They agreed that no one had suggested as much gold as that. A number of men looked thoughtful at the sum. No skilled labourer could earn even a fifth as much. For most of them it would be like taking three or four years’ pay over a single campaign. Clearchus had only to wait a few moments before one of the Corinthians stood up.
‘What if we sent men to the prince and demanded he pay the rate for perilous service? One and a half darics per man per month? Would he agree to that?’
Hundreds of heads turned to Clearchus to hear how he would answer.
‘I am certain of it,’ the Spartan said after a time. ‘But he will not forgive you if you take perilous pay in gold and then refuse to march for him. If you agree to this, it must be the end. We will win through, I swear it. I will bring you through. We are Greeks, gentlemen. We are well paid because we have no equal. Mind you, it might be an idea not to mention the size of that payment to the Persians.’
That idea brought a roar of laughter and he smiled at them. In that moment, the crisis passed. Regiment after regiment came to their feet and brushed sand from their skin. It had not been about gold, but they’d aired their resentments and Clearchus had listened. When he called his Spartans to the front, they came quickly into ranks. At first, they would not look him in the eye, though they stood ready to move.
‘Spartans, to order,’ Clearchus said. ‘Raise your heads, now.’ He waited until they were watching him and met their gaze with confidence.
‘We will fight for Prince Cyrus as he challenges his older brother on the field of war. Is there any one among you who would prefer to go home?’
There was silence, as the evening breeze swirled sand around their ankles, a blessed touch of coolness. The Spartans stood in lines with the companions of their youth. They could no more run than they could fly away like birds. Clearchus dipped his head, almost as if he bowed to them. He had called them to the front for that reason – and because he thought Spartans should always lead. There would be no more talk of betrayal among them after that.
‘Walk with me to camp,’ he said. ‘I will see the prince on your behalf. I will arrange perilous pay for every man here. Do not fear reprisal for the events of today. I will forbid it.’
Somehow, it did not seem such a grand claim, coming from him. Clearchus had stood alone before an angry mob. He marched out once more across the sands, with the Greeks following in perfect ranks.
Cyrus had found he could not just wait in the camp with a bowl of soup and some stale bread, not while the future of his wild gamble was being decided. Instead, he asked his manservant Parviz to bring him a fresh steed, letting Pasacas rest. Xenophon and Hephaestus had brought a fine gelding trotting on a long rein between their own mounts. Cyrus noticed the younger one was sitting more competently in the saddle, so that he moved with the horse.
‘You are a better rider than when I saw you first,’ the prince said.
The man blushed and nodded. He dismounted and bowed at an angle that suggested he was at least a royal prince, if not the king of a small realm. Cyrus sighed to himself and mounted up.
‘One of the scouts spotted a herd of ostrich, east of here. I will take spears and hunt while I wait for General Clearchus to return to camp. If he comes in, send someone out to me immediately.’
The prince stared at the horizon, looking for some sign of the huge, running birds who roamed like deer and could cover astonishing distances. For all he knew they’d already left the area, but he wanted to ride. He’d expected his Persians to cause him trouble when they heard they would face his brother. Seeing the Greeks refuse his order had shocked him and thrown all his plans into disarray.
General Ariaeus came riding up through the camp then. He ignored the young Athenians, tossing his reins to Xenophon without truly looking at him. Cyrus waited while the general prostrated himself on the ground.
‘Highness, I sent a few men back to observe the Greeks,’ Ariaeus said. ‘One of them has just come in. He says they are on their way in good order once again.’
The general glanced at the pair watching. Hephaestus stared at him as if he was talking gibberish, but the other seemed to be concentrating on his words. Ariaeus turned his shoulder slightly, ostentatiously excluding the Greeks.
‘Highness, could they be hostile?’ he went on. ‘Should I rouse the camp against them? What if they have come to take our water and supplies?’
‘Is General Clearchus their prisoner?’ Cyrus asked.
‘I do not believe so, Highness. The boy said he was walking alongside the other men.’
‘Then, no, they are to be welcomed as before. Fetch wine to my tent, general. I told the Spartan I would broach a skin for him when he came in. I can hunt ostrich tomorrow.’
17
In the morning, Cyrus woke in some pain, turning aside from the bucket that had been placed by his head with a sound of disgust. He had spent much of the night drinking himself to insensibility with Clearchus. He remembered declaiming a poem in court Persian and moaned in horror. The Spartan would not sing, he recalled. Clearchus said his people only sang when a new king was raised up, or when they believed they were going to die. The general had not been as drunk as he was, Cyrus realised, wincing as flashes came back to him. Had he really given his childhood impression of a donkey, braying at the older man and falling over laughing? He prayed that part was just a fevered dream.
Flipping back a rug, Cyrus urinated into the sand in a corner of the tent, his eyes tight shut. The air was hot and foetid there, with slow flies knocking against him as they looped past. For a moment, he thought he might vomit again and cursed himself for a fool. He knew he would not feel fully right until the evening. A whole day ruined by his excesses of the night before. He needed to eat and drink water and then ride hard for a few hours to settle his stomach. There was no shelter in the desert and he didn’t want to have his tent assembled each time he needed a little hole dug in the sand. Loose bowels were an embarrassing feature of a long march, one that was not often mentioned in training. Cyrus prayed he would not humiliate himself. His father had told him once that the men would forgive all but two things in those who led them. The other was cowardice.
He stood in a wide bucket to be washed down by his servants, then allowed himself to be wrapped in cool cloth while he was shaved and his hair brushed and tied back. He lay down on a folding table to be massaged, then sat naked on a bench while his undergarments and armour were brought. He waved away fat dates and white cheese. The sun was some way above the horizon by the time he emerged from his tent. As he’d finished dressing, he’d heard voices calling the camp to order, urging the men along. The uproar was growing, so that Cyrus put aside his own distress as he came out, squinting into the distance.
The deserts stretched as far as the eye could see ahead of them, but the hills and dunes hid valleys, rock spires, rivers with green banks and even villages. For all they seemed alone, the horizon told a different story.
Thin black threads rose into the sky ahead. Cyrus had been taking the men east, always east, heading for his father’s capital. He’d known no hostile army could approach Persepolis without being seen, and had accepted their presence would eventually be reported back to Artaxerxes. Yet the imperial forces were vast, too large to assemble in just a day or even a month. Cyrus bit his lip as he wondered. Each quarter of the imperial army was larger than the forces he had brought to that place. His plan had depended upon never having to face more than the elite core around his brother.
He thought he knew what the smoke meant, but he was not surprised when Orontas came to his tent as it was being taken down for the day’s march. The general dismounted from a black stallion, handed his sword to a servant, then lay face down on the sand until the prince commanded him to rise and report.
‘Highness, I have word from the scouts ahead. Those furthest away are reporting burned crops and deserted villages. If we march all day, we will come upon the first of them by this evening.’
Cyru
s was silent, staring at the slowly twisting lines of smoke, thin as hairs at that distance.
‘Tissaphernes,’ he said after a time. ‘It seems my old friend saw more than I’d hoped.’
He glanced at Orontas, but the Persian was careful not to show any expression in the presence of his prince. Cyrus might have known his ultimate intentions as far back as Sardis, but his Persian officers certainly had not.
‘Highness, I wonder …’ Orontas said. He stammered slightly and his voice faded.
‘What? Speak freely.’
‘If your brother, King Artaxerxes, is in the field, he is not yet nearby. I think we would have seen the imperial ranks by now if they were close.’
‘Go on,’ Cyrus said.
Orontas seemed to grow in confidence as the words spilled out of him.
‘Villages and crops are burned ahead of an invading army – it is in the manual for officers, Highness. But it is done to starve a strong enemy to weakness. I wonder if it suggests your brother does not have the forces he needs in this area, at least at the moment.’
‘Perhaps. Though if you are right, I do not see how that benefits me. Without replenishing our supplies as we go, we have food for, what, a week? Nine or ten days? If you know the manual, general, you will know there are one or two suggestions for defence against the tactic. If the land is burned ahead of our route of march …?’
‘Take a different route,’ Orontas finished for him. ‘Though my point stands, Highness. If King Artaxerxes and the royal army are not yet in place, we may be facing a much smaller force. There could be just a few hundred burners ranging ahead of our scouts, looking to weaken us and do as much damage as possible. If we can overtake them, we can put a stop to it, or at the very least, slow them down and limit the damage they can do.’
‘The scouts?’ Cyrus said. ‘They would be slaughtered if I gave that order. Most of them are boys.’
Orontas chose that moment to kneel and prostrate himself once more.
‘Highness, let me take a hundred of your guard, to scour these burners from our path. Just a hundred, like a thrown spear. I will ride further than our scouts and catch them by surprise while they ruin and pillage. It takes time to destroy stores, Highness. I can catch them, I am certain of it.’
Cyrus had never seen the level of fervour in Orontas he saw in that moment. The man actually trembled as he stared into the distance.
‘Rise up, general,’ he replied, his eyes glimmering. If only Clearchus had been there to see it. ‘Very well. Ride far and fast and bring me the heads of those who burn villages in my father’s lands.’
Orontas came back to his feet, though he bowed over the prince’s hand and held it briefly to his own forehead.
‘You honour me, Highness,’ he said.
Cyrus turned as his horse was brought to him, as well as a mounting block. He still felt a little bilious and full of acid, so he was pleased to see the steps. With a grunt, he swung up and over, settling himself and taking the reins.
‘You say my brother cannot be close, general, but he cannot be too many days away either. I will bring the army on at our best pace. Send a rider to me this evening with what news you have learned. Until then, may Ahriman be blind to you. Good fortune in your wake, old friend.’
The column had formed as he and Orontas had spoken, waiting for the prince to give the order to march. Cyrus rode to the head, where Clearchus looked rested and fit. The Spartan had watched the exchange and his gaze followed Orontas as the man mounted up and cantered along the flank of the column, signalling to the officers of Cyrus’ personal guard. Clearchus was not strictly responsible for those men, though he considered they came under his general authority. Even so, he narrowed his eyes as he saw Orontas assemble a force of horsemen and make ready to ride.
The Spartan could not help wandering over to the two Athenian lads he had come to know. The older, Xenophon, was in the middle of some angry speech, spitting insults and rolled oats as he gesticulated after the Persian horsemen. Clearchus could not remember the name of the other one.
‘That Persian general, Orontas … I see he has taken your spare mounts,’ Clearchus said. ‘What does he need them for?’
Xenophon almost choked as he recognised the speaker. He bowed and cleared his throat, then cuffed Hephaestus on the back of the head when the younger man just stared.
‘General Clearchus, it is a great honour,’ Xenophon said. ‘Your reputation precedes you.’
‘Is there anything in that reputation about being patient with those who do not answer my questions?’ Clearchus asked.
Xenophon shook his head.
‘No. General Orontas wishes to ride ahead of the main force – to seek out the raiders who scorch the earth ahead of us.’
‘Why then are you angry?’
‘He … the general did not wish me to accompany him. He said he would not take a Greek, that we were not to be trusted.’
‘I see,’ Clearchus said. He rubbed his chin as he thought. Orontas was not the sort of officer given to rushing off on wild assaults. If he’d been asked to name one more likely, it would have been Ariaeus. There was something wrong.
‘How many horses do we have left now?’ he said.
Xenophon blew air out as his irritation rekindled.
‘Including the two mounts Prince Cyrus rides, forty-six. That is why I was angry, general. I am the master of horse – and what did he leave me?’
Clearchus nodded, his eyes distant. He decided to ask Prince Cyrus, though he had a terrible feeling it was already too late.
Cyrus was shading his eyes from the sun when a Persian officer rode up to him, tossed the reins to a marching servant and approached the king’s personal guard, not daring to come closer than arm’s reach.
‘I crave a word with you, Highness – about my cousin, Orontas.’
Cyrus turned at that.
‘He is about to leave. What of him?’ he demanded. Seeing the man was panting with some exertion, the prince gestured him in.
The Persian had a slight resemblance to Orontas about the nose, Cyrus thought. He waited while the man dipped down, holding out a folded parchment marked with a seal Cyrus knew. Orontas carried a carved sapphire that bore the symbol of his house, an ear of wheat and a wild horse. Pressed into a clay disc, it stood out clearly. Cyrus saw the parchment had been slit along its edge and he scowled at the implications, his mind leaping ahead.
‘What is so important that you have brought it to me?’ he said, dreading the answer.
‘Highness, my cousin charged me with taking this to King Artaxerxes. It says he will bring a force of horsemen out of your army – and begs the Great King not to strike him down when he comes. He is my blood, Highness. Yet if I could, I would cut away all that we share in my shame.’
Cyrus felt cold. He sensed the gaze of the captain of his guard on him and nodded sharply. The man understood well enough what had to be done. In turn, Cyrus gestured to others and gave the order to halt all preparations to move off.
In the distance, General Orontas turned to stare at the disturbance. Though he was far away, Cyrus thought he could see some part of the dread and fear that Orontas must have felt, perhaps in the way the man sat his horse.
There might have been a moment when the Persian general could have galloped away from the rest, though he would not have made it far on loose sands. The captain of the guards had already edged men out to intercept Orontas if he ran, while Cyrus watched, looking for the moment when his general understood he would not ride to freedom.
The general’s head drooped suddenly, so that he stared at his saddlehorn, with his hands gripping the reins. Cyrus continued to watch as Orontas was made to dismount and had his hands bound. General Ariaeus approached him then to tie on a long rope, securing the other end to his own saddle. Cyrus was too far away to hear what passed between them, though he told himself he would learn every word that evening. The column lurched into movement at last, with many heads turning to see the g
eneral staggering along, his expression tight with humiliation.
Prince Cyrus sat his horse at the side of the column as thousands passed him, waiting for the moment when Ariaeus would draw alongside with his new slave. At first, the prince had been going to let the moment pass in silent condemnation, but he felt his ire grow. With the merest gesture of his fingers, he drew Ariaeus to him.
Clearchus had come close enough to observe, with Proxenus and Netus. Menon the Thessalian had also approached, though he and Clearchus had fallen out on the march and he kept his distance. Still, they were all fascinated to see what Orontas had done and what Cyrus would do in turn.
Ariaeus jumped down from his grey mare with a flourish, well aware of their eyes on him. He could have let Orontas keep his pride, but instead gave a great tug on the rope and sent the man sprawling onto his belly in front of the prince. In an instant, Ariaeus stood astride his countryman. As Orontas struggled to rise, the Persian general touched a warm knife blade to his throat, so that he became very still, understanding that his life was measured on a single word from a prince he hated – and perhaps the outrage of a flashy warrior he had never liked. Orontas found he could be calm. He had seen it many times in those who stared at their own death. There was no struggle at the end. He breathed slowly out, pleased he could meet the prospect of eternity with something like dignity.
‘No protests, Orontas?’ Cyrus said suddenly. ‘No arguments?’
The general who had commanded regiments for the imperial family looked aside, to where his cousin stood with eyes downcast.
‘It seems I trusted the wrong man, Highness.’
‘Something we share, then,’ Cyrus snapped.
Orontas shrugged, looking away to the east.
‘Highness … No, it does not matter,’ he said.
Cyrus stared coldly at him.
The Falcon of Sparta Page 20
