The army camped here for five days while Cyrus pondered his next move, and on the fourth evening the prince assembled the Hellenic officers in his tent compound for a feast and a council of war. Xenophon invited me to accompany him, and I gratefully accepted, even if I was not permitted to do other than stand quietly in the shadows near the doorway, with the other squires and guards. The enormous tent had been decorated inside as a monumental battle trophy, a brilliant move by Cyrus designed to hearten and bring out the warlike spirit of his guests. They had scarcely settled on their couches when Cyrus stood up.
"Captains," he said, eschewing the typically flowery speech Persians reserve for such formal occasions. "I will not mince words. Ordinarily, in order to gain power, the second son of a great king, like myself, either resigns himself to some minor satrapy or resorts to an assassin's skills. His position is nebulous, he remains always at the mercy of others. I prefer war. In war, a man either wins or loses. The outcome is clear. The gangrenous member is lopped off cleanly, the wound does not fester.
"Abrocomas fled before us in fear, his tail between his legs, even though his forces outnumbered ours by a factor of three. It is his misfortune that combining his army with those of my brother the king will not increase his strength; a company of cowards only makes those around them more cowardly. We will now have a million men to rout, instead of three hundred or seven hundred thousand. Tell your men to rest their sword arms with special care-the killing we have before us is much more than we had any right to hope for."
Cyrus then sat back down at his place, and calmly sipped from his goblet. All in the tent had fallen to stunned silence at this display of bluster. Hardly a man moved but for the slaves padding softly among the diners, filling their cups. Xenophon shot a cautious glance over at me where I stood in the shadows.
Certain of the captains, namely Clearchus' Spartans, nodded their heads and began banging their fists enthusiastically on the table in front of them, shouting their approval. Others, however, muttered under their breath, despairing as to how they would break the news to their men, who were already pressed to the limit by the long march and unwilling to venture any farther from the sea than they already had. After a few minutes, Proxenus stood up, and the room fell silent again.
"Prince Cyrus, permit me to speak openly, anticipating the reactions of our men." Cyrus nodded in assent.
"We have loyally followed you this far, first in our belief that we were to punish the Pisidians, then the Cilicians, and finally Abrocomas here at the Euphrates. Each time we pushed the men farther from Ionia. But pushing Greeks away from the sea is like herding cats from a plate of fish. The men will say that your true intent all along was to engage the king's army, and that you hid this from them; that you prevented them from returning weeks ago when we were camped in Cilicia; and now that we have advanced as far as the Euphrates you have deceived them again, as it is even more difficult to return home now. Prince Cyrus, I tell you with all respect, it is at your own peril that you attempt to cross the Syrian deserts and fight the king with a Greek army, unless you make amends with the Hellenic troops and convince them that it is in their interest to continue following you."
I held my breath at Proxenus' audacity. Cyrus, of course, was not dense. Proxenus' hint was so broad as to be bordering on extortion, but the prince did not flinch. He gazed evenly at Proxenus, who remained standing, staring back at the prince impassively, as the other officers shifted uneasily at their places. Finally he smiled, and standing up he raised his cup to Proxenus.
"And I thought I was a man of direct words," Cyrus said as the men chuckled tensely, though in some relief. "Proxenus, you know my circumstances as well as any man here. For practical reasons I cannot carry wagonloads of gold to distribute to the men each month. But I acknowledge that the men may have had… other expectations." The officers nodded at this, and Cyrus paused for a moment as if thinking, his eyes still locked on Proxenus.
"Let us strike a bargain, then, which you will carry back to your men. When we reach Babylon, each man will be entitled to five minas of silver." A general buzzing started up among the men in the tent, and even the slaves paused in their tasks to listen more closely. The sum was huge. "And," he continued, "I shall double their current wages to a full three darics per month until their safe return to Ionia."
The officers gasped. Proxenus, inscrutable as always, paused briefly before raising his cup to the prince in return. "A generous offer, your lordship. I shall convey it to my men, and though I cannot yet speak for them, I feel confident that under those conditions they would follow you to Hades and back."
The officers erupted in loud exclamations, standing up and raising their goblets to the prince, and clapping each other on the shoulders. Xenophon, however, was slow to raise his cup and stood quietly in place beside Proxenus, saying not a word while the men around him chattered enthusiastically with each other. He would tell me later that he imagined that the sorceress Circe had cast her weird spell on the greed-blinded men and turned them to swine. I wondered what old Gryllus would have said, when told of a war fought by Greeks not for pride or principle, but for three Persian darics a month.
The banquet proceeded in a merry way. Cyrus' slaves poured copious amounts of pine-aged, resinous Thasian wine carried all the way from Greece for the enjoyment of the guests. Steaming stacks of roast fish were brought in fresh from the river, drenched in syrupy pomegranate and peach juices and garnished with leeks and other greens, followed by thrushes served on steaming beds of asparagus. Just as the guests' appetites had been whetted, a chorus of oboes sounded and six men staggered into the tent carrying a roasted ox spit between two poles. Laying it carefully upon a wide, flat board, one of them drew a scimitar, and with three enormous blows split open the beast's belly from sternum to crotch. The attendants leaned their arms into the cavity up to their shoulders, for what we expected to be the removal of the viscera, only to proudly emerge with a roasted sheep, steaming and dripping with onions and herbs, the sauces pouring from its sides. The man with the scimitar then split this open, spattering the nearby guests with fragrant juices. A roast pig emerged from the mess, its own belly neatly sewn up. The scimitar man gave a sigh of mock exasperation, to the delight of the guests, and with another blow split open the pig. It had been stuffed with a kid goat, the empty spaces filled with baked apples that had been simmering for hours inside the entire concoction, lending their perfumed fragrance to the meat of all the animals surrounding them. The scene continued, each animal containing another one smaller-a fat goose, a chicken, a partridge, an ortolan, a nightingale, and several animals more, no doubt down to a final grasshopper or grub, though I was too far in the back of the tent to see what precisely the cook was displaying. The servants soon ensured that every man was happily gnawing a favored limb, and watched carefully that no empty space appeared on a guest's plate without another slab of steaming meat or a chunk of flat, toasted bread being heaped on.
A banquet by Cyrus would not have been complete without entertainment, and this he provided in abundance, from the talent he had brought with him or later recruited among the camp followers. The Spartans looked on in dumb amazement and no little consternation as jugglers and tumblers, whose services they thought they had banned months ago from the army's presence, pranced through the tent, sometimes performing several acts at once for various groups of eaters. Clearchus, because of his fierce countenance, was a favored foil of the jesters and magicians, though amazingly, he took it in good humor. Lovely, nude flute girls from Syria supplied even more active entertainment, dancing and contorting their limber bodies through ever-spinning series of hoops tossed into the air and caught in time with the music, or juggling small, razor-sharp swords, glittering in the lamplight. One girl danced and writhed on the floor with an enormous trained snake, and it was remarkable the things she had taught it, or perhaps she had drugged it.