Michael Ford - The Ten Thousand

Xenophon spent the entire night tramping up and down the line as I accompanied him, assisting stragglers through the deep snowdrifts, posting guards where he was able, pleading with the strongest of the light troops to search with us, pulling out from the snow those too weak to march, forcing those who still had strength to keep moving so as not to freeze to death, distributing any minuscule rations still available. Chirisophus, meanwhile, who was two or three miles farther on, had encountered a village, a collection of fifty ancient huts scattered about in an irregular circle, with other villages nearby and within sight. As soon as he had secured the area, he sent his own hoplites, as well as men from the villages themselves, to assist us in bringing up the rearguard, assuring Xenophon that space would be saved in the villages, selected by lot, for all those able to survive the remaining miles of the march. Glad we were to see these men, too, for by now a good part of the rear guard had given up hope and had simply lain down to die. It took Chirisophus' tough Spartans most of the day to haul them, dead and alive, walking and staggering, into the miserable collection of little stone structures, which to us looked like heaven itself.

Except for the wisps of smoke curling lazily out the chimneys, the huts were scarcely visible until one was practically on top of them. To retain heat, they had been dug underground, with a low, rounded roof scarcely rising above the surface, and one had to tramp down a wooden ladder inserted through the very chimney, closing one's eyes to the smoke and hopping deftly over the small peat fire, to even enter-there were no front doors. Inside, thank the gods, the structures were warm and cozy, with shelflike bunks along the walls and mats on the floor in front of the hearth, each room capable of sleeping twelve or fifteen soldiers in a pinch. Tunnels and adjoining rooms had been built for the people's livestock, which gained access to the huts through separate entrances dug through the snow and which were fed all winter with forage stored from the harvest. Gutters carved at an incline into the packed earthen floor allowed the animals' urine to be carried away from the immediate living quarters to a crude drain at the far end of the house, but there was little that could be done about the droppings, short of shoveling them daily into a slop basket and climbing the ladder to pitch them out through the roof hole. On snowy days, they were simply left to accumulate inside, in a far corner, contributing their essence to the rank atmosphere.

The stench from the smoke, the unwashed people, and the animals mixing freely in the living quarters with humans was almost unbearable, and the first time I entered one of the steaming, reeking shelters I thought I would pass out; but the warmth and comfort, from both the small fireplaces and the surprisingly good-natured Armenians residing there, soon brought me around. I began to actually look forward to descending into the dark, womblike pit in which Xenophon and I were billeted, to rest and gather my strength for the ordeal ahead, and to ponder the nature of the people, and especially the shelter and food they offered, that had saved our lives.

And ponder I did, most often the food, during those long, smoky hours of recovery and healing. The gods know my travels have allowed me to feast on both exquisitely prepared delicacies and the coarsest of military fare. I have found that, depending upon the circumstances, both can deliver ecstasy of almost equal proportion, for there is no food so rancid, no soldier's hardtack so wormy, that I have not marveled that after entering my body it is transmogrified into blood and muscle, ambition and courage. But here in this strange, barbarian village of earth and stone, we were presented with parts of animals that in my former life, even during the worst of Athens' famine, I would not have fed to dogs, cooked in unidentifiable oils or served unspeakably raw-all of which we consumed with the greatest of relish. The chewy sphincter muscle of the sheep, boiled for hours to a rubbery consistency and then marinated in oil for hunters to chew on to assuage their hunger, was a source of great hilarity to the troops. The tribe's special brain sausage, roasted roots and tubers stored in enormous communal cellars, and copious quantities of fermented goat and sheep milk, were greatly comforting.

Eight days we stayed in these villages, eight days for which I was more grateful than any in my life. On the day of our departure, the villagers showed us how to pack our supplies and prepare our animals in the Armenian style, with bags wrapped round the feet of the horses to prevent them from sinking in the snow. They improvised snowshoes and litters for the worst off of our men, of wicker cut from the sides of woven baskets, and showed us how to guard against snow blindness, by peering through flat slats of wood loosely tied together and attached to our faces, with only narrow slits to allow our eyes to see. If ever I had the opportunity, I would return gratefully to that village and kiss the feet of the grandsons of the people who so kindly helped us and fed us as we lay dying in the snow that winter.

"FUCKERS NEVER LEARN, do they?" Chirisophus muttered in disgust, chewing on a slice of sphincter and staring up at the surrounding heights. "The troops are starving and this shit-hole has to be taken, but I don't relish the idea of charging women and children."

In the past two weeks of bitter cold we had covered barely ninety miles, harassed by thieving tribesmen the entire way, until after fording a small river we had entered the barren land of the Taochians, a warlike people as hostile as any we had encountered thus far. Provisions had failed us, for the locals had removed or destroyed everything of value in their villages, and we feared we would starve if we did not find suitable supplies soon. Through harsh interrogation of prisoners we had captured along the way, Xenophon had determined the location of the Taochian stronghold, to which all the people of the country had retreated, bringing with them their provisions and livestock.

The place was a mountain fastness, barely habitable except in times of emergency such as these, and it could scarcely be imagined that women and children were holed up on that cruel rock; for a rock it was, a flat, frozen, windswept plateau, surrounded on three sides by a sheer drop of hundreds of feet. The surface was bare of snow, the result of the constantly whining and biting wind, and accessible only by a long, inclined approach consisting of a broad field, unbroken except by several ancient oak trees, and overlooked by a flat-topped ridge on which the defenders had placed a huge arsenal of boulders, logs, and rocks. These they were prepared to roll down on anyone attempting to cross the field to gain access. The stronghold fortifications themselves were of little consequence, nor did they need to be, given the site's natural advantages. The access was protected merely by a low stone wall. Inside the compound, parts of which we could make out from a distance when we stood on an adjacent height, could be seen several thousand people, refugees from the abandoned villages in the region, milling about on the bare rock in apparent randomness. They were sheltered from the wind and inclement weather by only the rudest of stick-and-hide structures.

When we arrived with the rear guard, Chirisophus was already waiting, in some perplexity, and Xenophon looked thoughtfully at the surrounding hills.

"We should have this routine down by now," he said. "Wait till nightfall, then set up a diversionary attack here against the stronghold with the bulk of the army. Send a few squads of infantry and light troops back down the road the way we came, then have them steal up onto the mountain to the enemy's rear. Take them from behind-your Spartans' favorite position, Chirisophus. It couldn't be simpler. The only thing I'm concerned about is when I'm going to get my breakfast."