional trading caravan or band of Bedouins passed through, rarely staying more than a night.
For three days we camped inside the walls, most of the troops fearing the spirits and arraying themselves by unit in the open squares. Only a few dared to venture into the courtyards of the ruined palaces, or to enter the abandoned shells of the houses or apartment blocks, and to wander through the silent, deserted rooms. What manner of men had inhabited these dwellings, I wondered. How can a hundred years or five hundred years of men's lives spent in these rooms-centuries of laughter, plotting, lovemaking, eating and pissing, experiences so vivid and intense to the participants at the time-be so completely effaced from the earth and from memory that not even ghosts remain to tell us of them, having disappeared in frustration at the dearth of living visitors to torment in their hauntings? In vain I combed through the ancient rooms and hearths, seeking-I am not sure what-some evidence of a man's ability to make his existence felt, some small dropping or sign, some token, a toy or a tool, that here lived an individual, a man like me, that despite the horror of his city's destruction, some small proof of his one-time presence lives on; but all I found, until the final night, were ashes.
On that night, at the intersection of two massive, perpendicular walls, a deserted place where Asteria and I found ourselves in one of our aimless nocturnal wanderings, I kicked aside some pieces of rubble to clear a place to sit, and was startled to discover a neatly preserved human hand emerging from the earth. The smooth, oversized member gleamed a malignant gray, one of its marble fingers chipped off, the rough stone inside the break sparkling in reflection of the starry, moonless sky above. The ghostly limb seemed almost to tremble in the flickering light of my tiny lamp, and for a moment I thought I saw it move, admonishing us for disturbing its owner's rest, or beckoning us closer with its remaining fingers. We recoiled from the site in terror and awe, and returned to camp glancing anxiously over our shoulders, fearing lest the shades of ancient kings be stalking us through the city's crumbling courtyards and streets. For long hours that night I lay sleepless, staring at the ceiling and listening to the soft rustling and random growling of the feral curs skulking outside the tent, sniffing for stale crusts of bread or untended flesh.
The next afternoon we made camp a day's march from the abandoned city walls, under storm-whipped and chilling skies with black thunderheads glowering threateningly at the massed armies below. Tissaphernes himself appeared on the plain in clear view at the head of his troops, his black and gold winged-horse banners slapping in the wind. Over the weeks spent pursuing us thus far, he had combined his forces with those of Orontas, another son-in-law of the king's, and Ariaius' hundred thousand native forces that had traveled up country as our friends, and who were now arrayed against us as enemies. The combined forces were enormous and seemed to cover the plain. I climbed gingerly to the peak of a crumbling battlement and surveyed the Persians' huge army. When I compared it to our insignificant band of tattered Greeks, hundreds of them wounded and many others burdened with the supply wagons, our resources seemed pathetically feeble, and I feared what the gods had in store for us.
BOOK EIGHT
BARBARIANS
The glowering Fates gnashed their white fangs,
Descending grimly, blood-spattered and terrifying,
Seeking out the fallen and longing to gorge on dark Blood.
Upon catching a man thrown down or wounded,
One of them would grasp him in her great claws, and
His soul would descend screaming to Hades and cold Tartarus. After
Satisfying her taste for human blood, she would hurl his body behind
And rush back again into the clamor and fray…
– HESIOD
CHAPTER ONE
EARLY ON, WE had found that trying to march while simultaneously fending off Tissaphernes' harassing forces was impossible; so in each village through which we passed, we lingered long, caring for our wounded, burying our dead and scouring the countryside for provisions. When the enemy appeared to have lost its alertness, usually at night, we would stealthily break camp and steal quickly across the countryside under cover of darkness to the next village, where we would wait for another opportunity to make a break. We skipped thus from haven to haven as if in a child's game, one in which the loser suffered the ultimate, permanent penalty. The Persian forces were useless at night-they kept their horses tied up, hobbled and unsaddled, and in the event of a night attack they were unable to quickly prepare their mounts, armor and weaponry. To guard against our hoplites' surprising them in the darkness they customarily camped seven or eight miles away from our position. In the evening, as soon as we saw them blowing their trumpets to retreat for the night, we would prepare our baggage, and when the Persians had moved out of sight, we would force a march, putting a wide distance between the two armies and forcing the Persians to travel double the distance the next day.
One night, however, the Persians reversed their custom. They feigned departure in the evening and instead sent a large detachment ahead of us behind a range of hills, seizing a high position over the road along which we would have to pass.
On the next day's march, when Chirisophus in the vanguard noticed that the hill ahead of us had already been taken, he sent riders back to Xenophon in the rear, asking him to advance with his slingers. We were tied down, however, because the remainder of Tissaphernes' army was following us close behind, engaging our slingers and bowmen at every opportunity. Exasperated at Chirisophus' increasing demands and at Tissaphernes' relentless harrying, Xenophon finally left Lycius temporarily in charge of the rear, and rode to the front himself, accompanied by Nicolaus and me.
"Where the fuck have you been?" Ghirisophus snapped, furious at the time we had taken to arrive. "Where are the rest of your string-twirlers? Cowering with the baggage train?"
Nicolaus flushed crimson and glared at him, but Xenophon ignored the Spartan's rudeness and coolly stared him down. "If I had brought my slingers, Tissaphernes would have been running his pennant up your ass before sundown. The slingers stay at the rear as long as the Persian army is still there."
Chirisophus swore under his breath. "The hill above us has been taken and we're stuck here like turds in a bucket until we get rid of those fucking Persian sharpshooters. They're eating my men alive."
Xenophon looked up pensively. When fighting on a steeply sloping plain, defensive forces at the top are able to aim their weapons at the entire body of downhill attackers, from front line to rear; shields are useless to the attackers, unless held straight up and horizontal, like turtle shells, an awkward position in which to climb and fight. Even worse, the downhill attackers, if they are able to throw or shoot at all, can target only the front lines of the forces at the top, and if the defenders are well entrenched, even that is impossible.
Trotting several hundred yards along the road to a better vantage point, Xenophon noticed another steep hill behind the one occupied by the enemy. It had not yet been taken by the Persians and was substantially higher, with a narrow, rocky approach separating them. He returned to Chirisophus, slightly breathless.
"We have to seize that height now," he said, "before the Persians figure out what's going on. My troops are tied down by Tissaphernes three miles back. Either you send your Spartans up to take that hill, or stay here and command the army while I take up a detachme
nt of your men. Either way, make yourself useful."
Chirisophus glared at him. "Your choice, General," he said sarcastically, emphasizing the last word for effect. "It is for me to follow your orders."
I took a deep breath as I saw Xenophon pause for a moment, deliberately sizing the Spartan up before finally deciding, yet again, to ignore his insulting tone of voice. I could only attribute Xenophon's restraint to his overriding desire to maintain the army's unity at all costs, even in the face of personal insult. Gryllus had long ago warned that Spartans were not to be trusted. Thank the gods, I thought, for the Rhodians' unquestioning loyalty, for this was a great source of comfort, as well as a considerable defensive advantage.
Xenophon shielded his eyes against the sun and peered back up at the hill. "I'll need three hundred men," he said. "You'll know in an hour whether or not we are successful." Chirisophus nodded and began selecting men, and I will give him credit, he picked three hundred of the biggest, meanest, ugliest sons of Orcus he had, and assigned them to Xenophon for the rush up the hill. We set off immediately, but Xenophon stopped Nicolaus and pulled him aside. "You wait here."
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