On the fifth day we reached the foot of the mountain known by the locals as Theches. It was surrounded by other formidable peaks, but this one stood out both for its overall height, towering above its brethren, and for its aspect: a smooth, cone-shaped slope rising to a flattened top, with sides of loose gravel and boulders, heavily wooded at the bottom and with the trees thinning out near the summit. The road meandered back and forth along the mountain's flank and through the trees, rarely affording any glimpse or view from the side of our approach, and requiring that the army climb in a single file, two abreast at the most, because of the roughness of the terrain. The road wound directly to the top of the mountain and down the other side.
This approach made the officers nervous. The troops would be stretched out for miles, unable to properly defend themselves in the event of an attack. It increased the likelihood that we would lose stragglers and the sick and wounded, and it would be virtually impossible to push and pull the bulk of our provisions and equipment up the steep, loosely graveled trail.
"We have no choice," Xenophon told his captains in resignation. "Leave the remaining wagons and supplies; we'll drive the livestock and pack animals between companies, with the sick and wounded to follow. We're vulnerable to attack; every soldier marches armed, in full panoply."
The next morning Chirisophus' soldiers led, as usual. The army was slow to move, marching singly or in twos, and it was almost three hours later that the rear guard was finally able to assemble in marching order. Shortly after the last scouts had pulled up their spears and begun climbing, we heard faint shouts from miles ahead, echoing through the ravines between the mountains. Xenophon's eyes narrowed.
"What are they shouting? Is it an attack?"
I could not distinguish the words, nor even the tone of the voices, but twenty minutes later the shouting had become more distinct and ever louder. We could now make out the clashing of weapons on shields.
"It's an attack," shouted Xenophon. "Double-time!" Then muttering more to himself than to anyone nearby, "I knew the sons of bitches would be watching our formation."
The men began trotting, groaning as they strained up the steep ascent in their gear, dreading the thought of yet another battle, and fearing for their safety in an extended, strung-out column. The troops' stepped-up pace created a ruckus all its own as the captains shouted orders and the armor and weapons clanged noisily, and for over an hour this obscured from us the source and quality of the sound we had heard. The men eyed the summit nervously, but it gave us little indication of what we were facing, for as each company ahead of us crossed over the lip and onto the flat plateau, they simply disappeared from our view. Chirisophus had sent no word back to us on the army's status or his needs for reinforcement, and we expected the worst.
Xenophon could finally bear the suspense no longer. Racing back to our makeshift cavalry, still headed by Lycius but now serving more as an ambulance and transport squad than as a fighting unit, he seized a horse and told Lycius to cut the provisions and litters loose from the animals. Lycius' face beamed at the thought of finally engaging in true cavalry action again.
Xenophon and twenty riders went trotting up the hill, forcing aside the ranks ahead of us to pass, as the shouting and clanging ahead grew louder. Suddenly reaching the lip and climbing over onto the flat of the mountain top, we encountered a sight that burst the heart.
The entire army that had arrived thus far, perhaps two-thirds of the total, was in complete and utter disarray; some of the troops had gathered in circles and were kneeling in the mud, their arms encircling each other's shoulders, praying to the gods. Others were maniacally slamming their shields against those of their comrades, like boys playing at combat, or pounding with their fists on each other's shoulders, even running aimlessly in circles. Still others simply stood as if transfixed, staring at the horizon to the north. Above all was the noise-deafening, steady, relentless shouting, a mixture of chants combined with sobbing and wails, the whole melding together, transformed into an orderless, indistinguishable, indescribable mass of sound. The words were incomprehensible, until one looked into the faces of the soldiers and saw tears not of desperation and fear but of rapture, and until one realized from their gestures that those praying were not beseeching the gods for deliverance but praising them in thanks, and until one read the lips of those quiet ones simply standing still and weeping, their mouths forming those words so long denied us in our terrible march across the deserts and over the mountains: "Thalatta, thalatta!"-"The sea!"
Men seized Xenophon and lifted him high onto their shoulders, laughing and bellowing his name in the chant they had cried when they had first acclaimed him general so long ago. They pummeled his back as he gazed proudly around at his warriors, a broad smile creasing his face and flashing through his thickly grown beard. I stood alone, watching in a daze, a mixture of ecstasy and ache, as the men that had been marching behind me continued to pour over the crest of the mountain to their own first, rapturous view of the sea. After a moment, however, I sensed a presence I had long given up hope of encountering again, and turning around I found that I was not alone, for Asteria stood silently facing me, her eyes hollow and tear-filled, her cheekbones prominent on her gaunt face, but with a gentleness to her expression that stopped my heart just as surely as if a goddess had appeared before me. I opened my arms and she stepped into them as if she belonged there and had never left.
I looked up and there, just visible in the smoky, distant haze, shimmering like the blade of a sword catching the light of the sun, was the narrow blue line of the sea. So true it is, that tears belong to joy and sorrow alike.
CHAPTER THREE
THIS, OF COURSE, is the dramatic climax of my tale, the point at which, had it been a drama enacted on the stage, the audience would be settling back into their seats, hoarse from cheering, wiping the tears from their eyes, while the play concluded with some feeble spoken epilogue recited by the story's narrator, or a closing hymn chanted by the chorus. If the gods had any sense of proportion or balance, or even artistic awareness, this is what they would have permitted, and indeed the feeble epilogue will be coming soon enough, for those readers who would not feel my reminiscing to be complete without it; but the gods had one further plot twist in mind.
There is a dramatic device often used in our Greek plays, which I consider as being a sign of intellectual laziness, or perhaps excessive piety, on the part of the playwright, and it very well may be that the two are the same thing. Just when the protagonist's circumstances appear to be as dire as can be imagined, with no possible way to escape his impending doom, an actor representing a benevolent and all-powerful deity is lowered by ropes and pulleys from the top of the stage. He then proceeds to emit lightning bolts to destroy the enemy, or cast a spell to reconcile the young lovers, or perform whatever other sorcery may be required to enable the drama to be satisfactorily resolved and to tie up all loose ends in the remaining moments. We refer to this as a "mechanical god," a means of putting back to rights all that is unresolved, in a way not otherwise humanly possible.
To my knowledge, no playwright has yet considered the opposite phenomenon of, shall we call it, a "mechanical Nemesis," though language and Greek dramatic tradition fail me here. The image I mean to convey is one of a grubby, smirking little satyr that clambers unannounced from where it has been lurking beneath the stage floorboards and proceeds to immediately undo all satisfactory outcomes that have been rendered. In the final minutes of the play, he throws into chaos all instances of victory, reconciliation, and happy endings that were on the verge of being so painstakingly wrought. But in the drama of human life, is not this phenomenon more common than the former? Is it not truly a more realistic example of the actual behavior and performance of the gods, either through clumsy blundering or willful spite? It is no wonder, therefore, that I have lost faith in the benevolence of our guardian deities.