Memnon (15 page)

Memnon guided the Athenian envoy to a small fountain in the shade of a sycamore grove where water splashed from a bronze spout into a stone tank. They sat on the fountain’s curb and drank their fill. Aristophon soaked a corner of his
himation
and used it to sponge the back of his neck.

“Has Chares served your cause well?”

“He has,” Memnon said, hastening to add, “while still pursuing the enemies of Athens, of course.”

“Of course,” Aristophon nodded. “I am not here to judge him. His letter to the people of Athens painted a glorious picture of your satrap’s war with Persia. Did Chares truly win a second Marathon against the Mede?”

Memnon sipped water from his palm. “On paper, perhaps, Lake Manyas could be comparable to Marathon, but in reality all battles differ. This need you politicians have to hammer each engagement into the mold of past glories does a disservice to those brave men who died. Lake Manyas was its own battle, and its success belongs to Artabazus, not to Chares. He did as he was told, no more.”

“You dislike Chares, don’t you?” Aristophon said, after a moment.

“I dislike arrogance.”

Both men lapsed into silence. The hillside loomed above them, crowned by the limestone walls of the satrap’s fortress. The road widened and split into three, two prongs circling the hill to the left and right, leading to the storage magazines and the army encampment; the center road ascended the hill by way of a series of steps cut into the ashlar retaining walls of each terrace. Trees lined the stair, and landings offered places of respite. Sparrows chittered, wheeling in the faded blue sky.

“I can still summon a palanquin if you choose,” Memnon said, eyeing the old Athenian.

Aristophon sniffed in disdain, stood, and marched toward the stairs. The young Rhodian smiled and followed.

Three flights of stairs passed quickly; they paused on the landing of the fourth to give Aristophon a moment to catch his breath. “Revel in your youth, Memnon,” he said. “It is the gods’ greatest gift.”

“My father said much the same thing.”

Aristophon sat on a bench, shaded by the boughs of a plane tree. “I knew your father. A difficult man, but a good man. All of Athens grieved when Androtion informed us of his passing.”

“He was that well-known in Athens, my father?”

“Does that surprise you?” Aristophon said. “Timocrates was well-known in many quarters. Years ago—he couldn’t have been much older than you are now—he made himself a thorn in the side of King Agesilaus of Sparta by using the wealth of old Pharnabazus to put swords in the fists of angry helots. The Spartans had no choice but to recall Agesilaus or face destruction.” A troubled look passed across the envoy’s face. He stood. “Come, we’ve tarried here long enough. Conduct me to Chares.”

They ascended the last flight of steps. “How fares Androtion?” Memnon said offhandedly. “I pray all goes well for him?”

Aristophon scowled. “All would be well, save for that upstart, Demosthenes. Ere I left, there was talk of leveling charges against Androtion for misconduct. Some nonsense about an Egyptian vessel he seized illegally.”

“So the fighting between the two parties continues?”

“Indeed. The War Party has cost Athens her empire, and I fear the Peace Party will drive the price higher still,” Aristophon said.

They gained the summit of the hill. Ahead, a pair of statues flanked the gate to Artabazus’s fortress, seated figures thrice the height of a tall man and carved in the rigid Egyptian mode. “Images of the kings Proteus and Rhampsinitus,” Memnon said, answering the envoy’s curiosity. “Gifted to the elder Pharnabazus from the grateful citizens of Naucratis. I find them too inflexible, though they fascinate my brother, Mentor. He means to sample the wonders of Egypt for himself, someday.”

“I have seen many of those wonders,” Aristophon said. “It would take three lifetimes to sample them all.”

The gate itself—age-blackened cedar banded in bronze—stood open, guarded by soldiers of the household troop who saluted Memnon as he passed. Inside, a courtyard paved in reddish stone and bounded by colonnaded porticoes blended Greek and Persian influences: Ionic columns topped by horse-headed capitals of dark polished limestone. Potted trees and shrubs, chosen for their fullness and fragrance, flourished under the expert hands of Artabazus’s gardener, Gryllus. Niches in the walls held a collection of foreign treasures—sculptures of mottled stone from Greece, masks of gold and lapis lazuli from Egypt, and figurines of carved ivory from Phoenicia. Memnon led Aristophon across the courtyard and through the far portico.

A little boy hurtled from the shadows and crashed into the young Rhodian’s knees. He mock-staggered, smiling as the toddler tried to climb his body. Memnon scooped him up. “Peace, Cophen! Peace! I surrender!” A girl followed on Cophen’s heels, nine years old and already in possession of an adult’s sobriety. “Your charge escaped again, Barsine.”

“He is wily, Uncle,” Barsine said, taking Cophen from him before the toddler could latch on to Aristophon’s staff. “I foresee great deeds in his future … unless he kills himself first.”

“Take this little Herakles to his nurse and tell Deidamia I’m back,” Memnon said. Barsine nodded and withdrew, Cophen squirming on her hip.

“Deidamia is your wife?”

“My sister, Artabazus’s wife. Those are his children. Come, Artabazus and Chares should be here, in the great hall.” Memnon ushered the envoy through an arched doorway.

The room they entered was long, with two dozen columns similar to those in the courtyard supporting the high ceiling. Clerestory windows filled the hall with light. At the far end, on a raised platform, the throne of Artabazus—his satrapal seat, where he ruled the surrounding land as a king—stood empty. Instead, Artabazus, Mentor, and Chares sat off to one side, at a small table used by the scribes to record the issuance’s of court—Artabazus and Mentor in high-backed chairs, Chares atop the table, itself. With knives, they dug into the juicy heart of a split-open melon. Mentor gestured with his blade.

“There I am, in Eubulus’s bedchamber, buried up to the hilt in Eubulus’s wife. She’s screaming, ‘Take me, O Zeus! Take me! I am your Io, your Europa!’ So that’s what I do.” Mentor made an obscene gesture with his fist. “Plow her like there’s no tomorrow. I’m two thrusts away from spilling my seed when I hear a groan behind me. Guess who’s standing in the door?”

“Who?” Chares said, wiping his chin on the shoulder of his tunic.

“Eubulus, with his robe open and his dog in his fist, smiling at my bare ass as a man in the desert gazes upon a sweet oasis.”

Artabazus chuckled, shaking his head. “I’ve tried to teach you that every pleasure comes with a price.”

“Price? Prices can be haggled over, whittled down,” Mentor said. “Not Eubulus. For all his softness, that man has a singularity of purpose—”

“Artabazus!” Memnon called, interrupting Mentor’s story. The three men looked up from their melon. “I bring a guest. An emissary from the city of the Athenians.”

Chares bolted to his feet.

“By all the gods! Aristophon! What do you here?” The admiral came forward and embraced the older Athenian. Memnon moved past them to stand at the satrap’s side. Chares gestured to the newcomer. “Artabazus, this is my dear friend Aristophon, an orator and politician without equal.”

“You flatter me, Chares.” Aristophon turned and inclined his head to the satrap. “Lord Artabazus. Your fame precedes you.”

“As does yours, noble Aristophon. Come, sit and join us. We’re having a bite to eat. I have often heard Chares speak of you in glowing terms. You are as a father to him, I imagine.”

“And he is as a son to me. Though a wayward son, of late, and one who has brought only grief to the city that gave him life. Why have you been away so long, Chares? Athens has pined for you, as Hero for Leander. Every night we kindled the fires on Mount Hymettus and prayed their light would guide you home, and every morning we despaired of finding your lifeless body in the surf. Have you lost your way in the howling darkness of Asia?”

Chares laughed and hugged the old man again. “You are too much the poet to be a man of politics, Aristophon. My letter came to you, did it not?”

“Indeed, but a scrap of paper pales beside the man himself. Come back to Athens with me, Chares. Your people desire it.”

Memnon stiffened. Something in Aristophon’s tone, a serious edge hidden beneath the playful banter, gave him pause. Hearing it, as well, Mentor glanced up; Artabazus’s eyes slid from brother to brother. Chares, though, pressed on, oblivious.

“I have missed you, Aristophon. Here, sit and tell me what goes in the city of Athena. Fetch wine!”

The older Athenian remained motionless, a cool smile on his face.

“You idiot,” Memnon said to Chares, his voice cracking. “He’s not making sport with you, are you Aristophon?”

The envoy inclined his head. “No, indeed, son of Timocrates. What I said was not spoken lightly or in jest. The Assembly has voted, Chares. I am here to bring you home. You and your fleet.”

“What?”

Memnon glanced toward Artabazus; the old satrap sank back in his chair, his brow furrowed. Mentor struck the table with a balled fist, upsetting a wine goblet, and lurched to his feet. “Damn you! That will leave us virtually defenseless!”

“Your defense is no longer our concern,” Aristophon said. He turned and met Artabazus’s gaze unflinching. “Your Great King, Ochus, has put the people of Athens on notice. If Chares persists in aiding you in your rebellion the Great King will have no recourse but to aid, in turn, the enemies of Athens. Aid them with ships, with men, and with gold. We have no choice, Artabazus. Chares must come with me. I’ve already ordered his lieutenant at Lampsacus to make ready to sail.”

Chares sat heavily, his eyes unfocused. He blinked, looking at Mentor and Artabazus. “Tell the … tell the Assembly I cannot do what they ask. It’s a matter of honor. I gave my … my word.”

“You gave your word to Athens first, did you not?”

“He did,” Artabazus said. “Chares, my friend, your part in my scheme has come to an end. You are pledged to a higher purpose, guided by the wisdom of Athena, and bound by the laws of your home. I have no claim over you; no oath binds you to my fate. Go with noble Aristophon and carry back to Athens my words of thanks for the loan of so many fine men and my regrets for the loss of those who died in my service.”

“Artabazus, I …” Chares reached across the table and grasped the old satrap’s hand. “I am sorry.”

Aristophon nodded. “We are all sorry, Lord Artabazus. Athens bears you no ill will.”

“Nor I for the Athenians,” he said. “Come, though, you must be weary. I insist you dine with me this evening and take your leave at first light.”

“He can have my place,” Mentor said, plunging his knife through the melon’s half-eaten heart and into the wood beneath. “I have no appetite.” The elder Rhodian spun and stalked from the hall.

“Regretfully, we must return to Lampsacus,” Aristophon said.

“Of course. I will have a meal prepared and sent to your ship. Memnon, will you see to it?” Though his voice betrayed no anger, Artabazus’s knuckles whitened and cracked against the arms of his chair.

“You are most gracious,” the envoy bowed, looped his arm in Chares’, and retraced his steps from the palace, virtually dragging the stunned admiral.

“Memnon,” Artabazus hissed. The young Rhodian leaned close. “Send a rider to Pammenes. He must fall back down the Macestus Valley to Dascylium with the utmost haste. Tell him Ochus has struck from an unexpected quarter.”

“I’ll go. I—”

“No. I need you here.”

“This is too important to trust to a messenger, Artabazus. Send me, and Pammenes will know it’s not a trifling decision.”

The old satrap pursed his lips, unable to find fault with Memnon’s logic. He nodded. “Fine. Take one of my horses and ride like the lash of the gods lay across your back!”

 

M
EMNON LEFT BEFORE DUSK.
H
E TRAVELED LIGHT, A GOATSKIN BAG
holding a clay flask of water, a few hard biscuits, and a coin pouch draped over one shoulder, his sheathed sword over the other. What he needed in the way of food the villages of the Macestus Valley could provide. He left his helmet behind in Dascylium, as well as his heavy bronze breastplate. For this trip Memnon made do with his old cuirass of stamped leather.

The young Rhodian rode through the night, the river on his right hand reflecting silver and black in the light of the full moon. Patron’s words haunted him.
What will he do? When another army comes, what will Artabazus do?
Without the Athenians, Memnon doubted the rebels could hold Dascylium, much less field enough troops to win a pitched battle against the King’s forces. Chares’ recall emasculated their war effort. Now the main concern would be survival.
What will Artabazus do?

Celaeno’s long stride ate up the miles so that, by dawn, the first village lay just ahead. To the unencumbered man, Sardis was a week’s ride from Dascylium. A road—often little more than a goat trail—led up the Macestus Valley and into the high country before descending onto a fertile plain watered by the Hermus, Pactolus, and Hyllus Rivers. Seven villages lined the way, each roughly twenty miles apart. Since the reign of the first Darius, who established this road as a spur of the Great Royal Road from Sardis to Susa, the villages were responsible for the maintenance of way-houses,
stathmi,
where travelers could obtain food, water, lodging, fodder for their horses, and fresh mounts. To the King’s servants, such amenities were free; to others, they could be had for a reasonable price. The Boeotians, under a writ from Artabazus, confiscated as their camp the lands around the fifth
stathmos,
near the headwaters of the Macestus, in the shadow of the Phrygian plateau.