Memnon

by Oden, Scott

  The dealer, Philonikos, a squat, bearish man who had the telltale swagger of a born horseman, made an expansive gesture. “My lord King! I bring you horses that would make you the envy of Lord Poseidon, himself!”

  “I don’t seek to rival the gods, Philonikos, only to replace what I lost to the Illyrians.” Philip half-turned to Artabazus. “Philonikos, here, breeds the finest of the boukephaloi. He would be the man to talk to, if ever you decide to share your Nisaeans with the rest of us.”

  “You flatter me, majesty.” Philonikos bowed.

  Philip motioned. “Show us what you have.”

  The horses Philonikos directed his grooms to present to the King were fine animals, Memnon was forced to admit, but Philip must have had a particular mount in mind; none of the Thessalian’s string measured up to his demands. A crowd formed around the King, watching with interest as his practiced eye noted the tiniest of flaws—some that Memnon couldn’t even detect. The onlookers made a sport of it by placing wagers on the remaining horses. To Philonikos, though, this was deadly business. Each rejection pricked the Thessalian’s pride. Exasperated, he told his harried grooms, “Bring up Xanthos!”

  “Auspicious name,” Memnon said.

  Philonikos ignored him, his jaw jutting in defiance. The stallion his men led up could very well have sprung from the loins of its legendary namesake, the immortal Xanthos that had once belonged to Achilles. This new Xanthos was large, even among a breed noted for size, and black as soot with a white blaze on its forehead. The animal pranced and fought, tried to rear up. It took two grooms, one on each side of its head, and a wickedly barbed bit to control it, but it was tenuous control, at best.

  A buzz of disbelief rose from the assembled men. Philip glanced over at Philonikos. “I’m not buying a horse in need of breaking, so don’t waste my time.”

  “Xanthos is broken, sire,” Philonikos said. “It responds only to strength. Under the right man, that horse would ride to the gates of Tartarus and back. Absolutely fearless.”

  “It looks it, I grant you that.” The King moved closer, keeping clear of the stamping hooves. “Xanthos,” he said. The horse started at the sound of its name, nostrils flaring. “Easy, boy. Easy.” As Philip reached for the headstall, though, his shadow fell in front of the horse.

  Xanthos exploded. The animal bucked and pawed the air, oblivious of the barbed bit or of the two grooms. One hoof came so close to the King’s skull that Philip could feel the breeze off it. He stumbled back, his face darkening.

  “Zeus! That bastard can’t be ridden and you damn well know it! What manner of fool do you take me for, Philonikos?” Philip roared. “Great gods! I may have one eye, but I’m not blind! That animal’s a killer! Get it away from me, you Thessalian whoreson, and thank the gods I don’t have you striped for trying to fleece honest men!”

  Philonikos paled, plucking at the hem of the King’s chiton as Philip brushed past him, intent on patronizing one of the Thessalian’s rival dealers. “Wait, sire! I—”

  Memnon felt a pang of regret for the man. Before Philip could move on, though, a youth’s voice crackled above the noise of men settling their bets.

  “You’re losing a magnificent horse, father, all because you and those men don’t know how to handle him, or dare not try!”

  A hush fell over the field. Philip swung around, his brow deeply furrowed. Memnon and Artabazus glanced back toward the pavilion. The crowd parted, and Prince Alexander, his face flushed, his thick hair tangled and shining like burnished gold, hurried forward, trailed by an entourage of boys and young men.

  Philip, his hands on his hips, growled, “What did you say?”

  “That horse!” Alexander gazed covetously at the stallion, his blue-gray eyes wide and gleaming. “You will never again see its like, and yet you dismiss it out of hand!”

  “I dismiss it for good reason! A horse like that will get a man killed in battle! It can’t be ridden!”

  “I can ride him!” Alexander said. The confidence in his voice seemed misplaced on a youth of thirteen summers; Memnon reckoned it part of Alexander’s mystery—a mystery the Rhodian was hard-pressed to explain. Already, the Prince had attracted a circle of followers, young men his age or slightly older who professed loyalty unto death for Macedonia’s heir apparent. Their fathers, men of Philip’s generation, encouraged the notion, thinking them nothing more than children playing a Homeric game. Memnon, though, wasn’t so sure. The young faces watching the Prince were rapturous and bright.

  Philip’s good eye narrowed. “How much is he, Philonikos?”

  “It …” Like his horse, the Thessalian started at the sound of his name. “Three talents, sire.”

  The King gave a brisk nod. “Done. If you can ride him, Alexander, he’s yours. But, if you can’t what penalty will you pay for your insolence?”

  “Three talents, father,” Alexander said, without pause.

  Philip grinned. “Done, again! You’re all witnesses to this wager!” The throng erupted, a cacophony of claps and shouts, of side bets and calls for wine. Philip stepped aside and gestured for Alexander to proceed at his leisure. His lips tensed as he watched the boy advance.

  The Prince’s face hardened. His eyes flashed as he snarled at Philonikos and his grooms, ordering them to step away. The horse pawed the ground but did not bolt; it let Alexander approach, undaunted perhaps by the Prince’s small stature. The boy made soothing sounds but did not use the stallion’s given name, calling it instead after its ox-head brand: “Boukephalos … Boukephalos …”

  “Are they both mad?” the Rhodian muttered. “Someone should step in and end this before the boy gets himself killed.”

  Artabazus shrugged. “There is nothing to be done now. Nothing but pray the gods are watching over him.”

  Alexander reached up and stroked the horse’s neck. Slowly, he loosened the bit. The animal huffed and tossed its head. The boy calmed it, took it by the headstall and turned it to face the sun.

  “Ah, look there,” Artabazus hissed, gripping Memnon’s forearm. “The boy does know horses. The shadows were making it skittish …”

  The Prince spent several minutes soothing the animal, talking in a low voice. He walked with it toward Lake Loudias. Then, without making any sharp motions, Alexander worked his way back and grasped the horse’s mane, keeping the reins loose in his left hand.

  The crowd held its collective breaths. Artabazus’s fingers tightened on Memnon’s arm. Even Philip leaned forward, anticipation etched on his face.

  Lightly, Alexander vaulted onto the horse’s back. Memnon expected the animal to buck and throw the boy. To his surprise, it accepted Alexander’s slight weight with a toss of its head and an explosive whinny. Men murmured; coins tinkled like cymbals. The Prince gathered the reins, careful not to pull on the barbed bit, and with a triumphant shout touched his heels to the horse’s flanks. Boy and stallion raced away from the field as the crowd loosed a tremendous roar. Soldiers of the Bodyguard clashed their spears against their shields. Members of Alexander’s entourage whooped and ran after their Prince.

  King Philip threw his arms wide and gathered Philonikos up in a crushing embrace, laughing as he called for someone to fetch three talents for the sweat-drenched Thessalian.

  “My boy!” Philip said, grinning. “I’m going to have to find a bigger kingdom for him! Macedonia’s too small!” The King glanced toward Artabazus. To Memnon, there was no mistaking the menacing glitter in his eye.

  ARTABAZUS AND MEMNON BEGGED OFF ATTENDING THE MANY FEASTS associated with the horse fair, knowing full well they would degenerate into the raucous drinking parties the Macedonians were famous for—all-night debaucheries that made even the most notorious Athenian symposia appear tame by comparison. As they said their farewells to the King, both men assured him they would give serious consideration to his offer of an alliance.

  “He did not seem to care either way,” Memnon said. As had become their custom, he sat with Barsine on a wooden bench, one of
many scattered around the estate, watching fireflies dart through the deepening twilight as they spoke of the day’s events. Memnon could tell Gryllus had been working in this area earlier; he inhaled the smells of freshly cut grass and of soil mixed with crushed tree bark.

  “He is a curious man, the King,” Barsine said. Her dark hair glistened in the fading light. She wore a saffron chiton, sleeveless, its hem thick with embroidery. A shawl of similar material complimented the soft olive complexion of her shoulders and neck. Often, Memnon had to force his eyes elsewhere.

  Fool! She’s spoken for …

  The Rhodian cleared his throat. “Oh, there’s nothing curious about him. Philip’s like Scylla and Charybdis blended into a single ravenous entity, a tentacled Cyclops with an insatiable appetite. Still, for all that, it’s Alexander who frightens me more. The father seeks only power; the son seeks power and glory. A perilous combination of desires for one man to have.”

  Barsine’s forehead creased. “But, Alexander’s not a man—not yet, at least. Let maturity temper his character and his thirst for glory before you pass judgment on him.”

  “Maturity will temper his body, perhaps, but his character is already fully realized,” Memnon said, shaking his head. “You didn’t see him today. The look in his eyes was the look of a man, and a capable man at that. Glory is more than a thirst for Alexander. It’s a flame, fanned by the hope of great deeds and of greater adulation. He won’t be content to stop at the Hellespont, I guarantee you, and any who stand in his way …” The Rhodian dusted his palms together, a dismissive gesture.

  Barsine shivered. “We are not in any danger, are we, Memnon?”

  “No, of course not. The bonds of guest-friendship are sacred, for Greeks as well as Persians. While we are under Philip’s protection we are as safe as if we were his kin.”

  “And when we are no longer under his protection?” Unconsciously, she leaned closer to him until their shoulders touched. “What then?”

  The smell of her hair, of roses, drifted up to his nostrils. Memnon resisted the impulse to wrap his arm around her. “We are safe,” he murmured, “and safe we will remain so long as Macedonia and Persia are at peace with one another.”

  Despite deepening shadows, Memnon could see the outline of Barsine’s face, inches from his own, as she gazed up at him. Her lips parted. It would be so easy, he thought, so easy just to bend closer …

  She, too, fought a battle within herself, decorum versus desire, revealed in the way her brow crinkled and smoothed; restless, her eyes memorized every detail of his features. Barsine shifted. Memnon felt her hand rise, felt the delicate touch of her fingers as she traced the line of his jaw. “I wish …” she began, but lapsed into silence.

  “Don’t.” Memnon caught her hand, held it gently. Barsine’s eyes closed. Her head dipped and she exhaled.

  “I wish,” she repeated, this time with more force, “you would not paint poor Alexander with so sinister a brush. He is, after all, only a precocious boy.” She sat upright, putting space between them.

  Memnon sighed. On the bench, Barsine’s hand remained cradled in his. “Achilles was a precocious boy once, too.”

  “More so than Odysseus?” she replied, her eyebrow raised, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Together, they stood. “I had best go in and check on Deidamia. Good night, Memnon.”

  “Good night.” He gave her hand a soft squeeze and released it. Then, rather than allow himself to watch her walk away, Memnon turned and withdrew in the opposite direction, a roundabout course that would bring him to the guesthouse door.

  By the time he gained his threshold, Memnon’s anger at himself had given way to dark melancholy. He opened the door and contemplated the silent, empty guesthouse. A clay lamp burned on his desk, its fresh oil salted to lessen the smoke, and an unopened flask of wine sat beside it. A servant, the same who had lit the lamp and brought the wine, had also turned down the bed clothes in preparation for his slumber.

  Sleep, though, was an impossibility.

  He sat at the desk. Through the window, past a veil of myrtle leaves, he could see the main house, a few of its lights burning behind fretted screens. He imagined Barsine waiting for him in the doorway, her hair unbound, her linen sleeping gown slipping over her shoulders … No! Memnon forced the image aside and reached for the wine flask.

  Sunrise found him still sitting at the desk. The oil lamp had burned out, and the wine flask at his elbow lay on its side, drained and forgotten. Memnon’s chin rested on his fist; on occasion he shifted, his fingers smoothing his beard.

  She’s spoken for! Mentor’s prize …

  This litany ran through his head throughout the long night, illuminating one thing with brilliant clarity: to stay would be to risk temptation. Last night proved almost more than he could handle. Better to remove himself from the situation before he lost control and did something he—and she—would regret later. He would leave, but where would he go? The sea-lanes south were open. Perhaps Mentor needed someone he could trust to watch his back? But, can he trust me? Have I betrayed him by lusting after his bride? West, then, to Sicily. Surely Patron could use another fair hand …

  Sound intruded. Memnon glanced up as a hand scratched again at his door. “Memnon?” It was Pharnabazus.

  He roused himself. “Yes?”

  “You have a visitor.”

  “Can this wait, nephew?” Memnon barked, in no mood to be civil. He heard muted voices.

  “No, Uncle. May we enter?”

  The Rhodian sighed. There was nothing for it. “Yes. Enter.” Memnon rose as Pharnabazus pushed the door open. The younger man gave him an anxious look.

  “Have you slept at all?”

  Memnon waved off his concern. Pharnabazus stepped aside, making room for his companion. The fellow was Macedonian, of that Memnon was certain—a powerfully built man in a somber red tunic, broad-shouldered and thick-waisted.

  “Memnon,” Pharnabazus said. “This is Parmenion, Philip’s general.”

  “Your reputation precedes you, Rhodian,” Parmenion said, speaking southern Greek with a harsh accent. Scars seamed his flesh, white and puckered against his burnished hide, some nearly obscured by the coarse hair grizzling his arms, legs, and chest. Gray flecked his beard, his bristling black brows; Memnon guessed him to be in his mid-fifties.

  “As does yours, General,” Memnon said. Nor was it hollow flattery. In the Macedonian highlands, Parmenion would have been a king himself, a warlord who ruled through iron and fear; under Philip, he wielded a far more subtle power. “How may I be of service?”

  “I ran into this Persian pup,” he caught Pharnabazus by the scruff of the neck and gave him a good-natured shake, “in the agora. He told me you were in from Egypt, and that you’d been in for most of the year. I thought you might be getting bored with all this soft living and looking for a way back into the field.”

  Memnon smiled despite his mood. “Why is it when a soldier’s in the field, he dreams of nothing but home; when he’s home, he dreams of the field?”

  “Because home is the field, the place where a soldier feels most like himself. I need a trustworthy man to lead my native light cavalry when I return to Thrace in a few days,” Parmenion said. “Short notice, I know, but the bastard who served for me last season got his fool head split in a clan feud yesterday. I’m done relying on hillmen. I need a Greek, and I’ve heard Artabazus speak highly of you.”

  Memnon blinked. Silently, he praised the gods for their providence. He turned back to his desk; through the window, he caught sight of Barsine emerging from the main house and into the morning sun, the younger children in tow. She was taking them to the stables so they could feed tidbits to the horses. For an instant, he imagined their eyes locked.

  Mentor’s prize …

  “It’ll be a mercenary’s work, but you’ll be well compensated,” Parmenion added, thinking him wavering. Memnon nodded suddenly and turned back to the Macedonian.

  “Phar
nabazus comes with me, as my lieutenant.”

  Parmenion assented, thrusting his hand toward the Rhodian.

  “I’ve been casting about for a war I could win,” Memnon said, grasping the general’s hand. “Thrace seems as good a place to find one as any.”

  13

  “QUIET!” MEMNON HISSED.

  Surrounded by two-score soldiers, the Rhodian crouched in the high summer grass, javelin in hand, as he strained to pick out sounds arising from the enemy palisade fifty yards off. Carefully, he rose on his haunches and risked a glance at their intended target. His men—a mixture of allied Thracians and coastal Greeks—kept low to the ground; some glared at the young soldier who had cried out when he put his hand down on the back of a harmless grass snake. The boy’s face burned with shame.

  Memnon held himself upright a second longer, then sank back to the earth. Dawn was not far off; already, the eastern sky was aglow, a veil of high clouds diffusing the golden light of the Sun God’s chariot. No one moved along the palisade; from the village beyond came only the typical sounds of a community stirring, making ready for another day of heat and sun. With an exaggerated hand gesture, Memnon let his men know they were as yet undetected. Sighs of relief whispered through the grass. The Rhodian paused to wipe sweat from his eyes. Their enemies on this raid, a village of Thracians of the Odrysae tribe, were legendary for their ability to sniff out an ambush, and infamous for their brutality. “Crush them,” Memnon told Parmenion a week ago, before leaving Doriscus for the Hebrus Valley, “and you deprive the Thracian king of a valuable ally.” Now that they were near their target, Memnon prayed the Odrysians would take the bait, that Pharnabazus and his Greek cavalry could goad the wily Thracians into action. It is on you, my nephew.

  Memnon surveyed his soldiers by the growing light. Like his men, he, too, wore a lineothorax, a cuirass made of layers of linen stiffened with glue and reinforced with plates of dull gray iron on the chest and back. Hours of belly-crawling through the field left behind a patina of dust, stiffening hair and beards, and turning to mud in the sweat-damp creases of eyes, noses, and mouths. Most bore a trio of javelins—two to throw and one to keep for close-in fighting. A few of the Greeks had slings, their plum-shaped bullets cast of lead and wickedly filed, imparting a spin to their flight; on impact, they drilled through flesh like a shipwright’s auger.