Memnon (14 page)

“Is it always like this?”

Mentor chuckled. “As with virgins, the next time comes easier.” Arm in arm, the sons of Timocrates made their way down to the rebel camp.

7

 

C
ELAENO,
A
RTABAZUS’S BLACK
N
ISAEAN MARE, THUNDERED DOWN
the straightaway of Dascylium’s
hippodromos,
its hooves raising plumes of dust in the still afternoon air. Naked to the waist, Memnon hunched over the animal’s broad neck, the reins held loosely in his left hand, a javelin in his right. Ahead, near the sculptured column that served as a turning post, stood a straw bale bearing the silhouette of a man daubed in charcoal, a circle of red at its center. Horse and rider moved in cadence. As they neared the column, with its hairpin turn beyond, Memnon rose up and let fly his javelin. The target flashed past the horse’s left flank. Memnon craned his head to look. His javelin had struck wide of its mark, burying itself in the straw at the edge of silhouette. Impact sent the target skittering on its side.

“Son of a bitch!” Through the turn, Memnon slowed the horse to a canter. Sweat drenched the young Rhodian’s muscular upper body, soaking his short linen kilt and the fringed saddlecloth under him. This was his fourth run and still he had gotten no closer to the target’s center. He patted Celaeno’s damp neck. “Do you have a fifth try in you, girl?” The horse tossed its head and whinnied. Memnon circled back to the starting point.

A small crowd gathered to watch his exercise: Pharnabazus, the satrap’s eldest son, a lad of twelve, stood with his pedagogue, a sullen Greek of Ionia; near them were a trio of Thessalian horse-breeders and four of Artabazus’s grooms. Patron waited off to one side, his face shaded by a broad-brimmed hat, a sea-bag slung over his shoulder.
Circe’s
captain flashed a wide grin. Memnon raised a hand in greeting. He glanced at his nephew.

“Pharnabazus! Fetch me another javelin!”

“Yes, Uncle.” To his pedagogue’s chagrin, the Persian lad rushed to the weapons rack, selected a cornel-wood javelin, and trotted over to where Celaeno pawed the ground, restless. A pair of slaves hurried out and righted the straw dummy.

“Why do I keep missing?” Memnon said, taking the weapon. He readjusted his grip on the reins. “Have you any idea?”

Pharnabazus pursed his lips. He had the finely chiseled cheekbones and nose of his mother—a Persian lady who died giving birth to his younger sister, Barsine—and his father’s piercing eyes. His wild shock of chestnut hair defied grooming. As did all in the satrap’s family, Pharnabazus spoke flawless Greek. “You’re waiting too late to cast, I think.”

Memnon smiled. “I think so, too. Where, then? Four lengths from the target?”

“Four or five.” Pharnabazus nodded.

“I trust your judgment. You wouldn’t lead me astray, would you?”

“Never, Uncle.”

Memnon winked, touching his heels to Celaeno’s flanks. The mare sprang forward, its muscles bunching beneath its glossy coat as it achieved a full gallop in a matter of seconds. Memnon sat easily, gripping with his thighs, his legs relaxed below the knee. He kept his upper body as loose as possible. Horse and rider barreled toward the target. At twice the distance than before, Memnon rose up on his thighs and hurled the javelin. Iron flashed; this time, it struck center mass. A man would have died on the spot with his heart split in two. A cheer arose from the onlookers.

Memnon wheeled and rode back to where Pharnabazus stood. “By the gods, you were right!”

The Persian lad beamed.

Memnon dismounted, throwing his right leg over Celaeno’s neck and dropping to the ground. The horse whickered and shook its head, rattling the silver disks accenting its bridle and headstall. The young Rhodian motioned for the grooms to take the reins, then draped an arm over Pharnabazus’s shoulder and walked with him to where his pedagogue waited, impatience written across his wrinkled forehead.

“Are you late for something again?”

“Rhetoric,” Pharnabazus said, his brows knitting in distaste. “That driedup old bag Nikeratos hates me as he hates all
barbaroi.
Father should send him back to Paros in a box. Can I try casting a few tomorrow, Uncle?”

Memnon looked sidelong at the lad. “You think you can handle Celaeno?”

Pharnabazus nodded. “I believe I am ready.”

“I have no objections, but only if your father approves. We will ask him this evening, after supper.” Memnon gave the boy’s shoulder a squeeze. “Go on, now, and learn whatever Nikeratos teaches, even if it’s only the meaning of patience.”

Pharnabazus smiled and waved as his pedagogue shooed him toward the hillside palace.

“That one’s the image of his sire,” Patron said, joining Memnon.

“He’ll make a fine satrap, someday.” The young Rhodian turned. “I’m sorry Artabazus has asked you to sail so late in the season, but he didn’t want winter to pass before sending an envoy back to Macedonia, to formalize his guest-friendship with their king.”

“No need to apologize, Memnon. Artabazus is right. This Philip seems dead-set on wearing the robes of Agamemnon. Four years on the throne and already he’s shattered the Illyrians, laid Amphipolis low, double-crossed the Athenians, captured Potidaea and Pydna, and snatched a victory in the horserace at Olympia. What’s next for him? Asia?”

“All the more reason to make him a friend rather than an enemy,” Memnon said. “When do you plan to leave?”

“As soon as I get to the ship,” Patron said. “If we sail with the full moon tonight,
Circe
can put in at Cyzicus before dawn. I want to be clear of the Hellespont by week’s end. Come, walk with me down to the harbor.”

Memnon issued orders to the grooms, entrusting Celaeno to their care. He followed Patron from the
hippodromos.
A dusty path, shaded at times by groves of sycamore, followed the high banks of the Little Macestus River, chuckling in its rocky bed as it wound down to Lake Dascylitis and the harbor. The chirr of cicadas abated as the two men passed. Through the trees, off to the right and away up the hill, Memnon could see stone terraces and earthworks rising to meet the walls of the palace-fortress of the Pharnacids, Artabazus’s ancestral keep. Limestone glimmered in the sun, and flashes of gold marked the position of sentries.

Patron followed his gaze. “This whole rebellion would have been for nothing had Mithridates simply stayed put.”

“We’re lucky he didn’t, then.”

“But, when the time comes, will Artabazus?”

Memnon frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Ochus hasn’t forgotten his western satraps,” Patron said. “Another army will come, larger, led by someone with far more experience than Mithridates. What will Artabazus do? Will he stay and defend Dascylium, or will he ride out and meet them?”

Memnon weighed his answer. In the five months since the battle at Lake Manyas, Artabazus’s sole concern had been the rebuilding of a satrapy left barren from years of misrule. While he dealt with the affairs of state—from foreign envoys seeking favor to Iranian nobles bent on brokering peace with the Great King to commoners nursing grievances stretching back to his father’s day—Artabazus left the execution of the war to Mentor and his mercenary generals. “The fighting’s ground to a halt,” Memnon said, at length. “The probes down the Macestus Valley from Sardis have ceased. Pammenes sends us word that the Royal Road is clear, save for the usual dispatch riders. Chares’ scout ships have encountered nothing out of the ordinary in the Propontis or the Euxine Sea. I don’t doubt what you say, that another army will come, but likely not this season. Artabazus has until late spring, at least, to decide his course of action.” After a moment, he added, “I wish I were going with you. At sea, a man knows his place. He knows who his friends are, his enemies. There are no politics to pulling an oar.”

“I’d take you along,” Patron said, “if I thought you’d be content. You must face facts, lad. You’ve found your true calling. You’re a soldier, a cavalry officer, and a leader of men. The anonymity of the rower’s bench is no longer yours for the asking.”

Their path widened and joined with the main road running from the hilltop fortress to the harbor. Dascylium lay on the southern shore of Lake Dascylitis, in a cove that created an ideal shelter for ships against the ferocious spring and winter storms. North, across the lake, the Macestus River continued on, deep and slow, completing the twelve-mile journey to the Propontis.

The road cut through the heart of Dascylium, past buildings of stone and timber whose foundations were set in the days of Darius the Great. Those of newer construction bore the stamp of Greek influence. Memnon and Patron dodged ox-drawn wains, loaded with grain and oil and bound for the storage magazines inside the fortress. Men from the outlying villages led strings of horses to the livestock market west of town. “Not the best breed,” Memnon said, noting the thinness of their withers and the dull
clop
of their hooves, “but serviceable. They’ll make good post horses.”

“What about men to ride them?”

“Recruits come from all over,” Memnon said. “Artabazus has a good name among fighting men, both Persian and Greek. A far better name than Ochus. You’re a mercenary—would you rather side with a foul-tempered despot or a kindly old grandfather who is free with his coin?”

Patron smiled. “That’s why I’m in Dascylium and not Susa.”

The road debouched at the harbor, where a stone-paved quay ran along the water’s edge; parallel to this, and set back from the shore, a colonnaded
emporion
housed local merchants conducting their business. Awnings of brightly colored cloth provided welcome shade as men haggled over a bewildering array of goods: olive oil and wine from the Aegean, fish sauce from Cyzicus, baskets of figs from Phrygia, crocks of honey from the Sangarius Valley, wool from the slopes of Mount Ida. Despite the vigor of Dascylium’s market, the absence of luxury goods, of precious metals and jewelry, fine cloth and furniture, stood as a stark reminder of the ongoing war.

“There’s an impressive sight,” Patron said, nodding out into the harbor. A trireme, its sail reefed, approached the quay at quarter-speed. Its polished bronze ram reflected the sun so brightly that Memnon could barely see that its sternpost bore the carved likeness of Athena. An officer occupied a perch high in the bow, signaling aft with his hand as the ship hove close to the moorage, while sailors stood atop the outrigger with boat poles at the ready. Rope men waited in the catheads; along the quay, their counterparts manned the cleats.

“Is that one of Chares’ ships?” Memnon said.

“It’s Athenian, but …” Patron peered closer, grunted in surprise. “That’s the
Salaminia,
one of their state galleys. I saw her once before, rounding Cape Sunium on her way back to Athens. Zeus only knows what business brings her here, but it can’t be good. She’s not sent forth as a deliverer of glad tidings.”

“I’d better go and see. If it’s bad news Artabazus will want to hear about it. Farewell, my friend,” Memnon said, embracing Patron, “I will sacrifice to Poseidon for your safe return.”

Patron smiled and clapped the younger man on the back. “And I to Ares, that he might grant you victory.” The men parted. Memnon watched as Patron continued down to the water’s edge, no doubt his mind already intent on currents and winds. Ill-timed as his mission to Macedonia might be, that Artabazus would entrust it to him at all was a sign of the satrap’s favor. He appreciated Patron’s candor; so would the Macedonians, who prized honesty and valor above all things. The young Rhodian could think of no better emissary.

Memnon returned his attention to the Athenian trireme. With ropes and boat poles, the vessel managed to warp into a slip quayside, where reed bundles kept the stone edge from damaging its hull. Sailors swarmed ashore, checking the cleats and ropes, ignoring the protests of the stevedores who tied them. The captain barked orders in Attic Greek, the tongue of orators, rarely heard in this part of Asia.

A gangplank swung out from the stern. A squad of hoplites, their helmets, breastplates, shields, and spear points polished to mirror brightness, disembarked and assumed stations along the quay, facing outward. A single man followed in their wake, his bronze-shod staff clacking against wood and stone. It bore the symbol of an Athenian envoy—a golden owl clutching a wreath of olive. He wore a simple white tunic and a matching
himation,
pinned at the left shoulder by a brooch of enameled gold fashioned in the shape of Medusa’s head. The man paused at the edge of the quay and regarded the shifting crowd. His hair and beard—both more silver than black—were close-cropped, and his age-worn face gave away nothing of his mission. “I seek an officer!” he said, in a voice at once cultured and powerful. “An officer of the watch! Is there one to be found?”

Memnon shouldered through the dockworkers. “Greetings. I am Memnon, son of Timocrates of Rhodes, adjutant and kinsman to Lord Artabazus. What business brings such a noble ship to Dascylium?” The Athenian turned. Memnon shuddered at the force of his gaze, so like that of his father. Here was a man accustomed to dealing with all sorts, from politicians and orators to beggars and thieves; he judged Memnon by that same measure, without thought to his wind-blown hair or his sweat-stained kilt. Finally, the Athenian gave an all but imperceptible nod.

“Well met, Memnon. I am Aristophon of Athens, and I seek the admiral Chares. His lieutenant at Lampsacus said he would be here.”

“He is. Chares sits in audience with the Lord Artabazus.”

“I must speak with him, and your satrap, too. It is a matter of the utmost gravity.”

“I expected as much. Come, I will lead you to him.” Memnon paused as Aristophon bade his soldiers to remain vigilant, then added, “It’s a long walk from your ship to the satrap’s fortress. Shall I summon you a palanquin?”

“It is not my habit to let others carry me on their backs,” the envoy said, a sneer curling his lip.

“As you wish.” Memnon gestured and, side by side, the two men set out for the fortress of Artabazus. Beyond the harbor district the air grew still and hot, thick with the reek of cooking oil, seared meat, and rotting vegetables. Foot traffic thinned as men sought relief indoors from the relentless sun. Unseen, a dog snarled and yelped—doubtless booted from its patch of shade by an unkind foot. It took nearly an hour to walk from the harbor to the foot of the hill; at the end of that hour, both men were drenched in sweat and parched.