The Ten Thousand (24 page)

Xenophon got up, and covered the same matters as he had earlier, though more slowly and at greater length. But before he concluded his speech, I looked past the immediate light of the fire and was astonished to see not merely the hundred officers and the straggling companies of curious soldiers; but rather the entire camp, ten thousand men and half again as many camp followers, gathered for hundreds of feet around our meeting place, far beyond the reach of the firelight. Soldiers stood in rank, laundry women lifted each other onto their shoulders to see more clearly, vendors straggled in from the countryside—yet the enormous crowd was silent. All eyes were upon Xenophon, waiting for the words that would decide whether they were to be surrendered up to the enemy for slavery and death, or whether they had reason to hope they might return to their homeland. He concluded his plea to the officers:

"We have an opportunity before us. Ten thousand soldiers have their eyes upon you. For two days they have been despondent, almost without will to live. Yet here they are now, summoning up the little hope still left to them. If they see you are discouraged and afraid, they will be cowards. If they are left wondering what will happen to them, and believe they are helpless, they will remain passive. But if they see you taking control of your fate, preparing against the enemy, and calling them to help you in this task, you can be sure they will follow you and imitate you, and do so cheerfully. In the army, you men are the privileged ones. You carry no packs, you receive higher pay, you direct battles from behind the lines. It is only fair that you should shoulder an extra burden now.

"We know that Tissaphernes has seized from us everything he could until now. He believes we are beaten, and plans to destroy us and rid the country of us. But he is a barbarian! We must turn the tables on him, do what we can to resist him. We have the more powerful weapon—ten thousand strong, skilled, cohesive fighting men. And you know it is not numbers or strength that bring victory in war, but rather fortitude and willingness of soul. Whichever army is more determined, that is the one that will prevail. Learn this lesson, and apply it. Be men! And you can be sure the others will follow."

The sigh of relief and approval from the hundred men around the campfire was almost palpable. The enthusiasm spread back beyond the fire's light in waves, gaining momentum as it swept away and then bounced back, increasing in strength like ocean tides reflecting off the beach and adding to the cresting force of the incoming waves. The men began talking among themselves, first in a hush, and then in increasing volume, until an isolated voice began chanting "Xen-o-phon! Xen-o-phon!" and was immediately joined by a dozen more, then a hundred, until the entire army was standing, radiating out from the blinding fire and roaring his name. I stood transfixed and disturbed, at the impulse that had been created from just a few short hours before as the result of a troublesome dream. For the second time that night I saw the clarifying and simultaneously destructive force of fire on the fates of men, but I followed Xenophon's advice by placing a confident expression on my face and smilingly chatting with some of the troops while the shouts rained down upon us.

"Do you truly believe he can do this?" Asteria looked up at me skeptically as we sat against a large stone, watching the bonfire die to coals. The last of the soldiers and camp followers had drifted off to their blankets.

I shrugged. "What is there not to believe? He had a dream—a powerful dream, and he feels he has been ordained by the gods."

"Ordained by the gods! Theo, these people are rabble! To the camp followers at least, Clearchus was just a name—they had no knowledge of his history, his skills, his qualifications, they followed him merely because he called himself the army's leader. You mustn't assume they will have any more personal loyalty to Xenophon than they had for him. Cyrus' jester could have stood up and declared himself general, and they would have hailed him just as loudly."

I winced at the mention of Cyrus' name.

"Asteria, Xenophon wasn't acclaimed by the camp followers alone—it was the Greek troops themselves who first supported him this evening."

She looked at me in dismay. "If that gives you comfort, then you are as much a part of the rabble as they are."

I tensed at her words, and noticing this she put her hand lightly on my arm.

"Theo, you are a freedman, not a slave, and even if you were bound to him, these are extraordinary circumstances, when the distinctions between slave and master do not always apply. You need not be beholden to mob rule. You are educated, strong, able to think—why be subject to the passing whims of Clearchus' bullying Spartans?"

I glanced at her dismissively. "I reject your point. It's useless to even entertain such thinking. What am I to do—stand up and count myself as an army of one, protest that Xenophon's credentials as a general are not quite as impressive as I would hope, threaten to withhold my approval? I will take my chances with the rabble, thank you."

Asteria pursed her lips tightly and stared down at the ground in silence, absent-mindedly massaging the fingers of her hands, stiff from hours of carrying water gourds and bundles suspended from thin leather thongs.

"That is not what I meant, and you know it," she muttered softly. "Sometimes I think you purposely act dense."

"You flatter me," I retorted dryly, "by suggesting it is only an act."

"Theo, it doesn't have to be this way. We don't have to live in filth, fearing every day for our lives, wondering where our next meal will come from."

"What are you saying?"

"I have... people over there. We would be welcomed, and for life. You would owe nothing to anyone, in fact you would be honored, and I could..."

Her words began tripping over each other in her excitement, her hands fluttering in an attempt to prop her racing syntax. I seized her shoulders, hard, and turned her to squarely face me as I forced her gaze to mine.

"Are you saying we should
defect?
Have all these Greek deaths, has
Cyrus'
death meant so little to you that it comes down to this? Defect to the enemy?"

She licked her lips and weighed her words carefully before answering.

"Theo, you see everything in such black and white. Not all Persians are your enemy, nor all Greeks your friend. Even a single man may simultaneously be both, be of mixed mind and intent, even act at times as if he were two different individuals. Cyrus was a Persian, yet you fought for him. My own father is a Persian, yet... here I am. I was raised among Persians. Artaxerxes always treated me kindly, like a beloved niece, and he would accept you as a... as a nephew."

"What about your father, Asteria? You were concerned he would view me as a betrayal of his honor."

"I have thought about this. Measures could be taken before we departed that would soften his heart... if you were willing..."

I stared into her pleading eyes, losing myself in them for a moment as I vaguely considered her extraordinary suggestion; as I came back to myself, however, I shook my head in wonder that I could ever entertain such a notion.

"It's out of the question. I know you mean well, but I could never leave the Greeks, never betray Xenophon."

She bit her lip and stared at the ground in silent disappointment.

"I won't mention it again, Theo."

I nodded at her silently, a wave of gratefulness and relief washing over me. A disturbing thought, however, suddenly crossed my mind.

"Asteria—at Cunaxa, when you were being dragged out of Cyrus' tent, why did Tissaphernes kill his own guard, instead of you?"

She looked at me evenly, and gently eased my heavy hands from her shoulders.

"It's as I said before—not all Persians are your enemy. And, Theo—"

I remained staring at her silently, waiting for her to finish.

"Not all Greeks are your friends."

THE NEXT MORNING dawned chilly and cold, with a heavy drizzle that belied our position on a vast, desertlike plain. The clouds hung low over our heads and the hard-baked ground had long since absorbed what little moisture it was able to hold,and now refused to accept any more. The water simply lay on the surface, like an enormous, shallow, muddy pond, reflecting our misery and rejecting our every wretched attempt to find a dry place to sit or stand, or to build a fire.

The men were tired and restless, and there was no breakfast to be had. The soldiers milled about aimlessly, performing their tasks only desultorily, falling back into the habits of despair that had been burdening them since the slaughter of Clearchus and the other officers. Up on the ridge was a growing body of enemy cavalry aligned and facing us, lances poised and pennants fluttering, seemingly preparing a charge, much to the dismay of our own troops, whose entire body of horses numbered no more than forty. Xenophon approached Chirisophus, the ranking Spartan remaining in the army and a fine old soldier, greatly respected by the men. An initial glance at the veteran's weathered skin and flowing, steel-gray hair and beard would cause one to wonder how a man of such years could have survived the difficult march thus far. Indeed he often sat silent and apart from the troops, seeming to doze, like an elderly servant fading quietly into retirement. His appearance was deceptive, however, for Chirisophus was merely a master at conserving his strength. When called upon to act, he was as vigorous as a twenty-year-old ephebe, and if crossed, would erupt in a deafening string of oaths that would curl the beard of the most blasphemous Spartan in the vicinity. Chirisophus had fought at Clearchus' side for twenty years, and was the only man able to stand up to the brutal general's threats and bluster without fear of punishment, possibly the only other soldier Clearchus had truly respected. It was this man whom Xenophon approached.

"Chirisophus, I need your counsel. Your Spartans are breaking camp and maintaining order like soldiers on a parade ground, but the rest of the troops look like old women."

"So I noticed," Chirisophus said dryly, chewing on a blade of grass and observing the sloppy preparations of the other troops and the barely organized chaos of the camp followers. The deep creases at the corners of his eye were not cheerful, as they are in some older men, but rather betokened long hours of staring into the glaring sun, and ultimately a sort of weariness or boredom with the world. "And I believe some of them camp followers ought to be put out of our misery."

Xenophon ignored the cruel remark. "Look—last night you voted for me to lead the troops—I saw you. But I am an unknown quantity. The men look up to you. Take a few of your colleagues and fan out among the troops. Talk to them and raise their spirits if you can, speak to them as a fellow soldier. I have no ulterior motives for leading the men, but they may not believe this. Convince them that we need to move on."

Chirisophus looked at him a long moment, as if sizing him up. I wondered whether the old soldier might not choose to simply strike off for home on his own, accompanied only by his Spartan troops, rather than encumbered by a massive crew of inferior soldiers from the other Greek states and a veritable second army of motley camp followers. He apparently decided in Xenophon's favor, however, for shifting the grass blade noncommittally to the other corner of his mouth, he glanced toward his troops and called for three or four of his squad leaders.

While Chirisophus walked about and talked quietly to the men in small groups, Xenophon himself arranged to happen upon their conversation as if by accident, and asked the men to tell him their concerns.

"The cavalry!" One of the men shouted. "How do you expect us to fight our way up the Tigris against ten thousand cavalry, when we have none?"

Xenophon looked pensively up the ridge where the king's cavalry brigade was continuing to grow in strength, and was now hovering over us like an evil black thunderhead ready to explode. He forced himself to gaze back down to the troops, who had locked their eyes on him in silent expectation. I saw their scars, their knotted, muscled shoulders, their long Spartan braids that never failed to strike fear into the enemy. I saw their massive, thirty-pound oak and bronze shields that they swung about as if made of papyrus, and their short but deadly swords, each of which had killed a dozen men in battle, or more. And I knew beyond a doubt that the Persian cavalry, though they were the best horsemen in the world, on the finest mounts, were men like us, but not like us. For they were Persians, and we were Greeks.

"You're discouraged because the enemy has cavalry and we do not?" Xenophon asked, assuming an incredulous expression. "But cavalry are only men on horseback! I would pit their ten thousand men on parade horses against our ten thousand men on the safe and solid ground any day. No man has ever died in battle from the kick of a horse, only from a sword or spear; and your own blades have spent more time in Persian bellies than ever a weapon was meant to. The Persians are up on the ridge, trying to screw up their courage to attack us, and fearing a fall off their horses as much as they fear Greek iron in their bowels. I'm a trained cavalry man, believe me; horses are frightening because of their size and speed, but they are no advantage against a phalanx of Greek hoplites—except that a coward can retreat more easily on a horse!"

At this, the men laughed and visibly revived, and there was some scattered clanking of swords against shields in approval. I could see Tissaphernes' cavalry standing still in silhouette on the ridge, watching the matter with interest, even if unable to hear the words.

"I'll cut my words short. The enemy thought that by destroying our commanders, we would fall into chaos and could be eliminated. But they were wrong. The Persians' troops are foreigners, forced to fight under threat of flogging and execution. They think that because their own army would disintegrate without their officers' whips, all armies are that way. But we are Greeks! By killing Clearchus they will see ten thousand new Clearchuses spring up to take his place. You are all Clearchuses now!"

The men cheered lustily, and as the sound rolled across the empty plain with the blustery wind I saw scattered Persian horses rear in alarm.

"If you wish to see your loved ones again, keep your eyes on the road north to the Black Sea. That is the only way we can go. Burn the excess wagons, so we don't travel as slaves to our baggage train. Burn the tents too, sleep like the Spartans. Possessions are a burden, and don't contribute to our fighting. The more men under arms, and the fewer pushing baggage wagons, the better off we'll be. If we lose, all that we carry will belong to the enemy in any case; and if we win, we'll take plunder and use the enemy as our porters."

Clanging their weapons, the men burst out in a great cheer, and ran off to gather the tents and superfluous supplies for the great fire to be set. The camp followers wept and wrung their hands, but the men ignored them, or brutally wrenched goods from their grasp. They knew that every pound of useless gear eliminated now would allow an extra brace of arrows to be carried, and possibly save the life of the wretch whose goods were being cruelly set aflame. A great cloud of greasy black smoke rose into the air, but lifted only a few feet, for the drizzle had increased to a steady downpour and seemed to press and weigh down on the smoke itself as it drifted across the plain, obscuring the watching Persian cavalry from our view. Xenophon sent riders galloping out on the remaining ponies to keep an eye on Tissaphernes' troops while we broke camp. With the little baggage we had left, this task did not take long.

I cornered him during a brief moment of quiet. "The Black Sea, Xenophon? It's a thousand miles from here, through Media and the land of the Kurds and across the mountains of Armenia. Winter is coming on. Do you realize what you are demanding?"

He avoided my gaze as he laced his sandals. "It's the only route we have," he muttered, for the first time allowing an expression of discouragement to cross his face. "You know we can't go back the way we came, over the desert, and there are no passable roads west, across Asia Minor. Our only hope is to strike north, across the mountain passes to the Black Sea. There are little Greek trading cities clinging to the southern shore like a string of pearls—Sinope, Cotyora, Trapezus. We could raise a fleet in one of them and return through the Hellespont to Ionia and the mainland."

I snorted. "And how do you think to buy a fleet? You expect to extract gold and booty from the mountain tribes we conquer along the way? My recollection from Herodotus is that they're scarcely more than savages."

He stopped fiddling and finally looked straight up at me, almost angrily. "Who said anything about
buying
a fleet? Don't you sell me short, Theo. This was not an impulsive decision. Of course we won't buy a fleet. We'll extort one."

I looked at him quizzically.

"There are Greeks along that string of trading posts, Theo," he continued, "but does that mean they're our brothers? Hardly. They'll be as dismayed as Artaxerxes was to see us arrive, and as delighted when we leave. They'll trip all over themselves to give us ships. If you were a citizen of muddy little Trapezus, how would you like to see ten thousand ugly, hungry mercenaries camped outside your city walls?"

I conceded his point, but was still doubtful that this was sufficient basis to drag ten thousand men through the mountains in the middle of winter.

Xenophon conferred again with Chirisophus as we arranged our battle lines, and they decided to form the troops into a hollow square, with the remaining baggage and mob of camp followers in the middle for protection. Chirisophus and his Spartans would lead and break through any Persian troops attacking us head on, while Xenophon would command the rear guard, fending off any nipping from Tissaphernes' cavalry in its attempts to break through the ranks into our supply train.

Just before leaving, we were informed by our scouts that a Persian embassy was arriving and Xenophon and I went reluctantly to meet them, wondering what good news they could possibly have for us, and whether any they did bring could ever be trusted. To my surprise Mithradates, a Hellene who had served under Ariaius and had recently deserted to Tissaphernes, came galloping up with thirty horsemen. He affected a warm greeting for his fellow Greeks, but Xenophon remained distant.

"Be quick about your business, Mithradates, or I'll make your safe-conduct as worthless as the one your Persian puppet masters offered Clearchus. You'll be yapping back to your own lines with your tail between your legs."

Mithradates set his mouth in a tight expression and dismounted. At a nod from Xenophon, a squad of burly hoplites seized his horse and led it away. They forced his Persian colleagues off their mounts too, and took those horses to the baggage train. Mithradates protested at this treatment, but Xenophon explained. "The gods forbid us from violating a sacred oath of safe conduct for heralds and ambassadors," he said with a bitter laugh, "but to my knowledge they say nothing of our treatment of livestock."

A crowd started to gather to listen to the parley, and I saw Asteria standing with a group of camp followers, craning her neck to see above the men in front of her. I caught her eye, and she gave me a tight-lipped nod of acknowledgment, barely perceptible, a grim expression in her eyes.

Mithradates collected his composure, and began. "You know I was faithful to Cyrus while he was alive, and I remain a Greek," he said after a pause, wistfully watching the rich trappings being removed from his animal. "Tell me what you propose, and if I believe you have any chance at all, I will gladly join you, with all the men at my disposal. Think of me as a friend and advisor."

Chirisophus, who had joined me by that time, scoffed. "We're going home. You can tell your masters we'll be moving fast through the country, taking only what we need and doing as little damage as possible, if we're let alone; but if anyone tries to hinder us they'll be sent back squealing like a pig, whether they be Persian or otherwise." He glowered at Mithradates.

Mithradates held his gaze evenly, then turned away dismissively and addressed Xenophon again. "It's impossible for you to move through this country without the king's consent. You have no provisions and I see now that you have burnt your supplies. Is the king to provide tents for you now, as well as a safe conduct? Are you going to start complaining about the quality of the wine he sends to quench your thirst?"

Chirisophus roared in a rage and lunged at Mithradates, his dagger aimed at his throat. I and some others held him back, but Mithradates barely flinched.

"Mithradates, you're under a safe-conduct, and I'd advise you to leave now while you still can," said Xenophon quietly. "The troops are under control, we have a new command. Remind Tissaphernes of his men's cowardly performance at Cunaxa. We will be marching through the king's country today, consent or no consent."

Mithradates glared at him for an instant in a cold fury, then recovered his poise. Taking a deep breath to collect himself, he again pointedly ignored Chirisophus and addressed Xenophon directly.

"Tissaphernes has one more request," he said. "Release all Persians you are holding as hostages, and he will then consider giving you safe passage out of the king's lands."

At this, the Greek officers fell silent, looking to one another in bewilderment. My conversation with Asteria the night before came back to me, and as I glanced at her now she avoided my gaze, fixing her eyes on Mithradates alone. Xenophon stepped forward, to the front of the Greeks, and turned to face us.

"Fellow Greeks!" he shouted in a clear, commanding voice, and all went silent. "Anyone who feels they are traveling under coercion, or who believes it to their advantage to join the Persians, may do so now, unimpeded. I stand here prepared, this very minute, to grant safe conduct to the Persian lines to all who desire." He then stood still and silent, searching the crowd of muttering soldiers from face to face, fiercely holding their stares for a long moment. My eyes locked on Asteria's, and hers, wide and unblinking, focused fixedly on Xenophon, her face bloodless and her lips slightly parted and trembling. I held my breath as I waited for her to react. She stood distraught and tense, poised as if to walk forward at any moment, yet she remained still.