by Oden, Scott
“Philolaus,” he hissed.
This newcomer bowed low before Timocrates, a gesture full of scorn. “You’ve scored a small victory for your precious democrats, today,” he said. “But all you’ve really done is bandage a dying beast. Your allies are hemorrhaging daily, their strength and the strength of your cause ebbing. How long will it last, Timocrates? How long will democracy be in its death throes?”
“You make assumptions without merit, slave of Mausolus. What you really should ask yourself is how long can the Carians play at empire before their master, the Great King, checks their ambitions? A month? A year? Your master cannot dabble long in the affairs of the Hellenes before the Great King makes an end of him.”
“He needs to make an example of your son-in-law Artabazus first,” Philolaus said, grinning. “And your eldest, I’m told. By the Hound, Timocrates! For a staunch, Athenian-loving democrat, you’ve had excellent relations with tyrants of all stripes. Why, you yourself once served old satrap Pharnabazus in his war against the Spartans, even as your son serves his, now! By what right do you condemn tyranny when it’s part and parcel of your own kin? Are you a leaf blowing on whatever political wind is fashionable these days?”
Timocrates only smiled, saying, “It’s one thing to serve tyrants and oligarchs when it’s expedient; it’s another thing to live under their thumb. Rhodes is free, and should remain thus. If Mausolus of Caria hungers for more let him take it from the Great King’s plate, if he dares.”
All around them, democrats and oligarchs began snarling at one another, hurling shouts and curses, and emulating the leaders of their respective movements. The chairman of this Assembly, old Diogenes, rapped his staff on the floor and cried, “Come to order! Who wishes now to speak?”
“Philolaus!” someone called. Shouts of “Aye! Let Philolaus speak!” warred with the voices of those who wanted his blood. Philolaus acknowledged them with a wave and leaned close to Timocrates.
“We will continue our discourse later. For now, the body politic needs true guidance.” With a sinister wink, Philolaus brushed past Timocrates and ascended the plinth. He held up his arms, exhorting the crowd to silence. “Men! Rhodians! Your duty, when debating such weighty matters, is to allow freedom of speech to every one of your counselors, be they fair or foul. Personally, I never thought it a difficult task to point out to you the best policy, since you all seem to me to have discerned it already. No, the difficulty lay in inducing you to put it into operation; for when you have approved and passed a resolution, it is no nearer accomplishment than before you approved it!”
Timocrates turned away, motioning for his son to follow.
“Do you not wish to hear him out?” Memnon said.
“He speaks nothing new.”
Memnon nodded and followed his father out into the sunlight.
DOWN THE SLOPE FROM THE ASSEMBLY A GROVE OF OLIVE TREES AFFORDED shade and solitude to those who wearied of political theatrics. Here, servants of Athena’s temple maintained a sliver of paradise, a magnet for poets and lovers seeking the embrace of their particular muses. Wide gravel paths meandered under the boughs. Other, smaller trails branched off, leading to leafy grottoes that offered privacy from prying eyes; bordering the path, the generosity of grateful suppliants provided for a handful of stone benches carved with prayers of thanks to the Goddess. Timocrates sat on one of these and motioned for Memnon to join him. Farther down, at a bend in the trail, a young orator practiced his gestures to an audience of trees.
“You’re looking well, son,” Timocrates said. “Living with a common prostitute seems to agree with you.”
Memnon checked his anger. “Thalia’s many things, but common she’s not, as I’m sure your sycophant, Glaucus, has told you.” He nodded back toward the Assembly. The secretary had lingered there, listening to Philolaus. “If you’ve only sent for me so you can insult my friends, I’ll take my leave.”
“No, I sent for you because I have good news,” Timocrates said. “My guest-friend, Androtion, has agreed to sponsor you in the Academy at Athens. You will travel back with him, once he has concluded his embassy to the Carians.”
Memnon blinked. “Athens? The Academy?”
“A happy compromise, don’t you think? It answers your need to see the world while addressing my concerns for your future. I cannot claim the idea as mine, of course. It was Androtion who—”
“No, father.” Memnon said, his tone one of a man who wearied of explaining himself over and again. “Thank Androtion for his hospitality, but tell him I cannot accept.”
The older man’s face went livid. “What? What do you mean you cannot?” His voice carried down the path; the young orator turned in mid-exclamation, frowning.
“Circe leaves at week’s end. I mean to be on her.”
“Why are you so intractable?” Timocrates said, lurching to his feet. “I have arranged an opportunity that would make you the envy of most men, and yet you throw it back in my face!”
“Because it’s not what I want! Yes, I want to see something of the world before I settle down, before I take a wife and raise sons of my own. Yes, I want to see the glory of Athens. But all of this I will do on my own terms, not yours! I appreciate all you’ve offered, but you withhold the one thing I ask of you. Your blessing. It costs nothing; requires nothing of you save a smile and a kind word, yet you refuse. Why?”
Timocrates shook his head. “I’ll not bless you as you depart down a road I know leads to nothing but ruin and death!”
“How do you know this?” Memnon said, frustration driving his voice up an octave. “How? Have the gods suddenly gifted you with the vision?”
Timocrates leaned against the bole of a tree. “All my life I’ve seen it, Memnon. The same tragedy played out on a thousand different stages. You will go off to war full of tales of glory and return a broken man, or you’ll not return at all. ‘With your shield or on it’ is a fine sentiment for poets and demagogues, but it means nothing in the real world.”
Memnon said nothing for a long while, his head bowed in thought. Finally, he looked up. “You admire men such as Alcibiades, Pericles, Socrates? They are great men in your esteem, aren’t they? Peerless politicians and statesmen?”
“Yes, and you could be their equal, if only you’d listen to me!”
Memnon stood and caught Timocrates by the shoulders. He wanted to shake him. “These men, father, were all soldiers first! They knew the value of blood spilled in the cause of glory; they knew the horrors of war, which made them, in later life, never enter into it lightly. I cannot hope to rise to be their equal by sitting at the feet of dried out demagogues. I must strike out on my own, see the world for myself and decide my own fate. Surely you understand?”
Timocrates sighed, his resistance crumbling. “I forget sometimes that you are a child no longer. Perhaps my blessing …” he trailed off. The sound of sandals crunching on gravel brought a frown to the older man’s face. Memnon followed his gaze and saw Glaucus running full out down the path toward them. He skidded, nearly falling.
“Peace, Glaucus. What goes?” Timocrates said.
The secretary, his racking breath flecked with spittle and sweat, pointed back to the Assembly building. “Come quickly! It’s Philolaus! He’s trying to force a vote!”
“IS IT NOT THE HALLMARK OF A DEMOCRACY TO ALLOW THE PEOPLE TO decide their own fate?” Philolaus stood atop the plinth, surrounded by a sea of upturned faces. Their voices threatened to drown him out. He gestured to the impassioned crowd. “To deny the people their right to vote, when a quorum is present, is tantamount to dismissing the basic premise of your beloved democracy!”
Diogenes, perched on the highest riser in order to be seen, thrust his staff at Philolaus. “I will not allow you to mock our greatest institution! There are rituals to observe before a vote can be taken! Traditions to follow! We—”
“Ritual and tradition? Fear and sloth, more like! Are you too afraid, Diogenes, or are you simply too lazy to fulfill your ob
ligations to the people?”
“He is neither!” Timocrates thrust his way through the Assembly, Memnon and Glaucus in his wake, and took the plinth beside Philolaus. “Diogenes is wise. He’s forgotten more about the inner workings of democracy than you or I will ever know! The law is plain, Philolaus! The Council can vote upon no measure or decree without prior deliberation! To suggest otherwise is to risk exile, or worse!”
Diogenes nodded, vindicated, but Philolaus only laughed.
“This is why it takes the word of Zeus Savior himself to accomplish anything in a democracy! A council of old men fattened on spoils stolen from the people decides what can and cannot be discussed? Tell me, how is that any different from an oligarchy? Drop this pretense of freedom and admit …”
Memnon felt the crowd’s agitation; he felt the heat, the pressure of their anger. He glanced up at his father. Timocrates and Philolaus stood toe to toe, so caught up in their own feud that they were oblivious to the effect their words had on their followers. Like oxen with blinders, they plowed on, shouting each other down, debating esoteric points of law at the tops of their lungs. Beneath the plinth, scuffles broke out. Men shoved one another, cursed, spat, and struggled like leashed dogs.
“Can they not see what they’re doing?” Memnon said, clutching Glaucus’s arm. “We’ve got to separate them before they cause a riot!” Glaucus, though, could only stare, his eyes wide, his fist upraised in defiance of tyranny. Memnon released him, turned …
Something whistled past his ear. A rock, smaller than a child’s fist, missed Timocrates by a fingerbreadth and struck Philolaus above his right eye. The oligarch reeled, clutching at his forehead.
“No!” Memnon yelled. But, at the sight of the oligarch’s blood, the simmering crowd boiled over in a frenzy of rage. All semblance of order fled as men turned on one another, punching, biting, and kicking in an effort to voice with violence what they could not with words. Only the ancient prohibition against weapons at an Assembly kept this from becoming a bloodbath. Memnon watched as partisans of each faction rushed the plinth; both orators vanished under a riptide of grasping hands.
“Father!” Memnon surged forward, riding the crest of a human wave. Some fought for their cause; others fought to get away. Underfoot, a shoal of trampled bodies made each step treacherous. Memnon grabbed two men by the scruff of their necks and flung them aside. A fist grazed his cheek. A heel bruised the meat of his thigh. A walking stick cracked across his shoulders. Memnon snarled at this last, turned, and wrenched the stick from an old man’s hand.
Armed now with a truncheon of bronze-capped olive wood, Memnon waded through the flailing mob. Oligarch or democrat, he did not care; he left a path of broken bones, teeth, and heads in his wake. He gained the plinth and found Timocrates on the ground, struggling against a wild-eyed young democrat whose hands were knotted around Philolaus’s throat. A callous man might have left the oligarch to his fate—is he who incites rebellion not deserving of death?—but Memnon believed in the rule of law, in justice. A man should face trial before his execution. With a savage blow of his cudgel, Memnon broke the zealot’s grip and dragged him, cursing and screaming, off Philolaus. A second blow sent him plummeting into oblivion.
Memnon crouched and helped his father to his feet.
“Have they lost their minds?” Timocrates muttered, disoriented. “Violence only begets violence!”
“Orators beget violence with their loose tongues!” Memnon said. Through the wrack he spotted Glaucus, his face scratched and bloody, his robes torn. “Here, Glaucus!” Seeing Timocrates alive bolstered the secretary’s flagging spirits. He rushed to his master’s side.
“Thank the gods! I thought—”
Memnon cut him off. “Your people are getting the worst of it! Take Father home and keep watch over him. Keep him safe! I will come when I can.”
“As you wish,” Glaucus said. Like a Spartan general, the secretary gathered a phalanx of democrats around Timocrates and hustled him from the Assembly building. Memnon watched them leave before turning his attention to Philolaus. The oligarch, on his knees now, clawed at the edge of the plinth as he sought to find his footing. Blood smeared his face, dripping from his beard to stain his blue robes. He coughed and struggled for breath.
“Get up, you damn fool!” Memnon knelt, looped Philolaus’s arm around his neck, and pulled him upright. “Get up before someone kills you!”
“They’ve tried,” the oligarch gasped. “I owe you my life. To which faction are you pledged?”
“Neither, and you owe me nothing.” Memnon noticed a half-dozen of Philolaus’s men nearby, watching as one of their number kicked a fallen democrat in the ribs. Memnon’s proximity to their leader, and Philolaus’s reliance on him, registered in their minds as the actions of an ally. The young Rhodian gestured to one of them.
Philolaus shook his head. “No. I never forget a debt, or a face. Seek me out when all this is over. I could use a man of your talents.”
Memnon dropped his bloody cudgel, shrugged himself free of the oligarch’s arm, and entrusted him to the care of his men. “My talents, as you call them, are pledged elsewhere.” He turned and walked toward the door. Clumps of men dotted the floor of the Assembly, moaning, crawling. Some of those trampled would never move again.
“Wait!” he heard Philolaus croak. “At least tell me to whom I am indebted!”
Memnon paused at the head of the stairs, under the statue of Dorieus. For a moment, he flirted with the idea of a lie. No. He had no reason to be ashamed of who he was. With a nod, he said, “Memnon, son of Timocrates.”
Philolaus’s face paled beneath its veneer of blood. “I sense the hand of a god in this,” he said. “Very well, son of Timocrates. Go in peace with my thanks. Perhaps someday the gods will allow me to discharge my obligation to you.”
Memnon turned and ascended the last few steps. “I said you owe me nothing.” But, his voice was lost amid the cries of victory that arose from the Assembly building. They could only claim dominance by the slenderest of margins, but claim it they did.
Memnon imagined word of the battle had already reached the harbor. The oligarchs have risen! Death to the democrats! Both factions would arm themselves with spears and javelins, swords and knives, arrows and sling stones. Old soldiers would take their shields down from the hearth; young soldiers would don their bronze panoplies. Merchants would beat a hasty retreat to their country manors, or load their wealth onto ships bound for secluded beachheads on the western shore of the island. The threat of civil war, of stasis, would paralyze the city. Memnon glanced back over his shoulder at Philolaus, who held court amid the wounded like a conquering king. All of this because I spared you.
Memnon had not reckoned that his act of conscience might cost Rhodes its life.
2
“COME AWAY FROM THE WINDOW,” THALIA SAID, CLUTCHING HER bedclothes tight. The rooms she rented above a tavern on the Street of Ophioussa, near the temple of Aphrodite, reminded Memnon of the seraglio of a Persian satrap. Paneled and furnished in dark wood, its four lamps, two of polished bronze and two of terracotta, drove away the shadows, their sweetened smoke mingling with a haze of costly frankincense. Colorful carpets and brocades covered the floor and the walls. Wide-eyed, Thalia gestured to Memnon. “Please! Come sit by me. I’m afraid.”
Memnon smiled, but stood his ground, peering out into the flame-flecked night through drawn shutters. At dusk, Rhodes had erupted in an orgy of fiery violence. A foreign mob, no doubt purchased with Carian gold, rampaged through the homes and shops of known democrats, torching what they could not kill or carry off. Though he’d hoped otherwise, this descent into stasis caught his father’s faction off guard; the threat of mob rule swayed any who might have thrown in with them to the oligarch’s cause. Disgusted, Memnon turned from the window.
“Please, Memnon!” Tears sparkled on Thalia’s lashes.
The young Rhodian sat beside Thalia, pulling her into his embrace. “Don’t worry yoursel
f so,” he said, stroking her tawny hair. Thalia came from Cyrene in North Africa; her straw-colored hair, common in her homeland, gave her an exotic cast favored by the jaded sailors of Rhodes. “This will be over soon, and your life will return to normal.”
“But what will I do with you gone?” she said. “Who will care for me?”
“I expect you’ll find yourself a fat, rich merchant and settle down to a life of luxury. Maybe even see something of the world, yourself.” Memnon had no illusions about the young woman in his arms. Men were a flock of sheep to her; some ripe for shearing, others earmarked for the altar of Aphrodite—sacrifices to the patron goddess of the hetaera. Among men, Thalia could be as sleek and predatory as any leopard.
“The world holds no allure for me if I’m not at your side,” she said, her voice a throaty murmur. She craned her neck, kissing the hard line of his jaw. “Take me with you.”
Memnon shook his head. “A mercenary camp is no place for a woman of your tastes. The food is of the roughest sort, inedible by all save the hungriest of foot soldiers. And there are no beds, no sheets. Everyone sleeps on the ground at the mercy of the heat and the cold, exposed to the elements. Can you see yourself carrying my gear over mountains and through valleys? No, Thalia. A life as a mercenary’s woman is not one I’d wish on you.”
“Forget the mercenary life, then,” she said. “We could go to Ephesus or Athens or Corinth … Corinth, Memnon! Imagine it! They say even the most common courtesans wear gold and jewels in Corinth. What would they make of me, I wonder?” Thalia tossed her head and preened. Her fingers loosened, and the linen bedclothes slid down her body, bunching about her trim waist. Golden skin glowed in the lamplight; the lush curves of her breasts brought a lump to Memnon’s throat. Like a lamb to the altar.