by Oden, Scott
Mentor, attended by Spithridates and Rhosaces, awaited him at the head of the monumental staircase leading to the palace’s columned portico. A thousand eyes watched as Memnon dismounted, his blue linen cloak settling around his armored shoulders. A thousand ears heard the scuff of his cavalry sandals as he ascended the stairs, shadowed by two soldiers carrying a bronze-bound chest. The Rhodian stopped at a respectful distance and made his obeisance to the satraps, straightened and, in a clear and commanding voice, said, “Brother, I bring you tokens from the people of the Troad!” At his gesture, the two soldiers brought the chest forward, placed it at Mentor’s feet, and retreated. Memnon knelt; he unfastened the hasps and threw the lid back, revealing a pair of terracotta jars. “Earth and water, symbols of their submission!”
The pronouncement caused a furor among the courtiers, a buzz of disbelief. “All of the Troad?” Rhosaces of Ionia said, giving voice to the crowd’s skepticism that anyone could bring the region to heel in so short a time. Younger than his brother Spithridates, Rhosaces had a lean face dominated by a hooked beak of a nose and a bristling black beard.
“All of it!” Memnon’s nostrils flared. “And since I knew there would be those among you who would doubt my accomplishment, I’ve brought a witness!” Another gesture produced a rattle of chains as Omares led one of the prisoners up the stairs, thrusting him onto his belly at the satraps’ feet. Dirty and disheveled, clad in the remnants of royal finery, the prisoner struggled against the pressure of Omares’ foot on his back.
“Who is this creature?” Spithridates said, his nose wrinkling.
“Surely you recognize him, this man who once made you a gift of three talents of unrefined gold from Mount Ida to insure his ships would be welcome in your brother’s Ionian ports?” That was a rumor learned from his cousin, Aristonymus; for it to cause the Persian brothers to exchange troubled glances only confirmed Memnon’s suspicions that neither man could be trusted. With a flourish, he said, “Here is the eunuch, Hermeias, who once ruled the Troad, stripped of his office and his dignity! I present him to you, my brother, as proof of my success!”
“Foul traitors!” The eunuch spat at Mentor’s sandals. “May you drown in the cursed Styx!”
A slow smile spread across Mentor’s face. “Proof, indeed. You’ve done well, Memnon. I accept the Troad’s submission! Take this wretch away. We will speak soon, Hermeias—soon and to agonizing lengths.”
Omares removed his foot from the eunuch’s back and manhandled him to his feet. Chains clashed as two of Mentor’s men seized the prisoner. Hermeias, though, wrenched himself free of their grasp; he drew himself up to his full height. “I will walk to my doom!” he said. Here’s the audience he hoped for, Memnon thought, the chance to carve his own epitaph. He did not disappoint. “Tell my friends I have done nothing base, or unworthy of our master’s teachings!”
“Ever the philosopher,” Memnon murmured as the eunuch strode off like an honored guest rather than a prisoner under escort. Mentor, though, immediately dismissed the captive from his mind; the elder Rhodian grinned at Omares, who returned the gesture.
“You old dog!” Mentor said. “I knew he’d embroil you in this!”
“It was my pleasure, sir.”
“ ‘Sir,’ is it? Zeus Savior and Helios! Aren’t you the proper one, now? What have you done to him, Memnon?”
“It must be the immensity of your august presence,” he replied.
With the formalities at an end the onlookers drifted away, returning to whatever business brought them to the palace in the first place. Some were petitioners seeking a moment of the satraps’ time; others simply attended court day after day in hopes of securing their lords’ favor. Memnon saw visitors from the Royal Court at Babylon, envoys from the Aegean cities, Phoenicians and mainland Greeks, all haggling with the chamberlains for Mentor’s attention. Little wonder he’s looking even thinner and as pale as a shroud, Memnon thought as he signaled for his officers at the base of the stairs to dismiss the kardakes. A groom led his and Omares’ horses off to the stables.
“Come.” The elder Rhodian turned and made his way across the broad portico to the Apadana. Heavy doors stood wide-open all around, allowing cool incense-laden air to flow without obstruction between the myriad columns. “How many men did this venture cost me?”
It took a moment for Memnon’s eyes to adjust to the gloom after the brilliant sunshine on the portico. “None,” he replied, his words amplified by the cavernous chamber. “We didn’t lose a man.”
Upon overhearing this, Spithridates, who had preceded them with Rhosaces, stopped and spun around. “Impossible! You cannot pacify a region of that size without casualties!”
“I am no liar, my friend,” Memnon said, a dangerous edge to his voice. “And you’d do well to remember that. We suffered no casualties.”
Mentor frowned. “How not?”
“I used a weapon they weren’t expecting.” From beneath his armor, Memnon drew out a silver chain; Hermeias’s signet ring dangled from it. He held it aloft for the others to see. “A weapon borrowed from our own Great King’s arsenal. You see, I sent letters to the city councils and officials.”
“Letters?” Spithridates sneered. “Preposterous!” Beside him, Rhosaces laughed aloud.
“Don’t scoff, my lords,” Omares said. “It was the damnedest bit of sleight of hand I’ve ever seen.”
Mentor silenced them with a look. “You sent … letters?”
“Yes. Letters of abdication, sealed with the eunuch’s own emblem. Hermeias’s partisans decided he’d gone off on some half-baked philosophical crusade, but they acceded to his wishes and confirmed the letter-bearers, all allied Greeks of my own choosing, as governors of their respective poleis. All that remained was to root out the malcontents.”
Mentor’s rumbling laughter degenerated into a fit of coughing. He held up his hand, forestalling his brother’s concern. “Zeus Savior!” he wheezed, catching his breath. “Thank the benevolent gods you’re on our side!”
Both Persians, though, sniffed in disdain. “No matter how cunning,” Spithridates said, “artifice is a poor substitute for valor.” With that the satraps turned and retreated deeper into the Apadana, their retinues cleaving to them like toddlers to their mother’s skirts.
“Brother,” Memnon said in a low voice. “If it’s in your power to strip them of their rank and send them from you, do so. They mean you harm. I can feel it.”
“Me? I’m but a stumbling block to their ambitions, an annoyance at best. It’s you they should fear.” Mentor draped an arm around his brother’s shoulder. “Still, if it is harm they’re hatching, I trust you will avenge me with more than a letter. Come on, Omares! We need wine! Wine to celebrate both Memnon’s triumph and your sudden rise to respectability!”
IT WAS NEAR DUSK BEFORE MEMNON COULD SLIP AWAY FROM HIS BROTHER’S impromptu drinking party, leaving the elder Rhodian and Omares deep in their cups, singing off-key hymns to Dionysus. Nor were they alone in their revelry. Guests from the Asian Greek lands happily joined in, along with a handful of adventurous Persians who saw great wisdom in their ancestors’ admonition to debate serious matters first drunk, then sober. Mentor, however, sent their debate spiraling into oblivion by insisting they switch to undiluted wine.
Sounds of their merriment faded as Memnon retreated into the heart of the palace. He had missed seeing Khafre and Pharnabazus; a chamberlain reported they were both at Ephesus—Khafre to replenish his store of medicines and Pharnabazus as Mentor’s liaison to the shiploads of mercenaries Thymondas had sent over from the Greek mainland—and were due to return soon. The rest of the family had gone with Artabazus to the Great King’s court at Babylon.
Memnon’s rooms, in a wing of the palace reserved for royal kin, once belonged to Croesus’s beloved son, Atys, slain hunting wild boars in Mysia “to punish his father’s hybris,” according to Herodotus. Polished bronze lamps illuminated a wall-sized painting depicting the young man’s death: his body
sprawled in the heather, encircled by his weeping comrades, with his gory head cradled in Croesus’s lap. The old king’s tragedy became the room’s theme. Antique iron boar-spears hung above the cold hearth and inlays of yellowed tusk-ivory decorated the woodwork—chairs, table, and bed.
Slaves had delivered Memnon’s belongings from the wagons; servants had put everything in its place, hanging his weapons and shield near the door and erecting two stands for armor. One held his bronze breastplate and greaves, the other his lighter linen cuirass. His helmet, with its tall crest of blue-dyed horsehair, rested on the shoulders of his lineothorax. His traveling chest of cypress-wood, its patina worn with age and scarred from indelicate handling, lay at the foot of the bed, while a wicker-and-leather scroll basket, filled with volumes appropriated from Hermeias’s library, sat atop the table. Memnon caught this up by its carrying strap and headed back out the door.
The women’s quarters lay at the end of a long hallway, behind a door guarded by silver-haired kardakes, veterans who had served Artabazus’s cause in their youth. They smiled and clapped Memnon on the shoulder as he passed into the antechamber. Inside, the Chief Eunuch of the harem held court. He was a balding and fussy little man, his potbelly straining against the multicolored linen of his robes. A lesser eunuch fanned him while a pair of Barsine’s maids—who should have been attending to their mistress—massaged warm, herb-laced oil onto his swollen ankles.
Memnon glared at him as he crossed the antechamber to Barsine’s door.
“Wait!” the Chief Eunuch squealed, rising and scattering the maids. “The mistress is taking her rest!”
“Then lower your voice so you don’t disturb her,” Memnon replied. Unperturbed, the Rhodian entered Barsine’s rooms, closing the door in the Chief Eunuch’s face. Lamps of silver filigree revealed a suite spacious enough for a large family. Rugs cushioned a floor of patterned marble, muffling Memnon’s footfalls as he traversed a central hallway that ended in a small fountain court still aglow with the last light of day. He peered into sitting rooms and changing rooms, rooms for bathing and rooms for sleeping, all empty. As he neared the courtyard, its cool shadows scented with lilies and jasmine, he heard faint sounds of whimpering.
Outside, Barsine slept on a divan near the softly trickling fountain. Her fingers knotted in a shawl draped across her upper arms. Memnon placed the basket on the ground and knelt by her side. Loose, her dark hair pillowed her head. Delicate brows were drawn together, troubled, her features as pale as alabaster. Morpheus, god of dreams, had her in his clutches.
“No,” she muttered in Persian, barely audible. “Wait … come back.” Her fingers convulsed.
Memnon placed his hand over hers. “Barsine,” he said, softly so as not to startle her into wakefulness. A dreamer had to return gradually or else run the risk of being separated from their daimon. “Barsine.”
“No!” She gasped; her eyes, moist with tears, fluttered open as her hands locked on Memnon’s. Barsine glanced around, frantic. “Where is he?”
“Who? There’s no one else here.”
“Memnon?” She flung her arms around his neck. He could feel tremors running through her. “Memnon! Thank the gods!”
“It was just a nightmare,” he said, stroking her hair. “You’re safe now.”
“It … It seemed so real. I was trapped in a labyrinth of the kind Daedalus had crafted for his patron, King Minos of Crete,” she said.
“Were you being chased by the Minotaur?”
“No.” She released him and pushed her hair from her eyes, wiping away the tears with the heel of her hand. “I was the pursuer. A man ran from me, though not from fear. He taunted me, pausing to let me get close before sprinting off, again. He had something I needed to retrieve, something whose loss left me aching with sorrow, though I have no clear memory of what it was. I ran faster and faster still, my heart pounding against my ribs like a blacksmith’s hammer. The gap between us narrowed with each step. But, as I came within arm’s reach, I woke.” Barsine settled back on the divan, hugging her shawl to her chest. She smiled. “Listen to me. Rambling on like mad Cassandra. I am pleased you have returned from the Troad unscathed.”
“And I am glad you’ve emerged from the realm of Morpheus unharmed,” Memnon said, returning her smile. “This dream-figure, did you recognize him?”
She shook her head. “I saw his face but for a moment, and that moment was enough.”
“That hideous, eh? Perhaps you did see the Minotaur.”
“No,” she replied, “he was that heartbreakingly beautiful. It was as if I looked upon the model for Praxiteles’ Apollo. His hair and beard were a silvery-gold and he seemed to glow with a divine light … what is it, Memnon?” Color drained from the Rhodian’s face; for a moment, the old scar on his right shoulder pulsed and burned. “Memnon?”
“I think I’ve seen the very man you describe,” he said, “though not in a dream.”
She bolted upright. “When? Here in Sardis?”
Memnon rocked back on his heels. “Years ago. In the Macestus Valley, before we were forced from Dascylium.” And Barsine listened, enraptured, as Memnon told the tale. Twilight deepened. Stars flickered in the heavens. Over the trickle of the fountain, night creatures chirped and trilled. Light spilled out into the courtyard; inside, Barsine’s maids went about their nightly duties while the Chief Eunuch spied on the two figures near the fountain …
Memnon exhaled. “I have never spoken of that night to another, not to Mentor, not even to Khafre. Perhaps he was but a figment of my imagination, an illusion borne of trauma.”
“If that is true, how does he come to my dream?” Barsine said. She sat with her knees drawn up under her, her fingers worrying the fringe of her shawl. “What if he is a messenger of the gods?” Suddenly, Barsine began to cry. She cradled her face in her hands, her shoulders wracked by spasms.
“Come, now,” Memnon said. “There’s no need for tears. You’re safe.” He rose and sat alongside her, pulling her into an embrace. Her anguish made him regret sharing the story with her. “Everything’s fine, Barsine.”
“You do not understand,” she sobbed. “If … if he is a messenger, what message did he bear for me? He did not speak save to urge me on, to taunt me. He stole something from me … something precious …” She looked up, her eyes shining with tears. “I am with child, Memnon. Is this an omen that I will not bear the infant to full term?”
Memnon blinked, taken aback. “You’re … with child?” Barsine’s head bobbed in assent. The Rhodian’s mind whirled. Though not unexpected in and of itself, the revelation coupled with Barsine’s dream left Memnon virtually dumb with shock. “Does Mentor know?”
She wiped her eyes again. “I only became sure of it myself a few days ago. I will tell him soon, though I doubt the need if my dream rings true and the gods plan to steal this child from me.” Barsine’s rubbed her palms across her belly, offering a silent benediction.
“No, you must tell him,” Memnon said. He smiled, and then laughed. “He would never admit it, but my brother’s hope is to have a large family, large enough to rival your father’s. You must tell him, Barsine, and soon.”
“But my dream …?”
“I can’t explain the similarities, but not every dream is an omen of things to come. Some are simply dreams.” He rose and gently helped her to her feet. “I can promise you this, though. Man or god, anyone seeking to harm that child will answer to the sons of Timocrates! By Zeus Savior and Helios, I swear it!”
MENTOR REACTED TO THE NEWS OF BARSINE’S PREGNANCY WITH UNACCUStomed solemnity. He summoned priests, both Persian and Greek, to take the omens and offer sacrifices to Hera and Anahita. He brought a Lydian wise-woman into the palace to propitiate the local spirits with chants and clouds of sweet incense. At Memnon’s urging, Mentor appointed Khafre to be Barsine’s chief physician; after the Egyptian announced that she and the baby were both in good health, Mentor dispatched couriers east, along the Royal Road. In a fortnight, it w
as common knowledge in the streets of Babylon that a Pharnacid princess was with child.
All the while preparations for war continued apace. Through Thymondas’s efforts, mercenaries filtered in from mainland Greece, first to Pharnabazus at Ephesus and thence into camps in the Hermus Valley. Summer waned. Before the first frosts of autumn, word reached Sardis of the death of the Carian satrap, Idrieus. Seizing the opportunity to rid himself of the threat of petty dynasts, Mentor—backed by five thousand mercenary hoplites and a thousand mounted kardakes—descended on Halicarnassus, capturing Idrieus’s younger brother and self-styled heir, Pixodarus, at unawares. In the aftermath, he confirmed their older sister, Ada, as satrap and left a Persian garrison behind to insure her loyalty.
Mentor returned to Sardis to find his pregnant wife bedridden. “Khafre’s orders,” Memnon explained. “Something about an imbalance in her humors and her body’s desire to expel the child too early.”
“Is she in any danger?”
Memnon shrugged. “Who’s to say? Giving birth is deadly business, brother, even under the best of circumstances. But, if anyone can lessen the danger, I trust it to be Khafre.”
Memnon visited her daily, bringing scrolls to read to keep her spirits up; as the affairs of state allowed, Mentor would drop in on her, and the three of them would spend hours locked in conversation until Khafre or weariness drove them away.
Autumn drew to a close and winter’s cold north wind whistled over the bare rocks of the Tmolus range. It was on a day of pale sunshine, though, that a messenger came west along the Royal Road—a messenger from Babylon.
Memnon found his brother in the silent Apadana, wrapped in his cloak and sitting next to a crackling brazier. His chin on his fist, he tapped a roll of parchment against his thigh as he stared into the brazier’s smoldering depths. “We’ve buggered ourselves,” he said as Memnon drew near. “The bastard begins to think the impossible is commonplace where we’re concerned.”