Memnon

by Oden, Scott

  “What about men to ride them?”

  “Recruits come from all over,” Memnon said. “Artabazus has a good name among fighting men, both Persian and Greek. A far better name than Ochus. You’re a mercenary—would you rather side with a foul-tempered despot or a kindly old grandfather who is free with his coin?”

  Patron smiled. “That’s why I’m in Dascylium and not Susa.”

  The road debouched at the harbor, where a stone-paved quay ran along the water’s edge; parallel to this, and set back from the shore, a colonnaded emporion housed local merchants conducting their business. Awnings of brightly colored cloth provided welcome shade as men haggled over a bewildering array of goods: olive oil and wine from the Aegean, fish sauce from Cyzicus, baskets of figs from Phrygia, crocks of honey from the Sangarius Valley, wool from the slopes of Mount Ida. Despite the vigor of Dascylium’s market, the absence of luxury goods, of precious metals and jewelry, fine cloth and furniture, stood as a stark reminder of the ongoing war.

  “There’s an impressive sight,” Patron said, nodding out into the harbor. A trireme, its sail reefed, approached the quay at quarter-speed. Its polished bronze ram reflected the sun so brightly that Memnon could barely see that its sternpost bore the carved likeness of Athena. An officer occupied a perch high in the bow, signaling aft with his hand as the ship hove close to the moorage, while sailors stood atop the outrigger with boat poles at the ready. Rope men waited in the catheads; along the quay, their counterparts manned the cleats.

  “Is that one of Chares’ ships?” Memnon said.

  “It’s Athenian, but …” Patron peered closer, grunted in surprise. “That’s the Salaminia, one of their state galleys. I saw her once before, rounding Cape Sunium on her way back to Athens. Zeus only knows what business brings her here, but it can’t be good. She’s not sent forth as a deliverer of glad tidings.”

  “I’d better go and see. If it’s bad news Artabazus will want to hear about it. Farewell, my friend,” Memnon said, embracing Patron, “I will sacrifice to Poseidon for your safe return.”

  Patron smiled and clapped the younger man on the back. “And I to Ares, that he might grant you victory.” The men parted. Memnon watched as Patron continued down to the water’s edge, no doubt his mind already intent on currents and winds. Ill-timed as his mission to Macedonia might be, that Artabazus would entrust it to him at all was a sign of the satrap’s favor. He appreciated Patron’s candor; so would the Macedonians, who prized honesty and valor above all things. The young Rhodian could think of no better emissary.

  Memnon returned his attention to the Athenian trireme. With ropes and boat poles, the vessel managed to warp into a slip quayside, where reed bundles kept the stone edge from damaging its hull. Sailors swarmed ashore, checking the cleats and ropes, ignoring the protests of the stevedores who tied them. The captain barked orders in Attic Greek, the tongue of orators, rarely heard in this part of Asia.

  A gangplank swung out from the stern. A squad of hoplites, their helmets, breastplates, shields, and spear points polished to mirror brightness, disembarked and assumed stations along the quay, facing outward. A single man followed in their wake, his bronze-shod staff clacking against wood and stone. It bore the symbol of an Athenian envoy—a golden owl clutching a wreath of olive. He wore a simple white tunic and a matching himation, pinned at the left shoulder by a brooch of enameled gold fashioned in the shape of Medusa’s head. The man paused at the edge of the quay and regarded the shifting crowd. His hair and beard—both more silver than black—were close-cropped, and his age-worn face gave away nothing of his mission. “I seek an officer!” he said, in a voice at once cultured and powerful. “An officer of the watch! Is there one to be found?”

  Memnon shouldered through the dockworkers. “Greetings. I am Memnon, son of Timocrates of Rhodes, adjutant and kinsman to Lord Artabazus. What business brings such a noble ship to Dascylium?” The Athenian turned. Memnon shuddered at the force of his gaze, so like that of his father. Here was a man accustomed to dealing with all sorts, from politicians and orators to beggars and thieves; he judged Memnon by that same measure, without thought to his wind-blown hair or his sweat-stained kilt. Finally, the Athenian gave an all but imperceptible nod.

  “Well met, Memnon. I am Aristophon of Athens, and I seek the admiral Chares. His lieutenant at Lampsacus said he would be here.”

  “He is. Chares sits in audience with the Lord Artabazus.”

  “I must speak with him, and your satrap, too. It is a matter of the utmost gravity.”

  “I expected as much. Come, I will lead you to him.” Memnon paused as Aristophon bade his soldiers to remain vigilant, then added, “It’s a long walk from your ship to the satrap’s fortress. Shall I summon you a palanquin?”

  “It is not my habit to let others carry me on their backs,” the envoy said, a sneer curling his lip.

  “As you wish.” Memnon gestured and, side by side, the two men set out for the fortress of Artabazus. Beyond the harbor district the air grew still and hot, thick with the reek of cooking oil, seared meat, and rotting vegetables. Foot traffic thinned as men sought relief indoors from the relentless sun. Unseen, a dog snarled and yelped—doubtless booted from its patch of shade by an unkind foot. It took nearly an hour to walk from the harbor to the foot of the hill; at the end of that hour, both men were drenched in sweat and parched.

  Memnon guided the Athenian envoy to a small fountain in the shade of a sycamore grove where water splashed from a bronze spout into a stone tank. They sat on the fountain’s curb and drank their fill. Aristophon soaked a corner of his himation and used it to sponge the back of his neck.

  “Has Chares served your cause well?”

  “He has,” Memnon said, hastening to add, “while still pursuing the enemies of Athens, of course.”

  “Of course,” Aristophon nodded. “I am not here to judge him. His letter to the people of Athens painted a glorious picture of your satrap’s war with Persia. Did Chares truly win a second Marathon against the Mede?”

  Memnon sipped water from his palm. “On paper, perhaps, Lake Manyas could be comparable to Marathon, but in reality all battles differ. This need you politicians have to hammer each engagement into the mold of past glories does a disservice to those brave men who died. Lake Manyas was its own battle, and its success belongs to Artabazus, not to Chares. He did as he was told, no more.”

  “You dislike Chares, don’t you?” Aristophon said, after a moment.

  “I dislike arrogance.”

  Both men lapsed into silence. The hillside loomed above them, crowned by the limestone walls of the satrap’s fortress. The road widened and split into three, two prongs circling the hill to the left and right, leading to the storage magazines and the army encampment; the center road ascended the hill by way of a series of steps cut into the ashlar retaining walls of each terrace. Trees lined the stair, and landings offered places of respite. Sparrows chittered, wheeling in the faded blue sky.

  “I can still summon a palanquin if you choose,” Memnon said, eyeing the old Athenian.

  Aristophon sniffed in disdain, stood, and marched toward the stairs. The young Rhodian smiled and followed.

  Three flights of stairs passed quickly; they paused on the landing of the fourth to give Aristophon a moment to catch his breath. “Revel in your youth, Memnon,” he said. “It is the gods’ greatest gift.”

  “My father said much the same thing.”

  Aristophon sat on a bench, shaded by the boughs of a plane tree. “I knew your father. A difficult man, but a good man. All of Athens grieved when Androtion informed us of his passing.”

  “He was that well-known in Athens, my father?”

  “Does that surprise you?” Aristophon said. “Timocrates was well-known in many quarters. Years ago—he couldn’t have been much older than you are now—he made himself a thorn in the side of King Agesilaus of Sparta by using the wealth of old Pharnabazus to put swords in the fists of angry helots. The Spartans had
no choice but to recall Agesilaus or face destruction.” A troubled look passed across the envoy’s face. He stood. “Come, we’ve tarried here long enough. Conduct me to Chares.”

  They ascended the last flight of steps. “How fares Androtion?” Memnon said offhandedly. “I pray all goes well for him?”

  Aristophon scowled. “All would be well, save for that upstart, Demosthenes. Ere I left, there was talk of leveling charges against Androtion for misconduct. Some nonsense about an Egyptian vessel he seized illegally.”

  “So the fighting between the two parties continues?”

  “Indeed. The War Party has cost Athens her empire, and I fear the Peace Party will drive the price higher still,” Aristophon said.

  They gained the summit of the hill. Ahead, a pair of statues flanked the gate to Artabazus’s fortress, seated figures thrice the height of a tall man and carved in the rigid Egyptian mode. “Images of the kings Proteus and Rhampsinitus,” Memnon said, answering the envoy’s curiosity. “Gifted to the elder Pharnabazus from the grateful citizens of Naucratis. I find them too inflexible, though they fascinate my brother, Mentor. He means to sample the wonders of Egypt for himself, someday.”

  “I have seen many of those wonders,” Aristophon said. “It would take three lifetimes to sample them all.”

  The gate itself—age-blackened cedar banded in bronze—stood open, guarded by soldiers of the household troop who saluted Memnon as he passed. Inside, a courtyard paved in reddish stone and bounded by colonnaded porticoes blended Greek and Persian influences: Ionic columns topped by horse-headed capitals of dark polished limestone. Potted trees and shrubs, chosen for their fullness and fragrance, flourished under the expert hands of Artabazus’s gardener, Gryllus. Niches in the walls held a collection of foreign treasures—sculptures of mottled stone from Greece, masks of gold and lapis lazuli from Egypt, and figurines of carved ivory from Phoenicia. Memnon led Aristophon across the courtyard and through the far portico.

  A little boy hurtled from the shadows and crashed into the young Rhodian’s knees. He mock-staggered, smiling as the toddler tried to climb his body. Memnon scooped him up. “Peace, Cophen! Peace! I surrender!” A girl followed on Cophen’s heels, nine years old and already in possession of an adult’s sobriety. “Your charge escaped again, Barsine.”

  “He is wily, Uncle,” Barsine said, taking Cophen from him before the toddler could latch on to Aristophon’s staff. “I foresee great deeds in his future … unless he kills himself first.”

  “Take this little Herakles to his nurse and tell Deidamia I’m back,” Memnon said. Barsine nodded and withdrew, Cophen squirming on her hip.

  “Deidamia is your wife?”

  “My sister, Artabazus’s wife. Those are his children. Come, Artabazus and Chares should be here, in the great hall.” Memnon ushered the envoy through an arched doorway.

  The room they entered was long, with two dozen columns similar to those in the courtyard supporting the high ceiling. Clerestory windows filled the hall with light. At the far end, on a raised platform, the throne of Artabazus—his satrapal seat, where he ruled the surrounding land as a king—stood empty. Instead, Artabazus, Mentor, and Chares sat off to one side, at a small table used by the scribes to record the issuance’s of court—Artabazus and Mentor in high-backed chairs, Chares atop the table, itself. With knives, they dug into the juicy heart of a split-open melon. Mentor gestured with his blade.

  “There I am, in Eubulus’s bedchamber, buried up to the hilt in Eubulus’s wife. She’s screaming, ‘Take me, O Zeus! Take me! I am your Io, your Europa!’ So that’s what I do.” Mentor made an obscene gesture with his fist. “Plow her like there’s no tomorrow. I’m two thrusts away from spilling my seed when I hear a groan behind me. Guess who’s standing in the door?”

  “Who?” Chares said, wiping his chin on the shoulder of his tunic.

  “Eubulus, with his robe open and his dog in his fist, smiling at my bare ass as a man in the desert gazes upon a sweet oasis.”

  Artabazus chuckled, shaking his head. “I’ve tried to teach you that every pleasure comes with a price.”

  “Price? Prices can be haggled over, whittled down,” Mentor said. “Not Eubulus. For all his softness, that man has a singularity of purpose—”

  “Artabazus!” Memnon called, interrupting Mentor’s story. The three men looked up from their melon. “I bring a guest. An emissary from the city of the Athenians.”

  Chares bolted to his feet.

  “By all the gods! Aristophon! What do you here?” The admiral came forward and embraced the older Athenian. Memnon moved past them to stand at the satrap’s side. Chares gestured to the newcomer. “Artabazus, this is my dear friend Aristophon, an orator and politician without equal.”

  “You flatter me, Chares.” Aristophon turned and inclined his head to the satrap. “Lord Artabazus. Your fame precedes you.”

  “As does yours, noble Aristophon. Come, sit and join us. We’re having a bite to eat. I have often heard Chares speak of you in glowing terms. You are as a father to him, I imagine.”

  “And he is as a son to me. Though a wayward son, of late, and one who has brought only grief to the city that gave him life. Why have you been away so long, Chares? Athens has pined for you, as Hero for Leander. Every night we kindled the fires on Mount Hymettus and prayed their light would guide you home, and every morning we despaired of finding your lifeless body in the surf. Have you lost your way in the howling darkness of Asia?”

  Chares laughed and hugged the old man again. “You are too much the poet to be a man of politics, Aristophon. My letter came to you, did it not?”

  “Indeed, but a scrap of paper pales beside the man himself. Come back to Athens with me, Chares. Your people desire it.”

  Memnon stiffened. Something in Aristophon’s tone, a serious edge hidden beneath the playful banter, gave him pause. Hearing it, as well, Mentor glanced up; Artabazus’s eyes slid from brother to brother. Chares, though, pressed on, oblivious.

  “I have missed you, Aristophon. Here, sit and tell me what goes in the city of Athena. Fetch wine!”

  The older Athenian remained motionless, a cool smile on his face.

  “You idiot,” Memnon said to Chares, his voice cracking. “He’s not making sport with you, are you Aristophon?”

  The envoy inclined his head. “No, indeed, son of Timocrates. What I said was not spoken lightly or in jest. The Assembly has voted, Chares. I am here to bring you home. You and your fleet.”

  “What?”

  Memnon glanced toward Artabazus; the old satrap sank back in his chair, his brow furrowed. Mentor struck the table with a balled fist, upsetting a wine goblet, and lurched to his feet. “Damn you! That will leave us virtually defenseless!”

  “Your defense is no longer our concern,” Aristophon said. He turned and met Artabazus’s gaze unflinching. “Your Great King, Ochus, has put the people of Athens on notice. If Chares persists in aiding you in your rebellion the Great King will have no recourse but to aid, in turn, the enemies of Athens. Aid them with ships, with men, and with gold. We have no choice, Artabazus. Chares must come with me. I’ve already ordered his lieutenant at Lampsacus to make ready to sail.”

  Chares sat heavily, his eyes unfocused. He blinked, looking at Mentor and Artabazus. “Tell the … tell the Assembly I cannot do what they ask. It’s a matter of honor. I gave my … my word.”

  “You gave your word to Athens first, did you not?”

  “He did,” Artabazus said. “Chares, my friend, your part in my scheme has come to an end. You are pledged to a higher purpose, guided by the wisdom of Athena, and bound by the laws of your home. I have no claim over you; no oath binds you to my fate. Go with noble Aristophon and carry back to Athens my words of thanks for the loan of so many fine men and my regrets for the loss of those who died in my service.”

  “Artabazus, I …” Chares reached across the table and grasped the old satrap’s hand. “I am sorry.”

  Aristophon nod
ded. “We are all sorry, Lord Artabazus. Athens bears you no ill will.”

  “Nor I for the Athenians,” he said. “Come, though, you must be weary. I insist you dine with me this evening and take your leave at first light.”

  “He can have my place,” Mentor said, plunging his knife through the melon’s half-eaten heart and into the wood beneath. “I have no appetite.” The elder Rhodian spun and stalked from the hall.

  “Regretfully, we must return to Lampsacus,” Aristophon said.

  “Of course. I will have a meal prepared and sent to your ship. Memnon, will you see to it?” Though his voice betrayed no anger, Artabazus’s knuckles whitened and cracked against the arms of his chair.

  “You are most gracious,” the envoy bowed, looped his arm in Chares’, and retraced his steps from the palace, virtually dragging the stunned admiral.

  “Memnon,” Artabazus hissed. The young Rhodian leaned close. “Send a rider to Pammenes. He must fall back down the Macestus Valley to Dascylium with the utmost haste. Tell him Ochus has struck from an unexpected quarter.”

  “I’ll go. I—”

  “No. I need you here.”

  “This is too important to trust to a messenger, Artabazus. Send me, and Pammenes will know it’s not a trifling decision.”

  The old satrap pursed his lips, unable to find fault with Memnon’s logic. He nodded. “Fine. Take one of my horses and ride like the lash of the gods lay across your back!”

  MEMNON LEFT BEFORE DUSK. HE TRAVELED LIGHT, A GOATSKIN BAG holding a clay flask of water, a few hard biscuits, and a coin pouch draped over one shoulder, his sheathed sword over the other. What he needed in the way of food the villages of the Macestus Valley could provide. He left his helmet behind in Dascylium, as well as his heavy bronze breastplate. For this trip Memnon made do with his old cuirass of stamped leather.