Memnon (3 page)

“The oligarchs rule Chios and Cos now, and they threaten Rhodes; they are seducing you into what amounts to slavery. Slavery! It surprises me that none of you have conceived of the danger to our constitution, to our freedom, posed by these braggarts, these men who would suborn your ancestors sacrifice and bring their lives to naught. I urge you to regard them as the common enemies of all who love freedom.

“But indeed, it is not difficult to find fault with these demagogues or reproach the rest of you for your ambivalence, but our real task is to find by what arguments and by what course of action may our democracy be salvaged. Perhaps it does not suit the present occasion to deal with every facet of the question, but mine own view is that we ought to grapple with these problems vigorously, and act as becomes Rhodians. Remember, brothers, how it gladdens your hearts to hear a stranger praising your ancestors, describing their exploits and enumerating their trophies. Reflect, then, that your ancestors set up those trophies, not that you may gaze at them in wonder, but that you may also imitate the virtues of those men who earned them.”

And with a small bow, Timocrates concluded his oration. A heartbeat later raucous applause echoed through the Assembly. The delegates from Ialysos and Kamiros clambered to their feet, jostling to be the first to acclaim the orator. The men from Lindos nodded their heads and stroked their beards in graceful approval. Only the oligarchs, the followers of Philolaus, abstained. These glowered at Timocrates with undisguised contempt as he stepped down from the plinth.

Beside him, Memnon could feel Glaucus vibrating with excitement. “Brilliant! Without a doubt, his most persuasive speech!”

“You heard but a fragment and you can judge it thus?” Memnon said. “You’re more discerning than I, Glaucus.”

“I had the opportunity to listen as he drafted it, as could you if only you spent less time carousing.”

Memnon ignored him. Timocrates noticed them and threaded toward where they stood, his face an expressionless mask. Memnon saw movement from the corner of his eye, a swirl of blue cloth and flash of gold. He halfturned as a man thrust his way between him and his father. Short and barrel-chested with a swarthy face accentuated by his Persian-style beard, this newcomer smiled at Timocrates. Memnon could sense no warmth in the gesture. Beside him, Glaucus stiffened.

“Philolaus,” he hissed.

This newcomer bowed low before Timocrates, a gesture full of scorn. “You’ve scored a small victory for your precious democrats, today,” he said. “But all you’ve really done is bandage a dying beast. Your allies are hemorrhaging daily, their strength and the strength of your cause ebbing. How long will it last, Timocrates? How long will democracy be in its death throes?”

“You make assumptions without merit, slave of Mausolus. What you really should ask yourself is how long can the Carians play at empire before their master, the Great King, checks their ambitions? A month? A year? Your master cannot dabble long in the affairs of the Hellenes before the Great King makes an end of him.”

“He needs to make an example of your son-in-law Artabazus first,” Philolaus said, grinning. “And your eldest, I’m told. By the Hound, Timocrates! For a staunch, Athenian-loving democrat, you’ve had excellent relations with tyrants of all stripes. Why, you yourself once served old satrap Pharnabazus in his war against the Spartans, even as your son serves his, now! By what right do you condemn tyranny when it’s part and parcel of your own kin? Are you a leaf blowing on whatever political wind is fashionable these days?”

Timocrates only smiled, saying, “It’s one thing to serve tyrants and oligarchs when it’s expedient; it’s another thing to live under their thumb. Rhodes is free, and should remain thus. If Mausolus of Caria hungers for more let him take it from the Great King’s plate, if he dares.”

All around them, democrats and oligarchs began snarling at one another, hurling shouts and curses, and emulating the leaders of their respective movements. The chairman of this Assembly, old Diogenes, rapped his staff on the floor and cried, “Come to order! Who wishes now to speak?”

“Philolaus!” someone called. Shouts of “Aye! Let Philolaus speak!” warred with the voices of those who wanted his blood. Philolaus acknowledged them with a wave and leaned close to Timocrates.

“We will continue our discourse later. For now, the body politic needs true guidance.” With a sinister wink, Philolaus brushed past Timocrates and ascended the plinth. He held up his arms, exhorting the crowd to silence. “Men! Rhodians! Your duty, when debating such weighty matters, is to allow freedom of speech to every one of your counselors, be they fair or foul. Personally, I never thought it a difficult task to point out to you the best policy, since you all seem to me to have discerned it already. No, the difficulty lay in inducing you to put it into operation; for when you have approved and passed a resolution, it is no nearer accomplishment than before you approved it!”

Timocrates turned away, motioning for his son to follow.

“Do you not wish to hear him out?” Memnon said.

“He speaks nothing new.”

Memnon nodded and followed his father out into the sunlight.

 

D
OWN THE SLOPE FROM THE ASSEMBLY A GROVE OF OLIVE TREES AFFORDED
shade and solitude to those who wearied of political theatrics. Here, servants of Athena’s temple maintained a sliver of paradise, a magnet for poets and lovers seeking the embrace of their particular muses. Wide gravel paths meandered under the boughs. Other, smaller trails branched off, leading to leafy grottoes that offered privacy from prying eyes; bordering the path, the generosity of grateful suppliants provided for a handful of stone benches carved with prayers of thanks to the Goddess. Timocrates sat on one of these and motioned for Memnon to join him. Farther down, at a bend in the trail, a young orator practiced his gestures to an audience of trees.

“You’re looking well, son,” Timocrates said. “Living with a common prostitute seems to agree with you.”

Memnon checked his anger. “Thalia’s many things, but common she’s not, as I’m sure your sycophant, Glaucus, has told you.” He nodded back toward the Assembly. The secretary had lingered there, listening to Philolaus. “If you’ve only sent for me so you can insult my friends, I’ll take my leave.”

“No, I sent for you because I have good news,” Timocrates said. “My guest-friend, Androtion, has agreed to sponsor you in the Academy at Athens. You will travel back with him, once he has concluded his embassy to the Carians.”

Memnon blinked. “Athens? The Academy?”

“A happy compromise, don’t you think? It answers your need to see the world while addressing my concerns for your future. I cannot claim the idea as mine, of course. It was Androtion who—”

“No, father.” Memnon said, his tone one of a man who wearied of explaining himself over and again. “Thank Androtion for his hospitality, but tell him I cannot accept.”

The older man’s face went livid. “What? What do you mean you cannot?” His voice carried down the path; the young orator turned in mid-exclamation, frowning.

“Circe
leaves at week’s end. I mean to be on her.”

“Why are you so intractable?” Timocrates said, lurching to his feet. “I have arranged an opportunity that would make you the envy of most men, and yet you throw it back in my face!”

“Because it’s not what I want! Yes, I want to see something of the world before I settle down, before I take a wife and raise sons of my own. Yes, I want to see the glory of Athens. But all of this I will do on my own terms, not yours! I appreciate all you’ve offered, but you withhold the one thing I ask of you. Your blessing. It costs nothing; requires nothing of you save a smile and a kind word, yet you refuse. Why?”

Timocrates shook his head. “I’ll not bless you as you depart down a road I know leads to nothing but ruin and death!”

“How do you know this?” Memnon said, frustration driving his voice up an octave. “How? Have the gods suddenly gifted you with the vision?”

Timocrates leaned against the bole of a tree. “All my life I’ve seen it, Memnon. The same tragedy played out on a thousand different stages. You will go off to war full of tales of glory and return a broken man, or you’ll not return at all. ‘With your shield or on it’ is a fine sentiment for poets and demagogues, but it means nothing in the real world.”

Memnon said nothing for a long while, his head bowed in thought. Finally, he looked up. “You admire men such as Alcibiades, Pericles, Socrates? They are great men in your esteem, aren’t they? Peerless politicians and statesmen?”

“Yes, and you could be their equal, if only you’d listen to me!”

Memnon stood and caught Timocrates by the shoulders. He wanted to shake him. “These men, father, were all soldiers first! They knew the value of blood spilled in the cause of glory; they knew the horrors of war, which made them, in later life, never enter into it lightly. I cannot hope to rise to be their equal by sitting at the feet of dried out demagogues. I must strike out on my own, see the world for myself and decide my own fate. Surely you understand?”

Timocrates sighed, his resistance crumbling. “I forget sometimes that you are a child no longer. Perhaps my blessing …” he trailed off. The sound of sandals crunching on gravel brought a frown to the older man’s face. Memnon followed his gaze and saw Glaucus running full out down the path toward them. He skidded, nearly falling.

“Peace, Glaucus. What goes?” Timocrates said.

The secretary, his racking breath flecked with spittle and sweat, pointed back to the Assembly building. “Come quickly! It’s Philolaus! He’s trying to force a vote!”

 

“I
S IT NOT THE HALLMARK OF A DEMOCRACY TO ALLOW THE PEOPLE TO
decide their own fate?” Philolaus stood atop the plinth, surrounded by a sea of upturned faces. Their voices threatened to drown him out. He gestured to the impassioned crowd. “To deny the people their right to vote, when a quorum is present, is tantamount to dismissing the basic premise of your beloved democracy!”

Diogenes, perched on the highest riser in order to be seen, thrust his staff at Philolaus. “I will not allow you to mock our greatest institution! There are rituals to observe before a vote can be taken! Traditions to follow! We—”

“Ritual and tradition? Fear and sloth, more like! Are you too afraid, Diogenes, or are you simply too lazy to fulfill your obligations to the people?”

“He is neither!” Timocrates thrust his way through the Assembly, Memnon and Glaucus in his wake, and took the plinth beside Philolaus. “Diogenes is wise. He’s forgotten more about the inner workings of democracy than you or I will ever know! The law is plain, Philolaus! The Council can vote upon no measure or decree without prior deliberation! To suggest otherwise is to risk exile, or worse!”

Diogenes nodded, vindicated, but Philolaus only laughed.

“This is why it takes the word of Zeus Savior himself to accomplish anything in a democracy! A council of old men fattened on spoils stolen from the people decides what can and cannot be discussed? Tell me, how is that any different from an oligarchy? Drop this pretense of freedom and admit …”

Memnon felt the crowd’s agitation; he felt the heat, the pressure of their anger. He glanced up at his father. Timocrates and Philolaus stood toe to toe, so caught up in their own feud that they were oblivious to the effect their words had on their followers. Like oxen with blinders, they plowed on, shouting each other down, debating esoteric points of law at the tops of their lungs. Beneath the plinth, scuffles broke out. Men shoved one another, cursed, spat, and struggled like leashed dogs.

“Can they not see what they’re doing?” Memnon said, clutching Glaucus’s arm. “We’ve got to separate them before they cause a riot!” Glaucus, though, could only stare, his eyes wide, his fist upraised in defiance of tyranny. Memnon released him, turned …

Something whistled past his ear. A rock, smaller than a child’s fist, missed Timocrates by a fingerbreadth and struck Philolaus above his right eye. The oligarch reeled, clutching at his forehead.

“No!” Memnon yelled. But, at the sight of the oligarch’s blood, the simmering crowd boiled over in a frenzy of rage. All semblance of order fled as men turned on one another, punching, biting, and kicking in an effort to voice with violence what they could not with words. Only the ancient prohibition against weapons at an Assembly kept this from becoming a bloodbath. Memnon watched as partisans of each faction rushed the plinth; both orators vanished under a riptide of grasping hands.