Having heard so much about the prince, I was curious to meet him. Only twenty-four years old, Cyrus spoke flawless Attic Greek and Persian, as well as a half dozen other languages of the countries under his domain, and he was as well versed in the writings of the philosophers and men of science of both east and west as many others who had spent their entire lifetimes gaining such knowledge. His appearance was a study in contrasts: He was slight of build, beardless, and kept his chestnut-colored hair long and flowing in an unaffected style, quite unlike the pompous and effeminate, carefully coiffed nobles who served as his advisors and senior officers. The natural handsomeness of his face and the even olive color of his chest and arms was marred by a series of deep scars which Proxenus explained had been given him by an enraged she-bear in a hunt several years before. On the day of our audience with him, he was dressed quite plainly, even severely, in a short ceremonial robe with a military tunic underneath, a combination that would allow him to meet with anyone from diplomats and generals to the lowest private without wasting time changing clothes. This unpretentious demeanor greatly endeared him to his troops as well as to his civilian subjects. His arms were bare, exposing a long white scar running the length of his left tricep-whether from an earlier battle or from his brush with the bear I do not know. His robe was simple, with barely an inch of purple embroidery along the border, but was of the finest-combed Milesian wool. His sandals, though dusty, were of polished and stamped Egyptian leather with gold clasps. Cyrus' plain though elegant dress was that of a man who knows only one stall in the market-the very best.
The prince had been born after his father Darius had come to the throne as Great King of Persia, and so Cyrus ascribed to the ancient Persian tradition that he outranked his brother Artaxerxes who, though thirty years older, had been born while his father was still a mere subject. But the Great King, for reasons to which I was not privy, thought differently. He had arranged for the succession to revert to Artaxerxes, leaving Cyrus in the comparatively minor position of satrap of Ionia, equal in rank to a wily old scoundrel named Tissaphernes, who governed farther south in Asia Minor. Cyrus and Tissaphernes went back a long way-Tissaphernes had married Artaxerxes' daughter, making the old man a sort of relative to the prince, a nephew by marriage. He had also been a close advisor to King Darius, a constant presence in the courts and even in the royal family's living quarters, and Cyrus had detested the sway that the unctuous and crafty counselor held over his father. Three years earlier, sensing that the prince's power and influence were growing, Tissaphernes had denounced him on trumped-up charges to Artaxerxes, who had Cyrus arrested and ordered executed. Cyrus' mother saved his life and arranged for his removal from the court and his satrapy in Ionia, but the rage and humiliation Cyrus experienced from the episode had never left him. He now perceived the quest for power as an obsession, and the elimination of Tissaphernes and Artaxerxes as a ruling passion.
After entering Cyrus' tent with Proxenus and Xenophon I lingered near the door, while the other two advanced to Cyrus' chair and table. Cyrus amiably asked them to stand at ease, while he finished up some current business he had with his advisors. Since this was the first time I had ever visited the quarters of a wealthy Persian, I glanced around curiously, taking in the rich carpets and brocaded drapes, which kept the tent refreshingly dark and cool, and the heavily armed guards standing at motionless attention on either side of the door.
A tall, aquiline beauty slouched languorously behind Cyrus, gently fanning him with a large wicker screen and occasionally whispering orders to various serving girls and guards who kept up a never-ending parade of activity in the shadows between the table and a low rear exit, which communicated with another chamber of the tent. This consort, though breathtakingly beautiful, looked completely bored, and did not deign to make eye contact with any other person in the room.
I heard a rustling in the shadows in the opposite corner, though, and when I looked more closely, I noticed two dark, almond-shaped eyes peering at me with interest, coolly appraising me, and not averting themselves from my gaze as the eyes of Persian women usually did. I held their stare for long seconds, and was finally rewarded by the flashing of white teeth in a quick, shy smile as the girl silently giggled at her own audacity. She leaned forward slightly, her face emerging from the shadows into a thin beam of sunlight invading the tent through an open flap, and my heart stopped at her beauty-she was perhaps eighteen years old, her skin fresh and seemingly unmarred by any additional cosmetics, her only adornment being a bright yellow feather threaded carefully through her hair. Her face revealed an innocence and joy of expression that belied her inexplicable presence in Cyrus' tent, surrounded by fierce-faced Ethiopian guards and the bustling of military couriers. She smiled at me once more, then turned back to her task in the shadows-which I now saw involved handling a thick scroll. This astonished me more than anything else about her, for never before had I seen a woman reading.
Cyrus' advisors left after a few moments, and Proxenus stepped forward casually to the prince's table, informing him that he had brought a friend who was joining the expedition.
"Well done, Proxenus," the prince exclaimed. "Between you and Clearchus I'll have half of Greece fighting for me before we're through!" He flashed a friendly grin. "Xenophon of Athens, son of Gryllus?"
Xenophon seemed momentarily taken aback, but quickly recovered and stiffly replied, "Yes, sir."
Cyrus stood looking at him for a moment in some amusement. "At ease, my man! By the gods, who do you think I am, King of Persia? I've heard much of your father-all reports of the very highest order, I assure you, though I don't imagine he would say the same about me." The prince chuckled and stood up to walk around his table to where we stood. I was surprised to note how short he was. I somehow always imagine men's influence to match their height, and never fail to be disappointed at how modest in stature most great men are, or for that matter, how tall I am.