The Falcon of Sparta

by Conn Iggulden

  ‘I see. Please, rise. I have met many Greeks who only bow to me, or make a show of dipping down as briefly as they can manage, as if the ground is too hot. You do not mind showing respect?’

  Xenophon stood up straight and tall. He was sweating, his face flushed from the exertion. He shrugged.

  ‘It does not diminish me to honour another man, Highness. If I give you honour, I lose none of my own. After all, I expect obedience from one like Hephaestus here. I expect him to respect my expertise and my status. He did not do that, of course, but I demand it from him even so.’

  Cyrus blinked at the pair, seeing how the other man shook his head a fraction, resisting the description of him.

  ‘You Greeks astonish me. You seem to think about everything. Do you never just act, without considering it first as a puzzle?’

  ‘I signed up to fight Pisidians, Highness,’ Xenophon replied. ‘I imagined camaraderie and tests of courage. I wished to test myself, if you understand me. Instead, I am here, month after month, training others, being trained myself. Perhaps I should have given that decision more thought.’

  Cyrus found himself amused at the younger man’s visible bad temper, combined with a grim humour he could hear in the mocking tone.

  ‘I imagine your way of talking wins few friends, Xenophon,’ he said.

  The Greek’s jaw jutted forward as his stubbornness showed. He raised his head as if in challenge and Cyrus laughed, holding up his hands.

  ‘Please. I do not wish to offend you, but to understand. In the cities of my father …’ He hesitated and a shadow passed across him. ‘In the cities of my brother, men know their place, exactly. They know it from their families and bloodline, from experience, from promotion, from their associates and relations – but they know to the last grain on the scale where they stand. We do not spend our lives in this fervour of possibility, this uncertainty. A man knows to prostrate himself to a prince and to demand subservience from those below him.’

  ‘That sounds … restful,’ Xenophon said. His honesty made him continue. ‘Though in truth, it occurs to me …’ He trailed off, unsure.

  Cyrus gestured with an open hand.

  ‘While you are in my service, I swear to you – nothing you can say here will cause me offence. I wish to hear the truth only.’

  Xenophon allowed a small smile. He liked the prince of Persia who had brought half the world to Sardis to train.

  ‘Highness, when you describe a system of masters and servants, I admire it – because I imagine myself the master, immediately. And a master would admire a system that benefits him, of course. Yet if I saw myself as one forced to labour in the sun, perhaps for a man I felt did not deserve to stand over me … then I would know resentment. If I kneel to you, it is because I give honour to tradition and because I feel men should know their station in life. Yet you have spoken kindly to me. Had you scorned me or abused me, I would have been less willing to bend the knee. Either way, I am a free Greek, Highness, an Athenian. I have sworn to serve you and taken your silver. My oath holds me, but when I stand before the gods, I will still be able to say the choice was mine.’

  Cyrus chuckled, amused by the serious young man who thought nothing of disputing with him in such a way. He felt no answering prickle of anger, any more than he would have at a pup who nipped his fingers. It was a challenge without real teeth and it did not hurt him. He wondered, though, if he had been around the Greeks for too long.

  Rather than argue the point, Cyrus stroked his hand down the leg of the great uncut stallion Xenophon had ridden.

  ‘This is a fine beast,’ he said. ‘The equal of my own Pasacas, I believe.’

  Xenophon cast a professional glance at the prince’s mount, nodding acceptance.

  ‘Your Pasacas is a hand taller, Highness, but yes, my father bred horses for forty years. He traded fortunes for Persian stock, I recall.’

  ‘The best in the world,’ Cyrus said lightly, knowing it was true. Xenophon smiled in reply. His flush had faded and Cyrus realised he should dismiss the pair of young men to their duties. He sought for a way to continue the conversation, knowing he would repeat it to the Spartan general that evening when they sat to dine.

  ‘You are an Athenian who thinks like a Persian, Xenophon. I think sometimes I am a Persian who thinks like an Athenian.’

  Xenophon chuckled, gathering the reins of both horses. He ignored the downcast Hephaestus, who waited without even bowing his head, looking from one to the other of them. Xenophon still wondered if Socrates was behind them joining on the same day. The thought lightened his spirits further.

  ‘I only wish my friend Socrates could hear you, Highness,’ he said. ‘If you ever have the chance, you should seek him out in Athens and make these points to him. He will love you for it.’

  Cyrus shook his head.

  ‘I do not think I will go to Greece again, not for a time. My labours will take me east, far into the deserts.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. It has been an honour, Highness,’ Xenophon said. He went down on one knee again, though he smiled as he did so. On impulse, Cyrus bowed to him, making them both grin as they remounted. Xenophon joined both horses on a long lead, while the disgraced Hephaestus trotted along in the dust behind.

  Cyrus watched them go, his smile fading. It had been almost a year since his father’s death. He had gone back to his life as commander of the Persian armies as if nothing had changed, although in fact everything had. He had brought Greeks into the field of war and then marched and trained them to sharpness under the best generals. He had perhaps twelve thousand hoplites in all, but it was not enough. His brother could put six hundred thousand men in the field – Cyrus knew the numbers better than anyone else alive. He knew he needed more Persian regiments. He could not win with only twelve thousand Greeks, not against so many! Yet the more he manoeuvred Persian forces into play, bringing them into range of Sardis, the more the danger increased. Some of the Greek generals had seen the flaw already. There were few enemies in the world who required such a host. As it grew, month by month, it would become obvious to all that there was actually only one.

  Cyrus bit his lip, chewing a piece of broken skin there as the breeze washed over him. He had gathered an army, but the Persian part of it had come because he was a prince and commander of soldiers of the empire. He had chosen the officers carefully, men he had raised, men who trusted and admired him. Yet there would come a moment when those regiments realised where they were marching. If they mutinied then, he would be destroyed.

  It would have been inconceivable against his father – an enterprise doomed from the very start. Against his brother, Artaxerxes, Cyrus hoped he had a chance. To the regiments of Persia, Cyrus was the prince they knew, the right hand of the new king. Perhaps they would stand with him. He had staked his life and the entire empire that when the moment came, they would.

  He thought of the young Athenians who had ridden like the wind. The pair had clearly not been friends and yet one of them, Xenophon, had risked his life to save the other. It was hard not to admire such men. Cyrus had always known where he stood in the families and the court of Persia. Yet he saw then that it could also be a kind of death, a life unlived. Well, he had chosen to throw it all into the air. He would succeed or he would fail, but no man would be able to say he had known his place. He smiled to himself. It was a comforting thought.

  9

  Cyrus stood with Proxenus the Boeotian, the heavyset Greek general looking miserable in the rain. Clearchus had folded his arms and gathered his Spartan cloak around him, though he was soaked through. Cyrus had heard Proxenus sniffing and coughing all night in his tent. As might be expected, the general had said nothing to either of them. Cyrus had noticed how the other Greeks were careful not to complain when the Spartans were around. They accorded them a rare level of respect. Clearchus did not seem aware of it, of course, though the prince thought he must find it satisfying in private.

  The mountains in the north of Phry
gia were richly forested, so that entire armies could train in such a place, away from watching eyes, or their enemies. Six days’ march north of Sardis gave privacy enough to bring a number of Persian and Greek regiments together for the first time. Clearchus had insisted on it. It was one of the ironies of Cyrus’ position that his Persian officers did not yet know why such a vast host had been assembled, but the Spartan did – and at least some of the other Greek commanders had a suspicion they were not after hill tribes.

  Clearchus had asked to see the quality of the Persian regiments he would command in battle. It was the merest common sense to agree to the request, but Cyrus was regretting it, after almost six weeks of mock warfare and fitness training. Just that morning, he had seen a Persian regiment routed by Corinthians bearing only staves and clubs, chasing them through the trees. The Persian polemarch waited by his horse a dozen paces away, craning his neck for some sign the prince would allow him to approach.

  Cyrus seethed. It was bad enough to have Greek soldiers break Persian lines over and over again. Men like Proxenus and Clearchus seemed able to improvise new plans from nothing, then have their hoplites carry them out – quickly and easily. It left the Persian regiments looking clumsy and slow to react. More than once they’d found themselves continuing the advance from a previous order, when the designated Greek ‘enemy’ were off to one side, watching them and jeering. Those things could surely be remedied in time, Cyrus hoped, with the right officers. He glanced to his left and sighed at the sight of the bright-eyed Persian. Rather than delay further, Cyrus gestured. The man strode instantly through the outer guards, his chest filling like that of a bantam cock.

  Clearchus and Proxenus looked on as the Persian lay full length on the muddy ground. In that at least, his manner was perfect. Cyrus might have appreciated the gesture more if Polemarch Eraz Tirazis had not overseen the complete rout of his men three times that morning.

  ‘Highness, you do me great honour,’ the officer said stiffly. ‘I am not worthy to attend your presence. Grant only a moment of your day and I will be a thousand times blessed beyond my worth.’

  Cyrus found he missed the blunt style of the Greeks.

  ‘You asked for a word, polemarch. If my time is so valuable, perhaps you should use fewer of them, or speak more swiftly.’

  ‘Of course, Highness. I wished only to say how disappointed I was this morning with the men.’

  ‘With the men,’ Cyrus echoed, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Your Highness must understand the regiments I was given to command are composed of peasants, most of them Medes. They are not cultured fellows, if you understand me. They plod like cattle, forwards, backwards. They stop when they are told to stop, but merely stand then, without thought. I have had hundreds of them flogged for their insolence, but if anything they grow more sullen and more stupid each day.’

  ‘What do you want, Polemarch Eraz? To return home? That can be arranged.’

  ‘Highness, no!’ The Persian seemed genuinely affronted. ‘I ask only that I be given one of the Persian war groups. Perhaps my Medes would be happier with one who speaks their tongue a little better.’

  ‘The Medes don’t understand you?’ Cyrus said faintly.

  The Persian shook his head in remembered anger.

  ‘They are fools and farmers, Highness. Peasants. I was trained in Persepolis, alongside imperial officers. My family can be traced back for forty-three generations. Am I a shepherd, to be tending such men?’ He chuckled at his own wit. ‘I think you understand, Highness.’

  ‘I do,’ Cyrus said. ‘Though understanding a problem is not the same as knowing how to solve it. You I could have beaten. I could have your ears clipped, or your right hand branded as a mark of failure. I could have you sent home, or just give you a rope and an order to hang yourself. Yet I have hundreds of officers just like you, who see no reflection on themselves when their men are broken and sent running, time after time after time!’

  Cyrus said the last as a roar, advancing on Eraz of Tirazis. In response, the man threw himself down once more and covered his head with his hands.

  ‘Guards! Take this fool and strip him. Lash his back forty times in front of his men.’

  The polemarch cried out in horror and confusion as he understood.

  ‘Highness, how have I earned this punishment? Please! Let me hang myself, before enduring such a dishonour. What have I done? Please, I don’t understand …’ He was dragged away still complaining and beseeching.

  Behind him, Cyrus raised his head to the rain that seemed to work cold fingers down his neck. Proxenus gave a great sneeze and Cyrus whirled on him, still furious with his own helplessness. The Greek general held up his hands in surrender, too miserable to do anything but blow his nose into a square of cloth.

  The Spartan too cleared his throat, so that Cyrus looked over to him.

  ‘You have something to add, Clearchus?’

  ‘If I can do so without you ordering me to be lashed, I might, yes.’

  Cyrus mastered himself with difficulty. He inclined his head, his mouth quirking up on one side.

  ‘Please. I would not flog a Greek, even if you gave me cause. You know as well as I do – your service is not slavery. You have to understand my Persian officers expect such things from me. The others will see Eraz of Tirazis was flogged in front of his men and they will know he was at least in part responsible for the poor display this morning. He will spend a few days being tended by our doctors. If he has the sense to take the lash well, his men may even come to respect him more than they do at the moment. Perhaps I will send a tutor to teach him orders in the Median tongue while he recovers. Yes, that is worth doing.’

  Clearchus nodded, though he saw the prince was clenching and unclenching his right fist as he spoke.

  ‘I am glad you would not give such an order. It is a rare prince who knows his limits.’

  Cyrus flickered a glance at the man who was telling him he would not stand to be punished – a man who served him. The prince felt his temper surge and his face grow flushed. In turn, Clearchus watched the prince’s attempt to control his anger with some interest.

  ‘General,’ Cyrus said, ‘I am sorry for my manner. I see only problems today. Your men are … superb. I thought I knew the legend of the Spartans, but seeing you train in conditions even close to battle … the truth is extraordinary. Each Spartiate seems to think as a general, yet will take orders as a soldier. How is it done, Clearchus? If I had ten thousand such, I would not need all the rest. I could conquer the world with those alone.’

  ‘We are raised to think for ourselves,’ Clearchus said, ‘but there is little point in freedom without judgement. Highness, all my men have trained and fought together for years, from their time in the boys’ barracks at home. They follow orders, of course, but if they see a breach, or a weakness, they might choose to break formation and attack. No officer sees all the battle, no soldier either. It is why you sit a tall horse and why we send scouts ahead and to flanking positions. Yet no matter how well we prepare, there will come a moment when a hoplite soldier walks over two weaker men and finds himself ahead of the rest, perhaps in reach of a broken wall or an enemy general. If he waits for orders then, the moment will be lost. If he rushes forward without thought, his own lines might fail and be destroyed. It is a matter for very fine judgement indeed. When he makes the right choice, we raise those men up. We make them officers. We give them wreaths and houses, even. Yet if they bring destruction on their lines, all men spit when they hear of that day and no children are given a name that is allowed to wither on the vine for ever more.’ The general shrugged. ‘As I say, it is a balance.’

  Clearchus looked off to the distance for a moment, considering his words. Cyrus saw and gestured for him to go on.

  ‘That officer you sent to be whipped was, I think, too stupid to lead. He has no love of his men, no appreciation for their skills and their bravery. I have seen his Medes – they are solid men, not easy to break. Of course t
hey do not want to march up and down hill with Spartans and Corinthians howling like wolves along their flanks! They are cold, wet, tired and sick of the life. To be harangued by such a man on top of all that – honestly, I am surprised they did not kill him. Their morale must be truly low.’

  ‘What then would Spartans do with such a man?’ Cyrus asked in despair. ‘I have several dozen who are no better. And a few who are considerably worse.’

  ‘We would start by having a quiet word with him,’ Clearchus said. ‘Five or six of us would explain what he had been doing wrong, in case he did not know. We would make sure he understood. When he was walking again, we would look to see if he had learned wisdom. Some men are broken by the experience. Others regard it as a rite of passage and become stronger. If not, I fear he would be left behind for the wolves. We allow no weakness, Prince Cyrus, but … our way is not for all. Indeed, our way would break one of your regiments. Much as beating a horse or a dog every day would make it timid or savage, but not better than before.’

  Cyrus swore, smacking his fist against a panel of his coat so that the knuckles bled. Clearchus looked on calmly.

  ‘If I may say so, Your Highness, you seem at times to be a man consumed with rage. Every army takes time to train. I have seen mobs and rabbles made into fine regiments before. Your Persians are no less fit, no more undisciplined than some others I’ve known. Yet you seem to wind yourself tighter and tighter, like a horsehair spring. Is this all there is, for you?’

  Cyrus was bitter as he replied.

  ‘Is my father’s throne a mere bauble, then? Is it not worth the struggle to your eyes?’

  ‘Not at all! I cannot think of a greater prize in the world than what you seek.’ The Spartan general shifted uncomfortably, shooting a glance to Proxenus, who had come closer to listen. ‘But … a life solely of war is not a happy one. When a man thinks of nothing else for months or years at a time, he loses something vital. I think vengeance is the same, if it is allowed to become a great furnace. A man can be destroyed by his own rage, Highness, I have seen it. His judgement can be drowned, if he is not overtaken by a great spasm, so that his heart bursts or his face sags like melted wax. I think if I did not have my wife at home, my sons and daughters, I would not work as hard. When I am home, I tend a little piece of land in peace. I grow olives and onions. I think of that small place when I am deaf and blind with the clash of metal and the smell of death.’