Scattered cheers went up at this, which he refused to acknowledge, his eyes cast downwards as if in shame. He held the men in his hand, dropping his voice for effect, and they crowded closer to hear his quavering words, as his tattered crimson cloak whipped around him in the hot desert breeze.
"I know as well as you that the prince has not played straight with us," he said, looking back up at the men. "Cyrus feared we would refuse to march with him to the Euphrates, for that is his intended goal-not to fight his brother the king, as you may have heard, but to thrash an ancient enemy of his, Abrocomas. I, too, feel betrayed. Yet I still value the prince's friendship. That is why I now find myself so hard-pressed to respond. Since you, my comrades in arms, are refusing to march with me, I must now choose between deserting you and keeping his friendship, or betraying him and staying with you."
The men watched in growing agony as their commander pondered his dilemma, his emotions pouring out.
Clearchus sighed deeply and looked up at the men, his eyes red and glistening. "Can you have any doubt what my choice will be? Let no one say that I led my men-my Greeks!-against barbarians, and then chose to desert them and join the barbarians. I am Greek first and foremost, and only then am I Cyrus' general. If it comes to a choice, I throw my lot in with you, to hell with the consequences! You are my country! You are my friends and comrades! With you I am honored, without you I am empty, for friendship even with a man as great as Cyrus is worthless if I have betrayed my men."
At this the troops broke out in a lusty cheer. Clearchus seemed lost in reverie, his gaze directed down toward his feet, his shoulders shaking as if wracked with emotion. After a moment he looked back up at his men, his eyes clearing as he gazed at the faces of those who only a few minutes earlier had been prepared to lynch him, yet who now honored him with wave after wave of rolling cheers. I watched the scene as a poor student does a master sculptor, awestruck as the artist breaks off a lump of clay and begins kneading it, pummeling it to warm it and soften it, and then begins to expertly fashion it to his designs.
Clearchus again sighed in misery, then resumed. "The good wishes of Greek soldiers warm my heart as nothing else could. However, after breaking my oath of loyalty to Cyrus, it is impossible for me to remain in command. I cannot remain a general expecting other men to follow me. Even as I stand here, Cyrus is calling me to explain myself to him. I beg of you, elect a worthy man to lead you, and I will take my place in the ranks alongside the most humble goatherd. With the gods' help, your new leader will take us back to our beloved homes, through the hostile lands of the Cilicians and Pisidians."
Hostile lands? The mutineers had unaccountably failed to consider this, and the men fell to muttering. Finally, someone stood up and shouted, "Clearchus is right! We buy provisions and return to Greece, before Cyrus decides to slaughter us!" Someone else shouted him down. "No! Ask Cyrus for ships to carry us back by sea, or to at least assign us a guide!" Some hollered that they would never ride in a ship of Cyrus' for fear of treachery, while others protested that they would never follow one of his guides. The meeting degenerated into chaos, yet Clearchus stood silently on his rock, his head hanging in shame, his massive shoulders slumped. Suddenly Proxenus stepped forward to his side, gesturing the men to silence. I looked at Clearchus and saw him glancing sidelong at Proxenus out of the corner of his now dry eye, a small smile seeming to appear at the corner of his mouth, if ever Clearchus was capable of one.
"Greeks!" Proxenus shouted, and the men became silent. "We are arguing about the fate of an army of ten thousand, but we are ignorant of the facts! We have no idea what Cyrus' reaction might be, whether hostile or friendly-we only know that he will not be indifferent. Let us send Clearchus to Cyrus to ask him directly what he intends. The prince is honorable, he can either persuade us to stay and accompany him against Abrocomas, or we can persuade him to let us depart honorably, as friends, with a promise of safe conduct. We can then decide based on his response."
The men muttered their assent, and Clearchus clambered down from his perch. Accompanied by Menon and Proxenus, he left the men on the parade field and walked slowly across camp to Cyrus' headquarters, where they passed the guards and entered the canvas tent. There they remained for two hours, while the men's fears at the thought of returning, without Cyrus and his native troops to protect and guide them, grew and festered in their minds. Xenophon remained silent, apart from the rest of the men. He ignored the efforts some of them made to divine his opinion, offended that they would so readily turn for advice to someone whom they had pelted with filth such a short time before. Shadows lengthened and the men's patience stretched to near breaking, when someone finally shouted that the officers were returning, and we saw Clearchus and the others emerge into the sunlight, salute back into the dark entrance of the tent, and walk stiffly back across the camp to the anxiously waiting men.
Clearchus climbed back up onto his rock and looked out over the men, this time with his shoulders thrown back and his great bearlike chest thrust out in his customary arrogant Spartan strut. There was no need for him to quiet the men with his hand, yet he stood still, drinking in their expectant silence for a long moment before beginning.
"Men!" he bellowed. "The prince tells me he intends to march to the River Euphrates twelve stages away and engage his enemy Abrocomas. If Abrocomas is there when he arrives, he will destroy him and disband the rebel army. Cyrus invites us to go with him, though if we refuse, he will let us depart as friends and will give us a guide for an overland march. To sweeten our decision, he offers every man half again as much pay as before-instead of one daric per month per man, one and a half…"
The men broke out cheering even before he had finished, and there was no hesitation as to what the decision might be. The troops disbanded happily back to their units.
That evening, in response to Xenophon's questioning glances, Proxenus laughed and told us that he was bound by oath not to disclose the conversation that had taken place in Cyrus' tent. I later found out, however, that the prince had not even been present in the tent-he had left camp the day before on a boar-hunting expedition, and had not returned until after sundown the following day.
CHAPTER TWO
"IT ALL STARTED when my old rooster died," Nicarchus said, his eyes bleary in the firelight but with a sly grin spreading across his face. That night, unable to sleep amidst the sounds of singing and celebration surrounding us, Xenophon had awakened me for company. Approaching a fire that had been built high and was particularly well attended, Xenophon was hailed by the men, who invited us to join them and have a swig or two from their wineskin-they seemed to have already spent the extra darics Cyrus had promised them.
Nicarchus the Arcadian, one of Proxenus' sergeants, had been laughing so hard at a joke that I thought he would burst his gut. When he saw us approach, he gained control, clapped Xenophon on the shoulder, and ceremoniously dusted off a space on a log for us to sit down. Normally a reserved, even rather morose individual who spoke slowly and with the drawn-out vowels of his native country, his face was ruddy from the unaccustomed wine and he was feeling especially voluble tonight.
"What a pleasure you're able to join us, Cap'n," he drawled, overcompensating in formality to offset his lack of concentration, and passing me the dripping skin. I looked around the fire and saw twenty faces in various states of inebriation grinning at me, and I wondered if I might have better spent my time that night continuing to try to sleep. "We was just singin' a few old songs and discussin' the glorious history and culture of my dear native land." He reached back over to reclaim the wine.