Memnon

by Oden, Scott

  “No, madam, I don’t mind,” Ariston said. “If you’re feeling well enough, shall we continue?”

  “I fear I shall never feel well enough, again,” she said. “Still, I would feel worse if I left my narrative unfinished. Are you familiar with the inner workings of Persia’s monarchy?”

  Ariston brought his chair closer to her bedside. “To some degree, yes.”

  “Through Herodotus, no doubt, or Xenophon. Perhaps Ktesias. Imperfect sources all. Among my people, it is customary for a new monarch to secure his throne upon accession. Civil war, you see, is as abhorrent to the Mede as it is to the Hellene. His uncles, cousins, even his brothers and sons were kept under guard or posted to the edges of the empire, well away from possible intrigues. In extreme circumstances, the new King would guarantee his personal security through execution and assassination. Such was the atmosphere in Persia the year before Memnon quit Rhodes.” Melpomene coughed, recovered, and sank down in her pillows.

  “The Great King, Artaxerxes the Second, called Arsakes, died in the forty-sixth year of his reign. He had three sons. The eldest, called Darius, conspired against him and was executed; the second, Ariaspes, was a halfwit; that left only one, Ochus—as cruel and bloodthirsty a man as the gods ever created. Upon donning the mantle and peaked tiara, Ochus perceived threats from every quarter, some real, others imagined. He apprehended the need to strike first, and to strike without mercy. His minions decimated whole houses. They slaughtered males of fighting age, as well as grandfathers of four-score summers and newborns still damp from their mothers’ wombs. Even those not in his presence were in danger.

  “One such was Artabazus, the husband of Memnon’s sister and satrap of Hellespontine Phrygia. Since he bore royal blood—his mother was a daughter of old Artaxerxes—Ochus ordered him to relinquish his satrapy and present himself and his sons in Susa. Knowing it to be a death sentence, Artabazus refused …”

  DASCYLIUM

  YEAR 2 OF THE 106TH OLYMPIAD

  (355 BCE)

  5

  MUD SPLASHED BENEATH HIS HORSE’S HOOVES AS MEMNON LED HIS cavalry squadron through the rebel encampment, their cloaks flaring out behind them. Torrential spring rains turned the ground around Zeleia into a bog, the precise rows of tents into islands of canvas. Despite countless days of idleness, the soldiers—Persian and Greek—never allowed their discipline to flag. Each day, as if on cue, they put away their dice and turned their attention to their panoplies, inspecting the bronze for corrosion, the iron for rust. They drilled in ankle-deep muck and stood their watches without regard to the weather. These were the men who looked up from their afternoon meal as Memnon’s squadron thundered past.

  Artabazus’s headquarters lay atop a small rise, which it shared with shrines to Mithras and Athena Promachos. Standing alongside Greek battle priests garlanded and in full panoply, white-robed Magi with peaked caps and curled beards sacrificed goats and studied the lowering sky. Other men waited outside the command pavilion. A deputation from the city of Lampsacus chatted amiably with a knot of junior officers and pages; dour-faced commoners stood apart, nursing grievances only Artabazus could resolve.

  The squadron’s approach scattered them like quail. Memnon curbed his horse and leapt off the frothing animal, tossing the reins to a startled page. The men guarding the pavilion, mailed Persians bearing spears and shields of Greek design, acknowledged him with a smart salute as he rushed past in a flurry of leather and sweat. Inside, he shrugged off the eunuch chamberlain who importuned him to remove his cloak and wait to be announced. Memnon barged into the inner sanctum, where the commanders of the rebel army—Artabazus, Mentor, Chares the Athenian, and Pammenes of Thebes—glanced up from the map table.

  “He’s taken the bait!” Memnon said, short of breath. “Mithridates has marched from Dascylium!”

  The news galvanized the generals. They spoke all at once, a babble of questions fired at Memnon like a volley of arrows. Artabazus silenced them with a gesture. Before this enterprise began he served his grandfather, King Artaxerxes, as governor of Hellespontine Phrygia—the official name for the collection of Greek and Persian states occupying the extreme western tip of Asia, bordered by the Aegean to the south, the Hellespont and Europe to the west, and Propontis to the north. Well past his fiftieth year, Artabazus should have been ensconced in his seaside palace at Assos, enjoying the fruits of long and loyal service to the king. And so he would have, had his kinsman, Ochus, not come to the throne. The new king wanted Artabazus dead, as much for the influence he wielded among the embattled Greeks of the Asian shore as for the royal blood in his veins. When the order came from Susa for Artabazus to surrender himself to Mithridates of Dascylium, he had no choice but to defy it.

  The satrap smiled at the young Rhodian, the weathered skin around his eyes crinkling. “So our little ruse worked. Mithridates believes I am bedridden, too ill to move, and that my army is falling apart. Very good.” Clear-eyed and vigorous, Artabazus wore a saffron-colored chiton beneath a plain Median robe, a combination emblematic of his ability to bridge the disparate cultures of Europe and Asia. He spoke fluent Greek; his cadence and manner reminded Memnon of his father, though Artabazus possessed such a surfeit of warmth that it made Timocrates appear Spartan by comparison. The mercenaries called him Megapatros—Great Father. They respected him; what’s more, he knew it, and went to great lengths to see it reciprocated. “How long ago did he march?”

  “Four days,” Memnon said. “We rode as hard as we could.”

  “Well done, Memnon,” Artabazus said.

  “What road did Mithridates take?” Mentor asked. A head shorter than his brother, Mentor had the thick shoulders of an Olympian wrestler, with slabs of heavy muscle embroidered by a frieze of old scars. A ruff of black hair encircled his head, thinning over his scalp. Mentor’s face may have been handsome once, but years of staring through the eye-slits of a Corinthian helmet had altered its structure, flattening his nose and leaving pads of callus on his cheeks and forehead. He scratched his thick beard.

  “The coast road. We shadowed him for a day, to make certain this wasn’t a trick. It wasn’t. Mithridates is expecting stiff resistance. He’s stripped every village within a hundred stades of men; he’s given them a spear and shield and placed them in his front ranks.”

  “An act of desperation,” Pammenes said. Excepting Memnon, he was the youngest man present; an exile from Thebes, he claimed to belong to the House of Epaminondas, an association he has exploited to the utmost. Still, Pammenes was affable. His round face and quick smile hid ambitions that would shame the most hardened courtier. “He hopes to overwhelm us with numbers.”

  “He may as well hope to fly,” Chares said. Of all the generals, only the Athenian looked the part. With his bronzed limbs and silver-chased armor, Chares could have sprung from a sculptor’s imagination, andreia given life, masculine virtue clothed in flesh. Memnon, though, knew Chares for what he was—a freebooter masquerading as an upright citizen of Athens, an admiral elected by popular acclaim, but more for his beauty than for his martial skill. “Now that he’s marched, Mithridates has squandered his only viable asset—Dascylium’s walls. That courtly fool and his peasant army could have held us off till midsummer.”

  “A lack of respect for your enemy is the quickest path to defeat,” Artabazus said, capturing and holding Chares’ eyes for a long moment. He circled the table, limping from a spear wound older than the men he addressed. “You assume Mithridates is desperate or a fool because he doesn’t think as you do. I assure you, he is neither. But, he is an Achaemenid to his very core. He cannot conceive of losing to a rabble of Yauna led by a doddering old man. What does that tell us?”

  Memnon frowned. Like a sophist, Artabazus taught war’s principles through disputation. “That he’s arrogant?”

  “Indeed. And as with a spent arrow or a discarded sword, arrogance is a weapon that can be turned against its owner.” Artabazus patted Memnon’s shoulder.

  “If Mithrida
tes has been on the move for four days,” Mentor said, “he should be … here.” He touched a spot on the coast near the island of Arctonnesus and frowned. Artabazus noticed his clouded look.

  “What troubles you, my friend?”

  The elder Rhodian tapped the map with a black-nailed finger. His eyes narrowed. “Cyzicus. It’s a rich port, and from my experience such enclaves of wealth breed hotbeds of dissension. They could easily raise a mercenary force of some consequence. But, their loyalty is an unknown quantity. Could Mithridates have struck a bargain with them?”

  “What of it, Memnon?” Artabazus said. “You’ve been in the vicinity of Cyzicus. Do they seem disposed to help us or hinder us?”

  Memnon shook his head. “Neither. I’ve spoken with Demostratus, who leads their Assembly, and he assures me that the folk of Cyzicus value their independence too highly to interfere, as allies or enemies. They will pledge their allegiance only when a clear-cut victor is decided.”

  “And if they’ve played you false?” Chares said. “What then? I mean you no insult, Memnon, but by what measure do you judge this Demostratus? In Athens we have politicians of every stripe, and in listening to the least of them even I have difficulty winnowing truth from tale. Have the gods granted you some special wisdom that allows you to see beyond political motivations and into a man’s heart?”

  Memnon smiled, though his eyes remained cold and hard. “No, the gods gave me a far greater gift. It’s called forethought. If a man thinks I’m a fool, it keeps me from loosing my tongue and proving him right. I trust what I see, Chares. I trust what I hear and what I can feel in the pit of my stomach. Most of all, though, I trust what I know of democracies. In theory, it’s a noble endeavor; in practice, it’s as useless as racing a hobbled stallion. If Demostratus wanted to join forces with Mithridates, he would first need to present his case to the Council, argue it before the Assembly, secure the required votes, dicker over raising a mercenary force versus a citizen militia … Zeus Savior! By then, Mithridates will be dead and Artabazus in control of the whole of the Hellespont.” The Athenian’s face darkened, but a look from Artabazus silenced the retort forming on his lips.

  “I am inclined to trust Memnon’s judgment,” Artabazus said. “What say you, Mentor?”

  Mentor, hunched over the table, glanced from his brother to the map. He chewed his lip; his forefingers beat a staccato rhythm against the table’s edge, drumming out a message of war. Beneath his blunt and brutal features, Memnon could see the mechanisms of thought grinding away as Mentor tallied their numbers. Seven thousand Athenian hoplites under Chares formed the core of Artabazus’s army, supported by five thousand of Pammenes’ Boeotian brothers. The satrap had his own contingent of household troops, called kardakes, which numbered twenty-five hundred, and a small force of horsemen. All told, fifteen thousand men compared with what Mithridates could raise: ten thousand Persian spearmen, levies from as far away as Babylon, provided by the King to see his will be done; another ten thousand local levies, both spearmen and archers, along with upwards of two thousand horsemen from Paphlagonia. Twenty-two thousand versus fifteen thousand. Levies versus professional soldiers. Still, despite their inferior numbers, the odds favored Artabazus.

  Finally, Mentor said, “Memnon’s right. Cyzicus poses no real threat for the near future. I say we strike camp at dawn and march west toward the Granicus. We swing wide, in a half-circle, with enough outriders deployed to give us warning of Mithridates long before he’s aware of us.” He gestured to a point on the map, between Zeleia and the island of Arctonnesus, where the road skirted the shores of Lake Manyas. “And we take them here.” The other generals nodded.

  “Until now,” Artabazus said, “your only crime has been by association. For myself, I have no choice but to rebel. But you, my friends, can still depart here and be held blameless. I daresay Ochus would reward you for it. The time to decide this once and for all is at hand. What say you?”

  Mentor stood up straight. “I speak for myself, my brother, and my followers: we will stand with you, till death if need be!” Memnon muttered in agreement, his chest swelling with pride.

  Pammenes came over to face Artabazus. “You’ve given me a home when the city of my birth would rather see me dead. I swear by Herakles that my men and I will not fail you!” At this, Pammenes clasped Artabazus’s hand and kissed his signet ring.

  Lastly, Chares stepped forward, his manner one of unaccustomed humility. “In autumn, after our defeat at Embata, my men and I lacked the will to live. We had failed our city against the rebels of Cos and Chios and slunk away like whipped dogs, our honor lost. When you found us on Imbros, Artabazus, we were starving, unable to repair our ships, and ready to fall on our own swords; we needed succor and a cause, and you gave us both. What could warm an Athenian’s heart more than bloodying the nose of a Persian king? If the hour is indeed at hand, the men of Athens will stand with you!”

  Artabazus exhaled. He approached each man in turn, embracing him in the Persian fashion and kissing his cheek. As he drew close, Memnon saw tears sparkling in the old satrap’s eyes. “The gods have blessed me with sons, with station, and with long life. Now they have blessed me yet again with companions of the highest caliber. If our enterprise succeeds, I’ll not forget the loyalty you’ve all shown me. If we fail,” Artabazus shrugged, “well, if we fail nothing we’ve said or done here will matter. We’ve much to do in the coming days, and I daresay there will be precious little time for food or rest. After you’ve seen to your men, I invite you to return here and join me for the evening meal.” Artabazus dismissed his generals. He smiled as he took Memnon’s elbow and walked with him toward the door. “Except you. You’re useless to me exhausted. Go and rest, Memnon. You’ve earned it.”

  “I will,” Memnon said, his brow furrowing, “after I’ve seen to my men.”

  “Your enthusiasm does you great justice. Very well, then. Tend to your men, and pass along to them my gratitude.” Artabazus turned and limped back into the heart of the pavilion.

  Memnon paused by the entrance for a moment, listening to the faint murmur arising from the camp, to the clash of harness as one of the guards shifted his weight, to the twittering of the chamberlain as he laid out plans for his master’s dinner. Memnon could feel a change in air pressure, a tension that presaged motion. Thunder rumbled in the distance. “We won’t fail,” he said suddenly, his voice low and brimming with a young man’s ferocity. “We can’t fail!”

  THE VILLAGE OF ZELEIA LAY IN THE THICKLY WOODED VALLEY OF THE Aisopus River, its dark waters rain-swollen and frigid from the melting snows of Mount Ida. The land had known a variety of masters—from the Trojans, who seeded the woods with game for their hunting pleasure, to the kings of Lydia, who preferred fragrant gardens and exotic birds. The rise of Persia brought little in the way of change. Now, it was the King of Kings in distant Susa who granted estates to his favorites, to the cream of Iranian nobility, who brought their retinues here in the spring and autumn to hunt the uplands and to stroll the ancient parks.

  To Memnon’s eyes, the town looked small and rustic, wholly unworthy of its noble antecedents. Houses of rough stone and timber, roofed with tiles of reddish clay brought overland from Sardis, lined the road leading up to the castle of the local grandee—a Milesian Greek who owed his position to Artabazus’s patronage. By rights, the old satrap could have commandeered the castle for his own use, but its small size would have forced him to billet his men elsewhere. Artabazus preferred to keep company with his soldiers.

  Lightning crackled across the sky, followed by the crash of thunder. Thick drops of rain spattered on Memnon’s cloak as he trotted past the last house on the road to the castle, careful of the basket he carried. The wind picked up, roaring through the trees on the slopes above Zeleia. Another night of rain meant tomorrow’s departure would be a slow and muddy affair. For an instant, Memnon regretted the errand that brought him out of his quarters and up to the castle, but it was unavoidable. It would be bad
manners if he didn’t pay his respects to the ladies of Artabazus’s harem.

  Memnon ducked through the open gate of the castle as the sky unleashed its tempest. Just inside, a Persian, one of the kardakes, stood guard, his body muffled in a thick cloak. Though traditionally the term kardakes applied only to young Persian men in training for war, Artabazus’s father, the satrap Pharnabazus, used it to denote a hybrid soldier, a Persian who trained and armed himself in Greek fashion. The kardakes carried heavier spears, eight-footers counterbalanced by a butt-spike, and bowl-shaped shields faced with bronze. They wore the typical Median trousers and boots, with a coat of iron scales and a turban-wrapped helmet as their only defensive garb.

  Memnon reckoned it was the innate stubbornness of the Persian that kept them from adopting the full panoply, despite witnessing its superiority in battle after battle. Perhaps Artabazus would allow him to experiment with it.

  “Peace be with you, Memnon,” the guard said, leaning on his spear. “I rejoiced to hear of your return. Have you come to see the girls?”

  “Greetings, Arius,” Memnon grinned, shaking water from his eyes. “This weather doubtless has them skittish. I thought they would enjoy a bit of company.”

  “I imagine they would, at that,” Arius chuckled. “Is the rumor true? Are we moving out at dawn?”

  “It’s true.”

  “Praise Mithras,” Arius said. “I am ready to quit this place. The weather is abominable.”