Memnon (44 page)

 

T
HE INFANTRY, FIVE THOUSAND
G
REEK HOPLITES, WAITED ON A HILLOCK
a quarter of a mile from the Granicus. Omares knew the tale of the battle before Memnon arrived, having heard it from the Persian cavalry streaming past him in flight. Alexander was driving home his advantage but the sheer press of enemy horsemen slowed his advance. Dusk would fall before he could engage the infantry.

“I heard most of the satraps are dead,” Omares said by way of greeting as Memnon and the sons of Artabazus cantered up. They had thrown the Macedonians back once more, hurling them back into the Granicus; in the brief lull, they had made good their escape.

“From whom?”

“Their men, as they hightailed it past us. Mithrobarzanes, Rhosaces, Spithridates … they all left their positions and rode against Alexander. The boy slaughtered them. Arsites and Rheomithres each scampered away with a handful of men. I don’t know about Arsamenes. It seems the chivalry of Persia is leaving their loyal infantry in the dust without the slightest hint of regret.”

“We’ve come to stand with you,” Memnon said.

Omares glanced over his shoulder to where Mardius and Azanes stood vigil over Hydarnes’ body. With his own hand he had drawn out the killing dart. He had composed the boy’s limbs and washed the blood from his face with water from his own canteen before draping his cloak over the corpse. Still there was no kindness he could do that would begin to repay the debt he owed Artabazus. Save one. Omares turned back to Memnon as Cophen and Ari went to their brother’s side, cries of anguish wrenched from their breasts. Pharnabazus remained on his horse, head bowed. “You can’t stay with us, Rhodian,” Omares said.

Memnon shook his head. “No, my friend. I won’t leave. I led you and your men into this and I’ll lead you all out or I’ll spill my blood next to yours.”

“A fine sentiment,” Omares replied, “but useless. If you die here, the Great King will appoint some Iranian bugger to wage his war for him. He’ll bungle it and a lot of good men will die needlessly. You’re the only one in my reckoning who has the wherewithal to stop Alexander. This battle’s lost. It’s on you to win the war.”

“He is right, Uncle,” Pharnabazus said, looking up. “Darius will realize his mistake in not putting you in supreme command, and he will move swiftly to rectify the matter. Only through your generalship do we have any hope of recovering the Hellespont. But to lead us, you must live …”

Memnon said nothing; he chewed his lip, staring at the body of Hydarnes.

“You’ve got to withdraw, Memnon!” Omares said. “If for no other reason than to get these boys to safety, for Artabazus’ sake! We will stay behind and cover your retreat!”

“Swear to me, Omares! Swear to me you’ll throw down your weapons and sue for terms once we’re off the field! There’s no call for you and your men to martyr yourselves!”

Omares nodded. “Once you’re away, I’ll kiss the whelp’s arse if that’s what’s required of me! First, though, we’ll form ranks and give them a show. You and the boys get moving, sir.”

Memnon gave a sad smile. “Sir, is it?”

“Aye, it must be your august presence.” He gripped Memnon’s hand. “If anything should happen here …”

“I won’t let you go unavenged. You have my word.”

Omares exhaled and nodded. “You’d best get going. What about the lad’s body?”

“Pharnabazus?”

“We will take him with us,” the Persian said. “Father … Father would not want us to abandon him to the Macedonians.”

The Rhodian motioned for his men to mount up. Mardius and Azanes gently lifted Hydarnes’ body and draped it over the back of a spare horse, handing the reins to Ari. Memnon vaulted into the saddle. Bridle fittings rattled as he spun back to Omares. “Remember, no martyrs!”

“Farewell.” The old soldier smiled, slapping the horse’s rump as Memnon turned and followed his column south, away from the circling vultures.

 

M
EMNON LED THE SURVIVORS OF THE
G
RANICUS ALONG THE RIDGES OF
Mount Ida, through valleys thick with pine. A carpet of fallen needles muffled the dull
clop
of their bone-weary horses. Despite exhaustion, despite wounds, Memnon drove them on through the long night, riding up and down the column to give his men encouragement, to make sure none were left behind. Finally, the Rhodian called a halt near dawn to allow stragglers from other cavalry brigades to catch up with them. He greeted the Hyrkanians, Medes, Bactrians, and Lydians personally, eager to piece together from them the fate of the Persian satraps.

“They very nearly killed him,” he told Pharnabazus, groaning as he settled onto the ground beside him. The Persian handed Memnon a chunk of barley bread and a cup of wine. “I think luck was all that saved the bastard.”

“Alexander?”

Memnon drained the cup, refilled it with water. “Satraps attacked him with their personal guards. Mithrobarzanes died first, I’m told, on Alexander’s lance. Rhosaces struck next, shearing off part of Alexander’s helmet, but before he could land the killing blow the young king spun and impaled him. Spithridates came on his brother’s heels; Alexander didn’t see him. They said he was on the verge of splitting Alexander’s skull when one of the Royal Bodyguard took Spithridates’ sword-arm off at the shoulder.”

“One cannot fault their lack of valor,” Pharnabazus replied.

“No, only their lack of vision.”

Pharnabazus stirred the embers of their small fire. Ari and Cophen slept, as did most of the men, sprawled out on the ground without cloak or wrap, still in their bloodstained armor. Some, like Memnon and Pharnabazus, sat and talked quietly. Others sat alone, lost in thought. “What are we going to do, Uncle?”

“Regroup. Alexander will secure Dascylium then make for Sardis, most likely. Then Ephesus.” The Rhodian’s face darkened. He had sent Barsine and the children there before leaving for Zeleia. “That’s where I’ll take the men. You I’m sending east to Susa, perhaps as early as tomorrow. Take Ari with you and deliver news of all you have seen to the Great King … and to your father. Tell His Majesty that, barring orders to desist, I will make ready to retaliate against Alexander.”

“Retaliate? How?”

But Memnon would say nothing more. The Rhodian stared at the crackling embers, idly sketching a battle plan in the dirt with the tip of a stick. His brows drew together …

 

F
EAR GRIPPED
E
PHESUS IN A VISE.
M
EMNON SENSED IT AS HE AND HIS MEN
rode through the valley of the river Cayster and around the foot of Mount Pion. As fast as they had traveled, news from the Granicus traveled faster still, arriving as if borne on the wings of crows. Alexander was coming, but would he bring freedom or despair? Many of the town’s leaders, pro-Persian oligarchs, had not waited to find out; they packed their belongings into ships and bolted, making for the islands or mainland Hellas.

By midday, Memnon reached his estate on the outskirts of Ephesus, where he dismissed his soldiers and sent Cophen to make preparations for Hydarnes’ funeral. News of Memnon’s arrival preceded him and a knot of men in fine Median robes met him at the gate, a deputation of the town’s remaining leaders. They twittered about his horse like a flock of finches, peppering him with questions.

“Is it true, General? Is Alexander planning to destroy Asia?”

“Should we flee, too?”

“What should we do, my lord?”

Memnon raised his hand, demanding silence. “Alexander is a man, and a young man at that. He could no more destroy Asia than you could or I. But he is coming to Ephesus, gentlemen. We must make ready to repel him. Please, I have traveled a long distance. Right now, I want only to see my wife and family.”

“But you say we should fight?” one man said, standing defiant. “Even after what he did to your mercenaries?”

Memnon frowned. “He did nothing to them. They surrendered—”

“You … you don’t know?” Defiance fled, replaced by uncertainty. The others shrunk away from him.

“Know what? Speak up, man!”

“A-Alexander refused to accept their terms, General! He … he allowed his men to slaughter them even after some had thrown down their weapons!”

Memnon swayed in the saddle. Red rage gripped the Rhodian as he imagined Omares being struck down, his call for terms ignored.
I abandoned them.
Guilt and grief mingled, adding their weight to the unimaginable responsibility already on Memnon’s shoulders. He ground his teeth until he tasted blood. “Is this true?” he hissed.

The men of the deputation nodded. “S-Some survived, but he has eenslaved them and refuses r-ransom.”

“They are to be examples, as Thebes was an example.”

“If this is the war Alexander wishes to wage, need you ask what you should do?” Memnon snarled, gesturing for his
kardakes
to open the gate. “My thanks, gentlemen.” He gave a curt nod and spurred his horse to a canter, leaving the officials frightened and bewildered.

Barsine met him on the portico of the house, greeting him with a goblet of wine and a damp cloth, the expression on her face as grave as his own. Memnon dismounted and walked slowly up the steps. Sunlight dappled her blue linen gown. He stopped a step below her, eyes level with her shoulders, and sighed. His forehead creased; he had to tell her about Hydarnes.

“Barsine, I—”

“No, my love,” she said. “Say nothing until you have had a chance to rest and marshal your thoughts. Whatever ill news you bear will not spoil by keeping.” She bid him drink the chilled wine, a strong Thasian, while she wiped dust from his face with the cloth. “I have ordered a bath prepared, then a light meal and a few quiet hours of sleep.” She kissed the wrinkles on his forehead.

“What I have to tell you can’t be put aside,” he said, his hands going around her waist. “It’s Hydarnes …” Memnon stared hard at the hollow of her throat, unwilling to raise his eyes to meet hers. He choked off a grief-filled sob. “He …”

Tears glistened on Barsine’s cheeks as she leaned closer to him. She stroked his hair and neck. “Oh, Memnon,” she whispered.

“I … I should have left him at Zeleia,” Memnon said. “He was too young … too young.”

“Come, my love. Come and rest.” Barsine took Memnon’s hand and led him through the house to a bathing chamber, its deep stone tub filled with steaming water. She dismissed the servants and tended him herself.

Mechanically, Memnon stripped off his armor, his tunic—stiff with dried blood—his sandals, and eased himself into the tub. He groaned as the water stung every gash and bruise on his body. As Barsine washed and trimmed his hair and beard, his eyes never left her face. He blinked slowly, exhaustion overtaking his taxed muscles. She cleaned his cuts, assuring herself that none needed stitching or bandaging, and massaged the kinks from his shoulders and neck. By the end of the bath, Memnon needed her help just to rise.

Barsine dried him with towels smelling of an extract of mint, and then led him to the next room, where servants had prepared a soft divan. Beside it were low tables of bread, olives, cheese, and wine. Near the ceiling, a fringed
punkah
circulated the cool air, its cord pulled by unseen hands.

Memnon stretched out on the divan, asleep before Barsine had a chance to fill a bowl of wine for him.

The Rhodian awoke some hours later, opening his eyes to stare at the ceiling. Fingers of light and shadow danced from the flame of a clay lamp. He felt warmth and weight on his arm; Memnon looked down to see Barsine’s head pillowed on his forearm, her hands twined around the muscular limb. She sat on the floor at his side, her body leaning against the divan as she dozed. With his free hand, Memnon stroked her hair. Touching the silk at the nape of her neck sent a shudder of desire through his frame.

Barsine’s eyes fluttered open. “Are you hungry?” she murmured.

Memnon shook his head. Gently, he drew her on top of him, kissing her with an intensity that left both breathless. Barsine straddled his hips, feeling heat radiating from his body, feeling her own moist response. She rose up, pulling her gown over her head. Memnon’s fingers traced meaningless designs over the skin of her thighs, her hips; he ran his hands up her sides to cup her breasts. Sinking down, Barsine moaned as Memnon slipped inside her.