Memnon (27 page)

“How far are we from Aenus?” Pharnabazus asked, swatting at a mosquito that flitted too close to his face. Already, it was dark enough that he had trouble making out the trail in front of them.

“A day’s ride,” Memnon said. “Perhaps less.”

“Was it your plan to meet Parmenion on the trail like this?”

Memnon didn’t answer. In the back of his mind, he had half expected to find only a token force of Macedonians at Aenus, armed with a message stating this reason or that why Parmenion tarried at Doriscus. King Philip praised his general to the heavens, telling all who would listen that “the Athenians elect ten generals every year, but I have ever only found one.” Memnon, however, found Parmenion plodding and over-cautious, though a ferocious adversary once roused to action. What could have roused him this time? He turned the question over again and again in his mind, oblivious to the passage of time. When next Memnon glanced up, he was surprised to see torches flaring ahead.

“Pickets,” Pharnabazus said, and over his shoulder, to the men, he added, “Look alive, you sons of whores!”

“Who goes?” a voice bellowed from the darkness.

“Memnon’s squadron!” Pharnabazus answered, glancing at his uncle. Both men hoped the sentry wouldn’t demand the watchword, which no doubt had changed since Doriscus.

“Advance and be recognized!”

Memnon took the lead and rode into the circle of torchlight, his hand raised in greeting. A half-dozen Macedonians waited nearby; Foot Companions armed with massive pikes called
sarissas,
twice the length of a hoplite’s eight-footer.

“Hades’ teeth!” roared the officer on duty, a one-eyed Macedonian in a scarred bronze breastplate. He looked up at Memnon, his head tilted to the right, as the Rhodian drew rein beside him. “Parmenion’s going to dance a jig now that you’ve returned!”

Memnon recognized him. “What goes, Antigonos? You’re farther from Aenus than I would have expected.”

Antigonos was one of Parmenion’s most trusted officers, a man destined for high command in Philip’s ever-growing army. An errant sword-stroke in the Illyrian campaign earned him the nickname
Monophthalmos,
One-Eyed. As with his beloved king, Antigonos in no way allowed the infirmity to impede his ambitions. “I’ll leave that explanation to the general. Come. I have orders to escort you to Parmenion’s headquarters.” Antigonos gestured to one of his men, a slender fellow with a thick mane of red hair pulled up to the crown of his head and tied with a leather thong. “Send your lads with Krobylos, here, and he’ll find them some food and flop-space.”

“Follow him, Pharnabazus,” Memnon said. “But make sure the men tend to their horses’ bellies before they tend to their own.”

The young Persian nodded and signaled for the squadron to move out. Krobylos fell in beside Pharnabazus, holding on to his saddlecloth as they trotted off into the darkness. Antigonos’s own horse waited nearby, a roan mare; he vaulted onto its back and gathered up the reins. Clucking, he spurred the mare to a canter, trusting Memnon to follow.

The Macedonian camp sprawled over a low ridge overlooking the river, a temporary
polis
of ill-tanned hides and rough-hewn timbers. To the uninitiated, its precincts appeared identical save for colorful regimental banners fluttering on the sparse breeze. Where a typical city divided itself according to wealth and station, the camp-city drew its societal lines based on combat arms: cavalrymen held themselves aloof from the infantry while missile troops and mercenaries skulked along the edges. In all quarters, around crackling fires, men sang obscene verses to the accompaniment of
aulos
flutes and whetstones. Smells of bread, seared meat, and spilled wine assailed Memnon’s nostrils, reminding him of his own growing hunger.

Parmenion’s command pavilion stood fly-rigged atop the camp’s transitory acropolis—the crest of a low hill crowded with gnarled oaks. Lamplight streamed from the open walls of the pavilion, glittering off the armor of the guards at their posts and striping the surrounding tree trunks with wavering bands of orange and black. Memnon and Antigonos reined in their horses, dismounted, and left the animals in the care of Parmenion’s grooms.

As the pair approached, they could hear the general’s voice over the din of camp as he laid into one of his officers, berating him for some infraction of Philip’s stern rules; even hundreds of miles distant, the King’s will held sway. “Let it happen again,” Parmenion bellowed, “and I’ll scourge the flesh from your back and pack you off to your father! Understood?” The young soldier saluted. A curt nod from the general sent the man scurrying.

Antigonos entered first, made his salute, and jerked his head to one side, indicating Memnon. “The Rhodian, General.”

Parmenion dismissed him with a wave, returning his attention to a rough map of Thrace spread over the whole of his campaign table, its corners weighted with a pair of flat stones, a bust of Herakles, and a sheathed knife. Coins marked their position on the map—silver
staters
representing the Macedonian advance and copper
chalkoi
the Thracians. “It’s the gateway to Asia,” Parmenion said suddenly, striking the map with a balled fist, scattering coins, “and it’s guarded by a pack of feral dogs!”

Memnon said nothing for a moment as he paused at a sideboard holding the remains of Parmenion’s supper. He poured for himself a beaker of wine, tossed it back, and poured another. “We’ve made some small inroads,” the Rhodian replied, moving to stand beside Parmenion. He retrieved one of the displaced
staters
and used it to mark the position of the Odrysian village his men had decimated.

“Small inroads won’t give Philip Thrace!”

“But gold will,” Memnon said with the air of a man who has repeated himself too often. “If you want this gateway opened it’s going to cost you, Parmenion. It’s going to cost the King.”

Parmenion grunted and spat. “You Greeks are all alike! You trust gold to solve your problems when you should be trusting iron! Iron is the muscle of war!”

“And gold is its sinew!” Memnon said. “What’s more, parsimony breeds failure. We had this discussion at Maroneia and at Abdera before that! I told you this same thing at Doriscus not a fortnight gone and still you balk! Either convince Philip to bring the full might of Macedonia to bear on these Thracians or give me the funds to do it for you! There is no other way!”

Parmenion ground his teeth. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said, his voice low and tinged with frustration.

Memnon glanced sidelong at the Macedonian. “You’ve never agreed with me about this before. What’s changed your mind?”

“Can a man not succumb to reason and good advice?”

“Any other man, perhaps,” Memnon said. “What goes? Is it the Athenians?”

Parmenion grimaced and nodded. “Diopeithes, their stooge in the Chersonese, is agitating for more funds and more soldiers.” The Chersonese was a tongue of land between Thrace and the Hellespont, a stronghold of Athenian sympathies. “The King wants these Thracians under heel before Athens can vote to send one of its generals to Diopeithes’ aid.”

“That’s why you left Aenus.” Memnon rubbed his chin while gesturing at the map. “Look here. The Hebrus Valley leads right into the heart of Kersobleptes’ lands. We’ve cleared the way up to here.” He touched the coin marking the village. “If we make haste we can cross the river while it’s low from the drought, swing wide through the hills, and cross back to drive down into Odrysian territory from the north. With any luck we can catch the bastard at unawares in his fortress at Cypsela.”

As Memnon spoke, though, Parmenion tugged at his beard and shook his head. “We’ll never catch him unaware. We have too many men, too many horses, to make such a reckless gamble. I’d wager my eye-teeth the Thracian has already been warned of our approach.”

“Then we move faster …”

Parmenion made a derisive sound. “I don’t plan to dawdle, but neither will I rush out like a damn fool! Haste breeds failure as easily as does thrift. We’ll proceed up the valley at our accustomed pace—which is fast enough to prove ourselves a threat to Kersobleptes. I’ve dealt with him before. He’ll try using ambushes and flank attacks to break up our phalanx battalions. When he thinks he’s weakened us sufficiently, he’ll strike with his cavalry. What he won’t do is wait for us behind Cypsela’s walls. The canny bastard’s seen the effects of our siege train often enough to dissuade him of that.”

Exhaustion weighed on Memnon’s shoulders as he studied the map. “Let me rest my men a few days and I’ll lead them out in advance of the main body, up the eastern bank of the river. The phalanx might make better time if Kersobleptes is kept too busy with us to spare our battalions a second glance.”

Parmenion shook his head again. “No. I want you and your men to take up positions guarding the right flank of the column. The Thessalians under Attalus will take the left flank and Polemocrates and his Paeonian scouts will serve as outriders.”

“Zeus Savior!” Memnon snarled. “Putting Polemocrates in the van is worse than being led by a blind man! At least give my men the lead! We—”

“Enough! I’ve made my plan! You and your men are on the right flank!”

“A flanker?” Memnon’s nostrils flared. “I signed on to win a war, Parmenion! Not to escort a pack of inbred ground-pounders! Strike off these fetters and let me win this war for you!”

“Let
you win it?” Parmenion’s face flushed as he turned on Memnon. “Listen to me, you arrogant pup! You signed on to fight, and—by all the gods!—you will fight when and where I say! If I say I want you on my right flank, guarding my kinsmen, then you’d best take that Persian tit out of your mouth and thank the hoary gods of Hellas I trust you enough to give you that honor!” The Macedonian general jerked his head toward the entrance. “We’re done here! Dismissed!”

Memnon bit back a scathing torrent of words; his eyes lost none of their fire as he made his salute. “I serve at your pleasure, my lord,” he said, turning and stalking from the pavilion.

Outside, a young groom waited with his horse. Memnon snatched the reins from his hand and vaulted onto the animal’s back. “The mercenaries!” he snapped. “What pox-ridden corner of the camp were they allotted?” His horse shied at the fury in his voice.

“N-Northeast corner,” the groom said. The Rhodian was about to touch his heels to his horse’s flanks when one of Parmenion’s secretaries stumbled up, driven from his bed by the sound of their arguing.

“Captain! Wait!” He held up his hand; the other struggled with the neck of his tunic.

“What is it?”

“Another messenger from Pella arrived for you while you were in the field. Should I—”

“I’ll deal with him tomorrow,” Memnon said. The secretary barely had time to scramble out of the way before horse and rider took off at a canter, making for the area of camp where the mercenaries pitched their tents. One thought consumed him as he rode into the fire-studded night:
Those sons of whores better have wine left!

 

M
EMNON WOKE SLOWLY, THE THROBBING IN HIS HEAD SEEMING TO WORSEN
with every breath. His skull felt as though a blacksmith had used it as an anvil. Though his eyes remained closed, the light of day pierced his lids like knives and burned into his wine-fogged brain. The distorted sounds of the Macedonian camp assailed his ears with the raucous thunder of a god; Memnon groaned as he rolled onto his back and pressed his palms to the sides of his head, a futile gesture meant to block out the cacophony—and to keep his skull from splitting open.

“Merciful Zeus,” he croaked.

“And so the innocent grape has its revenge,” a man’s voice said.

“Leave me, Pharnabazus,” Memnon said. “Let me die in peace.”

The man chuckled. “I am not Pharnabazus, though bless you for thinking me still young and handsome, and you are not going to die. Osiris has a soft spot for fools such as you.”

Memnon pried open one eye and winced. “Khafre?” Like an apparition, the Egyptian stood above him, his head freshly shaved and oiled and his thin lips curling in disapproval. Memnon blinked and looked the man up and down. He wore sandals of embossed leather and a sheer, multicolored robe open over a kilt of starched white linen. The golden pectoral on his breast depicted a pair of cats facing one another, a scarab of lapis lazuli between them. Khafre held a clay mug in one hand and a damp cloth in the other. “How …?”

“I am no figment of your drink-addled imagination, so you may as well banish that thought this instant,” he said. “Drink this.” He knelt and held the mug to Memnon’s lips. The Rhodian’s stomach heaved as he caught the scent of herb-laced pomegranate juice; he started to protest, but Khafre gave him little choice. He poured the concoction down Memnon’s throat. Spluttering and swallowing, Memnon finally gasped.

“What’s in that? Damn you! Are you up to your old tricks, again?”

“No. This time it’s something to sober you up. You and I have important things to discuss; things that require a clear head,” Khafre said. His nose wrinkled. “You camp beside a river and still you cannot find time to bathe? Here.” He handed Memnon the cloth, then stood. “Wipe your face, at least.”