by Oden, Scott
“Can a man not succumb to reason and good advice?”
“Any other man, perhaps,” Memnon said. “What goes? Is it the Athenians?”
Parmenion grimaced and nodded. “Diopeithes, their stooge in the Chersonese, is agitating for more funds and more soldiers.” The Chersonese was a tongue of land between Thrace and the Hellespont, a stronghold of Athenian sympathies. “The King wants these Thracians under heel before Athens can vote to send one of its generals to Diopeithes’ aid.”
“That’s why you left Aenus.” Memnon rubbed his chin while gesturing at the map. “Look here. The Hebrus Valley leads right into the heart of Kersobleptes’ lands. We’ve cleared the way up to here.” He touched the coin marking the village. “If we make haste we can cross the river while it’s low from the drought, swing wide through the hills, and cross back to drive down into Odrysian territory from the north. With any luck we can catch the bastard at unawares in his fortress at Cypsela.”
As Memnon spoke, though, Parmenion tugged at his beard and shook his head. “We’ll never catch him unaware. We have too many men, too many horses, to make such a reckless gamble. I’d wager my eye-teeth the Thracian has already been warned of our approach.”
“Then we move faster …”
Parmenion made a derisive sound. “I don’t plan to dawdle, but neither will I rush out like a damn fool! Haste breeds failure as easily as does thrift. We’ll proceed up the valley at our accustomed pace—which is fast enough to prove ourselves a threat to Kersobleptes. I’ve dealt with him before. He’ll try using ambushes and flank attacks to break up our phalanx battalions. When he thinks he’s weakened us sufficiently, he’ll strike with his cavalry. What he won’t do is wait for us behind Cypsela’s walls. The canny bastard’s seen the effects of our siege train often enough to dissuade him of that.”
Exhaustion weighed on Memnon’s shoulders as he studied the map. “Let me rest my men a few days and I’ll lead them out in advance of the main body, up the eastern bank of the river. The phalanx might make better time if Kersobleptes is kept too busy with us to spare our battalions a second glance.”
Parmenion shook his head again. “No. I want you and your men to take up positions guarding the right flank of the column. The Thessalians under Attalus will take the left flank and Polemocrates and his Paeonian scouts will serve as outriders.”
“Zeus Savior!” Memnon snarled. “Putting Polemocrates in the van is worse than being led by a blind man! At least give my men the lead! We—”
“Enough! I’ve made my plan! You and your men are on the right flank!”
“A flanker?” Memnon’s nostrils flared. “I signed on to win a war, Parmenion! Not to escort a pack of inbred ground-pounders! Strike off these fetters and let me win this war for you!”
“Let you win it?” Parmenion’s face flushed as he turned on Memnon. “Listen to me, you arrogant pup! You signed on to fight, and—by all the gods!—you will fight when and where I say! If I say I want you on my right flank, guarding my kinsmen, then you’d best take that Persian tit out of your mouth and thank the hoary gods of Hellas I trust you enough to give you that honor!” The Macedonian general jerked his head toward the entrance. “We’re done here! Dismissed!”
Memnon bit back a scathing torrent of words; his eyes lost none of their fire as he made his salute. “I serve at your pleasure, my lord,” he said, turning and stalking from the pavilion.
Outside, a young groom waited with his horse. Memnon snatched the reins from his hand and vaulted onto the animal’s back. “The mercenaries!” he snapped. “What pox-ridden corner of the camp were they allotted?” His horse shied at the fury in his voice.
“N-Northeast corner,” the groom said. The Rhodian was about to touch his heels to his horse’s flanks when one of Parmenion’s secretaries stumbled up, driven from his bed by the sound of their arguing.
“Captain! Wait!” He held up his hand; the other struggled with the neck of his tunic.
“What is it?”
“Another messenger from Pella arrived for you while you were in the field. Should I—”
“I’ll deal with him tomorrow,” Memnon said. The secretary barely had time to scramble out of the way before horse and rider took off at a canter, making for the area of camp where the mercenaries pitched their tents. One thought consumed him as he rode into the fire-studded night: Those sons of whores better have wine left!
MEMNON WOKE SLOWLY, THE THROBBING IN HIS HEAD SEEMING TO WORSEN with every breath. His skull felt as though a blacksmith had used it as an anvil. Though his eyes remained closed, the light of day pierced his lids like knives and burned into his wine-fogged brain. The distorted sounds of the Macedonian camp assailed his ears with the raucous thunder of a god; Memnon groaned as he rolled onto his back and pressed his palms to the sides of his head, a futile gesture meant to block out the cacophony—and to keep his skull from splitting open.
“Merciful Zeus,” he croaked.
“And so the innocent grape has its revenge,” a man’s voice said.
“Leave me, Pharnabazus,” Memnon said. “Let me die in peace.”
The man chuckled. “I am not Pharnabazus, though bless you for thinking me still young and handsome, and you are not going to die. Osiris has a soft spot for fools such as you.”
Memnon pried open one eye and winced. “Khafre?” Like an apparition, the Egyptian stood above him, his head freshly shaved and oiled and his thin lips curling in disapproval. Memnon blinked and looked the man up and down. He wore sandals of embossed leather and a sheer, multicolored robe open over a kilt of starched white linen. The golden pectoral on his breast depicted a pair of cats facing one another, a scarab of lapis lazuli between them. Khafre held a clay mug in one hand and a damp cloth in the other. “How …?”
“I am no figment of your drink-addled imagination, so you may as well banish that thought this instant,” he said. “Drink this.” He knelt and held the mug to Memnon’s lips. The Rhodian’s stomach heaved as he caught the scent of herb-laced pomegranate juice; he started to protest, but Khafre gave him little choice. He poured the concoction down Memnon’s throat. Spluttering and swallowing, Memnon finally gasped.
“What’s in that? Damn you! Are you up to your old tricks, again?”
“No. This time it’s something to sober you up. You and I have important things to discuss; things that require a clear head,” Khafre said. His nose wrinkled. “You camp beside a river and still you cannot find time to bathe? Here.” He handed Memnon the cloth, then stood. “Wipe your face, at least.”
Memnon did as the Egyptian ordered. The pain in his head subsided, becoming a dull ache behind his eyes. “What are you doing here, Khafre?”
“I am the messenger from Pella whom you swore to deal with, today,” the Egyptian said, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He poked around in one corner of the tent, seeking a fresh chiton for Memnon. He found only reeking castoffs and ample evidence of the Rhodian’s nocturnal drinking binge in the form of broken wine jars. “Poor Celeus, the secretary you nearly trampled last night, said he despaired of pressing you further about it after the storm of words you shared with Parmenion. A tactical dispute, no doubt.”
“Something like that.” Memnon grimaced as he struggled to sit upright. “Why were you in Pella, and what message do you bring? It’s Mentor, isn’t it?” The question came out as a solemn whisper, as if to speak it loudly would make true the gravest answer. “Tell me, Khafre.”
The Egyptian left off his search and came back to stand near the tent entrance, where he might enjoy a breath of fresh air. “It is because of Mentor that I am here; though do not mistake me for the bearer of bad tidings. Your brother sends his greetings, Memnon, and it is his most fervent wish for his family to join him at Sardis as quickly as gods and men allow. Though,” he added, “if he were to see you in such a sorry state he might change his mind.”
“At Sardis?” Memnon frowned. “That would mean …”
Khafre
nodded. “That Egypt belongs once again to the Great King, and that His Majesty, in his boundless wisdom, has awarded the chief architect of his victory with his heart’s desire, and more. The House of Pharnaces is restored and Lord Artabazus with it, absolved of all wrongdoing. The King hopes he will pass many days with him on the long road to Susa, regaling him with tales of Greek courage and heroism. His Majesty also seeks Artabazus’s counsel on—” Khafre stopped in mid-sentence and used a flick of his chin to indicate the Macedonian camp around them. Ochus wanted news of Philip, of his intentions and ambitions.
The fires of curiosity burned away the wine haze in Memnon’s mind. Clear and bright now, his eyes bored into Khafre’s as he hunched forward. “How did it happen, and when? Tell me everything!”
Khafre did, omitting not the least detail—from the attempted perfidy of Tennes and Mentor’s intrigues to the punishment of the Sidonians for their part in the revolt. “Adult males and the elderly were put to death while the women and children were enslaved. Mentor tried to beg for leniency on Sidon’s behalf, but the King’s anger could not be denied. Ochus destroyed the town as an example to the other cities of Phoenicia: support Egypt and share in Sidon’s fate. An effective tool, fear.”
Memnon said nothing; he only nodded, remembering the bright courtyards filled with date palms and the attar of roses, the liquid laughter of sloe-eyed women. He shook his head. Unperturbed, Khafre launched next into a description of the forces arrayed against Pharaoh. Painting with words like an Egyptian Herodotus, he depicted the Great King’s satrapal levies in all their grandeur—from the prancing cavalry of Lydia and Ionia, to the white-robed archers of Syria and the savage spearmen of Cilicia, to the ten thousand Greek hoplites drawn from Thebes, Argos, and the Asian shore. “The King divided his army into three regiments,” he said, “pairing a Persian commander with a Greek general. Lacrates and his Thebans served alongside Spithridates, satrap of Ionia and Lydia. Nicostratus of Argos gave his orders with noble Aristazanes, who stands on the right hand of the King. Mentor and his Persian counterpart Bagoas, a eunuch and devilish rogue who had risen to high office, were given the hoplites of Greek Ionia and the Aegean. Ochus himself commanded from the rear.”
The actual campaign took Khafre less time to describe; it reminded Memnon that, despite his gruff and simple exterior, Mentor was a genius. Not only did he engineer the bloodless surrender of Khafre’s home city of Bubastis, and a dozen other towns besides, but he also spearheaded the siege of Pelusium and the capture of a portion of Pharaoh’s river fleet. All the while, Mentor allied himself with the eunuch Bagoas and joined in a campaign of intrigue against their fellow commanders, Greek and Persian, alike. With ruthless cunning, the duo enhanced their rivals’ failures while bolstering their own triumphs, all in an effort to elevate their standing in the eyes of the Great King.
“Zeus Savior,” Memnon said, shaking his head in grudging respect. “My brother’s become the worst predator imaginable: a Greek general with the mind of a Persian nobleman.”
“A dichotomy that has served him well. The King’s pardon of you and Artabazus was only the smallest portion of Mentor’s reward.”
Memnon stood, reeling a little, and tugged on the first chiton he could find. “He received a grant of land, then?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Khafre said. The Egyptian paused, frowning. “It is a difficult thing to describe, but I shall try. His Majesty has divided his kingdom into two halves. As Ochus is revered as the King of Kings, so each of his newly elevated deputies will act as a Satrap of Satraps; the men already in positions of power will be answerable to them, as they are answerable to the King. It is to be Bagoas’s lot to administer the East while Mentor governs in the West, from Sardis. If memory serves, your brother now holds the highest position of any foreigner in Persia’s long history.”
Memnon, his face unreadable, said at length: “And, when you relayed this news to Artabazus, how did he react?”
“Understandably,” Khafre said, “he wept. Philip has already given his blessing and wished Artabazus well in his new life. All that is left is to bring you and Pharnabazus home.”
The Rhodian shook his head slowly. “And so the wheel turns, again,” he muttered. Though the implications of having a brother who was now one of the most powerful men in the West was staggering, Memnon shortened his focus to the problems at hand—he had to find Pharnabazus and secure their passage back to Pella. Only then would he—
“I have another message,” Khafre said, shattering his ruminations. From the waistband of his kilt, the Egyptian drew out a wallet of soft leather. He extended it to Memnon. “This one is from Lady Barsine.”
Memnon’s composure slipped. Lines softened and the shrewd calculations going on behind his eyes abruptly ceased. He glanced at the wallet with a curious mixture of anticipation and fear. “Is she well?”
“She is, though she, too, wept when I told her the news. Later, she came to me and bid me deliver this to you. Will you not take it?”
Memnon accepted the wallet; he stared down at it for a long moment. Finally, with trembling fingers, he untied the thong holding the wallet flap in place, opening it to reveal a folded letter.
“Has this aught to do with her impending marriage?” Khafre asked.
The Rhodian blinked and looked up. “Could I beg a favor of you, Khafre?” he said. “Would you find Pharnabazus? Try the horse paddock, first. Ask outside, if there is a young Greek named Callinus about he will guide you where you need to go.”
Khafre pursed his lips and nodded. “As you wish,” he said, and ducked from the tent without further comment.
Memnon exhaled. He edged into a shaft of sunlight, drew out the letter and unfolded it with exaggerated care. The words on the fine vellum were unmistakably Barsine’s, her calligraphy as graceful as the hand that wielded the pen:
Two years have passed since my eyes last beheld yours, since my ears last enjoyed the soothing timbre of your voice, and not a day goes by that I do not think of you and miss you. Word of your acts has reached us here at Pella and we rejoice in your good fortune. With every dispatch to my father, I held out hope that I might receive a letter from you, a note—some token of forgiveness for my part in the deed which drove you away. Is the rift between us too deep for absolution? I pray that is not the case. If I had known, then, that the cost of a touch would be your friendship and the pleasure of your company, I would have stayed my hand and fled into the night.
Soon, I am off to my marriage bed, to perform the duty of every obedient daughter by exchanging the freedom of youth for the shackles of the harem. I accept this as my fate though I do not go to it willingly. I cannot control my heart, Memnon! I love your brother as my uncle, not as a woman loves a man, not as Penelope loved her Odysseus. I know not how I offended the gods, but whatever my crime they have doubly cursed me, for I can neither love the man I am to marry nor marry the man I hope to love.
Time grows short. Return swiftly to us, dear Memnon. Return to me, so that we may walk one last time under the birches and listen to the song of the cicadas, or lose ourselves in debate over the merits of Homer’s children. Even the memory of an hour spent thus in your company will be as a balm to my soul in the years to come.
Take good care, and may the gods bless and keep you.
“She blames herself,” Memnon whispered, “when the fault is mine. I am a thrice-cursed fool!” He returned the letter to the wallet and glanced around the cluttered tent with clarity of purpose. Thrace, the army, this campaign, none of it concerned him any longer, and the sooner he was on the road to Pella the better. We will need to travel light, he thought, sorting at once through a dozen different scenarios and the obstacles they presented. Swift action called for swifter preparation …
An hour later, when Khafre returned with Pharnabazus, the Egyptian noticed a marked change the moment he entered the tent. Bathed, his hair and beard freshly trimmed, Memnon wore his linen corselet over a tunic of faded blue. Bronze g
reaves clung to his shins, their knee-guards carved and molded to resemble Medusa’s ferocious visage. He sat on a cypress-wood chest, balancing a waxed writing board on his thighs; he paused in his writing and glanced up at his nephew. “Good, you’re here.”
“What goes, Uncle?” Pharnabazus said, scowling. Runnels of sweat cut through the dust of the drill field. “Khafre said you had news of the gravest sort.”
“I thought it best he hear it from you,” the Egyptian said.
Memnon nodded. “We’re going home, Pharnabazus. Gather only those things you cannot bear to part with. When you’re finished, take Khafre and find a pair of horses. I want the two of you to be on the road to Aenus within the hour.”
“Do not be absurd, Memnon!” Pharnabazus said. “Going home? We cannot go home! This campaign is not remotely over! If this is because of your words with Parmenion, then swallow your pride, Uncle, and do as he tells you!”
“We’re going home,” Memnon said, “because Mentor summons us. His plan was successful. Your father is an exile no longer.”
Pharnabazus blinked. He glanced at Khafre and the Egyptian smiled, giving his shoulder a reassuring pat. “Uncle, I …”
Memnon held up a hand, forestalling him. “You’ve said nothing that requires an apology, Pharnabazus, but your haste and cooperation are another matter. I need both and I need them now! Pack swiftly; get a pair of horses and some rations, enough for a couple of days. Once you and Khafre reach Aenus, find a ship and secure us passage back to Pella. Understood?”
The young Persian thumped his armor-clad chest. “I have all I need here, but what of you, Uncle? Are you not traveling with us?”
“I will be hot on your heels,” Memnon said. He snapped the hinged cover of the writing board shut and stood. “First, though, I must settle our affairs with Parmenion.”
