Memnon

by Oden, Scott

  DEDICATION

  To SLM: Siren, Muse … and friend.

  Published 2006 by Medallion Press, Inc.

  The MEDALLION PRESS LOGO

  is a registered tradmark of Medallion Press, Inc.

  Copyright © 2006 by Scott Oden

  Cover Illustration by Adam Mock

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Oden, Scott.

  Memnon/Scott Oden.

  p. cm.

  “Platinum imprint.”

  ISBN 1-932815-39-2 (hard)

  1. Greek mercenaries–Fiction. 2. Greece–History–Macedonian Expansion, 359-323 B.C.–Fiction. 3. Macedonia–History–To 168 B.C.–Fiction. 4. Iran–History–Macedonian Conquest, 334-325 B.C.–Fiction. 5. Alexander, the Great, 356-323 B.C.–Fiction. 6. Darius III, King of Persia, d. 330 B.C–Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3615.D465M46 2006

  813’.6–dc22

  2006012343

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  First Edition

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:

  To reach our dreams, writers of historical fiction must stand on the shoulders of giants—authors of the past and present, scholars, archaeologists, and antiquarians of every stripe. We trail them like eager camp followers, scavenging through the scraps of their genius to give our own work verisimilitude. I’ve said this before but it bears repeating: without the sweat, blood, and tears of academia, the field of historical fiction would be a barren place.

  I would like to thank Dr. Jeanne Reames-Zimmerman, who shared with me her insight on Macedonian culture and politics, and fellow author and philhellene Ruth Kozak, whose travel photos and journals transported me across the landscape of Memnon’s world. I owe a debt of gratitude to Dutch scholar Jona Lendering. His vast and reliable database of antiquity, Livius (www.livius.org) has become an indispensable tool for research. I would also like to recognize the members of Alexander the Great’s Forum at Pothos (www.pothos.org/forum), who courteously answered some of my most basic questions. Any mistakes found herein are mine, alone.

  As always, I am grateful to Helen, Leslie, and the staff at Medallion Press, my agent Rebecca Pratt, and the Usual Suspects: Darren, Sarah, Wayne, Tanja, Kris, Kristie, Josh, Edna, Adam, and Laura.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Bibliography

  Appendix I

  Appendix II

  Appendix III

  “The most brilliant exploits often tell us nothing of the virtues or vices of the men who performed them.”

  —PLUTARCH

  PROLOGUE

  THE SUMMONS DELIVERED TO ARISTON THAT DAMP WINTER MORNING was written on the finest vellum, in an elegant hand that suggested a discriminating intellect tempered with the manners only good breeding could engender. Certainly not the handwriting of a mercenary captain or a middling merchant, his two most recent patrons. Nor was the note suggestive of a Hellene; though brief, it had nothing of the brusque tenor so fashionable among the arrogant Macedonians who ruled Ephesus. Ariston read it again:

  To Ariston of Lindos, son of Thrasyllus, greetings. May the gods bless you, your household, and your endeavors. My mistress begs an audience with you. Come at your earliest convenience to the estate called The Oaks, on the slopes of Mount Coressus.

  It bore no signature.

  Ariston’s imagination raced. The note conjured visions of shaded pools and hidden gardens haunted by a woman, an Ephesian Sappho, who kept lonely vigil as her servants scoured the city for men of distinction, men who could entertain her mind rather than her loins. Ariston fancied himself that sort of man. Though not quite twenty-one, his first work, the epic Chalkosidae, found some small favor at the City Dionysia. Obviously, the note’s author wished to secure a private reading for his employer.

  “It must be good news,” said Nicanor, the one-legged Macedonian who owned the food stall on the waterfront where Ariston broke his fast. “You’ve read it three times now.”

  Ariston looked up and grinned at the old soldier. “The poet says to call no man happy till he is dead. I’m slain by this note, Nicanor, murdered by the promise of patronage.” Indeed, an offer of sponsorship could not have come at a more opportune time. His last obol had gone to Nicanor for his meager breakfast: a heel of day-old bread slathered with lentil paste and a cup of bitter wine. Without a patron, his next meal would be at the grace of god. “What’s the best way to reach the estates on Mount Coressus?”

  Rain pattered on the food stall’s awning. Nicanor arched an eyebrow. “Coressus, eh? In this weather? You’re a braver man than I. Head inland toward the Magnesian Gate. Once you reach the agora, take the Street of the Charites across the valley floor. That’ll get you to the mountain’s foot easy enough.”

  “My thanks, Nicanor,” Ariston said, dribbling the last of his wine on the ground. “For Apollo and the Muses.” He gathered his belongings—reed pens, clay flasks of ink, and scraps of papyrus and parchment, all of it wrapped in an oft-mended chiton and stuffed into a sailor’s oilcloth bag—and stepped into the street, pulling his cloak tight against the weather.

  The persistent rain washed the gutters of Ephesus clean, sluicing the dust and debris accumulated over the long autumn months into the sea. The smells of moist earth, brine, and baking bread filled Ariston’s nostrils as he set off, following Nicanor’s directions. From the waterfront, the street twisted along the foot of Mount Pion, a serpentine avenue rutted by the tread of countless feet, hooves, and wheels. It wound past the gymnasion, where a delegation of Spartans trained naked in spite of the rain. Ariston watched them for a moment, envious of their battle-hardened musculature, and continued past the theater. Colorful wooden broadsides announced the arrival of a troupe from Attica who had gained renown performing the tragedies of Euripides and Aeschylus.

  Shivering, Ariston reached the agora and took advantage of the shelter offered by the columned stoa. Knots of men gathered around the communal braziers, listening as a ship captain from Piraeus spoke from atop a makeshift rostrum. Spontaneous applause erupted as he concluded his speech. Ariston turned to the man closest him, a man of means if his robes of cream-colored Milesian wool were any indication.

  “What goes?” Ariston asked.

  The fellow eyed him, noting his bedraggled appearance, his dripping bag. His lips curled in a moue of distaste as he returned his attention to the envoy. “He bears news from Athens. Demetrios has freed that great city from
Kassandros’s vile grasp.” The man moved away, adding his voice to those who peppered the captain with questions.

  Ariston stepped into the now-vacant spot near the brazier and warmed his hands. While ostensibly good news, the liberation of Athens meant four years of peace among the Diadochi had ended. Those men, the successors of Alexander, fought to reunite his empire under their own auspices. In the division of spoils, Antigonos, a canny old fox and the father of Athens’s current savior, received Asia and Syria—including Ephesus; Ptolemy, said to be Alexander’s bastard half-brother, contented himself with Egypt. Alexander’s bodyguards, Lysimachus and Seleukos, received Thrace and Babylonia, respectively, while Macedonia and Greece fell into the brutal hands of Kassandros, son of Antipatros. Freed of the burden of peace, the Diadochi could marshal their armies once more. Kassandros would doubtless try and retake Athens, while Ptolemy longed to make himself master of Syria and the Aegean. Come the spring, Greek blood would flow like thawed snow.

  Ariston listened to the rhetoric of war for close to an hour before restlessness got the better of him. His errand beckoned, a Siren calling out to him from the slopes of the mountain. Ariston quit the agora for the Street of the Charites and crossed the valley floor, using porticoes and trees as shelter until he reached the foot of cloud-wreathed Mount Coressus. There, he ascended a cobbled footpath full of switchbacks and curving steps. Wind and rain cut through his sodden clothing like shears through fleece. He paused once, glancing over his shoulder.

  Mount Coressus lay south and east of the waterfront, its rocky summit overlooking the temples and public buildings of the city’s center. On a clear day, Ariston could have seen past the tradesmen’s shops on smaller Mount Pion, beyond the golden facade of the great temple of Artemis, to the banks of the river Cayster. Today, he could barely see back to the agora. Teeth chattering, Ariston clutched his cloak’s edges tight. On the slopes above, amid groves of fragrant cedar and black pine, the affluent citizens of Ephesus—Greek, Macedonian, and Persian—made their homes. Their estates bore evocative names, such as Hound’s Run or Pride of Leonidas or Blessed of Mithras, displayed above the gates or on plaques woven into the hedgerows. A few had armed men guarding their entryways. These last looked at Ariston like so much offal left at their master’s door.

  “The Oaks?” he called each time he passed a brace of sullen-faced guards, miserable in their cold bronze breastplates and damp cloaks. “Do you know it?” Each gave the same answer: a jab of the thumb, a gesture, directing him off down the road. Soon, the cobblestones gave way to mud, and the guards gave way to equally dour servants. The responses, though, never varied. Keep going. It’s just ahead. Finally, Ariston spotted the denuded boughs of the trees that gave The Oaks its name. He quickened his pace, fairly trotting up the road; his heart pounded as his excitement reached its apex …

  … then plummeted, like Icarus from the heavens on wings of melted wax.

  Ariston’s steps faltered. Even to his unfamiliar eye the estate looked uninhabited, its stone and wood in the early stages of decay. The gate stood askew on its hinges, the hedgerow bounding the property overgrown with every manner of weed and bramble. A boggy path, lined with oaks as tall and straight as a squad of hoplites, ran from the gate to the villa’s sagging portico. The young scholar’s cheeks burned with equal parts embarrassment and anger as his hopes for reputable patronage dissipated like smoke. This would be the same as the others—a few drachmas for a couple of lines, an epitaph for the family patriarch perhaps. He could live another week on his earnings, more if he practiced Spartan economy.

  With a sigh, Ariston walked up the path between the oaks, careful of the mud. He mounted the portico and paused before the weather-scarred door. Inside, he could hear the soft strains of a flute playing an unfamiliar tune. He listened for a moment before knocking. Instantly, the fluting stopped. Ariston knocked again, harder.

  Wood scraped wood as an unseen hand drew back the bolt; hinges creaked as the door inched open, revealing a dark and careworn face. Eyes the color of mahogany, moist and filmed with cataracts, peered out and looked Ariston up and down. “May I help you?” the old man said, speaking impeccable Greek, though heavy with the fluid accent of Egypt.

  Ariston bowed slightly. “I was told the mistress of the house seeks an audience with me.”

  The fellow’s demeanor changed. He eased the door open and stepped out. “Ah, then you would be Ariston of Lindos, on the island of Rhodes?”

  Tension drained from Ariston’s shoulders, replaced by pride. At least they know my name. “The same. You have me at a disadvantage, sir, for I know not who you are.”

  “I am of no importance,” the old man said. “A mere servant. Truly, though, I had not expected to see you today, with the weather as it is. My mistress will be pleased.”

  “Who is your mistress?”

  The old man averted his eyes. “If it pleases you, come, and I will show you to a place where you can dry yourself and take a bit of warm wine.”

  Ariston, his curiosity piqued, allowed himself to be ushered into the vestibule. Whatever mystery might surround his new patroness did not extend to her villa. Its dismal interior fit hand-in-glove with the exterior. A pebble mosaic underfoot, depicting Herakles slaying the Nemean Lion, showed gaps where stones had broken in the past and never repaired. Patches of mildew mushroomed along the baseboards, doubtless fueled by the humidity of the past summer. Murals decorated the walls, scenes of the hunt, of the hearth, of gods and goddesses frolicking amid the glory of nature, all of it dulled by a patina of grime. At every hand, Ariston saw the telltale signs of fading opulence. It reminded him of those oak trees lining the path, their limbs flensed to reveal skeletal wood beneath.

  “If it’s all the same,” Ariston said, “I’d prefer to be taken to your mistress now.”

  The Egyptian nodded. “As you wish.”

  Ariston followed the servant down a darkened hallway and out into the peristyle, its columns pitted from exposure to the elements. Here, aromatic herbs grew in the shade of an evergreen olive tree, its trunk as gnarled and bent as that of the old man. They entered another corridor, this one lit by a narrow window at its end. The old Egyptian stopped at a door, its cedar planks bound in bronze. He knocked lightly, and then opened it to reveal a woman’s bedchamber.

  Unlike the rest of the villa, this suite of rooms had an aura of cleanliness, of elaborate maintenance. An artist’s brush had touched up the wall mural, this one an Arcadian glen where the Muses performed for their father, Zeus; thick rugs and colorful carpets from the heart of Persia strewed the floor. A fire crackled in the hearth. The smell of wood smoke mingled with that of incense. A breeze from the open window ruffled the sheer linen panels circling the bed. The old Egyptian tsked as he shuffled over and drew the shutter closed.

  “Mistress, you’ll catch a chill.”

  “I wanted to smell the ocean, Harmouthes.” The woman in bed coughed, struggling for breath. “One last time.”

  “You will have many more opportunities for such pleasures, mistress. For now, though, I’ve brought you a guest. The young scholar about whom I told you.”

  She craned her neck, peering at Ariston with eyes darker than a moonless night. “Bring him closer.”

  Before the old man, Harmouthes, could say anything, Ariston stepped to the edge of the bed and bowed. The gesture brought a wan smile to the woman’s lips. Ariston reckoned she had been sick for some time, long enough that he could not fathom her age, though in the flush of health she must have been an incomparable beauty: olive-skinned with lustrous black hair and the delicate features of Persian nobility. Still, her illness-ravaged body bore a measure of its old fire, though muted, as if seen through Death’s gossamer veil.

  “Your eyes speak too clearly,” she said, her flawless Greek tinged with a light Persian accent.

  “Pardon?” Ariston blinked, taken aback.

  “You’re thinking how cruel are the Fates for making the only offer of patronage you’ve ha
d this winter come from the shriveled breast of a dying woman. You’re thinking of how best to preserve your reputation.” She glanced at Harmouthes. “Leave us, my old friend.”

  Harmouthes bowed and left the room.

  “Harmouthes swears by your skill,” she said, after the door snicked shut. “He attended the City Dionysia and claims he has not seen your equal since Xenophon put ink to paper. Unstinting praise especially from an Egyptian, whose people invented the scholar’s art.”

  Ariston inclined his head. “I am flattered, truly. You seem well informed about my current plight, yet I know nothing of you, or of why I am here. The note your man sent was cryptic, and I had half a mind to dismiss it as a jest.”

  “But you didn’t,” she said.

  Ariston gave a thin smile. “No, Lady. I didn’t. Poverty has a way of making even the noblest man desperate. And, to be honest, the mystery of it appealed to me. Though even mystery wears thin when taken to extremes.”

  “Fair enough. As for my name, you may call me …” She paused, lost in thought. “Melpomene.”

  Ariston’s eyebrows inched upwards. “You are bold, Lady, to call yourself by the name of a Greek goddess when you are obviously Persian. Very well, then. What would you have of me? I have brought my latest work, should you desire to hear it for yourself.”

  “Chalkosidae. No, master Ariston. That is not why I have summoned you. I wish to commission a work, a life recorded for all time.”

  Ariston said nothing for a long moment, his lips pursed and brow furrowed. “Forgive me, Lady, but my art is not like that of the painter or the sculptor. When I write the subject must move me in some way. It must inspire me to seek the favor of the Muses. I wrote of Phanes of Halicarnassus because his genius, his passion, stirred the feeling in my breast. I sought only to understand him, not to immortalize him. It will be the same for the next man whose life I chronicle.”