Memnon

by Oden, Scott

  “Liar! I saw what your men did to him!”

  Philolaus bristled, matching anger with indignation. “Do you think me a barbarian, that I would order the mutilation of my own countrymen? Faugh! What the mob did last night they did of their own volition, not because of anything I offered them! I ordered my captains to keep a close tally of the dead; I did not realize to a Carian that meant lopping off the right hand. In that, the blame is mine, but the idea of a bounty is fiction, a lie propelled by greed. For myself, I desired a peaceful exchange of power, at most a few scuffles and a cracked head or three, with exile for those who did not share my vision, your father included. Now, I assume a mantle of leadership tainted by slaughter.”

  Memnon closed the gap between them; his hand snaked out, catching a fistful of Philolaus’s tunic. He raised his sword, its tip angled toward the hollow of the oligarch’s throat. “Tell it to the Ferryman, you son of a bitch!”

  Philolaus’s eyes blazed. Recklessly, he seized hold of Memnon’s naked blade and pulled it toward his breast. “Strike me down, then! Strike me down and avenge your father! But if you kill me, my Carians will annihilate you ‘ere you reach the harbor! Your friends, those not slain outright, will die slowly, their tortured passing an example of what will befall those men who flout Mausolus’s will!” The oligarch’s voice held a note of cold certainty that gave Memnon pause. “Go ahead! See your vengeance through, consequences be damned!”

  Memnon’s blade wavered. In a rush to pronounce judgment on his father’s slayer, he had not given thought to the effect his actions might have on those closest to him. Philolaus wasn’t bluffing. If he chose vengeance, Patron and the others would die; if he chose mercy, Timocrates’ shade would wander Hades’ realm unavenged. Caught between hammer and anvil, Memnon ground his teeth in frustration.

  “We’re not so different, you and I,” Philolaus continued, softening his tone in response to the boy’s uncertainty. “Neither of us believes in the supremacy of demokratia; we’re both fiercely loyal to our friends and ruthless to our enemies. But, I have the benefit of years and the meager wisdom their passage imparts. Choose only those battles you can win, Memnon, and if you must lose, do so with grace and dignity. I understand your desire to avenge Timocrates. He was your father and blood calls out for blood. I beg of you, let me ease the burden of your task! I’ve brought the man who murdered your father. I’ll give him to you, along with what he took from Timocrates’ body. Afterward, we part ways—you to the service of Artabazus and me to the service of Mausolus. What say you?”

  Philolaus’s words incited a war between Memnon’s logic and his emotion, and its effects were plain to see. Cords of muscle stood out in his arms and neck; the knuckles of the hand holding his sword whitened and cracked. His eyes, though, presaged the war’s outcome: they gleamed with tears of resignation. Slowly, Memnon let his blade fall to his side. With great effort he nodded assent.

  Philolaus gave a small sigh of relief. “There’s a sensible lad. I must signal my men now. Upon your life, make no sudden moves.” The oligarch raised two fingers to his lips and whistled. A moment later, a pair of his Carians appeared at the side door to the Assembly. One carried a covered wicker basket in his arms; the other dragged a third man by the scruff of his neck, his arms and legs bound, his tattered clothing smeared with soot and blood. The Carian dropped him at Philolaus’s feet as his mate placed the basket on the plinth. Both men stood their ground, glaring at the sword in Memnon’s fist, until Philolaus waved them away. “This is the wretch who slew Timocrates, who struck his head from his body.”

  Memnon scowled at the figure crawling at Philolaus’s feet. “Is this true? Did you kill my father?” The man groveled, rolling moist eyes toward the heavens, toward the oligarch, toward Memnon. Dried blood and sputum caked his scraggly beard. Indelicate hands had worked him over, breaking teeth and splitting open his cheek. Fear paralyzed the man’s tongue.

  “Answer him!” Philolaus barked, to no avail.

  Disgusted, Memnon shook his head. “I cannot kill this man. I have only your word that he has done me injury.”

  Philolaus shrugged. “I have played fair by you. This is the man who killed your father, whether you acknowledge it or not. If you agree I’ve kept my word, then our business is done.”

  Memnon slammed his sword home in its sheath. “I will take the tale to my brother, along with the details of our arrangement. If Mentor rejects it, I expect he and Artabazus will either petition Mausolus for your head or come for it themselves. Is this still acceptable for you?”

  “It’s a chance I’m prepared to take,” Philolaus said. “What of this wretch?”

  “Do with him what you will.”

  “As you wish.” Philolaus turned, lifted the basket off the plinth, and handed it to Memnon. “Take what time you need to set your father’s affairs in order. None of my men will molest you so long as you cause no trouble. Farewell, Memnon. I hope you find everything you deserve on distant shores.”

  The son of Timocrates gave a slight nod; his eyes lost none of their murderous fire. “And I hope the mantle of leadership you covet so becomes your death shroud.” And with that, Memnon backed away and slipped from the Assembly. For the second time in as many days, he couldn’t help but feel as though he had betrayed Rhodes.

  THE MEN OF Circe DESCENDED FROM THE ACROPOLIS BY THE LIGHT OF THE rising moon. As they neared the walls of Timocrates’ villa, a sentry caught sight of them and bellowed a warning. Sciron answered, and at the sound of his voice a ragged cheer went up. Patron walked out to meet them. “So?”

  Memnon brushed past him, clutching the basket to his chest like it was wrought of gold. Patron glanced at Sciron; the Argive shrugged. Circe’s captain turned and followed Memnon inside. A dozen feet from the gate, on a level stretch of ground leading up to the house, the pyre stood ready.

  “It’s done,” Memnon said, thankful that the torchlight concealed his red-rimmed eyes.

  “What happened?”

  In a few words, Memnon sketched out his meeting with Philolaus.

  Patron shook his head in disbelief. “Zeus! You left him alive?”

  Memnon glanced at his captain. “I did what needed to be done, to assure our survival. The final decision of what should befall Philolaus I leave to Mentor. It’s his right, as elder brother.” He placed the basket on the pyre, near his father’s body. Bion and Glaucus rested on either side, their corpses washed, wrapped in linen, and saturated with oil. It would be a quick funeral, without sacrifices. Memnon prayed the gods would understand.

  “When you left here, you were adamant about his punishment. What leverage could he have used to sway you? What …?” Patron glanced from Memnon to the others of Circe’s crew and found the answer to his question. “He used us against you.”

  Memnon motioned for Zaleucas to bring him his torch. “Did you not counsel me to embrace wisdom, to do nothing foolish? I said it’s done. Let it be, Patron.” He accepted Zaleucas’s torch and, without preamble, thrust it into the heart of the pyre. Old pitch-soaked wood ignited; the flames, fanned by the gentle sea breeze, crackled and spread, following rivulets of oil seeping from the linen. Gouts of black smoke vanished in the night sky. Cleia hung on the arm of her neighbor’s wife, both women sobbing as the flames roared fully to life. Other shapes gathered on the edge of the firelight, men who had known his father in life come to pay their respects in death. Circe’s crew stood apart from the rest. Memnon turned from the pyre, a nimbus of light playing over his body.

  “My father often sang the praises of his city,” Memnon said, his voice carrying, “but it was the courage, the gallantry, of men like Glaucus and Bion, and all the others who fell with them, which made her splendid. No words suffice to do justice to their deeds. Doubtless each of them had their faults—we all do—but whatever harm they did in their private lives has been erased by their courage. They go to the gods clothed in white, and wreathed like victors at Olympia.”

  Memnon paused and looke
d back at the flames. In his armor, sword at his hip, the son of Timocrates could have stepped from the poet’s verse, a living Achilles—ferocious, touched by the gods, perhaps even a little mad. The eyes of the audience never left him; they waited in rapt silence for him to continue.

  “I have no wish to make a long speech; truthfully, I have not the stomach for it. Those men who fell defending my father, defending their belief in democracy, were the best of men. Rhodes will not see their equal for a generation. Does that mean we who survived are of a lesser quality? In many ways, I believe so, yes. But, as we are alive, we can learn, and we have the unique opportunity to remake ourselves, to become better men. I urge you all to embrace the lesson my father taught. Timocrates was a harsh man, but he was fair. Like the Athenians he admired, he did not let his love of the beautiful lead him to extravagance, nor did his love of things of the mind make him soft. He regarded wealth as something to be properly used, rather than as something to boast about, and he befriended all: rich, poor, healthy, infirm, pious, blasphemous, judging them not by the contents of their purse, but by the quality of their character. When the trials of the coming days leave your spirits heavy with sorrow or fear, remember the example set by these men, remember their valor, their sacrifice, and let it inspire you to find the best and bravest in yourselves.”

  The heart of the pyre collapsed, sending a shower of sparks skyward. Memnon glanced up, watching as each ember blazed like a tiny star. Some vanished a moment after their birth while others endured, drifting high over the fire that spawned them. Like men. With a weary smile, Memnon returned his gaze to the people around him.

  “I have said enough. With the dawn, I leave Rhodes and my father’s bones come with me; this island is our home no longer. But, for tonight, let us gather as kinsmen. Let us speak kindly of the dead and give our grief free expression. Join me, brothers and sisters, raise your voices with mine so Lord Hades will know that men have come unto him this night, and he will know to honor them as we have.”

  INTERLUDE I

  ARISTON SAT IN SILENCE AS THE WOMAN’S VOICE TRAILED OFF AND her breathing softened. He glanced out the window, surprised to see night had fallen. The rain must have ceased sometime before dusk; now, a damp chill permeated the room. The young Rhodian rose and added a few logs to the glowing embers on the hearth, stoking it with a poker of blackened iron. The dry wood blazed, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. Burning bright, like the souls of men.

  In the renewed light he watched Melpomene as she slept, her face drawn and haggard from the exertion of tale telling. Despite being born some thirty years after the fact, much of what she spoke of was familiar to Ariston. His grandfather and namesake, a ship’s carpenter from Lindos, lived through the War of the Allies (as the Athenians called it) and the Carian occupation, though he loathed speaking of either. Only in his last years, when his mind began to fail, would he delve into the past and talk of friends long dead, deeds long forgotten; he would wake from naps trembling in fear, and hoard bread from his evening meal in expectation of some half-remembered famine. In his rare moments of lucidity, he would regale his grandson with tales of Athens, of Demosthenes, and of the Greek world’s struggles against that fearsome tyrant, Philip of Macedonia.

  Melpomene groaned in her sleep, clutching the small silver casket tight against her side. She wheezed something in Persian. Twice during the day, Harmouthes had brought them possets of honey-sweetened wine, spiced and warmed; doubtless hers contained additional herbs to combat her illness. Who is she? Ariston searched his memory for fragments of information, tiny scraps he might have overheard and filed away. Unfortunately, he knew very little about Memnon of Rhodes, save that he contested Alexander’s presence on Asian soil. That Melpomene knew the man intimately was a given, but how? She was Persian; Memnon was Greek, which ruled out any blood connection. A wife, perhaps?

  Ariston finished tending the fire, straightened. When he turned to collect his belongings, he noticed Melpomene’s eyes were open now, moist and shimmering in the firelight.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I did not mean—”

  “You remind me of my son.” Her voice barely rose above a whisper.

  “He should be here at your side, madam, to help care for you. Is he aware of your illness? If you’d like, I can try to get a message to him.”

  “I wish you could.” With some effort, Melpomene rolled onto her side, away from Ariston, and buried her face in the coverlet. Unsure of what to say, or of what he had said, Ariston picked up his bag and crept from the room. He met Harmouthes in the hallway.

  “She sleeps?” the old Egyptian said.

  Ariston nodded.

  “Good. Come. I have taken the liberty of preparing you a light supper. You will stay the night, of course?”

  “Yes,” Ariston said. “I’ll stay.” In truth, where would he go?

  Harmouthes smiled. “Her story, it is infectious, is it not?”

  “More so than I would have imagined.”

  Ariston followed the old Egyptian to the kitchen. It lay off the peristyle, and like the Lady’s room, it too showed signs of repair, with fresh plaster on the walls and new mortar on the hearth. Enough supplies to maintain a much larger household cluttered the corners: sacks of grain, onions, and dried dates, bunches of garlic, pottery jars of honey, and a half-dozen large shipping amphorae, the kind used to transport wine and olive oil. A savory incense of stewed vegetables, herbs, and pork filled the air, bubbling from an iron pot hanging over the fire. The smell reminded Ariston he had not eaten in hours; his growling stomach reminded him he had not eaten well for some days. Harmouthes gestured to a table of age-polished oak, directing Ariston to take a seat.

  The Egyptian bustled about the kitchen, setting out a platter of cheese, dates, and bread, with a small bowl of oil for dipping. He drew wine from one amphora, enough for the both of them, and finally spooned a helping of stew into a bowl for Ariston. The young Rhodian smiled his thanks and attacked the food with gusto. Harmouthes eased himself onto the bench across from him, poured two cups of wine, and selected a date to nibble on.

  “Who is she?” Ariston said around a mouthful of bread. “Your mistress, I mean.”

  Harmouthes shrugged. “She is one who knew Lord Memnon and who believes the Macedonians do a great injustice to his memory.”

  “That much I gathered. Her knowledge of him is the knowledge of an intimate. Was she his wife?”

  “A woman of court,” Harmouthes said, averting his eyes. “Nothing more.”

  Ariston paused to down a gulp of wine. “I may be young, Harmouthes,” he said, wiping his mouth with the heel of his hand, “but I’m not stupid. If Melpomene is only a woman of the court, why all this secrecy?”

  “Consider it a by-product of our times. The Macedonians do not foster an atmosphere of openness. If my mistress desires to hide her identity for the time being you should honor her wish. Truly, she is not seeking to deceive you, only to protect herself.”

  “From whom?”

  Harmouthes gave the young Rhodian a weak smile. “You are tenacious, I give you that. I am weary, and I must check in on my mistress before bed. I am sorry we cannot offer you more palatable accommodations, but this hearth will have to do. Help yourself to whatever you see—wine, bread, more stew. Is there anything else you require?”

  “Answers, but I see those won’t be forthcoming tonight.”

  “Perhaps tomorrow more will be made clear to you,” Harmouthes said, rising. “Sleep well, Ariston of Lindos.”

  The young Rhodian finished his stew and fetched another helping from the pot. As he ate, the tale of Memnon turned over and again in his mind. No words suffice to do justice to his deeds. Many such phrases were readily identifiable to Ariston—they belonged to Thucydides or Xenophon—and the emotions invoked hearkened back to Sophocles. Still, something was compelling in the tale. Ariston pushed his bowl aside, moved his bag to the end of the table nearest the fire, and drew out his ink pots and reed pens,
his last few sheets of papyrus and parchment. Quickly, he wetted a reed in the ink and put it to the papyrus:

  Though exhausted, the Muses sang to Ariston, their voices strong and rich. He would not ignore them.

  ARISTON STIRRED FROM THE HARD BENCH THAT SERVED AS HIS BED, HIS extremities tingling from a lack of circulation. Pale winter sunlight filled the kitchen, slanting through the bare limbs of oak trees on the slope behind the house. He reckoned it to be nearly midday. Ariston knuckled sleep from his eyes. Shivering, he stood and stretched, feeling a familiar ache in his back, arm, and hand—the aftereffects of a night spent in the Muses’ embrace.

  A light breakfast of bread and honey, dates, and wine waited at the far end of the table, along with a bundle of fresh parchment pages—pergamene of the finest quality—and new reeds to serve as pens. Of last night’s pages, Ariston saw no sign. The young Rhodian frowned. Of course, Harmouthes must have taken them. Who else? Doubtless the Egyptian did not understand the breach of protocol he had committed by disturbing a work in progress. More than once, Ariston had seen such infringements dissolve into violence. A volatile breed, writers, as proprietary toward their work as the sculptor or the painter.

  “He should thank his heathen gods I’m a temperate man,” Ariston muttered, pouring a measure of wine. He carried the bowl with him out into the peristyle, to take in the day. A chill breeze rustled the olive branches; the sky was a washed out shade of blue, crisscrossed with skeins of silvery clouds. Soft fluting emanated from the hallway leading to Melpomene’s room, interrupted now and again by the Lady’s hacking cough. Ariston followed the sounds. He paused to knock lightly on her door before easing it open.

  Harmouthes sat on a stool near the window, engrossed in a complex tune of his native land. Melpomene sat upright in bed with pillows stacked high behind her, reading his previous night’s pages. “You have an extraordinary memory,” she said, after a moment. “I hope you don’t mind. When Harmouthes said you had spent much of the night writing, my curiosity got the better of me.” Melpomene coughed, her shoulders wracked with spasms. It took her several seconds to catch her breath. The old Egyptian glanced up from his flute, concern in his eyes. Ariston understood; even to him, the mistress of the house seemed paler, frailer. Her hands trembled as she tapped the pages back into a neat pile.