by Oden, Scott
“What is it?”
“Ochus’s newest edict.” Mentor held the parchment up; Memnon could tell he fought hard the urge to hurl it onto the coals. “Artabazus has finally convinced him of the threat Philip represents. To counter him, the King wants the Aegean islands returned to the Persian fold. He wants sixty ships brought north from Cyprus, and he wants them in place before sailing season begins!”
“A winter campaign I can understand, but a winter campaign at sea? Is he mad?”
“No, just an old fool! I guarantee you it was Bagoas who put this idea in his head! That eunuch bastard has hated me since I saved him from his own stupidity in Egypt and this is his way of settling the score! I would stake my life on it!”
“It seems that’s his intent,” Memnon said. “What will you do?”
“My duty, of course! I’ll bring his ships into the Aegean, Bagoas and the north wind be damned!”
Memnon shook his head. “Send me.”
“You would seize all the glory for yourself?” Mentor growled.
“Glory? You’re an idiot if you think glory’s my concern! No, brother. You’re many things—a peerless tactician, a brilliant strategist—but you’re no idiot and you’re no sailor. You never were. How often have you lectured me to choose the proper tool for the proper task? For this task, I am that tool. Besides,” Memnon said, his voice softening, “you should be here for the birth of your child, in case there are any complications.”
Mentor squinted at his younger brother. He scratched at the back of his neck, rubbed his bare scalp as he mulled over Memnon’s logic. “Damn you and your slick sophistry!”
“Then it’s settled?”
Mentor sank back in his chair. “Aye, it’s settled. Leave quickly, before this mild weather breaks. A messenger should reach Salamis well before you, so your arrival won’t be unexpected. Take command of two trireme squadrons—thirty from the Cypriots and thirty from the Tyrians—and return north. I’ll see that you have the required documents as well as sufficient funds before you leave.”
“And the campaign?”
“If you survive the voyage north,” Mentor said, his eyes narrowing, “wage the campaign as you see fit.” Memnon nodded and made to turn away, but his brother’s hand on his forearm stopped him. It was obvious by Mentor’s expression that relinquishing the responsibility for such a dangerous task pained him; still, he forced a smile. “Don’t do anything reckless, Memnon. I’d hate for my children to grow up without their favorite Rhodian uncle.”
Memnon returned the grip on his forearm. “Don’t worry, brother. I’ll be a paragon of caution.”
18
“HARD TO PORT!”
From the fighting deck of his Tyrian flagship Astarte, Memnon shouted orders to his crew. He clutched the railing as the trireme slewed about, brushing alongside an enemy ship whose oars splintered under a glancing blow of Astarte‘s bronze ram. Men screamed; grapnels crunched into the wood of the crippled vessel, while sailors brandishing axes struggled to hew the ropes tethering both ships together. Archers exchanged volleys, the higher deck of the Tyrian giving Memnon’s Persians a slight advantage. Javelineers hurled their darts. From behind his shield, Memnon shouted for his rowers to drop their oars and seize the grapnel lines. Sailors scurried to do his bidding. They ignored the withering barrage of arrows and pulled in unison, with all their might.
Slowly, the two hulls met with a sinister choonk.
“Marines!” Memnon bellowed. Greek and Phoenician soldiers in bronze breastplates and open-faced helmets, armed with axes and boarding pikes, boiled over Astarte’s outrigger. Enemy archers redoubled their effort, filling the air with the whistle and hiss of greased iron-heads. Arrows ripped through the close ranks of the marines, killing many outright, in mid-leap, their bodies falling to foul the deck of the enemy ship below.
From his position high in the stern of Astarte, Memnon caught sight of the enemy captain, a bearded man of Chios in bronze and leather armed with a heavy-bladed saber. He exhorted his archers, offering them a drachma for every one of Memnon’s men they killed.
The Rhodian cursed. He wrenched a javelin from the deck near his feet, twisted, and slung the weapon with uncanny accuracy. It struck the Chian captain in the collarbone, transfixing his body at a downward angle. The man staggered, spewing blood into his beard; a pair of Persian arrows finished him off. He went over the side, vanishing beneath the reddening waters of Chios Harbor …
SMOKE FROM BURNING HULKS DRIFTED OVER THE CITY, OBSCURING THE face of the late-morning sun. A carpet of flotsam clogged the bloodstained waters of the harbor: splintered oars, deck planking, tholepins, scraps of charred rigging, bilge buckets—and the arrow-riddled corpses of Chian sailors and marines. A rower’s bench bobbed in the wrack like a child’s cork, the body draped across it long since bled dry. A great wailing arose from women onshore as triangular fins churned the water into a bloody froth.
In a little more than an hour, Memnon’s fleet had sent the cream of the Chian navy to the bottom of the harbor in an attack so swift that most of the enemy captains were unable even to cut their mooring cables. Tyrian and Cypriot rams holed them while still tied to the docks, smashing broadside or astern then backing water and moving to the next. Those that got underway had their oarsmen and tiller crews targeted by archers or were set ablaze by marines wielding crocks of flaming pitch. A single ship had run their blockade and made it to open sea.
Memnon, surveying the ruin from the deck of Astarte, felt little remorse for the Chians. He had given the island a chance to surrender under the same terms embraced by the rulers of neighboring Cos and Rhodes. The democrats on Chios, though, had refused, banking on the hollow promises of that Athenian rabble-rouser Chares, who swore his own fleet would aid them in their rebellion against the Great King’s minions.
“Where’s your savior now?” Memnon said, turning to face the deputation of city officials who had come to beg his mercy. “Are those Chares’ ships we sent to the harbor bottom? Are those the bodies of Chares’ men the sharks are defiling? Where is he, gentlemen? Don’t you know? Well, let me enlighten you—Chares is sitting warm and dry in Mytilene because it offends his Athenian sensibilities to put to sea before spring is properly underway!”
“Everything you say is true, my lord,” their spokesman said with a grave humility Memnon found suspect. “We were fools to have believed the words of a man such as he. We understand that now and beg your—and the Great King’s—forgiveness.”
“You must think me a fool as well.”
“What?” the spokesman stammered. “No, my lord! No!”
“You must,” Memnon said, his eyes narrowing. “Why else would you ask me now to grant Chios the same terms as those offered to Rhodes and to Cos? You Chians had your chance for a peaceful settlement but you refused! Why should I show you leniency?”
“We … we were led astray, my lord! We—”
Memnon silenced him. He walked to Astarte‘s railing, lost in thought. Absently, he watched as Autophradates, who commanded his Cypriot squadron, deployed marines along Chios’s long mole in anticipation of the city’s occupation. Their weapons and armor glittered in the pale spring sun.
“Rhodes and Cos both capitulated without bloodshed,” Memnon said. In each instance, too, the act of leniency had cost him nothing but brought about great dividends. Cos provided him with sailors and stores to replenish those lost on the voyage from Cyprus. Rhodes opened their shipyards to him and had even given him a hero’s welcome worthy of one of the island’s long-lost sons.
The old oligarch Philolaus, Memnon wrote to Barsine in the days after the subjugation of Rhodes, did not long survive his coup, they told me. Queen Artemisia, widow of his Carian benefactor Mausolus, put him to death in the very same year as our flight to Macedonia. That I did not learn of this sooner speaks to my profound dislike of the island and my long-standing refusal to set foot on it; still, I’ve buried my animosity. It is high time Mentor and I returned our fathe
r’s bones to the soil for which he died …
In the end, he treated both states fairly, expelling their Carian garrisons and instituting moderate pro-Persian oligarchies in place of harsh governors. But, with staunchly democratic Chios eager to avoid the Persian yoke by war or wiles, leniency would likely come at great cost and offer little in return.
“There will be no terms,” Memnon said suddenly, turning to face the startled envoys. His eyes were cold and hard as he indicated the troops onshore. “Chios surrenders unconditionally or I order its destruction.”
The men of the deputation—stolid democrats, merchants, and members of the old aristocracy—exchanged glances. One by one, they nodded to their spokesman. It required no great intellect to divine their plot. They would agree to anything Memnon demanded now; later, when his back was turned, they would renege and plead to Athens for aid. “Chios surrenders, my lord,” the spokesman said.
Memnon smiled. They would not find him an easy mark. “I accept Chios’s surrender,” he said. “And to insure your complete cooperation and continued goodwill, I require hostages. The eldest sons of all the island’s leading men should do …”
CHIOS PAID A HEAVY PRICE FOR ITS FOLLY. NOT ONLY WERE THE HEIRS OF its greatest families—from toddlers to men in their fifties—herded onto a ship and sent to Ephesus, thence overland to Sardis and beyond, but many of the island’s most outspoken democrats faced execution or exile. Memnon established an oligarchy backed by a garrison and levied a crushing tax designed to make other enclaves of wealth and prosperity think again before challenging his will. He sailed away confidant he had emasculated any plans Chios might have had to rise against him.
News was slow in reaching the fleet in the Aegean, but Memnon received the very best news at Erythrae on the Ionian coast at the beginning of summer, borne by Pharnabazus: two months prior, in early Elaphebolion, Barsine had given birth to a healthy little girl.
“And how’s the mother?”
Pharnabazus smiled. “She had fully recovered by the time you stormed Chios. And you should know … she now swears by Khafre and refuses to let him leave her service, and woe to any who try to take him from her!”
“Staying put will be good for him,” Memnon said. “Our Egyptian’s getting too old to go traipsing around the Mediterranean. Have they decided on a name for the baby?”
Pharnabazus beamed. “Apame, after our grandmother.”
They shared a meal of fish stew and bread in Memnon’s cramped quarters onboard Astarte, eating from wooden bowls over a table cluttered with maps and correspondence, many of them from cousin Aristonymus. Pharnabazus raised an eyebrow. “What goes?”
“Chares has moved against Methymna. Athenian ships blockade the harbor while Athenian allies attack Methymna’s landward wall. If I handle Chares, Aristonymus assures me he can break the allied siege.” Memnon licked stew from his fingers and shuffled through the letters and missives. “However, this concerns me more. It’s from the governor of Abydus, on the Hellespont.” He handed Pharnabazus a brief note.
“They need only look as far as Lesbos to find their wayward admiral,” Pharnabazus said. “Are we to fight Chares on one front and be allies with him on another?”
Memnon gave a dark chuckle. “In a manner of speaking, yes. We split the fleet at Lesbos. You and Autophradates take the Cypriots and sail west around the island, through the Straits and into Propontis. Once there, keep to the Asian shore until Mentor or the Great King orders otherwise. I’ll take the Tyrians and sail east, into the Bay of Adramyttium, and break Chares’ blockade.”
“Just like that?” Pharnabazus looked askance at his uncle.
“Just like that. Do you see a flaw?”
“Only the one father has drilled into me since birth: never underestimate your enemy. Are you sure you do not underestimate Chares?”
Memnon smiled. “I’ve already taken Chares’ measure. He has a silver tongue and a surfeit of bravery. But, in and of itself, bravery means nothing. Tartarus overflows with the shades of brave men. No, Pharnabazus, I don’t underestimate him at all. The gods granted Chares many gifts, yet they withheld the most important—the daimon of a true leader. Without it, he is a figure of great splendor but of little substance.”
“You can tell who has this gift, this daimon?”
“Can you not?” Memnon said. “Examine the traits of those men you admire most and you’ll begin to see it, weaving through their deeds like threads on a loom. It transcends bravery or thirst for glory. A man in possession of it elevates not only himself but also those around him; he inspires them to be greater than they ever thought possible. If you must fight, Pharnabazus, it’s best to fight a man who owns nothing of this daimon. A man like Chares.”
Pharnabazus leaned forward, his forehead wrinkled in thought. “What if you are given no choice? What if it is your misfortune to be arrayed against a man whom the gods had graced with this gift, and others to boot? How would you fight him?”
“Honestly,” Memnon said, smoothing his beard with his thumb and forefinger. “I don’t know. I’ve never fought a man in possession of it. Perhaps I would refuse to engage him head-on, let him expend himself in bits and pieces, or maybe devise a way to assault his followers’ morale. The trick, I think, is in knowing where your own gifts lie.”
“ ‘Know thyself’,” Pharnabazus said, nodding as Memnon’s words brought clarity to that oft-heard phrase.
“Exactly.”
From Erythrae, Memnon’s fleet would have sailed north against the Athenians at Lesbos had a messenger not come from Sardis, one of Mentor’s kardakes, hollow-eyed and gaunt from lack of sleep. The day was bright, the winds favorable, and the threat of a delay spoiled Memnon’s fine humor.
“What goes, man?” he said as a sailor escorted the messenger to the sterndeck of Astarte. “You’d better have a message from Zeus himself ordering Atlas to cede to my shoulders the weight of the world!”
“Sir! You must return with all haste to Sardis!”
Memnon’s eyes narrowed. “Why? Does Mentor have need of me?”
“No, sir! Lord Mentor has fallen!”
FROM ERYTHRAE, A RIDER COULD REACH SARDIS IN A LITTLE OVER FIVE DAYS. Memnon and Pharnabazus made it in three, leaving a string of dead and broken horses in their wake. Along the road, at Old Clazomenae and ghosthaunted Smyrna, Memnon asked for news. Had there been a battle? Had the lords of Sardis marched to war? But, no one knew; to their knowledge, spring in the Hermus Valley had passed in peace and plenty.
Memnon and Pharnabazus reached Sardis at dusk on the third day. The palace of Croesus was ablaze with light; courtiers and commoners loitered at the base of the stairs leading to the portico and the Apadana, awaiting some announcement from the palace. Sullen-faced guards kept the curious at bay. Murmurs arose from the onlookers as the two road-weary horsemen pushed through their ranks. “That’s Memnon,” they said, “he’ll know” or “it must be grave news.” The Rhodian ignored them, spurred his horse up the stairs and clattered across the portico. He and Pharnabazus dismounted and tossed their reins to the startled guards.
A chamberlain met them in the Apadana. “Thank Mithras! Hurry! This way!” This functionary, a beardless eunuch, led them across the great hall to the suite of rooms Barsine had used during her wedding. He kept plucking at Memnon’s sleeve, exhorting him to hurry.
Memnon, though, caught the eunuch by the arm and hauled him up short. “What’s happened, damn you? Is my brother dead?”
The chamberlain quailed. “No, my lord! No! Hurry!” The Rhodian thrust him aside and stormed into the suite. Nobles and men of high rank, priests and envoys from Mentor’s subject cities clogged the antechamber. Spithridates and Rhosaces held court in one corner, surrounded by their confederates—transplanted Iranians who longed to see a return to the old order. They all turned as Memnon entered. Was that satisfaction glittering in their serpentine eyes? No matter, Memnon thought. He would find out what happened and exterminate any member of their little
clique who might have had a hand in it. Beside him, his nephew’s features echoed the same clarity of purpose.
A familiar face met them at the door to the inner chamber.
“Khafre!” Memnon said. “What happened? I was told Mentor had fallen?”
Khafre shook his head. The Egyptian looked ragged, unkempt, like a man who had begged off sleeping or eating for days and now propelled his limbs to action through sheer force of will. “A sickness, Memnon. It came upon him suddenly—a high fever and shortness of breath. I undertook his healing, and he seemed to recover by day and relapse by night, which indicated among other things the presence of a foul spirit. I bade him breathe the fumes of frankincense, cassia, and myrrh.”
“Did this help?”
“At first,” Khafre said. “But the pestilence settled in his chest and attacked his lungs. No doubt its virulence was compounded by the lingering effects of the many wounds he has suffered through the years.”
“You can still heal him, though, can’t you?”
The Egyptian passed a hand over his brow, rubbing the silver bristles growing on his scalp. “It is beyond my art, Memnon. I have tried everything, but this evil will not relinquish its hold on his lungs. It drowns him in his own fluids.”
Stricken, Memnon sagged against the wall. “Surely there is something yet that we can do?”
“He is in Lord Osiris’s hands now.” Tears rimmed the Egyptian’s eyes; he would have sobbed had he not clenched his teeth against it. “I am sorry,” Khafre hissed. Memnon embraced him.
“You’ve done my family great service,” he said with surprising calm. “And you’ve nothing to apologize for. We … I am forever in your debt, Khafre. Thank you.” He turned to Pharnabazus. “Look after him, nephew, and send these vultures away. If they refuse, summon the kardakes and have them herded out at spear-point. I must see to my brother.”
