by Oden, Scott
“Forgive me, dear Datis,” Artabazus said, his hands reluctant to touch the haft of the axe protruding from his chamberlain’s chest. “I should have sent you home.”
“N-not … g-go …” Datis croaked.
“Hold on to him, Artabazus! Hold on, all of you!” Memnon said, lashing the leather traces against the horses’ flanks. The wagon jerked and lurched as it gained momentum, those behind it following suit; Memnon did not slacken their pace until he reached the harbor precincts.
Their cortege reined in near the emporion. “Khafre!” Memnon yelled as he helped Artabazus lower Datis to the ground. The Egyptian hurried to their side. “Do what you can for him!” Memnon was lifting the children from the wagon when Khafre caught his arm.
“He has already gone to Osiris,” the Egyptian said. Memnon glanced down. Datis’s eyes were fixed and glazing. Artabazus laid the eunuch’s head down and rose to his feet. For a moment, none of them spoke. Finally, Artabazus stirred.
“Let us make sure his death is not for naught. Memnon, get the family on the trireme. The wounded?”
“Aboard the larger of the two ships,” Khafre said.
Artabazus nodded. “We need to get word to Mentor that we are on the verge of departing.” At this, Omares stepped forward. Artabazus turned to him. “You would volunteer for such duty, my friend?”
“With you safe, my lord, I can now turn my attention to slitting a few Hyrkanian throats.”
Artabazus embraced the grizzled soldier and kissed his cheeks. “May the gods grant you long life and prosperity, Omares.”
“And you, my lord.”
Artabazus released him and gestured to the wagon. “Come, Deidamia, bring the children. Pharnabazus?” He lifted the boy off the end of the wagon and hugged him tight. “You are a man now in the eyes of the gods, and let none dispute it. Come, my son. Help your sister.” One by one, father and son assisted the women while Memnon and Khafre hustled them to the trireme. Those followers of Artabazus looking to escape by sea filed aboard one of the two round ships; sailors manned their posts. Men from all walks enlisted to pull an oar aboard the satrap’s trireme. Artabazus thanked each one as he walked the raised spine between the oar-banks.
The last aboard, Memnon paused at the foot of the gangplank. He scanned the nearly deserted emporion, catching sight of Omares organizing a troop of soldiers. He called to him.
“Give my brother a message for me! Tell him two weeks! He’ll understand!”
Omares acknowledged Memnon’s request with a wave of his hand and went back to preparing his squadron. Inland, the fighting grew closer. Mentor’s men were being forced back.
With a heavy heart, Memnon hurried up the gangplank.
From the stern of the trireme, Artabazus gave the order to stand away; mooring lines were hauled aboard, and men with boat-poles thrust them against the quays. Slowly, ponderously, the round ships backed water and made for the center of Lake Dascylitis, where the current from the Macestus River would carry them down the channel to Propontis. The trireme left last; without drum or flute, the sailors kept time for their fledgling rowers by striking two broken spear shafts together. Clack! Clack! Clack!
Memnon clambered up through the superstructure and mounted the harbor-side outrigger. From here, he watched as the fighting onshore spilled from street to street. Houses burned, set alight by the torches of the Hyrkanians, the smoke providing excellent cover for the remaining rebels. Memnon saw his brother for a brief moment as he spun his horse about to face the harbor.
“Mentor!” he cried, thrusting both arms aloft. The elder Rhodian spotted him and raised his sword in salute before the wrack of fighting swallowed him up again. Slowly, Memnon dropped his arms. “Merciful Zeus,” he whispered, “keep him safe.”
RAIN LASHED THE HEADLAND AT SIGEUM, MAKING IT TREACHEROUS TO ascend the winding flight of rock-cut steps leading from the rugged beach called Priam’s Shingle to the crest of the promontory where Poseidon’s temple stood, overlooking the turbulent waters of the Hellespont. Built on the Ionic order, the temple bore an elaborate frieze of sea creatures—dolphins cavorting with the Nereids—done in Naxian marble, weatherworn and pitted from centuries of exposure to the salt air. Four columns fronted the temple, providing a measure of protection from the elements; between them, a door of bronze-bound pine stood ajar.
Inside, on a pedestal of carved stone, Poseidon held court in the darkened cella. Crafted in marble and gold and wearing a crown of pearl, the bearded Lord of the Deep clutched his trident in one hand and a wreath of sacred pine in the other. Generous and cruel was this, the God of the Sea. Brother of Zeus and Hades, Earth-Shaker and Lord of Tempests, in his presence Memnon could not help but feel powerless, inconsequential. He did not relish the feeling.
Ill at ease, the Rhodian paced at the foot of the god, his cloak wrapped tight against the chill wind spilling through the open door. Artabazus stood off to one side, likewise bundled, warming his hands over the coals of a small brazier.
“He will come,” the old satrap said.
“It’s been two weeks, and more, since we left Dascylium!”
“Mentor gave his word. He will come.”
“But dare we wait any longer, Artabazus? Once this rain abates, Nereus assures me a favorable wind will blow, but only for a matter of days. Even then, we will be testing the Sea King’s patience. These are mercurial waters. Let me seek Mentor out! When I find him, we can catch up to you in Thrace, or the Chalcidice!”
“You have asked before!” Artabazus snapped. “Still, my answer is no! We await him here!”
“Waiting!” Memnon snarled. “Waiting is for old women! I should …” His voice faded as something outside the temple caught his eye. He crossed to the door and shoved it wider, beckoning Artabazus over with a jerk of his head. “Perhaps our wait is at an end.”
A figure struggled up the hillside toward the temple, from Sigeum.
“It’s not Mentor,” Memnon said, crestfallen.
“A messenger, perhaps.”
“Or an escaped slave, come to seek Lord Poseidon’s protection.” Tradition made the Sea God’s temples places of asylum for runaways. Memnon backed away from the door, allowing the fellow entrance.
Exhaustion rather than piety put the man on his knees as he crossed the threshold. “I seek,” he gasped, “a Rhodian, called Memnon! I was told he would be here!”
Memnon and Artabazus exchanged glances. “I am he. Do you bring a message from Mentor? He is my brother!”
The runner sat, pushing his dripping hair out of his eyes. He was young, a few years Memnon’s junior, and clad in sandals and a woolen khlamys. “Have you any wine?” he said. Memnon nodded and fetched him a cup from their meager stores. Greedily, the runner accepted it and sucked it down.
“What of it, man? Does my brother yet live?” Memnon said.
“He does. Word came to Assos, from my father, bidding me get a message to Memnon at Sigeum. I am to say to him that Mentor could not fight through to the Hellespont, and that you and your lord should seek shelter on a far shore. My father said Mentor would seek you out when he could.”
“Who is your father?” Artabazus asked, frowning.
“Omares, my lord. A captain of the kardakes.”
“What else did he say?” Memnon grasped the boy by the shoulders, fairly shaking him. The Rhodian’s face screwed up in a look of rage, as though he interrogated one of the king’s spies. “Damn you! What else did he say?”
“Nothing else, lord! Nothing else! I swear it!”
Artabazus caught Memnon by the arm. “Come. Let him go, Memnon. He is Omares’ son, and he has told us all he knows. We must make ready so that when the rain subsides we can get underway.”
Memnon nodded.
Omares’ son piped up. “Should they send to me, asking where you’ve gone, what should I tell them?”
“Tell Mentor …” Artabazus paused, exhaling. “Tell him to seek us in Macedonia.” He laid a hand on Memnon’s shoulder.
“We will test the limits of King Philip’s friendship, eh?”
INTERLUDE II
“MACEDONIA,” MELPOMENE SAID, HER VOICE RAGGED. “HAVE YOU ever seen it, Ariston? In the spring, the lowland plains are thick with iris and mallow and green shoots of barley, all of it watered by streams without number. The land rises in rills and folds, past lakes as blue as the sky and groves of willow and poplar and white-flowered acacia, sweeping up through forests of pine to meet the snow-clad peaks of the Bermion Mountains. It is truly the Garden of Midas.”
“I have not ventured so far north, Lady, though by your description I am much the poorer for it.”
Melpomene arched an eyebrow. “Curious. I would have thought such a staunch follower of divine Alexander would have made the pilgrimage to the Emathian Plain, to holy Pella, to view the place of his birth.”
Ariston shrugged. “Alexander might have been born in Macedonia, but his body resides in Egypt, and to Egypt I will make my pilgrimage, when the time is right. Macedonia holds no interest for me.”
“It should,” she said, “for without Macedonia, there could have never been an Alexander. The land was the crucible wherein his character was forged. His muscle and sinew, his flesh and blood were the raw materials, and the passions of Philip and Olympias provided the flames. When that crucible was broken open, when its contents stepped forth to take its spearwon prize, none could be prouder than the land itself, for Macedonia had given the world a demigod.”
“They remain proud, today,” Ariston agreed.
“You confuse pride with arrogance. So long were they steeped in his divine light that Alexander’s generals have come to believe themselves his equal. He made them, make no mistake, and in dying he unleashed a plague upon the world—a plague of warmongers, bereft of their master’s grace. In his day, Xerxes should have obliterated the Macedonians on his march to Greece, even if it meant depriving the world of Alexander. Now, we must endure those he left behind.” She coughed; flecks of blood spotted her lips. Silently, Harmouthes rose and handed her a fresh linen cloth. She whispered something to him; the Egyptian nodded, excusing himself. Ariston stood and stretched.
Beyond the window, the morning’s chill gave way to a mild afternoon, the faint breeze warmed by brilliant sunshine. At Melpomene’s urging Ariston opened the shutters, allowing air to circulate through the room. He could imagine such a day drawing swarms of Ephesians to the agora, where merchants and tradesmen seeking to supplement their lean winter incomes would offer their meager wares to aristocrats, soldiers, and commoners weary of the rain and cold. Oddly, Ariston did not feel tempted to quit The Oaks and partake in the carnival atmosphere.
Instead, the young Rhodian turned from the window, frowning. “Why did they flee to Macedonia? Did Philip not have designs on Persia?”
Melpomene shook her head. “This was many years before Isocrates penned his missive to Philip urging him to unite the states of Hellas against the barbaroi threat. The exiles—such was their name in the Macedonian court—reached Pella in the wake of Philip’s defeat in Thessaly, at the hands of Onomarchus the Phokian. Persia was the least of his worries. As for why,” she shrugged. “Athens and Sparta owned but a slender portion of their former glory, and Thebes had lost its supremacy a decade earlier, when Epaminondas died defeating the Spartans at Mantinea. Only in Macedonia could Artabazus find a ruler whose ambitions rivaled the Great King’s, and that ambition virtually guaranteed Philip and Ochus would never unite.”
“Neither would be a vassal to the other,” Ariston said, nodding. “A shrewd man, Artabazus.”
Harmouthes returned bearing a tray of bread and cheese, a relish of olive oil and garlic, two pottery bowls, and a single-handled oinochoe of wine. For Melpomene, a separate mug of warmed wine mixed with herbs. Beneath the tray, Ariston noticed the Egyptian carried a flat wooden box, its sides decorated with faded paintings of men crouching at the feet of an ibis-headed figure—doubtless one of the myriad gods of his native land.
Ariston helped him with the tray. The box Harmouthes handed to his mistress. She held it carefully, like something made of fragile alabaster; her fingers caressed its surface, feeling every nick, every gouge in the wood.
Ariston leaned closer. The flat surface of the box bore a painted image similar to those on its sides—a man sitting at the base of a throne, a roll of papyrus on his lap, writing down the words spoken by his lord, the whole encircled by a ring of hieroglyphs. “What is it?”
“A mestha,” Harmouthes said. “A case used by scribes to hold the instruments of their craft.” At one end, the likeness of a beetle was carved into the wood and worn smooth from innumerable handlings. Melpomene pressed her index finger into the beetle’s hollowed-out body and slid the case’s cover back. The odor of old ink, papyrus, and palm wood rose from the heart of the box. She closed her eyes and inhaled.
“Memnon’s letters,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “To my father, to Mentor …”
Ariston’s face remained neutral, though he marked well her slip of the tongue. My father. This meant Melpomene was a daughter of whom … of Artabazus? And if so, which daughter? Which …
With effort, Ariston returned his attention to the case as Melpomene carefully removed a sheaf of letters; most were written in a firm, spidery hand, on a mixture of papyrus and parchment.
“Memnon wrote often to Mentor, though his brother was miserly with his replies,” she said. She handed Ariston examples:
Another, dated the following year:
Ariston lingered over a third:
“Alexander’s genius was visible so young?” Ariston asked, handing the letter back to Melpomene and reclaiming his chair. She reread it, her brows furrowed.
“Indeed, but Memnon left much unsaid in his letters concerning Philip’s court, a precaution in the event his courier was waylaid by those seeking to do him harm. Many branded him a traitor for his allegiance to Artabazus, despite their bonds of kinship. No, what was at the root of Memnon’s concern was an assertion championed by Queen Olympias that Alexander was not the son of Philip at all, but of Zeus. Worse, it was an assertion Alexander himself believed.”
“Faugh!” Ariston said. “Athenian fiction! Alexander never claimed to be a god!”
Melpomene and Harmouthes exchanged wry smiles. “So his flatterers would have you believe,” she said. “His modesty was the true fiction, disseminated for all the world by Callisthenes of Olynthus, that kinsman of Aristotle chosen by Alexander to be his ‘official historian,’ but make no mistake, Ariston—Alexander perpetuated the notion of his own divinity. Oh, he was careful about it, careful never to let the claim escape his own lips outside his circle of friends, but it was something he, and they, believed strongly. And why not? Olympias had instilled it in him at an early age—and she would know if she coupled with a god, he would say.”
Ariston said nothing for a moment, his eyes narrowing. “You speak of Alexander with surprising candor, almost as if you knew him.”
At this, Harmouthes, who was pouring wine into the two bowls, glanced sharply from his mistress to Ariston. Pottery clattered as he set the pitcher aside. The Egyptian straightened and would have said something had she not stilled him with an almost imperceptible shake of her head.
Ariston interpreted this gesture, as well as her silence, as affirmation. “Great Helios! You did know him!” The young Rhodian found himself unable to keep the superstitious awe from his voice. He slid forward in his chair, his hands knotted in anticipation. “Where? How?”
Melpomene sighed and gathered up the letters, returning them to their case. She withheld a ragged scrap of papyrus. “I was captured at Damascus, along with Queen Stateira and Queen-Mother Sisygambis, in the wake of the tragedy at Issus. We were treated well, our honor inviolate, and Alexander visited us when he could, though never in the manner of a harem. He took to Darius’s mother, and she to him. As I speak fluent Greek, it often fell upon me to translate between the two.”
Ariston sank bac
k in his chair, unconsciously stroking his beardless chin. A daughter of Artabazus, he reckoned, who was an intimate of both Memnon and Alexander, who was taken with Darius’s family at Damascus, and who lived for a time in Pergamum … I should know your name, Lady. He resolved to slip away later today or tomorrow and put the question to Nicanor. The old Macedonian would know. “You should commit your memories of Alexander to the page, as well.”
“Our children’s children will remember him well enough without my contributions,” she said, placing her hand on the letter-case. “Memnon, though … Memnon’s legacy is another matter. I fear without my intercession his deeds will be lost in the shadow of Alexandros Basileus.”
Ariston found he could not disagree. Accepting a bowl of wine from Harmouthes, the young Rhodian said, “How long was Memnon in Macedonia?”
“Not long,” Melpomene said, passing the scrap of papyrus to him. Its previous owner salvaged it from an Egyptian source, as its obverse still bore traces in black and red ink of that land’s peculiar style of writing. On its face, the scrawl of blocky Greek letters read more like a military dispatch than a note from brother to brother:
“Memnon left at the end of their fourth year in exile,” she said, settling back into bed. “He joined Mentor in service to Pharaoh Nectanebo the Second, whose people had stood in open rebellion against the Great King for close to sixty years. The brothers, though, saw the whole episode as just another precarious situation, another opportunity to sample the bitter lees of defeat. After another four years of fighting—in Egypt and up the coast in Phoenicia—Mentor finally sent Memnon back to Macedonia with news of an extraordinary plan …”
