"Theo, I dreamed I was chained, fettered in thick iron rings and staked to the ground, exposed to the elements, while the gods above laughed at their tricks and ignored my pleas. I was hoping to die, I was so miserable from the vultures pecking at my face and the cold wind scarring my skin. Suddenly, with no warning, the chains dropped off by themselves, and I was free, able to walk, to bring my hands together again! I leaped up and ran, and that's when I awoke."
I drew my wet cloak more tightly over my shoulders and peered at him skeptically in the dim starlight, his hair matted and greasy, his eyes wild, his face hard and gaunt. A man dreams of freedom and a miracle, yet wakes to a stale crust of bread. Still, under such circumstances, even a crust can be a feast, and he was so heartened by his vision that he decided to tell Chirisophus, thinking it might be an omen that would comfort him as well. I accompanied him as he trotted across camp. All around us men slept fitfully in the open, singly or in pairs, huddled against each other, not, as the Persians might have mockingly described, in the habit of Greek soldiers on the march who had for too long been separated from their women, but rather in a desperate effort to keep warm by sharing precious body heat. The troops were silent and miserable, simply trying to survive another night. It had been weeks since I had been kept awake by the raucous laughter and joking typical of an army of confident warriors on the march, and it was not until now that I realized how much I missed the comforting buzz of an insomniac army.
We passed several hundred yards through the gravel to the far side of the camp, where Chirisophus and his staff had set up their headquarters, and were not at all surprised to see that they were still awake, interrogating prisoners, updating maps, attempting to plot a plan of attack for tomorrow to let us cross the river as safely as possible, even cleaning and burnishing weapons-do Spartans never sleep?
Xenophon's recounting of his dream was cause for cautious optimism, and the two generals and a gathering cluster of squad leaders spent hours in the dark discussing their next steps. At the light of dawn, with all the army's officers present, a special sacrifice was offered, the largest we had dared make in weeks given the force's rapidly dwindling supply of livestock; the omens were favorable on the very first victim. Leaving the sacrifice in high spirits, the officers sent word round to the troops to eat their breakfast and pack.
Xenophon forced down his meager breakfast of curdled goat's milk and was sitting by the comfortless fire, staring moodily into the coals, when two Rhodian slingers from Nicolaus' squadron trotted up out of the frigid mist naked and breathless, as if having just completed their gymnastica. All the troops knew that Xenophon permitted anyone to approach him at any time, without protocol, whether at breakfast or supper, or even while he was sleeping, and tell him anything that might be in the army's interest. Still, it was unusual for the shy Rhodian boys to be so bold as to approach him directly. They usually preferred the intermediation of Nicolaus or myself.
"With reverence, my general," the first said, bowing his head in respect.
Xenophon had been absentmindedly rooting under his arm for small life and now he held up his quarry to the light for brief inspection before cracking it between the split, dirty nails of his thumb and forefinger and flicking it into the fire. He glanced down in bemusement at his own filthy and threadbare tunic, and then looked up at the boys with a resigned smile.
"At ease," he said. "By the gods, I'm scarcely older than you, and twice as ugly. No need to stand on ceremony. And put some clothes on yourselves-you make me cold just looking at you. Your skin is blue, and those pigs of yours have shriveled up smaller than a Rhodian's. Oh, pardon me, I see that you are Rhodian.
The boys grinned, and sheepishly threw over their shoulders a couple of tattered blankets I produced for them. Their teeth still chattering from the cold and the excitement of their recent adventure, they narrated in turns what had happened, tripping over their words in their impatience to relate their finding.
"We were collecting firewood for breakfast around the bend of the river, when we saw a family on the opposite bank laying some sacks in a little cave in the rock. We thought it might be wealth being hidden from plundering, so we stayed out of sight until they were gone. Then we stripped and dove into the water with only our knives, to swim over and steal it. We almost broke our necks, though-the water was only knee deep there, so we started wading. We crossed all the way to the other side without even wetting ourselves above the waist! The bags were nothing-just old clothes-but the crossing point is good. There are steep banks and loose sand along both sides, enemy horsemen can't come near it. So we came straight to you, and forgot our clothes…"
Xenophon poured a libation at once from the precious store he and Chirisophus kept for the sacrifices, and told the boys to drink up, because they were the gods' fulfillment of his dream. We took the lads to Chirisophus, to whom they related the same story, and with much rejoicing and further libations the decision was quickly made that the Rhodians would lead the army to the crossing point a mile upstream.
The men kept magnificent order, remaining in a single compact unit with the baggage train in the middle of the hollow square. The troops' armor and weapons shone in the weak sun that was just beginning to burn off the mist, through which they emerged, rank by rank, into the view of the Armenians glaring at us in hostile formation on the other side of the river. Chirisophus positioned himself on a small hillock facing the enemy troops on the far bank. Throwing off his scarlet cloak with a broad, dramatic flourish that they could not help but notice, he disdainfully placed a wreath on his head, as if already crowning himself for a great victory. The Spartans around him hooted at Chirisophus' mocking gesture, but as I looked across at the Armenians I saw no reaction among their troops. The fore ranks of their archers and men-at-arms stood motionless, in an attitude more of puzzlement, I thought, than of contempt, while the enormous band of undisciplined, skittish mountain ponies ridden by their cavalry troops stamped impatiently, snorting puffs of vapor into the crisp air as their riders struggled to hold them to alignment.
Xenophon's soothsayer advanced to the water's edge, and the troops on both sides of the river fell silent, anticipating the outcome of the sacrifice. In full view of all three armies he seized the freshly washed and bawling he-goat from the waiting herdboy, and straddling it from behind he paused deliberately, as if to ensure that all eyes were properly trained on the victim. Not a sound could be heard but the dull rushing of the river behind him as he pulled back the flowing sleeve of his knife arm and held the instrument high into the air, allowing the sun's rays to catch and bless the flashing blade, and then slowly lowered it to the quivering creature's throat.
Drawing the blade quickly across the animal's neck, the seer grasped the horns more tightly with his free hand as the beast's head jerked once in shock and pain, and then he let it collapse limply, as the blood spurted and sprayed into the water, spattering the hems of the priest's white vestments a bright crimson. We craned our necks, peering intently at the scene, as the priest straightened up slowly from his bloody task, and with a triumphant shout that carried bell-like across the din of the water, he proclaimed, "Zeus Savior, Lord and Protector: Victory!" We lifted our weapons and shields and erupted in a great cry that resounded between the steep sides of the riverbank. The massed enemy troops on the other side, both cavalry and footmen, stood watching in silence, unmoving and expressionless, their own weapons and armor glinting fiercely in the sun.