The Lost Army (11 page)

Clearchus walked out, his expression grim, and went to his tent. As soon as he arrived he called his field adjutant. ‘I’m going to be calling the army to assembly. What I want you to do is to choose a few men; when I give them the liberty to speak, they will say exactly what I’m about to tell you. Listen well, because everything depends on how the next few hours go.’

‘I’m listening, Commander,’ replied his aide.

He left the tent soon after and slipped into the camp to contact the men selected to intervene at the meeting. Clearchus waited, pacing back and forth, practising the words he would say. As soon as his aide returned he had the fall-in sounded.

He knew it wouldn’t be easy to address the assembled soldiers. The men’s faces were sullen; there was an undercurrent of grumbling and shoving. Stray voices shouted out as he passed. ‘You’ve tricked us! We want to go back! We didn’t come here for this.’ But when Clearchus stood on the small platform set up for the purpose, silence fell over the troops. Their high commander stood before them with his head low and a stern expression. He could feel their eyes boring into him. Xeno’s as well. Who knew where the writer was now? Lurking on the outskirts no doubt, observing what he’d set into motion. What did he have to lose?

‘Men!’ began Clearchus. ‘This morning when I ordered you to march you refused to do so. You disobeyed me. Some of you even threw stones at me . . .’

Low muttered protests spread through the ranks.

‘So you don’t want to go on. This means I won’t be able to keep my word, my promise to Prince Cyrus, that we would follow him in this expedition.’

‘No one said we were going to have to follow him to hell!’ came a shout.

‘I’m your commander, but I am a mercenary,’ continued Clearchus, ‘as you are, all of you. I do not exist without you. Where you are is where I have to be. And what’s more, I’m Greek. It’s evident that if I have to choose between siding with the Greeks or with the barbarians I have no doubts. I’m on your side, men. You want to go? You refuse to follow me? Very well, I’m with you. You are my men, by Zeus! Many of you fought with me in Thrace. I saved quite of few of your skins, if I’m not mistaken. And at least a couple of you have saved mine. I will never abandon you! Do you understand that? Never!’

Loud applause broke out. The men were beside themselves with joy: they’d be going home, finally. The applause had not yet died down when a messenger sent by Cyrus showed up. ‘The prince wants to see you at once,’ he said loudly to Clearchus.

‘Tell him that I can’t come,’ replied Clearchus in a low voice. ‘He needn’t worry, I’ll settle this. But tell him to keep sending me messengers, even though I’ll continue to refuse them.’

The man looked at him without understanding, but nodded and hurried off to report back.

‘That man was a messenger from Cyrus, but I sent him away!’ said Clearchus aloud.

Another burst of applause.

‘Now we have to see how we can return home. Unfortunately, it’s not a simple matter and it doesn’t depend solely upon us. Cyrus’s Asian army is ten times more numerous than we are . . .’

‘We’re not afraid of them!’ came the shouted answer.

‘I know, but they could do us a lot of damage. Even if we are victorious, many of us will die.’

One of Clearchus’s men who had been planted in the crowd spoke up. ‘We could ask him to let us use the fleet.’

‘We could,’ nodded Clearchus, ‘but we won’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘First of all, the fleet hasn’t arrived yet and there’s no saying it will be here soon. Secondly, it’s clear that from now on we won’t be getting a penny from Cyrus. How will we pay for passage? I know what you’re thinking. That once the fleet has unloaded the food and supplies, it will be going back empty and we can ask for passage. But don’t believe for one moment that they’ll take us on board for free. How do you think Cyrus will feel about helping us once we’ve ruined all his plans? I know him well. When he wants to be – if you’ve earned it – he can be the most generous man on earth, but if you cross him he’ll slaughter you. Let’s not forget that he has soldiers, weapons, warships. And we’re on our own.’

A buzz of discontent rose from the assembly; the men were unnerved.

‘And even if he accepted, who’s to say they won’t abandon us in the middle of the sea or even sink us, to cover up any trace of the expedition?’

Another man his adjutant had briefed now stepped forward. ‘Let’s ask him for a guide who will lead us back over land. We can send advance troops forward to guard the passes so they can’t lay traps on our return route.’

‘You’d trust a guide given us by Cyrus? Not me!’ exclaimed Clearchus. ‘A guide could take us straight into an ambush or lead us astray and then disappear. Where might we end up? How would we find our way home in the middle of people who don’t speak our language? I don’t want even to think about the trouble we’d meet up with. You want to set off on such an adventure? Fine. But don’t ask me to lead you, to lead my men to certain death.

‘What I can guarantee is that I’m ready to die with you. I’m ready to share the same destiny. If you want to elect another commander, I will obey him.’

This last option was of no comfort whatsoever. Clearchus had played his hand: it was now their turn to come up with a solution that would get them out of this fix. They were formidable warriors, capable of withstanding any hardship, but they easily fell prey to discouragement when they felt they had no prospects.

The buzz died down into silence. The men understood only too well that they had no choice; that a retreat would leave them wide open to double dealing. Clearchus had used his oratorical skills to worsen their outlook on the situation. He discreetly scanned their faces to gauge the effect his words had had on them. As he looked around he noticed the person he’d met with the night before, riding slowly by on his horse, apparently disinterested in the whole affair. He was wearing a salleted helmet now, which covered his face, and a red cloak on his shoulders. A large shield hung from his steed’s harness. No doubt about it; he had all the trappings of a man of high rank.

At just the right moment, another of Cyrus’s messengers showed up, whispered something into Clearchus’s ear and disappeared.

‘Cyrus wants to know what we’re going to do. Time is up. What shall I answer?’

The last of the three men Clearchus had primed for the encounter stepped up. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘it’s clear to me that on our own we have no hope of making it back, and defying Cyrus is the last thing we should be thinking of. I say, let’s send a messenger to the prince with a plain proposal: if he thinks he can convince us to stay, let’s hear him out and evaluate his plan. If we can’t come to an agreement, we’ll ask for a pact that allows us to go our own way without risks or problems, without having to watch our backs. What do you think of that?’

‘Right, yes!’ shouted the men. ‘We’re with you!’

‘Fine,’ continued the same man. ‘Then let Commander Clearchus himself go to deal with Cyrus and hear what he has to propose.’

Entrusted officially with this mission by one of the men he had personally instructed to achieve just that, Clearchus reported to Cyrus.

‘What shall we do?’ asked the prince when Clearchus had explained the whole matter.

‘I’m afraid that if you reveal the true purpose of the expedition they will refuse to follow you. Remember that no Greek will distance himself from the sea. It’s inconceivable, just the thought makes him feel dizzy, robs him of his breath. A Greek has blood mixed with seawater in his veins, trust me. Here they’ve got the sea right in front of them. They know that in one way or another they can get back home. But plunging into the heart of an enormous empire, tens of thousands of stadia away from their sea, that frightens them. Put them opposite an enemy ten times more numerous than they are and they won’t bat an eye. But you put them in front of an endless stretch of land without cities or roads, and panic will overwhelm them like children in the dark.’

Cyrus said nothing and for some time measured the space in his tent by pacing back and forth as Clearchus stood still with his eyes staring straight ahead. Cyrus finally stopped and said, ‘I think I have the right solution. Tell them that there’s a man who has betrayed me. One of my governors, Abrocomas. Tell them he’s camped on the Euphrates at twelve days’ march from here. That’s the mission of the expedition. Tell them I’ll raise their salaries by half as much again as what they’re earning now and that they’ll be further rewarded if we succeed in defeating Abrocomas. Then they can go where they like.’

‘Yes, I can tell them that,’ retorted Clearchus. ‘But afterwards?’

‘Afterwards they’ll have no choice. They’ll have to follow me whether they like it or not. I’ll assemble them and speak to them. I can convince them to carry out the mission, I’m sure of it.’

‘That’s possible,’ replied Clearchus, ‘but before I go, allow me to remind you of something important. My men are extraordinary soldiers, the best that you could have enlisted, without a doubt, but remember: they are mercenaries. They’re fighting for money.’

‘I’m well aware of that,’ replied Cyrus. Clearchus made his way towards the exit.

‘Wait,’ said Cyrus. ‘I know that the last Greek contingent will be landing at a short distance from here. Will they come as well?’

‘One of them, an officer, has already arrived. He reported to my tent last night, and I thought I saw him riding through the camp a little while ago. If he is who I think he is, we should have no problems.’

Cyrus nodded and Clearchus went back to address the assembly.

The soldiers allowed themselves to be persuaded, in part because they had no real alternative, but many refused to swallow the new story; they continued to be convinced that they were marching against the Great King and muttered their discontent under their breath.

Some of them noticed that the stranger who had appeared in their camp on horseback had positioned himself so that he could overlook the entire scene, and they imagined that from his vantage point he could count one by one those who showed any disagreement. It turned out that he had no need to count anyone. No one broke away from the army of warriors who were now ready to march for twelve days until they reached the banks of the Euphrates. No one had ever seen that river, but they had heard it was as grand as the Nile.

The men watched as the stranger approached Clearchus and whispered something in his ear. The commander responded with a nod of his head. Who was this newcomer? That day and the following night many of the men took note of him and many asked themselves the same question. Xeno was the first to walk up to his lonely campfire, where he was toasting a piece of bread on the end of his sword. He had removed his helmet and shaken free a full head of black hair. His eyes were light-coloured.

‘Who are you?’ asked Xeno.

He replied by stating his name. A name so complicated that I couldn’t even try to pronounce it. So I started calling him – and will call him for the rest of my story – Sophos.

‘I’m a decent swordsman,’ he added, without saying any more than he had to. ‘If I’ve understood what your commander had to say, I’ve come to the right place.’

‘How do you know Clearchus?’

‘You’re certainly observant,’ replied Sophos dryly. ‘I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that anyone who has used his sword over the last ten years is either dead or knows everyone else involved in the trade, on his side and in the enemy camp. As for me, I fought with Clearchus for a few months in Thrace. What about you?’

‘I was fighting on the wrong side when the democratic exiles returned to take control of the government in Athens. My name is Xenophon.’

‘What unit are you with?’

‘None. I’m with Commander Proxenus of Boeotia. I’m writing the diary of this expedition.’

‘Man of the pen or man of the sword?’

‘Of the pen, for the moment. Things didn’t go so well for me with a sword. But if the need arises, I have all the basics with me.’

‘I’d be surprised if that weren’t so. Will you write about me?’

‘Should I?’

‘It depends. If you think I’m important enough. So . . . where is it we’re going?’

‘South. Towards Syria. But then, I think, towards Mesopotamia. Cyrus is marching against his brother, no one can convince me otherwise. He’s heading for Babylon and from there to Susa.’

The stranger frowned. ‘How do you know all these things?’

‘I don’t know them. I imagine them. The Euphrates is the only road that leads to Babylon.’

Sophos offered him a piece of his toasted bread.

‘By Zeus! Marching against the Great King of the Persians, are we? You don’t say! What an adventure we’re in for then! By the way, have you heard the one about the fellow who got captured by the Persians and ended up with a stake up his arse?’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘Better for you,’ replied Sophos. ‘It wouldn’t make you laugh.’

He got up then, laid his blanket under a tree and stretched out to sleep. Xeno returned to his tent.

The next day the army resumed its march. All was calm. Many of the units had loaded their weapons onto carts and walked fast without the burden of all that weight. A squad of scouts rode ahead, three or four more at the side and a couple behind the column. For many hours they proceeded along the seashore. They’d never seen a bluer sea, fringed with a wide edge of white foam breaking on the pebbles on the shore with a soft, steady lapping that kept them company. The soldiers walked in the water; a few of them even managed to spear the fish swimming in the water, so numerous were they. It seemed more like a stroll than a military expedition. The men were boisterous, joking and laughing.