Memnon

by Oden, Scott

  Pharnabazus, his own eyes moist, nodded. The Egyptian leaned against him, allowing the younger man to escort him to a small sitting room off the antechamber. Memnon turned and entered the inner room.

  It was as he remembered from the wedding but with a few alterations: the walls were now hung with rich fabrics and in one corner stood an exquisite bronze lamp stand wrought in the shape of a tree with gold and silver leaves. Curtains were drawn, hiding the balcony from view. Linen sheers undulated with the faint night breeze. From beyond, Memnon could hear the Pactolus chuckling over the rocks.

  Mentor lay on a bed of carved and polished wood, pillows raising his head high in an effort to ease his discomfort. The elder Rhodian’s face was bloodless and glazed with sweat. His jaw hung slack; his breath rasped and bubbled.

  Barsine sat at his bedside, a bowl of cool water in her lap. She removed a compress from his forehead, dampened it and wrung it out. Her hands trembled as she smoothed the cloth back into place. She turned slightly at the sound of Memnon’s approach, the strain of the last week evident in her wrinkled brow, her sunken cheeks. Relief flooded her red-rimmed eyes as saw Memnon’s face.

  “I have prayed to the blessed gods for your return,” she said, setting the bowl aside and rising. Memnon caught her hands.

  “I came as soon as I received word. How is he?”

  “Khafre says—” She paused, exhaling against the torrent of emotion that threatened to rob her of speech, “he says he is at Hades’ threshold, but still he clings to life. He’s been asking for you.”

  Going to his bedside, Memnon leaned over and kissed the crown of his brother’s feverish head. This close, he could not miss the fact that Mentor’s every breath came at great effort, the muscles and tendons of his neck standing out like cords. Slowly, his eyelids peeled back. His chest wracked like a forge bellows as he fought to take in enough air to speak. “You’re … here …” he gasped. Tears seeped from Mentor’s bloodshot eyes.

  Memnon sat by his side and clasped his hand, finding it cool and clammy. He yet wore the gold ring of his office. “Yes, brother. I’m here. I’ve brought you a gift, as well: the islands of the Aegean. They’re unified under you, Mentor. Under you! So, you see, you must fight this pestilence—”

  Mentor worked his jaw, muscles clenching and unclenching. “It’s … time …”

  “No, no.” Memnon’s voice cracked. “All you need is rest. You’ll get your strength back. Until then, I’ll look after things for you. I won’t let those dogs spoil your good works!”

  Mentor swallowed with difficulty, gasping and coughing. “Barsine …”

  She came back to his side and caressed his sweat-drenched cheek. “Please, husband. Save your breath.” He beckoned her closer. Barsine leaned over him, her ear near his lips. For several moments she hovered in this position, her eyes closed, tears streaming down her cheeks as she nodded. Memnon could not hear what he said, but Mentor’s words wrenched a sob from Barsine’s breast. At last she turned and buried her face in Memnon’s shoulder. The younger Rhodian comforted her.

  Mentor’s tear-streaked face showed no reproof, no recrimination that his wife sought solace in his brother’s embrace. Instead, his eyes registered a grim sense of fulfillment, as though he had made amends for a long-perceived wrong. He tightened his grip on Memnon’s hand, though his strength was fading fast. “I … speak … for you,” he said in a hoarse whisper. His eyes fluttered and closed. “I … speak …”

  Mentor’s breathing grew shallower and more labored, rattling in his chest as his spirit ebbed. His grip on Memnon’s hand loosened.

  “What did he say?”

  Barsine raised her head. “He absolved me of my duty, and he told me there is no shame, no dishonor in love. He said,” her voice caught in her throat as she turned back to her husband, “my father gave me to the wrong son of Timocrates.”

  I speak for you. Memnon’s jaw clenched as he apprehended his brother’s last words to him, his last gift. For it was a gift as much as a duty—as Mentor’s heir, Memnon was bound by obligation to protect Barsine, to see to her future disposition whether it meant sending her back to her father or finding her a suitable husband. On that matter, Mentor’s wishes left little doubt. I speak for you.

  Tears blurred Memnon’s vision; he fought to maintain his composure. He raised his brother’s hand to his lips. “It will be as you desire,” he said, kissing the heavy gold ring. Barsine mimicked the gesture; she sobbed, her head falling onto Memnon’s shoulder.

  They sat at his bedside in silent vigil until near midnight, when Mentor gave a small shudder and breathed his last. In the custom of her people Barsine raised her voice in lamentation, a keening wail taken up and amplified by the Persian men and women of the palace. Eunuchs cried aloud and beat their breasts. Kardakes clashed spear-shaft against shield-face. The Greeks—mercenary, merchant, or envoy—stood still, their relative silence in sharp contrast to the Persians ritual clamor. “He is dead, then,” they said, and whispered among themselves about what the coming days would hold.

  And at his brother’s side, against all notion of Greek propriety, Memnon closed his eyes and wept.

  INTERLUDE IV

  “MENTOR’S FUNERAL LASTED THREE DAYS AND NIGHTS,” BARSINE said, brushing away tears with her fingertips. “Culminating in a great pyre that lit the night sky like a beacon for all to see. Come dawn, solemn priests quenched the last of the embers with wine and gathered the charred bones, wrapping them in cloth of gold and placing them in an urn of the finest Egyptian alabaster.” With a grimace, she rose from her chair. Ariston followed suit and offered his arm for her to lean upon as she slowly shuffled to the bed. To move even that short a distance left her winded. She was weakening; soon, Harmouthes would bring her a pharmakon to ease her breathing. She coughed as she crawled into bed, her voice growing harsh and raspy. “We brought him north with us and buried him at Assos, beside his father.”

  A chill permeated the room. Ariston went to the hearth and stirred the embers. “Memnon never returned them to Rhodes?”

  Barsine shook her head. “That, I think, was his greatest regret.” She pulled the coverlet up.

  “And what is yours?” Ariston asked.

  “My greatest regret?” Gray sunlight, diffused through winter’s clouds, gave little color to Barsine’s face; her features hardened. “Not dying with him.”

  As Ariston tended the fire, Harmouthes entered bearing a steaming mug, cloth-wrapped so as not to scald his fingers. Barsine gave him a sad smile. “You expend too much energy in keeping this old woman alive.”

  “It gives my declining years purpose, mistress,” Harmouthes said. “Without you to look after I would doubtless pass my days engaged in mischief and skullduggery. You would not wish that, would you?”

  Barsine accepted the mug from him, staring at it as if it were an obstacle keeping her from a long-held goal. She raised it to her lips, stopped; with a sharp nod she set the mug aside. “Bring me plain, cold wine, instead,” she said, “with no water, herbs, or medicines.”

  The Egyptian frowned. He retrieved the mug. “As you wish, mistress. But you must drink this, first.”

  “No, Harmouthes, no more concoctions. Wine only.”

  “What are you saying?”

  Barsine took the mug from him again, placed it on the table by her bed, and clasped his hands in hers. “My old friend,” she said gently. “You have been my rudder, my steersman through storms both great and small, but we both know my time grows short. Soon, I will depart on a journey on which you cannot follow. I am ready, Harmouthes. I am weary of this world. I want to finish my tale and, on reaching its end, linger not one heartbeat longer than necessary. Surely you understand?”

  Harmouthes shoulders sagged. He bent and kissed her hands. “I do. It will be as you ask. Wine only.”

  Barsine sank back onto her pillows. “Thank you, Harmouthes.”

  Ariston finished stoking the fire, watched as the Egyptian gathered up his mug and withd
rew. He could feel the old man’s grief. After he closed the door, Ariston brought a chair to the side of Barsine’s bed. “I am sorry for him,” he said. “I don’t know if I could stand aside and let someone I love simply fade away.”

  “You would do it,” Barsine replied, her eyes moist, “if the person you loved had no hope of recovery.” She cleared her throat. “Where were we?”

  “Traveling north with Mentor’s bones …”

  “Of course. After the funeral, we settled at Memnon’s estate near Adramyttium and, following Mentor’s wishes, we were married before the year ended. Though my father blessed and approved of the union, Mentor’s death hit him hard, as hard as the death of one of his own sons; he divided his attention between the court at Susa and the satrapy of Armenia, the demesne of his cousin, Artashata. He returned to the West only once that I recall, a year later, when I gave birth to Apame’s sister, Artonis—named after my own mother.” Barsine smiled suddenly. “Memnon doted on both daughter and niece, and he taught them how to ride almost from the day they took their first steps. Despite my father’s absence, family and friends surrounded us. Patron and Omares both dwelt in Assos; Pharnabazus married a Greek girl and had an estate nearby, while Cophen and Ariobarzanes visited us often, bringing news of Father or letters from Deidamia. For four years we lived in peace, until—”

  Ariston frowned. “Excuse me, Lady, but could you elaborate on your marriage? Four years, even peaceful years, do not merely pass in the blink of an eye. Perhaps there are anecdotes you could share?”

  “No,” she said.

  Ariston bristled at her flat refusal. “You threaten to do this history a grave disservice. To write with authority on a subject I must know all that I can. You’ve given me much insight into what manner of man was Memnon—in war, in intrigue, and in planning. You’ve even given brief glimpses of him in peace, but I should like to know more in order to do his memory justice.”

  “And it is on account of my own memory that I must refuse,” Barsine replied.

  “Why? Is that epoch of your life so distasteful that you’ve expunged it from your mind? If it’s not, then I don’t understand your reticence. I would have thought you eager for the world to know everything about your husband.”

  Barsine’s eyes narrowed; her lips curled in disgust at the young Rhodian’s attempt at manipulation. “You spoke of love, earlier, but have you ever been in love, Ariston? Not mere infatuation or salacious longing, but the kind of love that leaves you unable to breathe in your beloved’s presence, the kind of love a poet seeks to capture in words or a sculptor in marble? Have you ever stayed awake all night watching your beloved sleep, thanking the gods for your good fortune even as you curse them for making him a man you must share with the world?”

  Ariston felt his face redden. “No, madam, I have not.”

  “Only after the gods bless you with the experience will you begin to understand my reticence, as you name it.” Her hand rested lightly on the silver chest at her side. “Suffice it to say I spent my life preparing for those four perfect years, even as I have spent the balance of my life trying to recapture them. Age is ever our enemy, Ariston, and I have few memories that have not paled with time or become diluted by pain and loss and the bitterness of dreams unfulfilled. I have shared much with you, and I will share more, but those four years are not for posterity.” Barsine sighed. “They are mine alone.”

  Ariston swallowed his annoyance and nodded. “I apologize, Lady. We will move on, then. You were about to tell me what happened to ruin this idyll.”

  Barsine said nothing for a moment, her brows drawing together as she gathered her thoughts. “Do you believe that all things share an interrelation, that the loom of the Fates weaves all of our diverse threads into connected strands? Cut one and it affects others of the same strand?”

  “It is certainly possible,” Ariston said.

  “Mentor’s death—and I do not call it ‘untimely’ as has become the fashion of so many; his death was determined by the gods and came at the preordained time, as will yours and mine—his death touched more lives than just mine and Memnon’s. After us, the person most affected was the eunuch Bagoas.”

  Ariston leaned forward, chewing his lip. “His is a name I would have least associated with feeling anything where Mentor was concerned.”

  “Oh, no,” Barsine said. “Mentor was the one man Bagoas feared above all, and his position in life, his very presence, served to hinder the eunuch’s ambitions. Bagoas saw Mentor’s passing as a sign of favor from the gods, a validation of his naked thirst for power.”

  “He was a eunuch. How far could he hope to rise?”

  Barsine shuddered. “He sought the pinnacle. Gelded or not, Bagoas was one of the most bloodthirsty and cunning men I have ever had the misfortune of knowing. Even before Mentor’s death he plotted the destruction of every possible rival for Ochus’s affections. The Blessed One, alone, knows how many innocent souls he sent to the headsman, their families too, on trumped-up charges and outright lies. But he knew, as you have surmised, that Persia’s nobility would never countenance being governed by a eunuch, so he was forced to find a pliant member of the royal family and elevate him to the throne. Most believe he aided an already sickly Ochus into the grave, and his sons too, sparing only the youngest—a stripling named Oarses. That poor young fool ruled as Bagoas’s puppet for over a year before he exhibited a little too much self-reliance and died because of it.

  “By this time, Persia was in a sorry state. Nations, like Nature, abhor a vacuum, so in the absence of power the Egyptians sought their independence—thus ruining Mentor’s good works—and Macedonia made tentative, and unopposed, raids onto Asian soil. Nevertheless, because of his penchant for poisoning those who displeased him, Bagoas was hard-pressed to find a member of the royal house willing to take the throne. In Armenia, my father convinced Artashata to accept it.”

  “Why not Artabazus himself?” Ariston said. “Surely none could find fault with his blood.”

  “Not with his blood, no, but many did not trust him because of his past. Also, he was well into his seventh decade. My father believed the rigors of kingship would have been too much for a man of his age. Twenty-five years Father’s junior, Artashata’s pedigree was equally impeccable—his grandfather and my great-grandfather, Artaxerxes the Second, were brothers—and he had served the rightful king all his life, even earning great renown in combat against the barbaric Kadousioi on the shores of the Sea of Ravens. Still, he was a mild man, almost gentle, and it was with some reluctance that he donned the peaked tiara and became Darius, the third to bear that storied name. His first act as Great King, before marching to Egypt, was to listen to my father’s counsel and have his murderous benefactor drink from his own poisoned cup.

  “His second act, again guided by my father, was to invest Memnon with the powers of a Persian general and order him to repel the Macedonians …”

  THE HELLESPONT

  YEAR 1 OF THE 111TH OLYMPIAD

  (336 BCE)

  19

  A PALL OF DUST HAZED THE BLUE SUMMER SKY, THROWN UP BY THE shuffling feet of seven thousand Macedonian infantrymen. Memnon could see the flash and glitter of tall sarissas, of bronze helmets and breastplates, as individual phalanx battalions took up positions on the far bank of the Skamandros River. “Look at them, Ephialtes,” he said to the dour-faced Athenian standing at his left hand. “Are they not magnificent?” Ephialtes, a giant of a man in an ill-fitting cuirass, hawked and spat, the only answer he deigned to give. Memnon grinned at Pharnabazus, who stood to his right. “Ah, the sting of defeat yet troubles him. Tell me, Ephialtes, did the Macedonians look this magnificent at Chaeronea?” That battle, two years prior on the Cephissus River in Boeotia, cemented Philip’s supremacy over the Greeks and made Athens tributary to Macedonia—a situation the proud sons of Athena longed to rectify.

  “Damn you,” Ephialtes rumbled, “do we attack or not?”

  “Impatience is what cost Athens the f
ield that day. Philip, you see, cannot be goaded. He will not move one moment before he’s absolutely ready, and if he can provoke his enemies into impulsively attacking, so much the better. But, that’s not Philip we’re facing. That’s Parmenion. Cut of the same pattern, perhaps, but from cloth of far lesser quality. Still, he won’t make a move until we do.”

  Memnon’s soldiers seemed in no great hurry to launch an attack against the Macedonians, either. They held the southern bank of the Skamandros, on a slight rise overlooking the sluggish flow of the river. Five thousand men stood at Memnon’s back, his personal guard of kardakes stiffened by a mixture of Greek mercenaries, Arcadians mostly—men trained for war in the iron schools of the Peloponnese and paid for by Persia’s new Great King, Darius. To Memnon’s pride they stood their ground, patient and unconcerned.

  Ephialtes gestured at them. “What is the point of having this army if you’re not going to use it? Zeus Savior, Memnon! You’ve marched us out here for five days now! For five days we’ve formed ranks, stared at those whoreson Macedonians for an hour or more, and instead of charging you sound retreat and back we go into camp! Have you no spine, man?”

  “Have you no respect, dog?” Pharnabazus stepped toward Ephialtes, the slender Persian’s anger unfazed by the Athenian’s size. Memnon, though, caught his arm, a slight smile on his face.

  “It’s not a question of spine, Ephialtes, nor of spleen, nerve, or backbone. It’s one of wits. You’ve noticed, I’m sure, that Parmenion follows my lead as though he were under my command: we march out; he marches out. We form ranks; he forms ranks. We stand; he stands. We withdraw; he withdraws. He waits because that is what Philip has inculcated in him—the idea that your enemy will become impatient and he will make a mistake. Pharnabazus, tell our erstwhile Athenian what would happen if we charged the Macedonians now.”

  Sneering, Pharnabazus crouched and drew his knife, sketching out the battlefield in the sandy loam. “I see no cavalry, so Parmenion’s center would hold us at bay—his sarissas are five feet longer than our spears—while both his flanks executed a split to the right and left. This would thin his flanking battalions by half, from twenty men deep to ten, but it would give him the extension he would need to overlap and encircle us. Then …”