Memnon (32 page)

 

T
HE SUN DID INDEED RISE EARLIER THAN
M
EMNON WOULD HAVE LIKED,
though he chivvied himself out of bed regardless and gathered up the last of his belongings, shoving them into a battered rucksack which Khafre tossed atop the wagon.

“Farewell, Pella,” the Egyptian muttered, with not inconsiderable glee, as he clambered up onto the drivers seat and took the traces.

From the villa Pharnabazus herded family members out to the wagon; he allowed no laggards—each child carried their own possessions and stood by like soldiers awaiting a general’s inspection. And indeed they were … their mother. Deidamia, no longer the frail creature Memnon remembered from days past, swept from the house in a swirl of embroidered fabric and issued orders, not in Greek but rather Persian; the children answered her in the same tongue. Cophen escorted Barsine to the wagon; Pharnabazus passed the smaller children up to his brother. Soon, all were loaded.

Artabazus, leaning his weight on a silver-shod walking stick, left the villa last, making a show of pulling the door shut in his wake. He wore a Median style robe of green brocade, trousers and doeskin boots. Of silver, too, were the accents decorating the sheathed saber at his hip.

Beside him, in a plain blue
chiton,
Memnon felt shabby. “Still time to change your mind,” he said.

The old satrap’s eyes twinkled. “Home is waiting.”

By the time they reached the harbor and loaded the last of their things into
Eurydike’s
hold, the sun stood high in the eastern sky. At a nod from Artabazus, Laertes ordered his men to cast off. Oarsmen backed water while sailors with longboat poles punted them away from the quay. Water slapped the hull; the ship shuddered as the breeze plucked at the reefed canvas of the sail. In the waist, the
auletes
piped a tune, keeping time for the rowers.

The family clustered in the bow, the younger children yipping in glee as a flock of plovers whirled and dashed over the surface of Lake Loudias. Artabazus stood with his arm around Deidamia’s waist. Though he couldn’t be certain of it, Memnon swore there was a glow about his sister that heralded new life.
Is she with child again?
Surely Barsine would know …

Barsine, though, stood in the stern, alone, watching Pella slip away. Memnon drifted to her side. He could feel her sadness as easily as he felt the wind on his face.

“It looks so small and mean from here,” she said, tugging her shawl close around her shoulders. “How can it contain so many memories?”

“I know what troubles you,” Memnon said. “Mentor is a good man, Barsine, and far more intelligent than he likes to admit. He, too, will enjoy your company, as I do. Imagine the three of us sitting under a massive shade tree in the gardens at Sardis, debating the merits of Herodotus. Imagine the children you will have. I promise you, it’s not a death sentence you go to!”

Barsine sighed. “I had a dream last night,” she said. “I stood on a promontory overlooking a harbor, its waters flat and lifeless. A ship was hauled up on the strand below. Mentor stood in the bow as his men scoured the beach. I heard them calling my name, faint, like a greater distance divided us, but I had no voice to respond, nor could I divine a way down to join them. I grew frantic as they shrugged their shoulders and set about launching the ship. In despair, I tried to hurl myself over the cliff’s edge but even that was denied me—each time, a titanic wind gusted to catch my falling body and return me, light as a feather, to the same spot. I watched them sail away. With each stroke of the oars, Mentor’s face grew more gaunt and strained. Finally, as the ship slipped over the rim of the world, the face staring back at me was no longer a face at all, but a bleached skull.” Tears filled her eyes. Shivering, she turned to face Memnon, her hand twining with his. “If what you say is true and it’s not a death sentence I go to,” she whispered, “why does it feel like one?”

Memnon, though, had no answer for her. They stood side by side, hand in hand, watching as Pella dwindled and each stroke of the oars brought Sardis closer …

I
NTERLUDE
III

 

M
ELPOMENE’S FISTS KNOTTED IN HER WOOLEN COVERLET; SHE
sobbed, a great wracking exhalation that left her thin body bereft of air. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she fought for each breath, loosening one hand so she might clutch at the silver chest, which Harmouthes had taken to leaving beside her. Again, Ariston witnessed its wonderful curative powers. Touching it calmed her. She closed her eyes and each subsequent breath came just a little easier.

“No more today,” she whispered, raw-voiced. “No more.”

“As you wish, Lady,” Ariston said, rising. “Shall I send your man to you?”

She shook her head, struggling onto her side and curling around the silver chest. Ariston crossed to the hearth and stoked the coals, adding a couple of chunks of wood against the growing chill. Satisfied she would stay warm, the young Rhodian rose and let himself out.

Outside, winter’s brief twilight enveloped the world in shadow. In the columned peristyle, Ariston paused and stared up at the star-strewn heavens, seeking answers to the one question spinning in his mind: who is she?
A daughter of Artabazus, by her own admission, who was taken prisoner with Darius’s family after the Macedonian victory at Issus … would Nicanor know her name?
What little he knew of the one-legged veteran did not foster confidence. The man had been a common ranker in the phalanx battalions, one of the
Pezhetairoi,
not a position to afford a man easy access to the high circles of command. Still, Nicanor represented his best—indeed, his only—hope of identifying his elusive patroness. Nor would he put it off. He would seek out the old Macedonian tonight.

Across the peristyle, Ariston could see light spilling out from beneath the kitchen door. The faint strains of Harmouthes’ flute came from within, a slow and mournful tune pitched so low that the young Rhodian had difficulty hearing it. Curious, he eased the door open. Firelight cast the Egyptian’s bent frame in silhouette, his head bowed. He wore Median trousers and a heavy, sleeved tunic of fine wool, dyed a deep blue; still, he shivered as his fingers transformed shallow breaths of air into the haunting chords that brought his song to its sad conclusion. Slowly, Harmouthes lowered his flute.

“A beautiful piece,” Ariston said, after a moment. “Has it a name?”

At first, the old man gave no indication he had heard, or that he registered Ariston’s presence. When he did finally look up, the creases around his eyes were moist with tears. “It is called ‘The Lamentations of Isis’.”

“It’s … I’ve never heard anything like it.”

“It is very old.” Harmouthes put his flute aside as he roused himself and tried to shake off his melancholy. “Sit, and I shall make you a bite of supper.”

“No, that’s not necessary,” Ariston replied. “I have business I must attend to this evening. I’ll be back before the Lady wakes.”

“Business,” he repeated. “Yes, of course.”

From inside his tunic, Harmouthes withdrew a small leather bag that lightly clinked as he handed it to the young Rhodian. Frowning, Ariston tugged the bag open and tapped its content into his palm. Silver. A dozen or so coins spilled out, Ephesian
tetradrachms
—
four-drachma
pieces stamped with symbols sacred to the Mother Goddess of Ephesus, the bee and the stag— newly minted and gleaming. Ariston cast a sidelong glance at Harmouthes.

“A fair wage for the work you have thus far accomplished,” the Egyptian explained. “Should you find yourself unable to return.”

Ariston, though, kept only a pair of
tetras
; the rest he returned to Harmouthes. “Consider these a loan,” the young Rhodian said, holding up the two coins. “And as I said, I
will
be back before the Lady wakes. Is there anything you need from the city?”

Harmouthes smiled. “Perhaps a fresh draft of manners?” He shook his head, tucking the pouch back into his tunic. “No, young sir. I have no needs, but my thanks for asking.”

Ariston patted the old Egyptian on the shoulder as he moved past him and retrieved his cloak from where it lay, neatly folded atop a sealed
amphora.
Harmouthes settled on the bench and took up his flute once more.

“The Lamentations of Isis” followed Ariston into the night.

 

S
OME HOURS LATER, SHIVERING FROM THE COLD
, A
RISTON PADDED DOWN A
scarcely lit street bordering the harbor. The smells of damp wood and brine warred with those of pitch, cooking smoke, and human suffering. It was a neighborhood given over to veterans, bitter survivors of the savage struggle between the
Diadochi
as well as proud, silver-haired relics of Alexander’s relentless ambitions. Laughter and song, screams and sobs, and the slaughterhouse music of iron on flesh emanated from alleys and doorways, making Ariston question the wisdom of seeking Nicanor at this hour. Still, he’d come too far to give up now.

The one-legged Macedonian lived in a cramped set of rooms three streets over from his stall, in a block dominated by the reeking piss-vats of a tanners’ workshop. Ariston thanked the gods for the small favor of placing Nicanor’s door at street level, facing the water, rather than amid the warren of crooked passages that comprised the heart of this particular block. The young Rhodian found his destination; knuckles scraped wood as he knocked on the poorly hung door. Boards creaked. A body moved. Impatient, Ariston knocked again.

“Hades take you!” he heard a bleary voice bellow in reply.

“Nicanor? Open up, if you please! It’s Ariston!” More curses greeted him, but Ariston also heard the distinctive scrape and thump of Nicanor’s cornel-wood crutch.

“What do you want, boy?” the Macedonian said, flinging his door open. Roused from sleep, the old soldier wore an ill-fitting robe, patched and threadbare, its rich embroidery long since plucked out. He leaned heavily on his crutch as he pawed at his eyes.

“I need to talk to you,” Ariston said, “and I promise I’ll make it worth your time.” He tugged a sealed wine flask out from beneath his cloak. “It’s Chian.”

Nicanor snatched the flask and motioned Ariston inside with a jerk of his head. “Zeus! A man my age needs wine more than sleep anyway.”

The air inside the old Macedonian’s quarters was stifling and it stank of sweat and sour wine. A makeshift hearth of flat rocks supported a glowing brazier; near it stood a small table, cluttered with unwashed crockery, and a pair of chairs, one of cheap pine, the other of dark and exotic wood. Nicanor dragged himself to this one and sat heavily. He tore the seal off the flask with his teeth and rooted through the crockery for two clay cups. He poured a measure for Ariston and scooted it toward the other chair. For himself, he filled the cup to the brim.

Ariston sat while his eyes, watering from the brazier’s smoke, adjusted to the gloom, allowing him to pick out the small reminders of forgotten triumphs littering the room. Nicanor’s armor, his battle-scarred cuirass, greaves, and a Thracian-style helmet with an elaborate faceplate, sat in the corner gathering dust, cobwebs, and corrosion. The chair that creaked under the Macedonian’s weight was of Egyptian cypress, stripped of all gilt and glitter, while the upper edge of the smoldering bronze brazier bore a sootstained declaration:

To N
ICANOR, SON OF
A
MYNTAS, FOR BRAVERY

The old soldier noticed Ariston’s interest. “Alexander gave me that,” he said, “full of gold, after I lost my leg at the Hydaspes. Unfortunately, the King died and I pissed away the gold, but that thing still helps keep my stump warm on cold winter nights. What do you want, boy? I know you didn’t come down here just to gander at my trophies.”

“Actually, your trophies are a part of why I’m here,” Ariston said. “You’re the only Macedonian veteran I know, and I need to plumb the depths of your memory for a name, Nicanor. Do you recall a Persian satrap named Artabazus?”

“Aye. He entered Alexander’s service in Hyrkania, after Darius died. Brought the last of the Greek mercenaries with him. Aye, I remember Artabazus.”

“Excellent.” The Rhodian saw a glimmer of hope. “He had a daughter—”

Nicanor gave a short bark of laughter. “The randy old goat had ten daughters.”

“Was one of them captured with the baggage at Damascus, after Alexander’s victory at Issus?”

Nicanor scratched his neck, his craggy brows drawn together in thought. “The whole gods-be-damned Persian court was captured after Issus, not just the baggage. That bugger, Darius, couldn’t take a proper shit without omenreaders, water-carriers, towel-bearers, perfume-sprinklers, and a dozen fat eunuchs to wipe the royal arse.”

“But what of the court women?” Ariston said.

“Oh, aye, they were there, too … Darius’s wives and daughters. For the love of Zeus! The man dragged his gray-haired old mother with him on campaign! Expected his nobles to do the same. After the battle went against them, the men skinned out and left the ladies to our tender mercies. Hades’ teeth! Those so-called lords of Asia should have thanked their heathen gods it was Alexander who led us and not Philip. The old King would have taken the best for himself and given the rest to us. Not Alexander.
He
let them alone and made sure we kept our grubby hands off them, too.” Nicanor tossed back his wine and poured himself another. “There was one, though. She’d caught Alexander’s eye years ago, I heard tell, when her family came to Philip’s court seeking asylum.”

“Could she have been a daughter of Artabazus?”

Nicanor cocked his head to one side, struggling to remember tiny details fogged by the passage of years. “You know, she
was
one of his girls. I had forgotten that. But she wasn’t half-Greek like his other daughters. No, not her. She was all Persian, with hair of midnight silk and a body to shame a Melian Aphrodite. She didn’t speak that heathen jibber-jabber, either. Her Greek was flawless, better even than Alexander’s. Buggering Zeus!” Nicanor rapped his knuckles against his skull. “What was she called?”

Ariston rocked back in his seat. Could the answer have been plainer, more evident?
A daughter of Artabazus,
he thought,
and an intimate of both Memnon and Alexander!
“It’s her,” he said, his voice an incredulous whisper. “Barsine.”

“Aye, that was her name.” Nicanor gave a wet, wine-laced sigh. “You know, she might have been just his concubine, but that woman would have made a better queen than the Sogdian whore he married, that’s for certain. I had a tent-mate back then who was sweet on one of the Royal Pages—a chatty lad from Emathia, but a bitch in heat once you got a little wine in him—anyway, he told us that even Hephaestion was fond of Lady Barsine, and that bastard was never one to willingly share Alexander’s affections.” The old Macedonian drained his cup.

“What became of her?”

Nicanor hiccupped and poured himself another. “Alexander sent her home before he crossed the Indian Caucasus, if memory serves. Last I heard she’d settled in Pergamum with a son she claimed was Alexander’s rightful heir. Admiral Nearchus was the only one who believed her, but he was more of a wine-sot than I am.” He hiccupped again. “What’s got you so curious, boy?”

Ariston shrugged and forced a lopsided smile. “Where the Muses lead, the artist can only follow.”

Nicanor chuckled and hoisted his cup. “To the Muses.” “To Melpomene,” Ariston replied.

 

A
RISTON RETURNED TO
T
HE
O
AKS
IN THE GRAY LIGHT OF DAWN, HIS PURSE
depleted and his hair damp from a last-minute detour to the
balaneion.
There, in a terracotta tub filled with warm water, the young Rhodian had scrubbed the stench of the harbor district from his body while one of the bath-man’s slaves cleaned his sandals. As he soaked, in the back of his mind he chided himself for not accepting more of Harmouthes’ silver. If he had, perhaps he could have done something about his ragged cloak and his faded saffron
chiton. One should not approach the great-granddaughter of a Persian king looking like a vagabond.
Still, he reckoned they would do for now.