by Oden, Scott
25
THE STINK OF DEATH SHROUDED MYTILENE.
Under an iron gray sky, fires smoldered in spite of the drizzling rain—fires set in the night by bands of Greek mercenaries who had infiltrated the city on Memnon’s orders, creeping ashore from the southernmost of Mytilene’s two Persian-blockaded harbors to end the month-long stalemate. Even now, two hours after sunrise, screams echoed through the streets, the clash of arms audible even to the pinnacle of the city’s walled acropolis. Behind their ramparts the rulers of Mytilene—wealthy patriarchs from the best democratic families—listened helplessly as their polis died around them.
Thymondas, who had led the night assault, waited on the quay as Memnon came ashore. The younger man’s face was soot-blackened and streaked with blood, his armor dented from the fury of the fighting. Still, he grinned triumphantly, extending his hand to help Memnon out of the skiff.
“So?” the Rhodian said, taking his nephew’s proffered hand. Gaunt, dark circles ringing his eyes, and in no condition to fight, Memnon nevertheless came clad for battle in cuirass and kilt, his blue cloak wrapped tightly about his shoulders. The Rhodian leaned heavily on the shaft of his spear, his limbs weak. His face felt clammy and hot. Five months since Halicarnassus and the wound in his hip had yet to properly heal, leaving him prone to fevers; it suppurated constantly, an endless stream of blood-laced pus his surgeon appeared unable to explain, much less to stem. Once Mytilene was pacified he would cave to his nephew’s wishes and send east for Khafre. “Did all go as planned?”
“We captured half their fleet in dry-dock, the ones who didn’t skin out a month back when we first showed up,” Thymondas said. Together, they walked off the quay and into the shelter of a harbor-side emporion; its columned arcade showed signs of recent bloodshed—spent arrows and discarded javelins, splintered shields and riven helmets. Corpses sprawled in puddles of mud and gore, limbs skewed, bodies slashed by blades or pierced by missiles. The Rhodian found himself unable to discern attacker from defender in the jumble of bodies. Death, pale Thanatos, stripped a man of his individuality as surely as it stripped him of his future. Why do dead men look alike, he wondered, same glassy-eyed expression, same rictus of shock?
“Where’s the worst of the fighting been?”
Thymondas gestured out the rear of the emporion. “They nearly had us in the agora, but we were able to put Cretans on the roofs of a couple of adjacent houses. Still they only gave ground after we set fire to half the block. They’re retreating toward the acropolis, though I doubt the bastards behind those walls will open a gate and let them in.”
As in most Aegean cities, Mytilene’s life revolved around its harbors, the northern and southern, on either side of a wide promontory extending out into the sea. On the western extremity of this spit of land the acropolis stood on a flat hillock—a fortress complete with towers and battlements and bronze-bound gates. Memnon could barely see its ramparts through the veil of rain, but he knew its layout, its strengths, and its weaknesses. He had paid well to learn its weaknesses …
Memnon’s vision blurred. Angrily, he cuffed sweat from his eyes. Heat emanated from his brow even as chills wracked his body. His hip throbbed. “Have … Have they made any … overtures for peace?”
Thymondas frowned and shook his head. “We’ve had nothing from them but curses and blows. You should sit, rest a moment. Memnon?”
The Rhodian swayed on his feet, his face pale. “S-Send a herald,” Memnon said. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, again. “Tell … Tell them the terms will be f-fair for their … for their s-surrender …”
“Memnon!”
Suddenly, the Rhodian staggered, clutching at Thymondas’s arm before he crashed to the ground. A roaring filled his ears, like the howling winds he’d experienced in Egypt, so loud that it drowned out his nephew’s voice. Thymondas’s face hovered in and out of his vision; Memnon wanted to speak, to tell him everything would be all right, but his tongue felt like a hank of dried leather in his mouth. All he could do was close his eyes. Sleep, he thought. Merciful sleep …
And in the back of his mind, he heard a distant voice: You are almost ready to make the journey, child of Rhodes. Your time approaches.
MEMNON WOKE TO THE WATERY REFLECTION OF WINTER SUNLIGHT, A LIQUID silver glow playing across smoke-stained ceiling beams. Pillows cushioned his head and a thick coverlet draped his body. His skin was moist, febrile; his hip burned, but he could feel nothing below his upper thigh. The air reeked of garlic and medicinal herbs, wood smoke and too-sweet incense. Memnon blinked.
The Rhodian lay in a whitewashed room, afternoon’s light—and cold salt air—streaming through a trio of shuttered windows. He could hear seagulls, muted voices, and the ringing of metal on metal. A brazier smoldered near his bed, and in one corner sat a jumble of equipment and armor, his traveling chest among it. Where am I?
Voices reached him from an adjacent room, along with the clatter of crockery.
“The leg must go, sir! Already it’s likely too late!”
“That will kill him, you fool!” Memnon recognized Patron. “Do you even know what is causing his fever? Is it not your responsibility to clean his wound and change his dressings? I say this infection is your fault, you unclean son of a bitch!”
“His humors are unbalanced, sir!” the other voice, his Chian surgeon, lashed back.
“You and your gods-be-damned humors! Get out of my sight before I hack your cursed leg off! Useless wretch!”
Memnon coughed and lay back, closing his eyes …
The river swirled through a marshy wasteland, its oily waters reflecting the sun that hung motionless in the gray-white sky, frozen in a state of perpetual eclipse. Heat and pale light emanated from its blackened disk. Memnon walked closer. Nothing stirred the desiccated air, yet he could hear the keening moan of a breeze curling through the skeletal groves.
“I know this place,” Memnon said, his speech flat and distorted.
The reply, coming from behind him, was in a voice as mellifluous as his was grotesque. “Of course you do, son of Timocrates.”
Wracked with pain, Memnon gave a long and drawn-out sigh. His breath rattled in his chest. “I know you now,” he said softly. “Psychopompos.”
The figure behind him was one of unearthly beauty, but familiar. Clad in a short Doric tunic, with a silvery-gray khlamys thrown over his shoulder, he had hair of gold and silver, a young-old face, and lambent eyes the Rhodian could not suffer himself to meet.
He smiled, a gesture of sublime kindness. “This is the river Styx, the frontier of Hades’ realm.”
“I’m dead, then?” A weight crushed Memnon to his knees, a burden of despair and of fear and of grief for those left behind.
“Not quite. Soon, though.”
The Rhodian stared at the hateful waters of the Styx. “Why am I here if I’m not dead? ”
“Curiosity?” he said. “Fear of the unknown? It is the great dichotomy of your people. You love discovering what is around the next bend even as you fear taking that first step toward it. Death is but a part of that journey.”
“You told me once that I should endeavor to make my mark upon the world, that the gods look unkindly on those who waste their gifts …”
“Fear not, Memnon of Rhodes. The gods are pleased.”
“What about Barsine?” Memnon said. Hot tears spilled down his cheeks. “I gave her my word that I would come for her! Please, I can’t die! Not now! ”
“That is not your decision, child. Atropos wields her blade without concern for the demands of love, or for the wishes of man or god. Your thread is at an end, son of Timocrates. Go back and set your affairs in order. I will come for you soon, to guide you on your journey …”
Memnon blinked back the tears blurring his vision. Slowly he sat up. Gritting his teeth against the pain, the Rhodian threw the coverlet back and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Cool air raised gooseflesh on his body.
“Don’t be a fool.” Patron stood in
the doorway, looking older and more careworn than Memnon ever remembered. Sunlight highlighted the scars lacing his chest and arms. “Stay in bed and put those covers back on. Things are bad enough without you taking the lung sickness, as well.”
“How long have I been …?”
“Three days,” Patron said. “The Mytileneans surrendered last evening, after we threatened them with the fate of Thebes. Pharnabazus and Thymondas have things well under control. You should rest.”
“Help … me up, old friend,” the Rhodian gasped. “To the … window.”
With Patron’s aid, Memnon rose and shuffled to the window. He nudged open a shutter and took in the day. A chill breeze blew in off the sea, but the sun sparkled on the water of the Southern Harbor and thin skeins of cloud drifted high in the faded blue sky. Below, along the quay, his men were busy salvaging the debris of war. Spent arrows were re-fletched, their iron-heads sharpened and greased, while spearheads were socketed onto new ash shafts. It reminded him of another city, another harbor …
“Rhodes seems so far away,” Memnon whispered. “I wonder what ever happened to Thalia. You remember her?”
“Your Cyrenean friend?” Patron chuckled. “She was easy on the eyes. I’m sure she lived a fine life, Memnon. They say Aphrodite looks after her own, and she was every inch a suppliant of the goddess. Yes, I’d wager she did just fine.”
“I pray she did.” Memnon lapsed into silence, his body sagging. “Help me … back …”
Concern etched Patron’s brow as he eased Memnon into bed and drew the covers over him. The Rhodian’s fever-ravaged body weighed next to nothing; he looked like he’d been bled dry, so pale was he. Cracked lips mumbled thanks. “You should rest now, my friend,” Patron said. “The spring campaign will begin before we know it. You need to be hearty and hale in order to bring destruction to the Macedonians.”
Memnon nodded. He caught Patron’s hand. “Should … Should something happen to me, I want control of the fleet to pass to Pharnabazus, until such a time as the Great King decides otherwise.” The Rhodian pulled the older man closer. “Keep him on course for Euboea! Antipatros will doubtless send troops and money to dissuade him, even ships, if he can find them. The lad will need your guidance more than I ever did, especially if he’s able to lure Alexander back to Pella.”
“You’ll both have my counsel, whether you want it or not,” Patron said, smiling. “Is there anything you need?”
Memnon gestured to the equipment in the corner. “That chest,” he said, breathing heavy. “Inside it there’s a small silver casket, a coin box. Could you empty it and bring it to me? And my writing kit?”
“Then you’ll rest?”
I will come soon, to guide you on your journey. Memnon sighed. “Then I will rest.”
Patron found the items easily enough. The silver casket, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, held a small fortune in golden darics; he upended its contents into a leather bag. The writing kit was a gift from Khafre—an Egyptian mestha, a flat palm-wood box decorated with scenes of scribes serving the Lord of the Nile. Inside, it held papyrus, reed pens, and flasks of ink.
Memnon levered himself upright in bed as Patron brought these things to him. “Your nephews will be back this evening with Aristonymus. They’ll want to see you, so make sure you’re well rested.” Patron leaned down, kissed Memnon’s forehead. “You are as a brother to me, my friend.” And then he was gone.
Memnon fought off a wave of despair. His hands trembled as he withdrew a sheet of papyrus, tacked it to the smooth surface of the mestha, and took up his reed pen. His brows knitted. Carefully, he wetted the pen in the ink and began:
Memnon to his love, Barsine, greetings …
By the time he ended his letter, the light was failing and Memnon barely had strength left to roll up the papyrus and place it in the silver casket, along with the ring of Hermeias. Pharnabazus will see they reach her. Shutting the lid, he sank back onto his pillow. Zeus Savior, watch over them. Keep them safe and whole, and let them live good lives. Give them wisdom, Lord of Olympus.
A golden glow brighter than the meager radiance of sunset played at the edges of his vision. Rhodian, said a familiar voice. I have come.
“I want to live,” he said softly, closing his eyes.
You have, and you lived well. But now the thread is cut, child. It is time.
Memnon felt a ghostly hand on his shoulder, comforting and peaceful. Pain fled, replaced by exhaustion. He exhaled, and very quietly Memnon of Rhodes surrendered to the encroaching darkness …
EPILOGUE
DAWN BROKE OVER EPHESUS, THE SUN RISING INTO A CORNFLOWER blue sky. The warmth streaming through the window promised a mild day. From his bedside perch, Harmouthes rubbed his eyes and sighed. “Memnon never regained consciousness. He died the next day, toward evening, surrounded by his nephews and his friends. I have heard wild tales regarding the manner of his passing—everything from a poisoning plot cooked up by rival satraps to an assassin sent by Alexander’s courtiers. It was fever, stemming from an infection of the wound he received at Halicarnassus. Nothing more.
“I consider his death to be the strongest evidence of Alexander’s improbable luck. Without Memnon to divert the war to Macedonia, the Great King lost heart. Alexander could not be stopped. Darius fled from him at Issus, and again at Gaugamela; Egypt welcomed him as a god, Babylon as a liberator. The whole of Persia was his for the taking. But, there was one thing he could not conquer, one thing his prodigious luck could not overcome.” His eyes moved to Barsine; the Egyptian touched his mistress’s precious silver casket. “Alexander found this in her belongings some years later, in snowy Maracanda on the frontiers of Farthest Asia, and he had the temerity to open it.” Harmouthes lifted the lid. Inside the casket, Ariston caught sight of a signet ring—Athena enthroned—along with a smallish leather bag and a roll of papyrus. Harmouthes removed this last and handed it to him. Age darkened the papyrus and it looked worn from the countless hundreds of miles it had traveled, never far from the Lady’s heart. Carefully, the young Rhodian unrolled it.
It was Memnon’s final letter.
Scrawled at the bottom of the papyrus was a fragment Ariston recognized as being from Euripides:
Ariston looked up, his eyes moist. With care he re-rolled the letter and returned it to the casket, closing the lid again with unaccustomed reverence.
“Afterward,” Harmouthes continued, “Alexander put her aside—properly, for that was his way—sent her back to Nearer Asia and married instead the daughter of a Sogdian swineherd, an illiterate virgin, I am told.”
“Why?”
The Egyptian rubbed his bald scalp. “Because for all his gifts, Alexander could not suffer being second in anyone’s heart, and surely not a distant second. She loved Memnon, and Memnon alone.”
Sunlight slipped through the window and crept across the bed. Golden radiance touched Barsine’s face and suffused her pallid flesh with life. She looks peaceful, Ariston thought, beautiful, even. Lines of age and worry smoothed away; still, he could discern no movement. Her chest neither rose nor fell.
The Egyptian trembled; he reached out, placed his palm over her heart, and held it there. Nothing. The old man exhaled. “She has gone to him,” he said. And crumpling beneath the weight of his grief, Harmouthes hid his face in age-spotted hands and wept.
ARISTON, SON OF THRASYLLUS, RETURNED TO RHODES, AFTER A BRIEF VISIT to Assos, in the spring, and settled on his father’s estate at Lindos, on the southeastern shore of the island, to write his Historiai Rhodos. With him traveled an old Egyptian. Curiously, the men bore four ossuaries, which they laid to rest in a Persian-style garden at the crest of a hill overlooking the wine-dark waters of the Mediterranean Sea.
With his father, his brother, and with the woman he loved, Memnon, son of Timocrates, had returned to Rhodes …
END
HISTORICAL NOTE
CONJECTURE IS THE LIFEBLOOD OF THE HISTORICAL NOVEL, ESPECIALLY one dealing with a figure of
antiquity. In the broad narrative of human existence Memnon of Rhodes appears as a mere footnote in the life of King Alexander III of Macedonia. As such, there has been only small interest from scholars, a cursory examination into the life of this Greek-born Persian aristocrat, which has raised more questions than it has provided answers.
Memnon’s life is riddled with lacunae. We do not know, for instance, the names of his parents, or their social standing on the island of Rhodes. In extant sources he is never named by his patronymic, only by ‘the Rhodian’ or ‘of Rhodes.’ Timocrates of Rhodes is mentioned in Xenophon’s Hellenica [III.5.1] and in the anonymous (but enlightening) Hellenica Oxyrhynchia [7.5] and I have preserved his deeds as they were recorded—plus one more: I made him Memnon’s father due in large part to his association with the satrap Pharnabazus. Similarly, the name of Memnon’s sister, the wife of Artabazus, is lost to the ages. The episodes of his youth, including the death of his father and the circumstances of his flight from Rhodes, are entirely fictional.
There is some evidence that Memnon had a wife prior to his marriage to Barsine. Arrian, in the first book, section fifteen, of his Campaigns of Alexander, describes Memnon and his sons fighting in the van at the Granicus. But, because of a paucity of information I have chosen to overlook this previous wife and the children arising from the union. Instead, he fights at the Granicus with the sons of Artabazus.
In all the sources, much is made of Artabazus’s age and of the size of his family. According to Quintus Curtius Rufus, he was ninety-five years old in 330 BCE and had fathered twenty-four children—two by a Persian wife and another twenty-two ostensibly by Memnon’s sister (for no mention is made of other wives). Modern scholars like to dispute his age, saying ninety-five must surely be a mistranslation and fifty-five is probably closer to the mark. Still, I have chosen to follow Curtius Rufus’s lead in making Artabazus older.