The Falcon of Sparta

by Conn Iggulden

  ‘Can you save me, Clearchus?’ she said.

  The Spartan knew very well that she was a woman used to manipulation. It was a simple appeal, without obvious artifice or flirtation. Perhaps that was why she had been a mistress to a royal prince, Clearchus thought. It did not make the appeal any less powerful.

  ‘I will try, Lady Pallakis,’ he said.

  ‘I am not a noblewoman,’ she replied immediately. ‘I am a companion to …’ She broke off, unable to finish.

  Menon came trotting back through the lines of tents, the general failing to hide his appreciation of the beautiful woman, or his irritation when he turned to Clearchus.

  ‘I am sorry to interrupt you, general. Some of us are busy securing the camp, if you remember.’

  ‘Pallakis, this is General Menon,’ Clearchus said. ‘He is from Thessaly, a northern part of Greece. They are said to favour their goats there, if you understand me.’

  Menon closed his mouth on a reply as two of his men came rushing up to report. They too noticed the young woman, and Clearchus saw how Pallakis put a hand up and across, as if she wished to cover herself. Her thin white dress gave very little protection. He raised his eyes for a moment and undid the clasp that held his cloak. With a swirl, he draped the red cloth around her. Pallakis looked suspiciously at him, though she clutched it close.

  ‘I think perhaps the price is too high, Spartan,’ she said softly.

  Clearchus saw despair in her as she contemplated her fate. As a companion to Cyrus she had been treated gently, given anything she wanted. That had been snatched away in an instant. On all sides, there were men who would happily spend an hour with her. Clearchus wondered if she would choose one to keep her safe from the rest. He thought of his daughters and sighed, noticing anew the way Menon was looking at her. The man seemed to sense his disapproval.

  ‘Why should you be claiming her, anyway?’ Menon said. ‘You think being the leader gives you the right to take her for yourself, just like that?’

  Clearchus had to repress a spasm of anger. He found Menon’s bitterness either amusing or irritating, but they had lost the day and he was weary. Sometimes, his choices were simple.

  Without a word, Clearchus advanced on Menon, surprising the man as he was about to speak again. Though he said nothing, Clearchus drove the general back a step with his chest, knocking into him.

  ‘You can challenge me if you like, Thessalian,’ Clearchus growled. ‘Until then, go about your work. Gather the camp followers and ready your men to move. I will not wait here to be discovered by any more of the enemy. Do you understand my order, general? Can you carry it out? If the answer is no, tell me the name of your second in command and have him brought here. I want him to see what happens to you. I will not waste a lesson!’

  He said the last in growing anger, letting Menon see just a whisper of the fury Clearchus felt at the way the day had gone. The wave would crash down on them all when it was quiet, but the day had not ended, not then.

  Menon stalked away without another word, though he glared at Pallakis as if he might say something. She watched the Spartan snap orders to half a dozen others, and around them something like calm returned. The Persian cavalry had been driven off, so that at least the screaming had stopped. In its place came noises she knew rather well – the sounds of a camp being made ready to move. Each of the lanes between tents filled with running men and women, urged on by Greek soldiers. Tents became bales of cloth and spars of wood in just moments. Carts were loaded, but after a time Proxenus gave orders to leave the bulk of them. They had no idea when the next force of Persian cavalry would appear. Wailing began as men and women were prodded and ordered into movement, leaving their treasures behind. There was no justice to it. Some families kept all they had, while others went empty-handed and tearful.

  Clearchus seemed almost to have forgotten her, though she stood at his shoulder and wore his cloak. Pallakis prayed silently for the soul of Cyrus, already gone on its way. He had been a decent man, the third love of her life. She thought of the jewels he had given her and whether she would be allowed to keep them.

  ‘Am I under your protection, Clearchus?’ she asked.

  The Spartan turned to her, seeing her fear.

  ‘Yes, you are,’ he said without hesitation. ‘If Menon or anyone else gives you trouble, tell them you served the prince, that you were his woman. I will stand for his honour when he can’t. He was my friend.’

  ‘So … am I to be … yours?’ she said in a small voice.

  Clearchus had already turned away after speaking. He sighed.

  ‘Pallakis, we are barely ten thousand men. There are perhaps a similar number in the camp. Around us on the plain and the hills are hundreds of thousands – too many to count. They are all loyal to a Persian king who is our avowed enemy, do you understand? A man who knows very well by now that we came all the way from Sardis to take his head.’

  ‘You think we are going to die?’ she asked him.

  ‘I think …’ He saw her fear and changed tack. ‘Oh, the Great King is not a fool. He knows we are mercenaries. Perhaps he will buy our service, eh? No, I meant … your worries are misplaced. I have two daughters, Pallakis, both close to your age. That changes a man, if you understand me. From a young fool into a wise fellow, beloved of all he meets. Except for Menon, as you might have seen. That man is eaten up by his own anger. I cannot like him.’

  ‘May I go to my tent, Clearchus, to see if my jewels are still there?’

  The general summoned a passing Spartan with a low whistle.

  ‘Go quickly with Lady Pallakis. Protect her with your life,’ he said. She did not object to the title a second time, accepting it as it was meant.

  Clearchus watched her go. Prince Cyrus had always had good taste, he thought. The woman was exquisite. Why did she have to be Greek? That dark hair and fine skin was … He caught himself, making a growling sound as he struggled to control his thoughts. He had been taken from his parents’ home to the training ground at the age of seven. By twelve, he had been a wolf to other boys. One cloak a year was all they had been given. As his old tunic had rotted away, he’d often gone naked beneath and hardly bathed for months at a time. He missed the weight of the cloak from around his shoulders, though he felt lighter, as if she had taken some of the day’s pain with her.

  Proxenus appeared once more from some way off, jingling along to where Clearchus stood in thought. The Spartan watched him come, each of them assessing the strength that remained in the other. There was no humour then. Darkness had come and its embrace had saved them. The morning would reveal an enemy still intent on their deaths.

  ‘Some of those Persian riders got clear,’ Proxenus said. ‘Our archers have no shafts any longer and no way to get more. I couldn’t get slingers out in time.’

  ‘So the Great King will know we are at the camp. He will know exactly where we are before the sun rises. I think there is a chance tomorrow is our last day, Proxenus.’

  ‘Is that Clearchus, or Menon’s voice I hear?’ Proxenus said, his eyebrows rising. ‘I thought Spartans could not be broken?’

  Clearchus chuckled.

  ‘You are right, of course. We should move out tonight. They will expect us to head back on our own path. The west will be blocked, I think. It is what I would do. North, then, is where we will go.’

  ‘Good,’ Proxenus replied. ‘Your orders are to move the men north. For the camp followers to accompany us, with whatever water and food they can carry.’ He relaxed a fraction. ‘Menon still wants to leave them. He says they will slow us down.’

  ‘And he is right,’ Clearchus said. ‘They will. My friend, I cannot see a way out of this.’

  To his surprise, Proxenus gripped his shoulder, a gesture unusual between them.

  ‘This was a bad day. When you have slept, you’ll be restored. The problems will be the same, but you will be better able to face them. I will speak to that general Clearchus tomorrow. He will be full of ideas, I have no dou
bt.’

  Clearchus smiled.

  ‘You are a good man,’ he said.

  21

  The night had not been without alarms. Twice, the rumble of horsemen had seemed so close they’d braced for an attack before it dwindled once again. Vast forces were either out hunting them or surrounding them in the desert. It was hard not to imagine an encircling noose, tightening slowly as the moon crept across the sky.

  Away from the old camp, Clearchus had been reminded that the men, women and children who had come out with the army could not march like one. As he tried to put distance between where he knew they had been seen and where they would eventually spend the night, a great tail began to stretch behind the square of his soldiers. Many of the camp followers were still stunned by the reverse in their fortunes. They staggered and stumbled along, women carrying children on their hips, men burdened by items they had snatched up, even if there were no longer carts to carry them. It was a mess, a wrenching away from all they had known.

  For the first hour, Clearchus had contented himself sending men back to that comet’s tail of people to urge them to greater pace. When that only resulted in angry voices raised and a woman shrieking at one of his Spartans, trying to make him carry her young son, Clearchus halted the entire group. In the darkness, he gave new orders. His men understood the stakes and they did not complain. It was Menon who reminded anyone who would listen that he had advised them not to bring so many. They did not need slaves, he said. To have any chance at all, they needed to get as far away from the Persian army as possible.

  Clearchus sent a thousand Spartans and a thousand Corinthians to the rear. The people of the camp had to march then with Greeks breathing down their necks behind, ready to force them on. Some at the back were more than willing to use spears as staves, striking at anyone fool enough to complain. They marched in that way for hours, until the camp followers were made bold by misery, calling out that they had to rest or die, that the children could not go on.

  Clearchus gave the order and they sank down where they stood. He bit his lip as he struggled against weariness, selecting guards from among the youngest. He tried to spare his Spartans from remaining awake, as they would be more use to him fresh, when the sun rose. The general yawned and started when he found Pallakis at his shoulder, holding his cloak out to him.

  ‘My lady?’ he said.

  She bowed her head.

  ‘It is yours, general. I found a blanket when I went to my tent.’

  He accepted it from her hand, with private gratitude. A man missed his best cloak when it was gone.

  ‘I hope a blanket is all you took. I will be stripping the camp tomorrow, my lady. Half the followers are too burdened to march a full day. I saw one man trotting along with a saddle on his shoulder! How far do they think they will get with their worldly goods on their backs?’

  ‘You left half the carts behind, Clearchus. They are desperate and afraid,’ she said. ‘Some of them have lost everything. Can you blame them?’

  ‘For getting themselves killed trying to carry a favourite chair into the desert? Yes, I can,’ he said.

  She moved behind him and he spun on her, taking her wrist in his hand.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I thought … Cyrus used to want me to rub his neck. You are tired, Clearchus. We need you to be sharp, more than anyone.’

  He cleared his throat, embarrassed to have snapped at her.

  ‘Right. Yes, that would be good. Thank you.’

  He put his cloak on the sandy ground and lay on his elbows, slightly raised. Pallakis knelt beside him, working her hands into the muscles of his neck and shoulders. He was surprised at how painful it was. He’d assumed a woman who had been mistress to Cyrus would have been expert at such things, or perhaps it was that the muscles there were just as sore as the rest of him. He had fought all day and marched for hours … The Spartan was asleep before he knew what was happening, snoring gently as Pallakis looked down on him, her hands tracing old scars with a lighter touch. He was a handsome man, she thought. His age was hard to tell, though she would have guessed at fifty or thereabouts. If he had been twenty years younger, she might have thought about blowing those ashes back to life.

  He began to snore more loudly as she returned to her blanket. Most of the camp followers lay in family groups, or centred around a cart. They clung to one another in their fear and she could see eyes following her progress as she crossed the camp. She had no family, of course. Everything Pallakis had known had been lost in a single day. She curled up on sandy ground and put an arm across her face, so that they would not hear her weep.

  In the morning, Pallakis woke with a start of fear, but the gruff voices she heard were those of Greeks rousing them all to work. She yawned and stretched, coming to her feet to see hoplite soldiers loping along the edges of the camp in groups of fifty, each one led by a pentekoster. Some of them were heading off into the hills, seeking higher ground. Many more were among the men and women of the camp, directing them to a particular flank to empty their bladders and bowels. Pallakis saw many people urinating where they woke, so that the air became thick with the odour – or perhaps it was the smell of fear. She could see nervous strain on every pinched face, and hear it in the wails of sobbing children. A few had lost their fathers in the fighting the day before, but for the most part, they were just reacting to the grim faces and anger in those around them.

  They had no spades to dig a toilet trench, so thousands left little piles of excrement where they stood. It was not a pleasant sight and the smell was such that Pallakis was only pleased they would be leaving the spot behind when they moved on. For a time, they would be nomads, until the king’s army crashed down on them or they died of thirst. Water seemed more scarce than meat, as the herd of goats, rams and asses had been driven with them. Some of the remaining carts were being broken up for firewood as she stared across the camp. They would eat, but her mouth was sore and dry.

  It was not long before the soldiers shouted for them to move or be left behind. Pallakis had to smile when she saw one young man walking bowed over by a huge pack of tools more suited to a mule. The man’s wife was unburdened, but still found time to frown at the prince’s mistress when she passed by and smiled at her children. That was an expression Pallakis was beginning to see more often. It seemed that the prince’s death allowed a few in the camp to show how they despised the woman who had warmed his bed. In reply, Pallakis only set her jaw and showed them nothing of her loneliness.

  Clearchus knew his business, that was obvious. As Pallakis strode along, lost in the midst of thousands who were strangers to her, she saw Greek soldiers making a solid rank behind, driving them like cattle as they had done before. The people of the camp had not been told a destination. Each hour that passed sharpened their needs, so that voices were raised in complaint. The sun rose, pitiless, drying their throats further. Even those who suffered most could not do much more than croak for water.

  They reached a river before noon. Pallakis had no bowl or jug, but in a daze, she clambered down to where the waters had cut a cleft in the land. Kneeling on the edges, she drank from cupped hands, over and over, as if she could never be full again. Yet as soon as she moved away, she felt the first whisper of thirst return. Sweat glistened on her skin and her hands were stained with orange mud. She could no longer run fingers through her hair and just tied it back into a great sheaf, more like straw than the glossy fall she usually knew.

  Still the sun beat at them, but they did not go on. Some sort of discussion was taking place on one edge of the group. Pallakis moved with a drift of people, heading together to hear and see what was happening. She was not surprised to see Clearchus there, with the other officers in a group around him. They looked to the Spartan to save them, trusting in the legend. She prayed to the gods he could bring them through. As she stood there watching, she saw Clearchus look straight at her. He raised his hand in greeting, so that some turned to see who had caught his atten
tion. Pallakis did not look round when she heard whispered comments at her back. She had no protector in that place.

  One of the younger men stood to listen to Clearchus with reins wrapped around his arm. A fine horse draped its head over his shoulder, looking for a treat in his closed fist. No doubt the animal was as hungry as any of them, Pallakis thought. She saw the young man notice her and she smiled at him. She liked horses. They were freedom of a sort. Certainly more freedom than she had ever known on foot. The young man smiled back and Pallakis made herself look away, realising she had to be careful.

  ‘Water we have, food we have,’ Clearchus said to those around him. ‘We’ll find villages as we go further, I do not doubt. It is true this is a hard landscape, but we can walk out of it. Shelter – no, there’s not much of that. Though I see no sign of a storm coming. I think I would welcome one if I did, just to feel clean once more.’

  ‘We cannot defend so many,’ Menon said, not caring if he was overheard by the crowd. ‘Alone, we could have force-marched beyond the range of the Persian king in a week. With ten thousand camp followers, you have killed us all.’

  Clearchus took a step towards the Thessalian.

  ‘In time of war,’ Clearchus said, ‘how would you have me respond to a man who weakens morale?’

  ‘You were the chosen leader of Prince Cyrus, who lies headless on the plain behind us. Did the gods say you should lead us always, Clearchus? Is it because you are a Spartan, their favourite? I say we should elect a new leader. I put myself forward – and I will take only the fittest and fastest of the camp followers. Do not grumble at me!’ He snapped the last to the men around him, growling in dissent. ‘Clearchus has given us a choice between leaving some behind – or the death of every man, woman and child here.’

  ‘You underestimate us,’ Clearchus said. ‘But if you wish, we should hold a vote. If you are unhappy with my leadership.’