Memnon

by Oden, Scott

  In range now of the palisade’s only gate, Memnon gestured to his left and right, giving the signal for his men to fan out. The young soldier whose inadvertent cry had halted their forward progress made to edge out to the left, in the front ranks, his face transformed into a mask of determination. Memnon had seen that look before—the suicidal look of reckless bravado. He nudged the boy with the butt of his javelin and shook his head.

  “No, Callinus.” The Rhodian mouthed the words. “You’re with me.” They would fight as a dyas, like Castor and Polydeuces. That way, Memnon reckoned, the boy might live to see this day’s end.

  Rolling over onto his belly, Memnon inched through the grass, Callinus in his wake. All around, he saw evidence of drought: deep cracks in the soil and yellow tussocks of grass crisped by the relentless sun. Through the still air he could smell the village middens, their stench thick with rotting animal carcasses and soured barley mash, fish-guts and olive husks. This summer—his second in Thrace—Memnon had seen outbreaks of plague spread up from the coast and into the highland villages, a spear-borne pestilence fed by the miasma of war. Given time, the blighted arrows of Apollo might do what Philip’s forces so far could not: conquer the Odrysians and their king, Kersobleptes.

  Time, though, was an unaffordable luxury.

  A horn brayed in the distance. Memnon stiffened; he knew its source. Merciful Zeus, watch over him! From inside the palisade came shouts and cries of alarm, a cacophony of voices made all the more chaotic by barking dogs and the screams of women and children.

  In his mind’s eye, the Rhodian watched the attack unfold. His horsemen, led by Pharnabazus, would attack the palisade wall on the opposite side of the village from the gate, loosing volley after volley of fire arrows from the safety of the tree-line; some of the more nimble riders would venture closer to hurl oil flasks against the desiccated timbers. In the smoke and confusion, the Odrysians would waste little time opening the gate and sending out their own cavalry—a wild wave of red-haired Thracians, their bodies covered in intricate blue tattoos—to circle the village and fall on the foolhardy Greeks like hounds on a wounded stag.

  Or so Memnon hoped.

  The Rhodian gathered his legs under him and tightened his grip on his javelin. He glanced at Callinus beside him. The boy blinked rapidly, sweat dripped from the end of his nose and he wiped at it with a trembling hand. Memnon wanted to whisper a reassuring word to him, but before he could the explosive creak and pop of hinges consumed his attention.

  The gates were opening.

  A harsh Thracian voice cracked like a whip, and Memnon heard the clatter of harness as horsemen cantered out the gate. He waited, listening, slowly drawing in a deep breath through flared nostrils. Timing was crucial …

  In a single smooth motion, Memnon rose up from the grass, his first javelin cocked behind his ear, his eyes searching for a target. Fifty paces distant, dozens of Odrysians rode past in loose formation. They were oblivious to the men on their flanks. Now!

  “Zeus Savior and Victory!” Memnon bellowed, his javelin leaving his hand even as his soldiers bolted upright and loosed their missiles. Bronze and iron flashed in the hazy morning air; sling bullets hissed, striking flesh with the sound of air bladders popping. Blood sprayed as men twisted, clutching at the ash shafts sprouting from their bodies as if by magic. Horses reared and collapsed. As he readied for a second cast, Memnon saw a sling bullet split apart the head of an enemy Thracian, his startled features blotted out by a curdled mass of blood and brain. Bone snapped as the man’s terrified horse staved in the chest of a fallen rider.

  Survivors of the first volley milled about, suddenly leaderless. Some reached for their bow cases, others fought to control their mounts. That moment of hesitation proved their undoing as a second flight of javelins tore through their sundered ranks.

  A handful of Odrysians at the tail end of the pack managed to wheel and ride for the safety of the gate, screaming for their comrades inside the palisade to cover them. A spate of arrows arched over the walls to land haphazardly among Memnon’s men.

  The Rhodian grunted as he hurled his last javelin. The iron-headed dart reached the apex of its flight and descended, missing the rider leading the retreat but burying itself in the spine of the man’s mount. The horse collapsed like a child’s rag doll and snarled the legs of the animals in its wake. A sudden explosion of dust obscured the wreckage of man and beast. Memnon straightened and ripped his sword from its sheath.

  “Take the gate!”

  The allied Thracians in Memnon’s command howled like wolves and threw themselves at the opening with single-minded purpose. The men of this village—Memnon could not even remember its name—had preyed upon them for years, slaying their kin and shaming their women. They relished the chance for vengeance.

  The gate was a simple affair: two doors of heavy timber reinforced with bands of pitted bronze. Both valves sat poorly in their hinges, causing their outside edges to churn a furrow in the dirt as the village defenders sought to bar them against Memnon’s onslaught. Attacker and defender shoved against one another, each hoping by brute strength to snatch victory. One of Memnon’s Thracians, too close to the opening, took a spear in the throat; the man beside him snagged the blood-slimed shaft and hauled the defender into the open, exposing him to a trio of sling bullets. Inch by inch, life by life, the allies gained ground. With a final shove, they threw the gate open and swarmed over the last few defenders, the women and older children, who fought back like feral animals.

  A pillar of black smoke rose from the rear of the village, drifting east toward the Hebrus River and obscuring the face of the sun. Memnon, with a handful of his Greeks, hung back, giving his Thracians a free rein over the Odrysians. There would be no quarter.

  Memnon found Callinus unscathed and standing over a dead man, one of the first Odrysians slain in the brief fight. Like all his men, the boy marked his javelins with a distinctive symbol—a letter, perhaps, or a tiny image relevant to the wielder’s personality—where the head met the shaft or on the butt. Memnon’s bore an Egyptian falcon. The boy recognized the javelin standing out from the center of the corpse’s chest as his own.

  “Your first kill?” Memnon said softly.

  Callinus swallowed hard and nodded. “It … It must be, but I don’t remember throwing it.” His fingers curled around the shaft. Iron grated on bone as he tugged the javelin free, stared at the bloodied blade. “I remember your voice. I remember standing, feeling the ground lurch under my feet. The rest …”

  Memnon laid a hand on his shoulder. “All that matters is that you handled yourself well. You followed orders, did nothing rash or foolhardy, and lived to fight on. This is the moment you should remember, Callinus. Be proud, but don’t forget to give the gods their due.”

  The young Greek nodded, again. Memnon thumped his shoulder and sent him off to help look after the wounded. As he did, a squadron of cavalry came round from the far side of the village, Pharnabazus in the lead. Dust frosted horse and rider, and Pharnabazus’s helmet was gone. Blood dripped from a gash in his forehead to streak the side of his face.

  “What happened to you?”

  Pharnabazus touched his brow and winced. “One of their brats tried to bounce a rock off my skull. By the great god, Uncle! Your plan worked!”

  “Casualties?” Memnon said.

  “Cuts and bruises mostly. That fool Pentheus wandered too close to the palisade and had his horse shot out from under him. Went down hard. Snapped his leg like a twig. He should live, provided it does not fester. You?”

  Memnon glanced over his shoulder. The fight for the gate had been the worst of it. “Twelve dead, so far. Another dozen wounded. There was the only flaw in the plan,” he said. Anger flashed like summer lightning. “I should have thought to bring up shields and a ram crew. Hades! We could have ripped the gate off its hinges with rope and a team of horses!” Memnon turned back and spat in the dust.

  Pharnabazus dismounted. “It is done, Uncle
, and thanks to you it was done well. Foresight is wisdom; hindsight is but fruitless daydreaming. You recall whose words those are?”

  “Yes, yes! They are my own, and had I known I’d be forced to dine on them at every turn perhaps I would have sweetened them with honey.” Memnon exhaled. He squinted at the wound in his nephew’s forehead. “Get that cleaned and bound, then make sure the horses are rested and watered. I’ll see about salvaging a wagon for the wounded before Berisades and his whoreson Thracians burn everything. We can’t tarry here. This smoke is going to draw every scavenger in the Hebrus Valley.”

  “Are we returning to Doriscus?”

  Memnon shook his head. “Parmenion should be at Aenus, on the east bank of the river, by now. We’ll rejoin him there. For this next offensive, the Macedonians are going to have to throw caution to the winds and strike at the heart of Kersobleptes’ kingdom, before Athens decides it’s not in its best interests to have Philip so close to the Hellespont.”

  Pharnabazus chuckled. “Is this a point the Athenians feel they need to debate? Truly, I will never understand how those handwringers defeated Great Darius at Marathon.”

  “Those were different times, nephew,” Memnon said. “Get moving. Tell the men they have one hour.” The Rhodian’s face hardened into a stern mask as he turned and headed for the village gate. Inside, muffled screams rose and fell, punctuated by peals of raucous laughter.

  “Where will you be?” Pharnabazus called after him.

  “Bringing the hounds to heel.”

  WIDE AND SLOW MOVING, THE HEBRUS RIVER WOUND LIKE A GREAT BROWN snake through the foothills of the Rhodope Mountains. Groves of oak, ash, and elm shaded the river’s bank from the relentless sun, while errant cypresses stretched forth their roots in an effort to reach the Hebrus’s drought-ravaged waterline—so low in places that the river’s stony bed lay exposed. Near the banks pools formed, stagnated, and dried out in the oppressive heat, leaving behind the reek of mud and rotting fish. A breeze out of the north ruffled leaves but brought little relief to the column of cavalry that rode along the river’s edge.

  Memnon drove his men mercilessly over the next few days, stopping only to rest and water their horses, swallow a crust of bread, and perhaps snatch a few hours sleep. Outriders forged ahead, alert for any sign of a potential ambush, while Pharnabazus brought up the rear along with the trundling wagon of wounded Greeks and Thracians. Among them sat Pentheus, who hurled a colorful litany of curses at the driver each time the wagon jarred over rock or root.

  On the fifth day, with the sun already below the western horizon, Memnon led his soldiers across the Hebrus, fording the river above where it widened into its marshy delta. He was on the verge of ordering them into camp when one of his outriders brought welcome news: the vanguard of the Macedonian army was barely two hours south of their position. Despite the sky above turning to star-flecked indigo, Memnon decided they would push on. “They’ll have better food, at least,” he said. He sent the outrider on ahead with orders to make contact and warn the Macedonians of their arrival.

  “How far are we from Aenus?” Pharnabazus asked, swatting at a mosquito that flitted too close to his face. Already, it was dark enough that he had trouble making out the trail in front of them.

  “A day’s ride,” Memnon said. “Perhaps less.”

  “Was it your plan to meet Parmenion on the trail like this?”

  Memnon didn’t answer. In the back of his mind, he had half expected to find only a token force of Macedonians at Aenus, armed with a message stating this reason or that why Parmenion tarried at Doriscus. King Philip praised his general to the heavens, telling all who would listen that “the Athenians elect ten generals every year, but I have ever only found one.” Memnon, however, found Parmenion plodding and over-cautious, though a ferocious adversary once roused to action. What could have roused him this time? He turned the question over again and again in his mind, oblivious to the passage of time. When next Memnon glanced up, he was surprised to see torches flaring ahead.

  “Pickets,” Pharnabazus said, and over his shoulder, to the men, he added, “Look alive, you sons of whores!”

  “Who goes?” a voice bellowed from the darkness.

  “Memnon’s squadron!” Pharnabazus answered, glancing at his uncle. Both men hoped the sentry wouldn’t demand the watchword, which no doubt had changed since Doriscus.

  “Advance and be recognized!”

  Memnon took the lead and rode into the circle of torchlight, his hand raised in greeting. A half-dozen Macedonians waited nearby; Foot Companions armed with massive pikes called sarissas, twice the length of a hoplite’s eight-footer.

  “Hades’ teeth!” roared the officer on duty, a one-eyed Macedonian in a scarred bronze breastplate. He looked up at Memnon, his head tilted to the right, as the Rhodian drew rein beside him. “Parmenion’s going to dance a jig now that you’ve returned!”

  Memnon recognized him. “What goes, Antigonos? You’re farther from Aenus than I would have expected.”

  Antigonos was one of Parmenion’s most trusted officers, a man destined for high command in Philip’s ever-growing army. An errant sword-stroke in the Illyrian campaign earned him the nickname Monophthalmos, One-Eyed. As with his beloved king, Antigonos in no way allowed the infirmity to impede his ambitions. “I’ll leave that explanation to the general. Come. I have orders to escort you to Parmenion’s headquarters.” Antigonos gestured to one of his men, a slender fellow with a thick mane of red hair pulled up to the crown of his head and tied with a leather thong. “Send your lads with Krobylos, here, and he’ll find them some food and flop-space.”

  “Follow him, Pharnabazus,” Memnon said. “But make sure the men tend to their horses’ bellies before they tend to their own.”

  The young Persian nodded and signaled for the squadron to move out. Krobylos fell in beside Pharnabazus, holding on to his saddlecloth as they trotted off into the darkness. Antigonos’s own horse waited nearby, a roan mare; he vaulted onto its back and gathered up the reins. Clucking, he spurred the mare to a canter, trusting Memnon to follow.

  The Macedonian camp sprawled over a low ridge overlooking the river, a temporary polis of ill-tanned hides and rough-hewn timbers. To the uninitiated, its precincts appeared identical save for colorful regimental banners fluttering on the sparse breeze. Where a typical city divided itself according to wealth and station, the camp-city drew its societal lines based on combat arms: cavalrymen held themselves aloof from the infantry while missile troops and mercenaries skulked along the edges. In all quarters, around crackling fires, men sang obscene verses to the accompaniment of aulos flutes and whetstones. Smells of bread, seared meat, and spilled wine assailed Memnon’s nostrils, reminding him of his own growing hunger.

  Parmenion’s command pavilion stood fly-rigged atop the camp’s transitory acropolis—the crest of a low hill crowded with gnarled oaks. Lamplight streamed from the open walls of the pavilion, glittering off the armor of the guards at their posts and striping the surrounding tree trunks with wavering bands of orange and black. Memnon and Antigonos reined in their horses, dismounted, and left the animals in the care of Parmenion’s grooms.

  As the pair approached, they could hear the general’s voice over the din of camp as he laid into one of his officers, berating him for some infraction of Philip’s stern rules; even hundreds of miles distant, the King’s will held sway. “Let it happen again,” Parmenion bellowed, “and I’ll scourge the flesh from your back and pack you off to your father! Understood?” The young soldier saluted. A curt nod from the general sent the man scurrying.

  Antigonos entered first, made his salute, and jerked his head to one side, indicating Memnon. “The Rhodian, General.”

  Parmenion dismissed him with a wave, returning his attention to a rough map of Thrace spread over the whole of his campaign table, its corners weighted with a pair of flat stones, a bust of Herakles, and a sheathed knife. Coins marked their position on the map—silver staters representi
ng the Macedonian advance and copper chalkoi the Thracians. “It’s the gateway to Asia,” Parmenion said suddenly, striking the map with a balled fist, scattering coins, “and it’s guarded by a pack of feral dogs!”

  Memnon said nothing for a moment as he paused at a sideboard holding the remains of Parmenion’s supper. He poured for himself a beaker of wine, tossed it back, and poured another. “We’ve made some small inroads,” the Rhodian replied, moving to stand beside Parmenion. He retrieved one of the displaced staters and used it to mark the position of the Odrysian village his men had decimated.

  “Small inroads won’t give Philip Thrace!”

  “But gold will,” Memnon said with the air of a man who has repeated himself too often. “If you want this gateway opened it’s going to cost you, Parmenion. It’s going to cost the King.”

  Parmenion grunted and spat. “You Greeks are all alike! You trust gold to solve your problems when you should be trusting iron! Iron is the muscle of war!”

  “And gold is its sinew!” Memnon said. “What’s more, parsimony breeds failure. We had this discussion at Maroneia and at Abdera before that! I told you this same thing at Doriscus not a fortnight gone and still you balk! Either convince Philip to bring the full might of Macedonia to bear on these Thracians or give me the funds to do it for you! There is no other way!”

  Parmenion ground his teeth. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said, his voice low and tinged with frustration.

  Memnon glanced sidelong at the Macedonian. “You’ve never agreed with me about this before. What’s changed your mind?”