The Persians bravely stood their ground for a moment as their officers stared in amazement at the murderous Greek onslaught, and then, as if at a signal from their commander, all but the prince turned and ran like rabbits. The horrified queen vaulted out of the chariot like a mule driver being called to breakfast, and the entire population of the city fled the field. Cyrus signaled for the Greeks to halt, which they did immediately, raising an enormous cloud of fine dust as they skidded to a stop, lowering their pikes butt-end to the ground. The sound of their terrifying roar died to a distant echo and then disappeared completely. The only sound to be heard, carrying across the field and reverberating through the silent, windblown streets of Tyriaion, was Cyrus' hooting laughter as he stood alone in his chariot, tears streaming from his eyes.
"By the gods," I whispered to Xenophon out of the corner of my mouth as we stood motionless in the dust with our eyes locked on Cyrus. "Did you see them run?"
"Don't gloat, Theo. Remember, they're supposed to be on our side."
"Let's hope the barbarians we fight against are just as cowardly, or we don't stand a chance," I said.
Xenophon merely grunted, but I could see that he had gained little pleasure from the display.
The men were angry, and the tension in the blazingly hot, dusty camp was palpable. After dropping off the now tiresome queen in Tarsus, where her long-suffering husband maintained his palace, the army had dug in its heels and for three weeks had refused to march, to the mutual consternation of both old King Syennesis and Cyrus. The troops had heard rumors that the prince's true goal was to conquer his brother, King Artaxerxes of Persia, and for this, they said, they had not been hired. Mutiny was at hand, and disaffected leaders had risen among the men. "Greeks are men of the sea!" shouted one budding orator. "The sea! As long as we are near the sea we are near our homes! The same waters that lap our feet on enemy territory also wash the beloved shores of our homelands!" The thought of facing the enormous forces of a powerful king hundreds of miles from the sea, across burning desert sands and sun-scorched mountains, among strange gods and men ignorant of the sea, was incomprehensible to the soldiers. With the exception of Clearchus' Spartans, they refused to take further orders. When a group of officers led by Proxenus stood before the troops and tried to reason with them, they were pelted with rotten food.
Xenophon returned to our tent bewildered and astonished, wiping egg from his hair. He had no time to rest or explain, however, as Proxenus burst furiously through the tent flaps a moment later.
"Don't even clean up!" he ordered, his face red and his jaw clenched in fury, his own tunic fouled with rotten fruit. "I want Clearchus to see this!" Grabbing Xenophon, he stalked over to the general's quarters, meeting along the way the other officers who had been present, and who were equally outraged.
When he heard their account Clearchus was livid, raging up and down the tent in front of his officers, and muttering threats of death against the mutineers. He finally stopped, glaring at the officers, and took a deep breath, holding it for a moment. The scar on his temple stood out from the surrounding skin, angry and painful. He let his breath out in a great sigh, and then slowly and consciously, he composed his face with the calm air of an actor performing the lead role in a tragedy by Euripides in the Great Theater of Athens. Taking Proxenus to one side, he whispered to him for a moment, gesturing to him tensely with his hands in tight little thrusts and chops as Proxenus nodded grimly. Then striding impassively out of his tent, Clearchus stepped up to a large boulder, shouldering aside an angry sergeant who had been shouting epithets against Cyrus to the growing ranks of rebellious Greeks. The sergeant at first looked behind him in fury at this rough treatment, but when he saw Clearchus glaring at him, he flushed white and hurriedly took his place among the watching mob.
Clearchus recomposed his face, and cleared his throat as the men began quieting themselves to hear him. He was a man of authority, a Greek like them, yet one they were not sure they could trust. And then he began to weep.
"Comrades!" he shouted, tears streaming down his cheeks. The troops went stone silent at this unexpected display of emotion. "We have fought and marched together since pummeling the Thracians in the snows of their own mountains a year ago. Some of you have been with me even longer, in the war between Sparta and Athens. Since that time, I have been privileged to lead veterans from every Greek polis, in service to my benefactor Cyrus. The prince gave me ten thousand darics to convince me to join his forces-and not a copper did I spend on myself! All of it has gone to you, to recruit the most skilled, the most experienced, the most battle-hardened sons of bitches that have ever marched on earth!"
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.