Sophaenetus the Stymphalian could not help glancing behind to be sure a servant waited there for him as well. A glass was raised to his hand and he sipped at cool juices within.
‘My lord, I am not used to such things,’ Sophaenetus said.
‘Perhaps you can become used to them, Netus, if you serve well,’ Clearchus said before the prince could reply.
‘General Netus, is it?’ Cyrus asked.
The man bowed his head in reply, accepting the familiarity as if he had been given a choice.
‘You heard what I said to Proxenus,’ Cyrus went on. ‘I imagine you know I have met with many such men over the past few weeks.’
‘You must hate these Pisidians with a rare passion,’ Netus said.
He looked into the distance as he sipped his wine, enjoying the breeze through the gardens. He imagined Clearchus was fretting at such a display of comfort. The Spartan would be looking for a patch of nettles or a thornbush to restore his usual misery, no doubt. Netus had never understood that outlook, not when the world was a place of gentle airs and hilltops, of fine flesh and flashing eyes. He watched both men closely, but the prince in particular. In the city, it was said Cyrus hardly slept for his labours, that he had summoned every soldier for a thousand stades in any direction. He certainly spent gold as a river, as if it meant nothing to him.
Netus waited for a reply, but neither man answered. He noticed the Spartan’s expression had gone wooden, his eyes distant. He sighed.
‘Your Highness, I have served alongside Spartans, Corinthians, Thebans and Athenians for twenty years. I worked my way to a position of authority and trust, so that men looked to me to give orders that would mean they lived or died that day. I have fought three major campaigns and I think a dozen small actions, surviving them all without a scratch or serious wound. On my fortieth birthday, a horse stepped onto my foot and broke half the bones in it. I could not work for six months and … well, funds are low. So I cannot say I do not care for coins, not at the rates you are offering. You buy my service – and my obedience. If you say, “Netus, I do not wish to discuss my true purpose,” I will understand completely. I know some twelve hundred men who would jump up from their marriage beds to march away from Corinth for good pay. Your name commands respect – and men speak well of you. I can assemble twelve hundred who are the equal of any Spartan.’
Clearchus snorted and Netus turned a wry eye on him.
‘Clearchus I have known for half my life. Well enough to say he is not a man for dissembling or half-truths, Highness. Nor, I believe, are you. I imagine you both have your purpose and I have no quarrel with it. Yet we are old hands, are we not? Let there be no more talk of dangerous hill tribes, not between us.’ He chuckled and sipped his fruit juice. ‘Clearchus has a couple of thousand Spartans at his command, as I heard it. For all he does not know good wine from vinegar, there is not a savage tribe in the world who could give him much trouble, no matter how they have bred, nor the height of their crags.’
Netus flashed a glance at the prince, to see how his words were being received. The Stymphalian blinked when he saw Cyrus was laughing, his eyes bright.
‘I have amused you?’ Netus said.
‘Not at all, general,’ Cyrus replied. ‘Clearchus told me you would not accept the tale we agreed. As you say, I have other reasons to gather an army. If those reasons become the talk of the marketplace, it will not go well for me.’ He sipped his own drink, assessing the man before him as General Netus inclined his head.
‘I understand, of course. As I say, your gold buys my service. I am but a humble tool. The woodman’s axe does not ask which tree it will cut down.’
Clearchus gave a bark of laughter, so that both men turned to him.
‘Netus is not a humble man, Highness. However, I have never known him to gossip either.’
Netus smiled tightly.
‘Perhaps such a humble axe might wonder if he will face horsemen or slingers. Or whether he will fight on sea or land. It is your choice, Highness, of course.’
The prince turned back and his expression was suddenly serious. He looked around him, sensing the eyes and perhaps the ears of servants nearby. He gestured to the Stymphalian and General Netus leaned forward until the prince could breathe into his ear. Clearchus sat back so he could watch the man’s expression change.
Netus did well, showing little as the prince leaned away once more.
‘I see. The Pisidians it is, then. I admire a man who can keep his own counsel.’
They rose together and Clearchus clapped the Stymphalian general on his back as one friend to another. Servants came at a gesture to show the Greek to the gate and Cyrus and Clearchus were left alone.
‘Did you tell him?’ Clearchus asked, for once not sure of the answer.
‘I did,’ Cyrus said. ‘I must have the best men with me, general, if I am to have any hope at all. If I have one talent, it is in finding those men.’
‘You give me honour, at the same time as complimenting yourself, Highness,’ Clearchus said.
‘So I did.’
Xenophon winced as he heard his name called behind him in the busy street. Athens had been the richest city in Greece for centuries. Poor men had always come looking to make their fortune there, while others worked the warships of the Athenian fleet and spent their pay in taverns on the docks. Some preferred to steal, risking a public flogging or banishment. It disgusted Xenophon to see young men who could have joined any mercenary company lounging their lives away, drunk on cheap wine, sometimes even holding out their hands to those who passed by.
He had come to know a few of them as he and Socrates walked the streets in conversation. The sight of the ugly man strolling barefoot in a robe as patched and grey as that of the poorest beggar had attracted attention, of course. Xenophon recalled the first time he had sat at the feet of the philosopher in the open agora marketplace, when Socrates had called a youth named Hephaestus to sit by him. The lad had been some sort of leader in a local gang. He’d swaggered up, with his friends calling out that the old goat would be using him like a woman. Xenophon had been annoyed, but Socrates had asked Hephaestus question after question, in a torrent. The old man had worked beneath the skin of the first jokes and crude replies, seeking the young man’s true self. As he did, something came to life in the gang leader. One of his friends leaned in to make some jeering comment and Hephaestus had smacked his head for him, so hard the boy fell down and strode off in humiliation.
Xenophon had seen it a hundred times since. Yet Socrates denied knowing anything at all, saying that all he did was ask questions, until men understood what they really believed. For some, it was a revelation like the sun rising over the hills. For others, the knowledge was too much and they hated themselves – or more often, the man who had made them see who they truly were and what they believed.
Xenophon glanced behind and clenched his fists when he saw the shaved head of Hephaestus bobbing along in the mass of people. The young man was a thief as well as a bully and the crowds there were leaving the theatre of Dionysus. They walked and talked of what they had seen inside, lost in a kind of daze, while men like Hephaestus moved amongst them, cutting away gold chains and pouches of coin, whatever they could take. The gangs preyed on those too weak to defend themselves, and Xenophon detested them all. Perhaps that dislike was what Hephaestus had sensed in him. Though the street rat followed Socrates like a bodyguard whenever he was out, Hephaestus had formed a rare dislike for Xenophon. Barely eighteen, he was more bone than flesh and not fool enough to challenge Xenophon directly. Instead, Hephaestus encouraged his skinny brethren to launch stones and eggs and fruit whenever they saw the Athenian nobleman.
Xenophon’s rage had felt like armour at first, so that he had rushed at them when they came too close, or when some foul thing struck him on the face and neck. They’d hooted and screeched, scattering and calling insults. If he walked with Socrates, they merely watched and grinned at him, but on his own, they mocked the
‘noble-man’ or the ‘horse-man’ in their high voices.
On this day, they called his name merely out of habit – they had richer prey in the crowds. Xenophon had walked around the edge of the great city theatre, where thousands came each year for the festival of drama, to be drawn in to tragedies and comedy. Even Socrates had been mocked by the satires there, though the old man had roared so hard with laughter at the sight of the actor playing him that he’d rather spoiled the intended effect.
Xenophon found his feet had taken him away from the public stables where his horse awaited. His family estate was outside the city and he came in as rarely as he could manage in those days. He had no wife, no one who needed him. His parents had left him wealth enough never to seek work, but the years seemed to stretch ahead without much joy at the prospect. He looked at the row of recruiters arrayed before him, to the shaded awnings they had rigged with jugs of cool water or wine. They sensed his interest like hawks and turned bright gazes on him, seeing a tall young man at the peak of his strength.
He considered for a time, without responding to their entreaties, while the theatre crowd drifted away and Hephaestus and his grubby thieves went with them or on to some new vice. There was nothing in Athens for him, not that year. Xenophon had known power, as one of the administrators under the Thirty. The Thirty Tyrants, as they were called then, though Xenophon had known them as decent and ruthless men. They had certainly not allowed street gangs to flourish unchecked! Yet somehow the public executions had lit a fire under the city, until it spilled out in one great night of violence. His life had changed then and he could not see how to know peace again.
Xenophon walked to the first recruiter, a Spartan by his dress. The man took one look and nodded in satisfaction. He had seen that same expression many times before.
‘Put your mark there, son,’ he said. ‘And in return, we’ll make a man of you. Your own mother won’t know you when you come home – and the girls will put flowers in their hair when they see you. They do love a soldier, son.’
‘Very well,’ Xenophon said. He sensed the man’s surprise when he wrote his name on the slate rather than a letter or wax stamp.
‘Any special skills, lad? Besides the writing?’
‘Horses,’ Xenophon said. He felt dazed somehow, as if it was happening to someone else. ‘I know horses.’
The Spartan’s eyebrows rose.
‘A noble Athenian, is it? Running from her father, are you? Or debts?’
‘I … I served the Thirty,’ Xenophon said. ‘I need a new start.’
The officer’s face cleared, his eyes showing something like sympathy. As a Spartan, he knew a little more than most about Athenian resentment.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Then I should thank you for your service, son. They always forget we gave them three chances to make peace. They refused each time, so we pulled their walls down.’
‘I’ve said the same,’ Xenophon admitted. His thoughts were clearing and he found his old worries falling away as he considered his future.
‘Where will I be sent?’ he said.
‘Most men ask about the pay first, but if you’re a nobleman, I suppose you’re not short. We’re off to southern Anatolia, lad, to fight the Pisidians. Nasty, brutish bastards, with spears. We’ll show them what Greek training means, bring back a few savage heads, have our way with their women and be back home by next spring. You’ll have a couple of scars for the ladies and a few good stories for your sons. Honestly, when I think about it, you should almost be paying me.’
He handed Xenophon a stone token and pointed down the line to where a clerk sat at a table, half a dozen men standing around him.
‘See that little fellow over there, the scribe? He’ll take your name and details for you – and your pay starts from today, though we’re not quite up to numbers yet.’
‘How long before we ride out?’ Xenophon said.
‘That’s the spirit, lad. Keen. Good. Won’t be more than a day or two, I’d say. We’ll take ship east and gather at Sardis. You’ve made the right choice, son. You’ll go out a boy and come back a man, I guarantee it.’
Another potential recruit had come to listen and Xenophon saw the Spartan’s attention switch to the newcomer. He could hardly believe what he had done, but it felt right. He did know horses, and he knew men. Whatever else it took, he would surely pick it up on the march to Sardis. Yes. He felt lighter as he walked back into the city, towards where he had stabled his mount. It was the right decision. He only wondered if he should pay for a few lessons in swordplay before he left.
7
In the hall of kings in Persepolis, Tissaphernes prostrated himself on a black marble floor. He had learned not to rise before he was called – recent stripes on his back were testament to that. Artaxerxes forgave no slight, no insult. The young king sat on his throne and accepted the tribute of rulers and vassals alike, as if all men were slaves to him. Tissaphernes had seen the dark looks on noblemen as they’d left the royal presence, forced to leave their dignity behind them. The twenty-eight nations of the empire had all sent sons and senior lords to the funeral of Darius. For forty days, the empire had mourned his loss, with thousands of slaves chanting prayers to Ahura Mazda at every hour, to speed his soul to heaven. The great tomb was lined in gold that would not corrupt, with guards chosen for their beauty as much as their martial skill. Each had stood willingly to be killed with a single blow to the chest. The bodies were arranged on thrones of gold that faced the outer door, left to guard the realm of the dead. Their names would be recorded alongside that of the king, and their families raised a level in honour.
On that last day in the tomb, Tissaphernes remembered a sense of the mountains falling still all around them, with only the fluttering spit of torches on either side. Artaxerxes had gone beyond the outer door to commune with his father, weeping and murmuring secrets into the ear of the corpse. As they’d left, the wooden stairs used by the masons and labourers had been torn down. The tomb lay unreachable after that, high in the sheer face of the royal cliffs, like a window cut into stone.
Tissaphernes felt a muscle in his back stretch to discomfort as he waited for his old pupil to recognise his presence. He was more than sixty years old and the position was uncomfortable for him, for all he understood a young man’s need to impress his authority on the court. The servants all went about in felt slippers, so it was said, aware that his disapproval would mean their heads spinning across the polished floor. A new king looked for laziness in those who served him – and punished the slightest transgression with great swiftness.
Tissaphernes looked up at a touch. He accepted the arm of the servant who helped him to his feet, then followed him down the length of the throne room. Guards lined an avenue as wide as a city street, with columns of polished granite that had been brought from Egypt by sea over a century before. The head and foot of each one was layered in gold, the wealth of an empire that drained back to the palaces and temples of its kings.
At the far end, Artaxerxes lounged, sipping at a golden bowl of something that had made his eyes wide and glassy. He tipped it up with a sharp motion, so that it left red marks at the edges of his mouth. As Tissaphernes approached and began to drop down once again, the king tossed it to a slave and rose. Two slave girls moved quickly to get out of his way as he stepped forward. Tissaphernes saw one of them pinch the other in a temper, though Artaxerxes did not notice. From beneath lowered brows, Tissaphernes looked them over with a connoisseur’s appreciation. When two young women were chosen from multitudes and trained and fed to give pleasure to an emperor, their beauty was predictably arresting. The one who had pinched the other wore her black hair short, so that it left her neck uncovered. She caught his eye in particular, as her face had life and expression. The other was more like a doll for blank perfection.
‘Old friend,’ Artaxerxes said warmly. ‘You may bow, I think. Perhaps I should grant you the right to bow always when you come at my command. As a mark of my respect for your
age and experience.’
Tissaphernes was delighted at the idea, but custom dictated his answer.
‘If I can give you honour, Majesty, my age is as nothing.’
Artaxerxes frowned in thought, then stepped back and let his outstretched hand fall.
‘Very well, old friend. You may continue to prostrate yourself. Tradition holds us all in chains, I think. Even I am bound by it.’
‘Of course, Majesty,’ Tissaphernes said, dropping right down to the floor. At least it was clean.
He rose to find the sulky-looking slave watching him. Her lips were dark and full, he noticed. He knew it was more than his life was worth to be caught staring at her, so he looked away. When he came upright, he saw her attention had turned to a pendant she wore. He put her from his thoughts. Artaxerxes resumed his seat and seemed once more to be copying the stern glance of his father, with less authority.
‘Majesty, I have reports of your brother Cyrus. I cannot explain them.’
Tissaphernes paused. He knew the king well enough to drop the lure in the waters and wait for the man to swallow it whole. Sure enough, the languid air disappeared at the name of Cyrus. Artaxerxes had not spoken of his brother since the humiliation of their mother’s interference. For a time, it was as if Cyrus had never come home. The empire continued on and the reports came in from all the twenty-eight nations. To the west, to the edge of Greece, Cyrus’ movements were reported as always, with no special emphasis. The surface of the lake seemed to have become still, but Tissaphernes knew the sons of Darius too well to believe that.
‘What is it that concerns you?’ Artaxerxes said. He glanced uncomfortably at the number of slaves and servants who would hear private family concerns, but then he was king, in the throne room of his capital city. He waved a hand to dismiss such petty thoughts.
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