‘No!’ Parmenion snapped. ‘Now the summer is here she will improve. I know it.’
Without waiting for her to speak, he ran back beyond the barracks and on to Leaving Street and the house of Xenophon.
*
On the day of the Game Xenophon awoke early. The sun was just clearing the eastern peaks, long thin shafts of light spearing through the warped shutters of his bedroom window. He rolled to his side and groaned. He always enjoyed dining with the King but, as life so often proved, all pleasures had to be paid for. His head was pounding, his stomach queasy. He took a deep breath and sat up, pushing back the thin sheet which covered him and gazing down at his torso. The muscles of his belly were ridged and tight, belying his forty-seven years, the skin of his face and body burnished gold from frequent naked exercise in the early morning sunshine.
The general rose and stretched before his bronze mirror. His eyesight no longer had the keenness of youth and he was forced to peer closely at his reflection, noting with distaste the slight sagging of skin beneath the blue eyes and the silver streaks appearing in the gold of his hair. He hated the process of ageing, and dreaded the day when lovers would come to him out of duty, or for money, rather than desire.
The youth last night had been charmed by him, but more than anything he had wished to be seen with Xenophon, hero of the March to the Sea, the rebel Athenian acknowledged as one of the greatest generals of the age. At this morale-boosting thought Xenophon chuckled and moved back from the mirror. He opened the shutters, felt the sun on his skin, then sat once more on the firm bed.
The March to the Sea: the year of glory. Was it the Fates, the will of Athena or blind luck? he wondered. How could a man ever know? Outside the sun was shining, the sky cloudless, just like that day at Cunaxa when all his dreams and beliefs were put to the test; when Cyrus had fought for his birthright. Xenophon’s eyes lost their focus as the events of the day swarmed up from the dark corridors of memory. Cyrus, as handsome as Apollo and as brave as Heracles, had led his troops into Persia to fight for the crown that was rightfully his. Xenophon had known they could not lose, for the gods would always favour the brave and doubly favour the just. And the enemy, though superior in numbers, had neither the strategic skill nor the
valour at arms to defeat the Greek mercenaries who loved Cyrus. When it came the battle was a foregone conclusion.
The two forces had met near the village of Cunaxa. Xenophon had been a junior officer under Proxenus then, and he remembered the sudden rush of fear as he first saw the enemy, stretched out in a vast battle-line. He had ordered his men into close formation and waited for orders. The Persians set up a great roar, clashing spear hafts to shields, while the Greeks stood silently. Cyrus galloped his charger along the front line, shouting, ‘For the gods and glory!’ Outnumbered, the Greek phalanx charged into the Persian horde, which broke and ran. Cyrus, looking like a god upon his white stallion, then led a ferocious assault on the enemy centre, sending his treacherous brother -Artaxerxes the King – fleeing from the field. The glory of victory, the fulfilment of destiny!
Xenophon shivered and walked to the window, staring out over the roof-tops. . . but he did not see them. What he saw was sunlight on lance points, what he heard was the screams of the dying and the cacophonous clash of sword on shield at Cunaxa as the Greeks, in four-deep formation, routed the barbarians.
Victory was theirs. Justice had prevailed, as all men of good heart knew that it would. And then?
Xenophon sighed. And then a common Persian soldier-a peasant by all accounts, unable to afford armour or sword – had thrown a rock which struck Cyrus on the temple, toppling him from the saddle. The enemy, in the process of flight, saw him fall. They regrouped and charged, coming upon the valiant Cyrus as he struggled to rise. He was stabbed a score of times, then his head and right hand were cut from his body.