Mithradates did not bother with a complicated plan of action, as successful as his method had been the day before. When his troops caught up with our rear guard, we let their cavalry and slingers approach in a mass within the confines of the ravine, until their missiles began to inflict damage. At a signal from Xenophon, our heavy troops parted, and the two hundred Rhodians stepped through the front lines, wearing light armor and helmets but carrying no shields, and oblivious to the Persian arrows darting past them. At that close range the Persians were practically point-blank targets for the skilled Rhodians, and as planned, the Rhodians did not even attempt to fire through the enemy's heavy bronze breastplates or helmets. Instead, they aimed their deadly lead "bees" directly at the unprotected necks and flanks of the horses, and we watched with a mixture of admiration and horror as the rough-edged pellets drilled deep holes into the horses' neck muscles and windpipes. The spiral grooves on the balanoi had the "singing" effect Nicolaus had intended-a terrifying, high-pitched scream as the burrs on the missiles spun rapidly through the air. The combined effect of a hundred of these eerily whining bullets at a time, and the moist, thwacking sounds they made as they slammed into their fleshy targets, drove the enemy horses into a frenzy. Within seconds the Persian lines had reverted from the confident march of cavalry and infantry bent on destroying the foe and returning home in time for supper, to utter chaos and devastation. Horses reared and fell, toppling and trampling their riders, and the Persian bowmen and slingers were unable to maneuver their large and ungainly weapons in the close quarters and crush of men.
The Spartan hoplites shook their heads in wonder. As the enemy finally managed to flee back into the ravine, our new cavalry troops doubled out in pursuit, followed by the Spartans, trampling and slashing at the terrified Persians they encountered along the way. Xenophon and I watched the rout in admiration and delight.
"By the gods," he said in amazement, "if only I had an entire army of these boys. Each of them is worth five Spartans, and they sure as hell eat less!"
I laughed, but immediately became serious. "They're grateful to you, Xenophon, for uniting them and recognizing their skills. They're the most loyal troops you have in the army."
Xenophon gazed thoughtfully at the pursuing Greek cavalry, which had now receded far into the distance in their chase. "And that loyalty must not be taken for granted," he said. "There may come a time when we'll need it. We must take good care of our Rhodians-especially Nicolaus," and he trotted back to the lines to confer with the officers.
Eighteen fine Persian horses were captured unharmed during the pursuit, which made a useful addition to our cavalry, and fine meals in the months to follow. As for the Persian dead, after much discussion with Chirisophus, Xenophon reluctantly ordered them mutilated and dishonored, Persian-style, to strike terror into the enemy. The Spartans praised what they called Xenophon's "beekeepers" as only Spartans could, solemnly chanting the victory hymn to Ares, the god of War, and awarding simple myrtle crowns, the Spartans' highest military honor, to the beaming young Rhodians.
Tissaphernes continued to dog our steps, but now kept a prudent distance. Thus we marched for three hundred miles, moving north along the left bank of the Tigris to the ancient cities of Nimrud and Nineveh, which had once been inhabited by the fearsome Medes but had been conquered by the Great King one hundred and fifty years earlier. To think that any Persian army such as the one tormenting us now had once been able to overcome such fearsome fortifications as these was staggering. The walls of these cities were twenty-five feet thick and a hundred feet high, their positions seemingly impregnable. But the Great King was much more of a man than was his unfortunate descendant Artaxerxes-unfortunate, I say, because King Artaxerxes' inferiority was acknowledged not only by the peoples and troops of both sides, but also by himself. It is a sad thing for one to have to submit so humbly to the obvious excellence of one's ancestor. It is as if one has become a disappointment to the procreation of the generations, an offspring as sterile as a mule, not in terms of fecundity but of strength and honor. It is terrible to look back on the glorious history of one's family, and to see its many and famous branches converge to an insignificant point, like the drooping and wilted tip of an immense hemlock tree, and to realize that such a laughable, incongruous apex of the generations, such a shadow of a great name, is oneself.
We gazed in wonder at the ruins of these mighty cities, now half filled with sand and dust, their baked clay walls crumbling to rubble. The only inhabitants were hyenas slinking through the alleys, howling at their own shadows, and vultures perched on the ancient battlements, their pink heads raw and boiled-looking, their brains ingrained with ancestral memories of rotting cadavers piled against the city walls, which had not furnished sustenance for them for five generations or more. Only the occasional trading caravan or band of Bedouins passed through, rarely staying more than a night.
For three days we camped inside the walls, most of the troops fearing the spirits and arraying themselves by unit in the open squares. Only a few dared to venture into the courtyards of the ruined palaces, or to enter the abandoned shells of the houses or apartment blocks, and to wander through the silent, deserted rooms. What manner of men had inhabited these dwellings, I wondered. How can a hundred years or five hundred years of men's lives spent in these rooms-centuries of laughter, plotting, lovemaking, eating and pissing, experiences so vivid and intense to the participants at the time-be so completely effaced from the earth and from memory that not even ghosts remain to tell us of them, having disappeared in frustration at the dearth of living visitors to torment in their hauntings? In vain I combed through the ancient rooms and hearths, seeking-I am not sure what-some evidence of a man's ability to make his existence felt, some small dropping or sign, some token, a toy or a tool, that here lived an individual, a man like me, that despite the horror of his city's destruction, some small proof of his one-time presence lives on; but all I found, until the final night, were ashes.
On that night, at the intersection of two massive, perpendicular walls, a deserted place where Asteria and I found ourselves in one of our aimless nocturnal wanderings, I kicked aside some pieces of rubble to clear a place to sit, and was startled to discover a neatly preserved human hand emerging from the earth. The smooth, oversized member gleamed a malignant gray, one of its marble fingers chipped off, the rough stone inside the break sparkling in reflection of the starry, moonless sky above. The ghostly limb seemed almost to tremble in the flickering light of my tiny lamp, and for a moment I thought I saw it move, admonishing us for disturbing its owner's rest, or beckoning us closer with its remaining fingers. We recoiled from the site in terror and awe, and returned to camp glancing anxiously over our shoulders, fearing lest the shades of ancient kings be stalking us through the city's crumbling courtyards and streets. For long hours that night I lay sleepless, staring at the ceiling and listening to the soft rustling and random growling of the feral curs skulking outside the tent, sniffing for stale crusts of bread or untended flesh.
The next afternoon we made camp a day's march from the abandoned city walls, under storm-whipped and chilling skies with black thunderheads glowering threateningly at the massed armies below. Tissaphernes himself appeared on the plain in clear view at the head of his troops, his black and gold winged-horse banners slapping in the wind. Over the weeks spent pursuing us thus far, he had combined his forces with those of Orontas, another son-in-law of the king's, and Ariaius' hundred thousand native forces that had traveled up country as our friends, and who were now arrayed against us as enemies. The combined forces were enormous and seemed to cover the plain. I climbed gingerly to the peak of a crumbling battlement and surveyed the Persians' huge army. When I compared it to our insignificant band of tattered Greeks, hundreds of them wounded and many others burdened with the supply wagons, our resources seemed pathetically feeble, and I feared what the gods had in store for us.