The Ten Thousand

At this Xenophon, who had been staring morosely at the floor, looked up at Socrates and saw the old man gently smiling at him, without a hint of sadness or reproach. There were no tears, not a trace of hesitation on his face, and he clasped Xenophon to him for an instant like a son, and then released him, swatting him on the arm as if to shoo him out the door. He then fixed his gaze upon me-the first time I believe he had ever even noticed me-and clasped me as well, but upon releasing me looked me straight in the eye with a twinkle and said softly, "You, Theo, I perceive as being among the wisest of men. May the Fates be on your side." Given Socrates' definition of wisdom I wasn't sure whether to take this as a compliment or an insult, but I gladly accepted his blessing and followed Xenophon out the low door.

The sky was darkening early and the wind blew bitingly cold. Athens was still recovering from the poverty into which the recent war, and the subsequent peace with Sparta, had thrown it, and there was little activity in the streets after dark. Few boarding houses were open, and the noises of any activity issuing from the windows of the i

That evening Xenophon sacrificed an ox to Zeus in the main temple, and early the next morning we boarded a merchant ship carrying heavy-fleeced Attic sheep, bound for Ephesus. As we pulled away in the tender, we looked back and saw that old one-eyed Gryllus had appeared on the rain-soaked beach, pushing his way through the fishmongers and loincloth-clad porters in a belated effort to intercept his son before departure. We sat in the boat, frozen at the sight of Gryllus standing knee-deep in the receding surf, shaking his fists in rage and howling curses that were mercifully dissolved in the wind by the gods before reaching our ears. In one final, futile gesture of fury at Xenophon's betrayal, Gryllus hurled stone after stone at us, which splashed harmlessly into the water far short of our vessel. It was for no man's sake, least of all Proxenus' or Cyrus', that Xenophon had embarked on his journey toward the Persians, but rather in search of a road that led to Zeus. In seeking out one immortal, however, he left others behind, for he never saw Socrates, or his father, again.

BOOK THREE

Hoards of wealth have I, left behind when I departed

On this ill-starred journey, and yet more shall I bear home from hence,

Gold and ruddy bronze, and lovely, fair-sashed women,

And gleaming gray iron, all that fell to me as spoils…

– HOMER

CHAPTER ONE

TO THE ACCOMPANIMENT of the groans and rattling chains of the sweat-drenched slaves wielding the oars, the ship bumped to the wharf at Ephesus, the closest port to Sardis though still more than fifty miles distant. I seized our gear, and Xenophon and I leaped onto the quay, not even bothering to take leave of the ship's brutish captain. We quickly wolfed down a few hunks of steaming flat bread slathered with a spicy lentil sauce that I purchased from a nearby vendor, and after a bit of haggling, I bought two healthy Cappadocian asses to carry ourselves and our baggage. In the echo of our journey to Delphi, we spent three days traveling the "King's Highway," the road that ultimately led to the royal city of Susa, on which Sardis was the most important way station. Climbing up from the coastal route, the road passed over bleak, desiccated hills as barren as Aphrodite's marriage to lame Hephaestus. It descended finally into the Cryon valley before taking up the left bank of the Hermus River, which led us directly into the city. Our original plans had been to inquire immediately into the whereabouts of Cyrus' army, but the sights and sounds of this oriental metropolis, the largest city we had ever seen, were so beguiling that we decided to find an appropriate i

Sardis did not disappoint. Surrounded by the fertile vineyards and farms through which Xenophon and I had passed while riding into town, the ancient city rose towering from the flat plain, a massive, rock-walled fortress with battered turrets soaring into the sky. Its clamorous markets, the overwhelming odors of the spices and herbal potions sold on every street corner, and the exuberant, thronging citizens from every nation of the world reminded me of Athens in my childhood, before its devastation and impoverishment. It was so long since I had enjoyed the pleasures of a prosperous, optimistic city that even when alone in our rooms, listening to the muffled street sounds outside, I was exhilarated at the prospects waiting just outside my door.

Some three hundred years earlier Sardis, even then a great city, had been overwhelmed by hordes of pale-ski

Under King Croesus, who was said to own as much gold as Midas but who had been cursed by the gods, Sardis was restored and became even more wealthy than in the past. In the last century Sardis, like the rest of Asia Minor, passed over to Persian control, and despite sometimes heavy-handed governance by the king's satraps and descendants, the most recent of whom was the young Cyrus, the city had over the years continued to prosper.