Memnon (19 page)

Memnon gathered himself up. He nodded, accepting his new role and the implicit trust these men tendered, many of them twice his age. “Wagons,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion. “We need more wagons …”

 

M
IDMORNING STRETCHED TO MIDAFTERNOON, AND THENCE TO EVENING
as Memnon oversaw the transport of the wounded and dead from camp to fortress. At his direction, pavilions sprang up at the base of the stairs leading to the palace; iron cressets were driven into the ground, ready to provide light once the sun finished its descent beyond the western horizon. Memnon, though, did not toil alone. Khafre helped those men he could and made comfortable those beyond his skill. No one asked how he came to be there. They simply accepted his aid with prayers of thanks. Artabazus, too, went among the injured with words of praise, making much of each wound and hearing each man’s tale. For those near death, the old satrap simply sat at their side, holding their hand and whispering.

“I never know what to say them,” Memnon said as he brought Artabazus a flask of water. Datis, his chamberlain, hovered nearby, ready with a fresh poultice should his master’s leg buckle. “Truly, what words bring comfort to a dying man?”

“Put yourself in their place,” Artabazus said. “What words would bring you comfort?”

Memnon thought about it for a moment, his brows furrowed. Finally, he said, “I would like reassurance that I’m not alone, that I won’t be forgotten. Most of all, though, I think I would want to know my sacrifice wasn’t in vain.”

“It is no different for each of them.” The old satrap patted Memnon’s shoulder and returned to his ministrations.

Alone for a moment, the Rhodian watched the swirl of activity. Children darted between the pavilions, though not in play. Pharnabazus, with Barsine, had organized them into brigades of runners, bearers, water carriers, and bandage makers; they fetched blankets and food, tended to the cavalrymen’s tired mounts, and ran errands throughout the afternoon. Even the women were pressed into service. As wife to the satrap, his sister Deidamia bore the unenviable task of consoling the forgotten victims of the war: the widows and mothers, sisters and daughters of the slain soldiers. She dispensed with the formalities of court and met them on their level, in dusty tents and under awnings; her maids brought water and olive oil for washing and anointing the bodies. A touch, a soft-spoken word, an embrace, and Deidamia was on to the next, circulating between families with faultless grace.

As she stepped from the pavilion nearest him, the sight of her reminded Memnon of something Glaucus—may his shade rest in peace—had said:
She is the very image of her mother.
And she was. The same raven hair, the same sharp features, the same wide eyes. Only in height and carriage did she differ; in both none could mistake her lineage as the eldest child of Timocrates. Deidamia inherited their father’s confidence, and she wore it as easily as she wore her long black
chiton.

She came abreast of Memnon and stopped, words of greeting forgotten, her finely drawn eyebrows wrinkling. “You’re bleeding,” she said, indicating his shoulder. “Sit. Let me change your bandages.”

“It’s nothing. I’ll have Khafre—”

“Sit.” Her tone brooked no refusal. Memnon propped himself against a wagon.

Securing bandages from a passing child, Deidamia directed her maids to cut away the soot-and-blood-encrusted material swathing Memnon’s right side, revealing pale skin and an angry red wound. “Has Mentor returned?” she asked, probing his flesh none too gently; satisfied it showed no signs of suppuration, she motioned for the women to begin rewrapping it with clean linen strips.

“Not yet.” Memnon winced as he raised and flexed his shoulder. “It’s starting to worry me.”

“Why? Mentor is imminently capable of taking care of himself. More so than you or I. Though”—she let the pause hang in the air as she considered her words—“you’re not the same man who left here. I’ve kept my eye on you today. You have an aura about you, as though you’re now privy to some divine secret denied to the rest of us. The men sense it; they respond by holding you in esteem, as one might a priest or an oracle. Artabazus senses it, as well. Have you been visited by a god, Memnon?”

He looked askance at his sister. Though said half in jest, Memnon could see in her eyes that she was deadly serious. Even eager. Tales of gods taking physical form fascinated her; she pursued such Mysteries with the same rapacity as their father displayed toward politics. Memnon never understood the genesis of her mania, but he knew better than to encourage her. Like Timocrates with his
demokratia,
Deidamia knew nothing of restraint in matters of religion. Still, what occurred in Heraclides’ tent—be it manifestation or delusion—was for his benefit, alone. “Visited by a god? Don’t be absurd. War is a pitiless teacher, Deidamia; to survive its lessons, a man must become equally pitiless. It took the head of a spear to drive that maxim home for me. As for what you see, this aura, I cannot say. Oft-times, trauma inspires change in a man. Perhaps that is what the men sense.” He glanced down at his shoulder as the maids tied off the last bandage, moved his arm back and forth. “Excellent work,” he said to them, smiling his thanks.

Deidamia shooed the younger women away. Her voice sank to a whisper. “Has Artabazus said aught to you of his plans? If the Loyalists drive us from Dascylium, where will we go? Back to Assos?” When he didn’t reply, Deidamia calculated his answer by the grim look in his eyes. “Where, then?”

Memnon exhaled and straightened. “I don’t know. It is still too early to tell. Wait for Mentor. Once he’s returned, Artabazus will be better able to make his decision. You should steel yourself, though. We may be forced to look beyond Asia’s shores for refuge.”

“Beyond …? Zeus Savior!” Her hand flew up and clutched her throat; tears rimmed her eyes. “What is to become of us?”

Memnon drew her into a brief embrace, kissed her forehead. “Whatever becomes of us, you and the children will be well cared for. You have my word on that. Come, now. Cease this display. Put tomorrow out of your mind, Deidamia. We have enough to occupy us for today.”

She swallowed hard and held herself erect. They were of equal height; Deidamia touched Memnon’s cheek in a gesture achingly reminiscent of their mother. “Will you not tell me what mystery the gods revealed to you?”

“My own,” he said, smiling. He was spared further questioning by the clatter of horses’ hooves and the jingle of harness.

Mentor had returned.

10

 

“T
HEY COVER THE EARTH LIKE FUCKING VERMIN!” MENTOR PACED
the perimeter of the open-sided pavilion, still in his armor, his dusty cloak flaring out behind him as he turned. “And that goat-fucker Pammenes is right in there with them, as tight as lice on a Thracian’s balls!”

Night had fallen and a copper lamp hung from the pavilion’s ridge pole, its carved cedar polished from years of use; Artabazus stood under it, his hands clasped behind his back, his head bowed in thought. Soldiers ringed the rug-strewn pavilion, listening to their general’s tirade and waiting for the old satrap to speak. Memnon, too, stood off to one side. Beside him, one of Mentor’s cavalrymen fairly vibrated with rage.

“A fighting chance!” he choked. “All we ask for is a fighting chance!”

Artabazus looked up at the sound of the man’s voice. Memnon could see the resignation in his eyes. “You would fight?” he said. “Even in the face of impossible odds?” A roar went up from the encircling soldiers. Weapons rattled, spears rang against shield rims in resounding acclamation. Artabazus held his hands up, gesturing for silence. “My companions! My brave companions, you have served me well, with all your heart and soul, but now the time has come to see to your own safety, and the safety of your families! Our rebellion is at an end!”

Cries of “No!” and “Lead us,
Megapatros
!” drowned out the old satrap’s voice.

“Lead you? Lead you where? No, my noble warriors! I am done! Where would I lead you? The whole of Persia stands against us! Our allies are gone, scared off by the might of the Great King! I ask you, my companions, what choice do we have?”

Even Mentor was swept up in the fury of the moment. His sword flashed from its sheath. “I say we stand! Zeus Savior and Helios! All men die! What does it matter if it’s today, tomorrow, or a year from tomorrow?” The soldiers erupted at this display of bravado; behind them, in the shadows, their women and children shrank back in fear.

Memnon took everything in with a glance. Mentor’s chest swelled with the acclaim of his men; his face flushed, like a man drunk on the wine of battle. Beside him, Artabazus looked small and bent. His heart wasn’t in this fight, and Memnon could tell it. Something needed to be said. Something …

As the crowd’s mingled voices paused to draw breath Memnon stepped forward. He circled Artabazus, reassuring the old satrap with a steady hand on his shoulder, and passed close to Mentor. He gestured for his brother’s sword. Frowning, Mentor passed it to him, hilt first. Memnon studied his reflection in the blade while he waited for the clamor to die down. It seemed the eyes of Timocrates stared back at him.
You have an aura about you.

“Your loyalty does you great credit, my friends!” Memnon said, elevating his voice. “Such is the quality of your courage, of your convictions, that even Leonidas of the renowned Three Hundred would be proud to call you his men! But, we are not at Thermopylae, and this is not a time for blind heroics”—he drove the sword point-first into the ground at his feet—“no matter how pleasing they may be to the gods! Put aside this eagerness to die for a moment and ask yourselves what would vex the Great King more: crushing his enemies in a one-sided massacre, or the knowledge that his enemies escaped his wrath altogether?” At this, the soldiers murmured; some nodded their assent. “Without our bodies to crucify, without our heads to decorate his pikes, what will the Great King have to show for his time? Let me answer that for you! He will have nothing, my friends, save for the acrimonious sting of a hollow victory!”

“A hollow victory is still a victory,” Mentor growled. “And I am not fond of losing!”

“Nor am I, my brother. Nor is any man. But was it not Artabazus who taught us to celebrate our victories with humility so that our defeats will not reek of fallen pride?” Memnon turned and acknowledged Artabazus as a pupil might his teacher. “The gods have decreed that we must lose this war, my friends! There is no way around it! But must we become martyrs, as well? Must your wives suffer indignities at the hands of Tithraustes’ men? Must your children grow up tasting the bitter dregs of slavery? Every man here knows what consequences his loved ones will face after his death! Are we prepared to condemn them alongside us?”

The soldiers glanced over their shoulders at their families, suddenly ashamed at their previous outburst. How could they have been so thoughtless? Mentor, too, retrieved his sword and sheathed it, chastened by his brother’s words. For the span of a dozen heartbeats no one spoke, no one moved. Finally, Artabazus broke the silence. “It is no easy thing to put the needs of family above our own glory, but Memnon is right. We bear the burden of others on our shoulders. We must think of them, first. Even as I released Chares and his Athenians from my service without blame or recrimination, so now do I release all of you, as well. I beg you, get yourselves and your families to safety!”

Still, the men made no move to disperse. They looked at one another, shuffling from foot to foot, each waiting for the other to speak. Finally, the front ranks shifted, allowing Omares entrance to the pavilion. Scarred and grizzled, Omares’ cheeks were wet with tears as he knelt before Artabazus.
“Megapatros,
I speak for each man here when I say no matter how well we may have served you, you have served us beyond reckoning, as have your kinsmen. I lost a cousin and two nephews today, and my brother stands already among the shades since Lake Manyas. Though you free us from your service, the dead do not. When the time comes, when I join my ancestors, how will I face them as a man of my word if I abandon you today? I cannot leave your service until I know you and yours are beyond the Great King’s reach!” A chorus of
hurrah’s
punctuated Omares’ words. He grasped the old satrap’s hand. “There are ships yet in the harbor, Lord Artabazus! Let us put you on one and get you to safety! Only then will we be free to pursue the same for ourselves!”

Artabazus caught Omares’ hand in both of his and urged the soldier to his feet. “Rise, my loyal Omares,” he said. “It is I who should be kneeling before you. Kneeling in thanks for your sound counsel and generous offer. And generous though it may be, I cannot accept it. Truly, what kind of leader would I be if I scurried off and left you to face the King’s wrath alone?”

“A prudent one,” Omares replied. “You are of no use to us dead, my lord.”

“Bless you, my friends, but it seems we have a dilemma! I could no more leave you in the lurch than you could me. But, perhaps we can strike a compromise. What say we prepare together? Leave together? That way, I can be guaranteed of your safety, and you of mine. What say you?”

Omares looked back at his comrades. As one, every man, woman, and child voiced their thunderous approval. Artabazus embraced Omares, kissed his cheek, and followed him out among the men. Memnon started in their wake, but Mentor’s hand on his shoulder brought him up short. Brother turned to face brother.

“Zeus, boy!” Mentor said, his brow furrowed. “You spoke well. Patron said you had a gift for oration, but I never believed him.”

“I only spoke what was in my heart, to remind them what was in
their
hearts.”

“Well, not that it matters but—by god!—Father would have been proud!” Mentor nodded and moved off to look after his men. Memnon watched him go. A knot thickened in the young Rhodian’s throat. “It matters,” he whispered. “It matters.”

 

T
HREE SHIPS REMAINED IN
D
ASCYLIUM’S HARBOR, STRIPPED DOWN FOR A
winter refit. Two were merchant vessels of the type called
strongyla ploia,
round ships, wide in the beam and deep, with tall prows and masts of aged cedar. The last was an ancient trireme, patched and re-patched, its hull doubtless laid down in the days when Athens fought Sparta. All three would serve Artabazus’s purposes.

Commanding a small army of volunteers culled from among the soldiers who had some experience at sea, and leavened with a handful of professional chandlers and shipwrights who called the harbor
emporion
home, Memnon worked through the night to make the ships ready to sail. Crews squarerigged new canvas and rope to the masts while the ships’ bellies received fresh coats of molten pitch. The Rhodian knew they would be crossing dangerous waters, so he inspected each joint, crevice, sheet, and lanyard himself, calling on the knowledge of gray-bearded ship-masters when his own stock failed him. At dawn, he sent word to the fortress. Loading could begin at the satrap’s pleasure.

“An inauspicious navy,” Khafre said, handing Memnon a cloth-covered bowl. Its contents steamed in the chill morning air.

“It will be sufficient for our needs.” Memnon sat under one of the
emporion’s
awnings and sniffed at his breakfast of barley porridge, laced with chopped dates and honey. Khafre dipped a cup of wine from an
amphora
perched on the back of a low wagon and handed it to the Rhodian. Other servants of the fortress were distributing similar fare to Memnon’s men.

“And what of its destination, this navy?” the Egyptian asked. Memnon shrugged.

“Thrace, perhaps, or one of the independent towns of the Chalcidice. Artabazus hasn’t said. How are the wounded?”

“Seven more joined Osiris during the night,” Khafre said. “The others resist the call of the god, though I do not think it is for themselves that they fight. Your satrap’s affection for them strengthens their resolve to live. This Lord Artabazus, he is an extraordinary man, more so than any other I have met.”

“Yes, he is.”

“I wonder, though, is he as clement as he appears?”

Memnon nodded. “Why do you ask?”

The Egyptian did not respond at first, his attention drawn by something across from the
emporion.
Memnon followed his gaze. A soldier, his woman, and their child sat in the sun, their backs to the wall of a ship shed, enjoying their meager breakfast and each other’s company. The woman laughed as their young son tried to lift his father’s mallet, to drive a sliver of wood into the ground. The boy fell backward into the soldier’s lap, his own mirth echoing.

Beside him, Memnon heard Khafre’s tortured sigh. “I have a wife and a son at home, in Bubastis, and I have been gone from them for nigh on ten years,” he said. “Like your Odysseus, I long to return to them, though until now I could see no clear way to accomplish this. Your lord’s mercy is the key.” He looked over at the Rhodian, his moist eyes pleading. “I am not without means, Memnon. Were I to raise a ransom, would Lord Artabazus consider accepting it in lieu of continued servitude?”

It was Memnon’s turn to pause; he sat his empty bowl aside, wiped his fingers on the cloth, and drained his wine. Khafre’s fate was something he had already mulled over, something he had already decided. How should he break it to him? “I’ve known Artabazus for many years,” Memnon began slowly, his forehead wrinkled in thought. “So I speak with a measure of authority when I say I don’t think he’ll take your money, Khafre.”

Stricken, the Egyptian slumped back against the wall and drew his knees to his chest. “I see.” His voice cracked. “Well, silence gains nothing, and Lord Artabazus is a more laudable master than Heraclides, I suspect. Reassure him, if you please, that I will not seek to escape. He—”

“You misunderstand me, Khafre,” Memnon said, smiling. “He’ll not take money for something he can give as a gift.”

Khafre blinked. “What?”

“You have done us an incalculable service, my friend. Without your skill, many more of our comrades would have gone to the gods. No ready price can be placed on their lives, or on Artabazus’s gratitude. I have only to ask and I am sure he will grant you your freedom—though even that is poor recompense for the aid you have provided.”

The Egyptian stuttered for a moment before finding his voice. “This is no cruel jest, is it?”

“No, Khafre,” Memnon said gently. “Nor is it a hollow promise. Indeed, I am so confident of Artabazus’s response that I give you my word on this: as we sit here, my friend, you are a free man.”

“A free man …” the Egyptian whispered before burying his face in his hands. Sobs wracked his body as he wept; one hand flailed out and caught Memnon’s, clutching at it as a drowning man clutches at a bundle of reeds. For his part, Memnon sat quietly, patting Khafre’s shoulder and listening to the sound of wagons rumbling toward the harbor. “I am s-sorry,” Khafre said at length. His eyes were red and swollen as he looked up; tears glistened on his cheeks. “I thought I was prepared for the … for the magnitude of this moment.”

“Will you continue to care for our wounded, as a free man, until such a time as we can speed you on your way?” Memnon asked, rising to his feet and looping his sword baldric over his shoulder. Khafre followed suit.

“You need not even ask. Of course I will.”

“Good.” Memnon gave an encouraging nod. Both men stepped out into the sun as a line of ox-drawn wagons rolled past the
emporion,
escorted by a score of cavalry. Mentor led them, looking uncomfortable astride his horse. He gestured for Memnon to attend him. The young Rhodian leaned toward Khafre. “You and I, we can talk more later.”