The city's military situation progressively worsened, and over the next few years Xenophon found himself increasingly occupied in defensive activities more befitting a besieged provincial garrison than the center of the Hellenic world. He was in Athens the night the vessel
Paralus
arrived, bearing shocked sailors carrying the terrifying news of the Spartan admiral Lysander's sacking of Athens' colonies. He remained in the besieged city that year, riding the walls in its defense against the gathering land and sea forces of the Spartan alliance. He heard the tragic moaning of the people, both for those lost and for their own fate; and he watched as the city's fortresslike Long Walls were destroyed to the rhythmic wailing of the reedy
auloi,
played unceasingly by weeping young girls whom Lysander had ordered to accompany the city's dismantling.
Thus the war's dismal end, and in the shadowy, shifting political alliances that emerged to rule Athens immediately afterwards, Xenophon's star began to wane. His wound at Phyle was the least of his worries, for he soon recovered full strength in the injured leg. When the Thirty Tyrants were overthrown by the democrats, Xenophon, who never outwardly supported any regime but merely followed the orders of his father and his superiors, found himself in actual disgrace, if not in outright danger of his life. The cavalry were disbanded and Xenophon's wages rescinded. There were even calls in the assembly for former cavalry troops to return all payments that had been made to them over the past two years. Gryllus fiercely stifled this motion and others, in a determined rearguard action to protect Xenophon's, and his own, declining reputations. Athens' new leaders eventually came to their senses and reconstituted the cavalry corps for the city's defense—but prohibited former officers, Xenophon included, from joining, on account of their past association with the Thirty. Xenophon's political viability was in jeopardy, and his very patriotism had been called into question.
It was around this time, when his morale was at its lowest and he had confided in me his fears that he would soon be forced into exile or imprisonment if the regime did not stabilize, that a fortuitous event occurred, one of those few occasions that make one lift one's eyes to the heavens in wonder at the impeccable dramatic timing of the gods. A letter arrived, borne by a runner from the port whence it had just been taken off a tramp grain ship from Ephesus. Xenophon unrolled it suspiciously, for little news he had received of late was in his favor, and was startled to find that it had been written by Proxenus, from whom he had heard nothing since his return to Boeotia twelve years before.
Proxenus, who had been elected to the rank of general in the Theban army and had inflicted considerable damage on the Athenians in the war, had now found a position in Sardis, commanding a Greek mercenary brigade in the employ of the Persian prince Cyrus. Cyrus had generously bankrolled Sparta during the war, and was now raising an army to dispatch some troublesome neighboring tribes in Asia Minor. Proxenus was seeking able-bodied recruits for the campaign.
"Xenophon," he wrote, "past political affiliations are of no consequence. Previous history is ignored. The war between Sparta and Athens is a thing of the past. Cyrus' only requirements are a stout heart, strong arms and a willingness to fight." Did Xenophon know of anyone who might fit those qualifications?
His eyes clouded over in thought as he considered the proposal and his own current prospects in Athens. Holding the letter in his hand, he slowly turned away and began walking absent-mindedly to his father's study, as if to seek his advice. I caught my breath, then quickly strode over and placed my hand heavily on his shoulder. He stopped and looked at me in puzzlement.
"Xenophon," I said. "Wait, before you talk to your father; think about this. Proxenus is your cousin, but he is also a Boeotian, an ally of Sparta, and therefore in Gryllus' eyes no friend of yours. He is a mercenary now, an irregular, employed by Sparta's biggest backer, a Persian no less. Is this really something you wish to present to your father?"
He fixed his eyes on mine for a moment, and then again glanced down at the letter. I could see the paper trembling in his hand, and I recalled the agony he had felt when Proxenus left. "Perhaps it would be better to speak first to Socrates," he muttered to me under his breath.
I wondered aloud at this, too, despite what I knew of his deep admiration for the old philosopher. "Xenophon, you're going to ask advice from a man your father can't abide, about a project that would kill him if he knew you were even considering it."
He flared for an instant. "Always protecting him, aren't you, Theo? Why don't you look to my side for once? Gryllus is my father, and for better or worse, I am his son. But his war is not my war." He looked away, seething, and I waited for a moment while he struggled to gain control of his emotions. Finally, he took a deep breath and pointed sadly to the long-unused saddle blanket neatly folded in the corner of the room, and to his army-issue shield, both gathering dust. "What would you have me do, Theo? What would you have me do?"
SOCRATES MEANDERED THROUGH the stalls of the thronging agora, poking his head into the shops of the vendors he knew, gently handling pieces of fruit or sandals or ceramic lamps and commenting favorably on their quality. He nodded and smiled at everyone, even those who, he knew, disdained his lack of regard for worldly goods, or found his thinking on these matters dangerous. He was accompanied in his apparently aimless wandering by a small knot of young men, most of them from the best families, by the look of their clothing. Noticing our presence, however, which had been rare of late, Socrates brushed past the others and practically skipped up to us. He was surprisingly agile for his age and the extent of his belly, which had not grown any smaller over the years. The man had hardly changed since we had first met him, unless his eyes could be said to have even a merrier twinkle than before. After a polite greeting Xenophon, who after five years in the military had little patience for chatter, broached the subject of Proxenus' letter with Socrates. The old man frowned unhappily.
"Xenophon, you have many reasons to stay," Socrates said after a moment of thought. "Regimes come and go. The Thirty were in power for only two years, and now the democrats rule. They too will pass soon enough, or at least the indiscretions of those who served under them will soon be effaced from memory. But even admitting this—or perhaps that your true problem is that you are bored and have a desire for adventure and for wealth—is Cyrus' banner really the one under which you should march? Your service under the Thirty will be forgotten six months from now. But joining with Cyrus, who financed the Spartans to destroy our city—that is a different matter, and the adventure you gain may be very dearly won."
Xenophon stood stiffly, a soldier's posture, facing his mentor. His eyes were directed toward Socrates, but were focused on the middle distance, like one whose mind has already been set. Socrates noticed this too, and paused, searching his face. He sighed.
"Xenophon," he said gently. "One thing more: You are not yet married, and you're not likely to find a suitable wife among Cyrus' camp followers. Your father will be expecting a grandson soon. You have a family here, friends, a fortune, a future ahead of you and an Athens that will soon be reconciled with itself again." Socrates smiled sadly. "I know that Proxenus is your blood relation and your friend, and there are ties between you that I can never loosen. But please, consider your position carefully. Talk to your father, or if you feel that his opinion is a foregone conclusion, at least take the trouble to sacrifice to the gods, and ask the oracle at Delphi for guidance in making your decision."
We walked back to the house in silence. That afternoon we rode, still in silence, to the old family estate at Erchia, which he had not visited in years. The weather was cold, windy and rainy, and as soon as we arrived Xenophon strode through the dusty hallways to his old room, closing the door behind him. For two days I scarcely saw him as he remained shut inside, reading the books he had brought with him, writing letters, working assiduously on his notes. I cannot say this was unusual—ever since losing his commission he had been in a state of depression, sleeping late, neglecting to shave, writing volumes of work that no one ever saw and which he destroyed by fire in a brazier in his room or carefully filed away in a locked chest. This time, however, I was concerned, because there was a finality about his actions, a determination in his expression, like that of someone set on completing a task, and because I knew of the decision that was hanging over his head like a leaden weight, one that would affect me every bit as much as him.
On the morning of the third day he burst into my room, bathed and well-rested and with blood-stanching cobwebs still dangling parasitically from his jaw as the result of his hurried shaving. The transformation in him was so dramatic that I was momentarily startled, though at the same time delighted to see him having returned to himself. Xenophon was not in the mood for idle chatter, however.
"Pack up, Theo," he announced. "We leave in an hour."
BOOK TWO
He arrived at Krissa beneath snow-peaked Parnassus,
Where a foothill turns to face the west: A cliff overhangs it
From above, a rugged hollow glade lies hidden beneath:
There the lord Phoebus Apollo resolved to build his glorious temple.
—HOMERIC HYMN
BLOODY BATTLE AND homecoming embrace, lightning-studded skies and Arcadian pastures, riddles, mirrors, smoke, illusion, the love of a woman, the wrath of the gods. Life is drama, a tragedy and comedy both, and we the actors. A trite observation, one decidedly inspired by some other man's muses. Yet for all the horrors and triumphs of the stage, I have found that the arts of Dionysus offer little to compare with the struggles and achievements, the lives and deaths of real men, or at least men of thought and action, men who renounce the apathy and ignorance of those who pass through life as if they were mere temporary visitors, gawking occasionally but for the most part simply following the meaty desires of their bellies and loins. Sophocles said as much when he wrote a few years ago,
Numberless are the world's wonders, but none more wonderful than man.
His is the power to cross the storm-driven seas...
His are speech and wind-swift thought...
But there is little that can be recited on the stage that can match any true story of men who have sought to rise above base passivity, men who have taken their lives into their own hands, shaping other men and their surroundings into something more amenable to their own desires, and in the process irrevocably changing their world. Men truly live just as passionately as in the great dramas. They die just as brutally; they love just as fiercely. But in the real world they do not wear plaster masks that are hung on the wall at the end of a performance. Men's actions endure beyond their faces and names, and their effects are not finite and temporary, but encompass their descendants and the descendants of their fellow protagonists in widening yet ever fainter rings for all eternity. How odd that we seek through drama to depict, or to escape from, our own world, the infinite variety and cosmic timelessness of which puts even that of the gods to shame.
My pen rambles and the impatient Muses urge me to move on with my tale.
THE TRIP TO Delphi was long, though not without interest. Xenophon was the perfect pilgrim, stopping at every roadside attraction, keeping a purse full of obols to tip the young guides importuning us to visit this or that sacred spring, never letting a table of fruit set up outside a farmstead be passed by without a sample. The roads were crowded with men and women, merchants, shysters and prostitutes, all traveling to Delphi to attend the annual festival celebrating Apollo's departure to the northern Hyperborean regions for the winter, and the arrival of his mad brother Dionysus. The ceremony was to begin with the usual dissipation in just a few days. We were rushing to consult the Pythia, the oracle of Apollo, before the festival began, but were hindered by the mobs of other travelers heading in the same direction. The closer we came to our destination, the more frequented the roads became until at length it was impossible to pass the other pilgrims, so heavily traveled was the route. We dismounted and led our horses, to stretch our legs and converse with some of the other travelers, since like it or not, we were condemned to travel with them in this fashion all the way to Delphi.
As it happened, Xenophon had carefully chosen the pilgrims near whom he had dismounted. He quickly struck up a conversation with a cheerful, heavyset country girl named Aglaia, who was traveling to Delphi for the first time, to ask the oracle for guidance on choosing a husband from among her three suitors. Oddly, she was traveling unaccompanied by any male guardian, a fact that would have raised disapproving eyebrows among the other travelers had it not been for the formidable, glowering old crone she was dragging in tow, who turned out to be her grandmother. Though dressed in the rough clothes of a village lass, a goatherd really, Aglaia was plump and lovely, with strong, fleshy arms tanned from her daily exposure to the sun, and full, soft breasts which, even without her calling overt attention to them, nevertheless drew men's gaze to their mesmerizing ripeness. Her eyes sparkled as do those of young maidens before clouding over with the cares of the house and the pain of childbearing, and her bell-like laughter carried far above the deep-voiced din and tramping of the mostly male crowd. Although I appreciated her beauty, she was lusty and demonstrative, just the sort of trollop I disdained, and she had taken an immediate liking to Xenophon, admiring his horse and gingerly touching the jeweled hilt of the short sword he carried at his belt.
"Xenophon!" I said under my breath. "Don't be an idiot! Can't you see she's got you pegged to be suitor number four?" I tried to elbow him over to another group of travelers heading in our direction.
He shot me a black look. "What am I, Theo, an ephebe?" he hissed. "Are you still Father's stool-pigeon slave, guarding my morals from the evils of the world? I'm of age now. I don't need your handwringing."
I felt my jaw tense in anger at his insults, but forced myself to remain silent, and to keep looking straight ahead. After a few moments he seemed to regret his hasty words, and he excused himself from the girl and drew me aside. "Theo, relax. It's been months since I've even spoken with a woman. I just want to chat a bit with someone better looking than you. Believe me, I'll be better company for it afterwards."
I remained staring straight ahead as I walked, determined not to give him the satisfaction of a response. He shrugged, and stepped back up to Aglaia's side, and I resignedly lifted the elderly grandmother onto my horse, on which she rode stiff and trembling, grasping its mane tightly with both hands in her terror at sitting so high. I then walked behind Xenophon and the girl, casting my large shadow over their shoulders.
Aglaia had done her homework before setting out on her journey, and had collected quite a number of stories concerning the oracle, a few from good sources, most from the most spurious origins imaginable. She regaled us with what she had learned, her peals of laughter making men smile for yards around, even if they were unable to hear her actual words. Xenophon traded her story for story, to her great delight. She was most moved by the tale of King Croesus of Lydia, which Xenophon had learned from his mother as a young boy.
"Croesus," he recalled, "learned that the Persian king was becoming more powerful by the day. This worried him, and he began to wonder whether he should attack the Persians before they became too mighty. He decided to consult an oracle.
"In those days, Delphi was not the most famous oracle in Greece, it was simply one of many. Since Croesus didn't know which was the most truthful, he sent runners out from Sardis to every one, including the Pythia of Delphi, with instructions to wait until the hundredth day after their departure from Sardis. On precisely that day, each runner would consult the respective oracle and ask what King Croesus was doing at that moment. All their answers would be recorded and brought back to the King.
"At Delphi, just as the King's messenger entered the oracle's sanctuary, before he had even had a chance to sacrifice and make his inquiry, the oracle spoke in perfect hexameter verse:
I know the number of the sands, and the measure of the ocean;
I have ears for the dumb, and hear those who cannot speak;
Behold, there striketh my senses the savor of a shell-covered tortoise,
Boiling on a fire in a cauldron, with the flesh of a lamb—
Brass is laid beneath it, and brass the cover placed over it.
"All the messengers returned with their answers, and Croesus began reading them, but no sooner did he read the reply from Delphi than he himself was nearly struck dumb, and he discarded every other response. As it happened, when his messengers first left Sardis months before, he had racked his brain to think what impossible thing he could perform that no mortal could guess by chance, and then, on the hundredth day, he took a tortoise and a lamb and cut them to pieces with his own hands, and boiled them together in a brass cauldron with a brass lid. The oracle had described this perfectly.
"Because of this test, Croesus showered gifts on Delphi, to gain favor for the crucial advice he needed. He sacrificed thousands of animals and donated a huge pile of riches, golden goblets, statues and purple vestments. He even levied a huge tax on his own people, melting down all the money he collected into solid gold ingots."
Here the girl interjected a comment with her tinkling laughter. "I hope I'll be able to see some of the statues and drink from the cups! I've heard that even the dung-sweepers in the street use gold-handled brooms!"
"Herodotus," Xenophon said, "says that most of the riches are kept locked in the treasury, but that he himself had seen Croesus' enormous offering bowls, and a statue of a golden maiden, adorned with his wife's necklace and girdles."
Aglaia shrieked with laughter as Xenophon grinned and winked at me. "What happened next?" she asked.
"Well, Croesus asked the Pythia whether he should declare war on the Persians. The oracle's response was clear enough: 'If you make war on the Persians, you will destroy a mighty empire.' Croesus was overjoyed when he heard this, and marched his army from Sardis all the way to Persia—where his own troops were demolished. He retreated back to Sardis, pursued the entire way by the king. After a long siege, Sardis was taken and Croesus fell into the Persians' hands. He spent the rest of his life complaining how he was so cruelly deceived by the oracle, which had led him to believe he could wage war against the Persians."
Aglaia was silent for a time, puzzling this over. "But why did the Pythia deceive him?" she finally asked. "I thought the oracle always told the truth!"
Xenophon laughed. "You're falling into the same trap as Croesus—you guess the response even before you ask the question, and then you have ears only for the answer you've decided upon! The oracle was right. She said Croesus would destroy a mighty empire, and he did—his own. The Pythia's response was in the form of a riddle—it almost always is—but Croesus had no right to complain. If he'd been wise, he would have asked the oracle which empire she meant, the Persian or his own. He should have been more careful when formulating the question and receiving the answer." Xenophon looked slyly at the girl. Her face was wreathed in smiles.
"Well," she said finally. "I see now how dangerous it is to ask a question of the Pythia that is too vague. I was simply going to ask which of my three suitors was the best man. A question like that would never do—it's far too open-ended. How could the god possibly know what their best qualities would be, to me? Gods have their idea of good, and—well, I have my own."
We walked along in silence for a few moments, thinking on this, and as she turned her head to look at Xenophon, I could see a half-smile slowly forming on the girl's face.
"It's settled, then," she finally said. "I'll just ask the oracle to tell me which man is the richest."