… from deep, chaotic beds of mortal sleep

The gods darkly revealed what erst had been,

and what is now, and what shall follow yet.

– EURIPIDES

WE SLEPT A restless sleep, each dreaming his own dreams, for dreams, like Muses or men, bear a superficial similarity to one another, but are never truly alike. It is as confounding to say, "I dreamed of a man," as to say, "I felt the sun." The first statement tells us nothing useful about the man, nor the second whether the sun was the benign orb that sustains our existence, or the harsh, killing fire that parches our throat and saps our strength if we attempt to defy it. A dream is the dreamer's alone, and no one can know its meaning without knowing the fears and aspirations of the dreamer. We shift from the dreamer to the dream, from the man to the Muses, seeking to reconcile the halves, to make them one, though dreams, by their very nature, are rarely consistent. Nor, for that matter, are men.

Some call dreams the ruminations and calculations of the unconscious mind, as the spirit assumes control over the intellect, unhampered by pain and the pleasure-seeking conceits of the mortal body. Others claim that dreams are direct messages from the gods, capable of being received only when both the body and the mind are lying dormant and vulnerable. A man takes his life into his hands each night in sleep, as he plunges unarmed and naked into a fast-flowing river of changing perspective, where not even the beating of his heart or the rhythm of his breath would be sufficient to sustain him if he were in his wakeful state. In sleep, the dead sometimes venture into his presence, to entice him to cross or to urge him back to his suffering and worldly condition. It is no accident that Hypnos, blessed god of Sleep, is joined by birth to a twin with whom he works in deep collusion-Hades the Winged One, God of Death.

It is strange that we think so little about sleep, even cursing it for diminishing the useful time available to us. Perhaps a certain humility is required to appreciate such a gift, a humbleness not native to the spirits of most men. When asleep, the philosopher and the traitor are scarcely different from each other, a king can hardly be distinguished from the beggar outside his door. Only the gods, who see of what things dreams are made, could tell the difference, if they cared to.

And who knows? To the extent that the deities are too preoccupied with their own petty squabbles to concern themselves with the daily lives of humans, to the extent that a man actually controls his own destiny, a man's mind, particularly his sleeping mind unburdened by physical weakness, is his god, and a dream the act and consequence of reasoning unbiased by material concerns. Whether sent from outside by the deities, or created from within by a man's own godlike spirit, a dream is a frightening thing to receive, its mandates not to be taken lightly.

Perhaps most frightening is to be sent a dream such as one has not received in years-since childhood perhaps, when the boundaries between one's physical and spiritual worlds are less solid, and dreams and their recollection more forthcoming-to be sent such a dream, and to not know what its mandate is. For such was the dream Xenophon received in his restless sleep the night after Clearchus' death, as he collapsed at my side before the fire. One would think that a dream so portentous and vivid would have been clear in meaning as well, yet to this day I cannot say whether it was an evil omen, or a sign of hope that the gods were watching and would guide us.

"I saw myself standing outside my father's house," he told me, "not at Erchia or Athens, but on a vast, treeless plain-alone-a plain covered in asphodel.

"Huge thunderheads had rolled in," he continued, "but they were not the heavy gray of rain and storms. They were the brightest, most brilliant white, and the warm sun shone down on me, heating my scalp and my aching shoulders with its soothing fingers. I felt surrounded by peace and calm. Looking up, I could see the serene face of Zeus in the thunderheads, a magnificent presence dominating the entire heavens, gazing down on me and smiling gently. I felt overwhelmed by his love and approval.

"But while I stood motionless, watching the god in awe, I saw his huge face suddenly crack into a grimace, with a mouth full of rotten teeth and a livid scar along the temple. Black Spartan braids blew from the back of his head as if in a high wind. As I watched, a thunderbolt shot from the god's eyes, hurtling down to earth with a whine and a hiss like that of a hundred lead missiles hurled from enemy slings. They struck my father's house with a blinding explosion, leveling it in an instant and setting all around me to blazing."

For long minutes afterwards his eyes remained wide, and after taking a long swig from a wineskin to settle his nerves, he stoked the fire, wrapping himself in a cloak against the damp, late-night chill. I repeated his dream silently to myself, searching for an answer as to what it might mean. On the one hand, it seemed a good sign, that despite all the dangers through which we were passing, we were still surrounded by the light and benevolence of the gods, and Zeus was watching us from the heavens; yet the dream was also to be feared, because Xenophon was certain it had been sent by Zeus himself, and portended the destruction and ruin that would result from any attempt to leave this place.

I broke my head with him over this conundrum for an hour, but I am no seer, and have little imagination or skill, much less patience, at divining the meanings of dreams. The thought that kept coming to mind with increasing urgency, however, had little to do with the sorcery of Xenophon's unconscious mind that night, and everything to do with the tactile, fleshy reality of the situation at hand. I found I was becoming disgusted at both myself and the other Hellenes for our lack of discipline, as the night wore on and we did nothing to safeguard against the enemy attack certain to arrive with the morning's light. The troops were scattered randomly about the camp and the adjoining fields wherever they happened to have collapsed from fatigue and despair. Many expected simply to die in their sleep under the sharp hooves of the galloping Persians as they poured into our camp to finish off the destruction they had started. If we fell into the king's hands, we would most surely die, after being subject to terrible torture and cruelty. Hadn't the king cut off the head of his own stepbrother Cyrus, to be mounted on a pole and placed in front of his tent? And hadn't Tissaphernes flayed alive the very Greeks with whom he had feigned friendship just minutes before? No one was preparing for this eventuality. Indeed, there were few officers left in the camp to give orders to the men, and those who had survived were as immobilized by fear and grief as the lowliest squire. I voiced my thoughts on these matters to Xenophon.

Unable to return to sleep, he rose in the moonlight and walked about the vast, chaotic camp, stealthily waking and calling together Proxenus' squad leaders, most of whom were, themselves, resting only fitfully. They emerged filthy and bedraggled from the scattered shrubs and ditches where he found them, sometimes accompanied by a sleepy-eyed camp follower, though most were alone, having lost or given up contact with the troops for which they were responsible. They seemed grateful to have a reason to rise and begin moving about, even if at the request of one with no authority over them. When he finally succeeded in locating and collecting some twenty disheveled men in varying states of numbness and grief, he spoke quietly to them over the blazing fire I had built up.