Memnon

by Oden, Scott

  MACEDONIA

  YEAR 4 OF THE 108TH OLYMPIAD

  (345 BCE)

  11

  “PELLA,” MEMNON SAID, STROKING HIS SHORT BEARD. HE STOOD IN the bow of Briseis, a round-bellied merchant vessel out of Miletus, watching the far shore as the ship crossed the muddy expanse of Lake Loudias. “Ever think you’d see it again, Khafre?”

  Beside him, the Egyptian’s sharp features screwed up in a look of distaste, as though he had taken a bite of a bad pomegranate. “No, nor did I wish to see it again. It is a wretched place, Memnon, full of unclean men who willingly—joyously—eat the flesh of swine and then have the gall to call my people barbarous. I weep for the years Lord Artabazus has had to spend in such rustic surroundings.”

  “Look at it. Four years gone and I barely recognize the place. Dislike the people as you will, but give Philip his due and don’t insult his capital by calling it rustic.” Memnon knew he was right. From their vantage on the water, they could see practically the whole of Pella. He pointed out landmarks, both old and new, that would not have looked out of place at Athens.

  Guarding the mouth of the harbor, the island of Phakos squatted like a craggy Titan surrounded by reeds, its flanks clothed in dusty fir and chestnut. A small and unlovely citadel of dark local stone crowned the island, Philip’s treasury and his jail. Bronze glinted from those ramparts. Memnon reckoned they were under observation; it would only be a matter of time before the King’s sharks gathered.

  From the harbor, wide streets and cross-streets, forming Hippodamian blocks of uniform size, ascended by degrees to the north, to the rocky hill that served as the city’s acropolis. Here, in the reign of old King Archelaos, artisans had flocked up from the south—painters, sculptors, architects, and builders—their influence evident in the public buildings of brillianthued marble, stoas and colonnades, theaters and gymnasions, abutting large shops and townhouses of limestone, timber, and glazed clay tiles. To Pella, too, had come men of letters, philosophers and poets such as Agathon and Timotheus, Choerilus of Samos, even the renowned Euripides, drawn by the promise of royal favor and the wealth it implied. Fifty years later, Philip reaped the benefits of his ancestor’s tradition of patronage. “What did he call it?” Memnon said. “The Jewel of Emathia?”

  “Jewel?” Khafre sniffed in disdain. “It is a sheep-pen compared to Memphis.”

  Memnon smiled. Though he would never admit it to his proud Egyptian companion, he found the Nile Valley to be dusty and monotonous, a place of flies, filth, and oppressive heat. He was glad to be away from there, though the nature of his exodus left a foul taste in his mouth. His smile faded. Mentor and his cursed plan! He—

  “Look there,” Khafre said, gesturing with a tilt of his head. Memnon roused himself and followed the Egyptian’s gaze. From Phakos, a pair of longboats of a type called pristoi, rowed toward Briseis. The first bore an official of Philip’s exchequer, who would assay the Milesians’ cargo of Aeolian carpets, bales of wool, and wine from the vineyards of Naxos, and levy an appropriate tax. The second boat ferried an agent of the harbormaster, who sought advance payment for the use of Pella’s docks, warehouses, and slaves. A man in the bow of the lead craft bellowed for them to heave to; in response, the Milesian captain ordered the single square sail reefed. Briseis drifted, kept on course by a pair of tillers in her stern.

  “Time for Philip’s sharks to take their bite,” Memnon said as the two boats snugged up against the ship. Ropes were lowered; rather than allowing others to haul them up like excess baggage, both officials scaled the side of Briseis like seasoned mountaineers. Indeed, Memnon reflected, they likely were.

  As they gained the deck, these two ruddy Macedonians, both scarred and grizzled, glanced around, plainly in their element. They wore short chitons of blue-dyed linen, heavily embroidered and cinched at the waist with belts of stamped leather. Long knives hung in easy reach. Gold rings glittered on their fingers—doubtless part of the spoils of war—and the man of the treasury sported a thick medallion bearing the symbol of the royal house, a sixteen-pointed star.

  The Milesian captain laughed and embraced both men like long lost kinsmen. “Machatas! Amyntor! By the dog of Hades! It is good to see you!”

  “Greetings, Eumelus,” the treasury agent, Machatas, said. “What wonders of Ionia do you bring on this trip, eh?” He spoke southern Greek with a harsh accent.

  “Come and see for yourself,” the captain replied, grinning. The two Macedonians followed him to the hold.

  The rank and file of Philip’s bureaucracy hailed from every corner of Macedonia, from the districts of Pelagonia and Lynkestis, Orestis and Tymphaea. From Elimaea and Eordaea came clansmen who only a generation before would have been at one another’s throats, but now shared a common goal—service to a king they respected. Philip instilled a national pride in them that transcended the ancient bonds of clan and kin. “He will make them more Greek than the Athenians,” Mentor had said, upon hearing of Philip’s triumph in the Chalcidice, “and they’ll love him for it.” Now, watching the officials as they went about their business, Memnon could see his brother spoke true.

  No stranger to the operation of a harbor, the transactions Memnon witnessed unfolded with a remarkable lack of histrionics. The three men haggled good-naturedly, without invoking the gods as witnesses to an act of robbery, without threats. A fair tax was levied and a fair price quoted for the use of the docks. The Milesian, Eumelus, paid both without so much as raising his voice. A quarter of an hour later, Briseis was underway, passing beneath looming Phakos as it wallowed toward the lakeside quays.

  “The Athenians should send their harbor master to Pella for lessons in proper management,” Khafre said, grudgingly, as they gathered their things together in anticipation of disembarking. At Piraeus, the harbor of Athens, Memnon reckoned the selfsame transaction would have taken thrice as long.

  “I told you. This place has changed.”

  Khafre harrumphed. “Still, it is no jewel.”

  Memnon only smiled and shook his head, saying nothing.

  Briseis docked without fanfare; bundles of dried reeds crunched, absorbing the shock as the ship’s hull bumped the wharf. Sailors dropped from bow and stern, hauling mooring ropes behind them. These they made fast to wooden bollards on the dock as others of the crew wrestled a boarding plank into place. Harbor slaves, their services bought and paid for, congregated near the ship, their overseers watching them closely. Most of the slaves were big-boned Thracians, their faces and bodies decorated in blue tribal tattoos; a handful of dour, whip-scarred Illyrians leavened their ranks.

  Memnon shouldered his gear and raised his hand in farewell to the captain, who mimicked the gesture. Khafre descended to the quay; Memnon paused at the head of the plank. “When do you expect to return to Miletus?”

  Eumelus chewed his lip. Though late in the season, there were still merchants desperate to have their goods transported south. Along with Poseidon’s Ballast—the pine pitch and timber that were staples of Macedonian trade—he could depend on filling his hold with Thracian furs, sacks of summer wheat, and casks of barley wine. He would need time to make arrangements. “Ten days hence,” he said, after a moment. “Weather and the gods permitting.”

  “Good.” Memnon nodded. “Keep a berth open for my Egyptian companion. He will accompany you.”

  “As you wish. Fair winds to you, Rhodian.”

  “And to you, Eumelus.” With that, Memnon left Briseis and joined Khafre at the foot of the boarding plank. Red-haired children in rough homespun darted around them, chasing a hide ball into the forest of Thracian slaves. An overseer sent them scurrying with a crack of his whip. “Your passage back to Miletus is arranged,” Memnon said over the din. “Can you stomach Pella for ten days?”

  “I have little choice, it seems,” Khafre replied, his lip curling.

  Memnon smiled and clapped the Egyptian on the shoulder. “Come. Let’s see if I can remember the way to Artabazus’s villa.”

 
ON THE EASTERN SIDE OF PELLA’S ACROPOLIS, IN THE SHADOW OF PHILIP’S palace, stood the rambling estate the King had gifted to Artabazus and his kin. A low stone wall bounded the property; inside, nestled in a grove of birch and willow, skilled gardeners had transformed the grounds into a lush approximation of a Persian pairidaeza. Cool spring water chuckled over moss-covered stones, splashing into leaf-shaded pools and fountains edged in hyacinth and lavender. Fanciful Dryads dotted the path, the sheen of marble complimentary to the brilliant azaleas and rhododendrons and snow-white lilies lacing the greensward. From delicate wicker cages clasped in the Dryads’ hands a symphony of birdsong erupted, while peals of silvery laughter echoed deep inside the estate.

  Beside him, Memnon heard the Egyptian sigh. He felt it, too—that undeniable sense of being home. Weariness and worry sloughed away as he stepped through the gates, though the gravity of the mission entrusted to him was never far from the surface.

  The house itself stood at the center of the estate. It was a mansion by Macedonian standards, but to a man accustomed to the dwelling places of Asian royalty the villa was on par with the fine hunting lodges of the Lydian highlands. Still, it had warmth, and touches of Eastern elegance, such as fretted screens and linen sheers and musical chimes that captured the breeze, made its unassuming plainness extraordinary.

  Memnon and Khafre met no one on the path until near the main house, when an elderly gardener looked up from tending a bed of asphodel, squinted at the pair, and whooped for joy once he recognized the Rhodian. “Memnon!”

  “Peace to you, Gryllus!” he said with a wave. The old man rose and ambled over, laughing as he embraced both men. “You’re looking well,” Memnon said. “And your wife, how is she?”

  “Ianthe? Oh, she’s as fat as a sow and thrice as stubborn!” Gryllus said. He patted Khafre’s arm. “She’ll be pleased to see you, Egyptian. Her woman troubles have returned and she swears you possess the only cure.”

  “Sweet Hathor! Take me to her, good Gryllus,” Khafre said. “I would not have you endure another day of mercurial moods when succor is so near at hand. Memnon?”

  The Rhodian nodded toward the villa. “You go on ahead. I’m going to visit the stables, first.”

  “I’ll tell the Lady you’ve returned,” the old gardener said, meaning Deidamia. Gryllus took Memnon’s gear, shouldered it, and shuffled up the path, arm in arm with Khafre. Memnon circled the house.

  Though much about Pella had changed during his four-year absence, the stables of Artabazus had not. They were everything one could expect from an Achaemenid, scion of a steppe-dwelling clan accustomed to lavishing princely attention on their horses. Spacious and well-found, the stables were mansions in their own right, with stone-paved stalls canted slightly to provide drainage and two yards ringed by fences of wood and iron—one of hard-packed rock, the other softer, of raked sand and soil. The same spring that fed the estate here gurgled into a trio of stone troughs, their marble spouts carved to resemble the magnificent, and mythical, horses of the Thracian king, Rhesus.

  Of equal magnificence were the three horses gamboling about the sand yard—matched Nisaean mares, fifteen hands high, with glossy coats blacker than a moonless night. Memnon recognized them instantly: Thaleia, Aglaia, and Euphrosyne.

  “Chairete, ladies,” Memnon said as he reached the fence. Their ears perked at the sound of his voice; nostrils flared with curiosity, though they balked at coming closer. “Have you forgotten me so soon?” He extended a hand. Boldly, Thaleia approached, nuzzling the proffered hand in hopes of finding a treat. “No apples today.” Thaleia snorted and tossed her head, submitting instead to his touch. Soon, all three crowded around the Rhodian, huffing and whinnying, impatient for head rubs or ear scratches. “No,” Memnon said, smiling, “you’ve not forgotten, have you? No …”

  “They have longer memories than most men,” said a voice behind him. Memnon glanced over his shoulder as Pharnabazus walked up, grinning; his arms were weighted down with saddlecloths and bridles. Gone was the smooth-faced teen Memnon remembered; in his place stood a muscular twenty-two-year-old man, his sun-browned skin just beginning to collect the whitish scars of a soldier. In keeping with his environment, Pharnabazus had long since adopted the Greek fashion of sandals and a short tunic, saffron hued, which he pinned at the left shoulder with a simple brooch. He kept his chestnut hair long, after the custom of the Persians, while his beard showed signs of immaculate attention. Beyond that, the gods could have molded his hawkish face and dark eyes from Artabazus’s own.

  “Longer memories and they’re more trustworthy,” Memnon said, turning to face the young Persian, his hands on his hips. “Zeus Savior! Haven’t you stopped growing yet?”

  Pharnabazus laughed and put his burden aside. He caught Memnon in a rib-splintering hug. “It is good to see you again, Uncle!”

  “And you, boy, and you! What is this?” Memnon tugged a tuft of Pharnabazus’s beard. “Are you trying to be a perfumed courtier, now?”

  “A man needs some small vanity so as not to anger the gods with his perfection,” he said, making a show of smoothing his beard with his fingertips.

  Memnon laughed. “Humility would better assuage their anger.” He nodded to the riding tack. “Which were you planning on taking out?”

  “All of them, with Father and Cophen. Come, they are in the stables. Father will be pleased to see you again.” Pharnabazus eyed the Rhodian critically. “You have collected a few more scars since last you were home. How fares the war in Egypt?”

  Together, they walked into the cool shade of the stables. “It fares poorly,” Memnon said, frowning. “For the last two years Mentor’s been in command of the garrison at Sidon, on the Phoenician coast, in collusion with Sidon’s king—part of Pharaoh’s plan to create a buffer between Egypt and Persia. Most of Phoenicia has joined Pharaoh’s rebellion but the Great King’s forces still outnumber us, and Ochus is loath to abandon his ports in that region.”

  Pharnabazus nodded. “I would think so. We have heard very little news from the south, and what we do hear gets filtered through Philip’s eyes and ears. The truth will be a refreshing change.” He smiled and gestured to the far end of the stables, to where Artabazus sat with Cophen, instructing him how best to repair a loose chain on a horse’s headstall. The old satrap looked more weathered since last Memnon saw him, his hair thinner and consumed with gray. “Father! Look who the gods dropped on our doorstep!”

  Artabazus looked up, eyes still sharp and unclouded. A broad smile creased his face; he put the headstall aside and, with Cophen’s help, rose to his feet. “I thought I recognized your voice, Memnon. Praise Mithras!” He shuffled forward, his limp pronounced, and clasped the Rhodian’s shoulders. “On my soul, with each passing year you look more like your father. It does my heart good to see you again, dear boy.”

  “You’re looking well,” Memnon said. “How’s the leg?”

  “It serves to keep me upright. Beyond that …” Artabazus waved. Like his sons, he too wore sandals and a Greek-style tunic, bone-colored and heavily embroidered, cut to allow him to sit astride a horse. Its brevity also revealed the puckered traces of ancient wounds—badges of honor to the warlike Macedonians.

  Memnon was poised to reply when Cophen stepped up, his head cocked, and stared at him with all the undisguised inquisitiveness of a twelve-year-old. “Greetings, Uncle. Do you remember me?”

  “Indeed, Lord Cophen. One is hard-pressed to forget you.” Memnon smiled and would have ruffled the lad’s hair had he not shied away.

  “Have you a gift for me, from Egypt?”

  Quick as a snake, Pharnabazus’s arm shot out and caught the scruff of his brother’s neck, hauling him close. “Manners, Cophen. It is enough that Memnon has returned home. Forgive him, Uncle. He has learned impudence from the son of Philip, himself.”

  “Alexander is my friend!” Cophen said, straining under his brother’s grip.

  Before Artabazus could intervene, Memnon knelt, his eyes leve
l with Cophen’s. The boy ceased struggling; Pharnabazus relaxed his fingers. “The son of a king is a good friend to have, and if he is a true friend then the gods have blessed you both. But, in answer to your question: one cannot visit Egypt without bringing back a trove of trinkets. Find Khafre. He will know which is yours.”

  “Khafre returned with you?” Wide-eyed, Cophen shrugged off Pharnabazus’s hand. “Does he still tell tales and weave stories?”

  Memnon stood and smiled. “He does. Seek him out, but ask your father’s leave, first.”

  “Father?” Cophen turned, as rigid as a soldier facing his commander. “May I beg off riding today?”

  Artabazus nodded. “You have my permission.” As soon as the words left his father’s lips Cophen took off, sprinting through the stables in a flurry of dust and loose straw. “That one is his mother made over,” Artabazus said, shaking his head.

  “He is foolish,” Pharnabazus said.

  “No.” Artabazus corrected him. “He’s young. As were you. Go ready the horses, my son. Memnon will take Cophen’s place, or have the months at sea rusted your skill in the saddle?”

  The Rhodian grinned. “Let’s find out.”

  ALONG THE MARSHY VERGE OF LAKE LOUDIAS, MILES FROM THE OUTSKIRTS of Pella, the three Nisaeans stretched their legs into a full gallop, their riders’ wishes a trifling annoyance. Thundering hooves tore into the sun-baked earth, sending clods of dirt and pulverized reed into the air to cake the horses’ steaming flanks. A half-mile passed, and still they did not slacken. Herons exploded from clumps of sedge; wings beat the shallows as mallards, startled by the crash and clamor, lofted into the cloud-strewn sky. After a mile and more, Memnon, astride Euphrosyne, drew the animal back under control, slowing to a canter, then to a trot, giving it a chance to catch its breath. Artabazus and Pharnabazus followed suit.

  All three men were flushed and panting, frosted with dust. Pharnabazus whooped; his father chuckled to himself, no doubt lost in a memory of distant Asia, of a cavalry charge from one of his myriad wars.