Memnon

by Oden, Scott

  “What fools, these Macedonians,” he muttered as he turned and went inside.

  12

  SUMMER’S HEAT FADED, AND THE BIRCHES SURROUNDING THE ESTATE blazed with autumnal splendor, a canopy of fiery reds, oranges, and golds as beautiful as it was fleeting. The end of harvest brought the first frosts of the season; in no time, winter roared down from the mountains, a cold north wind that rattled the brown reeds fringing Lake Loudias and brought snow and ice to the Emathian Plain.

  True to his word, Memnon cleaved to the fire save for the occasional foray into the foothills to hunt boar and stag. By the hearth in the great hall, he and Artabazus whiled away the hours debating politics and its practitioners—from Isocrates and his call for Philip to initiate a Hellenic crusade against Persia, to the vituperation of Macedonia by the Athenian demagogue, Demosthenes. Under the eaves of the guesthouse, Memnon reread Herodotus by the light of the pale winter sun, Homer by the glow of firelight.

  “Menelaus or Paris?” Barsine said, noticing the scroll on one of her frequent visits. The threat of a spring thaw gave them an excellent reason to take the horses out for a little exercise. “Whose place would you rather take?”

  Memnon tugged on his cavalry boots, stood, and slipped a heavy woolen cloak over his shoulders. “Neither. Menelaus was a man who couldn’t hold on to what was his; Paris was a man who took what didn’t belong to him.”

  “Who, then?”

  Memnon thought for a moment, tapping the scroll basket with his finger. “Odysseus,” he said. “Here is a man who goes to war, endures the wrath of Poseidon, and is away a score of years. What does he find when he returns to Ithaca? A wretched pack of suitors held at bay by a cunning wife who refused to believe he was dead. If I am to be cast from a Homeric mold, let it be in the mold of Odysseus.”

  “Not Achilles?”

  Memnon smiled and held the door open for her. A chilly blast of air ruffled the scrolls. “My father’s secretary, Glaucus, used to accuse me of wanting to emulate mighty Achilles, of thirsting after glory for its own sake. He never understood, though.”

  “Understood?” Barsine tugged her cowl up over her braided hair. She, too, wore a woolen mantle, dyed black and lined with sheepskin. Outside the guesthouse, a thin crust of snow clung to the low places where the sun couldn’t reach, to the lee of the stream bank and the bases of statues. The thawing ground squelched with each step as they walked toward the stables.

  “That Achilles may have been a matchless warrior, but he was forever at the mercy of Odysseus’s wits,” Memnon said, his breath steaming. “Nor did Achilles outstrip the King of Ithaca in the arena of Glory. They were equals, but Odysseus didn’t have to sacrifice his life to achieve lasting fame. No, let others revere Achilles and seek to fashion their sword arms after his. I will style myself after Odysseus and guide their sword arms to victory.”

  “And return home to your faithful Penelope, little Telemachus on her hip?”

  “Should ever I be so blessed, yes.”

  Barsine’s eyebrow arched.

  “What?” Memnon said. “You think I’m deceiving myself? Or am I not deserving of such things?”

  “No, you deserve it—more so than most—I just … I …” She paused. Memnon could not tell if the cold or embarrassment heightened her color, but when she spoke again, her voice barely rose above a whisper. “I do not remember you as a homesick Odysseus, but as a dashing Hector, on a great black horse with your armor gleaming in the sun as you hurled back a horde of foul Hyrkanians—ferocious and indestructible. To hear you now speak of home and hearth as your ultimate goal is … surprising.”

  “Inside every man of war is a man of peace, a man who needs to know he has somewhere to go once the wars cease. Crops and herds are prosaic to the young, but these are the things that sustain the veteran through the worst of the campaign season, through defeat and privation. A man facing death needs to know there’s someone at home waiting for him. He needs a reason beyond glory to fight.”

  “Like Odysseus,” Barsine said, as though a mystery had been made clear. Often, as the day wore on, Memnon caught her staring; she’d glance away quickly, but with each instance he had the impression she was seeing him in a different light.

  Winter held on, but soon enough Persephone left the frigid confines of Hades’ realm and returned to the world of the living. To celebrate her arrival, Nature garlanded itself with blossoms of pink and white, violet and yellow, intertwined with leaf-buds of the palest green. Snow thawed on the mountainsides, swelling every stream and watercourse out of its banks; even Lake Loudias, its dark waters ruffled by a south wind, crept up over the stone quays.

  Memnon’s morning regimen now included a trip to the gymnasion, followed by a turn or two about the agora, listening to merchants who had come overland from the south, eager for news. Soon, the sea-lanes would reopen and ships would again call at Pella. Only then, he reckoned, would tidings from Asia reach this far north. The Rhodian contented himself with the usual range of gossip, most of it local—a litany of feuds and marriages, cuckolds and vendettas that mirrored the conduct of the royal house.

  “Theirs is not a tranquil union,” one merchant said, nodding up toward the palace on the acropolis. Of course, Deidamia kept Memnon apprized on what went on between the King and Queen, but not even she heard it all. She heard even less now that she was pregnant again, and bed-ridden. “Not tranquil at all, what with poor Alexander wedged between them, and now this whole affair with Pausanias.” The merchant clucked.

  Memnon bought a handful of dried figs from the man. “Who?”

  “Pausanias.” The merchant lowered his voice, as if he spilled state secrets rather than the latest bit of scandal. “An old lover of King Philip’s—he’s fancied both since his days as a hostage in Thebes. Anyway, Pausanias was put aside and another, more handsome boy took his place in the King’s bed. Being a hot-tempered Orestid, Pausanias insulted the boy at a drinking party, told everyone he would fuck a dead man, if he could get an obol or two out of it.”

  “Brave man, to insult the King like that,” Memnon said, munching a fig.

  The merchant, a native Macedonian, made a dismissive gesture. “Philip took it in stride, knowing it for the last gasp of love gone awry. The boy, though … he took it hard, this slight to his honor. Kept it bottled up inside. Finally, last season, on the Epirote border, the boy tried to redeem his good name. He charged ahead of the King and got himself impaled on an Illyrian spear.”

  “All because a jilted rival called him names?” Memnon grunted, shaking his head. “What did Philip do to Pausanias?”

  The merchant shrugged. “Depends upon whom you ask. Pausanias is an Orestid, as I said, and they are as quarrelsome a pack of curs as ever crawled from the womb. Publicly, the King could do little. Privately, though, I’m told he set the boy’s friends on Pausanias. These fellows lured him to the house of Attalus, got him dead drunk, and gave him over to the slaves and the stable hands, telling them he would bend over for anyone, and freely.”

  Memnon whistled softly.

  “Nor were they gentle about it,” the merchant said. “Were I Pausanias, I’d rather they just killed me and been done with it.” Before Memnon could press him further, another customer drew the merchant’s attention; the Rhodian waved his thanks and moved along.

  On the way back to the estate, Memnon saw preparations were well underway for the spring horse fair, set to take place in a few days’ time. Like poets to the great Dionysia, the fair drew dealers and buyers from all corners of Macedonia and beyond, from Thessaly, Epirus, Thrace, Ionia, even Scythia. Stalls and tents were going up all over Pella to satisfy the growing influx of visitors. Some would serve as dormitories for this retinue or that, some as impromptu wine shops and brothels, and the rest as extensions of the agora, offering for sale everything from last year’s apples to gold jewelry of the finest craftsmanship. Hammers thudded as workmen erected the royal pavilion in a meadow outside Pella; others created corrals of woo
d and rope to segregate breeders’ stock so no common stallion could break free and mount some prize racing mare—surely enough to trigger violence among men whose livelihoods depended on maintaining pure bloodlines.

  At the gates to Artabazus’s estate, Memnon met a messenger on his way out, a young man wearing the livery of the King. The old satrap stood not too far away, a roll of fine parchment in his hand. It still bore the wax seal of the palace.

  Memnon frowned. “What goes?”

  “Philip desires our company, you and I, during the horse fair,” Artabazus said, nodding after the messenger. He held up the scroll. “And this is for Deidamia, from the Queen.”

  “Desires our company, eh? A polite way of summoning us to his side. What could he want?”

  “Ah, my boy. When did you become so suspicious?” Artabazus said. “Perhaps all Philip wants is the pleasure of our company.”

  Memnon smiled and fell in beside Artabazus, gently draping an arm around the old satrap’s shoulder. “When did you become so trusting? Philip never does anything on the principle of pleasure—his or someone else’s. His every action, every word, serves his interests in some way. He wants us there for a reason, Artabazus.”

  “I don’t doubt that,” the old satrap said, “but his reasons are not necessarily sinister. There are times, my boy, when an honest invitation is just that—an honest invitation. You will drive yourself mad if you always seek to discern the motives behind every word. If Philip has some ulterior purpose, so be it. Wait, though, and let him show his hand before you assume the worst.” Artabazus patted Memnon’s arm.

  “Where Philip is concerned,” Memnon said, recalling the tale of Pausanias, “I cannot help but assume the worst.”

  THE DAY OF THE FAIR DAWNED CLEAR AND BRIGHT, THE CLOUDLESS SKY AN azure canopy over the green meadow where the buying and selling would take place. Memnon and Artabazus rose early and joined the crowds partaking of the common business—soldiers looking for spare mounts or trained chargers, sporting men admiring the racers, hill-chiefs seeking to replenish their strings of ponies. Dealers extolled the virtues of each breed, from tall Iberians renowned for their spirit, to lean Scythians of unparalleled speed, to small and hardy Messaras bearing the axe-brand of Pherae on their flanks. None of them, Memnon reckoned, could approach Artabazus’s purebred Nisaeans, their pedigrees hearkening back to antiquity, to the chariot teams of great Nebuchadnezzar. The old satrap knew it, too, though he kept it to himself, never boastful. As each dealer presented his wares, Artabazus smiled gently and made small compliments before moving on to the next.

  Philip’s arrival on the field, past midday, signaled an end to the common business. Unsold stock was led away and the dealers shouted for their grooms to escort their finest wares to the forefront, the pureblood chargers, highly trained and spirited. The King of Macedonia was not a man who stood on protocol; preceded by his bodyguard, he made a leisurely entrance, limping still from a poorly healed wound gained in last year’s Illyrian campaign.

  “The gods,” Artabazus muttered, in Persian, “use his flesh as a scribe uses a waxed board, their iron stylus recording a hymn to Ares.”

  Memnon nodded, silent. Stark against his dusty blue chiton, an impressive array of scars laced the King’s arms and legs, his neck and face—some red and angry, others white with age. Each represented an offering of blood on the War God’s altar. An eye, too, had gone to placate the Lords of Olympus, to secure blessings of power for his beloved Macedonia.

  The King’s black-bearded face swiveled as he acknowledged his Companions and his courtiers, his tribal lords, his soldiers, and certain of the dealers. When his good eye lit on Artabazus, though, Philip gave a broad grin.

  “My Persian friend!” the King said. “It pleases me you could join us! Who’s that with you? Memnon? Great Herakles, Rhodian! It’s good to see you’ve escaped the clutches of the decadent south! Come, join me under the pavilion. This sun’s too fierce to stand around jawing like neighbors at the well.”

  The pavilion’s purple cloth shaded the King’s throne, a straight-backed chair of heavy wood with armrests carved to resemble lions, inlaid with silver and covered in sheets of hammered gold. Philip sat with a groan, motioned for one of his pages to bring two stools closer.

  “I understand congratulations are in order,” Artabazus said, perching himself on the proffered stool.

  Philip grunted. “For killing Illyrians? Those bastards try to wriggle out from under my heel with Olympic regularity. Kleitos,” he said to the nearest bodyguard, a thickly muscled Macedonian sporting a fierce black beard, “find that lack-witted steward and have him fetch wine.” Philip turned back to look at Memnon. “What do you hear of that brother of yours? Is he still humping a shield for the glory of Egypt?”

  “I left him in Sidon last summer,” Memnon said. “Commanding the garrison against Ochus.”

  “So it’s true, then? Ochus is going to try again to reclaim Egypt?”

  “He’ll likely succeed this time. Thebes and Argos gave him men, Ionia, too. He’ll use those hoplites as a skeleton, fingers of a grasping fist clothed in Persian flesh.”

  “And Mentor?” Philip said. “Will he stand in the way of this fist?”

  Memnon spread his hands and shrugged. “That depends on his mood. If he’s tired of fighting a losing war, then I suspect he’ll renounce his allegiance to Pharaoh and offer himself to the Great King.”

  “He’s already decided, you mean.” Philip grinned. A steward, one ear red from a good cuffing, hustled up with three cups and a pitcher of Chian wine, unwatered, as was the custom in Macedonia. The King took a cup and gestured for his guests to do the same. “There’s no need to hide it. Mentor’s not betraying my cause. If anything, perhaps he strengthens it.”

  Memnon let Artabazus select first; he took the remaining cup. “How so?” the Rhodian asked.

  “I could always use friends on that side of the Hellespont. Men I can trust to do the right thing, and who can trust me to do the same.”

  “Have you fallen for the honeyed words of Isocrates?” Artabazus said, his eyebrows arched. “Will you push your borders beyond the Asian shore?”

  Wine sloshed as Philip slapped his knee, his laughter booming through the pavilion. “Great Herakles, no! I may push my borders to the Hellespont, but not beyond. I have my hands full with Athens and her endless machinations. I need no more grief.” Philip sobered, leaned forward on his throne. “But, with friends in Nearer Asia, I need not fret should an attack be forthcoming from that quarter. Friends who can open the doors of trade, who can exchange information … and who can warn each other of threats to their mutual existence.”

  Artabazus looked down as he swirled the dregs in his cup. “I value your friendship, King Philip, so I will tell you, in all honesty, that if Mentor succeeds it is my hope that we will be summoned home to share in his glory. It is my desire to make peace with my cousin, the Great King, so that my sons might claim their birthright as Pharnacids. Does this mean I will set aside my friendship with you, once I am gone from your court? Of course not. You and your family will forever be welcome at my hearth.”

  Philip drained his wine and held his cup out for a refill. “But what if, in a dozen years, on a day much like this, Ochus comes to you and orders you or your sons to make war on me? What will become of our friendship then?”

  “The same question could be posed to you, sire,” Memnon said. “Your son is not without ambition. Would he honor your friendships?”

  “Ambition?” Philip gave a short, barking laugh. “Alexander already begrudges my every success, telling his friends I will forestall him in all things great and spectacular. Yes, the boy’s ambitious, but he understands honor. What friendships I forge he will …”

  A discreet cough interrupted the King; a man approached the throne without waiting for permission. The newcomer, Antipatros, had no need of it. A King’s Man from the early days, he served as Philip’s chief statesman, his blunt features, thinning hair, a
nd russet-and-gray beard hiding the sharp intellect of a born diplomat.

  “My apologies,” Antipatros rumbled, his ice-blue gaze sliding from Artabazus to Memnon. He leaned in close to Philip’s ear, whispered something, and glanced back the way he had come. Philip—and Memnon—followed his gaze, seeing a man in a splendid Ionian chiton standing at the edge of the pavilion, his hair a golden fringe, his face displaying the smooth agelessness of a eunuch. He looked familiar, though Memnon could not recall where he had seen him before.

  Philip nodded to the eunuch and grasped Antipatros’s shoulder. “Tell him we will speak later.”

  “As you wish,” Antipatros muttered. Straightening, he withdrew and escorted the eunuch to a different part of the field. Memnon watched them depart. He turned back to find the King staring at him, his dark eye inscrutable.

  “State business,” Philip said, rising. “It does not stop, even for festival days. Come, my friends, we’d better act like men at a horse fair before they brand us as pedants.” Philip waved his guard off as Artabazus and Memnon accompanied him out among the dealers. Thessaly was well represented by nearly a dozen brands, from the axe-heads of Pherae to the centaur-brands of Larissa to the magnificent ox-heads of Pharsalus, the boukephaloi. These last consumed the King’s attention. He stroked withers and checked teeth, lifted their hooves to inspect the frogs.

  “Have you bred those Nisaeans yet, Artabazus?”

  “And pollute their pedigree?” the old satrap said. “I would sooner pluck out my own eyes.”

  “Would it be that distasteful? Think of it, a horse of Nisaean-Pharsalus stock—strength, speed, and incomparable beauty. I can’t imagine how much such a mount would be worth to a discerning buyer.” The next dealer the King greeted warmly, embracing him as he would a close friend. “Ah, Philonikos! I trust you brought the finest animals ever to tread the sacred soil of Thessaly under hoof?”