Memnon

by Oden, Scott

  Memnon said nothing; he chewed his lip, staring at the body of Hydarnes.

  “You’ve got to withdraw, Memnon!” Omares said. “If for no other reason than to get these boys to safety, for Artabazus’ sake! We will stay behind and cover your retreat!”

  “Swear to me, Omares! Swear to me you’ll throw down your weapons and sue for terms once we’re off the field! There’s no call for you and your men to martyr yourselves!”

  Omares nodded. “Once you’re away, I’ll kiss the whelp’s arse if that’s what’s required of me! First, though, we’ll form ranks and give them a show. You and the boys get moving, sir.”

  Memnon gave a sad smile. “Sir, is it?”

  “Aye, it must be your august presence.” He gripped Memnon’s hand. “If anything should happen here …”

  “I won’t let you go unavenged. You have my word.”

  Omares exhaled and nodded. “You’d best get going. What about the lad’s body?”

  “Pharnabazus?”

  “We will take him with us,” the Persian said. “Father … Father would not want us to abandon him to the Macedonians.”

  The Rhodian motioned for his men to mount up. Mardius and Azanes gently lifted Hydarnes’ body and draped it over the back of a spare horse, handing the reins to Ari. Memnon vaulted into the saddle. Bridle fittings rattled as he spun back to Omares. “Remember, no martyrs!”

  “Farewell.” The old soldier smiled, slapping the horse’s rump as Memnon turned and followed his column south, away from the circling vultures.

  MEMNON LED THE SURVIVORS OF THE GRANICUS ALONG THE RIDGES OF Mount Ida, through valleys thick with pine. A carpet of fallen needles muffled the dull clop of their bone-weary horses. Despite exhaustion, despite wounds, Memnon drove them on through the long night, riding up and down the column to give his men encouragement, to make sure none were left behind. Finally, the Rhodian called a halt near dawn to allow stragglers from other cavalry brigades to catch up with them. He greeted the Hyrkanians, Medes, Bactrians, and Lydians personally, eager to piece together from them the fate of the Persian satraps.

  “They very nearly killed him,” he told Pharnabazus, groaning as he settled onto the ground beside him. The Persian handed Memnon a chunk of barley bread and a cup of wine. “I think luck was all that saved the bastard.”

  “Alexander?”

  Memnon drained the cup, refilled it with water. “Satraps attacked him with their personal guards. Mithrobarzanes died first, I’m told, on Alexander’s lance. Rhosaces struck next, shearing off part of Alexander’s helmet, but before he could land the killing blow the young king spun and impaled him. Spithridates came on his brother’s heels; Alexander didn’t see him. They said he was on the verge of splitting Alexander’s skull when one of the Royal Bodyguard took Spithridates’ sword-arm off at the shoulder.”

  “One cannot fault their lack of valor,” Pharnabazus replied.

  “No, only their lack of vision.”

  Pharnabazus stirred the embers of their small fire. Ari and Cophen slept, as did most of the men, sprawled out on the ground without cloak or wrap, still in their bloodstained armor. Some, like Memnon and Pharnabazus, sat and talked quietly. Others sat alone, lost in thought. “What are we going to do, Uncle?”

  “Regroup. Alexander will secure Dascylium then make for Sardis, most likely. Then Ephesus.” The Rhodian’s face darkened. He had sent Barsine and the children there before leaving for Zeleia. “That’s where I’ll take the men. You I’m sending east to Susa, perhaps as early as tomorrow. Take Ari with you and deliver news of all you have seen to the Great King … and to your father. Tell His Majesty that, barring orders to desist, I will make ready to retaliate against Alexander.”

  “Retaliate? How?”

  But Memnon would say nothing more. The Rhodian stared at the crackling embers, idly sketching a battle plan in the dirt with the tip of a stick. His brows drew together …

  FEAR GRIPPED EPHESUS IN A VISE. MEMNON SENSED IT AS HE AND HIS MEN rode through the valley of the river Cayster and around the foot of Mount Pion. As fast as they had traveled, news from the Granicus traveled faster still, arriving as if borne on the wings of crows. Alexander was coming, but would he bring freedom or despair? Many of the town’s leaders, pro-Persian oligarchs, had not waited to find out; they packed their belongings into ships and bolted, making for the islands or mainland Hellas.

  By midday, Memnon reached his estate on the outskirts of Ephesus, where he dismissed his soldiers and sent Cophen to make preparations for Hydarnes’ funeral. News of Memnon’s arrival preceded him and a knot of men in fine Median robes met him at the gate, a deputation of the town’s remaining leaders. They twittered about his horse like a flock of finches, peppering him with questions.

  “Is it true, General? Is Alexander planning to destroy Asia?”

  “Should we flee, too?”

  “What should we do, my lord?”

  Memnon raised his hand, demanding silence. “Alexander is a man, and a young man at that. He could no more destroy Asia than you could or I. But he is coming to Ephesus, gentlemen. We must make ready to repel him. Please, I have traveled a long distance. Right now, I want only to see my wife and family.”

  “But you say we should fight?” one man said, standing defiant. “Even after what he did to your mercenaries?”

  Memnon frowned. “He did nothing to them. They surrendered—”

  “You … you don’t know?” Defiance fled, replaced by uncertainty. The others shrunk away from him.

  “Know what? Speak up, man!”

  “A-Alexander refused to accept their terms, General! He … he allowed his men to slaughter them even after some had thrown down their weapons!”

  Memnon swayed in the saddle. Red rage gripped the Rhodian as he imagined Omares being struck down, his call for terms ignored. I abandoned them. Guilt and grief mingled, adding their weight to the unimaginable responsibility already on Memnon’s shoulders. He ground his teeth until he tasted blood. “Is this true?” he hissed.

  The men of the deputation nodded. “S-Some survived, but he has eenslaved them and refuses r-ransom.”

  “They are to be examples, as Thebes was an example.”

  “If this is the war Alexander wishes to wage, need you ask what you should do?” Memnon snarled, gesturing for his kardakes to open the gate. “My thanks, gentlemen.” He gave a curt nod and spurred his horse to a canter, leaving the officials frightened and bewildered.

  Barsine met him on the portico of the house, greeting him with a goblet of wine and a damp cloth, the expression on her face as grave as his own. Memnon dismounted and walked slowly up the steps. Sunlight dappled her blue linen gown. He stopped a step below her, eyes level with her shoulders, and sighed. His forehead creased; he had to tell her about Hydarnes.

  “Barsine, I—”

  “No, my love,” she said. “Say nothing until you have had a chance to rest and marshal your thoughts. Whatever ill news you bear will not spoil by keeping.” She bid him drink the chilled wine, a strong Thasian, while she wiped dust from his face with the cloth. “I have ordered a bath prepared, then a light meal and a few quiet hours of sleep.” She kissed the wrinkles on his forehead.

  “What I have to tell you can’t be put aside,” he said, his hands going around her waist. “It’s Hydarnes …” Memnon stared hard at the hollow of her throat, unwilling to raise his eyes to meet hers. He choked off a grief-filled sob. “He …”

  Tears glistened on Barsine’s cheeks as she leaned closer to him. She stroked his hair and neck. “Oh, Memnon,” she whispered.

  “I … I should have left him at Zeleia,” Memnon said. “He was too young … too young.”

  “Come, my love. Come and rest.” Barsine took Memnon’s hand and led him through the house to a bathing chamber, its deep stone tub filled with steaming water. She dismissed the servants and tended him herself.

  Mechanically, Memnon stripped off his armor, his tunic—stiff with dried blood—his sa
ndals, and eased himself into the tub. He groaned as the water stung every gash and bruise on his body. As Barsine washed and trimmed his hair and beard, his eyes never left her face. He blinked slowly, exhaustion overtaking his taxed muscles. She cleaned his cuts, assuring herself that none needed stitching or bandaging, and massaged the kinks from his shoulders and neck. By the end of the bath, Memnon needed her help just to rise.

  Barsine dried him with towels smelling of an extract of mint, and then led him to the next room, where servants had prepared a soft divan. Beside it were low tables of bread, olives, cheese, and wine. Near the ceiling, a fringed punkah circulated the cool air, its cord pulled by unseen hands.

  Memnon stretched out on the divan, asleep before Barsine had a chance to fill a bowl of wine for him.

  The Rhodian awoke some hours later, opening his eyes to stare at the ceiling. Fingers of light and shadow danced from the flame of a clay lamp. He felt warmth and weight on his arm; Memnon looked down to see Barsine’s head pillowed on his forearm, her hands twined around the muscular limb. She sat on the floor at his side, her body leaning against the divan as she dozed. With his free hand, Memnon stroked her hair. Touching the silk at the nape of her neck sent a shudder of desire through his frame.

  Barsine’s eyes fluttered open. “Are you hungry?” she murmured.

  Memnon shook his head. Gently, he drew her on top of him, kissing her with an intensity that left both breathless. Barsine straddled his hips, feeling heat radiating from his body, feeling her own moist response. She rose up, pulling her gown over her head. Memnon’s fingers traced meaningless designs over the skin of her thighs, her hips; he ran his hands up her sides to cup her breasts. Sinking down, Barsine moaned as Memnon slipped inside her.

  Their shadows writhed in the thin golden light; the hungry press of lips muffled their cries of passion. Soon, their sweat-beaded bodies lay intertwined on the divan, Barsine’s head resting on Memnon’s chest as she listened to the pulse of his heart.

  For a long time neither spoke. Finally, Barsine sighed. “How … how did my brother die?”

  “A javelin,” Memnon replied. Quietly, he told her about the battle and its aftermath. She looked up, troubled, when he spoke of Omares’ fate.

  “May the Great God preserve us,” she said.

  Memnon stirred. “Have you seen Cophen?”

  She snuggled closer, shaking her head. “I have not left your side. Khafre came in while you were sleeping. He has gone to look after the wounded. Lie still.”

  “There’s too much to do.”

  “Can it not wait till morning?”

  Memnon ceased moving, one arm pillowing his head, the other draped across Barsine’s back. She could sense the tension flowing back into him, his muscles knotting and unknotting—no doubt a side effect of his mind growing restless and active.

  “What is wrong?” she asked, rising up on her elbows.

  He exhaled. “I have to send you away, Barsine. You and the children,” he said, his voice low and hoarse. “Asia’s no longer safe, not so long as the Macedonians remain unchecked. Even cities not on Alexander’s route won’t be spared from conflict. Democrats will rise up against the oligarchs … it will be the chaos of Rhodes all over again.”

  Barsine sat up. “Where will you send us?”

  “To the Great King … to your father. I’m sending Cophen with you. Alexander is his friend, and he doesn’t have the stomach to do what’s necessary against him.”

  “What do you mean?” She reached down and picked up her robe, shaking it out before she stood and slipped it over her head. “Is this to be a unique war?”

  Memnon sat up, too. He ran his fingers through his hair, rolled his shoulders, and cracked his neck. Exhaustion yet lined his face. “Unique? Only in its brutality. Alexander has proven his capacity for barbarity, shown the quality of his mercy at Thebes and at the Granicus. He seeks to cow Asia as he cowed Hellas. I mean to show him his error. I’ll make him waste himself in siege after useless siege, force him to spend his most precious asset—his men. Then, after he’s watched his companions shatter themselves on Asia’s walls, I will take the fight back to his home. I will burn Macedonia to ashes if that’s what it takes to get him out of our lands.” Memnon took her hand, kissed it. “But I can’t wage this kind of war if I know you and the children are near.”

  “Send us to Damascus or to Egypt, instead. I am sure Khafre would take excellent care of us in Egypt,” Barsine said. Tears sprang to her eyes. She knelt. “Please, my love! Do not send us so far from your side!”

  “I must,” he replied. His heart wrenched in his chest. “Only in the shadow of the Great King will you be beyond the reach of my enemies, Macedonian and Persian. I must be free to move and to act without constrains of worry.”

  Barsine sobbed. Memnon gathered her up in his arms, holding her gently as she cried into his shoulder. “W-When?”

  Memnon closed his eyes, tears streaking into his beard. “Soon.”

  THEIR SEPARATION CAME SOONER THAN MEMNON EXPECTED. THREE WEEKS after the debacle at the Granicus, in early Skirophorion, news came from Sardis. The commander of the citadel, one of Spithridates’ cousins, betrayed the city to Alexander. His perfidy meant there would be no long siege, no pitched battle on the Hermus plain, no loss of Macedonian life.

  “Alexander has his father’s gift for intrigue,” Memnon said, frowning. He and Khafre stood over a table set up in the courtyard of the estate, studying a map of Ionia and Caria. “His clemency toward Sardis will invigorate our opposition.”

  “How long before news of this reversal becomes common knowledge?” Khafre asked.

  “We have hours, a day at the most.” Memnon glanced up as Cophen entered the courtyard, followed by Thymondas, Azanes, and Mardius. “Well?”

  Cophen nodded. “A ship is waiting, Uncle. We can leave as soon as Barsine and the children are ready.”

  “Good. You’ll leave within the hour. Take them south, Cophen, to the Gulf of Issus. Disembark and travel overland to the Royal Road; your path should be unhindered all the way to Susa. Mardius, you and Azanes will accompany them. Take fifty kardakes, men you trust. Khafre?”

  The Egyptian exhaled. “I will go, as well, though I still maintain my services would be of better use nearer to the battlefield.”

  “I feel better knowing you will make the journey with them, Khafre,” Memnon said, gripping the Egyptian’s shoulder. “Thymondas, you and I will lead the troops out before the good citizens of Ephesus realize we’re gone. Take a thousand hoplites and reinforce Miletus. I’ll take the balance with me to Halicarnassus.” He straightened. “Gentlemen, time is of the essence. Go.”

  Men hustled about their business; soldiers and servants pitched in to ready horses and wagons, officers spread the word of their imminent withdrawal by word of mouth, exhorting their charges to be ready. Amid this buzz of activity Memnon remained still, dissecting the map again and again to be certain his tactics were sound. Draw him in. Make him waste—

  Cloth rustled. He turned.

  “So it is true? Sardis has fallen?” Barsine stepped out into the sunlight. In her black gown, her long hair hidden in the folds of a charcoal shawl, she looked as severe as Hades-bound Persephone.

  “It’s true,” Memnon said. “Alexander is fifty miles distant. We’re ill prepared to face him, so we’re pulling out of Ephesus. You and the girls will leave for Susa within the hour.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “Halicarnassus, to await the Great King’s decision.”

  Barsine nodded. “We … we will be ready.” She turned and vanished into the house, leaving Memnon alone in the courtyard.

  The Rhodian sighed and turned back to the map. Make him waste his men’s lives …

  TO AVOID SPARKING A PANIC, MEMNON STAGGERED THEIR DEPARTURES from the estate to the harbor. The Rhodian sent Khafre and his family first, in a wagon with only a few meager belongings; Cophen followed. Azanes, Mardius, and their kardakes split up and took bac
k-routes, looking to the curious like reinforced patrols. Memnon came last.

  The ship, Hesione, had a wide deck and two banks of oars to give it added power on days of unfavorable winds. “Keep an eye on the captain,” Memnon said to Khafre before he embarked. “And post your own lookout once you’re past Rhodes. That stretch of the Lycian coast is thick with pirates.”

  “I will school them personally, Memnon,” the Egyptian said. “My friend, may Lord Osiris watch over you and shower you with his blessings.”

  “And you, Khafre.” Memnon bid farewell to Azanes and Mardius, acknowledging each of their men as they filed aboard. Finally, Cophen came with the children.

  “Ah, my Little Dove and my Little Sparrow,” Memnon said, kneeling. Both girls rushed to him and flung their arms around his neck. He kissed their cheeks, one then the other. “Obey your mother, and carry my love to your grandmother.”

  “Will we see you again, Father?” Apame said, tears falling from her thick lashes.

  “Of course you will, Little Sparrow! I’ll bring your horses to you in Susa next year and we can ride to Babylon, to see the Hanging Gardens.”

  Artonis sobbed. “Promise?”

  Memnon smiled and kissed her, again. “I promise. Now, go with Uncle Cophen.” Reluctantly, the girls disengaged themselves from Memnon and followed Cophen across the gangplank. The Rhodian stood, smiling despite the suppressed emotion trembling his lips, waving them on as if they were off on an afternoon’s adventure rather than a journey of many months.

  He felt Barsine’s hand slip into his, turned.

  “Is this truly for the best?”

  “It is,” he replied. “You’ll be safe in Susa, I promise you. You’ll be with family, with your father and Deidamia, and you’ll want for nothing.”

  “That is not true,” she raised his hand to her lips. “I will want for you.”

  Memnon gathered her in his arms. “I love you.”

  “My Odysseus,” she whispered through her tears. “My love, come for us! No matter what you must endure, no matter the cost, come for us, Memnon! And soon! Promise me!”