Memnon

by Oden, Scott

  Khafre rose and helped Memnon to his feet. Together, they walked back to the dying fire. Snores ripped from the Phrygians, competing in volume. Khafre sighed. “How much farther to Dascylium?”

  “We could be there tomorrow, if we were mounted. It will be another two days, at least, with this cursed wagon. We might ford the river, you and I, and see about finding a pair of horses. I’d like to warn Artabazus and Mentor of Pammenes’ treachery before the Persians attack. I’m curious about the Hyrkanians, though. I should like to have spied upon them, to learn their numbers and disposition.”

  “They are two thousand in number,” Khafre said. “Lancers for the most part, leavened with five hundred archers—not as skilled with the bow as Scythians, or the men of Crete, but worthy shots nonetheless. Bardiya, their commander, is a nephew of Tithraustes. Both men are Medes, from the region of Ecbatana, and though Tithraustes fancies himself a great wit, I found him boorish and a dullard.”

  Memnon stopped and stared. “How do you know all this?”

  The Egyptian smiled. “Though I am a slave in fact, I possess eyes and ears. If they are kept open, and the mouth shut, wondrous things may be learned.”

  “Indeed,” Memnon said. “Perhaps you are worth more than a horse.”

  TWO DAYS LATER, IN THE DARK HOURS AFTER MIDNIGHT, MEMNON PRODDED the Phrygians from their blankets, Khafre, too. “Get up,” he growled. “We’ll be at Dascylium’s gates by midmorning if we leave now. Up, you laggards!” Patchy fog had crept in, filling the low places with a clammy mist that reeked of river mud and damp rock. Khafre changed Memnon’s dressings while the Phrygians hitched up the oxen; together, the four men broke their fast in silence, sharing bread, dried fruit, and cool water, before setting out.

  Hours ticked by. The mist burned off with the rising of the sun; the day turned bright and uncomfortably warm with hardly a cloud visible in the wide blue bowl of sky. Memnon fretted; he alternated walking and riding, drifting away from the wagon on occasion to follow the bank or to crest a hill, always keeping an eye on the widening shores of the Macestus.

  “We’re close,” he said to Khafre, who followed him on one of his jaunts.

  The Egyptian walked along the bank, pushing aside the low-hanging branches of a willow. “It is quiet,” he said, “like the land is holding its breath.”

  Memnon sensed it, as well. Even after they forded the river, after the track they followed became a proper road, rutted and worn from decades of use, they passed no traffic. Where were the villagers returning to their upland homes, the itinerant merchants, and the wanderers? Had word reached Dascylium ahead of him?

  “Memnon,” Khafre said, nodding away up the road. The Rhodian followed his gaze.

  From the direction of Dascylium, a skein of gray smoke drifted into the sky.

  9

  The Hyrkanians.

  A CURSE CAUGHT IN MEMNON’S THROAT AS HE SHIELDED HIS EYES from a curtain of drifting embers. They had beaten him to Dascylium; more properly, they had beaten him to the town’s outskirts. Flames raged through the mercenaries’ camp, south and east of Artabazus’s fortress, consuming barracks, armories and stables, gnawing at sun-dried timbers and cracking glazed tiles. Gouts of black smoke rolled across the drill field, obscuring arrow-riddled corpses. The stench of charred flesh burned Memnon’s nostrils, a smell he remembered well from his father’s villa—like pork left too long on the spit.

  “How,” Khafre panted, breathless from trying to keep pace with Memnon, who had left the wagon and sprinted the last mile. “How did the Hyrkanians breach their defenses?” A ditch and palisade protected the camp; a single gate faced the stone bridge spanning that shallow creek called the Little Macestus and the road that led up to the satrap’s fortress.

  “Those sons of whores must have struck before dawn!” Memnon said. “While the men slept! Took out what few sentries were posted and opened the gates! Those bastards fired the barracks and picked off any who tried to escape!”

  “Where are they now?” Khafre looked around, suddenly fearful of their exposed position.

  “Gone.”

  Though two hundred years and untold miles separated Bardiya’s horsemen from their ancestral lands in Farther Asia, the Hyrkanians of the Troad had forgotten nothing of the steppe-dwellers art of lightning warfare. Strike and retire, that was their way; circle an enemy, shower them with an iron-tipped hail of arrows, and withdraw before they could mount effective resistance.

  Memnon and Khafre entered the swath of destruction before the palisade gates. Pandemonium reigned. Bodies littered the ground; through the smoke, men stumbled in search of clean air. Cries of fear and pain mingled with prayers and curses. Survivors milled among the wounded and the dead, seeking friends, companions. A few of the officers tried to organize a bucket line to extinguish the worst of the fires. Scowling, Memnon stood on the verge of shouting orders when, from behind him, Khafre grunted. He glanced back. The Egyptian crouched over a fallen soldier, naked but for the charred scraps of his night tunic, careful of the arrows protruding from his shoulder and his side.

  “This one still clings to life, but barely,” Khafre said.

  “Can you help him?”

  Khafre didn’t answer; instead, he pried up the soldier’s eyelids and pressed an ear to his chest. He straightened, drawing his knife. “The arrow in his side is through and through,” Khafre said. “I think it missed his vitals. Hold him.”

  Memnon did as he was told, watching as Khafre sliced away the bronze arrowhead and tugged the shaft free in a single, smooth motion. The fellow twitched, raising his head slightly. Khafre paused to inspect the second arrow. It stood out from his right shoulder, two fingers below the collarbone; unlike the first, the head of this one remained buried in the soldier’s body. Memnon glanced down at his own bandaged shoulder. Do you drift on the void, my friend? Do you hear the voice of the god?

  “This will be more difficult,” Khafre said. He cut away the fletching, paring the shaft down to a nub the length of his palm. “The head likely broke the blade of his shoulder. Now, I must force it the rest of the way through. When I do, be ready to pack the wound … here, use this.” The Egyptian dragged his bag close, rummaged in it, and handed Memnon an old linen tunic. “Hold tight to him. Ready?”

  Memnon nodded.

  Without hesitation, the Egyptian threw his weight against the shortened shaft. The injured man lunged in agony, pounding the side of his skull against the hard-packed earth. Memnon heard the unmistakable grate of metal against bone, the sickening rip of flesh, ending with a wet pop as the head burst through the skin. Quickly, Khafre slid the blood-smeared shaft out and tossed it aside as Memnon wadded the linen against both sides of the wound.

  “Keep pressure on it,” Khafre said, mopping his face with the sleeve of his tunic.

  Memnon hunched over the injured man, using his body to shield him from embers and ash, and bellowed commands to the men on the embankment. “Get those men out of the ditch! Move, damn you! You, there, and you! Gather spears and cloaks! Use them to make litters! Do you hear me? I said move! Worry less about the fire and more about your injured brothers! Zeus Savior and Helios! Must I show you how to make a litter?” Slowly, some semblance of order emerged among the survivors. To Khafre, Memnon said, “Come, let’s carry him to yonder trees.” The Rhodian pointed across the field, to a band of sycamores lining the banks of the Little Macestus River. Beyond it, he could see the stone foundations of the hippodromos shimmering in the sunlight. Khafre nodded.

  The soldier groaned as they hoisted him up, his head rolling forward and back as he mumbled a prayer. Memnon beckoned others to follow, to bring the wounded to the shade of the sycamores, as they quickly crossed the field. Their charge they laid against a tree bole.

  “What do you need, Khafre? What do you need to help these men?”

  The Egyptian pursed his lips. “A water-bearer, vinegar to cleanse the wounds, linen for bandages, perhaps wine to ease their pain. And a conveyance, somethin
g to carry those with the most grievous injuries to the fortress.”

  “You will have all that, and more,” Memnon said. He turned and began issuing orders. Uninjured soldiers and men from the city he sent scurrying, some to scour the harbor emporium for linens, others to fetch vinegar and wine from the fortress. The nimblest he sent down the treacherous bank the Little Macestus to scoop water—in old jars, their helmets, whatever they could find—and pass it up to their mates. This done, the Rhodian went back to helping the wounded, surveying their injuries and placing them in Khafre’s path according to need. A hive of activity formed around Memnon as men assailed him with their questions, their doubts, their fears; he handled each with a reserve of patience he never knew he possessed. To each, too, he asked, “Have you seen Artabazus? What of Mentor?”

  His answer came from one of the officers, called Omares. “They led the cavalry out,” he said, pressing a scrap of filthy cloth to the gash in his forehead. Of medium height, Omares had the broad shoulders and thickly muscled arms of a brawler. “Told us to rescue who and what we could and make for the fortress.”

  “Both of them?” Memnon frowned. That both would go off in pursuit of the Hyrkanians troubled Memnon. It smacked of foolishness. They did not know what they faced, nor were they aware of Pammenes’ treachery. What would they do if they came across the Boeotians? Hail them as friends? He doubted Artabazus would receive the same gift of clemency from Pammenes as he had. “Artabazus should have stayed behind.”

  Omares nodded, wincing at the pain it caused. A hairsbreadth to the left and the arrow that had ripped across his forehead would have punched through his temple, instead. Gingerly, Memnon pulled the cloth away and inspected the bone-deep laceration. Khafre peered over his shoulder.

  “That’s going to need stitching,” the Egyptian said, wiping his blood-smeared palms on his tunic.

  “This attack,” Omares said, “it knocked the wind out of us.”

  Memnon patted the man on the arm. “Not to worry, Omares. Our second wind will be furious to behold.” The officer smiled, but Memnon could tell the man did not believe him. In truth, why should he? Their forces were in ruins, their rebellion throttled by the manicured hands of a despot some sixteen hundred miles distant. All they could do was wait for the final blow.

  Memnon stitched Omares’ wound himself, using a curved needle of gold and a length of catgut thread while one of the younger soldiers held the officer’s head immobile in his lap. A veteran, Omares was no stranger to the surgeon’s art. “I have seven wounds,” he said as Memnon sluiced vinegar over the bloody furrow. “Each a token of battle, some remind me of my victories, others of my defeats. This will be my eighth.”

  “And what will this one remind you of?” Memnon pinched the edges of the gash together and drew his needle through it. He felt Omares’ body grow tense, heard the knuckles of his clenched fists crack.

  “My helmet,” the officer gasped.

  Khafre passed by, glancing down at his newfound apprentice’s handiwork. “Yes, yes … you are doing fine, Memnon. If you can mend a sail, you can stitch flesh.”

  Memnon remained silent, concentrating on the task at hand. Finally, he tied off the ends and cut the thread with his knife. The man holding Omares’ head daubed away the blood with a wet cloth. The officer opened his eyes; he was pale, shaking.

  Memnon rocked back on his haunches and stood, motioning for a water bearer. “Rest a bit,” he told Omares, “then head up to the fortress.”

  As the Rhodian turned away, a cry of alarm erupted from the edge of the makeshift surgery. Men pointed off to the south, to where a tower of dust rose into the sky. Those still able snatched up their weapons. Even Omares clambered to his feet.

  “What is it?” Khafre asked.

  Memnon reached for a spear propped against the trunk of a sycamore, its owner unconscious or dead. “Horsemen,” he said.

  “Ours?”

  “Can’t tell. Stand ready, Khafre.”

  Outside the shelter of the trees, Memnon formed the survivors into a crescent, a defensive hedge of spears and javelins around the wounded. He walked the perimeter, shuffling men to fill thin spots and letting his sense of calm infect them.

  “Probably our own,” he said, his voice carrying. “But, if it’s the Hyrkanians, they caught us at unawares once … they’ll not catch us a second time!”

  Through the cloud of dust—a by-product of the driest Boedromion any could remember—a line of riders cantered into view, led by the familiar figure of Artabazus, his armor’s gleam muted by a veneer of grime; even the purple plumes of his helmet were matted with filth. Still, the men let out a ragged cheer when they saw him. Artabazus raised his hand in greeting.

  “Memnon!”

  The Rhodian came forward and held Artabazus’s reins as he dismounted. “I tried to get back in time to warn you,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank Mithras! You’re alive! I feared those savages had waylaid you!” Artabazus slid off his horse and quickly caught the younger man in a rib-splintering hug. Memnon hissed in pain. “What happened to you?”

  Touching his bandaged shoulder, Memnon acquiesced as Artabazus placed a hand on his arm and guided him away from prying ears. They walked toward the burning camp. “One of Pammenes’ Boeotians speared me.”

  “An accident?”

  Memnon shook his head. “The Theban has betrayed us. This attack was the work of his new allies, the King’s Hyrkanians. But, that’s not the worst of it, Artabazus. An army—”

  “I know.” The old satrap held up his hand, prompting Memnon to silence. “We caught up with their rear guard a few miles from here and Mentor captured one of their lancers in the skirmish. Ere he died, he told us of Tithraustes. I did not know about Pammenes, though such perfidy from him is not unexpected.”

  “Where is Mentor now?” Memnon said, concerned for his brother’s safety.

  “Leading a scouting party with what cavalry we have left. Barring disaster, they should return before nightfall.” Artabazus coughed. Flames had spread to the palisade itself, cracking the pine logs and sending whole sections toppling into the ditch. Any bodies left under those walls would be immolated, denied a proper Persian burial. Artabazus bowed his head. “I am done, Memnon,” he said. “If Ochus wants Dascylium, he may have it. For myself, I will withdraw to the Troad, to Assos, and await the inevitable.”

  “Artabazus,” Memnon said, gently. “Assos, too, has been taken from you. Eubulus is dead; his eunuch, Hermeias, rules and he has cast his lot with Tithraustes.”

  But for Memnon at his side to support him, Artabazus might have collapsed. As it was, the immensity of their situation left the old satrap pale as death. Memnon had not given much thought to their predicament while on the road, so consumed was he with simply reaching Dascylium. Now he could not ignore its gravity. Merciful Zeus! With fair Assos denied them, they had no guarantee of a safe haven on Asian soil. Not to Lampsacus, not to Sigeum, not even to thrice-hallowed Troy could the rebels flee and hope to withstand the Great King’s wrath. To Hellas, then. But no. Ochus had proven, first with the embattled Athenians and then with the cautious Boeotians, that his wealth and influence reached even across the wine-dark sea. If not to Hellas, where?

  To his credit, Artabazus mastered himself before any of his men took notice. He stood up straight, his hands clasped behind his back to hide their trembling, and turned from the ruined camp. “This is grave news. Grave, indeed. We … We have weathered reversals before. I predict, with Mithras’s blessing, we will weather this one, as well.”

  “What are your orders?”

  “We wait for Mentor,” Artabazus said. “Yes, wait for Mentor. Once he returns, I … I will decide a course of action. Until then, let us look after the men. They’ve suffered a terrible blow. Terrible.” Shaking his head, Artabazus retraced his steps to where two of his cavalrymen tended to his horse. At a gesture, one of the soldiers knelt and offered his satrap a leg up; the other held the horse’s head
stall until Artabazus collected the reins.

  Artabazus’s horse, a chestnut mare, whinnied and tossed its head. An enemy spear had gouged a furrow through the heavy muscle of its neck; the movement dislodged a horde of flies. Memnon moved closer and patted the animal’s cheek. “That son-of-a-bitch Pammenes kept Celaeno,” he said. “I am sorry for that, Artabazus, and I am sorry I did not return in time.”

  “Ah, my dear boy.” Artabazus looked down at the young Rhodian. “You have done nothing to warrant an apology. Celaeno followed you willingly, and I do not begrudge you her loss. I know that even among the Boeotians she will be well cared for. But, I ask you this: do you not agree that, as the Poet says, the gods assign a proper time for all things under heaven? If so, then you returned at the precise moment appointed by the gods. If you cannot believe such a thing, at least realize that you returned squarely when you were needed most.” Artabazus smiled and glanced around them. “Yes, I recognize your handiwork here. Beyond the smoke and fire and ruin, I see the stamp of shrewd organization, of natural leadership. I have but to ask any one of those men under yonder trees and they will confirm what I know to be true: that though they pledge themselves to my cause, after today, their hearts are sworn to follow you. For the rest of their days, they will remember your actions, they will remember who it was who helped them in their time of need, and their gratitude will never falter. Nor will mine.” And with that, Artabazus touched his heels to his horse’s flanks and cantered off, followed by a pair of cavalrymen. The rest stayed behind, their eyes fixed on the Rhodian as they waited for their orders.

  Memnon gathered himself up. He nodded, accepting his new role and the implicit trust these men tendered, many of them twice his age. “Wagons,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion. “We need more wagons …”

  MIDMORNING STRETCHED TO MIDAFTERNOON, AND THENCE TO EVENING as Memnon oversaw the transport of the wounded and dead from camp to fortress. At his direction, pavilions sprang up at the base of the stairs leading to the palace; iron cressets were driven into the ground, ready to provide light once the sun finished its descent beyond the western horizon. Memnon, though, did not toil alone. Khafre helped those men he could and made comfortable those beyond his skill. No one asked how he came to be there. They simply accepted his aid with prayers of thanks. Artabazus, too, went among the injured with words of praise, making much of each wound and hearing each man’s tale. For those near death, the old satrap simply sat at their side, holding their hand and whispering.