The Falcon of Sparta

by Conn Iggulden

  The Greeks maintained the flattened square, with two hundred and forty Spartans and their helots as the leading edge and forty ranks marching behind. They fought like the professionals they were, in calm ferocity. No one broke rank to pursue a fleeing enemy. They marched forward as if they followed a narrow path – and anyone in that path was cut down. Those to either side were ignored unless they attacked. The Greeks went forward with shields already studded with broken arrows and dented by stones. The enemy saw only helmets they could not pierce, round shields and greaves beneath. The Spartans were men of bronze, with no weaknesses. Greek spears darted in and out from their ranks like the tongues of snakes, coming back bloody.

  Clearchus saw one of his men stagger. Something had flown over the crowded lines and rung his helmet like a bell. It caught the general’s attention and made him look at the men with fresh eyes. The front ranks were slowing as they tired.

  ‘Proxenus, will you let my men take all the glory?’ he called.

  The other general raised his eyes to heaven.

  ‘Let me past and I will show you what glory is,’ Proxenus replied. ‘Why must you always be first, Spartan? Were you bullied as a child?’

  ‘Truly, you have no idea,’ Clearchus said, though he grinned and shook his head as he spoke. Before his tenth birthday, he had won three boxing matches with Spartan boys taller and stronger than him. He had won the last with his right hand broken. He rubbed the knuckles in memory.

  ‘Spartans, ease the front ranks. Ease back! You’ve shown them how to do it. Now let Proxenus show what he has learned! Tell Menon to advance on our left, in ranks sixty wide. And to keep up!’

  The expressions of the Spartans were hidden by the cold gaze of the helmets, but Clearchus knew they were weary. His men were superbly fit, but they needed to rest. Nothing tired a man more than fighting, though chopping wood came surprisingly close. Clearchus peered along the lines, watching for the slightest weakness or broken formation. For all he had kept his manner light, rotating three thousand men in the heat of battle was murderously hard. Men died in the process, through inattention or a surge from an enemy when they thought a line was giving way and pressed forward. Yet if it was not done, the best soldiers in the world would fall. Everyone they met and killed was fresh. Only gods could fight all day without respite.

  Clearchus watched the Spartans slow their brutal pace. The Persians ahead gave a howl as they saw hated enemies appearing to falter. Clearchus found himself snarling under his breath, wanting to cut the high-pitched excitement right out of them. He saw black-coated Immortals had made some sort of stand, but it would be Proxenus and Menon who would face them.

  ‘I am in place, Clearchus,’ Proxenus called over his shoulder. ‘You go and rest those weary old legs of yours.’

  ‘I’ll stay. I’ve been wanting to watch Menon in an actual fight. He talks like a hero, after all.’

  Menon the Thessalian turned and shouted, ‘The enemy is in front, you Spartan bag of wind,’ making Clearchus chuckle. He really did not like the man, but there was some truth in what he had said. If Menon fought as well as he complained and bickered, he would be a hero indeed – and Clearchus would forgive him the rest. He would not like him, but he would still take his hand and fill his cup of wine.

  Across the field, Clearchus could hear the clash of arms, the sound of distant killing like a tremor in the air. There was death in that place, a sour taint in every breath. A battlefield was a place of constant fear, he knew. A good commander had to focus on the task before him and not lose his mind worrying about the rest of the battle. His men were capable of great feats, but they had to be hoarded and spent like a miser with his coins. Prince Cyrus had brought barely twelve thousand Greeks to Babylon. A great deal of the battle would be between Persian and Persian.

  Cyrus saw his brother fall from his horse and exulted. Every undermining fear and weakness faded away. His personal guard still crashed horses into the maddened warriors around the Great King, but those actions went on almost outside his notice. Cyrus felt clear-minded and calm as his brother lay on his back and spat blood. Artaxerxes had been caught by surprise and struck at full gallop, his own horse barely in motion. A finger’s width higher and Cyrus would have crushed his brother’s throat and sent the crown of Achaemenid rolling in the dust.

  The prince saw his brother’s men turn their gaze to their master, though Artaxerxes was clearly dazed and unable to give orders. Cyrus looked up to see faces he knew, who recognised him in that moment. He became their focus, the man who had dared to strike the king. They lunged at him and, to his astonishment, he saw Parviz ride across to keep him safe. His manservant had disobeyed him to accompany his master. As Cyrus watched, Parviz used his old mare to block three imperial guards.

  Cyrus did not see the javelin thrown. Someone in the king’s force had witnessed the attack on Artaxerxes and flung the spiked rod in rage. The weapon came arcing over and as Cyrus sensed it and looked up, it struck him in the cheek, breaking bones and wrenching him sideways. He could not understand what had happened. He knew he had triumphed, and yet the world spun around him and the sun jerked crazily across the sky as he fell, hitting hard. He heard another snap and began to struggle up. Blood poured from his own mouth then, from a cheek that was gashed and open. He could feel shards moving on his tongue, like slivers of broken pottery. He shook his head, but the motion only made it worse, so that the figures of advancing Immortals swam and wavered. He saw Parviz standing over him, refusing to step aside from those who rushed down upon them. Cyrus watched as the little man killed an imperial guard with the neat strokes of a fortress soldier. A moment later, Parviz was hacked apart, falling to stare across the sandy ground.

  Cyrus put out his arm to raise himself up, then cried out when it would not take his weight. He stared at his right hand, unable to comprehend how it could hang limp and not grip the sword that lay before him on the sand and earth.

  His hearing returned, though he had not realised he had been deafened for a time until it did. The light seemed too bright and he heard a great ringing of metal on metal. His guards had dismounted to protect him on the ground, hemming him in with their mounts all around him. His brother’s Immortals roared like thunder in the hills. They came surging in and Cyrus saw men cut down, falling almost across him. He felt his senses returning, his sense of who and where he was. He needed just a moment to catch his breath, to find the strength to face his brother once more.

  Cyrus saw Artaxerxes rise up and accept a sword from another. His brother’s chin was red with blood he had spat out and he walked holding his side with his left hand, bowed over broken ribs. Cyrus struggled to rise again, but there was nothing in him. He saw his brother meet one of his guards head on, knocking the man’s sword aside and hacking him down with three savage blows. Artaxerxes was the scholar! It made no sense for him to stalk so across the field. His brother had oiled his beard black and full over a panelled coat that Cyrus remembered their father having worn.

  His brother came to stand over him and Cyrus drew a dagger from his belt, unseen. He tried to speak, but his mouth was too torn and full of blood. He began to move, but the king put a boot on his chest and pressed him down.

  ‘Thank you, Brother,’ Artaxerxes said, raising his sword. ‘I do not think I was truly king before you stood against me. Can you understand? You have given me today … a great gift.’

  On the last word, Cyrus moved, but he was too slow. Artaxerxes struck down. The king’s sword chopped into Cyrus’ throat and cut almost through.

  Beyond that first pain, Cyrus knew nothing more as his brother hacked at him again and again, then wrenched his head free and raised it to show those who stood in horror all around. The eyes turned and the mouth moved as if in prayer, but Cyrus was blind and dumb.

  Artaxerxes turned his brother’s head to look at it, staring in wonder for a time before kissing the lips almost tenderly. The battle was still being fought, but he was not concerned. The only life that ha
d mattered was that of Cyrus. Artaxerxes had taken it, exactly as he had promised his father he would, so many years before. The king found he had tears of pride and memory in his eyes. Even his mother could not deny he had acted within his rights as king. Artaxerxes had been challenged and he had gone out himself, in armour, to meet that threat. Truly, Cyrus had made him a king on that day, as mere blood and inheritance never could. On impulse, Artaxerxes knelt to pray, holding a closed fist up to his mouth as he bowed his head. In that moment, he had never been more convinced of the favour of God. Then he rose and tossed his younger brother’s head to the captain of his Immortals.

  ‘Put that on a spear and carry it high. Let them see! Call for the surrender of all those who came here with Cyrus. Advance on their camp. The battle is over. Give thanks to God! We are delivered! Victory is ours.’

  The cry went up around him, swelling into a great roar that deafened as it delighted. The king wrenched suddenly at his breastplate, where it had buckled and pressed him. It came away in two pieces, a crack running from his neck to his waist. Artaxerxes had to enlist two of his men to help him back to the saddle. His brother had struck him a terrible blow and he knew ribs were broken. Blood still pooled in his mouth, though he thought it was from biting his tongue in the fall rather than some internal wound. He hoped so. It would not do to collapse at that point, with his brother’s head on a spear at his side. It eased his ribs to be able to hunch over in the saddle and he closed his eyes in relief as the horns sounded. If his father could see, Artaxerxes knew he would be proud.

  Clearchus was ready to bring the Spartans to the front of the Greek square once more. Menon had done well enough as the sun rose to noon, though it was the regiments with Proxenus who had fought more like Spartans, at least while the real ones stood behind. Clearchus had congratulated them on their form. They had advanced some sixteen hundred paces since the Spartans had fallen back to rest, not one step of it uncontested. Clearchus tried not to think of the numbers of intact regiments ahead of them. Prince Cyrus and the Persians under Ariaeus had their own battles to fight. Clearchus could only hope it would undermine imperial morale to know they were being attacked from the flank, from within. There had not been time for the Greek square to reach the king himself before the armies clashed, but Clearchus knew they had torn through thousands and surely ruined the advance. Even so, there was no clear path out.

  Imperials in white or black coats pushed in on all sides. Those ahead fell back, with every attempt to hold and rally quickly overwhelmed. Cyrus had said the Persians practised marching drills, but only rarely worked with the weapons they carried. That lack of skill showed as his men broke through over and over, soldiers against farmers with blades, terror spreading ahead as line after line decided they would not be the ones to stop the Greek advance.

  Clearchus assumed it could not last. There had to be one officer or one regiment who would choose to stand and fight to the death. As soon as the Greek advance was blocked, he knew others would coalesce around them. He had seen a wasp smothered once, rolled into a ball by a thousand bees. Not one individual bee could match the invader, not even a dozen of them – but by sheer weight and savagery, they tore the wasp to pieces even so. He watched for that moment as he brought his Spartans to the front once again, refreshed.

  Ahead of them, Imperials paled at the sight of red cloaks and bronze shields coming to the fore. They braced themselves and began to die. The pace suddenly increased and Clearchus began to grin as he marched forward with the rest. Despite the sheer insanity of their position, against every rule of battle he had ever learned, some sort of victory was in their grasp. He could feel it. As far as he could tell, they had not lost a hundred men since the battle began, but had killed and broken thousands. If the Persians could not do better against their armour and their skills, the day could still be won, even against the largest army he had ever seen. He felt hope bloom in him and he wiped sweat from his eyes when it stung. Somewhere across the field, horns began to sound and voices were raised. Clearchus cupped his ear to listen, hoping they called victory.

  King Artaxerxes rode the lines with his brother’s head held high. The aftermath of a battle was chaotic and his brother’s men would fear his vengeance. They were right to, he vowed to himself. He would oversee the mass execution of regiments who had dared to stand against the crown, at least when they had surrendered and been properly disarmed and bound. He felt his heart swell with pride. His ribs ached worse than he could believe, but his mood soared and was light. Horns blew and there was no mistaking the Immortal regiments in black or the cavalry in white all calling for the forces of Cyrus to surrender. The head on a spear worked wonders, though not one in a thousand could have told the swollen, battered thing had ever belonged to a royal prince.

  The battlefield had widened in the manoeuvres, so that the far edges were hours apart. Yet the news spread as the Great King arced around the regiments like a comet, safe from their javelins and stones as he rode in the midst of hundreds of victorious horsemen, all yelling in triumph or pointing their swords at regiments who had betrayed the royal house, promising retribution to horrified soldiers. Many of Cyrus’ men had not even come to blows, but they stood condemned and trembling as Artaxerxes himself cantered across the field, with royal banners streaming beside him.

  General Ariaeus had been in the thick of fighting from the first clash of ranks. His hair was wet with sweat under his helmet, though he dared not take a moment to feel the air, not with so many archers and slingers hoping for just such a prize as he.

  Ariaeus had put aside all thought of the size and strength of the enemy. His loyalty and his life were pledged to Prince Cyrus. The only oath he had ever broken had been the one to the man’s brother. He still wrestled with that and he could only redeem it if Cyrus became king and forgave him. The world was as simple as Ariaeus could make it, far simpler than Orontas had believed.

  The battle had not gone well, not from the first moments. Ariaeus had watched in mounting concern as the Greeks had raced off against the swarm of horsemen and infantry under Tissaphernes. The general had seen orders go back and forth, so he hoped it was not some personal vendetta. Before Ariaeus could adjust his own formation in response to having his right flank left naked, the prince himself had galloped across the face of his Persian regiments, his royal guard barely keeping up.

  Ariaeus knew well that a leader could change his plans on sight of the enemy, even had to, if the conditions were different or the terrain revealed some advantage he had not known before. Warfare was not for plodding men but for those with sharp wits, who could see a risk and take it while the enemy were still asleep. Yet he had seen an entire battleplan torn up and thrown on the fire in the first few hours of daylight. Instead of being part of fast manoeuvres and sudden strikes, he found himself in sole command of the Persian centre – a hundred thousand men who looked to him to keep them alive. He’d sat his mount with a dark expression as the Imperials marched closer, but he had kept the formations and filled the gaps, edging his new flank towards the river, though it thinned his ranks further. Damn Clearchus, for leaving them so exposed! There was every chance the royal Persian army would fold around both flanks that day – and that would be the end, without a doubt.

  The fighting began in savage violence, and for an age Ariaeus was able to watch a struggle of leviathans, the populations of entire cities hacking and spearing one another along a line that stretched into the distance like the shore of a dark sea. Dust rose in vast clouds, kicked up from the sandy ground. The sky blackened in spasms as arrows and javelins flew back and forth between the heaving armies. The sound was immense, the breathing of a beast as they pushed forward and were driven back. The killing went on and on and Ariaeus looked up to see the royal eagle banners on the move.

  In an expanse between struggling regiments of Persians too mixed by then to know friend from enemy, onto the sandy ground rode Artaxerxes. At the king’s side, a guard looked up at the spear he held, his
white teeth visible at a distance as the fellow laughed and cheered.

  Ariaeus grew cold as he understood what he was seeing. They carried the head of Cyrus, high above the ranks. A sense of sick horror washed through him, but then he stared with new eyes at the dusty battlefield. With Cyrus killed, the forces Ariaeus commanded suddenly looked smaller. The Greeks were already lost, as far beyond sight and recall as if they had never been.

  Ariaeus closed his eyes for a moment, wishing Orontas was still in command, though the silent plea diminished him. It broke his heart to open his eyes and see the destruction still going on. Cyrus was dead and nothing was good in the world.

  ‘Sound retreat!’ he called suddenly. ‘Pull back in good order to the west and south. The prince is dead. There is no honour now on this field.’

  ‘Yes, general,’ his messengers said, appalled.

  As they began to turn, he snapped at them once more.

  ‘Tell the men not to run! The king will kill us all if we do not withdraw now. Get out in good order and we may live to see another day. Run and we will all be lost. Be sure they understand.’

  The messengers raced away, darting through lines of soldiers. Ariaeus continued to watch the imperial army breaking his regiments into blood and bone. It was over. All they could do was try to survive.

  With his back deliberately straight, Ariaeus turned his horse away from the fighting.

  ‘Slowly now, lads. March with me – with your heads high. Our cause is lost, but we are not.’

  The closest ranks were relieved not to have to take another step towards that victorious enemy, already howling their delight as more and more heard the news.

  Part Two

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