Memnon

by Oden, Scott

  Ptolemy shook his head. He didn’t bother turning to face Kassandros, but directed his words into the air, as if addressing a disembodied nuisance. “No, you dolt, it’s a joke. But, I wouldn’t expect you to get it since you have the sense of humor of a Spartan.”

  “Come,” Philotas said, walking toward where Aristotle and his guest stood in deep conversation. “The air is cleaner on this end of the house.”

  Memnon followed them to the end of the portico. “Tell me, if you know, who is that fellow talking with your philosopher? If he’s not a eunuch, I’m a Nubian. I swear he is familiar to me though I cannot place his name.”

  Philotas smiled. “Oh, he’s a eunuch, all right. Demokedes of Assos, I think is his name, a guest-friend of Aristotle’s and of his former patron, Hermeias.”

  “Hermeias?” Memnon frowned. “Hermeias was his former patron? But, I thought Aristotle came here from Athens?”

  Philotas and Ptolemy exchanged glances. The son of Parmenion lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “He left Athens after Plato’s death and settled in Assos, even marrying Hermeias’s adopted daughter, Pythias, though Alexander says he spent much of his time near Mytilene, on Lesbos. I’ve heard it told that the philosopher was angry over not being made head of the Academy.”

  “He’s sworn to finish what Plato started in Syracuse,” Ptolemy added. Memnon nodded. “Well, Athens’s loss is Macedonia’s gain, it would seem. Demokedes of Assos … I must remember his name.” And his relationship to Hermeias, Memnon thought. No doubt Mentor’s going to take a keen interest in Assos, especially if its tyrant has become Philip’s new Asian ally. He watched Aristotle and the eunuch for a few moments more and then turned away. “This sanctuary Alexander spoke of, it is truly not far?”

  IT TOOK MEMNON THE BETTER PART OF THE MORNING TO GATHER UP HIS nephew, but still they were on the road before the sun reached its zenith. Their horses were restive and in high spirits; as they cleared the foothills, with the Emathian Plain stretching out before them, Memnon gave them their head. Muscle and sinew surged. Miles flashed by beneath the Nisaeans’ hooves. Hour piled upon hour until finally, after sunset, the pair reached the outskirts of Pella.

  Lights blazed from the doors and windows of the villa. Memnon dismounted and held the reins as Cophen slid to the ground. The youth was exhausted, his face caked with dust and grime; he stared at the house as though it held his doom.

  “Go,” Memnon said. “I’ll see to the horses.” Cophen nodded, swallowed hard, and limped into the villa’s courtyard. Leading the horses off, Memnon smiled as he heard one of the younger girls give a squeal of joy.

  At the stables, the Rhodian kindled lamps and set about taking care of the horses. The ride had taxed even the Nisaeans’ considerable endurance. Euphrosyne’s head dipped as Memnon removed her sweat-drenched saddlecloth, her bridle and headstall. Aglaia’s came next. Thaleia, either curious or concerned, looked on as he washed and curried her sisters; she pawed the ground and snorted, doubtless expecting the same treatment.

  Memnon turned slightly, hearing footsteps behind him.

  “We have grooms for that,” Artabazus said. He stood in the stable door, smiling. Young Ariobarzanes followed in his father’s wake, balancing a tray with a dish of food, a wine jug, a pair of goblets, and a stone bowl of damp cloths. “Not a drop spilled. A fine lad; now set that down and run along.” Artabazus watched the boy off before settling onto a bench by the stable door. “Come, sit. Take some wine with me.”

  Memnon left off currying the horses and sank down beside the old satrap. His body ached; his wet tunic clung to him, and he stank of sweat and horseflesh. The Rhodian selected a damp cloth, using it to wipe the dust from his face before attacking the food with gusto—grilled fish crusted with garlic and thyme, bread and oil, and a thick honey-cake. “I hope,” he said around a mouthful of fish, “Cophen’s punishment is not too extreme. I gave him a harrowing on the road he won’t soon forget.”

  “So he told me,” Artabazus said, stroking his white beard.

  Memnon glanced sidelong at him. “You know I would never actually hurt the boy?”

  “Of course not. No, this whole escapade has left me wondering if I am too lax with my other sons. Pharnabazus I kept on a close leash, overseeing his education, his training at arms. But Cophen, Ariobarzanes, even Hydarnes … perhaps I am too old to do justice to their upbringing.”

  “Too old?” Memnon said. “Never. Perhaps it is simply their Greek blood that makes them headstrong and cantankerous. Truly, were Mentor and I any different?”

  Artabazus chuckled. “No, not really.”

  Memnon polished off the food in silence, then leaned back, stretched his legs, and enjoyed a goblet of wine. He sniffed it, smelling a familiar bouquet.

  “Thasian.”

  “None better.”

  “Everything’s set, then? We leave tomorrow?”

  “Your man, Laertes, has assured me of favorable weather,” Artabazus said. “Pharnabazus has all our possessions loaded, save for the contents of a small wagon. He has also contracted a slower galley to bring the horses over next week or week after. We have made our farewells, offered our sacrifices, and cast our omens. At dawn, we again become Persians.”

  Memnon sipped his wine. “Will you miss it here?”

  Artabazus sighed. “I have asked myself the very same question. I have dwelt here for nigh on ten years but it has never been a home to me, not like Dascylium. With Philip’s blessing we have striven to make our surroundings comfortable, even pleasing to the eye, but these touches of Lydia and Phrygia are a mockery of our homeland’s beauty. The soil of Macedonia, I’ve found, is too thin to support the roots of a Pharnacid family tree. Perhaps my children would have been content to live here, but I cannot be content for them. The world is more than Macedonia, more than Greece, and they should experience it in its full glory.

  “So should you, Memnon.” Artabazus slipped his arm in the Rhodian’s and pulled him close, like a man in possession of secret knowledge. “You have served our causes—mine and Mentor’s—for much of your adult life and never have I heard a cross word from you.”

  “You weren’t listening,” Memnon said, a mischievous gleam in his eye.

  Artabazus smiled. “Surely, this is not the pinnacle of your ambitions?”

  Memnon’s brow furrowed as he stared out through the stable doors, contemplating the fireflies and trying to read their movements as an oracle reads the stars. “When I was younger,” he began, “I wanted glory, nothing more. I wanted my name to be sung by poets for a thousand years. But I grew older and, as is the way of things, my desires changed. I became enamored of honor—earned through deeds and words—and the respect it engendered. I admit the quest for each still moves me in its own way, nor shall I ever be wholly rid of their attraction, but a new desire consumes me.” He paused, hunching forward with his elbows on his knees. Wine swished as he stirred the lees in his goblet. “Now, I want a place like this, in country of my own choosing, and the wife and family that needs must go with it. A stone house with fretted screens, Artabazus, built on a flat plain by the sea where I can breed horses and still answer Poseidon’s call. In the Troad, perhaps, under the shadow of Mount Ida. And with it, a wife who embodies Aphrodite and Athena, who will give me children as bold and bright as infant Hermes.” Memnon sighed; slowly, he poured the last of his wine into the sawdust at his feet and stood. “That is the pinnacle of my ambitions.”

  “An admirable picture you paint,” Artabazus said, rising. He caught Memnon by the forearm. “You know, if Barsine had a full sister …”

  “I know.” Memnon exhaled and stared at the stables around them. “I’ll leave the rest to the grooms. Come, my old friend, the sun will be rising before we know it.”

  “Indeed,” Artabazus murmured, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across his features. “And when it does we become Persian once again.”

  THE SUN DID INDEED RISE EARLIER THAN MEMNON WOULD HAVE LIKED, though h
e chivvied himself out of bed regardless and gathered up the last of his belongings, shoving them into a battered rucksack which Khafre tossed atop the wagon.

  “Farewell, Pella,” the Egyptian muttered, with not inconsiderable glee, as he clambered up onto the drivers seat and took the traces.

  From the villa Pharnabazus herded family members out to the wagon; he allowed no laggards—each child carried their own possessions and stood by like soldiers awaiting a general’s inspection. And indeed they were … their mother. Deidamia, no longer the frail creature Memnon remembered from days past, swept from the house in a swirl of embroidered fabric and issued orders, not in Greek but rather Persian; the children answered her in the same tongue. Cophen escorted Barsine to the wagon; Pharnabazus passed the smaller children up to his brother. Soon, all were loaded.

  Artabazus, leaning his weight on a silver-shod walking stick, left the villa last, making a show of pulling the door shut in his wake. He wore a Median style robe of green brocade, trousers and doeskin boots. Of silver, too, were the accents decorating the sheathed saber at his hip.

  Beside him, in a plain blue chiton, Memnon felt shabby. “Still time to change your mind,” he said.

  The old satrap’s eyes twinkled. “Home is waiting.”

  By the time they reached the harbor and loaded the last of their things into Eurydike’s hold, the sun stood high in the eastern sky. At a nod from Artabazus, Laertes ordered his men to cast off. Oarsmen backed water while sailors with longboat poles punted them away from the quay. Water slapped the hull; the ship shuddered as the breeze plucked at the reefed canvas of the sail. In the waist, the auletes piped a tune, keeping time for the rowers.

  The family clustered in the bow, the younger children yipping in glee as a flock of plovers whirled and dashed over the surface of Lake Loudias. Artabazus stood with his arm around Deidamia’s waist. Though he couldn’t be certain of it, Memnon swore there was a glow about his sister that heralded new life. Is she with child again? Surely Barsine would know …

  Barsine, though, stood in the stern, alone, watching Pella slip away. Memnon drifted to her side. He could feel her sadness as easily as he felt the wind on his face.

  “It looks so small and mean from here,” she said, tugging her shawl close around her shoulders. “How can it contain so many memories?”

  “I know what troubles you,” Memnon said. “Mentor is a good man, Barsine, and far more intelligent than he likes to admit. He, too, will enjoy your company, as I do. Imagine the three of us sitting under a massive shade tree in the gardens at Sardis, debating the merits of Herodotus. Imagine the children you will have. I promise you, it’s not a death sentence you go to!”

  Barsine sighed. “I had a dream last night,” she said. “I stood on a promontory overlooking a harbor, its waters flat and lifeless. A ship was hauled up on the strand below. Mentor stood in the bow as his men scoured the beach. I heard them calling my name, faint, like a greater distance divided us, but I had no voice to respond, nor could I divine a way down to join them. I grew frantic as they shrugged their shoulders and set about launching the ship. In despair, I tried to hurl myself over the cliff’s edge but even that was denied me—each time, a titanic wind gusted to catch my falling body and return me, light as a feather, to the same spot. I watched them sail away. With each stroke of the oars, Mentor’s face grew more gaunt and strained. Finally, as the ship slipped over the rim of the world, the face staring back at me was no longer a face at all, but a bleached skull.” Tears filled her eyes. Shivering, she turned to face Memnon, her hand twining with his. “If what you say is true and it’s not a death sentence I go to,” she whispered, “why does it feel like one?”

  Memnon, though, had no answer for her. They stood side by side, hand in hand, watching as Pella dwindled and each stroke of the oars brought Sardis closer …

  INTERLUDE III

  MELPOMENE’S FISTS KNOTTED IN HER WOOLEN COVERLET; SHE sobbed, a great wracking exhalation that left her thin body bereft of air. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she fought for each breath, loosening one hand so she might clutch at the silver chest, which Harmouthes had taken to leaving beside her. Again, Ariston witnessed its wonderful curative powers. Touching it calmed her. She closed her eyes and each subsequent breath came just a little easier.

  “No more today,” she whispered, raw-voiced. “No more.”

  “As you wish, Lady,” Ariston said, rising. “Shall I send your man to you?”

  She shook her head, struggling onto her side and curling around the silver chest. Ariston crossed to the hearth and stoked the coals, adding a couple of chunks of wood against the growing chill. Satisfied she would stay warm, the young Rhodian rose and let himself out.

  Outside, winter’s brief twilight enveloped the world in shadow. In the columned peristyle, Ariston paused and stared up at the star-strewn heavens, seeking answers to the one question spinning in his mind: who is she? A daughter of Artabazus, by her own admission, who was taken prisoner with Darius’s family after the Macedonian victory at Issus … would Nicanor know her name? What little he knew of the one-legged veteran did not foster confidence. The man had been a common ranker in the phalanx battalions, one of the Pezhetairoi, not a position to afford a man easy access to the high circles of command. Still, Nicanor represented his best—indeed, his only—hope of identifying his elusive patroness. Nor would he put it off. He would seek out the old Macedonian tonight.

  Across the peristyle, Ariston could see light spilling out from beneath the kitchen door. The faint strains of Harmouthes’ flute came from within, a slow and mournful tune pitched so low that the young Rhodian had difficulty hearing it. Curious, he eased the door open. Firelight cast the Egyptian’s bent frame in silhouette, his head bowed. He wore Median trousers and a heavy, sleeved tunic of fine wool, dyed a deep blue; still, he shivered as his fingers transformed shallow breaths of air into the haunting chords that brought his song to its sad conclusion. Slowly, Harmouthes lowered his flute.

  “A beautiful piece,” Ariston said, after a moment. “Has it a name?”

  At first, the old man gave no indication he had heard, or that he registered Ariston’s presence. When he did finally look up, the creases around his eyes were moist with tears. “It is called ‘The Lamentations of Isis’.”

  “It’s … I’ve never heard anything like it.”

  “It is very old.” Harmouthes put his flute aside as he roused himself and tried to shake off his melancholy. “Sit, and I shall make you a bite of supper.”

  “No, that’s not necessary,” Ariston replied. “I have business I must attend to this evening. I’ll be back before the Lady wakes.”

  “Business,” he repeated. “Yes, of course.”

  From inside his tunic, Harmouthes withdrew a small leather bag that lightly clinked as he handed it to the young Rhodian. Frowning, Ariston tugged the bag open and tapped its content into his palm. Silver. A dozen or so coins spilled out, Ephesian tetradrachms—four-drachma pieces stamped with symbols sacred to the Mother Goddess of Ephesus, the bee and the stag— newly minted and gleaming. Ariston cast a sidelong glance at Harmouthes.

  “A fair wage for the work you have thus far accomplished,” the Egyptian explained. “Should you find yourself unable to return.”

  Ariston, though, kept only a pair of tetras; the rest he returned to Harmouthes. “Consider these a loan,” the young Rhodian said, holding up the two coins. “And as I said, I will be back before the Lady wakes. Is there anything you need from the city?”

  Harmouthes smiled. “Perhaps a fresh draft of manners?” He shook his head, tucking the pouch back into his tunic. “No, young sir. I have no needs, but my thanks for asking.”

  Ariston patted the old Egyptian on the shoulder as he moved past him and retrieved his cloak from where it lay, neatly folded atop a sealed amphora. Harmouthes settled on the bench and took up his flute once more.

  “The Lamentations of Isis” followed Ariston into the night.

 
; SOME HOURS LATER, SHIVERING FROM THE COLD, ARISTON PADDED DOWN A scarcely lit street bordering the harbor. The smells of damp wood and brine warred with those of pitch, cooking smoke, and human suffering. It was a neighborhood given over to veterans, bitter survivors of the savage struggle between the Diadochi as well as proud, silver-haired relics of Alexander’s relentless ambitions. Laughter and song, screams and sobs, and the slaughterhouse music of iron on flesh emanated from alleys and doorways, making Ariston question the wisdom of seeking Nicanor at this hour. Still, he’d come too far to give up now.

  The one-legged Macedonian lived in a cramped set of rooms three streets over from his stall, in a block dominated by the reeking piss-vats of a tanners’ workshop. Ariston thanked the gods for the small favor of placing Nicanor’s door at street level, facing the water, rather than amid the warren of crooked passages that comprised the heart of this particular block. The young Rhodian found his destination; knuckles scraped wood as he knocked on the poorly hung door. Boards creaked. A body moved. Impatient, Ariston knocked again.

  “Hades take you!” he heard a bleary voice bellow in reply.

  “Nicanor? Open up, if you please! It’s Ariston!” More curses greeted him, but Ariston also heard the distinctive scrape and thump of Nicanor’s cornel-wood crutch.

  “What do you want, boy?” the Macedonian said, flinging his door open. Roused from sleep, the old soldier wore an ill-fitting robe, patched and threadbare, its rich embroidery long since plucked out. He leaned heavily on his crutch as he pawed at his eyes.

  “I need to talk to you,” Ariston said, “and I promise I’ll make it worth your time.” He tugged a sealed wine flask out from beneath his cloak. “It’s Chian.”

  Nicanor snatched the flask and motioned Ariston inside with a jerk of his head. “Zeus! A man my age needs wine more than sleep anyway.”

  The air inside the old Macedonian’s quarters was stifling and it stank of sweat and sour wine. A makeshift hearth of flat rocks supported a glowing brazier; near it stood a small table, cluttered with unwashed crockery, and a pair of chairs, one of cheap pine, the other of dark and exotic wood. Nicanor dragged himself to this one and sat heavily. He tore the seal off the flask with his teeth and rooted through the crockery for two clay cups. He poured a measure for Ariston and scooted it toward the other chair. For himself, he filled the cup to the brim.