The Falcon of Sparta Read online

  ‘Tell him I am loyal, Mother, that I have always been loyal. I have never given him reason to doubt me. Tell Tissaphernes as well.’

  ‘I will, of course.’ His mother raised her arms and drew him into an embrace. ‘He knows your value, my son. I will remind him of all you have done. Go back to your work now and do not fear assassins. I will write to you when I am sure.’

  Cyrus nodded, kissing her on the lips then striding out onto the sand, already hot under his sandals. He had entered with a guard of three hundred, with Tissaphernes at his side and his favourite horse under him. He would leave with nothing but his life.

  He did not look back at his mother, or the men closing one gate behind and still others opening the one ahead. He could only hope her authority would protect him, though he feared a single arrow in his back for every step across that yard that reeked of blood. There were arrowheads glinting in the sand, with shards of spears and flakes of bronze that looked like gold coins. He mourned for those who had trusted in his word. Cyrus was certain of one thing as the last gate opened and he looked on the great staircase of rock leading to the plains below. He had been loyal – to his father, to his brother. In return, they had struck at him. And they had missed, though perhaps something had died in him after all.

  He began to lope down steps he had climbed so easily on horseback. The city of Persepolis stretched out across the plain, but the entire world lay beyond. He was known throughout the empire as commander of all his father’s armies. So he would leave his father’s capital for a time – and visit far-flung regiments and the officers who led them – officers who had knelt to Cyrus to give their oaths.

  He showed his teeth as he went faster and faster down the steps, leaving behind the stares of guards, the smell of blood and betrayal. He would come back. He would see Tissaphernes and his dear brother again, he swore it to himself. If he had to raise an army, he would. The king’s messenger had reached him at Susa, where the Royal Road began and headed west to Sardis. What had seemed an end could just as easily be a beginning. This was a new morning after all.

  4

  Cyrus staggered as he walked towards the fortress, set back from the track leading west. He was covered in dust and his eyes were red with wiping grit and sweat from his brow. He had been on the road for two days, with no food and only a small flask of water. He had learned endurance from the Spartans, how far sheer will could take a man if he were sufficiently determined – and if no one ever told him it was all right to lie down and die.

  There were no rivers in that landscape of brown hills and dry ground. The fortress itself was made of baked mud around a well, the entire structure seeming to have grown out of the earth like an old bone. Cyrus thought it might have been one of those places where he had rested with the Spartans, but he could not be certain. He feared he would find it abandoned, the inner well gone dry, the soldiers vanished back to their hill tribes. He felt like weeping when he saw movement on the high wall by the gate, but he had no water and he could not weep.

  ‘Open the gate,’ he said. His voice was a whisper and he recalled he had kept a mouthful of water to wet his tongue, for this moment. He unwrapped the stopper and upended the bottle, but there was nothing. He had drunk even those last drops somewhere on the road.

  He stood, looking up into the face of a soldier glowering at him.

  ‘Get away, beggar,’ the man said. ‘If I come down there, I will beat you. Do not make me stir myself in this heat. Away!’

  ‘Give me water,’ Cyrus croaked up at him.

  The soldier looked away, but all men knew the ache of thirst in that place – and the value of precious water where there was so little. The rivers were veins of life and all men lived between them. If they ran dry in a hot season, crops would be lost, entire villages made bones and dusty skin, silent in death. On the ramparts, the soldier swallowed and looked behind him. Without another word, he vanished from sight.

  A smaller door set into the gate swung open moments later. The guard stepped out, his sword drawn and his eyes suspicious. He tossed Cyrus a half-full skin, as warm as blood, while he watched the hills around.

  Cyrus gulped greedily, letting the blessed stuff fill him with life and purpose. He could feel his will returning and he thought of flowers he had seen watered that stretched up once more, before the very eyes. Water was life and he was desperately grateful.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I will reward you for your kindness to a stranger.’

  ‘There is no need,’ the man replied, reaching for his waterskin. It was hard for Cyrus to give it back, but he showed no sign of that struggle.

  ‘I am Prince Cyrus of the house of Achaemenid, the son of King Darius. I say there is need. You saved my life. What is your name? Your role here?’

  The man stood rooted in shock, his belief written in his face.

  ‘I … I saw you before,’ he said in wonder. ‘When you came through with those men running like hunting dogs. I saw you!’ He dropped to his knees and touched his head to the sandy ground. ‘My lord and prince,’ he said. ‘Forgive me. I did not know you.’

  ‘Rise up, giver of water,’ Cyrus said. ‘You have not yet told me your name.’

  ‘Parviz, Highness. But what misfortune can have befallen you to stand here alone? Without even a sword? Was it bandits? We have only forty men here and the commander is often away in the town. Highness, have you come to relieve him from his duty? He is a lazy fool and it would not be a poor decision.’

  Cyrus chuckled at how quickly the man had turned to advancing his causes.

  ‘If you know who I am, you know you are at my command, Parviz.’

  The man began to drop once again and Cyrus took him by the arm, so that he stood trembling.

  ‘I do, of course, Highness.’

  ‘Do you have horses?’

  ‘Six fine mounts, my lord, though one is lame. I am sorry. If we had known you …’

  ‘I will take the five that can be ridden. I must reach the city of Susa, where the Royal Road begins, Parviz. Your duty is to aid me, do you understand? Do you know Susa?’

  The man shook his head and Cyrus suppressed a sigh. He was used to flying through the night on fast horses, but almost all his father’s subjects would live and die within a day’s walk of where they were born. Distant colonies like India, Egypt and Thrace were mere names to them.

  ‘It lies to the west – over a dozen days from here on horseback. So gather and arm three of your best men. You will be the fourth and ride at my side. Find a sword and spear for me, Parviz.’

  ‘My lord, we have nothing a prince would ever wish to carry. This is a poor place.’

  ‘I need no jewels,’ Cyrus said. ‘Bring me a hunter’s spear, a soldier’s blade. I feel the need to hunt, to ride fast and leave this dust behind me. I would see rivers and green woodland once again.’

  ‘I obey, Highness,’ Parviz said. He opened the small door and left it swinging as he raced away. Cyrus closed his eyes and raised his face to the sun.

  In Susa, Cyrus left Parviz and his guards with the horses, while he stopped at a legion moneylender in the street of kings. Fountains and courtyards built for the glory of his father and grandfather lay around him, their images watching in white stone. Inside, he signed his name and pressed his royal signet to an order for one hundred gold archers, tossing the pouch to Parviz. His newest servant stood wide-eyed at the sight and could not resist peeking into the bag and fondling the coins. While Parviz changed half of them to silver, Cyrus took a day to bathe and have his muscles rubbed down. In a royal palace, tailors measured him for clothes and the local governor brought him the best mounts available. The prince ate well and saw his men to rooms near the city walls. When he had fulfilled his responsibilities to them, Cyrus rode over to the imperial barracks and training ground.

  In silk and gold, he was immediately recognised by officers he had promoted and trained himself, rushing to do his bidding. The dusty beggar of the desert roads had vanished and
he was thankful for it. Over the years, Cyrus had prided himself on rarely spending a second night in the same bed, so that he had visited every commander and officer in the western empire, from those who manned the city walls at Sardis, to remote mountain troops who guarded a single shrine. His face was known.

  The barracks at Susa lay at the edge of the city, where once the land had been worthless. Persian gold had made an expanse of green grass and white buildings, watered and maintained by slaves, with a thousand men training at any given time. Cyrus had them stand to attention for him and he inspected them with Parviz at his side.

  When he was alone with the regimental officers, he was given cool drinks and fanned in the shade. Every man there made light conversation at dinner, though they watched him and waited for his orders, wondering what had brought him to that place.

  The prince kept his expression light as he mopped his mouth and leaned back. He turned to the polemarch, the senior commander.

  ‘Polemarch Behrouz, I will need a personal guard, of course. Your men will do very well, from what I have seen. You are to be congratulated on their quality. Select … three hundred of the best to accompany me tomorrow.’ He leaned in as the man nodded over his lamb chops. ‘And, sir, some men might be tempted to send away the ones they dislike: the lazy, the complainers, the men of poor character. I will know if that has been done.’

  ‘You will get only the best from me, Highness, I swear it. For your father’s son, I cannot do less.’

  Cyrus stared at the man, unsure if the news of his father’s death had reached that place. It was unlikely, though it would be soaring out behind him. He had once heard an account of an eclipse, where the sun had been covered by a great shadow. The old man who had described it to the young princes had been an astrologer, brought hundreds of miles to instruct them. The detail that had stuck in Cyrus’ mind was the man’s awed memory of a shadow racing from the horizon towards him, faster than a galloping horse, covering the entire world. The news of his father’s passing was like that shadow line. It could not be stopped or outraced. It would overtake them all and leave the empire changed in its wake.

  Polemarch Behrouz of the royal barracks appeared uncomfortable with silence at table, so babbled on as Cyrus took a sip of red wine.

  ‘In truth, Highness, I had thought you’d come about this business with the renegade Spartan. I swear we will run him out of the empire as soon as reinforcements arrive.’

  Cyrus took a long drink before replying. His father had always preferred to negotiate over a meal, for the opportunities of distraction it allowed.

  ‘Tell me what you think is true,’ he said at last.

  Behrouz blushed, but settled himself to report to a superior.

  ‘The fellow commands some two thousand Greeks, my lord. I am told they were an army of Sparta, sent to protect Greek cities in Thrace to the north from some petty rebellion. This general sent home for those men and they marched out to meet him, accepting his command. But, Highness, this Spartan is a ruthless tyrant, as is well known. I have readied letters this very day, to ask for more men.’

  ‘What is his name?’ Cyrus asked.

  ‘Clearchus, my lord. The people of Thrace sent their own letters to Greece, asking why this man, who had slaughtered a village without cause, why he has been given an army to do much worse.’

  ‘I know of him,’ Cyrus said.

  Clearchus had been a famous governor of Byzantium, appointed while the Thirty ruled in Athens. When they had fallen, he too was cast out. It was true he was said to be a ruthless man, in the sense that he saw no room for mercy or compassion. Cyrus could have wished for a dozen of him at that moment. He felt a growing excitement in his chest and stomach, as if the wine had been stronger than he had realised.

  ‘Where is he now, Behrouz, this tyrant of Sparta? Marching home?’

  ‘Highness, I thought that was why you had come to us. He has camped in hills not three days’ march from this city. We are ready to defend the walls if he comes, you may be certain.’

  ‘And he has two thousand Spartans?’ Cyrus asked.

  ‘We captured one of his scouts, Highness, creeping about the walls of Susa. He said they had more than that, though the Greeks always lie.’

  Cyrus found himself smiling.

  ‘Yes. I have never known a people who delight in it the way they do. Does the scout still live?’

  The officer nodded and Cyrus rose from his place, wiping his mouth with a cloth before throwing it down.

  ‘Good. Show me to where you hold him – and find a fast horse.’

  Cyrus took a deep breath and forced himself to calm, calling on the memories of Spartans he had known and asking in silence for their blessing and their aid. Anaxis would have chided him for the way his hands trembled, though it was lack of sleep and worry as much as anything else.

  While he had waited for days in Susa for the Spartan general to ride in under truce, Cyrus had pulled layers of empire around himself. He had prayed in the temples and bathed twice a day, having his hair singed and perfumed. He had trained with sword and shield like a common soldier, though he’d found only a few men able to test him. The rest were too awed by his title, or too scornful of hard, physical work. The constant exercise and discipline he had known with the Spartans had soured his indulgence for the soldiers of Susa. They seemed to spend a great deal of their time marching in fine uniforms, and very little in training with arms. In the evenings, Cyrus read in the palace library, but he could not relax. Sleep came fitfully or not at all. His father was dead; his brother ruled the empire. The world had changed. There were times when Cyrus thought he was the only one who even remembered how it had been.

  Enough time had passed for the shadow line of his father’s death to reach Susa. Cyrus had seen riders come in from the desert, so that the city began a period of mourning and all men averted their eyes from his. Perhaps his mother had prevailed on Artaxerxes; he had no way of knowing. Cyrus slept with a pearl knife-hilt in his hand in case she had not, though he doubted he would even hear an assassin before it was too late. The thought made his stomach surge with bitter acids, so that he belched. He felt uncomfortable that evening, less sure of himself than usual in the presence of the Spartan.

  General Clearchus sat as if he might leap up for battle at any moment. Broad-chested and scarred along his arms, the man wore a red cloak over a bronze breastplate and leather kilt and greaves. His thighs were bare and thickly muscled, like those of a wrestler. He lounged like a cat resting in the sun, supremely confident in his own strength. Clearchus had not bargained for terms of a truce, but merely strode into Susa to meet the prince with only two companions, then left those men outside. They were not at war, after all.

  Cyrus felt a nagging tension, perhaps because some part of his mind knew the general was a threat and would not close an eye in his presence. Yet in its way, the threat was honest. It was one thing Cyrus appreciated about the soldiers of that particular city. The Athenians would argue with anyone, absolutely for the sake of it. They seemed to enjoy tortuous knots and difficult moral choices. Persians were more similar than most of them cared to admit. With his own eyes, Cyrus had seen market traders ignore a queue of willing buyers to strike a bargain with the one customer who tried to argue the price.

  In comparison, the Spartans wore their pride openly, though their enemies called it arrogance. They chose simplicity in all things, which meant they would not lie or deceive as a matter of personal honour, whether to spare the feelings of friends or to encourage the weak. If a man did not want an honest answer from a Spartan, it was best not to ask the question. Cyrus found himself smiling at the thought, though he knew his expression was being watched and judged.

  ‘You ask a great deal,’ Clearchus said. ‘For a man who has already lost three hundred of my people.’

  Cyrus felt anger spike in him at the words, at the implication that it was somehow his fault. Yet he leaned back in his chair, forcing himself to relax.

 
; ‘I have explained that. I have also sent their salaries to the ephors of Sparta, dated to the day they were killed.’

  ‘You saw Anaxis as a mercenary, then,’ Clearchus said softly.

  ‘He was a mercenary,’ Cyrus replied. ‘If he called me a friend, or I did, that was between us. I have fulfilled my responsibilities – and I remind you, Clearchus, that it was my father’s support, my family’s gold, that aided you in all your campaigns. Would Sparta have put your council of thirty to rule in Athens without me?’

  ‘I do not speak for Sparta, especially this year, when I am called a tyrant by fools back home. No. Everything has a season,’ Clearchus said. ‘Even now, the Athenians are shouting again in their agora, claiming to have wrenched democracy from our unwilling hands. Loyal generals are murdered by slaves – and good men are left without honour, stripped of authority by those who never even knew command.’ He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘If Athenians rule once more in Athens, what did we fight to win? What has changed?’

  ‘That is an argument to do nothing,’ Cyrus said, suspecting the man was testing him. Very well, he would be as blunt. ‘All lives are brief. Why then do anything at all but sleep in the sun? We all end up in the same place. Yet if we have pride, we fight to the last breath. I know you too well, Clearchus. As you know me. It matters that Spartan arms and Spartan laws ruled all Greece for a time. Let the small dogs bark now and tell themselves they are the victors. Some of us remember how it was. Thirty Spartans ruled in Athens, with three thousand Athenians to do your bidding. You gave them all a glimpse of greatness. They will not have forgotten that so easily.’

  Clearchus chuckled, sitting back in his chair.

  ‘I see you still like to argue. You are almost Greek in that.’ He grinned at the prince’s change of expression. ‘Believe me, it was a compliment. Now, I do not seek to deny our debt of honour, Highness. You have been a friend to me, to Sparta – and to Greece. I merely sought to be certain you had not wasted the men who went with you. I knew Anaxis well. I grieve for his loss.’