by Oden, Scott
“Even wise men are shackled by tradition,” Barsine said, tears sparkling on her lashes. She dabbed at her eyes. “Look at me. Crying again. You must be growing weary of my constant need for reassurance.”
Memnon smiled. Gently, he reached out and wiped away her tears. “Yes, you are a horrible burden,” he said with a wink.
“Barbarian.” She rapped her knuckles against his bronze-sheathed chest.
“I would be a poor friend, and a wretched kinsman, if I couldn’t offer you some manner of comfort,” Memnon said, his forehead creasing. “But I will be glad when this spectacle draws to a close. That way, once the dust settles, you will be able to see for yourself that life in Sardis, as Mentor’s wife, isn’t going to be the nightmarish prospect you imagine.”
In the distance, both heard the chortle of silver trumpets. It was the signal for the bridal procession to begin. Barsine sighed, nodding. “You should go. Mentor is going to be wondering where you wandered off to.” She embraced him one last time. “Thank you, Memnon, for everything,” she whispered, then released him and motioned him to the door. She bustled about the room in last-minute preparation.
Memnon paused on the threshold, looked back. Poise and grace returned as Barsine retrieved her pearl-sewn veil from a divan and settled it over her hair. A sad smile flickered across the Rhodian’s visage. “Barsine.” She glanced up at the sound of her name. “Mentor is luckier than any man has a right to be,” he said. “You are a daughter of kings, and may Zeus protect him if he does not treat you as such.” Nodding, Memnon turned and vanished out the door.
THE CEREMONY WAS A WHIRLWIND OF POMP AND SPLENDOR. TRUMPETERS plied their instruments, filling the air with the silvery skirl of horns as the bride, escorted by her family, made her entrance. She descended into the garden by way of a monumental staircase, decorated with carved figures from Lydia’s long and storied past. Flower girls scattered a carpet of rose petals for Barsine to walk on, while incense bearers sweetened the air with their censers. The procession wound through the garden; in its wake, men bobbed their heads together as they remarked on the elegant beauty of this daughter of Artabazus.
Memnon took his place at the head of the bridegroom’s family, as his nearest living relative. He did not stand alone, though. Mentor had summoned their kinsmen from across the Aegean. A dozen cousins—men he barely knew—flanked him, including Aristonymus, ruler of Methymna on Lesbos; Simmias of Ephesus, a relation of their mother’s; and sullen-eyed Thymondas, a Rhodian mercenary captain who Memnon suspected of being Mentor’s bastard.
Mentor himself stood at the base of the dais, transfixed by the sight of white-veiled Barsine drifting through the crowd; on the periphery of his vision, Memnon saw the Great King hunch forward on his throne, licking his lips, a lecherous gleam in his eye. The Rhodian dug his nails into his palms, squelching the urge to leap up on the dais and throttle the dissolute little toad.
The wedding party stopped at the proscribed distance and made their obeisance to the King before two Magi guided them up to stand opposite of Mentor. Barsine stepped forward. Memnon, alone, could discern her nervousness; to the rest, she exuded a haunting sense of calm as the Magi, attended by slaves bearing lustral vases, purified bride and bridegroom with wands of myrtle and chanted prayers.
The two priests concluded their rituals and withdrew. The third Magus, ancient and bent, shuffled up, leaned on his staff, and raised a leathery hand in benediction. The voice that issued from his shriveled breast, however, still contained strength. “Who speaks for this bridegroom, Mentor, son of Timocrates?”
Memnon stepped forward. His chest tightened as he answered. “I do. I am Memnon, son of Timocrates, his brother.”
The old Magus continued. “Who speaks for this bride, Barsine, daughter of Artabazus?”
“I do,” Artabazus replied. “I am Artabazus, son of Pharnabazus, her father.”
“In the presence of this assembly,” the old priest said, his hawkish face shifting to stare at Memnon, “that has met together in Sardis on the twentieth day of Tashritu, in the Seventeenth Year of His Majesty’s Accession, say whether you have agreed to accept this maiden, Barsine, daughter of Artabazus, in marriage for this bridegroom, in accordance with the will of blessed Ahuramazda and the laws of our Reverend and Exalted Majesty.”
She is his prize, his spoil of war. “I have agreed,” Memnon said, clamping his jaw shut.
The Magus fixed Artabazus with his rheumy gaze. “Have you and your family, with righteous mind and truthful thoughts, words, and deeds, agreed to give, forever, this bride in marriage to Mentor, son of Timocrates?”
Artabazus, his eyes moist, nodded. “I have agreed.”
Hobbling forward, the old Magus reached out, grasped Barsine’s hand, and placed it in Mentor’s scarred fist. “Then I say these words to you, bride and bridegroom! Impress them upon your minds: May you two enjoy a life of goodness by following the will of blessed Ahuramazda and the laws of our Reverend and Exalted Majesty. May each of you clothe the other in righteousness. Then assuredly there will be a happy life for you.” The old priest bowed to the Great King.
Ochus stood and descended from his dais. He placed his hand on theirs. “May the merciful God bless your union and keep you long happy, long healthy, and long fertile. Rejoice!” With that, the crowd of guests erupted. Horns blasted a triumphal song, competing with applause and shouts of health, virility, or long life. Both families surged together, Persian mingling with Greek; Artabazus embraced his daughter and her new husband, and thanked the King for his blessing.
“Had I known your garden hid such exquisite beauty, my old friend,” Ochus replied, clapping Artabazus on the back, “I would have pardoned you long ago!” The King’s eye lingered on Barsine as his courtiers coaxed him away.
With gracious ease, Memnon chatted with the swirling tide of well-wishers, allowing their flux and flow to draw him from the bridal couple. Over their heads, he spotted Barsine as she glanced about for him; Mentor, too—no doubt craving a word with his brother before retiring to the nuptial chamber. Memnon, though, let the crowd force him to the periphery of the celebration.
Here, Khafre found him, standing beneath the spreading boughs of an immense plane tree, watching as Mentor escorted his bride back up the processional staircase. Khafre leaned against the tree bole.
“That could not have been easy,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
The Egyptian edged closer. “I know of few men who could have given their heart’s desire to another and still maintained their poise. I cannot imagine the effort it required.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Memnon said. He scuffed at a tree root with his sandaled foot. “She’s my brother’s wife.”
“And so?” Khafre smiled and shook his head. “You have forgotten a lesson from years ago. Though a slave no longer, I yet possess eyes and ears. If they are kept open and the mouth shut …”
“Wondrous things may be learned,” Memnon said, closing his eyes. “A plague on sharp-eyed Egyptians, who are the most cunning of men. Who else knows? Has my perfidy become fodder for the rumormongers and the fools?”
“I may be sharp-eyed,” Khafre said, bristling, “but I am no tittle-tattle. Knowledge of your plight goes no further than from me to you.”
Memnon sighed. “Forgive me, Khafre. I didn’t mean to impugn your discretion. How did you discover …?”
“I know my friends, and I know when my friends are in agony. What can I do?”
“There’s nothing for it,” Memnon said, shrugging. “But, you can drink with me. Drink with me until there is no more wine left in Sardis.” The Rhodian motioned for one of the servants to bring them a jug. “I want this evening to be a blurred memory.”
IT WASN’T THE MORNING SUN FILTERING THROUGH THE LEAVES OF THE plane tree that woke Memnon, nor the ripping snores of his fellow revelers. It was the none-too-gentle prodding of a sandaled foot in his ribs. He pried his eyes open and cursed as he rolled from his belly
onto his back, his limbs stiff and unresponsive.
Mentor stood above him. “Rise, brother,” the elder Rhodian said. He wore a plain soldier’s kilt under an open black robe, his silver-furred chest bare.
“What goes?” Memnon croaked. He hawked and spat, clearing his throat.
“Come, get up. We need to talk.”
Memnon struggled into a sitting position. His breastplate was gone and his tunic clung to him, still damp from some foolish escapade involving serving girls and the garden fountain. Memnon recalled nothing with clarity. Around him, some of the other revelers stirred. He knew a few of the faces; most, Memnon could not place. Amid the roots of the plane tree, Khafre cursed the sun’s rays in his native Egyptian; Aristonymus, draped across one of the few divans they were able to procure, belched and swatted at a fly that bedeviled his ear. Pharnabazus lay wrapped in the embrace of two serving girls, while Thymondas sat with his back to the garden wall, his head tilted forward with his chin resting on his breast. He muttered drill commands in his sleep.
“You arranged quite a symposium last night,” Mentor said, glancing at the sprawling bodies. “Though I doubt Spithridates approved of you corrupting his house girls or using his azalea bed for a piss bucket. A pity I had to miss out on the merriment.”
Memnon experienced a flash of alarm. “Where’s Barsine?”
“She’s already up and about,” Mentor said. “Good cousin Simmias offered to escort her, Deidamia, and the children down into the markets so they could experience the wonders of Sardis firsthand. I sent a pair of guards along, to be safe.” An odd expression crossed Mentor’s face. “She is … unlike other women I’ve known.”
“You mean educated?”
Mentor grinned, reached down and hauled his brother to his feet. “I see exile didn’t cure you of your sharp tongue. Perhaps a task will prove more therapeutic.”
Memnon steadied himself on his brother’s shoulder; he staggered over to the fountain, knelt on the curb, and splashed handfuls of water in his face. “What task?”
Mentor shook his head, indicating the men scattered about the garden. “Walk with me, brother.” Memnon followed him to the garden wall. A flight of steps led to the parapet.
In the bright morning sun, the whole of the Hermus Valley stretched out below them. The upper slopes of Mount Tmolus were terraced with vineyards and orchards; its lower slopes with crooked streets and mudbrick houses. The Pactolus split Sardis in two, flowing through the heart of the agora and into the business district. Here, potters turned the river’s red mud into the terracotta tiles Sardis was known for, and merchants arranged shipping overland or by water to the Ionian coast and the Aegean. Ironically, many of the potters’ own houses had roofs of mud and thatch.
Memnon inhaled the pleasant north breeze. “Do you fear prying ears?” he said.
“One can never be too cautious,” Mentor said. “The King’s gone to Zeleia, to hunt, and he’s taken most of the Persian lords with him. Artabazus, too. I’ll have to leave out today to join them unless I want those parasites he calls satraps to defame my good works. The lot of them would argue how best to pour piss from a boot and not a one would think to look for instructions on the heel.”
“I’m surprised a king with Ochus’s reputation tolerates that sort of infighting,” Memnon said.
“Tolerates it? That gold-shod jackass encourages it! He believes if his courtiers spend their days conspiring against one another, they’ll be too busy to conspire against him. It was the same in the days of Artabazus’s father, I’m told.”
“Xenophon wrote a great deal concerning old Pharnabazus and the rivalries of the Persian satraps, though how accurate his portrayal is I cannot say. What about this task you mentioned?”
Mentor leaned against the battlements and peered out through an embrasure. “We’re beset by our own Agesilaus, it seems. Philip’s close to sewing up Thrace and then he’ll move against the Chersonese. I wonder, will he content himself with the European shore?”
Memnon shook his head. “Why should he when he can have the Asian Greek lands, as well? He will cross the Hellespont, brother. Make no mistake. And he’s no Agesilaus. He’s not going to march here and there until he tires, or until we pay his enemies to have him brought home. Philip’s coming for land, for gold and for blood.”
“Then we must be prepared,” Mentor said. “Cousin Aristonymus has pledged his city to our cause; to him I’m giving the task of subduing the rest of Lesbos. Thymondas I’m sending to Taenarum, in the Peloponnese, with enough gold to hire every disaffected Greek between there and Thermopylae.”
Though likely his by-blow nephew, Memnon had not spent enough time in Thymondas’s company to gauge his character. A dishonest man with that amount of bullion could wreck untold havoc on Mentor’s plans. “You trust him?”
Mentor nodded. “I’ve also instructed him to get word to Patron at Syracuse. That Phocaean bastard’s been out there diddling Carthaginian whores long enough. Time he came back and partook of some real work.”
Memnon smoothed his beard; his eyes were fixed on something beyond the distant horizon as his mind worked through problems of logistics and supply. “You’re going to need more than mercenaries if you hope to give Philip pause,” he said.
“I’ve lobbied the King for permission to bring a fleet from Cyprus into the Aegean. So far, though, I’ve been blocked by Spithridates and Rhosaces—those meddlesome sons of bitches!” Mentor spat over the parapet, his darkened face screwed up in a rictus of disgust. “Zeus, protect me from their incompetence! They’re the reason I need you up north, in the Troad. Cut out those little kinglets my fellow satraps have so graciously allowed to prosper, the ones most liable to side with Philip. That way, the Macedonian can’t seize piecemeal what he could never hope to win as a whole. The Troad must be brought to heel!”
Memnon looked away north, his eyes narrowed to slits as a plan of action coalesced in his mind. “I know just where to start.”
16
THE GALLEY PITCHED LIKE A DRUNKARD, ROLLING IN THE SWELLS OFF the northern tip of Lesbos. Methymna lay astern; across the straits, seven miles away, a gray veil of rain obscured Assos and the Asian shore. In the whistling wind, icy and sharp, the auletes dispensed with his flute and kept the oarsmen in rhythm by marking cadence on a hide drum. Memnon watched their exertions from the comparative shelter of the deckhouse.
Though the arrival of winter with its frequent storms and contrary winds beached most ships, the sailors of Methymna routinely made the short run to Assos and back—a journey of less than an hour in fair weather now trebled by a foul squall howling down from the north. “Thetis will guide us,” the captain had said, blowing a kiss at an image of the sea goddess carved into his sternpost. Memnon prayed he was right. A mischance at sea would wreck his delicate plans …
“You’ve done it, “Aristonymus said, brandishing a letter brought to Methymna by a fast courier ship. Memnon broke off his contemplation of a map he had made of the Troad and glanced up. “The eunuch has taken an interest in you. He sends his compliments and invites you to join him in Assos next month to celebrate the Lenaea.”
Memnon stroked his bearded jaw. “He’s taken the bait, to be sure, but what piques his interest more, I wonder? That I am a fellow devotee of philosophy or a former rebel and soldier?”
“Does it matter?” Aristonymus said, frowning. “You belabor this whole affair with your plots and your secrecy. Dionysus rules the Lenaea. The eunuch will conduct the god’s worship from the theater. He’ll be exposed, affable, and fuddled with drink. All you’d need is one courageous fool with a knife …”
“If control of Assos was my only concern, cousin, then perhaps you would be right. But, knifing the eunuch during a chorus of Lysistrata won’t win us Atarneus, Sigeum, Troy, Abydus, or the dozen other towns under his thumb. Murdering Hermeias will gain us nothing but civil discord and outright war—the very things Mentor wishes to avoid.”
Aristonymus grumbled. “It would
be easier.”
“The easy route,” Memnon replied, “is not always the most prudent.”
The Rhodian braced himself against the deckhouse door as the galley pitched forward, lunging into a trough between the swells. The seas washed over the bow, drenching the rowers. They redoubled their efforts; the captain’s trust in the goddess seemed well placed when, as the ship crested the wave, Memnon observed the first glimmers of Assos through the mist.
Homer called it ‘steep Pedasos,’ though what man, Titan, or god carved a city out of the rocky crags overlooking the Bay of Adramyttium was unknown even in the Poet’s day. Walled on three sides, its fourth guarded by the sea, Assos was a place of shelves and terraces, of narrow streets connected by stairs beyond number and public buildings of gleaming marble. At the pinnacle of its fortified acropolis, some thousand feet above the harbor, the temple of Athena Polias kept unending vigil.
Within the hour, Memnon’s galley wallowed into the calmer waters of the mole-protected harbor. Triremes were drawn up on shore and protected for the winter by timber sheds; smaller craft rode out the weather on the water, moored to stone bollards lining the mole.
The Rhodian emerged from the deckhouse as the galley docked. Beneath a black wool cloak, heavily embroidered in gold thread, the Rhodian wore a chiton of similar material cinched by a thick leather belt. A sheath hung from his left hip, a long knife with a silver pommel. Memnon waited as two sailors wrestled the boarding plank into place. A third fetched the Rhodian’s travel chest and deposited it on the mole.
“My thanks, Captain,” Memnon said, glancing over his shoulder at the shipmaster standing atop the deckhouse.
The captain grinned. “I told you the goddess would watch over us.” He turned and raised his hands to the carved sternpost. “Thrice-blessed mother of Achilles, gold-wreathed mistress of the Nereids …”
