To those certain of an enemy attack, the news that the uproar had been caused by a mere runaway donkey brought welcome humorous relief, and reassured them sufficiently that they were able to rest for the remainder of the night. Those who were wiser, who knew the enemy was not present, but who were even more afraid of the army's potential for self-destruction, were calmed at Clearchus' foresight in claiming that he, for one, was sleeping soundly. A few enterprising individuals even spent the night peering into every tent, searching for the rogue donkey.
As for myself, I passed the rest of the evening pondering what the deities could have been thinking, to have blown their poor Greeks, like Odysseus, so far off course.
Proxenus woke us early the next morning, in a cheerful mood.
"Tissaphernes' ambassadors are arriving! Clearchus just received word from our outposts that heralds from the Persians have requested entry to the camp!" I put on a clean tunic, and began sand-polishing Xenophon's armor and mine. Cyrus was dead, yet the king and Tissaphernes appeared to be as wary of the Hellenes as we of them, or they would not have sent a party bearing a flag of truce to parley with us.
In the meantime, Clearchus did not miss the opportunity to make Tissaphernes' ambassadors feel some discomfort. He sent word to the outposts to detain them out of sight of the army until he was ready. Then he called together his commanders to issue orders.
"Form the army into battle array along the top of the ridge," he said. "Place the heavy armor in the center with the targeteers along one side and cavalry on the other. Make sure the ranks are at least three deep, and keep the baggage wagons and camp followers down in the valley. No need for the king to be reminded that he outnumbers us a hundred to one."
When the envoys arrived moments later, he ordered that they be disarmed and dismounted, with even their ceremonial lance bearing Tissaphernes' golden winged-horse pennant taken away. They were escorted by the most hulking and heavily armed Spartans, past a field where six of Proxenus' Boeotian engines were conveniently engaged in horrific practice, to Clearchus' headquarters. This he had arranged something in the manner of a tribal throne, drawing upon the experience of his years spent in Byzantium, inside an enormous tent he had hastily cobbled together from several others. The interior was sumptuous-all armored attendants, veiled harem girls lounging on cushions, priceless carpets and tapestries and worshipful slaves awaiting his slightest order. The whole scene was so foreign to the rest of us who, unlike Clearchus, had no experience with Persian ways, that it was all we could do to keep from laughing, especially at the sight of our austere Spartan leader so surrounded by luxury. He gave us such a black look, however, with his terrible, scarred face and single, bushy eyebrow that ran without pause the entire length of his forehead, that he silenced us dead in our tracks. He then composed his expression into a haughty scowl to receive his guests.
The Persians were impressed with the scene, having at first, outside the tent, mistaken Proxenus for the chief officer because of his commanding appearance. After being suitably berated by a guard for their lack of respect, they were ushered into the dim, smoky coolness of the "throne room." There were three of them-generals, from the looks of their haughty military demeanor, fine silk sashes and robes and carefully oiled and curled beards. As they strode proudly onto the carpets inside the tent, Clearchus reclined sipping a cup of wine, affecting a pose of utter indifference. The envoys launched into the carefully prepared introduction and formulations that precede all Persian court palavers, reciting the litany of honorific titles that garnish the Great King's name like jewels in a crown:
"General Clearchus: On behalf of Lord Tissaphernes, Commander of the King's Cavalry, who speaks for the great King Artaxerxes, King of kings and Judge of men, Ruler of multitudes of lands and peoples, Conqueror of races far and wide across the entire breadth of the earth, Brother of the Sun, Omnipotent among Mortals, Invincible and Exalted, a Persian and son of a Persian…" The interpreter raced to keep up.
Clearchus leaned forward and interrupted the florid speech, waving his hand wearily and dismissively.
"I don't have time for your boot-licking introductions," he sneered in his grating voice. "You spew idle flattery like droppings from a fucking she-goat." I prayed that the interpreter was a clever one, or at least not too fluent. "I ran your crack troops into the ground at Cunaxa like a bevy of Chian flute girls. My camp followers ground their bones for meal, and they are eager for more. If your cloven-footed king wishes a truce to arrange matters going forward, he'll have to do better than send dung-eating rump-scratchers like you. Tell Artaxerxes that my army has not yet had breakfast, and that we do not do business on an empty stomach. Greeks don't eat dog turds and thorns, as I'm told Persians do, so if the king is unable to provide some proper provisions willingly, as a sign of good faith, we will have to obtain supplies on our own terms." At that, Clearchus, the ascetic Spartan, leaned back into the darkness with an evil smirk, beckoning one of the trembling girls to refill his glass.
The Persian generals stood frozen in horror, their barely contained rage flushing their cheeks. I had to pinch my arm black and blue to keep from guffawing on the spot, and I could see Proxenus' jaw muscles tensing as he worked to stifle his laughter. The embassy filed out silently, only to see that our men had been arranged into two long files outside the tent entrance, between which the ambassadors had to pass for what seemed an eternity before they finally arrived at their horses and were given back their weapons. As they mounted, on a signal from Proxenus the troops raised a deafening roar and began banging their spears loudly against the bronze rims of their shields. The suddenness of the clamor so frightened the already skittish Persian horses that they bolted, and it was all the enraged generals could do to hang on to the beasts' necks with both arms to keep from falling as they leaped away, back over the ridge to the Persian camp.
Clearchus' ruse succeeded, for the ambassadors were back that afternoon, bearing a considerably humbler and less formal demeanor. This time, he kept them waiting almost two hours before summoning them in to his august presence. Without further introduction, they informed him that Tissaphernes felt his request was more than reasonable, and that as a sign of good faith, he would lead them to a village of suitable size where they could camp comfortably as long as they liked, have ready access to a market for food, and make preparations at their leisure to complete whatever arrangements were agreed to between the king and the Greek leadership.
Clearchus dismissed the ambassadors to a meager supper he had arranged for them (a thorn branch courteously placed on each plate in order, he said, to make them feel more at home), and consulted with his council. It seemed best not to overplay his hand, for sooner or later Tissaphernes would discover the Hellenic forces' true strength, and it would not do to insult him further before a proper truce could be arranged. Clearchus waited an appropriate time, letting the ambassadors become so fearful of the outcome that they hardly touched their food; and when even the Greek officers themselves began questioning whether he might have a change of heart, he finally summoned the ambassadors back and ordered them to return to the king and arrange guides for his army at first light.
CHAPTER TWO
SUSPECTING THE KING'S potential for treachery, Clearchus marched the army in full battle array. The physical obstacles we encountered, oddly enough, were not of the gods, mountains, or rivers, or even the desert, but rather man-made. The land was riddled with dozens, perhaps hundreds of ditches and irrigation canals that could not be crossed without first building bridges, which we did by cutting down date palms and lashing them together. Clearchus himself set the example in this effort, wading into the mud with the younger men and carrying logs on his shoulders. At one point, spying a shirker resting in the reeds munching on bread he had saved from that morning, he dragged him out by the hair, threw him into the mud at the bank of the canal and beat him brutally with a heavy wooden rod he carried to pry embedded logs. The man was bleeding and unconscious before Clearchus finally laid off the punishment. The troops had gathered around silently and now stood staring, some reproachfully, others in fear and wonder at the harsh treatment.