by Oden, Scott
Near midnight, Memnon paused at the crest of a rise, startled by the orange glow of a fire coming from the heart of a willow thicket in the hollow below, barely visible from the road. But, who was it, Cophen or some other traveler? Cautious, he circled downwind, walking Euphrosyne close enough that he could hear the clatter of weapons and the chatter of conversation. Soldiers. He could tell from their silhouettes and voices that there were five of them, cavalrymen, their horses tied to a makeshift fence created by stretching a rope between two trees. He counted six horses, though. On his second count, he noticed that the sixth was taller than the rest and as black as the surrounding night.
Memnon stiffened. A Nisaean!
“I’m telling you,” he heard one of the cavalrymen say, pointing back toward the line of mounts. “I recognize that horse. Only three like it in these parts and they all belong to the Persian.”
“What about it, lad?” The speaker, a squat Macedonian with a fiery red beard, nudged a shape at his feet. Memnon exhaled in relief. Cophen, a gangling youth of fifteen, his chiton in disarray and his arms bound behind him, lay on his side. He snarled up at the cavalryman, his eyes showing more fury than fear. The Rhodian felt a stab of pride.
“The Persian’s my father! The horse is his!”
“Father? Lying little bugger! More like you stole it from the Persian! Didn’t you? Ha! Keep glaring at me, then! It’s all the same punishment, horse thievery or trespassing without the King’s blessing! Both warrant a hanging!”
“A bit of sport first, eh, Koinos?” one of the others asked, grabbing his crotch and chuckling. “Prettier than the King’s new boy, this one.”
Memnon, though, had seen enough.
“Praise Zeus!” he bellowed, spurring Euphrosyne through the trees and into the clearing. “You found him!” Cavalrymen leapt to their feet; iron glittered and rasped as they dragged their swords from their sheaths or snatched at their javelins.
“Uncle!” Cophen shouted, lurching upright. He would have rushed to Memnon’s side but a sword point leveled at his belly stopped him cold.
“Don’t kill him yet, boys,” red-bearded Koinos said, squinting at Memnon in the uncertain light. “Not before we find out his business in these parts. What of it, friend?”
“I mean no harm,” Memnon said. He dismounted, careful to keep his hand away from the hilt of his weapon, and looped Euphrosyne’s reins around a willow branch. With the same exaggerated care, he tugged the wallet from under his armor, opened it, and held the pass up so Koinos could see the seal. “I’m a guest-friend of King Philip’s. Memnon, I’m called. This one’s my nephew, the son of Artabazus the Persian. We’re on our way to Mieza to pay our respects to Prince Alexander.”
“You’re an officer of Parmenion’s. I’ve heard of you,” Koinos said, relaxing. He nodded and sheathed his blade; the others followed suit. “The lad’s telling the truth, I guess. Cut him loose.” But Cophen, before they could free him, slipped their grasp and ran to Memnon’s side.
“Thank the gods!” he said, his voice rising in pitch. “I am glad you’re here, Uncle! Did you see? Did you? These dogs dared lay hands on me! On me! Make sure you get their names, Uncle! I want to see them hang!”
Memnon frowned. He placed a heavy hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “They were doing the task Philip set them here to do. As far as I can see you’re unharmed, save for a bruised pride, so let this serve as a lesson in what can happen when you bolt off without permission.”
Cophen, though, shrugged him off. “Am I not descended from the kings of Asia and a sworn ally of their own Prince? Zeus Savior and Herakles! You will all pay, and pay dearly! Alexander will see to it! Loose me, Uncle! Loose—”
Memnon’s jaw twitched. The boy was shrieking now, clamoring before god and man to see justice delivered. The pride he had felt earlier at his nephew’s stalwart defiance evaporated, and with it his patience. He spun Cophen around to face the Macedonians and kicked his legs out from under him. The lad would have gone sprawling into the dirt had Memnon not caught him—by snatching a fistful of his dark hair. Metal grated as the Rhodian slid his sword from its sheath.
The Macedonians cursed. Koinos motioned for them to hold their ground and not to interfere.
On his knees now, Cophen yelped as his head was jerked back; his eyes brimmed with tears of panic and confusion as Memnon laid the edge of his blade across his throat. “Uncle?”
Memnon stared down at him, making his face pitiless and hard. “How comes this cockiness, this base arrogance? What have you done which entitles you to address your elders as if they were slaves under your heel? Have you led men into battle? Served your family and your king with glory and honor? Or is it simply that you feel a sense of entitlement because you were lucky enough to be born a Pharnacid while these fine fellows were not? You … Koinos, isn’t it?” Memnon waited for the red-bearded Macedonian to nod in assent. “Tell me, good Koinos, what penalty has Philip decreed for foreigners caught near Mieza without his leave?”
“Death,” Koinos said flatly.
“Surely the King makes concessions for pompous young fools too full of their ancestors supposed virtues that it blinds them to the dangers of allowing their tongues free rein?”
“None that I’m aware of, sir,” Koinos replied. He kept his features stern. “We hang them just the same.”
“Fetch a rope.”
Cophen’s eyes widened. He made to speak, stopping as Memnon applied slight pressure to the blade. Koinos glanced from the Rhodian to the boy and snapped his fingers. One of his cavalrymen rummaged through his kit, came up with a length of plaited leather rope and tossed it to the red-bearded Macedonian. Koinos made a show of testing the rope’s strength.
Cophen braved the sword’s edge. “Uncle, please!”
“Are we supposed to pity you, now? Decide, boy! Either you’re man enough to demand vengeance against the King’s subjects, thus man enough to accept punishment when you transgress against the King’s law, or you’re but a callow youth in dire need of instruction! Which is it? Decide, Cophen!”
“Please, don’t do it, Uncle! Please! I’m … I’m not …!” The boy squeezed his eyes shut; tears left their moist tracks through the dust caking his cheeks.
“Koinos,” Memnon said, lifting his blade away from his nephew’s throat. “I don’t think we’ll need that rope after all.” The Macedonian nodded; a father himself, he could respect a good harrowing. He turned to his cavalrymen.
“What are you whoresons gawking at?” he said. “Your uncles did worse to you and you know it! Get this camp squared away!”
Memnon cut Cophen’s bonds; driving his sword point-first into the earth, he knelt beside him and draped his arm around his shoulders. The youth opened his eyes and stared up at the night sky, unable to look down for fear of impaling himself on a phantom blade. He took ragged breaths, choking now and again, snuffling. His face blazed with shame.
“I—I thought you were going to k-kill me,” he said, raw-voiced.
“I needed your full attention,” Memnon replied. “Listen to me, Cophen. Your blood is unimpeachable—you are descended from the kings of Asia—but blood is not the sole measure of a man. Nor are we defined by our associations with other men, be they beggars, princes, or kings. It is our deeds and our words that make us who we are. Now, none will argue that you have bravery to spare, and you’re daring. How else could you have stolen your father’s horse and made it this far? But, you lack humility. When your bid failed you decided not to accept your failure with dignity, and you compounded that failure by making hollow threats against men innocent of any wrongdoing. That others, men of substance and worldly power, act in this base manner does not give you license to emulate them. Do you understand?”
Cophen nodded. “I do … at least, I believe I do.”
“Good,” Memnon said. He rose and helped the youth to his feet. “Come. Let’s get a bit of sup and some rest. I want to be on the road early.”
“Back to Pella?
” Cophen asked. He had a resignation in his voice that told Memnon he expected further punishment, from his father, his mother, but especially from Pharnabazus. Memnon, though, shook his head.
“To Mieza. Don’t you have obligations to discharge to Alexander, as he is your guest-friend?”
The lad brightened. “But … But I thought you’d come to fetch me home?”
“To escort you and keep you safe. Deeds and words, Cophen,” Memnon replied. “If you’ve pledged your friendship, then it does you credit to seek out the Prince and bid him farewell. It shows you recognize your duties.” They walked toward the fire. Memnon smiled and tousled his nephew’s hair. “But running away shows you still have much more to learn. Don’t worry, though; the back of your brother’s hand will be awaiting you once our business with Alexander is finished.”
MIEZA CLUNG TO THE FOOT OF MOUNT BERMION LIKE A SUPPLIANT beseeching a cloud-wreathed lord. In the foothills above the sleepy village stood a sprawling country estate built by legendary King Midas, so he might enjoy his gardens, and renovated by King Philip as an offering to the gods of learning. Whitewashed walls and red glazed tiles gleamed amid stands of maple and birch. Apple orchards, with trees as precise in their ranks as soldiers in a phalanx, shaded the road leading up to the main house. Servants and slaves went about their morning ritual, some fetching water or harvesting apples for the kitchens, others heading out to the fields to tend the olives and prune the vine stocks. Young goatherds tramped along with their bleating charges, bound for pastures higher in the mountains.
Twice Memnon and Cophen were stopped by spear-bearing soldiers—once in the village and once near the house—and made to produce proof that they had the King’s permission to be here. “Does Philip fear someone might snatch Alexander away?” Cophen asked.
Memnon shrugged. “Oft times, the best way to strike at a man is through his son. I think, though, the guards are meant more to ensure privacy. He wants his son to learn all this student of Plato has to offer, and without distraction. Which is why …?” Memnon glanced at his nephew, his eyebrows raised.
“Which is why I am to make my farewells brief, but polite, and decline any offer to stay longer than necessary,” Cophen said, weary of reciting the same instructions.
“Good.”
As they approached the house an older servant in a saffron tunic emerged to greet them, accompanied by a pair of Thracian grooms. Memnon and Cophen dismounted. The man, shading his eyes against the morning sunlight, frowned from one to the other. “You’re not couriers from King Philip,” he said, his voice dripping suspicion.
“Indeed, we’re not,” Memnon replied. He brandished his papers for a third time. “We’re here with the blessing of the King’s Regent, who speaks for the King in his absence. I am Memnon, and this is my nephew, Cophen, son of Artabazus. He is a guest-friend of Prince Alexander’s who has come to pay his respects. If you might be so kind as to direct us to the Prince?”
The servant pursed his lips and nodded. He motioned for the grooms to see to their horses. “Come. Alexander is taking instruction from my master, Aristotle, but I shall show you to a place where you may await him.” He led them around to the back of the house. A columned portico paved with natural stone offered an excellent view of the wooded eastern face of Mount Bermion, and near at hand Memnon could hear the splash of water that betokened a shallow falls. Paths vanished under oak and rowan boughs. The servant gestured to a bench and excused himself, leaving the pair alone.
“Pleasant fellow,” Memnon muttered. Cophen sat as the Rhodian leaned against a column.
“I wonder what sort of lessons this Aristotle teaches?” the youth said.
“Rhetoric, surely,” Memnon replied. “Mathematics, literature, and philosophy as well. Remember to ask Alexander when you see him. No doubt he’d be eager to show you the grounds.” Movement caught Memnon’s eye. From around the far side of the house, opposite from where they sat, a man strolled along the edge of a flowerbed. His hands clasped behind his back, he stopped on occasion to study a particularly vibrant bloom. The fellow wore a long Ionian chiton, colored a rich shade of red with a thickly embroidered hem, and allowed his golden hair to drape about his shoulders. As he turned to retrace his steps Memnon was struck by an odd sense of familiarity. He’d seen this man before. His face, ageless and smooth, made the Rhodian think of the many eunuchs who had once been in Artabazus’s service.
Recognition dawned. The eunuch from the horse fair!
“Who is he, Uncle?” Cophen said, following Memnon’s gaze.
“I don’t know, though I’m sure I’ve seen him before.” He meant before their exile in Macedonia, though he didn’t elaborate. Nor did Cophen press. The young man stood as a flurry of voices echoed from one of the forest paths; presently, a gaggle of youths emerged, shepherded along by a small man impeccably dressed in a bone-colored Ionian tunic, his graying beard well trimmed. Sunlight winked from the rings on his fingers as he spoke with animated gestures to the two young men at his side. The taller one, a handsome boy with dark hair and brooding eyes, Memnon didn’t know. The other was Alexander.
“So unlike his father,” Memnon said, more to himself than his nephew. Indeed, Alexander shared very little with Philip; so slight was the resemblance, in fact, that it drove the King’s detractors to question the boy’s paternity. He had his mother’s dark eyes, brilliant in their intensity, and a thick mane of fair hair, which he wore long and loose to remind all of the blood he shared with immortal Herakles.
The sight of him put Memnon on edge. He reckoned it akin to watching an adolescent lion—lean and hungry—amid a flock of sheep, trying to apprehend when its rampage would begin.
Of Alexander’s retinue, Memnon only knew the three oldest by sight, youths already considered men in their fathers’ esteem. Parmenion’s eldest, Philotas, walked beside Ptolemy, son of Lagos (rumor, though, painted him Philip’s bastard). In their wake came a knot of five boys Cophen’s age. These poked good-naturedly at a sixth, a clubfooted lad who smiled and spouted curses with all the creativity of a lifelong soldier. Finally, walking alone, was Antipatros’s eldest son, Kassandros, a red-haired youth of seventeen whose sharp blue eyes flickered between Alexander and his tall companion, as though undecided on which one he hated more.
It was the clubfooted lad who spotted them first. “Cophen!” he shouted, breaking ranks and hobbling toward the portico. Cophen stepped down and met him halfway.
“Greetings, Harpalos!” The others, too, swirled around Cophen. Memnon heard a litany of names: Leonnatus, Erigyius, Laomedon, Marsyas, Nearchus. Ptolemy and Philotas held themselves aloof; Kassandros shouldered past them and went to sit under the portico.
“Alexander! Hephaestion!” Harpalos cried. “Look who has decided to pay us a visit!”
The Prince took leave of his tutor and, Hephaestion in tow, rushed over to greet Cophen. Memnon stood off to one side as the pair exchanged pleasantries, watching the tutor, this Aristotle, as he took Cophen’s measure, looking the boy up and down as though assessing a slave on the block. No doubt the sophist knew well how to discern Persian blood—and Cophen’s heritage was evident in his features. A look of disdain crossed Aristotle’s face; as he turned away, his eyes flickered briefly over Memnon. In less time than it takes a heart to beat, the Rhodian sensed he’d been catalogued and pigeonholed as a Median sympathizer, and thus beneath the philosopher’s contempt. Memnon dismissed Aristotle with equal ease.
Aristotle finished his turn, spotted the eunuch hovering over a rose bush. He smiled and raised a ring-heavy hand in greeting, his manner at once cordial. Who is this eunuch? A diplomat, perhaps; or an intermediary between the philosopher and Philip?
Alexander’s voice brought Memnon out of himself. “You must spend a few days here, Cophen!”
“Alas!” Cophen replied. “We cannot. A ship awaits our return to Pella. Father has been recalled to Persia, to be reinstated with full honors. My uncle and I have come to pay our respects to you, a
s my guest-friend, and to say farewell.” Cophen extended his hand.
The gesture touched Alexander, Memnon could plainly see, and he grasped the proffered hand, pulling Cophen into an embrace. “I am pleased for your father,” Alexander said, with gravity beyond his years. “Macedonia will always be a place of refuge for you, my friend, should you ever need it.”
“As my home will be for you,” Cophen said. Smiling, Alexander released him from his embrace and turned to Memnon. The Rhodian inclined his head to the Prince.
“Parmenion is losing his best officer,” Alexander said. “Are you sure we can’t convince you, at least, to stay, Memnon?”
“You flatter me, Alexander. As much as I would like to remain, the needs of my family are paramount. Besides, where would Artabazus be without me to shepherd his sons to manhood?”
“Do you have time, at least, to see the Sanctuary of the Nymphs?” Alexander said, turning suddenly back to Cophen. “It is a place of great mystery, and not far from here.”
“Uncle?”
Memnon nodded. In an explosion of chatter, the younger boys swept Cophen off into the woods, following in Alexander’s wake. The older three stayed put.
“Come, Philotas,” Ptolemy said. “Let’s ride down to the village.”
“In a moment.” Philotas approached Memnon. “How fares my father?”
“I left Parmenion on the verge of a great victory in Thrace,” Memnon replied. “It pains me that I won’t be there to take part in it.”
Philotas beamed, pride for his father as evident as the sun’s light on snow. “I knew he would conquer those blue-skinned barbaroi!”
“Are you sure he’s victorious, Memnon? I had hoped Kersobleptes might send Parmenion packing,” Ptolemy said, smiling. “If only to teach his son the meaning of humility.”
Philotas laughed.
Behind them, though, Kassandros cursed and spat. “That’s treason.”