Memnon

by Oden, Scott

  “For all that I admire Isocrates,” Hermeias said as they left the palace and made their way to the theater, “I would never give him leave to dwell in lands under my control. Can you imagine the mischief he would cause if he decided to unleash his literary arsenal on autocrats and tyrants?”

  “A wise decision,” Memnon murmured. He and the eunuch walked side by side, trailed by courtiers and hangers-on, flanked by Kritias and the Basileus’s Guard. Not even an early morning rainstorm could dampen the enthusiasm of the crowd streaming into the theater. There was a carnival atmosphere despite the lowering sky, a cacophony of voices glad for the opportunity to pay homage to the god Dionysus. This year, a great part of that homage would be a comedic contest—five plays in the Attic mode enacted by some of the finest players in all of Hellas, including Thettalos of Athens and Nikos of Olynthus. One could hear musicians tuning their instruments in the orchestra as the throng, with their cushions and awnings and bags of food, found places to sit.

  Five thousand souls packed into the tiered seats, citizens and foreign guests mostly, leavened with a handful of courtesans who flouted social customs by being seen with their favorites in public. The whole erupted in a thunderous ovation as Hermeias entered. He acknowledged them with a wave and took his place, his guards discreetly out of the way. Next came a parade of the gods, Dionysus in the lead; priests made sacrifices and read the omens, declaring it a blessed day.

  As this was going on Memnon scanned the audience. Once or twice he thought he caught sight of Omares or his sons, though he could not be certain; regardless, he did nothing to draw attention to them. The faces around him were smiling and gay as the first play, a bawdy piece called Lesbia by Eupolis, got underway. Which one? Memnon wondered, staring at those nearest him. Which one is my pawn?

  “Nikos of Olynthus is an excellent Phaon, is he not?” Hermeias said, his lips barely moving. He gave the impression of rapt attention. “A rare find, though Eupolis bores me to tears.”

  “Indeed,” Memnon replied. “I prefer tragedy to comedy on the stage.”

  “As do I. Since we are both bored, perhaps you would share an anecdote,” the eunuch said. “Tell me how your brother earned the Great King’s gratitude.”

  And so, in a voice barely rising above a whisper, Memnon related to Hermeias the story of Mentor’s conquest of Egypt. He had little need to embroider the tale, though he did add details of intrigue and slaughter that perhaps Khafre had been remiss in mentioning to him. In all, he made it last through Eupolis and well into Aristophanes’ Frogs.

  “Extraordinary,” Hermeias said at the conclusion of Memnon’s tale. “He virtually rules western Asia, you say?”

  “Not virtually. He is the commander of the Great King’s western armies and a Satrap of Satraps. We—Artabazus and I—were only pardoned by Ochus because Mentor wished it,” Memnon said. “Now, Mentor wishes to pardon other Greeks who once opposed the Persians and quietly move them into positions of authority.”

  “To what end?”

  Memnon watched the actors for a moment, listening as their lines gave way to the chorus’s final song. “Ochus is an old man. When he dies, Mentor’s afraid the Great King’s heirs will renege on their sire’s patronage. He seeks to guarantee himself a position in future regimes, be it through bribery, marriage, or threat of arms.”

  Hermeias looked pensive, his scarred face grave. Memnon knew, though, that he had snared the eunuch with that last bit of fiction. An ally of Philip’s could not ask for a gift greater than news—reliable news, at that—of an exploitable rift in the Persian high command. It was as irresistible to him as an unbarred door to a thief. “A bold man, your brother,” he said. “Bold and not without foresight. No doubt many men along the Asian shore are eager to deal with him, and I know of at least one in Europe who would welcome a strong Greek ally on this side of the Hellespont.”

  Memnon glanced sidelong at the eunuch, frowning as though such an idea never occurred to him. “Philip, you mean?”

  Hermeias’s silence spoke more plainly than any explanation.

  On stage, the exodos unfolded and the actor playing Aeschylus, now free of Hades’ realm by the comic misdeeds of Dionysus and his servant, delivered his final lines. “And remember,” the fellow said, puffing himself up, “let not that villainous fellow—that liar, that clown!—sit upon my throne, not—”

  Memnon’s pawn chose that moment to strike.

  From the corner of his eye, the Rhodian saw a man approaching from his left, over the eunuch’s shoulder. He looked no different than the other theatergoers, cloak-wrapped, his features ruddy from the chill air and from drink, driven by necessity to seek the privy. He pulled a dog-skin cap down over his balding pate. As he passed close to Hermeias, though, Memnon saw a spasm of hate contort the man’s face. Iron flashed.

  “Death to the tyrant!” the assassin roared.

  Memnon was in motion as the words left the man’s lips, dragging the startled Hermeias out of his attacker’s path. Gracelessly, the eunuch tumbled to the stone floor. “Guards! Protect your king!” The actors and the crowd recoiled; a woman screamed.

  The assassin lashed out, his blade gashing the Rhodian’s left biceps; before he could draw back and strike again, Memnon caught his knife-hand and twisted it, feeling bones break under his fingers. The weapon clattered to their feet. The man bellowed in agony and made to claw at Memnon’s eyes, but the Rhodian ducked his head and thrust the fellow away, pushing him into the path of the onrushing guards.

  Kritias reached him even as the failed assassin turned to flee. The captain’s spear took him high, staving in his breastbone and punching through his body. The man crashed to the ground, writhing, spewing bright blood and curses as he died in sight of the gods.

  More guards spilled into the theater, blocking exits and holding the milling crowd at bay while the sponsors and a few of the actors tried to restore calm. Memnon helped the eunuch to his feet. “Are you injured?”

  “N-No … I am unhurt.” Hermeias held his arms aloft so the crowd could see him. “I am unhurt!” His scarred face was ashen, though, as he came forward and studied the dead man’s visage.

  “Who was he?”

  “One of Eubulus’s old partisans, I imagine, though I thought I had rid myself of the last of their kind.” The tyrant looked over at Memnon, who was wringing blood from his lacerated arm; a rush of concern replaced his pallor. “Come, my dear friend. That cut needs a doctor’s care. Kritias! Clear a path!”

  Memnon lingered a moment over the corpse, wondering at his pawn’s name and if his kin were in the theater. Was he a truly martyr, or just a desperate cutthroat eager for gold and renown? No matter his motives, the courageous fool had done his duty.

  I have Hermeias’s trust.

  SPRING CAME EARLY TO THE TROAD. TWO MONTHS AFTER THE LENAEA, ships put to sea from Assos harbor, fat merchantmen shadowed by lean triremes, bound for Athens, for Pella, for Syracuse. Some would even brave the Persian-held waters off Cyprus for a chance to trade Greek wool and bronze for Egyptian linen and gold. For Memnon, though, the advent of spring heralded an end to his business with Hermeias.

  “It’s done,” the Rhodian said, bounding into the eunuch’s sun-drenched study without waiting to be announced. “Mentor has agreed to meet you.”

  Hermeias put his stylus down and leaned back in his chair, stroking his chin with ink-stained fingers. “When?”

  “Midmonth, at my estate near Adramyttium. He’s troubled by the rumblings of open war between Athens and Philip, and is eager to secure allies of his own.”

  “Why does he not come here?”

  “For the same reasons you do not go to Sardis,” Memnon said, smiling. “You’re both afraid of treachery from the other. Adramyttium is a neutral place. My estate is out of the way, secluded, so you both can let your guard down and talk like men. His terms are not unlike those of a parley. Ten men apiece—though he’ll only have nine, as I will be his tenth—and the setting will be a fine Att
ic symposium, as befits gentlemen of your respective ranks. I will send ahead and have everything ready.”

  Hermeias looked askance at the Rhodian. “I had no idea you owned an estate near Adramyttium.”

  “It was a gift from Artabazus, for when I become too old and gray to follow where Glory leads,” Memnon replied, not bothering to mention that he had only seen the estate once, and from afar. “But what’s this? I hear reluctance in your voice now. Have you changed your mind about the meeting?”

  “No,” Hermeias said, concern knitting his brow. “Of course not. I am … since the incident at the theater I am leery of entering a place not under my complete control. I am sure, though, that all is as you say.”

  “I can vouch for the setting,” Memnon said. He sat on a divan near the eunuch’s desk, any consternation over the unraveling of his plans well hidden. “As for the rest, you will have ten handpicked guards plus me as a hostage. Even if it were Mentor’s intent to seize you, for whatever reason, he wouldn’t lift so much as a finger so long as I’m under your power.” The Rhodian grinned. “I’m excellent insurance, if nothing else.”

  Hermeias rose and paced the study. “You are no hostage, my friend, and you are much more than mere insurance. I trust your judgment on these matters.” The eunuch smiled suddenly. “A symposium, eh? Perhaps I should pare my guards down to seven and invite a trio of learned friends? Trustworthy men, of course.”

  “A fine idea,” Memnon said, relief flooding his limbs.

  And so it was decided. In the second week of Mounichion, the Troad’s eunuch king left Assos by ship in the company of a contingent of his Guard, three sophists from Aristotle’s old school at Mytilene on Lesbos, and Memnon. Bearing east, their galley hugged the coast of the Bay of Adramyttium and reached the town that lent its name to the Bay on the morning of the second day.

  Adramyttium was a small hamlet, rustic compared to Assos, its beaches and roadsteads dotted with fishing boats. Homes of old timber and dun-colored brick topped a low hill, along with ruined walls that spoke of a time of greater prosperity. Gulls hovered over fishermen’s shacks, alighting on drying racks or canting beams, ever watchful for a free meal. Naked children made a game of scaring them off.

  The galley beached and the party disembarked. Memnon had arranged their transportation weeks in advance—a carriage for Hermeias and his sophists, a wagon for their luggage, and horses for the rest. The Rhodian assigned one guardsman to drive the carriage; another, the wagon. Kritias and the other four were unaccustomed to traveling on horseback, so it took Memnon the better part of the morning to get them where they could sit astride the shaggy ponies without falling off. Finally, near noon, under a cloudless blue sky, the cortege set out for the estate.

  Hermeias looked uneasy. “How far is it, again?”

  “Less than an hour to the south of town,” Memnon replied. He rode beside the carriage, unarmed and unarmored, looking like a country squire out for a leisurely ride. His calm manner assuaged the eunuch’s nerves so that before a mile had passed the carriage was alive with dueling dialectics.

  They arrived at the estate without fanfare, clattering over a small wooden bridge and passing between a pair of stone pillars. A grove of oaks shaded the main house. As he rode closer, Memnon could not keep a smile off his face. During his sojourn at Assos, Artabazus’s workmen had kept themselves busy transforming the old house with its peeling whitewash into a stonewalled villa with windows covered by fretted screens and a roof of red Pactolus tile. Silver chimes tinkled in the warm breeze.

  The carriage drew up out front and the guardsmen dismounted. Kritias, his hand on his sword hilt, studied the portico, with its red-daubed columns and bronze-studded doors flanked by young potted poplars. Memnon knew the guard captain felt the same sensation he did—the tangible force of invisible scrutiny. The Rhodian, though, knew its source.

  “Be at ease,” Memnon said, clapping Kritias on the shoulder as he bounded onto the portico.

  Hermeias clambered down from the carriage. “Are we the first to arrive, I wonder?” he said. “Still, though I had hoped your brother would meet us, by arriving ahead of him we have an excellent opportunity to survey the lay of the land, as they say. I am eager—”

  “Mentor’s not here,” Memnon said, his manner suddenly brusque. When he turned to face the eunuch, the composure he’d maintained since arriving at Assos was gone, replaced by cold rage. “Nor does he plan on coming. He wants you brought to him at Sardis. In chains, if need be.”

  Hermeias recoiled, stricken. “What? What are you saying?” “You men!” Memnon gestured to the milling guardsmen. “If you value your lives, do not move! You’ve been easy prey, Hermeias. Far easier than I would have believed for a man of your reputation. You should be flattered that your enemies hold you in such high regard.”

  “Black-hearted bastard!” Kritias snarled. He jerked his sword free and took a step toward Memnon. “Protect the—”

  An arrow loosed from high among the oak leaves struck Kritias in the back of the neck, shattering his vertebrae. The guard captain pitched forward, dead before he hit the ground. His sword skittered across the portico. Memnon stooped and retrieved the weapon. To the other guardsmen, who looked on the verge of action, he said, “Move and you die! Understood?”

  Behind Memnon, the villa doors crashed opened and a dozen soldiers emerged, spear-bearing kardakes in scaled Median jackets and peaked helmets, commanded by Omares, Artabazus’s old partisan, his hair and beard as long as a Spartan’s and shot through with gray. Under his direction, the kardakes divested the eunuch’s men of their weapons and herded them into a knot. A handful of green-and-brown-clad archers dropped from the oak trees; from the rear of the house more soldiers came and led the horses away. All the while, Hermeias spluttered and cursed.

  “You foul betrayer!” the eunuch screeched. He might have leapt at Memnon had his fellow sophists not restrained him. “I trusted you! I trusted you and this is how you repay my hospitality?”

  Memnon’s smile lacked any vestige of humor. “You trusted me because of what I could offer you, not out of some poetic gesture of guest-friendship. You wanted access to my brother. For all your insufferable posturing about the merits of philosophy, you are no different from a common tyrant. At least Eubulus was honest.”

  “Strike me down, then!” The eunuch shrugged off his companions and stepped closer to Memnon. “Strike me down if you style yourself a tyrannicide, and avenge your dear Eubulus! I will die for my philosophy, dog!”

  “Indeed, and you likely will, but not today. Nor should you delude yourself into thinking this has anything to do with your former master, though one could argue that you authored your own doom with his murder. With Eubulus alive, Artabazus would have retreated to Assos instead of seeking asylum at Philip’s court.” Memnon descended from the portico. He towered over the eunuch as he grasped his right hand, tugging his signet ring off. “Bind them,” he said to Omares.

  Quickly, Hermeias and his sophists had their hands lashed together with leather cords. The unlucky philosophers were separated from their patron and put with the guardsmen—who, at a gesture from Memnon, were led to the rear of the villa while a pair of kardakes removed Kritias’s body. “See he receives a proper burial,” Memnon said. “For all his misplaced loyalty, he was a good man.” In a moment, Memnon and Omares were alone with Hermeias.

  The Rhodian sat on the portico steps and stared at the sardonyx signet. “An interesting place, Philip’s court,” he continued. “That’s where I happened across your old crony, Demokedes. Honestly, I thought it nothing more than innocent coincidence until Philip installed your own son-in-law as young Alexander’s tutor. That’s when I decided you had become too much of a liability and would need to be removed. But how … how to prize you from this comfortable little nook you’ve created for yourself without sparking rebellion in all the cities that pay you homage?”

  Hermeias gave a triumphant bark. “The sting of rebellion will be my lega
cy to you! My people will never stand for Persian autocracy! When they hear of your foul treachery they will rise up! My people will avenge me!”

  “Don’t waste your melodrama on me, eunuch. Wait until you have an audience who might appreciate it,” Memnon said. The signet ring glittered in his fist. “These people you so fervently believe in … they are staunch partisans? Followers of the king’s law?”

  “To the death!”

  Memnon laughed, tossing the ring in the air and catching it. “Omares, fetch me something to write on! The king of the Troad is about to draft a letter to his loyal, law-abiding followers!”

  17

  EDICTS CIRCULATED THROUGH THE AGORAS AND COUNCIL HALLS of the Troad; in steep Assos; in Atarneus, with its impregnable walls; in Antandrus, on the slopes of Mount Ida; in hallowed Troy and the towns of the Skamandros Valley; in Sigeum, on its windswept headland; and in Abydus, on the Straits. With exceptional gravity, heralds read aloud the wishes of their king:

  Those who doubted the edict’s veracity had but to glance at the impression in the wax seal to have those doubts allayed. Clearly they could see the image of Athena in her guise as the goddess of wisdom, an owl perched on her upraised palm.

  It was Hermeias’s seal …

  ON MIDSUMMER’S DAY, MEMNON RETURNED TO SARDIS. HE RODE AT THE head of a column of soldiers, mounted kardakes whose long spears bore fluttering pennons of purple and gold. Wagons trundled behind them and in their wake shuffled a line of dusty prisoners chained together at the neck. Word of the Rhodian’s arrival fired the city’s curiosity; commoners lined the road to the fortress, jostling for a chance to view the procession as it passed. Courtiers and functionaries watched from the battlements as Memnon’s troops rode through the fortress gates, whips cracking over the bowed backs of the prisoners.