"Greeks!" Proxenus shouted, and the men became silent. "We are arguing about the fate of an army of ten thousand, but we are ignorant of the facts! We have no idea what Cyrus' reaction might be, whether hostile or friendly-we only know that he will not be indifferent. Let us send Clearchus to Cyrus to ask him directly what he intends. The prince is honorable, he can either persuade us to stay and accompany him against Abrocomas, or we can persuade him to let us depart honorably, as friends, with a promise of safe conduct. We can then decide based on his response."
The men muttered their assent, and Clearchus clambered down from his perch. Accompanied by Menon and Proxenus, he left the men on the parade field and walked slowly across camp to Cyrus' headquarters, where they passed the guards and entered the canvas tent. There they remained for two hours, while the men's fears at the thought of returning, without Cyrus and his native troops to protect and guide them, grew and festered in their minds. Xenophon remained silent, apart from the rest of the men. He ignored the efforts some of them made to divine his opinion, offended that they would so readily turn for advice to someone whom they had pelted with filth such a short time before. Shadows lengthened and the men's patience stretched to near breaking, when someone finally shouted that the officers were returning, and we saw Clearchus and the others emerge into the sunlight, salute back into the dark entrance of the tent, and walk stiffly back across the camp to the anxiously waiting men.
Clearchus climbed back up onto his rock and looked out over the men, this time with his shoulders thrown back and his great bearlike chest thrust out in his customary arrogant Spartan strut. There was no need for him to quiet the men with his hand, yet he stood still, drinking in their expectant silence for a long moment before beginning.
"Men!" he bellowed. "The prince tells me he intends to march to the River Euphrates twelve stages away and engage his enemy Abrocomas. If Abrocomas is there when he arrives, he will destroy him and disband the rebel army. Cyrus invites us to go with him, though if we refuse, he will let us depart as friends and will give us a guide for an overland march. To sweeten our decision, he offers every man half again as much pay as before-instead of one daric per month per man, one and a half…"
The men broke out cheering even before he had finished, and there was no hesitation as to what the decision might be. The troops disbanded happily back to their units.
That evening, in response to Xenophon's questioning glances, Proxenus laughed and told us that he was bound by oath not to disclose the conversation that had taken place in Cyrus' tent. I later found out, however, that the prince had not even been present in the tent-he had left camp the day before on a boar-hunting expedition, and had not returned until after sundown the following day.
CHAPTER TWO
"IT ALL STARTED when my old rooster died," Nicarchus said, his eyes bleary in the firelight but with a sly grin spreading across his face. That night, unable to sleep amidst the sounds of singing and celebration surrounding us, Xenophon had awakened me for company. Approaching a fire that had been built high and was particularly well attended, Xenophon was hailed by the men, who invited us to join them and have a swig or two from their wineskin-they seemed to have already spent the extra darics Cyrus had promised them.
Nicarchus the Arcadian, one of Proxenus' sergeants, had been laughing so hard at a joke that I thought he would burst his gut. When he saw us approach, he gained control, clapped Xenophon on the shoulder, and ceremoniously dusted off a space on a log for us to sit down. Normally a reserved, even rather morose individual who spoke slowly and with the drawn-out vowels of his native country, his face was ruddy from the unaccustomed wine and he was feeling especially voluble tonight.
"What a pleasure you're able to join us, Cap'n," he drawled, overcompensating in formality to offset his lack of concentration, and passing me the dripping skin. I looked around the fire and saw twenty faces in various states of inebriation grinning at me, and I wondered if I might have better spent my time that night continuing to try to sleep. "We was just singin' a few old songs and discussin' the glorious history and culture of my dear native land." He reached back over to reclaim the wine.
"Don't listen to him, sir," said Gellius, a hard-bitten old veteran who alone among the others seemed to be maintaining his sobriety. "As if Nicarchus ever had anything to contribute to Arcadia's glories! He's just a drunk old farmer too much into his cups to even tell a story straight."
Nicarchus drew himself up in indignation. "A drunk old farmer, you say?" His eyes struggled to focus. "I'll have you know, I was the biggest egg producer in all of Arcadia, and would still be livin' the good life there today 'stead of settin' here on my arse with you lice-bitten pig turds, if it warn't for that damned rooster." He looked around the campfire expectantly, waiting for someone to take the bait. I saw a few of the men smiling and shaking their heads in exasperation.
After a few seconds of silence, my own curiosity got the better of me, and against my better judgment I asked Nicarchus, "What rooster?" Several of the men groaned.
"Well now, sir," he said thoughtfully, "it's quite a story, and I might add, an instructive one at that." I began to think we might end up seeing sunrise out here, but the men were happy, the wineskin continued to be passed, and I made myself comfortable.
"Y'see, I had a large farm, with the biggest hen coop in those parts-a hundred and eighty laying hens, I had, at least they were layers, until a fox got my rooster. I depended upon those eggs for my livelihood, y'see, so I go into town to the poultry dealer, and ask for the best cock he has, because I have a lot of hens that need servicing.
"The dealer reaches into his cage and pulls out the biggest rooster I ever seen. He has a huge red comb, muscles bulging on his legs, and a Spartan lambda tattooed on his shoulder, which was shaved. Shit, if Clearchus were a rooster, this would be him. 'His name is Leonidas,' the dealer tells me, 'and he'll cost you a bundle, but he'll keep your hens satisfied.'"
The men chuckled, and Nicarchus leaned forward to poke at the fire.
"Well, I take Leonidas home and throw him in with the hens, and sure enough, he struts around like the overgrown sack of chickenshit he is, picks out the hen he wants, jumps on her, and before she can even let out a squawk, he keels over dead. I pick him up by the neck and think, 'What the hell did that bastard sell me? This old buzzard barely got it up once before he fell down cold.'
"That same afternoon I take my dead bird back to the dealer and show him what happened. Well, I have to admit, the dealer was nice enough about it all, even apologizin' for Leonidas' sorry-ass performance, and I almost begin to feel sorry for the feller. So then he reaches back into his cage and takes out another rooster, even bigger than the first. This one has a bright yellow comb and blue eyes-looks like a fuckin' Scythian-and I'll be damned if he isn't wearin' a spiked leather band around his neck like Cerberus the hound, and kickin' the shit out of the other roosters in the cage. Well, I take him home and throw him in the coop with my hens, to see if I can get my money's worth out of this one.