by Oden, Scott
THE MACEDONIAN CAMP WAS A HIVE OF ACTIVITY AS THE MEN MADE READY to march the next morning. The last of the supply wagons had come from Aenus, and the quartermasters organized work gangs to help get the last of the rations—the barley and olives, smoked meat and cheese, dried figs, onions and garlic—squared away. No camp followers or slaves traveled with the army; each soldier was responsible for shouldering his own gear and a share of his squad’s communal property. Besides weapons and armor and personal items, a man might find himself humping spare sarissa shafts or tents and cooking gear, or anything else a file of ten men might require. The few wagons Philip allowed the army were allotted to the quartermasters and the secretariat, the surgeons and the smithy.
Created by Philip and implemented by Parmenion, the Macedonian army ran with a spare and deadly economy unmatched anywhere in the world. It could cover great distances at speed and its diverse arms were trained to fight in unison, under any conditions and in any season. As he walked his horse through its predatory heart in search of Parmenion, Memnon committed its every detail to memory.
Though not in his command pavilion, the Rhodian had little trouble finding the general. He needed only to follow the stream of aides and messengers. Parmenion stood at the edge of the Hebrus River, surrounded by a knot of officers, watching a division of Paeonian cavalry training on the far bank. Plumes of dust rose as the squadrons feigned a withdrawal only to wheel suddenly and fall into the wedge-shaped formation that ended in a thunderous charge.
“Still ragged, Polemocrates,” Memnon heard Parmenion say as he dismounted, handing his reins to an aide. “Signal them to do it again.” As Polemocrates moved, the general caught sight of Memnon. “By the Thunderer! There’s a face I didn’t expect to see today! Rhodian! Is it true you wrestled Dionysus during the night?” The other officers chuckled.
Memnon smiled. “Wrestled? No. More like we engaged in pankration, but I was on the losing side and remember little of the beating the God of the Vine gave me.” Parmenion grinned at this. Memnon’s face, though, took on a serious cast. “I would speak with you, General. Alone.”
Parmenion gestured, indicating they should walk. His jocularity faded as they left the circle of his officers. He spoke first, his voice a low growl. “My mind is still set, Memnon. I give you latitude because you’re a good officer, but I’ll not tolerate further impertinence.”
“Last night is forgotten,” Memnon replied. “You recall a messenger who arrived from Pella, an Egyptian? He brought word from my brother to Artabazus and from Artabazus to me: our exile has been lifted. We are again free, and Pharnabazus and I have been recalled, with Philip’s blessing, to resume our family obligations.”
“Recalled?” Parmenion scowled. “The army marches with the dawn.”
“It must march two men short, then, for my nephew and I will be on the road to Aenus, and thence to Pella, ‘ere this day ends. Give Berisades command of my squadron. He’s a good man, even for a Thracian, and the soldiers respect him.” Memnon glanced at Parmenion, watching his reaction.
Blood suffused the general’s face and turned it the color of a ripe pomegranate. He clenched his hands into fists; his knuckles whitened and cracked. A moment passed before he found his voice again. “Berisades, eh? I’ll cut my own heart out before I put a Thracian at the head of one of my squadrons! No, your men will get what they should have had all along: a good Macedonian commander—their respect be damned!” Parmenion spoke loud enough that the other officers turned and stared.
Memnon bristled. “I understand your anger toward me—I would feel it no less, were our places reversed—but don’t take it out on my men!”
“You have no men,” Parmenion said. He motioned for the aide holding Memnon’s horse. “And what you perceive as anger is, in truth, bitter disappointment. I thought you a man of honor, Memnon, a man who would see a thing through to its end. I recognize my error now. I give you my leave! Go! Hurry back to your Persian masters!”
Memnon shook his head as he took the reins of his horse from the aide. In a smooth motion, he vaulted astride the horse, calmed it as it whinnied and pranced. “Your leave? You give me something I neither asked for nor need, unless you believe yourself greater than my host, your King!”
Parmenion shot him a venomous look. “Get out of my camp, Rhodian, before my patience wears thin!”
“Remember my advice to you, General,” he said. “Make haste! You know Kersobleptes’ habits? I would daresay he knows yours, as well. Act contrary to what he expects—”
“Go!” Parmenion roared, spittle flying. His hand dropped to his sword hilt as he took a step forward. “Get out of my camp, you son of a bitch, or—as Zeus is my witness!—I’ll carve your balls off and feed them to my dogs!”
Memnon’s mouth set into a hard line. “So be it, you old fool, but it didn’t have to end this way! Remember that!” With a contemptuous snarl, the Rhodian spun his mount and spurred it to a gallop, scattering curious officers in his wake.
14
THE SHIP THAT FERRIED THEM FROM AENUS TO PELLA WAS CALLED Eurydike; its captain, a man of Keos, was stern, humorless, and likely one of the finest sailors Memnon had ever seen. He’d learned deep-water sailing from a Phoenician master, a skill that allowed them to skirt north of Samothrace and drive straight across the Aegean to the triple promontories of the Chalcidice. Stormy Athos they gave a wide berth, took a day’s rest on the tip of Sithonia, and rounded Pallene a week after leaving Aenus. Eurydike plunged into the Thermaic Gulf, its prow cutting the foam-flecked waters, as the Kean captain, Laertes, guided them with uncanny instinct to the mouth of Lake Loudias.
“Less than two weeks,” Memnon said, espying the fortress atop Phakos Island in the distance. “You’ve more than earned your fee, Captain.”
Laertes shrugged. “It was Lord Poseidon’s will.”
“Where are you bound from Pella?”
The captain shrugged, again. It was his most animated gesture save for when he stood at the tiller of his ship, the wind in his gray-flecked hair and salt spray in his blue eyes. In those instances, Laertes resembled the master of the legendary Argo—destined for Colchis, the Golden Fleece, and immortality. “Athens, perhaps,” the captain replied. “Then home to Keos.”
“I will treble your fee,” Memnon said, “if you wait in Pella until my family is ready to depart and see us safely to Ephesus.” Ephesus was the closest port to Sardis, and still the Lydian capital lay three days’ journey inland. Laertes stroked his beard, his eyes narrowed in thought.
“I am not fond of waiting …”
“Quadruple your fee.”
At that, the Kean’s face lit up. He grinned, his teeth small and white, and extended a calloused hand to Memnon. “Done!”
“Done!” the Rhodian repeated, grasping the proffered hand. With a curt nod, the captain went back to his place at the tiller while Memnon rejoined Pharnabazus and Khafre in the bow. “I’ve hired him for the outbound journey.”
“I expect Father will be grateful,” the young Persian said. “I wonder, will Dascylium be returned to us now that all is forgiven?”
Memnon didn’t answer; Khafre exhaled, his brows knitted in a frown. “It is doubtful,” the Egyptian said. “Your father’s old satrapy belongs to one of the Great King’s courtiers, a man called Arsites. I cannot see Ochus displacing him for Artabazus’ sake.”
“Dascylium without a Pharnacid satrap.” Pharnabazus shook his head. “It is almost too much to bear. Perhaps Mentor can—”
“Patience, nephew,” Memnon snapped. “Let him settle into his new position before you start causing him trouble.”
Pharnabazus glanced at Memnon, heat flaring in his eyes. He opened his mouth and would have responded in kind save for the lightest of touches on his arm. He turned to Khafre; the Egyptian gave a barely perceptible shake of his head, a gesture that said, “Let it go.” Pharnabazus’s nostrils flared but he heeded Khafre’s advice. All three men kept silent for the last few miles of their voya
ge.
The sun had reached its zenith by the time Eurydike made landfall, descending into late afternoon as the trio passed the gates of Artabazus’s estate. At first glance, Memnon saw little sign that this was a household in flux. Indeed, nothing appeared out of place. A breeze whispered through the birch boughs, and the air itself was heady with the scent of fresh-cut grass and the music of caged birds.
Memnon lengthened his stride. As he neared the house, he could see the main door, of bronze-studded wood with an iron grate, standing ajar; a short passageway led to the courtyard at the heart of the villa. Voices came from within, soft and feminine, followed by the sound of sobbing. “What goes?” he heard Pharnabazus mutter.
“Deidamia?” Memnon called, pushing the door fully open. “Barsine?” He traversed the short passageway and emerged into the sun-drenched courtyard. Chests and bales, the accreted belongings of ten years in exile, stood close at hand beneath the columned peristyle, awaiting the porters that they must soon summon to carry them down to the harbor. Across the way, Deidamia and Barsine sat side by side on a stone bench, their hands laced together. At first, Memnon thought his sister might be consoling the younger woman on her impending marriage, but it was Deidamia sitting with head bowed as in prayer and Barsine who sought to comfort her, stroking her hair with her free hand. She glanced at Memnon, her eyes widening; then, she bent close and whispered something in Deidamia’s ear.
His sister sat upright and he could barely recognize the face that stared back at him. Red, swollen eyes blinked; her lips trembled as she cuffed at the tears moistening her cheeks. He’d never seen Deidamia so overwrought. Had something happened to Artabazus? His heart pounding, Memnon crossed to her side and knelt. “What’s wrong,” he said. But, the strength it had taken for her to raise her head drained away; with a shoulder-wracking sob, she collapsed into his arms. “What is it? Deidamia?”
Barsine answered for her. “It’s Cophen. He’s run away.”
“Zeus Savior.” Memnon exhaled, a sigh of relief, and embraced his sister. “Is that all? Tell me of his haunts and I’ll go fetch him back, myself.”
“He’s gone to Mieza, most likely,” Barsine said. Pharnabazus put a hand on her shoulder. She smiled up at him, gave his hand a squeeze.
“Mieza?” Memnon knew of the place, a sanctuary to the Nymphs in the foothills west of Pella. “Why Mieza?”
“To bid farewell to Alexander. The King brought in a philosopher, a former student of Plato’s, to tutor the Prince and his retinue. Philip installed them at Mieza, along with a garrison under orders to protect the place from interlopers. Without permission from the King or Queen—”
“They’ll kill him,” Deidamia said, finding her voice once again. Her arms tightened around Memnon’s neck as she hissed in his ear: “Please, brother! Find him! Don’t let these Macedonians slaughter my first-born!”
Memnon glanced at Barsine. “Where’s Artabazus?”
“Father has gone to the palace, to wrangle a pass from Antipatros. Gryllus is at the stables readying his horse, and Ianthe is upstairs with the children.”
Memnon rose, gently prompting Deidamia to her feet, as well. He gestured to Khafre. “Could you see her to bed? Make sure she gets something to help her rest,” he said. The Egyptian nodded. Memnon disentangled her arms from around his neck. “Here. Go with Khafre.”
“Come, dear Lady. Let’s get you out of this heat.” Khafre took her hand and together they shuffled into the cool recesses of the house. Memnon watched her go, concern lining his features.
“She’s taking this too hard,” he said.
Pharnabazus agreed. “You would think Cophen dead already by her reaction. He is simply off on an adventure, a lark all boys his age crave. When he returns, though, he is going to wish the Macedonians had found him first.”
“These past two years have been difficult for her,” Barsine said. “She lost two infants, a boy and a girl, to fever and clings to the rest, sacrificing daily to Apollo, the Healer, and Mother Hera to keep them safe. She feels abandoned by the gods.”
“Then it’s our lot to prove otherwise,” Memnon said. “Pharnabazus, I need you to supervise the loading of the ship while I’m gone. Get workers from the docks, Laertes’ men, whomever you can find.”
“I will see it done, Uncle.”
Memnon returned his attention to Barsine. She wore a girdled chiton of soft blue linen and had her long hair pulled back and fastened with silver pins. Several dark strands escaped, falling over her smoky eyes. “It would be a great boon if Cophen left here on foot.”
She shook her head. “A horse is missing. I do not believe he intended to be gone long, though, as all I could discover gone from the kitchen were a couple of apples and a loaf of bread. Do you think you can find him before nightfall?”
“Not with the lead he has. I suspect he’ll stop for the night. That’s when I’ll make up for lost time. I should have him by dawn and be back here by midday.”
Barsine glanced over her shoulder. Her brother had moved off, out of earshot, as he double-checked the bindings on their belongings. A loose lid or rope invited pilfering. She lowered her voice. “Could I beg a favor of you?”
“Of course,” Memnon said.
“Could you take him on to Mieza? He wants desperately to tell Alexander goodbye. The Prince has had quite an influence on Cophen. He feels … obligated as a guest-friend of Alexander’s to act no less honorably than Father has with Philip. It would mean the world to him, Memnon.”
Memnon scratched the point of his bearded chin. “On to Mieza? That will delay our departure …” his voice trailed off. He gave a faint smile. “I will take him, but only as a favor to you.”
“Thank you,” Barsine said, sharing his smile.
The Rhodian made to turn away, stopped. “I hope,” he began, in a small and quiet voice, “you can one day forgive me.”
“For what?”
Memnon frowned, dropping his eyes to stare at the pebble mosaics underfoot. “For leaving. I didn’t realize, until Khafre brought your letter to me, how my departure had hurt you. I should have written you, to explain my decision, to let you know there was no blame to assign … so many times I wanted to, but I couldn’t find the courage.”
Tears welled at the corners of Barsine’s eyes. She reached out and grasped his hand. “You have done nothing that requires my forgiveness, Memnon. We are bound to our own separate fates, you and I, and I have found that no amount of cursing or shaking our fists at the heavens can change it. I am resigned to what I must do. But, promise me this—promise me, in the years to come, that you will make the time to visit me, so that we might sit and talk or read together of the deeds of Odysseus and of his lovely Penelope.”
Memnon’s throat tightened. He nodded. “I promise.”
Barsine smiled through her tears, the gesture as radiant as sunlight glimpsed through the clouds. “Good,” she said. “Come, you are going to need provisions for the trip to Mieza, enough for you and my wayward brother.” She turned and led him through the house, to the kitchens.
Forgotten in the courtyard, Pharnabazus smiled to himself and wiped away a bit of sweat that must have dripped into his eyes.
THE ROAD TO MIEZA SLASHED LIKE A RAW WOUND ACROSS THE DUSTY GREEN fields of the Emathian Plain. Memnon, astride the Nisaean mare Euphrosyne, followed the road due west, toward where the setting sun struck fire from the peaks of Mount Bermion; he plunged through groves of oak and scrub pine, splashed across streams and skirted tangled thickets of wild rose.
Riding at a steady canter, Memnon divided his attention between the road ahead and the trail below, scarcely more than a rutted ox track, straining his eyes in the deepening twilight to catch the slightest sign of Cophen’s passage. A Nisaean had traveled along the road earlier in the day. Memnon had seen an imprint of a hoof, its shape unique among northern horses, in the moist loam of a stream bank not a mile back. He reckoned on the boy stopping for the night, but what if he didn’t? If he rode st
raight through he would reach Mieza long before sunrise. Could he talk his way past the soldiers guarding Alexander? Surely those men had seen the young Persian in the company of their Prince time and again, enough to know he did not pose a threat …?
No, it was a gamble Memnon just could not take.
He put a hand to his chest, reassuring himself that the thick leather wallet he carried had not slipped from beneath his linen cuirass. Its contents—a thrice-folded sheet of heavy parchment inscribed by Philip’s Regent, Antipatros, and bearing a wax impression of the Royal Seal of Macedonia—insured their safe conduct to and from the village of Mieza. Reluctantly, Artabazus had given it to him.
“The boy is my concern, Memnon,” the old satrap had said, his brow creased with worry. “You should stay and look after your sister.”
“She’s under Khafre’s care. I’d only be underfoot. Besides, Artabazus, I’ve been cooped up on a ship for these last two weeks. I need to get out, stretch my muscles.” He did not need to add what both men knew in their hearts: if it came to blows, Cophen would be safer with him rather than with his father, who had only wielded hunting spears in the past ten years. In the end, Artabazus relented; tears glistened in his eyes as he embraced the Rhodian.
“Bring him back safe, Memnon. For Deidamia’s sake.”
Euphrosyne whinnied as Memnon reined her in. He leaned out and studied the roadbed. Here, visible even in the gloom, a swath of crushed grass and churned earth marked the spot where a larger body of horsemen entered the road from the north, their passage obliterating Cophen’s elusive trail. Memnon couldn’t deduce their exact numbers, though he guessed no more than six, nor could he divine their purpose. Hunting party or cavalry patrol, their animals left the same spoor behind. His only certainty was their destination. They, too, were riding hard for Mieza.
“Zeus Savior,” he muttered. “Let them be hunters.”
Memnon pressed on. A three-quarter moon rose above the trees, tinting the night-time world with silver light, and a faint mist rose from the surrounding fields to drift over the road. Crickets sang in the grass.
