Artaxerxes looked along the regiments marching through the desert bowl, their eyes narrowed against the dust and the breeze.
‘I should thank my brother for allowing me to have this experience. I try to fix it in my mind, Tissaphernes, so that I will be able to recall it for ever after, when my spirits are low. It is … a glorious sight, a royal view.’
Tissaphernes raised his head to see the array of marching lines. He did not share the same romantic streak that seemed to have been inherited by both of Darius’ sons, but he appreciated the raw power of that army. There was not another so many and various in the world. He rode with the rightful king to destroy traitors. It was hard to imagine anything finer or more satisfying.
16
Sixty miles out from Thapsacus, the terrain turned to desert over a single day, going from scrub lichen and grasses to wider and wider expanses of open sand, until true dunes stretched ahead, shimmering in the heat. No river was allowed to pass without them refilling every cask and skin and bottle they had. The maps they carried showed the river courses like dark threads, but the accuracy was not as great as Cyrus would have liked, not when survival depended on it. It was late summer in Babylon and the heat was a living thing, a tongue of flame that flickered and pressed among the marching men.
Clearchus had sensed the mood deteriorating in the ranks ever since they’d passed through Thapsacus. It had been there in muttering soldiers and sly glances at Cyrus. The news was out at last. None of those men, neither Greek nor Persian, had signed on and taken pay to face the limitless armies of the Great King.
The sense of brotherhood they had developed over months of training and marching together seemed to fray like rotted cloth. Fights had always broken out in the evening camps, of course. The combination of men, coin, wine and weapons was a dangerous one. It was far less usual for a brawl to begin on the march, especially when it turned into a riot between hundreds that left two Persians and four Greeks dead on the ground. Worse, the men refused to say what it was that had started the fracas. Clearchus was not even sure they knew. They were angry and growing angrier by the day, that was the heart of it. He warned his officers again about the heat, about what it could do to tempers. He lectured regiment after sullen regiment about the need to wash away old sweat or suffer blisters and boils of the skin. He gave a thousand orders and focused their resentment on him, rather than each other. Yet the mood only darkened.
Another six days passed as they travelled south and east into the deserts, leaving the last trappings of trade and civilisation behind them. On the seventh day, the entire contingent of Greeks stopped dead at the foot of a hill and let the Persian regiments tramp on without them. Their officers rode up and down the lines, bawling astonished orders. In response, they stood like mules, digging heels into the sand and clenching their jaws. The Persians looked over their shoulders as they went on, until they too were halted while their officers worked out what to do. The column stood under a midday sun that was like a lash across bare skin. Regiment after regiment of the Greeks ignored commands or threats shouted at them. Instead, they sat down, though the sand blistered whatever it touched.
Cyrus came riding back from the front, where the scouts still ranged ahead. He called Ariaeus over to him. In comparison to Orontas, the Persian general was known to be well liked in the ranks. Ariaeus was usually accompanied by young men chosen from among the rest for physical beauty. Such a fellow accompanied him then, running alongside as Ariaeus reined in and leaped down to prostrate himself. Cyrus halted the action with a gesture.
‘What’s the word, Ariaeus? Why have we stopped? I gave no orders.’
Ariaeus knelt on the sand to reply, though it stung his skin. Cyrus found his patience vanishing.
‘Answer me! Stand up straight and speak.’
The Persian gaped as he came up once more.
‘Highness, I wished not to offend. Our regiments have stopped only because the Greeks stopped first. I understand they have not taken the news well. About our … destination.’
‘What? They are mutinying?’ Cyrus demanded in shock.
The word carried with it the most severe punishments. Entire regiments had been butchered like cattle in the empire before, after just one man refused an order. As a result, that term was rarely even spoken aloud, for fear it would be its own spark. Both Ariaeus and his companion paled. It was with relief that they registered the approach of others on that scorched white plain. All three turned and shaded their eyes against the sun to see Orontas cantering a horse towards the prince, with Clearchus running behind him, the Spartan’s hand gripping the horse’s tail.
‘Dismount and bow to me, general,’ Cyrus shot to the Persian before he could say a word. ‘Is it a mutiny?’
He registered the grimace that crossed the Spartan’s face at the word, but Clearchus shook his head in immediate denial as he replied.
‘Let me talk to them before we give it any sort of name, Highness. There has been some unrest, of course. It is no more than we expected …’ The Spartan sensed the gaze of the two Persians on him and rephrased. ‘It is not more than you told me we might expect. They feel they were lied to and they are afraid of what is to come, of facing the royal forces.’
‘Highness,’ Ariaeus said. ‘Give the word and I will have them all flogged, then one in ten castrated before the rest. There will be no more refusing to march after that, you may be certain. These foreign soldiers merely need to be reminded that you are the heir to the throne, of the house of Achaemenid. You have every right to challenge your brother, Highness.’
The man spoke as if his mouth dripped with oil, Cyrus thought. Though Ariaeus had put his own arguments as succinctly as he might have hoped, it was still somehow rather distasteful.
‘If General Ariaeus tries such a thing with my Spartans, they will destroy this army around them, Highness,’ Clearchus said.
‘Destroy?’ Cyrus replied, challenging him.
Clearchus gazed back in silence, still outraged at the Persian’s threat. It was Cyrus who looked away first. He turned to the Persian general.
‘I need to get them moving, Ariaeus. Not to waste good men. Let the heat work on them for a time. They chose to stop at midday where there is no shade! Wait a few hours and offer them the chance to move on to the valley that lies ahead on the maps. I will send cool water to them then – and a calm advocate, when they are ready to hear me.’
Clearchus raised an eyebrow in question and Cyrus nodded to him as he turned away. Ariaeus was a superb horseman, but a calm advocate he was not. Cyrus thought if he sent Ariaeus, even if he forbade the threat of castration, there would surely be another riot.
Menon the Thessalian came trotting up from the ranks. He had taken a recent blow to the face and his right eye was swollen and already darkening. Proxenus was not far behind him and that great bony Greek was furnace-red, though whether it was the sun or embarrassment was hard to say. Both men bowed and Menon spoke as the prince turned to him.
‘Highness, I would like to address my men before any punishment is considered. We knew there could be … reluctance. They signed up to fight hill tribes not imperials, after all. Yet they are innocents, Highness, most of them. I suspect the Spartans are leading them in this. My regiment is merely watching for a chance to join you here, I’m certain. If you will allow me to speak to my officers, I know I can bring my lads out from the rest.’
‘Your face … what happened?’ Cyrus asked.
‘Ah, that, er, was a personal disagreement with another man, Highness. A gambling debt.’
It was so obviously a lie that Cyrus didn’t bother replying to it. Instead, Clearchus spoke.
‘It looks like you’ve been punched in the face, Menon. Don’t you think I could call my Spartans out of line? They are not just lads I paid and trained, but men I have known my whole life! I have four cousins and two nephews in their ranks!’
‘What of it? If you were sure, I think you would already have tried,’ Menon snapped
, surprising them all. ‘Yet your beloved Spartans don’t stand apart, do they? They refuse to go on, just like the others. I do not see them marching away, do you? So perhaps this is not the time for Spartan boasting, Clearchus. Just for once, you know, while we sort this out.’
The silence that followed was more than a little awkward.
‘I have no doubt you could both bring your men out of the column,’ Cyrus said. ‘Yet if I allow you to approach with that intention, when the others see what you are about, they will surely kill you. Even if you are correct, they will not have come of their own accord. I cannot have mercenaries who feel they are slaves!’
His voice had grown loud as he spoke and both generals let his anger break into their own silent struggle.
Clearchus looked up at the prince. He went to one knee, a gesture which had Menon rolling his eyes and was not lost on the others.
‘I have dealt with such things before, Highness. Let me speak to them all first. If I fail, Menon can try to call out his group. It might even work, or they will argue and it will be the spark for violence. Either way, grant me a chance first, alone.’
‘They are in awe of Spartans,’ Cyrus said. ‘All my people know you – and all the men of Greece look to you. So is it all just a myth? Or is there something more than discipline and skill with a sword?’
Clearchus smiled.
‘We build no monuments in Sparta, no statues and no city walls. We are the walls, Highness. We are the monuments. I am a Spartan and all Spartans know me, because I am of them.’ He shrugged at the blank stares of those around him. ‘Some are born to lead, Highness. Some are just born. In Lacedaemon, we train the mind as well as the body.’ He smiled for a moment, as if in memory. ‘It may be that the mind is just as important. So let me try first. Let me discuss the problem. Before calling them out, before castration or flogging. Please. Ride on with your Persians and the camp followers to where we would have stopped this evening. I will come to you there. I give you my word, sworn on Ares. Unless I am killed, I will come.’
‘Very well,’ Cyrus said.
The greatest honour he could give Clearchus in that moment was to ride away as if he considered the matter settled. The thousands of men and women in the camp had caught up while they had been talking, looking in confusion at the seated ranks already arguing and gesticulating. Some of the women called out to men they knew as they passed, but were ignored or met with shrugs.
Cyrus saw a few dozen horses being brought up along the flanks. He recognised the young man Xenophon, and his companion Hephaestus, riding the edges of them. They were keeping the animals and a dozen urchin boys in good order as they halted and exchanged news with the seated Greeks. It was such an ordinary scene, but at the same time it was new and terrible. His mercenaries had refused him. A hollow seemed to have opened in his chest, beneath his coat, a sense of sickness. He shook his head, dug in his heels and urged his mount forward.
‘Sunset, general,’ Cyrus called over his shoulder. ‘I will have wine.’
Clearchus looked at the generals who had come to that place with him. He inclined his head after the prince.
‘You heard the prince, lads. Go on.’
Menon began to say something, but Proxenus bumped his shoulder hard as he passed and the moment was lost. In a variety of moods, from anger to grim acceptance, they left the Spartan tyrant to face the Greeks alone.
Clearchus stood before the regiments. At first, some of them threw stones to drive him off, but his own Spartans put a stop to that with angry words and gestures. It was Clearchus who had to intervene to stop fighting breaking out between them on the burning sands. Under the lash of the sun, all the men were already growing parched, gasping like hounds.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, settling them. ‘Gather close and hear me, but do not shed blood in this place of no life. Nothing grows here but bones. Would you wish to be left on such a plain for all eternity? No. Why then are you shouting and threatening men who were your brothers only yesterday?’
A barrage of sound came back from them, but Clearchus was pleased to see them shuffle forward. He had a good, strong voice and he knew he could reach thousands and be heard, but only if they gathered round as if to listen to a play.
He waited as they came closer, signalling with both hands for them to approach while he thought. The prince was out of sight, with both Orontas and Ariaeus. The other generals had gone with them, leaving the Spartan to soothe the betrayal these men felt. As Clearchus stood there, he wondered how he was going to do that.
At first there was a constant clatter of talk and movement amongst the regiments. Some were already appalled at what they had begun, while others felt only more justified with every moment, their fears realised. They argued and shouted and threatened one another, but around Clearchus a ring of silence began to spread, until all men turned. The Spartan was standing before them, tears spilling down his face. As they fell silent, he wiped at his eyes with his forearm, almost in anger.
‘Well? What, did you think a Spartan could not weep? Prince Cyrus became my friend when I was in exile from my own land and treated as an outcast. However, since you are unwilling to march with him, I am forced to make a choice. I am your general; I am his friend. I must either break that friendship and go with you, or betray my loyalty to you and go with him. You have put me in an impossible position.’
They leaned in, settling themselves as whispered arguments broke out.
‘I know I must choose you,’ he said. ‘Yes! I will not have it be said that I led Greeks to a desert and abandoned them for native soldiers. Since you will not obey me, I will walk alongside you. I will endure whatever happens to you, at your side. I can do no less. I brought you to this place. I trained you and ran with you. You are my nation – my friends and my allies. I will not abandon you now.’
Some of them cheered him, while others looked troubled. Clearchus was not surprised when half a dozen men stood up, wanting to answer him as if they stood in the agora in Athens. Greeks could not hear the sky was blue without discussing it and coming to a conclusion on their own. He loved them for it, though sometimes he thought it was a kind of madness.
The Thessalians crowded around him. Clearchus saw some of the angriest were from Menon’s contingent, though he did not know if that was because of Menon’s poor leadership or just that they had a few firebrands among them. They had certainly not expected to find the Spartan on their side and they beamed at him and offered him a few gulps of warm water. Clearchus listened patiently to three speakers from among the Greek regiments, though they merely repeated their sense of betrayal. One young man seemed to think it all needed saying again and repeated that the prince had asked them to fight hill tribes, not the Persian king. Clearchus nodded along to each point, though he privately thought the fellow was a fool.
‘However we reached this point,’ Clearchus said at last, when it seemed the young Greek would never come to a halt on his own, ‘we are here now. We cannot go back, or make better decisions in the past. We stand here, in this place without shade, this day. Our greatest concern should be the lack of supplies, perhaps. We have no more food or water for tonight if we break contract with the prince. I do not imagine he will give us a last feast to see us on our way! No, gentlemen. The prince has been a friend to me, as I have said – and a great ally to Greece. His gold will raise sons and daughters at home for a generation. Yet if he is to be my enemy, I would rather be far away from him. He outnumbers us ten to one and I do not think he will let us go with everything we need to cross the desert.’
New men leaped to their feet to speak. Clearchus nodded as they called for a return to Greece or to buy provisions from the camp market. He only hoped there were more sensible men listening to the debate. In his experience, it was often the ones who said nothing who mattered most, the ones who thought it through, who had a better understanding than those he privately referred to as ‘the sailors’ – the men of wind. He was pleased to see no Spartans among the s
peakers, though they watched him and waited. Menon had not been wrong in one sense. The Spartans could lead the rest in the right circumstances. Yet one wrong word would inflame old passions, especially among the men of Athens. The history of Greece was one of almost constant warfare, and old rivalries ran deep.
Clearchus let them talk their throats dry in the afternoon heat, adding his own thoughts whenever they ran out of arguments and grand gestures. Little by little, he hoped to show how poor their choices were. They had not planned their little rebellion, but simply allowed resentment to spill into sudden action, like a child kicking a door in a temper. The truth was that they could not possibly leave without being seen – and if they were seen, there was a good chance they would be attacked by the same men they had walked alongside for months. The prospect was not an attractive one. More, if they left, they would have neither food nor water, nor the means to carry either. That too was a dark prospect. Point by point, Clearchus made sure they understood, all the time saying he was on their side. The only moment he demurred was when the most rash wanted to attack the prince’s army, to loot the camp for supplies. Clearchus shook his great head at that, saying he could not be involved in such a betrayal, but if they insisted, he would help them elect another to lead them. The point did not pass and the discussion moved on.
‘Gentlemen and friends,’ Clearchus said at last, when the sun was hovering above the horizon and the terrible heat was beginning to fade. Flies had found them by then, drinking salt from their skin and eyes. They were all burned red from sitting in the sun for so long. ‘Gentlemen, you always knew that the life of a mercenary would involve risk, even death. That is our trade – though we prefer to deal it out to the other fellow.’ He waited for a chuckle to ripple through the crowd. ‘Perhaps you did not expect to face the prince’s brother, or the Persian Immortals we broke once at Plataea and Marathon. For perilous service, it is more usual to be paid half as much again, is it not? One and a half darics per month. You were not even offered such a fine reward, though, were you?’
The Falcon of Sparta Page 19
