Memnon (25 page)

“And Mentor?” Philip said. “Will he stand in the way of this fist?”

Memnon spread his hands and shrugged. “That depends on his mood. If he’s tired of fighting a losing war, then I suspect he’ll renounce his allegiance to Pharaoh and offer himself to the Great King.”

“He’s already decided, you mean.” Philip grinned. A steward, one ear red from a good cuffing, hustled up with three cups and a pitcher of Chian wine, unwatered, as was the custom in Macedonia. The King took a cup and gestured for his guests to do the same. “There’s no need to hide it. Mentor’s not betraying my cause. If anything, perhaps he strengthens it.”

Memnon let Artabazus select first; he took the remaining cup. “How so?” the Rhodian asked.

“I could always use friends on that side of the Hellespont. Men I can trust to do the right thing, and who can trust me to do the same.”

“Have you fallen for the honeyed words of Isocrates?” Artabazus said, his eyebrows arched. “Will you push your borders beyond the Asian shore?”

Wine sloshed as Philip slapped his knee, his laughter booming through the pavilion. “Great Herakles, no! I may push my borders to the Hellespont, but not beyond. I have my hands full with Athens and her endless machinations. I need no more grief.” Philip sobered, leaned forward on his throne. “But, with friends in Nearer Asia, I need not fret should an attack be forthcoming from that quarter. Friends who can open the doors of trade, who can exchange information … and who can warn each other of threats to their mutual existence.”

Artabazus looked down as he swirled the dregs in his cup. “I value your friendship, King Philip, so I will tell you, in all honesty, that if Mentor succeeds it is my hope that we will be summoned home to share in his glory. It is my desire to make peace with my cousin, the Great King, so that my sons might claim their birthright as Pharnacids. Does this mean I will set aside my friendship with you, once I am gone from your court? Of course not. You and your family will forever be welcome at my hearth.”

Philip drained his wine and held his cup out for a refill. “But what if, in a dozen years, on a day much like this, Ochus comes to you and orders you or your sons to make war on me? What will become of our friendship then?”

“The same question could be posed to you, sire,” Memnon said. “Your son is not without ambition. Would he honor your friendships?”

“Ambition?” Philip gave a short, barking laugh. “Alexander already begrudges my every success, telling his friends I will forestall him in all things great and spectacular. Yes, the boy’s ambitious, but he understands honor. What friendships I forge he will …”

A discreet cough interrupted the King; a man approached the throne without waiting for permission. The newcomer, Antipatros, had no need of it. A King’s Man from the early days, he served as Philip’s chief statesman, his blunt features, thinning hair, and russet-and-gray beard hiding the sharp intellect of a born diplomat.

“My apologies,” Antipatros rumbled, his ice-blue gaze sliding from Artabazus to Memnon. He leaned in close to Philip’s ear, whispered something, and glanced back the way he had come. Philip—and Memnon—followed his gaze, seeing a man in a splendid Ionian
chiton
standing at the edge of the pavilion, his hair a golden fringe, his face displaying the smooth agelessness of a eunuch. He looked familiar, though Memnon could not recall where he had seen him before.

Philip nodded to the eunuch and grasped Antipatros’s shoulder. “Tell him we will speak later.”

“As you wish,” Antipatros muttered. Straightening, he withdrew and escorted the eunuch to a different part of the field. Memnon watched them depart. He turned back to find the King staring at him, his dark eye inscrutable.

“State business,” Philip said, rising. “It does not stop, even for festival days. Come, my friends, we’d better act like men at a horse fair before they brand us as pedants.” Philip waved his guard off as Artabazus and Memnon accompanied him out among the dealers. Thessaly was well represented by nearly a dozen brands, from the axe-heads of Pherae to the centaur-brands of Larissa to the magnificent ox-heads of Pharsalus, the
boukephaloi.
These last consumed the King’s attention. He stroked withers and checked teeth, lifted their hooves to inspect the frogs.

“Have you bred those Nisaeans yet, Artabazus?”

“And pollute their pedigree?” the old satrap said. “I would sooner pluck out my own eyes.”

“Would it be that distasteful? Think of it, a horse of Nisaean-Pharsalus stock—strength, speed, and incomparable beauty. I can’t imagine how much such a mount would be worth to a discerning buyer.” The next dealer the King greeted warmly, embracing him as he would a close friend. “Ah, Philonikos! I trust you brought the finest animals ever to tread the sacred soil of Thessaly under hoof?”

The dealer, Philonikos, a squat, bearish man who had the telltale swagger of a born horseman, made an expansive gesture. “My lord King! I bring you horses that would make you the envy of Lord Poseidon, himself!”

“I don’t seek to rival the gods, Philonikos, only to replace what I lost to the Illyrians.” Philip half-turned to Artabazus. “Philonikos, here, breeds the finest of the
boukephaloi.
He would be the man to talk to, if ever you decide to share your Nisaeans with the rest of us.”

“You flatter me, majesty.” Philonikos bowed.

Philip motioned. “Show us what you have.”

The horses Philonikos directed his grooms to present to the King were fine animals, Memnon was forced to admit, but Philip must have had a particular mount in mind; none of the Thessalian’s string measured up to his demands. A crowd formed around the King, watching with interest as his practiced eye noted the tiniest of flaws—some that Memnon couldn’t even detect. The onlookers made a sport of it by placing wagers on the remaining horses. To Philonikos, though, this was deadly business. Each rejection pricked the Thessalian’s pride. Exasperated, he told his harried grooms, “Bring up Xanthos!”

“Auspicious name,” Memnon said.

Philonikos ignored him, his jaw jutting in defiance. The stallion his men led up could very well have sprung from the loins of its legendary namesake, the immortal Xanthos that had once belonged to Achilles. This new Xanthos was large, even among a breed noted for size, and black as soot with a white blaze on its forehead. The animal pranced and fought, tried to rear up. It took two grooms, one on each side of its head, and a wickedly barbed bit to control it, but it was tenuous control, at best.

A buzz of disbelief rose from the assembled men. Philip glanced over at Philonikos. “I’m not buying a horse in need of breaking, so don’t waste my time.”

“Xanthos
is
broken, sire,” Philonikos said. “It responds only to strength. Under the right man, that horse would ride to the gates of Tartarus and back. Absolutely fearless.”

“It looks it, I grant you that.” The King moved closer, keeping clear of the stamping hooves. “Xanthos,” he said. The horse started at the sound of its name, nostrils flaring. “Easy, boy. Easy.” As Philip reached for the headstall, though, his shadow fell in front of the horse.

Xanthos exploded. The animal bucked and pawed the air, oblivious of the barbed bit or of the two grooms. One hoof came so close to the King’s skull that Philip could feel the breeze off it. He stumbled back, his face darkening.

“Zeus! That bastard can’t be ridden and you damn well know it! What manner of fool do you take me for, Philonikos?” Philip roared. “Great gods! I may have one eye, but I’m not blind! That animal’s a killer! Get it away from me, you Thessalian whoreson, and thank the gods I don’t have you striped for trying to fleece honest men!”

Philonikos paled, plucking at the hem of the King’s
chiton
as Philip brushed past him, intent on patronizing one of the Thessalian’s rival dealers. “Wait, sire! I—”

Memnon felt a pang of regret for the man. Before Philip could move on, though, a youth’s voice crackled above the noise of men settling their bets.

“You’re losing a magnificent horse, father, all because you and those men don’t know how to handle him, or dare not try!”

A hush fell over the field. Philip swung around, his brow deeply furrowed. Memnon and Artabazus glanced back toward the pavilion. The crowd parted, and Prince Alexander, his face flushed, his thick hair tangled and shining like burnished gold, hurried forward, trailed by an entourage of boys and young men.

Philip, his hands on his hips, growled, “What did you say?”

“That horse!” Alexander gazed covetously at the stallion, his blue-gray eyes wide and gleaming. “You will never again see its like, and yet you dismiss it out of hand!”

“I dismiss it for good reason! A horse like that will get a man killed in battle! It can’t be ridden!”

“I can ride him!” Alexander said. The confidence in his voice seemed misplaced on a youth of thirteen summers; Memnon reckoned it part of Alexander’s mystery—a mystery the Rhodian was hard-pressed to explain. Already, the Prince had attracted a circle of followers, young men his age or slightly older who professed loyalty unto death for Macedonia’s heir apparent. Their fathers, men of Philip’s generation, encouraged the notion, thinking them nothing more than children playing a Homeric game. Memnon, though, wasn’t so sure. The young faces watching the Prince were rapturous and bright.

Philip’s good eye narrowed. “How much is he, Philonikos?”

“It …” Like his horse, the Thessalian started at the sound of his name. “Three
talents,
sire.”

The King gave a brisk nod. “Done. If you can ride him, Alexander, he’s yours. But, if you can’t what penalty will you pay for your insolence?”

“Three
talents,
father,” Alexander said, without pause.

Philip grinned. “Done, again! You’re all witnesses to this wager!” The throng erupted, a cacophony of claps and shouts, of side bets and calls for wine. Philip stepped aside and gestured for Alexander to proceed at his leisure. His lips tensed as he watched the boy advance.

The Prince’s face hardened. His eyes flashed as he snarled at Philonikos and his grooms, ordering them to step away. The horse pawed the ground but did not bolt; it let Alexander approach, undaunted perhaps by the Prince’s small stature. The boy made soothing sounds but did not use the stallion’s given name, calling it instead after its ox-head brand:
“Boukephalos
…
Boukephalos
…”

“Are they both mad?” the Rhodian muttered. “Someone should step in and end this before the boy gets himself killed.”

Artabazus shrugged. “There is nothing to be done now. Nothing but pray the gods are watching over him.”

Alexander reached up and stroked the horse’s neck. Slowly, he loosened the bit. The animal huffed and tossed its head. The boy calmed it, took it by the headstall and turned it to face the sun.

“Ah, look there,” Artabazus hissed, gripping Memnon’s forearm. “The boy does know horses. The shadows were making it skittish …”

The Prince spent several minutes soothing the animal, talking in a low voice. He walked with it toward Lake Loudias. Then, without making any sharp motions, Alexander worked his way back and grasped the horse’s mane, keeping the reins loose in his left hand.

The crowd held its collective breaths. Artabazus’s fingers tightened on Memnon’s arm. Even Philip leaned forward, anticipation etched on his face.

Lightly, Alexander vaulted onto the horse’s back. Memnon expected the animal to buck and throw the boy. To his surprise, it accepted Alexander’s slight weight with a toss of its head and an explosive whinny. Men murmured; coins tinkled like cymbals. The Prince gathered the reins, careful not to pull on the barbed bit, and with a triumphant shout touched his heels to the horse’s flanks. Boy and stallion raced away from the field as the crowd loosed a tremendous roar. Soldiers of the Bodyguard clashed their spears against their shields. Members of Alexander’s entourage whooped and ran after their Prince.

King Philip threw his arms wide and gathered Philonikos up in a crushing embrace, laughing as he called for someone to fetch three
talents
for the sweat-drenched Thessalian.

“My boy!” Philip said, grinning. “I’m going to have to find a bigger kingdom for him! Macedonia’s too small!” The King glanced toward Artabazus. To Memnon, there was no mistaking the menacing glitter in his eye.

 

A
RTABAZUS AND
M
EMNON BEGGED OFF ATTENDING THE MANY FEASTS
associated with the horse fair, knowing full well they would degenerate into the raucous drinking parties the Macedonians were famous for—all-night debaucheries that made even the most notorious Athenian
symposia
appear tame by comparison. As they said their farewells to the King, both men assured him they would give serious consideration to his offer of an alliance.

“He did not seem to care either way,” Memnon said. As had become their custom, he sat with Barsine on a wooden bench, one of many scattered around the estate, watching fireflies dart through the deepening twilight as they spoke of the day’s events. Memnon could tell Gryllus had been working in this area earlier; he inhaled the smells of freshly cut grass and of soil mixed with crushed tree bark.