Memnon (11 page)

To Memnon’s eyes, the town looked small and rustic, wholly unworthy of its noble antecedents. Houses of rough stone and timber, roofed with tiles of reddish clay brought overland from Sardis, lined the road leading up to the castle of the local grandee—a Milesian Greek who owed his position to Artabazus’s patronage. By rights, the old satrap could have commandeered the castle for his own use, but its small size would have forced him to billet his men elsewhere. Artabazus preferred to keep company with his soldiers.

Lightning crackled across the sky, followed by the crash of thunder. Thick drops of rain spattered on Memnon’s cloak as he trotted past the last house on the road to the castle, careful of the basket he carried. The wind picked up, roaring through the trees on the slopes above Zeleia. Another night of rain meant tomorrow’s departure would be a slow and muddy affair. For an instant, Memnon regretted the errand that brought him out of his quarters and up to the castle, but it was unavoidable. It would be bad manners if he didn’t pay his respects to the ladies of Artabazus’s harem.

Memnon ducked through the open gate of the castle as the sky unleashed its tempest. Just inside, a Persian, one of the
kardakes,
stood guard, his body muffled in a thick cloak. Though traditionally the term
kardakes
applied only to young Persian men in training for war, Artabazus’s father, the satrap Pharnabazus, used it to denote a hybrid soldier, a Persian who trained and armed himself in Greek fashion. The
kardakes
carried heavier spears, eight-footers counterbalanced by a butt-spike, and bowl-shaped shields faced with bronze. They wore the typical Median trousers and boots, with a coat of iron scales and a turban-wrapped helmet as their only defensive garb.

Memnon reckoned it was the innate stubbornness of the Persian that kept them from adopting the full panoply, despite witnessing its superiority in battle after battle. Perhaps Artabazus would allow him to experiment with it.

“Peace be with you, Memnon,” the guard said, leaning on his spear. “I rejoiced to hear of your return. Have you come to see the girls?”

“Greetings, Arius,” Memnon grinned, shaking water from his eyes. “This weather doubtless has them skittish. I thought they would enjoy a bit of company.”

“I imagine they would, at that,” Arius chuckled. “Is the rumor true? Are we moving out at dawn?”

“It’s true.”

“Praise Mithras,” Arius said. “I am ready to quit this place. The weather is abominable.”

“You’ll get no argument from me,” Memnon said. “If I’m still here when you’re relieved, tell your replacement.” The young Rhodian, mindful of his wicker basket, left the shelter of the gate at a dead run. He veered away from the entrance to the castle and made for the stables, vaulting the fence around the yard and sprinting inside. The foundations of the structure doubtless dated back to the days of Pandarus, who led the men of Zeleia against the Achaeans in the Great War at Troy. Stone pilasters upheld a roof of heavy timbers and glazed scarlet tiles, while the flat river rocks paving the floor gave off a moist, earthy smell.

“Chairete,
ladies,” Memnon said, panting.

From their spacious stalls, Artabazus’s four Nisaean mares—each standing close to fifteen hands high and as black as the folds of Hades’ cloak—whinnied and stamped in greeting, recognizing Memnon’s voice. Thaleia, Aglaia, Euphrosyne, and Celaeno, they were, three Graces and a Harpy. Memnon sat his basket down and went to each stall, stroking their magnificent heads and allowing them to nuzzle him in return. “I apologize for not visiting you sooner,” he said. “But I was off on an errand for your lord.” The grooms had done their job well, insuring the stalls were spotless and well provided with water and feed. The mares’ coats shimmered, their manes and tails displayed not the slightest knot, and their hooves rang like chimes on the stone floor. Celaeno nudged Memnon, who laughed aloud, sensing what she wanted. “Yes, yes,” he said. “I know better than to visit you without a gift.” Memnon knelt and retrieved four apples from his basket, the last of the winter stores, wrinkled and sweet. The horses whickered and snorted as he fed them each in turn.

Horses were a rarity on Rhodes; the island’s sparse grasses and rocky landscape being better suited to asses or oxen. It wasn’t until making landfall at Assos two summers ago that Memnon had a chance to ride. He found himself drawn to the animals, to their beauty, their grandeur; he shadowed Artabazus’s Thessalian horse-master for the better part of a year, until he felt confident in his own ability.

“Now, ladies,” he said, “if you’ll permit me, I’d like to sit and eat my dinner.” In response, Celaeno tossed her head. Memnon smiled, picked up his basket, and carried it over to the hayrick. For himself, the young Rhodian had a loaf of flat bread, a covered clay pot of spicy lentil stew, and a hunk of cheese. He dined slowly and washed it down with a flask of Chalybonian wine from Artabazus’s own stock. Memnon knew he should head back to camp and check in with Mentor, but the combination of rain and exhaustion made him sluggish. He sank back into the hay. A sense of warmth stole over him. The sound of the rain drumming on the stable roof faded as he grew more relaxed, his eyelids fluttering.

Thunder murmured …

A heartbeat later, Memnon bolted upright, his eyes wild. The horses were gone, as were the stables, the rain, and the cool air of Zeleia. He sat in the midst of a dusty road that cut across a barren plain. Overhead, in the gray-white sky, the sun hung motionless in a state of perpetual eclipse, heat and pale light emanating from the blackened disk. Tall grass, like stalks of ash given form, waved to and fro as though buffeted by a freshening breeze. Memnon felt not the slightest stirring in the desiccated air. Behind him, he heard the sound of dust crunching beneath bare feet, accompanied by sobbing and faint invocations to Hades and Persephone. Memnon stood and turned toward the sounds. Up the road, coming toward him, a funeral cortege moved in solemn procession. Memnon stepped aside as they passed.

Women led the way, their black garments whitish with dust, their faces streaked with ash. Their hair writhed like a Gorgon’s snaky locks as they beat their breasts and gashed themselves with stone knives. In their wake came a bier borne on the backs of ten gnarled men, their naked flesh scarred from innumerable battles and crusted with filth. The body atop the bier was massive, a giant covered in a shroud of purple and gold. A lone black-robed figure followed the cortege.

“Who died?” Memnon said, his voice hollow. No one answered him. “Who is it?” A sense of despair washed over Memnon. “Please! Tell me who died!”

The last figure in line stopped and looked at Memnon. He drew his hood back, revealing the gaunt face of Timocrates.

“Father!” Tears spilled down Memnon’s cheeks and sizzled like acid on his chest. “I tried to save you! I swear it! Who is it you carry down to Tartarus? Who …?”

Timocrates opened his mouth and spoke, though Memnon heard no words. The cortege halted and lowered the bier to the ground. Timocrates beckoned Memnon forward. Weak, overcome with emotion, Memnon staggered to his father’s side. He felt an ice-cold hand take him by the elbow. Together, they approached the bier.

Timocrates reached down and flung the cloth back …

“No!” Memnon bolted upright, one flailing hand sending the empty wine flask skittering across the stable floor. Gray light filtered through the doors and windows, the air cool and heavy with the scent of a thousand cook fires. A shadow fell across Memnon’s prostrate form. He looked up, his eyes wild.

Mentor smiled down at him. “You look like hell,” the elder Rhodian said.

Memnon rubbed his eyes. His limbs ached. “What time is it?”

“Nearly dawn,” Mentor said.

“Dawn? Zeus Savior! No wonder I feel like I’ve been thrashed.” Memnon clambered to his feet and staggered over to a water barrel. He thrust his head into the chilly water, came up spluttering. Afterimages of his dream flashed in his mind. He glanced back at his brother. “How did you find me?”

“Arius found you asleep and passed the word to me should I need you for anything.” Mentor’s armor creaked as he approached Celaeno’s stall and cooed at the mare. The horse eyed him with apprehension before submitting to his touch. “You’ve taken to these creatures.”

Memnon stretched, working the kinks from his shoulders and back. “They’re the noblest of animals. Lord Poseidon did mankind a tremendous boon when he created the horse. He gave us an example.”

“An example?” Mentor looked askance at him. “Never forget, little brother, that for all their nobility, horses are slaves of man.”

“Are they? Is it not man who serves their food, cleans their stalls, and cares for them when they’re injured or sick? Who serves the other more, I wonder?”

Mentor chuckled. He backed away from the animal and walked to the door. “I wanted to talk with you last night, but I guessed rightly that you needed the sleep. You know I appreciate your skills, little brother, but yesterday you almost crossed the line when you insulted Chares.”

Memnon snorted. “Insulted him? That Athenian whoreson is a dense as a stump. I’ll never understand why you show deference to him. He’s—”

“Why?” Mentor rounded on him, his voice the sharp crack of a general dressing down his subordinate. “Because he has troops we need, that’s why! Dammit, Memnon! This enterprise hangs by a thread as it is! I don’t need you dancing around it with your sharp tongue! If you have to swallow every ounce of pride you possess just to deal with Chares, then swallow it you will, and with a smile! If you can’t, I’ll send you back to Patron and you can pull an oar for a few months. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly,” Memnon said, his nostrils flaring with barely suppressed anger.

“Good.” Mentor nodded. “Artabazus likes your mettle. He thinks you’re ready for something more, so he’s ordered me to reassign you to his staff.”

Memnon blinked. “What …?”

His brother grinned. “You’re his lieutenant now. You’ll be responsible for his maps and intelligence, among other duties. This is your chance, little brother. Don’t make Artabazus regret his decision. Stop your gawking and let’s go. We’ve a long day ahead of us.”

Silent, Memnon fell in beside his brother.

Pale orange light breeched the eastern horizon, lancing through the haze of smoke and fog cloaking the valley floor. Like some great Titan stretched out full upon the earth, the army of Artabazus roused itself and made ready to move.

6

 

T
HE REBELS CURVED SLOWLY THROUGH THE HILLS NORTH AND WEST
of Zeleia, a screen of cavalry flung out far ahead of the main body. Tramping feet churned up mud during the first few days of their advance, then dust as the clouds and rain gave way to brilliant spring sunshine. On the fifth day, this parti-colored river of burnished bronze and iron turned east and marched straight into the rising sun. Two days later, spies brought welcome news: a bloody flux had deprived the loyalist cavalry of most of their horses; that night, the Greeks sacrificed a bull to Zeus. Finally, at noon on the tenth day since leaving Zeleia, scarcely three miles from Lake Manyas, Artabazus called a halt. His scouts had spotted the enemy.

They were right where Mentor said they would be.

 

A
FAINT BREEZE STIRRED
M
EMNON’S HAIR. HE STOOD ATOP A SPUR OF ROCK,
its carpet of flowering moss jeweled with dew, and looked to the eastern horizon. The chariot of Helios fired the azure sky with orange and gold. Behind him, the priests of the battle train prepared their morning sacrifice. A she-goat bawled as an attendant shaved its throat, while another bound its legs, anticipating its placement on the flat slab of rock that served as their altar.

This spot, chosen for its height and purity, overlooked a lush green plain that sloped to the reed-choked shore of Lake Manyas. On Memnon’s left, obscured by a haze of cookfires, he could barely make out the tents of the loyalist Persian army. To his right and back lay Artabazus’s camp, protected from the remnants of Mithridates’ cavalry by the land itself. The armies had faced one another for four days now, each waiting for the other to make its opening maneuver. Twice a day, Mithridates’ herald would approach amid a fanfare of trumpets and demand Artabazus’s surrender; twice a day, Artabazus would send scathing replies that brought Mithridates’ manhood into question. Every hour of inaction cinched tighter the ropes of anxiety around the soldiers’ necks; soon, they would fight, if only to be free of the noose.

Memnon turned back to watch the sacrifice. The Magi, led by their chief, Gaumata, performed the morning rites; the Greeks did the honors at dusk. Tall and thin, the white-robed Gaumata bore the most spectacular of beards. It reached well down below his sternum, a grizzled black pectoral, curled and oiled in the fashion of Babylonian society.

Gaumata gestured. A lesser priest handed him the sacrificial knife, its edge thin and sharp. Chanting in the sibilant tongue of Persia, the Magi offered the blade up to the rising sun as his attendants placed the she-goat on the altar. At the end of his invocation Gaumata slid the knife through the animal’s throat. Blood gushed over the rock. A moment later, Gaumata slit the goat’s belly open. The Magi’s face screwed up in a look of supreme concentration as he reached into the incision, plucked out the animal’s viscera, and studied it in the morning sunlight. At length, he gave a solemn nod.

“Tell Lord Artabazus that the omens are encouraging,” Gaumata said, handing the bloody knife off to his attendant.

“He will be pleased.” The young Rhodian glanced once more toward the enemy encampment before making his way down the slope, leaving the Magi to mutter amongst themselves.

Memnon crossed through the picket lines and passed the rope corral where early-rising cavalrymen groomed and exercised their mounts. Situated in a broad defile, the rebel camp stretched along the banks of a shallow stream, shaded by stands of oak and poplar. Mentor had laid out the camp to mimic the order of battle: at the mouth of the defile stood the tents of Pammenes and his Boeotians, who would anchor the right flank nearest the shores of Lake Manyas. Next came the tents of the
kardakes,
Artabazus’s Persians, trained by Mentor to fight in a Greek-style phalanx; they would form the center of the line. Last, at the head of the defile, came Chares’ Athenians. Once the call to arms was sounded, Memnon reckoned the allies could save precious time since each man would already be familiar with his place in line.

The young Rhodian hustled through this city of tents, its rows geometric and precise, as the blare of a
salpinx
roused the soldiers. Fires were kindled and the smell of baking bread drifted on the breeze. At the center of camp, Memnon found Artabazus sitting outside his pavilion, his scarred leg thrust out and swathed in an herb-steeped compress. Clerks and aides whirled around the old satrap as he pored over a sheaf of dispatches.

“Another fine morning,” Artabazus said, glancing up as Memnon approached. “The gods must love us.”

“Gaumata did say their omens are encouraging.”

Artabazus chuckled. “Of course they are. They’ve been encouraging for the past three days. Our goats have very fortunate innards, I think.”

“How’s the leg?” The day previous, Artabazus had toured the camp on foot, addressing each soldier by name, stopping now and again to trade jokes or tell stories. By noon, the muscles of his bad leg had seized up; by nightfall, he could barely walk. Still, he never let on. He kept moving, kept smiling, until he had seen every last man. Only after returning to his pavilion did Artabazus allow Memnon to fetch him a physician.

“Feels like it’s on fire, but it will bear my weight if need be.” Artabazus glanced at the sky; he called to his chamberlain. “Datis! My armor. It’s almost time for the herald to show.”

“Do you think Mithridates suspects why we’ve not attacked yet?”

Artabazus shook his head. “He thinks we’re reticent due to his superior numbers. Still, if we’ve received no word from the fleet by dusk, I fear we’ll have no choice but to initiate battle. For myself, I would prefer to have Athenian ships sitting off Dascylium beforehand.”

Memnon understood. If the rebels carried the field here, at Lake Manyas, the Persian survivors would flee back to Dascylium. By having Chares’ ships blockading that city’s harbor, and Athenian marines drawn up on shore, Artabazus could force Mithridates to surrender without resorting to a costly siege.

The chamberlain, Datis, scurried from the pavilion followed by a slave staggering under the weight of his master’s panoply. Artabazus was already wearing his linen tunic, called a
spolas;
now, he stood as Datis brought him his trousers. Memnon offered him an arm to lean on.

Artabazus cocked an eyebrow at the young Rhodian. “You’re not planning on wearing that sailor’s cuirass into battle, are you?”

Memnon glanced down at his armor. “It’s all I have. Why?”

“It won’t do. Find something heavier, either from Mentor’s armory, or from one of the
kardakes.
A shield and a helmet, too.”

Memnon nodded. “I’ll see to it today.”

Artabazus stepped into his trousers, wincing as Datis tugged the purple fabric over the scarred flesh of his thigh and cinched it about his waist. Next, the chamberlain motioned the slave closer. From the bundle, Datis selected a knife belt of Egyptian leather, worked with plaques of ivory and silver, and buckled it around his master’s middle. The corselet itself came next, its iron scales plated with gold. By Greek standards, the satrap’s panoply reeked of
hybris,
of arrogance and vanity. More often than not such extravagances called down upon their practitioner the wrath of the gods. It made them a target. Still, for Artabazus this display of excess served to remind his enemies they faced a man of royal lineage; a man whose blood entitled him to the Peacock Throne, yet whose ambitions extended no farther than the borders of his ancestral lands. To the soldiers under Mithridates, it would be a powerful message.

“What kind of man is he?” Memnon said, his brows furrowed.

“Who?”

“Mithridates. Is he as inconsequential as Chares makes him out to be, or is there more to him?”

Artabazus pursed his lips. “In the field there’s nothing extraordinary about him. He’s competent within reason, and a good judge of officers. That’s where the true danger lies. Those serving with him will be as shrewd as a Chares or a Pammenes, though not quite as capable as a Mentor. Mithridates’ strength lay in his political ambitions. He was your age when he first entered the King’s service, but his rite of passage came a year or so later when he denounced his father, Ariobarzanes, as a traitor.”

“Was he?”

“A traitor? Of course. You see when the King summoned my father, Pharnabazus, to Susa to marry my mother, Ariobarzanes received Dascylium to hold in regency. When I came of age, the King ordered me to resume my father’s satrapy. Ariobarzanes refused to surrender it. Instead, he and his cronies went into open revolt. I rooted them out one by one, fighting for every yard of my father’s land, until only Dascylium remained. But, before I could move against Ariobarzanes, his son betrayed him to the King. In return, the King gave him Dascylium.” Artabazus’s eyes darkened. “Gave it to him! That land has been in my family since the time of Great Darius. To give it to a man such as Mithridates is the blackest of insults. In a way, I’m grateful to Ochus for ordering my execution. It’s given me pretense to recover what’s mine.”

“That means you’ve waited—what?—nearly forty years to reclaim it?” Memnon said. “Zeus Savior, Artabazus! I thought only Greeks carried grudges to such lengths?”

Artabazus grinned. “Thirty-eight years, to be exact, and what you Greeks know of vendetta we Persians authored.” Artabazus accepted his gold-chased helmet from Datis, the chamberlain fussing over its purple plumes to the very last.

A frantic horn sounded on the edge of camp, its drawn-out note echoing through the hills. Memnon’s smile faded. “That doesn’t sound like the herald’s trumpet.”

The old satrap frowned. “It’s not.” Another horn blared, this one closer. From the mouth of the defile a commotion caught Memnon’s eye. A horseman galloped up the streambed, his mount’s hooves sending plumes of water skyward. Droplets sparkled in the sun. Wild-eyed, the rider hauled on the reins as he came abreast of Artabazus’s pavilion and leapt off, falling once before scrambling up the bank. Memnon caught his arm.

“What goes?” the young Rhodian said.

“The … the loyalists!” the rider gasped. “They are t-taking the field!”

Memnon spun toward Artabazus.

“To arms! Sound the call to arms!” the satrap cried, thumping Memnon’s leather-clad chest. “Get heavier armor and meet me on the line!”

 

T
HE CALL TO ARM AND ASSEMBLE, BORNE FROM THE BRAZEN THROATS OF A
dozen trumpets, came as no great shock to the rebel soldiers. If anything, the men felt a sense of relief as they doused their small cookfires and strapped on armor. The sentries who had drawn the night watch groaned as they rolled out of their cloaks and staggered to the rally point, joined by armed squires and a corps of pipers, trumpeters, and runners. Above the jangle of harness, veteran rankers cursed as they chivvied their younger companions into formation. Memnon waded through it as he made for his brother’s tent.

Mentor’s pavilion lay between the Persians and the Athenians, sharing the crest of a grassy knoll with the spreading boughs of an ancient oak. Its canvas walls reminded all of their general’s past—they were sewn from lengths of bleached scarlet sailcloth taken from the wreck of a Rhodian trireme. Memnon could still make out the outline of a great sunburst, the mark of Helios, its golden thread long since plucked out. Persian officers stood at rigid attention outside the pavilion as Mentor dispensed his final orders; he dismissed them as Memnon approached.

“What is it?” Mentor said. He wore a cuirass of polished bronze, inlaid with silver and lapis lazuli, a leather kilt, and greaves etched with the images of the Dioscuri, Castor on the left leg and Polydeuces on the right.

“I need a heavier breastplate,” Memnon said. Mentor eyed the stamped leather cuirass his brother wore. He turned to his squire, Diokles.

“Fetch my old panoply.”

The squire brought out a muscled cuirass of unadorned bronze, functional and polished to a low sheen, greaves, and an uncrested Corinthian helmet. “This looks familiar. Is it …?”

Mentor smiled. “It’s the armor Father gave me when I left Rhodes. You’ve a good memory.” He rapped the chest piece, listening to its solid ring. “Still, it’s serviceable and it should fit you well enough, for now. I was smaller back then.”