The Falcon of Sparta

by Conn Iggulden

  In the feast hall, Cyrus stood to one side rather than face every man coming in. He seemed to talk idly to Clearchus while they gathered, but in truth he watched and judged the arrivals. The hall was one of the few places in Thapsacus where he could address all his generals. There were no theatres in Persian cities, though he thought he would have them built when he was finished with his brother. If a king could remake a mountain, his son could surely remake an empire.

  Over the sixty days he had spent on the road, Cyrus had learned the names of every officer under him and scores of those in lesser ranks. Those two months had become a restful dream when he looked back – a journey together without any great urgency, with few distractions and little danger. He could not add to their number once they’d begun the long march east. Neither could he force the pace beyond reasonable briskness. They were on their way like an arrow shot from a bow: they could not be called back.

  As Clearchus had promised, basic training had continued on rest days and evenings, but in the main they had simply walked and walked. It was hard for a man to remain a stranger after sixty days alongside another. Cyrus felt bonds that had formed almost as hoops of iron around him. He had come to know which of his officers he preferred to deal with and which to avoid. As he watched men like Proxenus and Netus the Stymphalian enter, he welcomed them as friends and colleagues. He felt a more tenuous bond among his own, for all they shared a language and a culture that the Greeks could never know. Men like Orontas and Ariaeus seemed to be of the past, of the world he wished to overthrow. Cyrus felt a spike of dislike in him as both men entered. Even so, he smiled at them. Some men believed loyalty could not be forced, but Clearchus had a theory Cyrus thought rang true. No matter what a commander actually felt about his men, it took very little to give them a golden memory that would last for the rest of their lives. A royal prince was so exalted over even his generals, that just a word could reach their hearts like a blade between the ribs. They would work themselves to death for him after that, if he did it well. That had been the advice of the Spartan and Cyrus had not been too proud to try.

  The prince forced himself to nod to Orontas and Ariaeus, watching as both men prostrated themselves as a matched pair, looked upon curiously by the Greeks. Ariaeus hailed some of the others as he was released, taking up a great goblet of wine and greeting those he knew and liked. Orontas lacked that ease and only sipped a fruit juice. From the beginning, Cyrus had seen only cool obedience from that particular man. There was no new hoop of iron he could see in Orontas, no discovery of brotherhood. Besides Ariaeus, there were half a dozen Persian officers who looked to Cyrus as if blinded by the sun. He sighed to himself. Yet his most senior man was a very cold fish. If Orontas broke his neck falling off the city wall that night, Cyrus knew he would bear the loss with great dignity. Unfortunately, the man didn’t drink wine. Orontas was the very model of an abstemious Persian. After the meal, he would probably spend the evening praying in a temple to Ahura Mazda. Cyrus shook his head as he sipped from his cup. Some men were born without a sense of greatness in them, that was simply the truth of it. Orontas was competent and thoughtful, but there was no golden thread, no deep well there. Or if there was, he chose not to share it with his prince.

  Menon the Thessalian entered, looking up at the vaulted ceilings in awe, with Sosis of Syracuse at his side. Cyrus smiled to those two as well, though it was in part the recollection of a young Spartan who had trouble pronouncing his ‘s’ sound. Clearchus had lent him to Sosis as an aide for a day, forced to announce the senior officer wherever the Syracusan general went. It had left Sosis weeping with laughter, hanging on the young Spartan as the man grew colder and less amused by the hour.

  As each one came in, they were shown to a place at table by waiting servants, with their cloaks or coats made to vanish. Some remained standing, chatting in groups of friends. Others took their seats immediately and laid out their eating knife alongside the ones already placed for them. Cyrus saw one of the Greeks eyeing a strangely shaped melon blade with a curious expression, then testing the edge with a thumb. The prince was amused at that, though his admiration for the Greeks had only deepened. They valued plays over poetry, discipline over obedience, words over music. He had learned all he could of them over the years – and then the months on the road, a closer relationship than he had known before. Living cheek by jowl with soldiers gives a rare insight, he had discovered. He knew by then how much of their success in war was bound up in personal pride, in the absolute certainty they were the best in the world – and that Greece had no equals in the fields of war or the arts. Cyrus found himself wincing when he recalled the evening of Persian music he had put on for his generals. There had been a great deal of laughter, all the worse because of their efforts to control it.

  Cyrus thought Orontas was probably the least personally aggressive of all his generals, but the man had been reduced to spluttering rage by their comments. He’d had to be dissuaded from challenging Proxenus to a duel of honour, though the Greek would probably have eaten him alive.

  In some ways, his Greeks were all barbarians, Cyrus acknowledged in private. Yet they fought like Ahriman’s demons – and they would not yield. It was the key to their success, he had decided. No matter how a battle turned, with disaster and death staring them in the face, they did not run. Every Persian army he had ever seen accepted that there were times, when the battle was clearly lost, when the officers were dead and the enemy were roaring in, that it was only the merest common sense to run for the hills. It was entrenched in the imperial culture. Pride in success, loyalty to one’s officers – but if they failed, the script changed. If your side was crushed and overwhelmed, the day could not be won back. Failure was the end.

  Cyrus whispered a blessing to Ahura Mazda as he drank and walked to his place at the head of the table. They came to order then, standing by their places or rising to their feet. The prince looked down the length of the hall, seeing how the generals had arranged themselves without prompting. He shook his head, suddenly irritated with them all.

  In Greek, Cyrus began to speak, then repeated it once more in Persian. Language lessons too had been a part of their long march. The progress there had been a great deal slower than he’d hoped.

  ‘Gentlemen, do you see how one side of my table is Greek, the other Persian? Please, you are not enemies. I have seen you eat together and train together for months now. Yes, please rise, once more. Seek out your opposite and change places.’

  There was a great deal of laughter as they did so. It was not quite the success he’d hoped for, as too many simply ended up on opposite sides once again, but it had lightened the mood and he was pleased for that.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. Cyrus gave the signal to the royal seneschal and all the servants trooped out, leaving the seated men to pour wine from jugs at table. Cyrus watched as a number of them immediately did so.

  ‘When I see you sit as friends,’ he said, ‘it gives me hope for our people – and for the future. We use different coins, but all men value gold and silver, however they have been pressed. The metal is what matters most. Those at this table may speak different tongues, but we are all warriors, all soldiers. We understand injustice. We understand dishonour.’

  The smiles withered as his voice hardened, all eyes on the prince. Cyrus spoke quietly, but there was no other sound in that hall and they heard every word in both languages.

  Cyrus glanced at Clearchus and saw the Spartan dip his head, just a fraction. This was the moment they had planned and prepared. Though Cyrus felt his heart beating like a bird’s, he had agreed it could not wait until they sighted the imperial army of Persia in the field. He had to trust his men with their true purpose, or risk losing them at the worst possible moment.

  ‘Gentlemen, I have ridden and walked with you all the way from Sardis. No matter what else happens, you have marched with me through the lands of Babylon. You have seen the great Euphrates, the artery of the empire. Having you here fills my heart
with pride. Yet for some of you, perhaps the journey will end tonight.’ He breathed in deeply, as the simplest action seemed to become something that required thought and conscious control. Slowly, Cyrus rose to his feet and leaned down on his knuckles as he glared out at them.

  ‘My intention is not and never has been to seek out Pisidian hill tribes in the mountains. I could not reveal all my plans while other ears listened in Sardis. I hope you can forgive me these necessary deceptions. Even tonight, there will be spies to listen and report. Yet I have brought you here even so.’

  He paused to drink a gulp of wine. Clearchus stared at the table in front of him, willing the younger man to find the right words.

  ‘My father, King Darius, was not the oldest son. He took the throne from his brother when he judged that brother unfit. He took the crown when it was wet with blood and put it on his own head. Gentlemen …’

  He leaned further forward and in that moment, they seemed not to breathe, as if he stared at a painting. The thought made him smile.

  ‘Gentlemen, I judge my brother Artaxerxes unfit for the rose throne. I have gathered you and trained you and brought you to this place, not as an ending, but as the beginning of a new reign.’

  The Persian generals turned to one another and hissed and murmured, their shock evident. The Greeks had to feign surprise. It was poorly done and Cyrus wondered if there was anyone left among their number who actually did not know the purpose of bringing such an army into the east.

  ‘I am commander-in-chief of the armies of Persia,’ Cyrus pressed on. ‘I am my father’s son, in the direct bloodline of the house of Achaemenid. I am the heir to the throne at this moment. If Artaxerxes suffers a fever in his sleep and dies tonight, I am king tomorrow! Understand me, then. I am no usurper, no traitor to the throne. I am the throne, the king in waiting. Like my father before me, I challenge my brother on the field, as is my ancient right.’

  Clearchus nodded and growled in the back of this throat, as did many of the other Greek generals. They rapped their knuckles on the tabletop, supporting him, aiding him with their voices and their manner, swaying those they sat amongst. Cyrus saw General Ariaeus doing the same, rumbling for them to hear the prince as he refilled his cup. That was not a great surprise, somehow. It would be hard to resist the tides in that room, he thought. He prayed it would.

  The prince dared not look at Orontas as he spoke, though every sinew in him strained to turn just a little and see how his words were going across. Orontas could carry all the other Persians with him, as the most senior man. In the same way, if he refused, he could sow a seed that might become a vine to strangle them all.

  ‘Will you deny me that right of challenge?’ Cyrus demanded from them.

  The Greeks who spoke both languages shouted twice that they would not, lending their voices to a chorus of support. More of the Persians were joining in, Cyrus could see. He allowed himself at last to glance at Orontas and saw how many others were watching the Persian general in turn, waiting for him to respond before they decided themselves how to jump. Though slight of frame and no firebrand, in that moment Cyrus understood Orontas was a true leader of men. They looked to him as they looked to Clearchus, and no one could have said what those two had in common beyond that simple truth.

  Orontas was watching him, wide-eyed, his mouth slightly open. He, it seemed, had not suspected the full truth of the great trek. Cyrus felt his excitement drain away as he saw he had not won the table, not while this man resisted him. Yet the prince was not a coward and he responded with a direct assault, crying the man’s name over the noise.

  ‘General Orontas! My father’s hand raised you to your rank. You took an oath to him – and to me, as commander of the army.’

  ‘And to your brother,’ Orontas said.

  The words were almost lost in the chatter, but Cyrus picked them from the air. His brows drew together and he felt his face darken and flush. Clearchus and Proxenus had discussed what had to be done with anyone who refused his order.

  Cyrus did not want to see Orontas left in his own blood, but he clenched his jaw and vowed he would see it done, if he was forced. There was no going back then. He would make all things right when he was king. If he had to, he would pay a death price to the man’s family. It would be just one more debt against his name, one more wrong to put right.

  ‘Will you deny me my right of challenge, general?’ Cyrus asked softly.

  Some of the noise died away and Cyrus saw Orontas judge those around him before he shook his head, his eyes dark with sorrow rather than jubilation.

  ‘Highness, I would not,’ he said.

  The table erupted in cheering, so that Cyrus was buffeted by men leaping to their feet on either side of him. Through it all, he saw Orontas wipe a hand across his brow, bright with perspiration. Orontas sat looking down at the table, his wine cup still untasted. The man had not refused his prince. Cyrus rather wished he had, so that it could have been clean, the sword wound sharp and quickly done. Instead, the Persian would leave his table alive and yet without the prince’s full trust. It was a sour note to weigh against the jubilation in the others. With a pained smile, Cyrus raised his cup, saluting the men he had brought to that place on that night. Orontas took a cup of water and together they toasted the royal house of Achaemenid and the challenge of a royal prince. He had them. By wine or by water, by God, he had them all.

  King Artaxerxes rode his horse along the face of regiments stretching into the distance, further than he could see in the haze. He felt his chest swell with pride at the thought of deploying so many men at his word, as a hawk flies from the gauntlet. He spoke, and they would destroy. It was the only real power in the world and he found himself giddy with it, as if he had drunk sweetened wine, too long in the skin.

  The army that had come at the king’s summons was in four parts, each the size of a city. More than a march of regiments, it was a migration of nations. Artaxerxes had sent messengers north and south and east, but not to the west. He had not wanted to alert his brother before it was time. Instead, the royal house of Achaemenid had gathered a host equal to the grains of sand in the deserts. They scoured the land of food as they drifted across the face of the empire, growing all the time as more and more came in.

  The king saw Tissaphernes approach on horseback. The man hovered like a biting fly, prevented from a closer approach by impassive ranks of imperial guardsmen. Artaxerxes regretted giving the man a title and the authority that went with it. It had been a moment of petty pleasure for him. He’d known his old tutor preferred the soft life at court to that of a campaign. It had amused the king to send him out once more, so that the man had to feign joy. Yet Tissaphernes had taken to the role with an enthusiasm that quite surprised the king. Tissaphernes commanded his flank of the army with a stern eye, pointing out errors of placement and structure until half a dozen men had complained. Artaxerxes had those officers flogged and three of them had died, so the complaints had ceased abruptly.

  Artaxerxes found he was already weary of the organisation involved in keeping so many soldiers fed, watered and supplied, never mind the cattle and horses and forges and chariots and tents … He closed his eyes. If nothing else, his brother had already cost him unimaginable sums in gold. Yet none of that should be his concern. He was the falconer. They were the bird leaning into the wind.

  ‘Majesty?’ Tissaphernes called, leaning aside from the shoulders blocking his view of the king. ‘One of my messengers came in this morning. A bird, Majesty.’

  Artaxerxes ignored him, wishing only for silence. There was a certain turbulence at the heart of his old tutor. The king wondered why he had not seen it before. Some men have a placid soul, so that they give peace to those around them. Tissaphernes achieved the opposite, leaving ripples and anger in his wake. The king knew he could have the man killed with just a word to one of the guards. They would take his tongue or his head without a moment’s hesitation. Yet that was a power Artaxerxes thought he should resist. He wa
s not a child to lash out on a whim. No, his answers would be measured, and all the more terrible for that.

  ‘Majesty … the bird brought news of your brother,’ Tissaphernes persisted.

  The king looked over at last, seeing the fat man was flushed and sweating in the sun. Artaxerxes gestured impatiently and Tissaphernes was allowed to approach, tugging his robes to hide the patches where he had sweated through.

  The king waited while servants helped the older man to dismount and prostrate himself, pushing him firmly down as he tried to prevent the sandy ground from touching.

  ‘Report then, Lord Tissaphernes. Tell me of Cyrus.’

  ‘Majesty, the crown maintains aviaries at Susa, Larisa and Mespila. Your father was both fortunate and far-sighted to have done so. His wisdom protects us still, Highness. Of course, the birds had their crofts in Persepolis, so when they returned, the message had to be carried out here to the deserts. What good judgement it proved …’

  ‘Tissaphernes? Tell me of my brother. I wish to rest and bathe, not listen to you.’

  ‘Of course, Majesty. Only one of the birds came through, but it mentions a great army led by Prince Cyrus, just as I predicted, Majesty. Coming from the west, from Sardis.’

  ‘What else?’ Artaxerxes said.

  The man bowed his head to reply.

  ‘Majesty, there is nothing more. The scrolls attached to the birds are tiny, or they cannot fly at all. It is a miracle one of the pigeons got through to Persepolis, through falconry and storms and the strange magics in the deserts.’ The man saw the king’s glance sharpen and finished quickly, realising he was babbling once again. ‘There is no more, Majesty.’

  ‘Very well. It is enough. We know where he was, what, a few weeks back?’

  Tissaphernes nodded.

  ‘Good. I have gathered an ocean, Tissaphernes. I may never do so again and for that I am thankful. This one time, I have called the entire armed force of Persia – except for those of the west.’