Some believed that he, Hyroeades, had the blessing of the Gods. The other Immortals, only half in jest, called him the conquerer of Sardis. He remembered that the moon had been thin on that night too, casting just enough light for him to identify the vertical path of hand- and foot-holds that led him to the top. He remembered his hand shaking as it closed over the stone at the very top of the wall; he had been more afraid of finding a Lydian waiting for him than he had been of falling to his death. But there had been no one there.
He had tied the rope and tugged on it six times, and the army had followed him up. Each man, as he crested the top of the wall, touched a hand to Hyroeades’s forehead and whispered a blessing before moving on. As the Persians advanced into Sardis and the killing began, none had noticed him quietly slip away, down the north cliff to find a place to sleep and wait out the slaughter.
Hyroeades had felt that he deserved no glory. He had merely followed what he had seen another man do. He had to catch himself each time he was fêted, restraining himself from praising the Lydian who had first made the climb. After the city fell, he had been summoned by Harpagus to receive his reward. He had hoped they would free him from the army, give him enough land or money to live free of the wars, to take a wife, grow crops, raise children. Instead, they offered him a place in the Immortals, the highest honour a common soldier could hope to receive. He had taken it. There seemed no way to refuse.
Downstream, the captain of the Immortals dipped a long reed into the water. He did so every few minutes, always with the same practised motion, the backhanded, downward thrust of a finishing blow. It had developed the quality of ritual.
When the river fell, it fell slowly, like a man sitting upright who only slowly drifts off to sleep, summoned by his dreams. At first Hyroeades could not be sure that the falling water level was the consequence of their work. He had been fooled several times already by the random ebbing and flowing of the water. But eventually, there could be no doubting it. Now, each man watched the reed as it descended into the river, the water covering less of it each time.
They had asked for fifty volunteers for the attack by the river, and Hyroeades had no intention of volunteering. But when the ten thousand had stepped forward as one, he could not remain behind. What were the odds that he would be chosen, he thought, and so, half a step behind the rest, he too stepped forward. But when they drew the lots from the helmet, his name had come up.
He wondered if his lot had been fixed. If they had ensured that he would be sent inside to help take Babylon, believing his luck would let them take a second unconquerable city. And afterwards, when he saw the relief in the faces of those who had not been chosen, he wondered how many others had thought as he had, how many had come close to not stepping forward. They had been trapped by ideas of honour and duty, unaware that it was dissent that brought the blessing of the Gods, not blind obedience.
For the tenth time, the captain thrust the reed into the Euphrates. This time, he did not pull it out again. He opened his hand and cast it into the river, and the reed moved slowly with the now sluggish water, leading the way into city. The captain’s empty hand rose, and gestured them forward. As one, the Immortals stepped into the water.
Hyroeades kept his eyes fixed on the walls, but saw no sentries there. The few who remained would be high up in the distant watchtowers, cursing that they had drawn sentry duty on the day of the festival. They would be watching for some massed, sudden assault on the gates. None could have suspected that it would be the river, the flowing artery of the city, that would betray them.
They reached the base of the wall where the river met the city, and gazed into the tunnel ahead. The ceiling was low, but there was still enough room for their heads and shoulders to remain above the water. The captain paused for a moment, peering into the tunnel, perhaps thinking that it was a bad place for a warrior to lead his men, his instincts rebelling against the possibility of a trap. He waved his hand again, stepped forward, and disappeared into the blackness. Hyroeades and the others followed close behind.
They kept their arms high to preserve the soot on their skins, their elbows up and hands together like men at prayer. The view ahead was obstructed by the men in front of him, and after only a few steps Hyroeades found himself in perfect darkness. He listened to the steady breathing of the men around him, amplified by the stone and water, as though he were sharing the tunnel with some great creature of the river. He thought of what would happen if the water suddenly rose, if some distant downpour half a continent away flooded down through the Euphrates. He thought of them kicking and clawing to get out, of drowning in the dark.
He reached up and felt the stone above his head, still wet from where the river had touched it not an hour before. Hyroeades remembered the feel of the stone at Sardis. Suspended between worlds, he had felt calm and fearless. He had, he thought, never been happier. Perhaps if he had fallen then, he could have died happy.
The quality of the darkness changed, and Hyroeades’s trailing hand touched not stone, but air. They were through the tunnel, and into the alien city.
They gathered together, and the captain counted down the line and divided the group in two, taking one man aside as leader of the second group. Hyroeades watched as twenty-five men left silently behind their new leader, circling west below the city wall. They were the men who would take the north-west gate, and Hyroeades watched them with envy. Some of them might still live to see the rest of the army arrive, he thought. But we won’t.
They headed deeper into the city. Each man, under his breath, repeating the directions they had been given. They had all sat and memorized them the night before, chanting them together like children reciting a song. Two hundred steps south, and then left along the canal. Proceed until the temple of Nabu, then left again, up the steps and into the royal palace. Keep the ziggurat on your right, and do not go towards the drums.
They were on the canal path, heading east, when the captain waved them to the ground, whispering a curse. Hyroeades was near the front of the group, and he could see a Babylonian walking down the street towards them.
It was a young girl, a slave or a daughter running an errand, occasionally stopping to gaze wistfully in the direction of the drums. She reached a small bridge over the canal and stopped, considering in which direction to go. Right, towards the drums and the festival, or straight ahead, towards the Euphrates. She shrugged and turned to her right, stepping on to the bridge. Hyroeades heard the captain exhale slightly.
The girl gave one last look down the canal path, and stopped, one foot on the bridge and one on the bank. She blinked, and peered more closely.
Hyroeades felt the slinger to his left shift his weight. A slap of leather, the sharp crack of rock against bone, and the girl fell.
They came forward, and stood over the girl. She twitched and jerked on the ground, blood pouring from her head, but she still lived, her eyes looking up at the men who stood over her, her mouth struggling to form words. One of the others knelt over the girl, and drew his knife. Hyroeades turned away. She could not have been older than fourteen.
In front of him was a dark, narrow alley. He could slip down it, perhaps, while the others were not looking. Throw away his sword and armour, wash the soot from his face, and plunge into the crowds. Who would notice a strange face? Babylon was the city of a thousand languages, he had been told. There was no such thing as a foreigner here. He could find a woman at the festival, and if he married her before dawn her family would have to take him in. He might still live beyond this night, if he could find the courage to take a chance.
The moment passed. One of the other Immortals tapped him on the shoulder, and Hyroeades fell into step with the rest of the men. He kept his eyes open for another moment when his companions would be distracted, when he might have an opportunity to escape. But no chance came, and they were past the temple of Nabu and at the palace gates.