The Greeks were ordered to align themselves in battle array, each according to the custom of his unit and country, and each captain commanding his own men. Thus we marched on the parade ground four deep, with Menon the Thessalian and his thousand heavy infantry and five hundred targeteers holding the right wing, Clearchus and his terrifyingly blank-faced Spartans the left, and the rest of us in the center. The men had polished their bronze helmets to a luster that gleamed in the bright sunlight, set off by their greaves and scarlet capes, and they left their shining shields uncovered. To anyone facing them as they marched toward the sun, the reflection was almost unbearable. Cyrus and the queen first inspected the Persian troops, who marched past in regal splendor on horse and on foot. The royal couple then climbed into a chariot together, and rode slowly past the central line of Greeks, who all stood motionless and at attention, a low cloud of dust settling at our feet and steam rising off the sweaty flanks of the officers' horses. As Cyrus and the queen passed the last of the Hellenic lines and were returning back to the prince's native troops, the prince gave a quiet signal behind his back to the Greeks. There rose from behind our ranks the mournful, five-note fanfare of the call to arms blasted on the salpinx, the Greek battle trumpet whose resonant sound Aristophanes attributes to its being shaped like a gnat's anus. Pikes were presented, the bronze-tipped points filed to a deadly, needlelike sharpness. The front ranks of troops gripped the smooth ashwood staffs in a horizontal thrusting position, while those marching behind snapped theirs into the vertical ready position with Spartan precision, and the Greek force advanced in a single unit toward Cyrus and the native troops at double time, as if readying an attack. Proxenus' infamous Boeotian engines, prepared in advance for an effective demonstration, suddenly began spewing forth flame at the empty air along our troops' flanks. The Persian officers stiffened and glanced quizzically at each other, and their men began shifting nervously in the ranks. The salpinx blasted again, the urgent, raucous call to attack, and ten thousand throats broke into a deafening roar. Shields held high, razor-sharp spears throbbing menacingly before them in rhythm with their steps, the Greeks burst into a mad sprint, surging like a bloody, scarlet wave directly toward the center of Cyrus' astonished native troops.
The Persians bravely stood their ground for a moment as their officers stared in amazement at the murderous Greek onslaught, and then, as if at a signal from their commander, all but the prince turned and ran like rabbits. The horrified queen vaulted out of the chariot like a mule driver being called to breakfast, and the entire population of the city fled the field. Cyrus signaled for the Greeks to halt, which they did immediately, raising an enormous cloud of fine dust as they skidded to a stop, lowering their pikes butt-end to the ground. The sound of their terrifying roar died to a distant echo and then disappeared completely. The only sound to be heard, carrying across the field and reverberating through the silent, windblown streets of Tyriaion, was Cyrus' hooting laughter as he stood alone in his chariot, tears streaming from his eyes.
"By the gods," I whispered to Xenophon out of the corner of my mouth as we stood motionless in the dust with our eyes locked on Cyrus. "Did you see them run?"
"Don't gloat, Theo. Remember, they're supposed to be on our side."
"Let's hope the barbarians we fight against are just as cowardly, or we don't stand a chance," I said.
Xenophon merely grunted, but I could see that he had gained little pleasure from the display.
The men were angry, and the tension in the blazingly hot, dusty camp was palpable. After dropping off the now tiresome queen in Tarsus, where her long-suffering husband maintained his palace, the army had dug in its heels and for three weeks had refused to march, to the mutual consternation of both old King Syennesis and Cyrus. The troops had heard rumors that the prince's true goal was to conquer his brother, King Artaxerxes of Persia, and for this, they said, they had not been hired. Mutiny was at hand, and disaffected leaders had risen among the men. "Greeks are men of the sea!" shouted one budding orator. "The sea! As long as we are near the sea we are near our homes! The same waters that lap our feet on enemy territory also wash the beloved shores of our homelands!" The thought of facing the enormous forces of a powerful king hundreds of miles from the sea, across burning desert sands and sun-scorched mountains, among strange gods and men ignorant of the sea, was incomprehensible to the soldiers. With the exception of Clearchus' Spartans, they refused to take further orders. When a group of officers led by Proxenus stood before the troops and tried to reason with them, they were pelted with rotten food.
Xenophon returned to our tent bewildered and astonished, wiping egg from his hair. He had no time to rest or explain, however, as Proxenus burst furiously through the tent flaps a moment later.
"Don't even clean up!" he ordered, his face red and his jaw clenched in fury, his own tunic fouled with rotten fruit. "I want Clearchus to see this!" Grabbing Xenophon, he stalked over to the general's quarters, meeting along the way the other officers who had been present, and who were equally outraged.
When he heard their account Clearchus was livid, raging up and down the tent in front of his officers, and muttering threats of death against the mutineers. He finally stopped, glaring at the officers, and took a deep breath, holding it for a moment. The scar on his temple stood out from the surrounding skin, angry and painful. He let his breath out in a great sigh, and then slowly and consciously, he composed his face with the calm air of an actor performing the lead role in a tragedy by Euripides in the Great Theater of Athens. Taking Proxenus to one side, he whispered to him for a moment, gesturing to him tensely with his hands in tight little thrusts and chops as Proxenus nodded grimly. Then striding impassively out of his tent, Clearchus stepped up to a large boulder, shouldering aside an angry sergeant who had been shouting epithets against Cyrus to the growing ranks of rebellious Greeks. The sergeant at first looked behind him in fury at this rough treatment, but when he saw Clearchus glaring at him, he flushed white and hurriedly took his place among the watching mob.
Clearchus recomposed his face, and cleared his throat as the men began quieting themselves to hear him. He was a man of authority, a Greek like them, yet one they were not sure they could trust. And then he began to weep.
"Comrades!" he shouted, tears streaming down his cheeks. The troops went stone silent at this unexpected display of emotion. "We have fought and marched together since pummeling the Thracians in the snows of their own mountains a year ago. Some of you have been with me even longer, in the war between Sparta and Athens. Since that time, I have been privileged to lead veterans from every Greek polis, in service to my benefactor Cyrus. The prince gave me ten thousand darics to convince me to join his forces-and not a copper did I spend on myself! All of it has gone to you, to recruit the most skilled, the most experienced, the most battle-hardened sons of bitches that have ever marched on earth!"