Asteria pursed her lips tightly and stared down at the ground in silence, absent-mindedly massaging the fingers of her hands, stiff from hours of carrying water gourds and bundles suspended from thin leather thongs.
"That is not what I meant, and you know it," she muttered softly. "Sometimes I think you purposely act dense."
"You flatter me," I retorted dryly, "by suggesting it is only an act."
"Theo, it doesn't have to be this way. We don't have to live in filth, fearing every day for our lives, wondering where our next meal will come from."
"What are you saying?"
"I have… people over there. We would be welcomed, and for life. You would owe nothing to anyone, in fact you would be honored, and I could…"
Her words began tripping over each other in her excitement, her hands fluttering in an attempt to prop her racing syntax. I seized her shoulders, hard, and turned her to squarely face me as I forced her gaze to mine.
"Are you saying we should defect? Have all these Greek deaths, has Cyrus' death meant so little to you that it comes down to this? Defect to the enemy?"
She licked her lips and weighed her words carefully before answering.
"Theo, you see everything in such black and white. Not all Persians are your enemy, nor all Greeks your friend. Even a single man may simultaneously be both, be of mixed mind and intent, even act at times as if he were two different individuals. Cyrus was a Persian, yet you fought for him. My own father is a Persian, yet… here I am. I was raised among Persians. Artaxerxes always treated me kindly, like a beloved niece, and he would accept you as a… as a nephew."
"What about your father, Asteria? You were concerned he would view me as a betrayal of his honor."
"I have thought about this. Measures could be taken before we departed that would soften his heart… if you were willing…"
I stared into her pleading eyes, losing myself in them for a moment as I vaguely considered her extraordinary suggestion; as I came back to myself, however, I shook my head in wonder that I could ever entertain such a notion.
"It's out of the question. I know you mean well, but I could never leave the Greeks, never betray Xenophon."
She bit her lip and stared at the ground in silent disappointment.
"I won't mention it again, Theo."
I nodded at her silently, a wave of gratefulness and relief washing over me. A disturbing thought, however, suddenly crossed my mind.
"Asteria-at Cunaxa, when you were being dragged out of Cyrus' tent, why did Tissaphernes kill his own guard, instead of you?"
She looked at me evenly, and gently eased my heavy hands from her shoulders.
"It's as I said before-not all Persians are your enemy. And, Theo-"
I remained staring at her silently, waiting for her to finish.
"Not all Greeks are your friends."
CHAPTER TWO
THE NEXT MORNING dawned chilly and cold, with a heavy drizzle that belied our position on a vast, desertlike plain. The clouds hung low over our heads and the hard-baked ground had long since absorbed what little moisture it was able to hold,and now refused to accept any more. The water simply lay on the surface, like an enormous, shallow, muddy pond, reflecting our misery and rejecting our every wretched attempt to find a dry place to sit or stand, or to build a fire.
The men were tired and restless, and there was no breakfast to be had. The soldiers milled about aimlessly, performing their tasks only desultorily, falling back into the habits of despair that had been burdening them since the slaughter of Clearchus and the other officers. Up on the ridge was a growing body of enemy cavalry aligned and facing us, lances poised and pennants fluttering, seemingly preparing a charge, much to the dismay of our own troops, whose entire body of horses numbered no more than forty. Xenophon approached Chirisophus, the ranking Spartan remaining in the army and a fine old soldier, greatly respected by the men. An initial glance at the veteran's weathered skin and flowing, steel-gray hair and beard would cause one to wonder how a man of such years could have survived the difficult march thus far. Indeed he often sat silent and apart from the troops, seeming to doze, like an elderly servant fading quietly into retirement. His appearance was deceptive, however, for Chirisophus was merely a master at conserving his strength. When called upon to act, he was as vigorous as a twenty-year-old ephebe, and if crossed, would erupt in a deafening string of oaths that would curl the beard of the most blasphemous Spartan in the vicinity. Chirisophus had fought at Clearchus' side for twenty years, and was the only man able to stand up to the brutal general's threats and bluster without fear of punishment, possibly the only other soldier Clearchus had truly respected. It was this man whom Xenophon approached.
"Chirisophus, I need your counsel. Your Spartans are breaking camp and maintaining order like soldiers on a parade ground, but the rest of the troops look like old women."
"So I noticed," Chirisophus said dryly, chewing on a blade of grass and observing the sloppy preparations of the other troops and the barely organized chaos of the camp followers. The deep creases at the corners of his eye were not cheerful, as they are in some older men, but rather betokened long hours of staring into the glaring sun, and ultimately a sort of weariness or boredom with the world. "And I believe some of them camp followers ought to be put out of our misery."
Xenophon ignored the cruel remark. "Look-last night you voted for me to lead the troops-I saw you. But I am an unknown quantity. The men look up to you. Take a few of your colleagues and fan out among the troops. Talk to them and raise their spirits if you can, speak to them as a fellow soldier. I have no ulterior motives for leading the men, but they may not believe this. Convince them that we need to move on."
Chirisophus looked at him a long moment, as if sizing him up. I wondered whether the old soldier might not choose to simply strike off for home on his own, accompanied only by his Spartan troops, rather than encumbered by a massive crew of inferior soldiers from the other Greek states and a veritable second army of motley camp followers. He apparently decided in Xenophon's favor, however, for shifting the grass blade noncommittally to the other corner of his mouth, he glanced toward his troops and called for three or four of his squad leaders.
While Chirisophus walked about and talked quietly to the men in small groups, Xenophon himself arranged to happen upon their conversation as if by accident, and asked the men to tell him their concerns.
"The cavalry!" One of the men shouted. "How do you expect us to fight our way up the Tigris against ten thousand cavalry, when we have none?"
Xenophon looked pensively up the ridge where the king's cavalry brigade was continuing to grow in strength, and was now hovering over us like an evil black thunderhead ready to explode. He forced himself to gaze back down to the troops, who had locked their eyes on him in silent expectation. I saw their scars, their knotted, muscled shoulders, their long Spartan braids that never failed to strike fear into the enemy. I saw their massive, thirty-pound oak and bronze shields that they swung about as if made of papyrus, and their short but deadly swords, each of which had killed a dozen men in battle, or more. And I knew beyond a doubt that the Persian cavalry, though they were the best horsemen in the world, on the finest mounts, were men like us, but not like us. For they were Persians, and we were Greeks.