Memnon

by Oden, Scott

  The young Rhodian rode through the night, the river on his right hand reflecting silver and black in the light of the full moon. Patron’s words haunted him. What will he do? When another army comes, what will Artabazus do? Without the Athenians, Memnon doubted the rebels could hold Dascylium, much less field enough troops to win a pitched battle against the King’s forces. Chares’ recall emasculated their war effort. Now the main concern would be survival. What will Artabazus do?

  Celaeno’s long stride ate up the miles so that, by dawn, the first village lay just ahead. To the unencumbered man, Sardis was a week’s ride from Dascylium. A road—often little more than a goat trail—led up the Macestus Valley and into the high country before descending onto a fertile plain watered by the Hermus, Pactolus, and Hyllus Rivers. Seven villages lined the way, each roughly twenty miles apart. Since the reign of the first Darius, who established this road as a spur of the Great Royal Road from Sardis to Susa, the villages were responsible for the maintenance of way-houses, stathmi, where travelers could obtain food, water, lodging, fodder for their horses, and fresh mounts. To the King’s servants, such amenities were free; to others, they could be had for a reasonable price. The Boeotians, under a writ from Artabazus, confiscated as their camp the lands around the fifth stathmos, near the headwaters of the Macestus, in the shadow of the Phrygian plateau.

  The first village lay on a bluff overlooking the river’s turbulent waters. The way-house stood apart from the huts of timber and thatch. Its architecture was Iranian: a stone foundation with walls of plastered mudbrick and a flat roof supporting a wood-and-thatch loggia; a stable, also of dun-colored brick, abutted the main building. A door creaked open and a man, still rubbing sleep from his eyes, stepped out into the hazy morning sun.

  “Welcome,” he said, in badly accented Greek.

  “See to my horse,” Memnon said. “Wake me in two hours.” The young Rhodian snatched what rest he could and was back on the road in the third hour past dawn. He followed the same routine at the second, third, and fourth stathmos. At this last, four days since the Athenians’ recall, the village headman took Memnon aside.

  “The Great Road is not empty,” he said.

  “We’ve heard. Couriers are riding to and fro, bearing messages from the King, no doubt.”

  The headman gave Memnon a strange look. His hairless skull glimmered in the morning sun, and his stiff brown beard brushed the rough homespun fabric covering his chest as he shook his head. “My sister’s husband and his sons often take their flocks up into the high country, where the grass is still green. For days on end they graze, and the boys have little to do but explore. One track brought them to a point overlooking the Great Road. They sent for their father, and he sent for me. I have seen a host moving through Phrygia, bound for Sardis. Many thousands of men.”

  Memnon’s eyes narrowed. “Are the Greeks at the fifth way-house aware of them?” The headman couldn’t say. Memnon gave him a fistful of silver drachmas. “Have you a horse? Good. Ride to Dascylium and tell General Mentor what you’ve told me. If any question you, tell them you’re on the satrap’s business.”

  The headman chewed his lip, eyeing the coins in his hand, before he nodded assent and hurried off to find his wife. The young Rhodian leapt atop Celaeno and touched his heels to the horse’s flanks. He had to warn Pammenes. Eighteen miles separated him from the Boeotian camp, a day’s ride through rough hill country and thick forests where the late summer heat lay heavy on the ground.

  Memnon pushed himself and Celaeno mercilessly. The road shadowed the river, at times coming in such close proximity as to dampen the mare’s fetlocks. They traversed broken ground beneath looming cliff-faces, skirted boulders larger than a Cyclops’s head, and ascended level upon level of rocky shelves where the river ran fast and shallow, collecting in foaming pools that overflowed into waterfalls. Here, an hour after midday, Memnon paused.

  No wind stirred; beneath the earthy smell of damp rock, Memnon caught the scent of corruption, of meat left too long in the sun. Likely offal left behind by some nocturnal predator. Flies buzzed. The heat left even the birds torpid, their song muted. Memnon sat at the edge of a mossy lagoon as Celaeno wandered over to a tussock of grass growing at the base of the ledge. The young Rhodian spat dust and washed down a small round loaf of bread with drafts of chill water scooped from the pool.

  “Maybe nine more miles,” he said to the horse, his voice profaning the afternoon stillness. “Give me nine more miles and I promise you a good long rest. What do you say to that, girl?”

  Celaeno’s ears flattened against her skull. The horse whickered and tossed her head. Memnon frowned. “What is it, girl?” Suddenly, the horse shied away as a bloody arm erupted from the grassy shelf above them.

  “By all the gods!” Memnon rolled to his feet; his sword rang from its sheath. A man, clad in blood-and-sweat-soaked rags, pulled himself to the edge of the shelf and tumbled over, landing at Memnon’s feet with a weak grunt of pain. The Rhodian stood still, alert, scanning the road ahead for any sign of assailants. Nothing. Only then did he allow himself to glance down.

  The man crumpled at his feet had the look of a villager about him, the remnants of his clothing woven of the same unbleached wool Memnon had seen at the other way-houses. Blood matted his dark hair; it crusted his face and limbs, obscuring his features, even the color of his skin. His injuries looked superficial—cuts and gouges, for the most part—save for a terrible wound at the base of his spine, the likes of which Memnon had seen before. A spear thrust into flesh, twisted, and withdrawn. Cracked lips moved as the man talked, either to himself or to the gods.

  “Yauna …”

  “Don’t try to speak. Here.” Memnon got his flask, poured water into his cupped hand, and held it to the man’s lips. He sucked it up, greedy for more. Memnon obliged him. Where had this fellow come from? How did he make it this far? More to the point, Memnon wondered, was who did this to him and why?

  “Y-Yauna …” The fellow spoke Persian, his accent that of the Lydian frontier. “Wa … Wahauka … hazarapatish! Wahauka hazarapatish! Hazara—” Spasms wracked the man’s body. He shuddered, gave a last, wet sigh, and would move no more.

  “Zeus Savior!” Memnon rocked back on his haunches. The dead man’s last words cut the young Rhodian to the bone. Wahauka hazarapatish. It meant ‘Ochus’s chiliarch,’ the Commander of the King’s Hosts. Memnon knew the title belonged to a jackal of a man called Tithraustes, and that knowledge left a cold knot of apprehension in his belly. “Ochus’s chiliarch,” Memnon said aloud. The words rang with the finality of a death sentence.

  His patience at an end, had the King unleashed the whole of Persia’s armies against Artabazus?

  Memnon stood, recovered his sword, his flask. The dead man at his feet, likely one of Artabazus’s agents, deserved a rich funeral, eternal payment for his sacrifice. For the time being, his shade would have to persevere. Memnon fished an obol from his coin pouch, knelt, and slipped it under the corpse’s tongue. Next, he scooped a handful of earth from the ledge above him and sprinkled it over the body.

  “O mighty Earth, mother of all,” Memnon said, “you are the source of fair children and goodly fruit, and on you it depends to give life to, or take it away from, mortal men. Blessed is the man you favor, for he will have everything in abundance.” With a nod, the Rhodian turned and dashed to Celaeno’s side.

  He had to reach Pammenes.

  Afternoon turned to evening, and still Memnon rode. The sky above became a cauldron of fire, the oranges and reds cooling to purple, thence to the diamond-studded lapis of night. Beneath the trees, darkness reigned supreme. Memnon sat slumped in the saddle. The song of the crickets lulled him to restfulness; his body would convulse, causing the Rhodian to jerk erect. Fireflies sparkled in the underbrush. He watched them, rubbed his eyes, blinked. The insects’ illuminations never dimmed. On the contrary, the glow quickened as Celaeno bore him closer. Memnon rubbed his eyes again.

  Zeus! Tho
se aren’t insects. They’re fires. Hundreds of them, filling the valley ahead with a greasy orange glow. Memnon dismounted and walked Celaeno past telltale signs of habitation: stumps of felled trees, middens of refuse, and geometric patches of tilled earth where vegetables once grew. Skeins of smoke curled from watch and cook fires, hanging over the encampment like a shroud of pale yellow linen.

  Memnon heard sharp laughter off to his left, the rattle of dice. “Cheating bastard,” a voice muttered in Greek. Coins clinked as they changed hands.

  Looping Celaeno’s reins over a branch, Memnon inched closer. He stopped just outside the ring of light. A pair of men, hoplites if their breastplates and doffed helmets were any indication, sat on a log, the stub of a candle between them. By its flickering light the men played a game of chance.

  “Boeotians?” Memnon called.

  The swipe of a hand extinguished the candle; weapons clattered. For a moment, impenetrable darkness descended. By increments, though, the light of the rising moon filtered through the boughs, infusing everything with a silver-gray glow. “Who goes? Show yourself!”

  Memnon stepped forward, his arms away from his sides, palms out, to show he carried no weapons. “Peace, brothers. I’m from Dascylium. I bear a message for Pammenes.”

  “From where? Dascylium?”

  “I’m weary, brothers. Take me to Pammenes and all will be explained,” Memnon said. He could not see their faces clearly, but it seemed to the Rhodian that the hoplites nodded to one another. The man on his left started to turn.

  Without warning, the man on Memnon’s right leveled his spear and lunged.

  “Zeus!” Memnon twisted his upper body. The iron blade grazed his biceps; he caught the shaft and shoved the unbalanced soldier to the ground. “Damn you! Did you not hear me? I’m from Dascylium! Conduct me to—”

  The second hoplite’s spear punched through the armor, flesh, and bone of Memnon’s right shoulder. The Rhodian gasped. He fell backward, the spearman bearing his body to the ground. Sheets of white-hot pain exploded from the wound; he felt blood cascading over his skin, soaking his tunic and the ground beneath. Overhead, the stars flared, throbbing with the pulsebeat of his heart.

  “Finish him, Xeno!” the first hoplite hissed, scrambling to his feet. “He might not be alone.”

  “Wait. Fetch a light, Tauros. Let’s see who this fool is.”

  Memnon writhed. Pressure on the spear shaft kept him from rising. Bile seared the back of his throat. “W-What are y-you doing?” The candle flared to life. The hoplite called Tauros held it near Memnon’s upturned face.

  “Great Herakles! Great fucking Herakles! Help me with this, Tauros!” A foot pressed against Memnon’s shoulder; a fresh wave of agony broke over him as Xeno gently withdrew his spear. The stars, so cold and distant, faded toward oblivion.

  “What is it?”

  “You know who this bastard is? It’s the Rhodian!

  “Hera’s tits! Are you sure?” Memnon tried to focus on the speaker, on Tauros. The candle in his hand shed an exquisite heat that bathed his shivering body in warmth. The ground beneath cradled him, like a bier of fleece. He could sleep … he needed sleep …

  “Damn you!” Xeno said, slapping Memnon’s cheek. “Stay with me, Rhodian! Give me your cloak, Tauros! Hurry! Go back to camp and fetch the general, but quietly! Whisper it to him, so the Persians won’t hear! He’ll want to know …”

  Memnon closed his eyes.

  I’m coming, father.

  8

  DARKNESS, STYGIAN AND ABSOLUTE. THROUGH IT, MEMNON FLOATED like a man adrift at sea, too exhausted to struggle but too stubborn to admit defeat. Silent. Still. How long had it been since the spear penetrated his flesh? A matter of minutes? Hours? Days? Time had no meaning here, on this threshold between life and death. Death? Can the dead feel pain? Can they feel the loss of separation that so plagues those left behind? Can the dead mourn for the living?

  Though buffeted by eddies and currents of the void, Memnon found he could not drift off into the heart of oblivion. Something tethered him. A single strand, a dark filament spun from hematite, anchored him to the world of the living. Memnon touched it, felt a yearning in his heart unlike anything he had ever known. I want to live!

  Light, pale and sickly, pierced the veil of darkness. Overhead—the specificity of direction absurd in a place of such utter nothingness—a sun flared to life, motionless, its disk blackened in a state of perpetual eclipse. Memnon swam toward it, fighting the undertow of oblivion. Each movement produced pain. Not sharp, but growing, the pinpricks of circulation restored. He was writhing in agony as he breached the grey-white aura of light.

  Awareness returned. Faint sounds assaulted him: the clatter of pottery, the pop and hiss of a brazier, the scrape of metal on metal. Whispers, too, bled through into the void.

  Hold him! Hold him down!

  Lower your voice! The Persians …

  He’s going to bleed out unless I can cauterize this! Now hold him, damn you!

  When Eileithyia, goddess of childbirth, expels a babe from its mother’s womb, its first instinct is to draw a raging breath, to scream at this first injustice marking the journey from cradle to grave. For Memnon, that same instinct asserted itself …

  He bellowed and thrashed, unable to move as the red-hot tip of an iron descended into the mangled flesh of his shoulder. Pammenes lay across him, both men on the rough boards of a trestle table, its top slick with blood and piss. Meat sizzled. Memnon rolled his eyes; a middle-aged Boeotian in the smock of a surgeon, his bald pate greasy with sweat, stood at his shoulder, holding the iron in his wound until it ceased to glow. The aroma of charred flesh filled the tent, overpowering the scented oils burning in the dozen lamps scattered about.

  Memnon blinked. The surgeon nodded to Pammenes, who stood and placed a hand on the Rhodian’s forehead.

  “Will he live, Heraclides?” Pammenes asked, glancing over his shoulder at the surgeon. Heraclides propped open the tent flap. A draft of cool air caressed the Rhodian’s feverish brow.

  The surgeon sighed, ran a hand over his hairless scalp. “He’s young, but he’s lost much blood. Too much. Truly, I know not. I fear he’s in the hands of the gods now.”

  “I must change and attend to Bardiya. Let me know if his condition worsens.” Pammenes glanced down at Memnon, concern etched on his brow.

  The surgeon nodded. “I’ll have Khafre prepare a poultice and fetch some fresh linen for a bandage. What about Xeno and Tauros? They’re good men, General.”

  Pammenes stalked out of Memnon’s field of vision. “They’re fools,” he heard the Theban say, “but they were only obeying orders. Never would I have expected Artabazus to send him to us. Fetch your medicines, Heraclides, and get him cleaned up.” With that, they left him alone. The Rhodian’s eyes fluttered. Despite the lamps, he felt darkness encroaching, drawing him back to oblivion’s bosom. The thudding of his heart slowed. Around him, the tent soughed and sighed.

  I want to live!

  “You will,” a voice purred in Memnon’s ear. He opened his eyes and glanced around, craning his head to locate the speaker. A man in a short Doric tunic, a silver-gray khlamys thrown over his left shoulder, stood unnoticed beside the table. Shoulder length golden hair, shot through with silver, framed a face that displayed equal part’s beauty, wisdom, and age. With difficulty, Memnon met his gaze. “You are not yet ready to make the journey, child of Rhodes. It is not your time.”

  “How … how do you k-know …?”

  His long fingers plucked at his silver-gold beard. “The Moirai, Fates you call them, ration human existence. Clotho, youngest of the daughters of Themis, weaves the stuff of your lives from thread of infinite variety. She passes it to Lachesis, who apportions it however she sees fit. Last, the third sister, Atropos, cuts the thread, handling her shears as deftly for a slave as she does for a king. Her blade is ever poised, Memnon, awaiting the final measure of each life, but yours is not yet ready to be cut.”

  �
��W-Who are you?” Memnon croaked.

  “Does it matter?” The fellow shrugged, his sky-blue eyes twinkling. “A messenger, some call me. A traveler. A seer on occasion, though not as skilled in the art of divining as others. A musician I have been, and a fighter. A scoundrel, if you ask my father, and a healer. I have worn many robes, Memnon, and likely I will wear many more ‘ere this world ends.”

  Memnon blinked and struggled for breath, fear robbing him of his courage.

  The fellow placed his hand over Memnon’s wound, his touch searing hot. Pleasure suffused the pain. The touch of a parent, a lover, a killer, and a healer all mingling into one. Memnon gasped. “Listen to me, child. Listen, and do not be afraid. The Fates may dictate the length of your life, but it is the gods who author its content … and the gods look askance at those who ignore their work. It is time you forget your melancholy, your predilection toward guilt, and make your mark on the world. Do you understand?”

  “I … I understand,” Memnon muttered. The fellow caught his glance and held it, nodding finally.

  “Excellent. Sleep now, and remember what I have said.”

  Memnon’s vision blurred, fading as he sank back on the table; his last waking sight—surely a mirage borne of trauma—was of the strange man turning away from him, his body dissolving in a golden mist.

  WHEN NEXT MEMNON WOKE, HE DID SO QUIETLY, FROM A DREAMLESS slumber. He lay on a cot in the surgeon’s pavilion. Across from him, on a table of dark polished oak, he could see the tools of the physician’s trade: knives and bone saws hanging between cubbyholes stuffed with papyrus scrolls and terracotta pots. A water barrel stood nearby, along with a brazier of cauterizing irons and a wedge-shaped amphora on its stand. Bundles of dried herbs hung from the pavilion’s center pole, their aroma competing with that of incense, old blood, and sweat. A breeze rustled through an open side flap; Memnon heard the clash of soldiers’ harness, the mutter of voices, and the splash of water on rock, doubtless from one of the springs that fed the headwaters of the Macestus.