The Falcon of Sparta Read online

  If the young prince had not been coming home to his father’s deathbed, Cyrus might have been amused at the way the people of the city gathered to watch the strangers. Traders from the fruit market had come wandering over, while those they paid to guard them looked on and glowered. The Greeks who wore red cloaks were famous even there, though entire nations and a stretch of open sea lay between Persepolis and the valley of Eurotas – three months and a world away. As well as the legendary cloaks, the Spartans wore their own bronze greaves, covering both legs from ankle to knee. They had come ready for war, even to escort a prince home.

  They had stacked their shields in neat unguarded piles as they dived into the water, as if they could not imagine another man stealing from them. Each one was marked with its owner’s name on the inside, while a single letter showed the enemy where Sparta lay in Greece – the lambda that was the first letter of the region of Lacedaemon. Each one was polished bright and cared for like a lover.

  As he mounted up, Cyrus wondered if any of those staring would ever know Sparta as he did. To the mothers pointing out the foreign warriors to their children, these were the very ones who had humbled Persian Immortals time and again, earning themselves a legend. Such men of Greece had smashed the army of Darius the Great at Marathon. It had been Spartans who led Greek soldiers against the Persian King Xerxes at Thermopylae and Plataea and Mycale. Persia had conquered almost thirty nations, but been turned back by Greece – and the warriors who wore red cloaks.

  Those dark days were far in the past, though memories were long. Cyrus looked away as his men formed up in a perfect double rank, ready for his command. Spartans had come in the end to break Athens and rule all Greece, but they fought for him because he paid them – and because he understood their honour. The silver and gold he gave them went home to build temples and barracks and armouries. They earned nothing for themselves, and he admired them above all other men – except for his father and brother.

  ‘Come on, old lion,’ he said to Tissaphernes. ‘I have delayed long enough. I must not wilt from this, though I can hardly believe it is not a mistake, even now. My father is too strong ever to die, is he not?’

  He smiled, though his pain was clear. In response, Tissaphernes reached out and gripped his shoulder, giving comfort to a younger man.

  ‘I was your father’s servant thirty years ago, before you were born. He had the world in his hand then. But even kings have just a short time in the sun. It comes to us all, though your philosopher friends would question even that, I am sure.’

  ‘I wish you had learned enough Greek to understand them.’

  Tissaphernes made a scornful sound.

  ‘It is the language of shepherds. What do I care for the speech of slaves? I am a Persian.’

  He spoke in easy earshot of the Spartans, though they gave no sign they had heard. Cyrus looked at their officer, the one named Anaxis. Fluent in both languages, Anaxis missed nothing, though he had long ago dismissed Tissaphernes as a bag of Persian wind. For the briefest of moments, Anaxis met Cyrus’ gaze and winked.

  Tissaphernes saw the prince’s expression lighten and jerked around in the saddle, trying to see what had caused the change of mood, who had dared to mock his dignity. He saw only that the Spartans were ready to march once more and shook his head, muttering about farmers and foreigners.

  The Spartans wore their shields on their backs for long marches. Though they were in no danger, Cyrus passed the word for parade style. Marching through one of three capital cities of the Persian empire, they would carry the discs of golden bronze and wood on their left arms, with long spears ready in their right. They wore short swords on their hips, with the infamous kopis weapon ready at the small of their backs. Those heavy, bent blades were fearsome things, considered unsporting by their enemies. The Spartans laughed at that sort of complaint.

  The bronze helmets they wore covered their beards as well as thick braids of hair that hung down to their shoulders. The helms hid both exhaustion and the weaknesses of men, leaving the cold aspect of statues. Having their features in shadow was just one of the things that made them so feared. Reputation meant something more. Carrying the weapons and shield of a father or grandfather meant more still.

  As they left the river behind, Cyrus and Tissaphernes walked their mounts through the streets, the crowds clearing ahead, giving them room. An eerie silence fell, both among the people of the city and the men striding through it.

  ‘I still think you should have left your mercenaries behind, Highness,’ Tissaphernes murmured. ‘What will your brother say when he sees Greeks chosen over Persians?’

  ‘I am a prince and the commander of my father’s armies. If my brother says anything at all, it will be that my dignity is the honour of our house. The Spartans are the best in the world. Who else could have kept pace with us these last weeks? Do you see any Immortals here? My servants? One of my slaves died on the road trying to stay with me. The rest have fallen behind. No, these men have earned their place at my side, by being at my side.’

  Tissaphernes bowed his head as if to acquiesce, though he was angry. Cyrus treated the Spartans like true men and not the mad dogs they were. The Persian general knew without turning his head that some of them would be watching him as they marched. They trusted no one who stood close to their master, just as curs would threaten and growl. Still, it would not be much longer. The two horsemen led the Spartans uphill, following the road to the great steps that would take them higher, to the plateau of the Persian king.

  The great steps had been cut wide and shallow to allow the king to remain on horseback as he returned from a hunt. Cyrus and Tissaphernes walked their mounts ahead and, in jingling ranks, the Spartans followed them up. Cyrus could feel the eyes of his father’s Immortals on him as he approached the narrow gate of the outer wall. His father had spent the treasuries of nations on his plateau, both in deepening the cut across the face of the mountain and on all the luxuries that lay within. Though it was the garden of an empire, it was yet a fortress, with a permanent guard of two thousand men.

  The final step ended at the door, so there was no place for an enemy to gather and attack. Cyrus felt the light change as Persian officers blocked the sun overhead, staring down at his party – and in particular at the Spartans on the steps behind, bristling with four weapons to a man. Cyrus showed a bland face as he looked up at the walls, lit gold by the setting sun.

  ‘I am Prince Cyrus, son of King Darius, brother of Prince Artaxerxes, commander of the armies of Persia. In the name of my father, open this door that I may see him.’

  They left him for a beat longer than he expected, so that Cyrus began to colour. His rising temper subsided as he heard chains and bars removed and the door swung open, revealing a long yard beyond. He swallowed, determined not to show fear. In that, he and his Spartans were well matched.

  Without dismounting, Cyrus and Tissaphernes rode their horses through into the sunlit yard. The light was softer by the hour, shading gently into summer’s evening. Cyrus knew that he was home at last, that he should relax and look ahead to seeing his father. He was not yet certain how the old man would react to him, nor he to the Great King. He felt unsure of himself in the face of that loss, rushing down upon him. Not all the strength of arms in the world could keep his father in it for one more day if it was his time. It was that helplessness that made Cyrus tremble – not the killing ground he entered.

  The defences of the plateau were not just in the men on the outer walls, but also the funnels through which attackers would pass. If they somehow reached the steps and broke through the gates, each side of the fortress was separate from the other. Enemy forces could not rejoin until they had passed through two long and narrow yards, open to the sky.

  Cyrus and Tissaphernes did not hesitate and rode through to the end of the killing ground. Fifty ranks of six Spartans followed in perfect order, spear-butts resting on the dusty ground as they came to a halt before an even greater door ahead.
/>   Behind them, the outer gate was shut and barred. More than one of the Spartans frowned at being held in a place where they could not manoeuvre. There were shelves of stone running all round that yard, the height of two men from the floor below. The purpose of them was not obvious and the Spartan officer Anaxis tightened his grip on his spear. He felt the hostile stares of Persian guards more used to looking fine in their polished panels than any actual fighting.

  In the front, Cyrus and Tissaphernes glanced at one another and dismounted. Anaxis tried not to crane his neck to see who had come out to greet them, though the conversation was blocked from his view by the horses. He did not like that. It was his duty to protect Cyrus, and perhaps the fat, older one as well. Yet no orders had been given to remain alert or to watch for a threat. Anaxis knew he was in the citadel of an old enemy, but he was also the personal guard of one of their princes, a man he rather admired for his honesty and lack of affectation. Certainly, as Persians went, the prince was a good one. Cyrus had shown no fear, or anything other than concern for his father. Yet Anaxis found himself looking up to the stone shelves around them, almost like the long seats of an Athenian theatre. The Persians were half-decent bowmen, he knew. The Spartan did not like the thought of being overlooked, not in that place.

  None of those thoughts showed in his face, which remained hidden in the shadow of his helmet. Anaxis stood like a statue in bronze while Cyrus and Tissaphernes spoke in low voices ahead. Yet Anaxis was pleased when one of the mounts moved, letting him see the prince.

  Cyrus turned to the Spartans at his back, his face fixed and stern.

  ‘My brother has given orders for me to enter the royal gardens without guards,’ he said. Cyrus seemed about to speak again and shook his head. It was barely a signal at all, though Anaxis felt his heart sink.

  ‘Perhaps your brother would not mind if I accompanied you,’ Anaxis said.

  Cyrus smiled at him.

  ‘My friend, if there is treachery, one more man would make no difference.’

  ‘I always make a difference,’ Anaxis said, seriously.

  ‘That is true, but I must trust in my brother’s honour. He is the heir to the throne and I have given him no reason to doubt me.’

  ‘We will wait here, until you return,’ Anaxis said, dipping onto one knee. He spoke in the manner of an oath and Cyrus bowed his head before raising the man back to his feet.

  ‘Thank you. You honour me with your service.’

  Cyrus turned to find Tissaphernes watching with a scornful expression, gesturing to the gate that led deeper into the royal plateau. Beyond that long yard lay the first gardens, planted on soil brought up from the plains and tended by a thousand slaves. Trees had been set there, forming shaded avenues, with tiny monkeys chasing birds from branch to branch and the air thick with the odour of green boughs and jasmine.

  Cyrus ignored the little seneschal who had come to meet him, not yet sure if the man’s status was an insult or not. His brother Artaxerxes would be found at his father’s side, of course. It meant nothing that he had sent a mere servant to accompany Cyrus through the gardens.

  Tissaphernes seemed to shed the cares and strains of their trek as he walked, breathing deeply of fragrances he knew well and seeming almost to grow as he stretched his back and stood taller. He had known Cyrus for all his life and been mentor and friend for most of it. Yet they shared a very different outlook. Cyrus loved people, there was no other way to describe it. They were his passion and he collected friends as other men will earn coins. In comparison to the prince, Tissaphernes could hardly hide his dislike of crowds and sweaty soldiers.

  They walked for an hour through paths so twisting a stranger might have been lost a dozen times. Cyrus knew them all from his childhood and followed the seneschal with the barest concentration. His father’s pavilion lay at the far side of the plateau, surrounded by palms and slaves, all waiting for his final breaths. Cyrus felt his throat tighten as he walked, listening for the wailing voices of his father’s women.

  Anaxis looked up at the first scrape of a sandal on the stone above. The Spartans had stood in silence for an hour or so, taking their cue from him. Anaxis cursed under his breath when he saw the troop of Persian soldiers walking out, filling the ledges on both sides. They wore ornate black armour and carried bows set with precious stones, like guards in a play or perhaps on the door of a whorehouse. To his eye, they looked like children who had run amok in a king’s treasury.

  The Persian officer wore plumes of black and white feathers that twitched in the wind, far grander than anything Anaxis had ever seen at home. The man’s skin shone with oil and his hands with gems. He carried no bow, but only a short sword in a gold scabbard that had to be worth a small city all on its own. Anaxis raised his eyebrows at the thought. There was plunder and loot in that place. Such things were worth remembering.

  ‘Ready shields,’ Anaxis said clearly.

  Many of the men had placed their shields on their backs or rested them against their legs. They took them up once more, grim with the same dislike. None of them were comfortable with archers standing in a superior position, while they were crammed into a killing ground below.

  Anaxis looked at the stone walls with fresh eyes, seeing how smooth they were. Above his head, three rows of Persian archers halted to the left and right, perhaps as many men in all as watched them sullenly from below.

  The plumed officer came down a narrow path at the corner, standing with his sandal half over the lip of the stone, so that Anaxis could see the studded underside of the sole. For a time, no one moved and the air grew still, with no breeze to give them relief. The shadows had crept some distance since the prince and Tissaphernes had gone, but the evening light seemed not to have changed. Though it was warm, Anaxis felt his scrotum tighten. The men looking down on the Spartans were smiling as they fingered their weapons. They had strung the bows, he noted. Though they wore the ceremonial armour of the royal court, they were arrayed for slaughter. He scratched his beard.

  ‘How hard would it be to get onto that ledge, do you think?’ he said to his friend Cinnis. In more normal times, Cinnis was a bulky man, rightly proud of his strength. Fourteen days of loping along on sand roads had made him leaner and more surly. He shrugged.

  ‘If two men hold a shield flat, like this –’ he held out his own by the edge – ‘a third could be lifted up easily enough. You think they are going to attack?’

  ‘I do, yes,’ Anaxis said. He raised his voice to the rest, knowing it was unlikely anyone above them could understand a word of Greek. ‘Someone has decided to strike us down, it seems. So. Shields ready to raise overhead. Stand in threes. Make no move unless we are attacked, but if we are, I want men flung up to them. I like this place. I think we should hold it until Prince Cyrus returns.’

  ‘Or fight our way out to the river and away,’ Cinnis murmured.

  Anaxis shook his head, as his friend had known he would. Anaxis had given his word. He would not suffer the shame of Cyrus returning to find he had abandoned his post. Cinnis hunched his shoulders in rising anger when he saw the first bows bend.

  Above their heads, the Persian officer drew in a great breath to give an order. Cinnis held out his shield, the far edge immediately gripped by another. Their eyes met in fury at the betrayal.

  The plumed officer shrieked and the Persian bows bent fully, the noise like clattering wings as the first arrows plunged among them. As they struck, Anaxis stepped onto the shield with a dozen others along the length of the yard. Each of those men was thrown upwards, crashing into astonished archers. Anaxis arrived in their midst with his spear and the vicious kopis blade ready, laughing at their panic.

  2

  Cyrus paused on a wide path between lime trees. Tissaphernes went on a few steps before returning to his side.

  ‘What is it?’ the older man asked.

  ‘I thought … Ah, I have been away from home a long time. It was the cry of birds, or the keening of slaves. The empire mou
rns, old lion. My heart weeps within me and I thought I heard its voice. My father has made the world around him. This place alone! It is a wonder to stand so high above the plain, to feel this breeze and know the shade of these trees, yet to recall this entire plateau was cut from the flanks of a mountain. Kings achieve more than other men, if they have vision.’

  ‘Your father was always a man of will,’ Tissaphernes said. ‘Though he was not always right, he made a decision and then moved on it. Most men find such an act wearying, whereas your father grew stronger and more certain with every year that passed.’

  ‘With fewer doubts.’

  ‘Doubts are for children and the very old. We see too many choices at those times, so that reducing them all to a single act is harder. Yet as men in our prime, we cut away the weak choices and reach out for the sword, or the spade, or the woman.’

  Cyrus glanced at the man he had known his entire life, seeing him lost in memory.

  ‘You were there when he became king, of course,’ Cyrus said, his voice dry.

  Tissaphernes raised his eyes to the evening sky for a moment.

  ‘You mock me. Yes, I have told it to you a dozen times, but I saw greatness in him even then. His brother was king – and your father accepted that and gave his oath of loyalty. He pressed himself to the floor and all men knew he would follow.’

  ‘I know the tale,’ Cyrus said, suddenly tired. Tissaphernes went on as if he had not heard.

  ‘Yet another brother was not so great of spirit. No, Prince Sogdianus was not able to put honour before his own desire to rule. Just six weeks after that coronation, Sogdianus crept into the royal bedchamber with a copper knife. He stood before the court as the sun rose, though he was red and smeared with royal blood, though he left trails and loops behind him, as if he had sported in it. He told them all that he was king and not a voice was heard in complaint. It was then your father stepped out of the crowd.’