Memnon

by Oden, Scott

  “Athena Promachos kai Nike!“

  The Athenians.

  Memnon snarled, thrusting his sword at the mass of men across the blood-soaked interval. “For Artabazus and Victory!” Like a madman, Memnon led the kardakes pell-mell over the corpse-littered field toward the scrambled enemy ranks. Panic took root among the spearmen of Babylon, doubtless fed by enduring memories of the disaster at Marathon, the slaughter at Thermopylae, the ravages at Cunaxa. By the hundreds, the loyalist Persians cast their weapons aside and turned to flee, their retreat hampered by the compacted ranks behind them. Men who had been so hot for rebel blood only moments before now bellowed like stampeded cattle, trampling their own in haste to escape the pale hand of Death. As one, the kardakes and their Greek allies smashed into the Persians like an axe blade into rotted wood.

  Then, the true slaughter began.

  Morning gave way to midday before the trumpeters sounded the call to disengage. Memnon, spattered with gore from head to toe, heard the strident order and obeyed without thinking, so dazed was he from exhaustion and thirst. His sword slipped from his cramped fingers; his arms trembled and his legs felt unstrung, the muscles and tendons burning with pain. With effort, he pried his helmet off, his hair a tangled mass. Memnon spat blood, his back teeth splintered from the grinding of his jaw. A breath of wind caressed his face.

  Off to the east, the noontime sun struck golden fire from the surface of Lake Manyas; high grasses swayed, and slender trees bearing leaves of translucent green rustled, idyllic in the breeze. Gulping air, Memnon forced himself to turn and look back at the plain.

  The floor of hell greeted his blank stare.

  A swath of destruction stretched a mile in width and continued on for two, the field of Ares. The War God disdained oxen, preferring to let the yoked power of contending armies harrow his demesne. Into this flayed earth poured the fluids of war, the sweat and blood, the bile and bowel, the coward’s piss and the dying man’s tears, mingling to form a sludge that clung to the ankles of those men left standing. The ground itself heaved and shook with the convulsions of the wounded. Slashed torsos and severed limbs lay on carpets of spilled entrails; hands stained black with blood protruded from the mass, splintered weapons yet clutched in immobile fists. Spear shafts projected at angles, some upright, resembling stakes awaiting a transplanted vine. In places, the bright flash of gold embroidery or the shimmer of rich fabric appeared unreal against the devastation, a mirage borne of dehydration.

  Memnon’s legs gave out; he collapsed into a bier of gore-slick limbs, his shattered body cradled by the corpses of friend and foe alike. Overcome, the young Rhodian closed his eyes …

  RETRIEVAL PARTIES WORKED WELL INTO THE NIGHT, SCOURING THE FIELD for wounded allies, dispatching those with no hope of survival, and securing the bodies of the slain. A deputation of Persian captives, drawn from those who had not fled with Mithridates, was allowed to do likewise for their countrymen. Others were put to work preparing mass graves.

  Memnon sat atop the spur of rock where the Magi conducted their morning sacrifice and watched torches bobbing on the plain below. He still wore his borrowed cuirass, the bronze scraped and dented, crusted with blood. Grimy bandages swathed his right arm and leg. Memnon hunched forward, his elbows on his knees and his chin propped on his fists, and stared at the field, lost in thought. His lips moved as he silently talked himself through the battle, disassembling every minute of every hour to examine content, context, and resolution. Gaps developed, long, hazy sections of memory bereft of detail save for a flash of metal, a scream, a spatter of blood. The end result proved as frustrating as trying to rebuild a shattered mosaic without all its tiles.

  A sandal crunched on stone. Memnon half-turned and saw his brother’s thick silhouette limned in the light of the distant fires. Mentor bore only scanty wounds from the day’s carnage; bathed, clad in an old russet-colored chiton, the elder Rhodian’s features were flush with wine and triumph. More wine sloshed over the rim of the antique golden skyphos Mentor carried, the cup and its contents plundered from Mithridates’ own tent. He staggered to the edge of the rocks, peered over, then came back and plopped down beside Memnon.

  “You’re drunk,” Memnon said.

  Mentor belched. “Damn right I’m drunk, and you would be, too, if you had any sense. Zeus! We snatch a victory and here you sit, brooding over the dead like dark Hades, himself. What bothers you, brother? Is war not the glorious enterprise you imagined it to be?” Mentor took a deep draft of wine before nudging Memnon’s shoulder and offering it to him.

  Memnon waved it away, frowning. “I don’t know if it was glorious or not. I can’t remember. My last clear memory is of hearing the call to charge, after that it becomes a jumble—a shape here, a scene there—like something I may have read about or watched at the theater. It’s as though another took control of my body and guided me through the battle.”

  “Your daimon,” Mentor said. Memnon looked askance at his brother. “It is the guardian spirit every man is born with. It guides our actions, for good or ill. Your daimon took over in a time of extreme dislocation, as a way of protecting you from the ravages of war.”

  “I never imagined you to be a follower of Socrates.”

  “Why, little brother, did you not know? I am a man of many parts.” Mentor belched, again.

  “Indeed. How’s Artabazus?”

  “His leg’s useless, for now,” Mentor said, “and he has a couple of nasty cuts, but he’s in good spirits. He keeps asking after you, afraid your first battle might have left you irreparably scarred.” The elder Rhodian grinned.

  “I’ll see him before I turn in.” Memnon listened as the sounds of revelry drifted up from the rebel camp, harsh laughter and music masking the screams of the surgeon’s precinct. “How many dead?”

  “The estimate is rough,” Mentor said, flexing the muscles of his spear-arm. “It looks as though we lost perhaps two hundred Greeks and over a thousand kardakes. Mithridates placed fewer men on his flanks so he could increase the power of his center. Chares claims he nearly had the bastard …”

  “Where did Mithridates go?”

  Mentor shrugged. “Sardis, most likely. He lost ten times our casualties, so if he survives Ochus’s wrath I doubt he’ll trouble us further. Dascylium is ours. We’ll use this respite wisely and prepare for a counterattack. Artabazus is sending me back to Assos. I’ll be escorting the family to Dascylium, and raising a new force of mercenaries, provided I can get old Eubulus to keep his hands off his catamites long enough to spread the word into the Aegean. Chares is going up the coast to Lampsacus to make use of its shipwrights. Pammenes is being redeployed into the Macestus Valley, to watch the Royal Road.”

  “What about me?”

  “You’ll stay with Artabazus. Protect him, Memnon. He’s our best hope for a future.” Mentor draped a hand on Memnon’s shoulder and pulled him closer. “Listen, brother. You acquitted yourself well, today. You may not remember it, but—by the gods!—you stood your ground despite adversity, and you did what was needed of you. No more can be asked of any man. You and I are in an enviable place. Artabazus will need trustworthy men to administer his holdings in the Troad, Aeolus, Mysia, perhaps even into Ionia.”

  “And who is more trustworthy than family?”

  “Exactly.”

  Memnon nodded. He said nothing for a moment; his brow furrowed. “Why …” he started before again lapsing into silence. His eyes flickered to his brother’s face.

  “What?” Mentor sipped his wine.

  “It’s nothing,” Memnon sighed. “I am reminded of Rhodes.”

  “Rhodes, eh? You were going to ask me why, if family is of such importance, did we not avenge Timocrates.” Mentor grunted and swirled the dregs of his wine around in his cup before emptying it. “Zeus! You know how to sober a man up.”

  “Am I that transparent?”

  “Like sheer linen, brother. Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps we should have raised an army of our own and u
sed it to restore democracy to Rhodes, maybe Cos and Chios, too. But, would we have fared any better on that score than the Athenians? Perhaps we should have returned home, you and I, to reorganize the democrats against the oligarchs, to drive Philolaus back to the man who bought him, Mausolus of Caria. But, would we have fared any better on that score than Timocrates? Perhaps I should have just sailed into Rhodes-town, hunted Philolaus down, and murdered him. Simple. Clean. A death for a death. But, would I have fared any better on that score than you?”

  “Now you mock me!” Memnon snarled.

  “No,” Mentor said. “I ask you in all honesty, what would you have had me do? Father died in battle, in a war of his own choosing. Philolaus may have been his enemy, but I cannot condemn him for something I, too, would have done had I been in his place. Look at it from another perspective, Memnon: Arius died in battle, in a war of his own choosing, if not his own making. Should Arius’s father and his brothers now blame Mithridates for leading his killer into battle? Or should they mourn their fallen kinsman and leave the fate of his killer in the hands of the gods?”

  Memnon’s shoulders sagged; he glanced at Mentor, his eyes haunted, rimmed in fatigue. “I believe I’m beginning to understand.”

  “Good,” Mentor said. “Come, let’s get you cleaned up. There’s much to do tomorrow.” Mentor stood, reached down, and hauled Memnon to his feet. The young Rhodian’s legs could barely hold him erect, so crippled were they from the day’s exertions. He grimaced.

  “Is it always like this?”

  Mentor chuckled. “As with virgins, the next time comes easier.” Arm in arm, the sons of Timocrates made their way down to the rebel camp.

  7

  CELAENO, ARTABAZUS’S BLACK NISAEAN MARE, THUNDERED DOWN the straightaway of Dascylium’s hippodromos, its hooves raising plumes of dust in the still afternoon air. Naked to the waist, Memnon hunched over the animal’s broad neck, the reins held loosely in his left hand, a javelin in his right. Ahead, near the sculptured column that served as a turning post, stood a straw bale bearing the silhouette of a man daubed in charcoal, a circle of red at its center. Horse and rider moved in cadence. As they neared the column, with its hairpin turn beyond, Memnon rose up and let fly his javelin. The target flashed past the horse’s left flank. Memnon craned his head to look. His javelin had struck wide of its mark, burying itself in the straw at the edge of silhouette. Impact sent the target skittering on its side.

  “Son of a bitch!” Through the turn, Memnon slowed the horse to a canter. Sweat drenched the young Rhodian’s muscular upper body, soaking his short linen kilt and the fringed saddlecloth under him. This was his fourth run and still he had gotten no closer to the target’s center. He patted Celaeno’s damp neck. “Do you have a fifth try in you, girl?” The horse tossed its head and whinnied. Memnon circled back to the starting point.

  A small crowd gathered to watch his exercise: Pharnabazus, the satrap’s eldest son, a lad of twelve, stood with his pedagogue, a sullen Greek of Ionia; near them were a trio of Thessalian horse-breeders and four of Artabazus’s grooms. Patron waited off to one side, his face shaded by a broad-brimmed hat, a sea-bag slung over his shoulder. Circe’s captain flashed a wide grin. Memnon raised a hand in greeting. He glanced at his nephew.

  “Pharnabazus! Fetch me another javelin!”

  “Yes, Uncle.” To his pedagogue’s chagrin, the Persian lad rushed to the weapons rack, selected a cornel-wood javelin, and trotted over to where Celaeno pawed the ground, restless. A pair of slaves hurried out and righted the straw dummy.

  “Why do I keep missing?” Memnon said, taking the weapon. He readjusted his grip on the reins. “Have you any idea?”

  Pharnabazus pursed his lips. He had the finely chiseled cheekbones and nose of his mother—a Persian lady who died giving birth to his younger sister, Barsine—and his father’s piercing eyes. His wild shock of chestnut hair defied grooming. As did all in the satrap’s family, Pharnabazus spoke flawless Greek. “You’re waiting too late to cast, I think.”

  Memnon smiled. “I think so, too. Where, then? Four lengths from the target?”

  “Four or five.” Pharnabazus nodded.

  “I trust your judgment. You wouldn’t lead me astray, would you?”

  “Never, Uncle.”

  Memnon winked, touching his heels to Celaeno’s flanks. The mare sprang forward, its muscles bunching beneath its glossy coat as it achieved a full gallop in a matter of seconds. Memnon sat easily, gripping with his thighs, his legs relaxed below the knee. He kept his upper body as loose as possible. Horse and rider barreled toward the target. At twice the distance than before, Memnon rose up on his thighs and hurled the javelin. Iron flashed; this time, it struck center mass. A man would have died on the spot with his heart split in two. A cheer arose from the onlookers.

  Memnon wheeled and rode back to where Pharnabazus stood. “By the gods, you were right!”

  The Persian lad beamed.

  Memnon dismounted, throwing his right leg over Celaeno’s neck and dropping to the ground. The horse whickered and shook its head, rattling the silver disks accenting its bridle and headstall. The young Rhodian motioned for the grooms to take the reins, then draped an arm over Pharnabazus’s shoulder and walked with him to where his pedagogue waited, impatience written across his wrinkled forehead.

  “Are you late for something again?”

  “Rhetoric,” Pharnabazus said, his brows knitting in distaste. “That driedup old bag Nikeratos hates me as he hates all barbaroi. Father should send him back to Paros in a box. Can I try casting a few tomorrow, Uncle?”

  Memnon looked sidelong at the lad. “You think you can handle Celaeno?”

  Pharnabazus nodded. “I believe I am ready.”

  “I have no objections, but only if your father approves. We will ask him this evening, after supper.” Memnon gave the boy’s shoulder a squeeze. “Go on, now, and learn whatever Nikeratos teaches, even if it’s only the meaning of patience.”

  Pharnabazus smiled and waved as his pedagogue shooed him toward the hillside palace.

  “That one’s the image of his sire,” Patron said, joining Memnon.

  “He’ll make a fine satrap, someday.” The young Rhodian turned. “I’m sorry Artabazus has asked you to sail so late in the season, but he didn’t want winter to pass before sending an envoy back to Macedonia, to formalize his guest-friendship with their king.”

  “No need to apologize, Memnon. Artabazus is right. This Philip seems dead-set on wearing the robes of Agamemnon. Four years on the throne and already he’s shattered the Illyrians, laid Amphipolis low, double-crossed the Athenians, captured Potidaea and Pydna, and snatched a victory in the horserace at Olympia. What’s next for him? Asia?”

  “All the more reason to make him a friend rather than an enemy,” Memnon said. “When do you plan to leave?”

  “As soon as I get to the ship,” Patron said. “If we sail with the full moon tonight, Circe can put in at Cyzicus before dawn. I want to be clear of the Hellespont by week’s end. Come, walk with me down to the harbor.”

  Memnon issued orders to the grooms, entrusting Celaeno to their care. He followed Patron from the hippodromos. A dusty path, shaded at times by groves of sycamore, followed the high banks of the Little Macestus River, chuckling in its rocky bed as it wound down to Lake Dascylitis and the harbor. The chirr of cicadas abated as the two men passed. Through the trees, off to the right and away up the hill, Memnon could see stone terraces and earthworks rising to meet the walls of the palace-fortress of the Pharnacids, Artabazus’s ancestral keep. Limestone glimmered in the sun, and flashes of gold marked the position of sentries.

  Patron followed his gaze. “This whole rebellion would have been for nothing had Mithridates simply stayed put.”

  “We’re lucky he didn’t, then.”

  “But, when the time comes, will Artabazus?”

  Memnon frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Ochus hasn’t forgotten his western satraps,”
Patron said. “Another army will come, larger, led by someone with far more experience than Mithridates. What will Artabazus do? Will he stay and defend Dascylium, or will he ride out and meet them?”

  Memnon weighed his answer. In the five months since the battle at Lake Manyas, Artabazus’s sole concern had been the rebuilding of a satrapy left barren from years of misrule. While he dealt with the affairs of state—from foreign envoys seeking favor to Iranian nobles bent on brokering peace with the Great King to commoners nursing grievances stretching back to his father’s day—Artabazus left the execution of the war to Mentor and his mercenary generals. “The fighting’s ground to a halt,” Memnon said, at length. “The probes down the Macestus Valley from Sardis have ceased. Pammenes sends us word that the Royal Road is clear, save for the usual dispatch riders. Chares’ scout ships have encountered nothing out of the ordinary in the Propontis or the Euxine Sea. I don’t doubt what you say, that another army will come, but likely not this season. Artabazus has until late spring, at least, to decide his course of action.” After a moment, he added, “I wish I were going with you. At sea, a man knows his place. He knows who his friends are, his enemies. There are no politics to pulling an oar.”

  “I’d take you along,” Patron said, “if I thought you’d be content. You must face facts, lad. You’ve found your true calling. You’re a soldier, a cavalry officer, and a leader of men. The anonymity of the rower’s bench is no longer yours for the asking.”

  Their path widened and joined with the main road running from the hilltop fortress to the harbor. Dascylium lay on the southern shore of Lake Dascylitis, in a cove that created an ideal shelter for ships against the ferocious spring and winter storms. North, across the lake, the Macestus River continued on, deep and slow, completing the twelve-mile journey to the Propontis.

  The road cut through the heart of Dascylium, past buildings of stone and timber whose foundations were set in the days of Darius the Great. Those of newer construction bore the stamp of Greek influence. Memnon and Patron dodged ox-drawn wains, loaded with grain and oil and bound for the storage magazines inside the fortress. Men from the outlying villages led strings of horses to the livestock market west of town. “Not the best breed,” Memnon said, noting the thinness of their withers and the dull clop of their hooves, “but serviceable. They’ll make good post horses.”