Memnon (24 page)

Memnon exhaled a drawn-out sigh full of frustration and impotent rage. “I am glad this burden is mine no longer. I pass it to you, Artabazus, without regret,” Memnon said, clapping the old satrap on the shoulder. “In ten days Khafre will take ship back to Miletus, thence to Sidon. Mentor is expecting your answer, be it good or ill. For my part, I stand by whatever you decide.” The Rhodian made to turn away, but stopped. “I’ve not known a season of peace in four years. With winter coming on, I would like nothing better than to spend my days hunting and my nights by the fire.”

Artabazus smiled. “Both can be easily arranged. Come, let us ride like the wind. If we get in too long after dusk your sister is liable to set the dogs on us.”

Memnon laughed as Pharnabazus led their horses up. “My dear sister,” he said, offering the old satrap a leg up into the saddle. “The Macedonian winters haven’t chilled her temper, I gather?”

Artabazus shivered in mock horror. “An enraged Deidamia would melt the snows of Hyperborea.”

Memnon vaulted astride Euphrosyne and gathered up the reins, touching his heels to the mare’s flanks. “Zeus Savior! We’d best hurry!”

 

D
EIDAMIA’S ANGER, IF IT EVER MANIFESTED ITSELF, SOON DISSIPATED IN A
flurry of activity. She used the hours afforded by their romp in the countryside to oversee preparations for a feast honoring Memnon’s return. Under her meticulous eye, slaves transformed the villa’s courtyard into an open-air banquet hall, replete with garlanded columns and braziers smoldering with a delicate blend of aromatic woods and incense. Iron cressets cast hazy light over six supper couches, arranged in a semicircle around the sparkling fountain. Three low tables, carved of pearwood and inlaid with ivory, held communal dishes of food: loaves of bread, shallow bowls of olive oil for dipping, wheels of cheese and mounds of boiled eggs, pots of lentil stew flavored with onions and garlic, and chunks of tuna cooked in an herb sauce.

Memnon, freshly bathed and clad in a scarlet tunic, sat to the right of Artabazus and Deidamia; Pharnabazus sat to their left. Beside Memnon, Khafre shared his couch with Cophen, who listened, enthralled, to every word the Egyptian said. Gryllus and his wife, Ianthe, occupied the last couch on the right, an honor Artabazus afforded them in recognition of their long service to the household. With them sat the satrap’s two youngest children: seven-year-old Hydarnes and little Arsames, only five, whose angelic face showed utter concentration as he struggled to untie a knotted cord Gryllus had given him.

On the couch next to Pharnabazus, Barsine sat with nine-year-old twins Artacama and Ariobarzanes. Time and again as the night wore on, Memnon found his attention drawn to the nineteen-year-old daughter of Artabazus, his own brother’s prospective wife, who had matured into a dark-haired beauty with eyes the color of the night sky. Beneath her quick smile and quicker wit, Memnon sensed Barsine retained the same gravity she had displayed as a child, bolstered by the words of poets and philosophers she had devoured in her studies. “Ignorance has no place under my roof,” Artabazus was fond of saying; son or daughter, all his children received instruction. What would Mentor value more, he wondered, the educated woman or the dynasty she represented?

Finally, Memnon stirred and, almost frowning, reached for his goblet. Though the vintage was an expensive Thasian, apple-scented and sublime, he drained it as if it were some obol-per-liter table wine.

“Brooding again?” Deidamia asked. Artabazus lay on his stomach, dozing as she massaged the kinks from his shoulders, oblivious to the children’s laughter. They clapped and yipped as Khafre regaled them with tale after tale of his native Egypt, some familiar from Herodotus, others culled from his years as a temple scribe. Even Pharnabazus and Barsine joined in.

“I have become adept at brooding,” Memnon said. He poured himself another glass. “Has there been any word of Patron? I would like to see that old scoundrel again.”

“He passed through Pella around midsummer,” Deidamia said, “bound for Sicily to take part in Timoleon’s war against Carthage.”

“Sicily? Zeus! If he were that desperate for gold and glory, he should have followed us to Egypt. He would have found both in excess.” Memnon sipped wine. “What about Philip? Where does he campaign so late in the season?”

“Illyria,” Artabazus murmured, his eyes still closed.

Deidamia smiled. “Another midsummer departure, this one to quell an uprising along the Illyrian frontier with Epirus. Originally, the King had meant to make for Thrace, to reinforce his general, Parmenion. I’ve heard you men debate Philip’s qualities until you’re as red-faced as Socrates in the agora, but never have you mentioned his flexibility.”

“That’s because the poets praise a man for his ferocity or his honor, never for his logistical prowess,” Memnon said. He stared into the depths of his wine, hoping to see prophecies and portents, insights into the future; he was disappointed to discover nothing but his own reflection. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I’m tired. I think I’ll say goodnight before good Dionysus captures me in a Thasian snare.”

“I’ve had the guesthouse prepared for you and Khafre. It’s quieter and affords you more privacy, should a strapping Macedonian lass catch your fancy,” Deidamia said, her eyes twinkling.

Memnon rose. “You are the soul of preparedness,” he said, kissing the crown of her head. He patted Artabazus’s shoulder; the old satrap muttered something in response. Memnon said his goodnights briskly, bid Khafre to stay and entertain the children as long as their mother allowed, and submitted to an unsteady hug from Ianthe. She and her husband both wore tipplers’ masks—their smiling faces flushed and shining, their eyes glazed from too much wine.

“Gryllus,” Deidamia said to the gardener. “Will you show Memnon to the guesthouse?”

Before Gryllus could struggle upright, though, Barsine stood and gestured for the old man to keep his seat. “Allow me,” she said. “I am soon to bed, as well, and I could use a breath of air before sleep.”

Deidamia assented, and Barsine led Memnon from the courtyard and out into the garden. A sliver of moon hung low in the sky; bats whirred above their heads while crickets and frogs raised a clamor. The guesthouse, little more than a slate-roofed cabin, lay about a hundred yards from the main house, in a grassy hollow surrounded by birches and sycamores. A night lamp hung over the door, a beacon for insects.

Memnon glanced at Barsine as they walked. Near equal in height and slender, she wore a sleeved
chiton
of deep Egyptian blue, girdled at the waist with a gold-embroidered sash, and fastened by four gilded ivory brooches. Unbound, her long black hair fell over her shoulder; she toyed with the ends of it, her delicate brows drawn together in thought.

“I am to be Mentor’s bride, it seems,” she said without preamble.

Memnon sighed. That she knew meant Artabazus had made his decision. “Yes. It seems so.”

She nodded slowly. “I always knew my marriage would be for politics rather than love, but I never imagined it would involve my own uncle.”

“It’s not set in stone,” Memnon said, a bitter edge to his voice. “My brother—that damn fool!—still has to cast his honor to the dogs and avoid getting himself killed in the process.”

Barsine cocked her head to one side. “I do not remember Mentor well, but what I do remember is a man of uncomplicated logic. Could he not believe in what he is doing as fervently as you condemn it?”

“I don’t care what he believes! He gave his oath, and an oath, once given, cannot be withdrawn simply because a man winds up on the losing side. If this faithlessness only involved the Sidonian king I would support him wholeheartedly, but he’s turned against Pharaoh, as well, and he has done nothing deserving of our betrayal! It contradicts everything Artabazus taught us! You remember Pammenes? The Theban your father hired to soldier for him? He renounced his allegiance to Artabazus out of self-concern and we cursed him for it. Am I now to think my brother glorious for following Pammenes’ lead?”

It was Barsine’s turn to sigh. “Was it not Father’s renunciation of his oath to the Great King that drove him to hire Pammenes in the first place? Remove the Theban from the equation and tell me how Mentor’s actions are any different from my father’s, a man you admire? I love my father with all my heart, but I am not blind to the fact that he will alter his allegiances to suit his needs. Men in positions of power have not the luxury of honor. This, I think, Mentor learned very well.”

Stunned to silence, Memnon turned slowly and stared at her, his eyes narrowing. Barsine’s face flushed; she blinked and looked away. Suddenly, she looked nineteen, again.

“I apologize, Uncle,” she stammered. “Father encourages us to learn by disputation. I fear I have overstepped my bounds and trespassed into places where I have no business. I—”

“Zeus Savior! I know men who cannot command such eloquence! I sense, though, that you’ve learned the Socratic art at the foot of two masters—Artabazus and my sister, for I hear them both in your speech and your arguments. Don’t apologize, Barsine. There’s truth in these things you say, and were I not weary and thick-headed with wine I would refute your every point.” The Rhodian smiled. They stood now in the circle of light cast by the night lamp, in front of the guesthouse.

Barsine exhaled and said, in mock seriousness, “Then perhaps we should continue this on a day when you are well-rested and free of the grape’s influence?”

“Indeed we will, and when that day comes you’d best wear your philosopher’s mantle, for I intend to wear mine.”

Barsine laughed, clapping her hands together like a child anticipating an afternoon of play. “Good night, Uncle,” she said, turning to retrace her steps to the main house. “Sleep well.”

“And you.” Memnon paused on the threshold and watched her vanish into the night, the muted glitter of gold embroidery marking her progress. No longer the quiet, reserved girl from Dascylium, Memnon wondered how Artabazus had kept his estate free of would-be Macedonian suitors. But, even as the thought flashed through his mind, an answer presented itself:
because she’s Persian.
Likely the sons of their Macedonian hosts thought foreign women beneath them. For an instant, the opening of a door wreathed Barsine’s slender profile in a nimbus of light, and then she was gone. Memnon smiled.

“What fools, these Macedonians,” he muttered as he turned and went inside.

12

 

S
UMMER’S HEAT FADED, AND THE BIRCHES SURROUNDING THE ESTATE
blazed with autumnal splendor, a canopy of fiery reds, oranges, and golds as beautiful as it was fleeting. The end of harvest brought the first frosts of the season; in no time, winter roared down from the mountains, a cold north wind that rattled the brown reeds fringing Lake Loudias and brought snow and ice to the Emathian Plain.

True to his word, Memnon cleaved to the fire save for the occasional foray into the foothills to hunt boar and stag. By the hearth in the great hall, he and Artabazus whiled away the hours debating politics and its practitioners—from Isocrates and his call for Philip to initiate a Hellenic crusade against Persia, to the vituperation of Macedonia by the Athenian demagogue, Demosthenes. Under the eaves of the guesthouse, Memnon reread Herodotus by the light of the pale winter sun, Homer by the glow of firelight.

“Menelaus or Paris?” Barsine said, noticing the scroll on one of her frequent visits. The threat of a spring thaw gave them an excellent reason to take the horses out for a little exercise. “Whose place would you rather take?”

Memnon tugged on his cavalry boots, stood, and slipped a heavy woolen cloak over his shoulders. “Neither. Menelaus was a man who couldn’t hold on to what was his; Paris was a man who took what didn’t belong to him.”

“Who, then?”

Memnon thought for a moment, tapping the scroll basket with his finger. “Odysseus,” he said. “Here is a man who goes to war, endures the wrath of Poseidon, and is away a score of years. What does he find when he returns to Ithaca? A wretched pack of suitors held at bay by a cunning wife who refused to believe he was dead. If I am to be cast from a Homeric mold, let it be in the mold of Odysseus.”

“Not Achilles?”

Memnon smiled and held the door open for her. A chilly blast of air ruffled the scrolls. “My father’s secretary, Glaucus, used to accuse me of wanting to emulate mighty Achilles, of thirsting after glory for its own sake. He never understood, though.”

“Understood?” Barsine tugged her cowl up over her braided hair. She, too, wore a woolen mantle, dyed black and lined with sheepskin. Outside the guesthouse, a thin crust of snow clung to the low places where the sun couldn’t reach, to the lee of the stream bank and the bases of statues. The thawing ground squelched with each step as they walked toward the stables.

“That Achilles may have been a matchless warrior, but he was forever at the mercy of Odysseus’s wits,” Memnon said, his breath steaming. “Nor did Achilles outstrip the King of Ithaca in the arena of Glory. They were equals, but Odysseus didn’t have to sacrifice his life to achieve lasting fame. No, let others revere Achilles and seek to fashion their sword arms after his. I will style myself after Odysseus and guide their sword arms to victory.”

“And return home to your faithful Penelope, little Telemachus on her hip?”

“Should ever I be so blessed, yes.”

Barsine’s eyebrow arched.

“What?” Memnon said. “You think I’m deceiving myself? Or am I not deserving of such things?”

“No, you deserve it—more so than most—I just … I …” She paused. Memnon could not tell if the cold or embarrassment heightened her color, but when she spoke again, her voice barely rose above a whisper. “I do not remember you as a homesick Odysseus, but as a dashing Hector, on a great black horse with your armor gleaming in the sun as you hurled back a horde of foul Hyrkanians—ferocious and indestructible. To hear you now speak of home and hearth as your ultimate goal is … surprising.”

“Inside every man of war is a man of peace, a man who needs to know he has somewhere to go once the wars cease. Crops and herds are prosaic to the young, but these are the things that sustain the veteran through the worst of the campaign season, through defeat and privation. A man facing death needs to know there’s someone at home waiting for him. He needs a reason beyond glory to fight.”

“Like Odysseus,” Barsine said, as though a mystery had been made clear. Often, as the day wore on, Memnon caught her staring; she’d glance away quickly, but with each instance he had the impression she was seeing him in a different light.

Winter held on, but soon enough Persephone left the frigid confines of Hades’ realm and returned to the world of the living. To celebrate her arrival, Nature garlanded itself with blossoms of pink and white, violet and yellow, intertwined with leaf-buds of the palest green. Snow thawed on the mountainsides, swelling every stream and watercourse out of its banks; even Lake Loudias, its dark waters ruffled by a south wind, crept up over the stone quays.

Memnon’s morning regimen now included a trip to the
gymnasion,
followed by a turn or two about the agora, listening to merchants who had come overland from the south, eager for news. Soon, the sea-lanes would reopen and ships would again call at Pella. Only then, he reckoned, would tidings from Asia reach this far north. The Rhodian contented himself with the usual range of gossip, most of it local—a litany of feuds and marriages, cuckolds and vendettas that mirrored the conduct of the royal house.

“Theirs is not a tranquil union,” one merchant said, nodding up toward the palace on the acropolis. Of course, Deidamia kept Memnon apprized on what went on between the King and Queen, but not even she heard it all. She heard even less now that she was pregnant again, and bed-ridden. “Not tranquil at all, what with poor Alexander wedged between them, and now this whole affair with Pausanias.” The merchant clucked.

Memnon bought a handful of dried figs from the man. “Who?”

“Pausanias.” The merchant lowered his voice, as if he spilled state secrets rather than the latest bit of scandal. “An old lover of King Philip’s—he’s fancied both since his days as a hostage in Thebes. Anyway, Pausanias was put aside and another, more handsome boy took his place in the King’s bed. Being a hot-tempered Orestid, Pausanias insulted the boy at a drinking party, told everyone he would fuck a dead man, if he could get an
obol
or two out of it.”

“Brave man, to insult the King like that,” Memnon said, munching a fig.

The merchant, a native Macedonian, made a dismissive gesture. “Philip took it in stride, knowing it for the last gasp of love gone awry. The boy, though … he took it hard, this slight to his honor. Kept it bottled up inside. Finally, last season, on the Epirote border, the boy tried to redeem his good name. He charged ahead of the King and got himself impaled on an Illyrian spear.”

“All because a jilted rival called him names?” Memnon grunted, shaking his head. “What did Philip do to Pausanias?”

The merchant shrugged. “Depends upon whom you ask. Pausanias is an Orestid, as I said, and they are as quarrelsome a pack of curs as ever crawled from the womb. Publicly, the King could do little. Privately, though, I’m told he set the boy’s friends on Pausanias. These fellows lured him to the house of Attalus, got him dead drunk, and gave him over to the slaves and the stable hands, telling them he would bend over for anyone, and freely.”

Memnon whistled softly.

“Nor were they gentle about it,” the merchant said. “Were I Pausanias, I’d rather they just killed me and been done with it.” Before Memnon could press him further, another customer drew the merchant’s attention; the Rhodian waved his thanks and moved along.

On the way back to the estate, Memnon saw preparations were well underway for the spring horse fair, set to take place in a few days’ time. Like poets to the great Dionysia, the fair drew dealers and buyers from all corners of Macedonia and beyond, from Thessaly, Epirus, Thrace, Ionia, even Scythia. Stalls and tents were going up all over Pella to satisfy the growing influx of visitors. Some would serve as dormitories for this retinue or that, some as impromptu wine shops and brothels, and the rest as extensions of the agora, offering for sale everything from last year’s apples to gold jewelry of the finest craftsmanship. Hammers thudded as workmen erected the royal pavilion in a meadow outside Pella; others created corrals of wood and rope to segregate breeders’ stock so no common stallion could break free and mount some prize racing mare—surely enough to trigger violence among men whose livelihoods depended on maintaining pure bloodlines.

At the gates to Artabazus’s estate, Memnon met a messenger on his way out, a young man wearing the livery of the King. The old satrap stood not too far away, a roll of fine parchment in his hand. It still bore the wax seal of the palace.

Memnon frowned. “What goes?”

“Philip desires our company, you and I, during the horse fair,” Artabazus said, nodding after the messenger. He held up the scroll. “And this is for Deidamia, from the Queen.”

“Desires our company, eh? A polite way of summoning us to his side. What could he want?”

“Ah, my boy. When did you become so suspicious?” Artabazus said. “Perhaps all Philip wants is the pleasure of our company.”

Memnon smiled and fell in beside Artabazus, gently draping an arm around the old satrap’s shoulder. “When did
you
become so trusting? Philip never does anything on the principle of pleasure—his or someone else’s. His every action, every word, serves his interests in some way. He wants us there for a reason, Artabazus.”

“I don’t doubt that,” the old satrap said, “but his reasons are not necessarily sinister. There are times, my boy, when an honest invitation is just that—an honest invitation. You will drive yourself mad if you always seek to discern the motives behind every word. If Philip has some ulterior purpose, so be it. Wait, though, and let him show his hand before you assume the worst.” Artabazus patted Memnon’s arm.

“Where Philip is concerned,” Memnon said, recalling the tale of Pausanias, “I cannot help but assume the worst.”

 

T
HE DAY OF THE FAIR DAWNED CLEAR AND BRIGHT, THE CLOUDLESS SKY AN
azure canopy over the green meadow where the buying and selling would take place. Memnon and Artabazus rose early and joined the crowds partaking of the common business—soldiers looking for spare mounts or trained chargers, sporting men admiring the racers, hill-chiefs seeking to replenish their strings of ponies. Dealers extolled the virtues of each breed, from tall Iberians renowned for their spirit, to lean Scythians of unparalleled speed, to small and hardy Messaras bearing the axe-brand of Pherae on their flanks. None of them, Memnon reckoned, could approach Artabazus’s purebred Nisaeans, their pedigrees hearkening back to antiquity, to the chariot teams of great Nebuchadnezzar. The old satrap knew it, too, though he kept it to himself, never boastful. As each dealer presented his wares, Artabazus smiled gently and made small compliments before moving on to the next.

Philip’s arrival on the field, past midday, signaled an end to the common business. Unsold stock was led away and the dealers shouted for their grooms to escort their finest wares to the forefront, the pureblood chargers, highly trained and spirited. The King of Macedonia was not a man who stood on protocol; preceded by his bodyguard, he made a leisurely entrance, limping still from a poorly healed wound gained in last year’s Illyrian campaign.

“The gods,” Artabazus muttered, in Persian, “use his flesh as a scribe uses a waxed board, their iron stylus recording a hymn to Ares.”

Memnon nodded, silent. Stark against his dusty blue
chiton,
an impressive array of scars laced the King’s arms and legs, his neck and face—some red and angry, others white with age. Each represented an offering of blood on the War God’s altar. An eye, too, had gone to placate the Lords of Olympus, to secure blessings of power for his beloved Macedonia.

The King’s black-bearded face swiveled as he acknowledged his Companions and his courtiers, his tribal lords, his soldiers, and certain of the dealers. When his good eye lit on Artabazus, though, Philip gave a broad grin.

“My Persian friend!” the King said. “It pleases me you could join us! Who’s that with you? Memnon? Great Herakles, Rhodian! It’s good to see you’ve escaped the clutches of the decadent south! Come, join me under the pavilion. This sun’s too fierce to stand around jawing like neighbors at the well.”

The pavilion’s purple cloth shaded the King’s throne, a straight-backed chair of heavy wood with armrests carved to resemble lions, inlaid with silver and covered in sheets of hammered gold. Philip sat with a groan, motioned for one of his pages to bring two stools closer.

“I understand congratulations are in order,” Artabazus said, perching himself on the proffered stool.

Philip grunted. “For killing Illyrians? Those bastards try to wriggle out from under my heel with Olympic regularity. Kleitos,” he said to the nearest bodyguard, a thickly muscled Macedonian sporting a fierce black beard, “find that lack-witted steward and have him fetch wine.” Philip turned back to look at Memnon. “What do you hear of that brother of yours? Is he still humping a shield for the glory of Egypt?”

“I left him in Sidon last summer,” Memnon said. “Commanding the garrison against Ochus.”

“So it’s true, then? Ochus is going to try again to reclaim Egypt?”

“He’ll likely succeed this time. Thebes and Argos gave him men, Ionia, too. He’ll use those hoplites as a skeleton, fingers of a grasping fist clothed in Persian flesh.”