Five thousand Greeks could roar, he discovered. They could shake the heavens if they wanted. As he ran, Xenophon knew he had to judge it finely. He had come back as if to cross at another point. Yet he dared not exhaust his men over too long a distance. Sooner or later, he would have to give up and return in his own steps to the ford the two brothers had found. His task had been to draw the enemy away from Chrisophus. The Spartans had to be across by then. It was hard not to grin at the thought of the enemy meeting those warriors for the very first time.
‘Make ready!’ Xenophon bellowed to them. ‘We have warmed ourselves up, gentlemen. See the result, over the water. Make ready now, to go back to the crossing place once more.’
There was some laughter in the ranks. They were in high spirits, enjoying the chaos they were causing on the other side.
Xenophon caught movement out of the corner of his eye and cursed softly. They’d needed the ruse to confound the enemy long enough to cross the river. The one part of the plan that could not have been predicted was what the Carduchi would do, watching from the heights. As he had feared, they saw he had split his forces. They saw weakness and so they came down in a great surge, driven mad by the need for vengeance. Xenophon drew in a lungful of air.
‘Come to a halt on my mark! Hellenes … halt!’
They crashed to a stop and the laughter was gone as they watched the howling Carduchi streaming down from the mountains.
‘Greeks! Men of Corinth and Stymphalia, of Thessaly and Arcadia, of Rhodes, of Crete and Thebes. Form up now, gentlemen. Listen to your captains – and remember this. We faced the Carduchi in their hills before. They face us now on a plain. They have never seen a fighting shield line, with spears and short swords! Let them come, with all their yelping and howling. We will treat them like the dogs they are – and cut them down!’
He shouted the last and they roared again in response. To his delight he could see some of the Carduchi faltering in their rush to attack. Away from the safety of their hills, they felt the great emptiness of the plain around them.
Facing that wild charge, the Greeks shuffled into formations they knew as well as breathing. They took comfort from reaching out and tapping those in front and to the side with their fingertips, finding the perfect distance.
‘Where is my shield?’ Xenophon said.
One of the Spartan helots came trotting up with a shield on his back, bowing deeply as he handed it over. He had remained behind to serve. In relief, Xenophon thanked him like a free man, then pushed his left arm through one leather loop and gripped hard on the other. It felt part of his arm and he swung it through the air with pleasurable anticipation.
‘Steady, Hellenes!’ he called over their heads. ‘There is time yet. Advance sixty paces and halt. Spears to repel attack! Steady!’
The Carduchi must have seen a solid block of five thousand Greeks, more metal than flesh, with the river at their backs. Xenophon had made them lurch forward when he thought about archers gathering on the other bank. The movement seemed to steal some part of the howling savagery in those coming down at them. The Carduchi saw a great beast move, a tortoise of bronze and the promise of death. There were no camp followers to protect in their number. The Greeks were lean and filthy and worn down, but they hated the Carduchi.
Two or three thousand of the tribesmen crashed against the Greek formation like hail spattering against a stone wall. They were cut to pieces all along the line. They leaped and screamed, but against the discipline of a shield rank, they could not break through. Xenophon watched in awe and exultation as the survivors fell back. Those behind had slowed at the sight of that impregnable formation and the blood of their people shed in such numbers.
‘Sixty paces forward! Now!’ Xenophon ordered.
The ranks jerked into movement and the Carduchi circled and ducked away like wounded dogs, still savage, but afraid. More and more retreated up the slopes, and for a moment Xenophon wanted to rush after them. Instead, he watched as hundreds came to a halt on the slopes, resting on their spears and just watching the Greeks. There was no sign of them charging again. Xenophon shook his head, delighted.
‘They know us now!’ he roared suddenly. The Greeks answered him in wordless triumph, so that the sound echoed back from the mountains.
‘They will not attack again, but if they do, we have their measure. Back then along the river. Back to the ford. Your best pace, gentlemen.’
Some of them groaned and he laughed at them.
‘What? You’ve had your rest! You’ve enjoyed yourselves here, haven’t you? It’s time to run once more, or will you leave the Spartans to take all the glory for themselves?’
There was a rumble of assent from the men and they were off again. Behind them, the Carduchi were finally silent.
It was close to noon when Xenophon’s five thousand returned to the ford, dusty and grinning at their success. They were greeted with cheering by the camp followers, with clusters forming around them and hands patting at backs and helmets. The relief was palpable in that place. The camp followers had watched their protectors racing away in two directions, leaving them alone on a hostile field for the first time since Cunaxa.
Xenophon learned the Spartans had made it across without real opposition, then cleared the bank of anyone foolish enough to stand against them. Banners littered the ground on the other side, where they had been thrown down. As he peered across the waters, Xenophon could see the path Chrisophus had taken by the trail of bodies he had left. He set his jaw, wondering where the Spartan had gone. The plan had been to secure the crossing point and then wait for him to bring the camp followers safely over. The enemy had too many cavalry to be contained.
Xenophon shuddered as he walked into the torrent, reaching down to gather a handful of freezing water and rub it over his face. He was dismayed Chrisophus had not remained. He had to remind himself that he trusted the Spartan, even more after the mountains of the Carduchi than before. If Chrisophus had decided to leave the area of the ford, there would have been a good reason.
A dozen hoplites stood in the flow to mark the ford’s course. With gestures and calls of encouragement, they shepherded the camp followers over, all the while keeping a close eye for any sudden appearance of horsemen or archers. Xenophon’s five thousand had gone across first in a great rush, then secured the area while the rest stumbled and carried each other over.
Xenophon remained in the ford, though his legs grew numb. He had meant to stand there for just a short time, but hundreds of them thanked him as they drew abreast, calling blessings on his head until he was almost dazed with their praise for delivering them. It was not as if he’d had a choice.
When they were all safely across, he formed the hoplites around them once more. The sides of the square were thin without Chrisophus, but Xenophon marched them uphill away from the river, seeing the other side of the plain for the first time while standing on it.
Regiments of the Persian vassals stood motionless on the crests of low hills, not far from where Xenophon rested the square. He saw some of the foot soldiers he had marked from the other side, still in position. They had taken high ground and decided to hold it, regardless of any ruses or games the Greeks played on the other side. He watched as a small square moved up the hillside to where they stood. He knew those men instantly and his heart swelled with pride and concern.
As a crawling insect might show its carapace, the Spartans suddenly glittered gold. The entire force raised shields, overlapping against a black rain of spears and arrows from above. This was war as they knew it and Xenophon ordered a steady march towards that point. The enemy would not know how many of his square were untrained men and women. They would see only a massed advance. He smiled at the thought, feeling weariness lift away.
As he marched, Xenophon realised the plain was far emptier than before. Vast numbers of cavalry seemed to have vanished. Banners lay abandoned all along the river bank, too many for even Spartans to have cut down. The signs were of an e
nemy abandoning the field. He dared not hope.
Those who remained were in islands on ridges and hills. They had seemed well placed before, but with so many having fled, the positions looked isolated.
As he watched, the Spartans gained the plateau or ridge, forcing their way through the enemy as if they were eating a leaf, bite by bite. Xenophon saw black figures beginning to stream down the sides in every direction. He had seen a mass of baby spiders disturbed once, when a child poked it. This reminded him of that, with crawling soldiers scrambling to get away from the gold shields and the red cloaks.
The winter days were short and it was not long before the sun was a line of brass along the horizon. Chrisophus came down from the ridge he had won, his men carrying all the baggage of the army that had abandoned it in chaos. They learned from prisoners that the leader who had fled the field was the Armenian satrap, Tiribazus, a childhood friend of the Persian king. It was a friendship that had cost the man a fortune. Chrisophus brought Xenophon a chest, carried by the two brothers who had discovered the ford. It was full of silver coins, the pay for all the mercenaries Tiribazus had assembled.
‘Most of them vanished, but those on the hill stayed in place,’ Chrisophus said. ‘I made a decision to see what could keep them there, while all the rest ran.’
‘The right decision,’ Xenophon confirmed, absolving the man.
Chrisophus bowed his head, relieved. He had been worried Xenophon would berate him for abandoning the camp followers.
That night, Xenophon gathered the captains and raised cups of looted wine. The camp of Satrap Tiribazus had been full of food and drink. The Greeks enjoyed a great feast, and on the plain, huge bonfires were made from spears and bows, crackling like laughter.
31
They marched away from the mountains for thirty miles over two days, a gentle pace that suited the camp followers. They rested by the source of the river Tigris and then went sixty miles further, to the banks of the flowing Teleboas. They saw no soldiers in that time and the land they passed through contained villages and towns, even a palace that belonged to the satrap. There was no sign of Tiribazus in the area, so they contented themselves looting his treasury. The Greeks picked up carts and mules and slaves once more wherever they came across them. The carts in particular were soon heavily laden. Xenophon made no attempt to restrain their acquisitions. They passed temples to strange foreign gods, where pilgrims had left offerings for centuries. Those offerings went with the Greeks as they moved on.
The winter deepened as they drifted north, settling into a routine as they walked day after day through landscapes that varied from dark tilled fields, to forest or vineyards in neat rows on the hillsides. Friendships were formed and broken on the long march, with a dozen marriages celebrated. Xenophon had his private doubts as to how many of those would last, but those who made the vows seemed happy enough and it gave them all a brief moment of happiness.
For the rest, the labour of moving their bodies across the face of the world wore them down. Every man hacked his beard away in clumps by then, if he bothered at all. They washed as often as they could, but when they shed the ragged clothes, it was to reveal bodies so thin they could tell every bone. They took all the food they found, but it was never enough.
Over a long stretch of sixty miles and four days through sand dunes, Xenophon found himself walking close to Pallakis and Hephaestus. They strolled side by side and he thought they looked like lovers. It was hard to be sure. He had felt her eyes on him a thousand times, burning away from the crowd. He’d wanted her to wait for him, to be ready for the day he did not have so many souls on his shoulders. It was he who had told Hephaestus to keep her safe! He had been stronger then, somehow, too distracted by all those who needed him. As he walked along, with the ground rising ahead, he could not help stealing glances at her, telling himself it was no more frequent than it might have been with any other woman. He had the sense that she knew he was doing it, however. Women often did know, when men were struck by their beauty and tried not to stare.
He shook himself, imagining how Socrates would laugh when he heard. All men are fools in love, he’d say. Wine existed for that very reason.
There was a commotion ahead, dragging Xenophon away from his musings. He squinted into a weak winter sun to where his scouts had gone further on, climbing a slope to look for the best way forward. At a distance of some twelve hundred paces, they were small figures, though the sight of them was a cold hand in Xenophon’s chest. He watched as they jumped and waved their arms. Was it an attack? He looked round, seeing afresh how ragged his people had become. They had been marching so long they no longer looked like an army, so much as an exodus of some nomadic people. He began to prepare orders, looking for Chrisophus, yet as he did so he saw a number further up had run forward, called by the scouts to see. They too began to shout and wave and he could hear their voices, crying, ‘Thalassa! Thalassa!’ – the sea. The sea.
Xenophon dropped the pack from his shoulders and ran to the crest of the hill with hundreds more, as the shouts grew and grew before him. The sea. They had dreamed it from the deserts. Ahead of them were Greek settlements, Greek cities, above all, Greek ships to carry them anywhere they wanted to go. Xenophon saw men and women fall to their knees and just weep, covering their faces in the crooks of their arms as they sobbed in relief. He stood, stunned, as men and women pressed him into embraces, thanking him for all he had done, for saving them. He felt tears streaming down his face and he wiped at his eyes, trying to recover his composure.
‘Here! Bring him to the general!’ Xenophon heard, so that he turned his head to see a shepherd boy being ushered to his presence. The boy looked Greek, but when he spoke in that language, Xenophon gave a great cry of joy that spread through all those crowding around that place.
‘I am a free Greek,’ the boy said. ‘Oldest son of Lycus. You may not take me prisoner.’
Xenophon shook his head.
‘You are safe, with all your goats, I promise you. But tell me of Greece. What news of Athens? We have been away for over a year, boy. Does she stand?’
The boy stared around at the wild-looking men and women, all watching him in something like wonder.
‘She stands, sir. The orator Polyemis was put to death, as was Socrates. The council has rebuilt the city wall the Spartans pulled down – and repaired the temples on the Acropolis. Do not think we are some backwater here, sir! We are Greeks as good as you, one of the thousand cities, as if we had our walls in Arcadia or Thessaly.’
The boy beamed as he proved his knowledge, though the expression faded as he took in Xenophon’s wide eyes and sick pallor.
‘Sir? Have I given some offence?’
‘No, boy. You said Socrates has been put to death?’
‘Oh, did you know of him, sir? It was a famous trial. They said he did not believe in the gods – and that the young of Athens preferred to hear him speak than to work. They offered him banishment or silence, and the old fool chose death instead! He was allowed to take poison, sir. Now, Polyemis was a different matter, so my father said. He …’
Xenophon turned away from the garrulous boy and pushed through the crowd. For a time, he felt completely blank with sorrow, as if no thoughts could reach him. He had come such a long way and learned so many things. If Socrates was not there to hear them … He found himself weeping and this time made no attempt to hide the tears. He sat on his own, away from the joyous crowd, apart from them in all ways.
After a time, he heard footsteps and opened his eyes, raising his head from where it rested on his arms. He had expected Chrisophus, but it was Pallakis who had come. He looked up at her with eyes made red and sore, his cheeks pale.
‘I wish you could have known him,’ Xenophon said. ‘He was a great man, truly, a rare man. Yet I don’t think he ever wrote anything down! Can you believe that? What are words? In a century, he will be forgotten. There are no statues to Socrates. Men will never even know he lived.’
‘Perhaps you could write what you remember,’ she said. ‘I imagine he would trust you to do it. It’s clear enough you loved him.’
She sat down at his side and Xenophon struggled with a wave of grief that made him want to turn to her and bury his face in her shoulder. He resisted that urge, feeling his will return. She was not his, though he considered that she had come to his side. Perhaps his cause was not hopeless after all.
‘What will you do now?’ she asked. ‘We have silver and gold. Will you share it out with the men? Or …’
He blinked as an idea came to him. In a moment, he had put his grief somewhere deeper down, to be examined later. He would toast Socrates in wine and the written word, he swore it, but there was a chance in that moment for something even greater.
Xenophon rubbed his hands over his face and returned to the group. He saw Chrisophus wore an expression of honest pity, but he rejected it, calling the man away from the rest.
‘Officers to me!’ Xenophon called across their heads. ‘Captains, pentekosters, generals. Hephaestus, you too, if you would.’
They gathered quickly enough and he led them apart along the hillside, until he came to an olive tree clinging to the sand, grown from a seed that might have blown halfway across the world. He patted the trunk, his thoughts aflight.
‘Gentlemen, this tree came from far away – and put down roots here. Like the Greeks on the shore of the sea before us, we have the seed of a city here. Look at all those we have brought to this place! We have soldiers and women, children and slaves. We have gold and silver and men of skills and craft. We have everything we need to begin a city of Greece in this land. Here. Would you see us scattered to the four winds, after everything we have been through? I tell you I feel a greater sense of brotherhood with you – and with those others – than anything I knew before. Is there one of you who can’t say exactly the same? Yet if we return, it will be to old lives and old concerns. Why not be the seed of a state instead? A new nation. Our children might inherit an empire from what we decide here. Why not? Our whole concern has been to survive and to reach this place. Now we are here, now we know it can be done, why not build? We are enough to raise walls and homes in a valley by a river.’
The Falcon of Sparta Page 37
