The Lost Army (47 page)

When the war cries, the trumpet blasts and the penetrating sound of the flutes had died down, the enemy circle had been broken into five segments. The battalions of Sophos and the other generals were climbing to a dominant position at the rim of the crater. Our Thracian skirmishers in the rearguard were loosing missiles of every type in fast succession on the remaining enemy, backing uphill behind our men, closer and closer to the top of the crest.

The incredible endeavour had been successful. From the rim of the crater the Ten Thousand raised a cry of victory. No one would ever dare to attack them again, after what they’d accomplished.

Xeno, exhausted and panting, approached Sophos. ‘Did you see your men? Did you see what they did? Don’t they deserve to be saved, whatever it takes?’

Sophos remained mute, looking around dumbstruck and dazed, without believing what he was seeing, like a dreamer shocked into wakefulness. Then his voice pierced the silence. ‘You’re right, my friend. Whatever may happen, writer, we’re going back home. I’m taking them home.’

No one turned, because they wouldn’t have been able to bear the sight of their comrades remaining on the bottom of the crater or strewn over its slopes, dead or dying, nor the sight of the women who had been engulfed by the chaos of blood, iron and ice. On their backs, on the bloodstained snow.

When it was all over we started on our way again, dragging along until we came upon a group of villages that had been abandoned by their inhabitants where we could stop and rest.

When night had fallen Xeno came close and held me tight. Then he pulled away and looked me in the eye.

‘Tell me the truth: did you really understand the language of that barbarian?’

‘No. But I knew those were the only words that would stir up the courage of Sophos and all the others. You were the one who told me the story of Leonidas at the Fiery Gates, remember?’

Xeno couldn’t take his incredulous eyes off me.

W
E STARTED OUR JOURNEY
back the next day. The officers in charge of devising a new route decided that it would be best to go north for ten days, and then head west again. They hoped that path would bring us somewhere close to the sea. Perhaps we’d find guides along the way, since we would be passing through areas where the natives did not know us and would, we hoped, be less hostile.

The order of march was the same as always. The lightly armed peltasts in front, followed by the more heavily armed infantry, then the pack animals with our baggage and the remaining women. Last came the mounted rearguard, led as always by Xeno.

Melissa had survived, or so Xeno told me. That made me very happy, but days went by before I found her. She was clearly avoiding me because she was afraid I was bearing a grudge against her. I let her know through one of the girls that I’d be waiting for her one evening at the centre of the camp.

I watched her come towards me, hanging her head. Her hair was covered with a scarf, her feet bundled up in pieces of sheepskin secured by leather straps. Whatever had happened to those precious, elegant sandals of hers? What had she done with her beauty creams, her eye shadow, the ointment she used on her eyelashes and the pomade for her hair? When she lifted her eyes to meet mine her cheeks and nose were ruddy with the cold, her hair was tousled, her lips cracked and her hands swollen. And yet her beauty shone through, in her luminous eyes, in the sensual curve of her lips and even in the tone and inflexion of her voice.

‘You’ll never forgive me . . .’ she began.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I never expected you to be a hero. You did what you could. In the end we got what we wanted. We’re going back, Melissa, and sooner or later we’ll reach the sea. Soon it will be spring. We’ll feel its warm breeze on our face and arms and we’ll breathe in the scent of flowers. All we need now is strength and courage. We’ve been through so much! The worst is behind us . . . I hope.’

Melissa threw her arms around me and cried and cried. Then she dried her eyes and left.

I wasn’t at all sure that what I’d said was true. Were we over the worst? Our march was just beginning, and there was no telling what difficulties we’d find. In fact, we struggled on in waist-deep snow and the skins we wore on our feet were quickly sodden, sending a chill straight up our spines. We’d often have to stop to dry them, or when possible change into different footwear.

The baggage animals foundered so deeply that they often couldn’t take another step. They would rest all their weight on their bellies and refuse to go forward. We’d have to remove their packs and clear the snow all around them to make room, then push them into action, replacing their loads after they’d started moving.

Sometimes the sun would peep through the clouds, sometimes it would shine blindingly in the middle of a cobalt-blue sky and its reflection on the vast white expanse was so strong that we had to bandage our eyes with scraps of dark gauze so that we wouldn’t lose our sight. Then, towards evening, it would start to snow again, thin needles of ice that pricked at our faces, driven by a cruel wind that wouldn’t let up for hours. Many of the women fell ill, with high fevers and continual coughing. Many died, and many of the men suffered the same fate.

Never did we abandon a body to the wild animals. Xeno would not permit it; he respected his comrades, and had deep religious feelings. Each body was buried, and funeral rites celebrated. The women got tears and wailing and a last kiss from their sisters. The men had a warrior’s farewell, with a war cry, spears raised against the dark clouds, their names shouted ten times, hurled at the immaculate, indifferent peaks. The soldiers’ voices echoed, only to be swallowed up by the immense solitude of that hostile, desolate land.

When we found villages we would take food for ourselves and forage for the animals and seek shelter from the cold to regain our strength. I remember the time we were carrying one of the young warriors who had been wounded by a bear while hunting. He was stretched out on a makeshift litter. His right shoulder had been maimed by the bear’s claws and the wound had festered, causing a high fever. He was delirious and would certainly have died if we hadn’t found refuge.

His name was Demetrius. A handsome boy, blond, with intensely blue eyes and dark eyelashes and brows. The daughter of the village chief nursed him herself, changing his bandages and applying ointments the locals had made. I think she was in love with him, and when it was time for us to leave again, she asked if he could stay behind. Sophos called a meeting of his generals to decide; many of them felt it was a betrayal to leave a Greek in the hands of barbarians. In the end they decided that the only way to save his life was to leave him there, and we went on without him.

I’ve often wondered what became of that boy. If he survived and if he grew to love the chieftain’s daughter. She was pretty and had a nice figure, with firm, full breasts, deep black eyes and the look of a woman who enjoyed making love. I hoped that the story had had a happy ending, that the young warrior had lived to marry the girl who’d nursed him and that their children would grow up brave and strong in that land of ice and blinding light. But I knew well, after what I’d lived through, that a man’s fate hangs by a thread and that, at any moment, the whims of fortune can raise him to the heights or dash him into the blackest misery, or even death.

As
WE PROCEEDED NORTH,
the mountains which had loomed up ahead of us while we were following the river that led nowhere began to shrink out of sight behind us, until we could barely make them out on the horizon. But in front soared another vast range, full of towering peaks and deep valleys, covered by black forests of trees as pointed as the mountain peaks.

Xeno said that was a good sign, and that we’d soon be turning west, where we’d find inhabited villages and guides capable of leading us to our destination.

I realized that unless some big changes were coming, we could expect more trouble, more hardships and perhaps a bitter end.

The truth was hard to swallow. What I had intuitively suspected, without understanding the reasons behind it, had proved to be accurate. Now I knew that what was left of the army would still have to fight against the Great King, but also against the power of Sparta, who wanted them dead or scattered to the four corners of the earth, so far from their homeland that they’d never be able to return.

Sparta had expected them to win or to disappear, never considering a third eventuality: that the army might win and lose at the same time. And now, against any imagining, they were returning.

Xeno said we’d soon encounter inhabited places, and by his calculations spring was not far off. He wasn’t mistaken. I had the first sign one clear and freezing morning when I got up to collect snow so I could melt it over the fire and have water to drink and wash with. I found myself standing in front of a forest of enormous trees with huge bare branches. As soon as the sun rose, the air was filled with screeching cries. I raced back to camp as fast as my legs would carry me, but I soon discovered there was nothing to be frightened of. No one was chasing me, no one was threatening me. It wasn’t human voices I was hearing.

It was birds.

I’d never seen such animals before, but I’d heard them described by travellers who’d passed through our villages. I turned back, one step after another, and I took a good look. There were dozens of them on the branches and even on the ground, and they suddenly froze at my approach. They looked like painted images, barely real: the males’ necks were covered with feathers so blue they glittered like gold, and the same impossible colour adorned their tails, which looked like royal cloaks, dotted with big bronze and gold eyes. They were wondrous creatures. Their elegance and incredible beauty contrasted with their voices, capable only of that raucous, monotonous shrieking.

At first I thought they were our comrades who’d fallen in battle or been carried away by the current, screaming out their despair at a life cut short too soon, filling the air with their laments. But then one of them lifted its tail and opened it in a brilliant arch of bronze, blue, gold and silver, and I was so moved that tears came to my eyes. No, it wasn’t a howl of death I was hearing, but a song and dance of love. They must have been the sacred birds of some divinity, and with their gracious courtship they were announcing the approach of spring!

This only confirmed what I’d always been firmly convinced of: nature never gives all of her gifts to one creature alone. To some she gives one thing, to some she gives another. The nightingale is tiny and insignificant, but he sings with the most melodious harmony ever created. If there was a paradise on earth, I thought, every creature there would be perfect, and there would be birds like those of such extraordinary beauty gifted with the voice of a nightingale.

After several days’ march, we arrived at another river which raced along in the opposite direction to the one we’d been descending before, and we began to follow it. The locals called it the Harpas and it coursed rapidly down-valley, which is where we wanted to go. Even the weather was changing: the rivers and torrents ran fast and full of crystalline water, and in the bends and deep coves you could see beautiful silvery fish splashing. And down below us, a vast fertile land opened out, with flowered meadows and shining emerald grasslands. As we went on, villages began to appear, and towards evening you could see smoke curling up from the roofs in slow whorls rising towards the pink sky of dusk.

Down there it was springtime.

T
HE VOICE OF
the army returned to what it had once been: deep and powerful. It had been so long since I’d heard it that I’d forgotten all about it. For months the men had been moving in near-silence, oppressed by an immense fatigue that weighed more heavily on their hearts than it did on their shoulders or legs. They had seen their comrades dropping one after another at the hands of a powerful enemy, and they were prostrated by it, by the ghost of winter, shrouded by mist or by storm, opaque and transparent at the same time, icy and blinding. They had no voice, because winter’s voice drowned out all the others or swallowed them up in the dazed silence of the heights, in the dark, endless nights. But then had come the day of the great battle, the impossible victory that had given them and their commanders the strength to start the long journey back.

It was truly exciting to descend towards the valley, to leave the snowy slopes behind us and enter green pastures and fields covered with flowers. To see the men discarding the pelts that made them look like beasts and regaining, day by day, the vigour and sparkle of youth. Muscular arms and legs were bared and faces shed their grimness, as long, unkempt beards disappeared with the aid of scissors and razor, instruments of a nearly forgotten civilization.

And their weapons! Dulled and discoloured by damp and neglect, they were restored to their original sheen. The bronze gleamed, iron and silver flashed. The crests of their helmets were washed in the pure water of the brooks and swayed red, blue, white and ochre in the wind. The trumpets announced danger or called the men to their ranks with silvery clarity, blaring out with a voice as sharp as a sword.

We reached the foot of the valley one evening after sunset and I turned around to look for one last time at the frozen world we were leaving behind us. For a moment I thought I saw a horseman, a hazy shape that blended into the snow in the last reflected glow of dusk: one of the many memories that refused to leave me . . .