Memnon (13 page)

Inexorably, the rebel line foundered.

Against the mercurial floods of springtime, a farmer’s crude dam of sticks, rocks, and earth can save a field if the structure stays intact, unbroken. But, should one element—a twig, say, or a pebble—become dislodged, roiling water will surge into the breach and assault the cohesion of neighboring elements. Inevitably, the dam will weaken and buckle, washing away the seeds of autumn’s harvest. In the dam of rebel fighters, the first breach opened on Memnon’s shield side. He heard the man bawl as he lost his footing and collapsed, affording the Persians a toehold. Lances ripped into the rebel file. Instinctively, Memnon edged to his left, shifting his
aspis
to defend his now-exposed flank. The breach widened as the spearmen of Babylon, howling in fury, spiked into the heart of the rebel formation and tore it asunder.

A shoulder rammed Memnon’s midsection. He staggered back and lashed out, his spear shattering against a bronze helmet. Through a haze of dust the shape of his attacker loomed, a massive Iranian in bloodied armor, his tunic ripped and gore-blasted. The Iranian’s scimitar hammered on Memnon’s shield, driving him to his knees. Successive blows dented and cracked the bronze facing but failed to penetrate it. Desperate, Memnon fumbled with his broken spear. He reversed his grip and rammed the butt-spike up into his attacker’s groin, twisting till it grated on bone. The Iranian doubled over, screaming and clutching himself. Memnon lurched to his feet. Snarling, he brought the edge of his shield down on the back of his foeman’s neck with such force his vertebrae shattered like pottery.

Memnon backpedaled, ripping his sword from its sheath. Around him, battle lines degenerated into a maelstrom of hand-to-hand fighting. Persians swarmed over the embattled
kardakes,
attacking with broken spears, swords, or knives. Even the wounded fought tooth and nail. Hands grasped at Memnon’s legs; he hacked at them as a farmer hacks at clinging brambles, oblivious of the thorns. Time and again his borrowed panoply saved his life. The wide bowl of his shield intercepted enemy lances thrusting for his heart, his head. “Re-form!” he shouted. “Re-form!”

Clouds of yellowish dust rolled across the field to create a nightmare landscape of grotesque silhouettes, half-glimpsed maenads of war cavorting in Dionysian abandon. Solitary figures pierced the veil in a swirl of blood and iron before falling back into the pandemonium. Memnon saw Arius stumble from the dust, gore-splashed, his shield and helmet lost to the fray, his arms outstretched in a gesture of succor. The young Rhodian screamed his name just as a bearded Chaldean emerged from the haze and drove his spear through Arius’s body, bearing him to the ground. With a shriek of homicidal rage, Memnon leapt, slashing his blade across the Chaldean’s face. The enemy cried in horror and reeled away. Memnon followed, bracing for a fresh Persian onslaught. What he saw through the murk, though, gave him pause.

The Persians ceased to advance. They milled about, confused. Something unseen sent ripples of alarm through their ranks. Memnon motioned to the
kardakes.
“Form a new line! Quickly, brothers!” In pairs and clusters, the rebels regrouped, lapping shields to create a tenuous wall.

From his left, Memnon heard the skirl of flutes. To his numbed ears, Persian cries of triumph became screams of terror. Veteran soldiers recoiled; their courage ebbed as, above the din of battle, a clear voice rang out:

“Athena Promachos kai Nike!
“

The Athenians.

Memnon snarled, thrusting his sword at the mass of men across the blood-soaked interval. “For Artabazus and Victory!” Like a madman, Memnon led the
kardakes
pell-mell over the corpse-littered field toward the scrambled enemy ranks. Panic took root among the spearmen of Babylon, doubtless fed by enduring memories of the disaster at Marathon, the slaughter at Thermopylae, the ravages at Cunaxa. By the hundreds, the loyalist Persians cast their weapons aside and turned to flee, their retreat hampered by the compacted ranks behind them. Men who had been so hot for rebel blood only moments before now bellowed like stampeded cattle, trampling their own in haste to escape the pale hand of Death. As one, the
kardakes
and their Greek allies smashed into the Persians like an axe blade into rotted wood.

Then, the true slaughter began.

Morning gave way to midday before the trumpeters sounded the call to disengage. Memnon, spattered with gore from head to toe, heard the strident order and obeyed without thinking, so dazed was he from exhaustion and thirst. His sword slipped from his cramped fingers; his arms trembled and his legs felt unstrung, the muscles and tendons burning with pain. With effort, he pried his helmet off, his hair a tangled mass. Memnon spat blood, his back teeth splintered from the grinding of his jaw. A breath of wind caressed his face.

Off to the east, the noontime sun struck golden fire from the surface of Lake Manyas; high grasses swayed, and slender trees bearing leaves of translucent green rustled, idyllic in the breeze. Gulping air, Memnon forced himself to turn and look back at the plain.

The floor of hell greeted his blank stare.

A swath of destruction stretched a mile in width and continued on for two, the field of Ares. The War God disdained oxen, preferring to let the yoked power of contending armies harrow his demesne. Into this flayed earth poured the fluids of war, the sweat and blood, the bile and bowel, the coward’s piss and the dying man’s tears, mingling to form a sludge that clung to the ankles of those men left standing. The ground itself heaved and shook with the convulsions of the wounded. Slashed torsos and severed limbs lay on carpets of spilled entrails; hands stained black with blood protruded from the mass, splintered weapons yet clutched in immobile fists. Spear shafts projected at angles, some upright, resembling stakes awaiting a transplanted vine. In places, the bright flash of gold embroidery or the shimmer of rich fabric appeared unreal against the devastation, a mirage borne of dehydration.

Memnon’s legs gave out; he collapsed into a bier of gore-slick limbs, his shattered body cradled by the corpses of friend and foe alike. Overcome, the young Rhodian closed his eyes …

 

R
ETRIEVAL PARTIES WORKED WELL INTO THE NIGHT, SCOURING THE FIELD
for wounded allies, dispatching those with no hope of survival, and securing the bodies of the slain. A deputation of Persian captives, drawn from those who had not fled with Mithridates, was allowed to do likewise for their countrymen. Others were put to work preparing mass graves.

Memnon sat atop the spur of rock where the Magi conducted their morning sacrifice and watched torches bobbing on the plain below. He still wore his borrowed cuirass, the bronze scraped and dented, crusted with blood. Grimy bandages swathed his right arm and leg. Memnon hunched forward, his elbows on his knees and his chin propped on his fists, and stared at the field, lost in thought. His lips moved as he silently talked himself through the battle, disassembling every minute of every hour to examine content, context, and resolution. Gaps developed, long, hazy sections of memory bereft of detail save for a flash of metal, a scream, a spatter of blood. The end result proved as frustrating as trying to rebuild a shattered mosaic without all its tiles.

A sandal crunched on stone. Memnon half-turned and saw his brother’s thick silhouette limned in the light of the distant fires. Mentor bore only scanty wounds from the day’s carnage; bathed, clad in an old russet-colored
chiton,
the elder Rhodian’s features were flush with wine and triumph. More wine sloshed over the rim of the antique golden
skyphos
Mentor carried, the cup and its contents plundered from Mithridates’ own tent. He staggered to the edge of the rocks, peered over, then came back and plopped down beside Memnon.

“You’re drunk,” Memnon said.

Mentor belched. “Damn right I’m drunk, and you would be, too, if you had any sense. Zeus! We snatch a victory and here you sit, brooding over the dead like dark Hades, himself. What bothers you, brother? Is war not the glorious enterprise you imagined it to be?” Mentor took a deep draft of wine before nudging Memnon’s shoulder and offering it to him.

Memnon waved it away, frowning. “I don’t know if it was glorious or not. I can’t remember. My last clear memory is of hearing the call to charge, after that it becomes a jumble—a shape here, a scene there—like something I may have read about or watched at the theater. It’s as though another took control of my body and guided me through the battle.”

“Your
daimon
,” Mentor said. Memnon looked askance at his brother. “It is the guardian spirit every man is born with. It guides our actions, for good or ill. Your
daimon
took over in a time of extreme dislocation, as a way of protecting you from the ravages of war.”

“I never imagined
you
to be a follower of Socrates.”

“Why, little brother, did you not know? I am a man of many parts.” Mentor belched, again.

“Indeed. How’s Artabazus?”

“His leg’s useless, for now,” Mentor said, “and he has a couple of nasty cuts, but he’s in good spirits. He keeps asking after you, afraid your first battle might have left you irreparably scarred.” The elder Rhodian grinned.

“I’ll see him before I turn in.” Memnon listened as the sounds of revelry drifted up from the rebel camp, harsh laughter and music masking the screams of the surgeon’s precinct. “How many dead?”

“The estimate is rough,” Mentor said, flexing the muscles of his spear-arm. “It looks as though we lost perhaps two hundred Greeks and over a thousand
kardakes.
Mithridates placed fewer men on his flanks so he could increase the power of his center. Chares claims he nearly had the bastard …”

“Where did Mithridates go?”

Mentor shrugged. “Sardis, most likely. He lost ten times our casualties, so if he survives Ochus’s wrath I doubt he’ll trouble us further. Dascylium is ours. We’ll use this respite wisely and prepare for a counterattack. Artabazus is sending me back to Assos. I’ll be escorting the family to Dascylium, and raising a new force of mercenaries, provided I can get old Eubulus to keep his hands off his catamites long enough to spread the word into the Aegean. Chares is going up the coast to Lampsacus to make use of its shipwrights. Pammenes is being redeployed into the Macestus Valley, to watch the Royal Road.”

“What about me?”

“You’ll stay with Artabazus. Protect him, Memnon. He’s our best hope for a future.” Mentor draped a hand on Memnon’s shoulder and pulled him closer. “Listen, brother. You acquitted yourself well, today. You may not remember it, but—by the gods!—you stood your ground despite adversity, and you did what was needed of you. No more can be asked of any man. You and I are in an enviable place. Artabazus will need trustworthy men to administer his holdings in the Troad, Aeolus, Mysia, perhaps even into Ionia.”

“And who is more trustworthy than family?”

“Exactly.”

Memnon nodded. He said nothing for a moment; his brow furrowed. “Why …” he started before again lapsing into silence. His eyes flickered to his brother’s face.

“What?” Mentor sipped his wine.

“It’s nothing,” Memnon sighed. “I am reminded of Rhodes.”

“Rhodes, eh? You were going to ask me why, if family is of such importance, did we not avenge Timocrates.” Mentor grunted and swirled the dregs of his wine around in his cup before emptying it. “Zeus! You know how to sober a man up.”

“Am I that transparent?”

“Like sheer linen, brother. Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps we should have raised an army of our own and used it to restore democracy to Rhodes, maybe Cos and Chios, too. But, would we have fared any better on that score than the Athenians? Perhaps we should have returned home, you and I, to reorganize the democrats against the oligarchs, to drive Philolaus back to the man who bought him, Mausolus of Caria. But, would we have fared any better on that score than Timocrates? Perhaps I should have just sailed into Rhodes-town, hunted Philolaus down, and murdered him. Simple. Clean. A death for a death. But, would I have fared any better on that score than you?”

“Now you mock me!” Memnon snarled.

“No,” Mentor said. “I ask you in all honesty, what would you have had me do? Father died in battle, in a war of his own choosing. Philolaus may have been his enemy, but I cannot condemn him for something I, too, would have done had I been in his place. Look at it from another perspective, Memnon: Arius died in battle, in a war of his own choosing, if not his own making. Should Arius’s father and his brothers now blame Mithridates for leading his killer into battle? Or should they mourn their fallen kinsman and leave the fate of his killer in the hands of the gods?”

Memnon’s shoulders sagged; he glanced at Mentor, his eyes haunted, rimmed in fatigue. “I believe I’m beginning to understand.”

“Good,” Mentor said. “Come, let’s get you cleaned up. There’s much to do tomorrow.” Mentor stood, reached down, and hauled Memnon to his feet. The young Rhodian’s legs could barely hold him erect, so crippled were they from the day’s exertions. He grimaced.