Picking my way through the confused jumble of wagons and tents in the women's section, I sensed the burden of mournful and accusing glances pressing upon me from every shadow and shelter. I wandered blindly and fruitlessly for an hour, uncertain that I would ever be able to find her-when suddenly, seemingly from nowhere, I felt her soft hand slip into mine and tug me gently away. She led me to the edge of the camp, and I tried to pull her close to me, but she stiffened, resisting me, and continued to guide me forward in the dark until the mournful sounds of the camp had been left far behind and we came to a small rock outcropping, sheltered by a forlorn shrub. Here she finally stopped, and without sitting down, turned toward me, her face shadowed in darkness and her body tense.
"Theo, last night was… last night I was afraid of everything, and what we did was wrong. I am sorry."
I remained silent, waiting for her to continue, for I had nothing to contribute to a statement such as this.
"You know me but you know nothing about me," she said. "I am a child of the Persian court. I was beholden to the prince, and before that to his family. Yet here in the desert I have nothing. I can bring you only misery."
"Asteria, if you mean a dowry, that is not something I am concerned with. I too have nothing of my own. And a marriage is impossible for the time being anyway, under these circumstances."
She paused for a moment, seemingly puzzled, before I saw a faint, sad smile briefly flit across her face. "That isn't exactly what I meant. It is a question of family honor. My father…"
I interrupted her, glowering. "You are concerned about honor and your father-why, because I have no rank? I am a soldier of Athens, a warrior. I have no money, but I have a strong arm, and the vast heritage of my city. Who is your father, what does he have to boast of?"
She sighed. "Theo, you don't understand. If it were merely his disapproval, that I could endure. It is something far more than that, though, something I fear I could not live with. How can I betray my father?"
"Betray him? Where is your father now? Of what possible threat can I be to him, or him to me?"
"I'm not even sure myself…"
"Asteria-look at our situation, look at your situation. A woman must take protection where she finds it. I am here, and he is not."
She paused for a long time in the darkness, peering into my face, seeming to perceive me as clearly as if it were light, again attempting to divine the response of the gods before acting. After a moment she moved toward me, and I felt her warm, fragile body press against me. I bent down to breathe in her scent, the same powerful perfume of charred wood and crushed flowers that had lingered in my nostrils since her visit the last night. As we settled on the sparse, dusty grass beneath us, I began fumbling clumsily with her tunic, attempting to slip my hand beneath.
"Wait," she said, "we haven't time. The sun is beginning to rise already." The eastern sky had indeed begun to lighten and the camp was beginning to stir with the sounds of morning activity, though hardly anyone had slept more than a few hours.
I relaxed and an almost overwhelming sense of weariness and release washed over me, leaving me grateful for the opportunity merely to lie still with her in my arms. She, too, seemed content, worlds away from the tension and desperation of the night before. Still, the terrible doubts I had harbored earlier continued to nag at me.
"Asteria," I began haltingly, "last night, when you were leaving, I think I had a dream-it was as if you, and your knife…" I was at a loss for words, for how do you speak to someone about such an experience? I looked at her face, which was gradually becoming more distinct in the graying sky, her limpid eyes almost glowing in the ethereal gray light, yet still colorless as shadows. Her expression was blank, almost quizzical, as she gazed calmly back at me.
"We don't know from where dreams come," she said, "or why they fade. It's not important. You dream of death but it's only a dream. Our lives move forward."
For the second time in my life I heard four words that struck me, leaving an imprint not to be removed, like a scar, or a family tattoo on the neck of a baby. I held her close and observed the return of Eos, and then for a short time I slept, mercifully free of dreams.
The next day we traveled uneventfully as far as a small cluster of villages without catching sight of any enemy forces, although we were shadowed the entire way by Tissaphernes' cavalry scouts traveling singly or in groups of two or three, keeping well beyond arrow range. That night, the first in over a week that the army had had a chance to rest from sundown to sunup, the men were spooked. Sensing their restlessness, Xenophon asked me to quietly make the rounds among them, to try to identify their fears.
"It's not necessary, Xenophon," I said. "I know what they are feeling. The men have seen too much. They're horrified at losing the prince so far from the sea and home. They fear the Greek gods of their past have left them, and that weighs heavily on their minds."
Xenophon pondered this, but I could see from his expression that he remained skeptical.
"Those are all general concerns," he argued, "but these men are veterans-they have experienced loss as well as victory. Surely the entire camp can't be on the verge of panic because of a vague feeling of abandonment by the gods?"
"There is one thing more," I admitted, as he stared at me expectantly. "The Greek troops, unlike the officers, did not swear an oath of loyalty to Ariaius' men. They don't trust them, particularly given their desertion of the camp followers at Cunaxa. The native troops' camp is only a mile away, and they outnumber us by a factor of ten. Our men can't shake the feeling that a dark shadow has been cast directly over them."
Xenophon gazed out over the camp in understanding, and began walking slowly back to Clearchus' quarters. The sky was dark and glowered with thunderheads, blotting out the moon and stars, and the troops huddled close to their fires and to each other for comfort. Every shout from a neighboring company, every oath from a soldier banging his finger while splitting wood, every whinny of a distant horse made the men jump and peer fearfully into the darkness. Everyone knew, or imagined, that we were surrounded by stealthy Persians, Tissaphernes' assassins or Ariaius' traitors, creeping unseen through the darkness, ready to pick off stragglers with a quick slash across the throat, or whole companies of us by a volley of arrows as we passed in silhouette in front of our bonfires.
Even by the second watch, none of the Greeks had gone to sleep. They began consolidating into larger groups as men sought out those of their own dialect and country for comfort. Twice fearful commotions arose as someone shouted that there was an attack and everyone rushed for their weapons. The army would never survive the night intact-it was on the verge of a riot, and men were ready either to kill their commanders out of fury at the loss of their dreams of wealth, or to break and run wildly into the night, each trying to save his own skin by abandoning what he felt was the certain death of the others.
As the night went on, a third panic fell on the Greeks, this one encompassing the whole camp, and an uproar ensued like one might expect from a surprise enemy attack. Clearchus despaired at the men's fears. He had the trumpets blown, and sent around his veteran herald, Tolmides the Elean, who had a harsh, grating voice that could be heard like a broken bell above the hubbub. At Clearchus' orders Tolmides bellowed for silence, and issued a proclamation from headquarters:
"Let every man know this! Your commander Clearchus beseeches you to return to your individual companies and to remain still, under penalty of death for abandoning the line and rank; and he hereby offers a reward of one talent, or fifteen years' pay, for information leading to the identification of the man who let the wild ass loose in camp and created the unholy commotion that is disturbing the commander's sleep."