The Ten Thousand (31 page)
RIVERS.
Never in my life had I seen so many rivers.
Greece is a parched and rocky land, with sufficient water, to be sure, to irrigate the crops and raise the livestock we require, but our water of life usually flows in the form of seasonal rivulets, small streams or wells. Large, wide-flowing, navigable rivers are a rarity.
When we crossed the Syrian desert, what seemed like a lifetime ago, even we river-starved Greeks were struck by the paucity of water, the fact that one could travel days or even weeks without catching so much as a glint of dew in the sun, the only water being that which had lain lukewarm and festering in the goatskin bags we carried in full sun on the backs of mules, water that made one gag with its slimy texture and long for the cool, clear, mountain-fed creeks of our native land.
But unlike Socrates, the gods know nothing of moderation, nor seek it in anything; in fact they spurn it as unworthy of themselves, and search always for the extreme, as being more godlike in essence and glorifying to them, irrespective of its positive or negative quality. Crossing through the country of the Kurds we could measure our days by the number of rivers we crossed—not the passive and refreshing little streams of Greece, along which nymphs and naiads are said to frolic, but rather large, deadly, rushing waters, devoid of plant life along their rocky, gravelly banks, crashing thunderously through steep-walled canyons, defying mortals to peer into the brownish, silt-laden waters originating from the mountains of some distant and barbaric fastness, challenging us at every step to find a route to circumvent their rushing, death-dealing flows. Fords we would sometimes find after exploring for miles in either direction. At other times we would be reduced to improvising rafts or even floats from inflated goatskins. Occasionally—only very occasionally—we would be fortunate enough to find an intact log or stone bridge that the hostile inhabitants had not destroyed ahead of us to hinder our passage.
Always we found a way, always we crossed to the other side, though this was not without hardship. On every occasion a wagon would be lost, or one or two of our precious horses would trip and become lame or worse, or a man would lose his footing on the slippery river bed and sink beneath the torrent, dragged by armor or injury, and would not rise again. Were this to happen once or twice the harm would be regrettable, though not serious, and the army would shrug its collective shoulders and move on as it was trained to do. But the rivers were many, unending in number, and the accumulating impact of all these small losses was taking a toll on our provisions, our manpower, and our morale. What is more, the season was advancing, and as we moved higher into the mountains the water became colder, sometimes mixed with ice or snow. It was becoming increasingly difficult to wade into the freezing current for the second or the eighth time in a single day, and harder to dry out our tattered clothing and hides at night before undertaking the next day's trudge. And what had we to look forward to, upon successfully completing the crossing of the day's last river? What had we to anticipate when trying to determine by calculation or by guess how far we had come, what distance we still had before us? What had we to expect the next day?
Another fucking river.
And so it was this day as well, seven days after recovering Asteria, a hundred miles of marching through hell, fighting the Kurds at every step, seeing them inflict more damage through their daily, deadly raids than Tissaphernes' troops had caused during the entire battle at Cunaxa and their subsequent pursuit.
As Eos dawned cold and gray that morning, we had been cheered by a vision we had not seen in some weeks—a plain, or rather a broad valley, which promised flat walking and unrestricted visibility for as long as we were able to follow it. The only feature marring our view was a broad river winding through the middle, which we later learned was the eastern branch of the Tigris, and which at this point was some two hundred feet across. The prisoners had told us that this river marked the boundary between the country of the Kurds and Armenia, and this was further cause for rejoicing, that we would at last be leaving the murderous Kurds behind us. They had been like death to us, death by a thousand small mosquitoes.
As the morning mist lifted, however, and we were able to better view our route for the day, Xenophon's scouts reported to our dismay that horsemen were massing along the far bank, prepared to hinder our crossing into Armenia with arrows and slings, and a large quantity of foot soldiers were marshaling above them, to further assist in preventing our landing. They were mercenaries like ourselves, Armenians and Mardians and Chaldeans in the pay of Orontas—the long arm of Tissaphernes reaching out and tapping our shoulders in lands even as distant as this. The Chaldeans had an evil reputation, and were as feared as the Scythians—for like the Greeks, they were free men, and warlike. They carried body-length wicker shields against which our pikes and swords were useless, becoming hopelessly entangled in the weaving; and their soldiers were large, muscular and well trained. They were prepared to present a vigorous defense to our phalanx. The only technique effective against their light shields was simply running them over and breaking through, like a wild horse trapped in a chicken coop.
The army marched quickly to the river, hoping to ford it without delay if it were shallow, and engage the enemy troops on the other side. We found to our dismay, however, upon wading in, that the icy water rose to our necks well before we even reached the halfway point, and the current was swift. We could not wade through it in armor, or the flow would sweep us off our feet and carry us down; nor could we walk across carrying our arms on our heads, for then we would be unprotected, when we clambered up the far side, from the missiles and arrows that would rain down on us from the defenders. The troops gathered at the near bank, milling about aimlessly while the captains discussed the situation. Our prospects worsened when we saw to our dismay that the Kurds now occupied the heights behind us on our side of the river, preventing any possibility of retreat and penning us in between two hostile armies.
We sat there on the broad, frozen gravel bank an entire day and night, with little food and smoldering campfires, for what little driftwood we were able to gather from the river bank was hopelessly sodden. The army was despondent, though Xenophon, putting on a bold front, walked ceaselessly from squad to squad, dispensing cheery advice and lascivious jokes to keep the men's spirits up, despite his own emotional and physical exhaustion. I was not sure how long he would be able to continue pushing himself at this pace, and was relieved when he decided to go to bed shortly after sundown.
Of bones and dreams are men made, say the ancients, and Xenophon more the latter than the former, for lately his dreams had been coming with increasing frequency. Most of the army's seers had been killed or left behind, so he forswore seeking the advice of the remaining one or two except in the event of an emergency. He said they were already busy enough preparing and performing the thrice-daily sacrifice, a task that our army, fragile as it was, could not afford to neglect. Tonight was no different, and his dream was so vivid and intense that he woke with a start, shortly after midnight, and began recounting it to me before he was even fully lucid. Numb with the cold and the damp cloak I had wrapped around myself for a blanket, I welcomed the opportunity to set down the blades and whetstones with which I had been working, and begin kneading some life into my aching limbs as I listened intently to Xenophon's omen.
"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.