Free The Lost Army by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

It overlooked the foaming sea and was rich with olive groves and vineyards. Her husband, the sovereign of that beautiful land, must have been worried. Although Cilicia was theoretically independent, he was still a subject of the Great King, and his kingdom was on the direction of march of Prince Cyrus. At this point, it wasn’t hard to guess at his objective. If the Cilician king opposed Cyrus’s advance, he would be mown down. If he didn’t stand up to him, the Great King would demand to know why he hadn’t been stopped, and the Great King was not a man to quarrel with. He probably decided that it was best to face one problem at a time, and Cyrus’s approaching army was the closest and most pressing. The only true weapon that the king had at his disposal was the beauty of his wife: an invincible weapon, stronger than any army. All it would take was a little money and a queen in the prince’s bed and this problem, at least, would be solved. Money and beautiful women move mountains, and the two together would crumble any bulwark.
    Cyrus was young, handsome, daring and powerful. As was the queen. She was also willing to satisfy him in any way he desired. She brought him a large sum of money on behalf of her husband so that he could pay his soldiers’ salaries, and she brought him herself. For a few days, it seemed that the whole world had stopped. The army was encamped, its tents solidly pitched. The royal pavilion was adorned with the finest fabrics and the most precious carpets, with bronze tubs for her majesty’s bath. The men whispered that Cyrus would watch as she undressed and sank into the hot, fragrant water and had herself washed and massaged by two Egyptian handmaidens dressed only in tiny loincloths. He would sit on a stool covered with the royal purple and caress a cheetah curled up at his feet. The sinuous forms of the feline must have felt like the curves of the queen languidly stretching her limbs in the bronze tub.
    The third day he decided to offer her a stirring display of his military might, all decked out in full battle order. He asked Clearchus to draw up all of his red-cloaked warriors wearing their polished armour and carrying their big round shields. They were to march at a cadenced step, to the beating of drums and the music of flutes, and parade before the prince and his beautiful guest on their chariots. The effect was brilliant. The queen was happy, as excited as a little girl watching a show of street jugglers.
    Suddenly the blare of a bugle filled the ears of the royal spectators, shrill and prolonged. The scarlet warriors slowed their pace, executed a long, perfect right wheel then, at a second bugle call, charged towards the Asian camp where Ariaeus’s troops were housed, their spears low and ready. The attack was so realistic that the Asians ran off in every direction, overwhelmed by panic. When a third bugle call stopped them, Clearchus’s warriors turned back, laughing and making fun of Ariaeus’s troops, who had certainly not made a great show of bravery or resistance.
    Strangely, Cyrus was pleased with the trick, because it proved what a disruptive effect a heavy infantry charge by the red cloaks had on the Asian soldiers.
    The queen left the camp a few days later, after Cyrus had promised that her husband would suffer no damage or harassment from his troops, in exchange for their unchallenged transit through the pass known as the Cilician Gates. The gap was so narrow that two harnessed horses could not pass at the same time. In effect, a very few selected, well-trained troops posted at the point of passage could have prevented anyone – even the most powerful army of the earth – from crossing. But it seemed that the king of Cilicia had no desire to engage in conflict and preferred to let Cyrus pass rather than attempt to stop him. Whoever held the Gates had the whip hand, so Cyrus had no choice but to trust him. Soon his word of honour would be put to the test: the Gates were