THE NEXT MORNING dawned chilly and cold, with a heavy drizzle that belied our position on a vast, desertlike plain. The clouds hung low over our heads and the hard-baked ground had long since absorbed what little moisture it was able to hold,and now refused to accept any more. The water simply lay on the surface, like an enormous, shallow, muddy pond, reflecting our misery and rejecting our every wretched attempt to find a dry place to sit or stand, or to build a fire.

The men were tired and restless, and there was no breakfast to be had. The soldiers milled about aimlessly, performing their tasks only desultorily, falling back into the habits of despair that had been burdening them since the slaughter of Clearchus and the other officers. Up on the ridge was a growing body of enemy cavalry aligned and facing us, lances poised and pennants fluttering, seemingly preparing a charge, much to the dismay of our own troops, whose entire body of horses numbered no more than forty. Xenophon approached Chirisophus, the ranking Spartan remaining in the army and a fine old soldier, greatly respected by the men. An initial glance at the veteran's weathered skin and flowing, steel-gray hair and beard would cause one to wonder how a man of such years could have survived the difficult march thus far. Indeed he often sat silent and apart from the troops, seeming to doze, like an elderly servant fading quietly into retirement. His appearance was deceptive, however, for Chirisophus was merely a master at conserving his strength. When called upon to act, he was as vigorous as a twenty-year-old ephebe, and if crossed, would erupt in a deafening string of oaths that would curl the beard of the most blasphemous Spartan in the vicinity. Chirisophus had fought at Clearchus' side for twenty years, and was the only man able to stand up to the brutal general's threats and bluster without fear of punishment, possibly the only other soldier Clearchus had truly respected. It was this man whom Xenophon approached.

"Chirisophus, I need your counsel. Your Spartans are breaking camp and maintaining order like soldiers on a parade ground, but the rest of the troops look like old women."

"So I noticed," Chirisophus said dryly, chewing on a blade of grass and observing the sloppy preparations of the other troops and the barely organized chaos of the camp followers. The deep creases at the corners of his eye were not cheerful, as they are in some older men, but rather betokened long hours of staring into the glaring sun, and ultimately a sort of weariness or boredom with the world. "And I believe some of them camp followers ought to be put out of our misery."

Xenophon ignored the cruel remark. "Look-last night you voted for me to lead the troops-I saw you. But I am an unknown quantity. The men look up to you. Take a few of your colleagues and fan out among the troops. Talk to them and raise their spirits if you can, speak to them as a fellow soldier. I have no ulterior motives for leading the men, but they may not believe this. Convince them that we need to move on."

Chirisophus looked at him a long moment, as if sizing him up. I wondered whether the old soldier might not choose to simply strike off for home on his own, accompanied only by his Spartan troops, rather than encumbered by a massive crew of inferior soldiers from the other Greek states and a veritable second army of motley camp followers. He apparently decided in Xenophon's favor, however, for shifting the grass blade noncommittally to the other corner of his mouth, he glanced toward his troops and called for three or four of his squad leaders.

While Chirisophus walked about and talked quietly to the men in small groups, Xenophon himself arranged to happen upon their conversation as if by accident, and asked the men to tell him their concerns.

"The cavalry!" One of the men shouted. "How do you expect us to fight our way up the Tigris against ten thousand cavalry, when we have none?"

Xenophon looked pensively up the ridge where the king's cavalry brigade was continuing to grow in strength, and was now hovering over us like an evil black thunderhead ready to explode. He forced himself to gaze back down to the troops, who had locked their eyes on him in silent expectation. I saw their scars, their knotted, muscled shoulders, their long Spartan braids that never failed to strike fear into the enemy. I saw their massive, thirty-pound oak and bronze shields that they swung about as if made of papyrus, and their short but deadly swords, each of which had killed a dozen men in battle, or more. And I knew beyond a doubt that the Persian cavalry, though they were the best horsemen in the world, on the finest mounts, were men like us, but not like us. For they were Persians, and we were Greeks.

"You're discouraged because the enemy has cavalry and we do not?" Xenophon asked, assuming an incredulous expression. "But cavalry are only men on horseback! I would pit their ten thousand men on parade horses against our ten thousand men on the safe and solid ground any day. No man has ever died in battle from the kick of a horse, only from a sword or spear; and your own blades have spent more time in Persian bellies than ever a weapon was meant to. The Persians are up on the ridge, trying to screw up their courage to attack us, and fearing a fall off their horses as much as they fear Greek iron in their bowels. I'm a trained cavalry man, believe me; horses are frightening because of their size and speed, but they are no advantage against a phalanx of Greek hoplites-except that a coward can retreat more easily on a horse!"

At this, the men laughed and visibly revived, and there was some scattered clanking of swords against shields in approval. I could see Tissaphernes' cavalry standing still in silhouette on the ridge, watching the matter with interest, even if unable to hear the words.

"I'll cut my words short. The enemy thought that by destroying our commanders, we would fall into chaos and could be eliminated. But they were wrong. The Persians' troops are foreigners, forced to fight under threat of flogging and execution. They think that because their own army would disintegrate without their officers' whips, all armies are that way. But we are Greeks! By killing Clearchus they will see ten thousand new Clearchuses spring up to take his place. You are all Clearchuses now!"

The men cheered lustily, and as the sound rolled across the empty plain with the blustery wind I saw scattered Persian horses rear in alarm.

"If you wish to see your loved ones again, keep your eyes on the road north to the Black Sea. That is the only way we can go. Burn the excess wagons, so we don't travel as slaves to our baggage train. Burn the tents too, sleep like the Spartans. Possessions are a burden, and don't contribute to our fighting. The more men under arms, and the fewer pushing baggage wagons, the better off we'll be. If we lose, all that we carry will belong to the enemy in any case; and if we win, we'll take plunder and use the enemy as our porters."

Clanging their weapons, the men burst out in a great cheer, and ran off to gather the tents and superfluous supplies for the great fire to be set. The camp followers wept and wrung their hands, but the men ignored them, or brutally wrenched goods from their grasp. They knew that every pound of useless gear eliminated now would allow an extra brace of arrows to be carried, and possibly save the life of the wretch whose goods were being cruelly set aflame. A great cloud of greasy black smoke rose into the air, but lifted only a few feet, for the drizzle had increased to a steady downpour and seemed to press and weigh down on the smoke itself as it drifted across the plain, obscuring the watching Persian cavalry from our view. Xenophon sent riders galloping out on the remaining ponies to keep an eye on Tissaphernes' troops while we broke camp. With the little baggage we had left, this task did not take long.