As my cry died away, the maddening terror of the inner music stopped instantly and the fragrant night air rushed furiously back into my lungs. The stars returned to their normal places, and the sparks of frost fell back into formation, lined up neatly along the horizon and no longer threatening to break rank. I sat as if paralyzed, gazing around at the plain, as if in the Land of Dreams where the burnt-out wraiths of mortals dwell. I listened to the silence in wonder, as intently as I had listened to the impending rush of madness, daring it to return, forcing my will to face it and defy it, even trying unsuccessfully to bring again to mind the hellish harmonies that had filled my being so completely a moment earlier. My soul had returned to me, and was again firmly attached to those murky recesses in a man's body where it lurks, like a bat roosting in the darkness, eyes glittering in watchfulness.
Strangely, sitting there in the vast silence, a soft sound became evident: so soft I thought I had not heard it, and yet so near that the hair bristled at the back of my neck. I froze, and listened more closely: again it came, the same almost imperceptible rubbing sound, the slightest scraping, not inches from where I sat. I lay silently on my side and placed my face close to the ground, at the point from which I thought the sound had come. It stopped for what seemed a lifetime, as if its maker were considering what meaning to ascribe to this large-headed being that had placed its shaggy, sweat-drenched body so close to it. Slowly emerging beneath my eyes, softly reflected in the glittering blackness, I could make out the translucent gleam of an earthworm, carefully, blindly feeling its way out of the tiny hole it had spent its life digging. The minuscule particles of dirt it shoved aside as it slowly moved made the softest of scraping sounds to my overly sensitized ears, and as a comrade worm emerged from its own hole a few inches away, I heard yet another soft scraping sound, made by the tiny cap of dirt being pushed away from the top of its hole.
To this day, I am not sure what effect this stealthy consideration of a microcosm had on my spirit; for after my soul's wandering to its past, and the almost fatal crushing of my being by the revolving heavens and earth, this tiny dose of the most tactile reality-a vibrant, gleaming earthworm pulsing with life, pushing a speck of dirt from its hole into the starlight-seemed to be the antidote to my precariously balanced sense of proportion. I watched the worm almost without stirring for the rest of the night, slowly regaining my strength as my spirit rested and my mind emptied itself of all its fears of the past day and worries for tomorrow. I observed the worm and thought of nothing but how it busied itself with pushing insignificant quantities of dirt to and from its hole in its search for a dead thing for nourishment, and I took pleasure in this, as if it were a secret, known by no other being in the world-just myself and the worm.
As I watched, I marveled at the fact that even this insignificant creature, toiling anonymously, Sisyphus-like in its dark confines, was somehow able to make a small difference in the world; and it occurred to me that this tiny worm, rather than being a confirmation of death and decay and futility, was actually an affirmation of the persistence and stubbornness of life.
Though the mysterious music often returned to my mind for brief spells, like the lingering sleeve-tugging of some ancient deity afraid of being forgotten, it never again tormented me to madness.
CHAPTER TWO
COLLECTING OURSELVES ONCE again after the disastrous crossing, we set out across the plain, heading endlessly, unremittingly north. We were a day removed from the river when we were met by a small group of horsemen in ceremonial garb, among them the governor of the land through which we were passing, who entreated us not to harm his villages and livestock. Xenophon and Chirisophus, having been through this routine many times before, scarcely looked up from their trudging to address these nobles. They merely muttered their assurance to the barbarians that our only intention was to reach the Greek colonies along the Black Sea as quickly as possible, and that in passing through their land we would take only the provisions we needed to survive.
The governor and his envoys looked on in astonishment, though whether in response to Xenophon's weary rudeness, or to the army's overall aspect of complete exhaustion it is difficult to tell. Perhaps he felt pity for us, or mistrusted our ability to prevent the men from plundering, or possibly he felt that in our ignorance and weariness we might stray from our path and thereby tarry longer in his land than was absolutely necessary. In any event, after watching for an hour as the army limped slowly past his horses, he exchanged quick words with his advisors and then galloped back up to the vanguard, where Xenophon was marching this day in company with Chirisophus, and offered us the use of his chief advisor as guide. He explained that though our destination was not far ahead, no more than a hundred miles, the road passed through lands hostile to his own tribe, and that it would behoove the Greeks to have a reliable guide and interpreter for our own safety.
"We haven't had much luck with volunteer guides in the past," I pointed out to Xenophon, not even bothering to keep my voice low out of politeness. "What assurance do we have that this man will lead us to safety, and not into ambush?" Xenophon straightened up and eyed the governor suspiciously.
The barbarian snorted, overhearing my complaint. "I don't see that you're carrying anything worth taking," he noted observantly.
"Neither did the tribesmen in the interior," Xenophon snapped churlishly, "yet that didn't seem to dissuade them."
The governor softened his expression. "We bear you no ill will; in fact we often trade with the Hellenes along the coast. But if you insist on assurance, take my advisor as a hostage. If you do not spy the sea within five days, you have my permission to kill him."
The fixed smile on the advisor's face wavered briefly at this. Shrugging his shoulders, Xenophon merely grunted his assent and told the advisor to lead on. First, however, he gestured to me to seize the man's horse. I calmly walked over and grasped it by the reins.
"We don't ride horses in the army when on the march," I told him sternly. "We have too many sick and wounded in need of them. You're able-bodied; you can walk like the generals."
The guide glanced in dismay at the governor, who simply nodded as the man reluctantly climbed down and stood in the mud in his thin slippers. Xenophon sidled up to me where I stood, about to walk the horse back to the baggage area.
"Rather than loading it with gear," he said softly, his eyes steadily holding my gaze, "you might check with the Rhodian slingers. I understand they have some sick among them who would probably benefit from riding in a litter."
I gratefully nodded yes, and trotted off to find Asteria.
The guide proved true to his word, leading us not only on a direct route, but also showing us shortcuts and easier paths which we would have never found by simply using our crudely drawn maps. As soon as we passed over the boundary of his country on the third day, however, the man noted that we had entered the territory of his tribe's traditional enemies, and began urging that we burn every grove and field in our path. This, then, was the true motivation for the governor's kindly volunteering of his advisor as a guide. Xenophon refused the bait. Not only did he not wish to incur any further enmity on the part of the local inhabitants-a famished army of ten thousand marching through one's country is bad enough-but he was unwilling to delay the army's journey any longer to engage in mere plunder, or otherwise distract us from our one overriding goal-reaching the sea.