The Falcon of Sparta

by Conn Iggulden

  Cyrus felt a bead of sweat trickling down his cheek and knew he was winding himself in knots. He hated to lie, and the strain of dissembling was wearing at him. He remembered his mother telling him of a holy man who was famed both for his temper and the control he exercised over it, so that no one ever saw him angry. On his death, there was a suspicion of poison and his body was opened to learn the cause of his passing. His muscles were found to be knotted and twisted together, after years and years of clenching his anger to himself and not letting anyone see.

  Cyrus felt like that holy hermit whenever Tissaphernes turned and exclaimed on some aspect of the display that pleased him. All he could do was incline his head and smile in the sun, while his fears only grew. His father had maintained spies over the entire empire, everyone knew that – not even the spies were aware of the extent of his network. Cyrus had tried to act as if he was observed, as if every word said aloud could be overheard by his worst enemy. That had to be the safest course when he didn’t know whom to trust. Yet it was easy to forget caution on warm nights, with good food, good wine and friends. It was possible to throw a whole life away in a few words.

  The crowd sat up when four hundred Spartans entered the field through a gate, coming in at a fast lope that would have them intercept a Persian regiment standing to attention on the other side. The women fanned themselves as they watched those men trot in perfect ranks, their red cloaks flickering. There were different schools of thought amongst the Spartans themselves when it came to the cloaks. Some commanders ordered them removed before battle, considering them fit garments for a winter’s night or a display, but far too easy for an enemy to grab and yank in a fight. Others such as Clearchus could use them to trap an opponent’s blade, or blind him with a sweep of the cloth, then plunge the sword through it. It was a matter of personal choice for the men whose lives depended on their martial skill, but Cyrus had to admit, they did look good on the parade ground. The mock battle he and Clearchus had planned would please the Persians watching, if not the Greeks. The Spartans themselves had only shrugged when they’d practised the manoeuvre in rehearsal. They knew they were the best, regardless of what some Persian prince wished to show to his old tutor.

  Not forty paces from where Tissaphernes and Cyrus sat their mounts, the Spartans drew their shields from their backs and settled the grips against their forearms. At the same time, they brought the long spear-points slowly down, so that they held them like weapons and not staffs. They were ready to attack in heartbeats and Cyrus found himself swallowing at the thought of facing such men on the field. All the other ranks had come to a halt to observe this last action. Even the birds and the watching crowd became still.

  Cyrus began to pray in silence that the Persian regiment would not break and run on the parade field. He had arranged eight hundred archers in their number, taking care that they carried only shafts without heads. Yet he had not been able to do the same for the Spartan spears, not without making them useless. Clearchus had refused to destroy the weapons of their fathers just for a demonstration. They would endure the rain of arrows and refrain from cutting the Persians apart in return.

  The two forces came together at what seemed a slow trot. Cyrus found himself clenching his fist as the Persian ranks halted at two hundred paces. The archers drew and loosed smoothly, the clatter like the wings of pigeons. First came the rattle of bowstrings and the shouts from the archers, with orders roared on the Spartan side. Shields were brought up and overlapped, forming a great gold dome of bronze, wood and leather, then the hammering sound rang out as thousands upon thousands of shafts struck. Each of the eight hundred archers had a quiver with twelve shafts – so they sent almost ten thousand arrows into the shields. It was a fine display at a distance, with the hours on practice targets showing in the grouping. Few shots went wild and Cyrus saw the interest in Tissaphernes. The older man clapped his hand against the smooth leather flank of his saddle, applauding the attack.

  On the field, the Spartans rose slowly from their crouch. Where laughter and pleased comment had arisen in the crowd watching, silence fell once more. The spectators felt the baleful glare the Spartans gave the Persian regiment. The bronze helmets turned slowly and remained fixed on laughing Persian archers. Cyrus saw Spartans reach to snap arrows from their shields. He swallowed as he understood the tips must have pierced the bronze sheet, that some of the shafts had not been made safe. The prince did not know if it had been the sort of simple error that bedevilled his regiments, or the result of spite from one of the Persian officers, perhaps hoping to leave a few dead Greeks upon the training field. Cyrus saw the Spartans discussing the attack amongst themselves. He could only stare and hope they would not consider a reprisal. The men in red cloaks stood in challenging attitudes, taunting the enemy, leaning forward like leashed hounds. They seemed not to have taken wounds. Yet each shadowed gaze was fixed on the archers. Cyrus remembered the reported words of King Leonidas, at Thermopylae. When the Persians of his day had told him they would blot out the sun with arrows if he did not surrender, he had shrugged and told them he would fight in the shade.

  Tissaphernes chuckled at whatever he thought he saw, as Spartan officers brought sullen men back to attention. The long spear-points came up and the shields were strapped behind them in marching order once more. Facing them across the field, the Persian archers were still clapping one another on the back and standing in loose formation, as if they were at a wedding or a festival. Cyrus seethed to see them. If it would not have shamed him in front of Tissaphernes, he might even have wished to witness the Spartans charge in that moment, to teach his men never to drop their guard. It would be like setting foxes loose amongst chickens, he realised. Even as a lesson, there would be blood.

  Tissaphernes did not seem to have noticed the foolishness of the Persian archers. As the displays were at an end, he and Cyrus dismounted together, passing their horses into the care of servants. Tissaphernes stretched and yawned, smiling slyly at the prince. The older man flicked his fingers to summon another iced drink, his fourth, though each one cost a month’s salary – an entire gold daric. The ice was brought down in vast blocks from the mountain lakes, then stored deep underground for the summer months. It was, in a single blue glass cup, the very essence of both wealth and civilisation. Tissaphernes was addicted to the sweet juices piled high with fine ice shards. More, he was addicted to the wealth and authority that brought it to his hand.

  ‘That was a grand display,’ he said, sipping and sighing in pleasure. ‘It does these foreign men good to know defeat, especially against Persian soldiers. I would not like to report to your brother that your Greeks have been getting ideas above their station.’ He peered at the standing lines, frowning. ‘I see no striped backs amongst the Spartans. I wonder if you are stern enough with them.’

  He left the last as a question and Cyrus was forced to bite down on his first response. The prince was commander-in-chief of all the armies of Persia. Tissaphernes surely knew Cyrus was vastly more experienced than he in such matters. More, the older man seemed determined to needle him and hint at a higher status than their last meeting, as if he carried the approval and trust of King Artaxerxes. It was impossible to know the truth of it. Cyrus could hardly ask him outright, or send a messenger to his brother. As a result, he had to endure waspish taunts and veiled threats without showing a flicker of resentment. For all he knew, Tissaphernes had been told to test him, exactly as he was doing.

  ‘I leave the Spartan discipline to their own officers, on the whole,’ Cyrus said. ‘If one of their number is lazy, for example, or eats too much, they will punish him with astonishing cruelty, saying that he endangers all their lives. They take such matters very seriously, as an assault on their honour – and the honour and reputation of their home city.’

  ‘Such pretensions,’ Tissaphernes sniffed. ‘As if men such as those can have true honour, or even understand the idea. I’m sure your brother would not like to hear your admiration for them. Or do you
deny it?’

  Cyrus found his anger surging again, so that it was hard to reply evenly and without heat.

  ‘I will not deny it, old lion. Any more than I would deny the sky is blue. I admire good soldiers. The Spartans have no equal.’

  ‘They are better than our Immortals, then?’ Tissaphernes pressed.

  ‘Thermopylae tells us they are. Plataea tells us they are. If I am to keep my brother’s borders strong, I must have the best, to train our regiments.’

  Tissaphernes grew colder somehow, though he spent a moment fussing with his drink before he replied.

  ‘Some men might choose not to mention Plataea, Highness, where Spartans routed our infantry and then slaughtered those left in camp. That was a dark day. Yet here you are, praising the sons and grandsons of those very same savages and scoundrels. See them there, the way they stare! If you were a good master, you would have one of their officers lashed for the insolence of his men. I must say, I wonder what your brother …’

  ‘Artaxerxes will know the empire is at peace,’ Cyrus interrupted, ‘and he will know that peace is won with strong borders – and trained armies ready to march at any hour. I have gathered the best, to improve our Persian regiments. To be the whetstone that keeps them sharp. That is all that matters to him.’ Cyrus bit his lip rather than let even more anger seep into his replies. He could not tell if Tissaphernes was genuinely outraged by the arrogance of the Spartans, or whether he sought to prick him into a revelation that might destroy him. ‘Either way, it is my concern.’

  Tissaphernes turned to one of the officers he had brought with him.

  ‘Polemarch Behkas, do you see that Spartan officer? The one who wears a leopard skin on his shoulders. Yes, the plumed helmet, there. Summon him to me.’

  Cyrus felt his mouth open in surprise. He did not try to countermand the order, knowing his own dignity would not survive it. Tissaphernes had brought the officer. No doubt the man was loyal to only one master.

  ‘You think to give orders in my barracks?’ Cyrus said instead, his thoughts racing.

  Tissaphernes half-turned, watching him. To his astonishment, Cyrus saw the man’s hand rested very near the dagger that lay beneath his sash, as if he considered drawing it. The day had gone wrong suddenly, the man’s spite revealed. Cyrus found himself floundering as General Clearchus came trotting back to the two horsemen, halting and removing his helmet in a swift motion. The Spartan stood with his legs at shoulder width, appearing relaxed. If anything, he looked as if he expected praise. He raised his eyebrows when Tissaphernes gestured angrily in his direction.

  ‘The arrogance of this man displeases me,’ Tissaphernes announced to the air. ‘As the representative and royal plenipotentiary of King Artaxerxes, blessed be his name and long his life, I desire this fellow to be lashed, as an example to the rest. Polemarch Behkas, detail one of your stronger men to wield a flail. Strip this Spartan to the waist and lay on. I shall count aloud.’

  ‘You will not,’ Cyrus snapped, his astonishment giving way to anger. ‘You have no such authority here.’ He gestured sharply at the officer moving even so to take hold of General Clearchus. ‘Stand away from that man. Prostrate yourself immediately!’

  He said the last as a roar and the polemarch obeyed. To Cyrus’ shock, Tissaphernes remained on his feet, though he paled and stood trembling.

  ‘Highness,’ Tissaphernes said, his voice strained, ‘your brother, the king, wished there to be no confusion. I speak with his voice, which is the authority of the rose throne itself, at least in this rat hole, so far from the real world. If you will have my bags brought to me, I have within his personal seal – his holy word set in gold. I am sure you would not wish to disobey a direct order from the throne itself.’

  ‘You are not the throne – and you do not give orders here, Tissaphernes,’ Cyrus said with scorn dripping in his voice. ‘I command the armies of the empire. Alone. What do you know of warfare? Do you see those Spartans there on the field, with spears and short swords and their kopis knives in the small of their backs? If you lay hands on their general, they will not sit idly by. If you tear his skin, I will not be able to save you from their wrath, nor any of your men.’

  ‘I see,’ Tissaphernes said. His lips had whitened as the tension grew and he dropped his air of amused patience. ‘They frighten you, then, with their savagery! How interesting. I wonder truly who is the master here, if your wild dogs can so easily slip your leash.’

  ‘If I may,’ Clearchus said, surprising them both. ‘If you will forgive me, His Highness, Prince Cyrus, is not correct in his observation. My Spartans will not interfere, not if I give the order.’

  The man spoke fluently and precisely, his court Persian excellent, with an accent of Susa. Tissaphernes looked at him in irritation, but the Spartan ignored him, bowing to Prince Cyrus.

  ‘Highness, if my men have displeased your brother’s representative, I will endure the lash, of course. There is no question. Nor will my men draw iron in reply. We understand discipline – and indeed justice. I believe it will be an excellent lesson for them.’

  Clearchus waited then, looking unblinking at Cyrus as the prince considered. With Tissaphernes watching, both men had to guess the other’s intentions without giving the slightest signal of cooperation to the one watching them.

  After a long silence, Cyrus nodded.

  ‘Very well. It is true Tissaphernes here found something to dislike in the manner of your men. If you would remove your breastplate and cloak, you will be lashed as an example.’

  Cyrus breathed out as the Spartan went down onto one knee and bowed his head before rising and stripping off his garments. He knew the man preferred to bow rather than graze his knee in the dirt. It was a signal that he had made the right choice. Cyrus tried not to show his relief. It was only days since Clearchus had told him he did not have the authority to order him whipped, yet there they were.

  When Clearchus wore only a leather kilt and sandals, he seemed, impossibly, to have grown larger. The man could have been carved from great slabs of dark wood. The muscles hammered into the metal of his breastplate were actually less impressive than the set within.

  On the field, the Spartan helmets still hid their features, so that they looked coldly on but did not move. Everyone there had seen Clearchus strip to the waist. He gave no sign he even knew they were watching as he strolled to the visitor benches and rested both hands on a white-painted post, one on top of the other. Tissaphernes looked sourly at the display of Spartan muscle, but he set his mouth and signalled once more for his man to fetch a flail, determined to see it through. He felt somehow that he had lost the climax he had intended to provoke, but he still wanted to see the Greek cry out. The thought of making a Spartan shriek or weep would be compensation for an otherwise uninspiring day.

  As the officer uncoiled the strands, Cyrus watched the Spartans stand to attention. Clearchus looked up at the sky and muttered something Cyrus was not close enough to hear. He did hear the cords hum as they cut the air, each one tipped with a bead of lead. The first stroke cracked across old scars, leaving red lines that dripped watery blood as the officer drew back.

  ‘One,’ Tissaphernes said, his smile quirking up at a corner. He found his own back was aching at being forced to stand. As the lash whipped across a second time, Tissaphernes whispered to a servant and accepted the chair that was brought for him with a grateful sigh.

  ‘Two,’ he called. ‘Or was it three? Should we begin again?’

  ‘It was two,’ Cyrus said. ‘I will keep the count to forty. Please, do enjoy another iced juice.’

  He managed to make the last suggestion sound like an insult, so that Tissaphernes flushed. Cyrus wondered how he had missed the spite in the man before. Had it always been there, or been brought forth somehow by the change of occupant on the rose throne? Cyrus had called him a friend for a dozen years, but perhaps that was when Cyrus had been a prince and Tissaphernes a poor army officer and teacher. As one rose and the ot
her fell, it seemed to have revealed a bitterness in the older man, or a weakness that may always have been there.

  Cyrus watched as Clearchus endured stroke after stroke. There were perhaps a dozen cords in the lash. Each blow cut his skin into patterns that criss-crossed in peeling diamonds, revealing whiter flesh beneath. The Spartan rested his hands on the post and Cyrus saw the moment when Clearchus noticed he was gripping it very tightly. The man breathed out and loosened his hold, standing with his legs slightly bent.

  It was hard to judge the rhythm of the flogging. If the lash struck as Clearchus breathed in, it knocked the air out of him. Cyrus saw he tried to time it so that the blows came between breaths, but the Persian wielding the lash was not an expert and his timing was irregular. More than once, the man paused for an age to run his fingers through the cords, separating them.

  As the count reached thirty, Cyrus saw the Spartan was sweating, his muscles shining along his sides. His blood had been flung by strands of the whip, so that he was surrounded by a halo of red spots. More than one of the fascinated families had felt the touch of droplets on their skin. A young woman held up a bead of it on her finger in delighted horror.

  Twice more, Clearchus had to make an effort to unclench his hands from the post, each time visibly harder than the last. He made no sound of pain, beyond the grunt when the air was driven out of him. By the time the fortieth stroke fell on his torn flesh, the crowd watched in awe. They had learned something of Sparta that day, and Cyrus could see from Tissaphernes’ scowl that it had not been to the man’s liking.

  Clearchus turned to the prince with a slight smile on his face.

  ‘I hope my blood repays the dishonour, Highness. Thank you for your trust in me – and in my men. You honour us.’