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A file of mules and wagons was ploughing through the multitude with marble for some new building. Every instant the noise grew. Pandora’s box had opened, and every clamour had flitted out. At the northern end, where the porticos and the long Dromos street ran off toward the Dipylon gate, stood the shop of Clearchus the potter.
The Greek in whom he placed most confidence was Clearchus, a Lacedaemonian, and formerly harmost of Byzantium, who had been condemned to death by the Spartan authorities for disobedience to their orders. It was not, however, till the beginning of the year B.C. 401 that the enterprise of Cyrus was ripe for execution.
Crossing the Tigris, they marched for fifteen days up its east side, until the Great Zab River, in the country of Media, was reached. Here the treachery which Tissaphernes had all along intended was consummated. He invited Clearchus, the Greek leader, and the other generals to a conference with him in his tent, three miles from their camp.
The Lacedaemonians, his letter being read, sent a staff to Clearchus, commanding him to obey Cyrus in all things. So Cyrus marched towards the king, having under his conduct a numerous host of barbarians, and but little less than thirteen thousand stipendiary Grecians; alleging first one cause, then another, for his expedition.
The next message was from Artaxerxes inviting the Greeks to give up their arms; to which they replied that he might come and take them if he could, but if he meant to treat them as friends, they would be no use to him without their arms, if as enemies, they would keep them to defend themselves. Though no formal appointment was made, the Greeks recognised Clearchus as their leader.
Artaxerxes sent messages pretending to wish to make terms with them and guide them safely back to their own country, provided they would do no harm on the way, and they willingly agreed to this, and let themselves be led where they were told it would be easier to find food for them; but this was across the great river Tigris, over a bridge of boats; and a few days after, Clearchus and the other chief officers were invited to the Persian camp to meet the king, and there seized and made prisoners.
In that unnatural battle betwixt the two Persian brothers, the Lacedaemonian Clearchus, who commanded the Greeks of Cyrus' party, led them on softly and without precipitation to the charge; but, coming within fifty paces, hurried them on full speed, hoping in so short a career both to keep their order and to husband their breath, and at the same time to give the advantage of impetuosity and impression both to their persons and their missile arms.
He had sat up all night hearing the priestesses chant their ceaseless litanies on the Acropolis. “Guilty—I vote guilty,” the others heard him muttering, as his head sank lower. “Wake up, friend,” ordered Clearchus; “you’re not condemning any poor scoundrel now.” “Ai! ah!” Polus rubbed his eyes, “I only thought I was dropping the black bean—” “Against whom?” quoth Crito, the fat contractor. “Whom?
“Good evening, sweet sister and Phormio!” The salutation came from Polus, who with Clearchus had approached unheralded. Lampaxo smoothed her ruffled feathers. Phormio stifled his sorrows. Dromo, the half-starved slave-boy, brought a pot of thin wine to his betters. The short southern twilight was swiftly passing into night.
Now Clearchus said this by way of digression, for his main design was of another nature.
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