Memnon (28 page)

Memnon did as the Egyptian ordered. The pain in his head subsided, becoming a dull ache behind his eyes. “What are you doing here, Khafre?”

“I am the messenger from Pella whom you swore to deal with, today,” the Egyptian said, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He poked around in one corner of the tent, seeking a fresh
chiton
for Memnon. He found only reeking castoffs and ample evidence of the Rhodian’s nocturnal drinking binge in the form of broken wine jars. “Poor Celeus, the secretary you nearly trampled last night, said he despaired of pressing you further about it after the storm of words you shared with Parmenion. A tactical dispute, no doubt.”

“Something like that.” Memnon grimaced as he struggled to sit upright. “Why were you in Pella, and what message do you bring? It’s Mentor, isn’t it?” The question came out as a solemn whisper, as if to speak it loudly would make true the gravest answer. “Tell me, Khafre.”

The Egyptian left off his search and came back to stand near the tent entrance, where he might enjoy a breath of fresh air. “It is because of Mentor that I am here; though do not mistake me for the bearer of bad tidings. Your brother sends his greetings, Memnon, and it is his most fervent wish for his family to join him at Sardis as quickly as gods and men allow. Though,” he added, “if he were to see you in such a sorry state he might change his mind.”

“At Sardis?” Memnon frowned. “That would mean …”

Khafre nodded. “That Egypt belongs once again to the Great King, and that His Majesty, in his boundless wisdom, has awarded the chief architect of his victory with his heart’s desire, and more. The House of Pharnaces is restored and Lord Artabazus with it, absolved of all wrongdoing. The King hopes he will pass many days with him on the long road to Susa, regaling him with tales of Greek courage and heroism. His Majesty also seeks Artabazus’s counsel on—” Khafre stopped in mid-sentence and used a flick of his chin to indicate the Macedonian camp around them. Ochus wanted news of Philip, of his intentions and ambitions.

The fires of curiosity burned away the wine haze in Memnon’s mind. Clear and bright now, his eyes bored into Khafre’s as he hunched forward. “How did it happen, and when? Tell me everything!”

Khafre did, omitting not the least detail—from the attempted perfidy of Tennes and Mentor’s intrigues to the punishment of the Sidonians for their part in the revolt. “Adult males and the elderly were put to death while the women and children were enslaved. Mentor tried to beg for leniency on Sidon’s behalf, but the King’s anger could not be denied. Ochus destroyed the town as an example to the other cities of Phoenicia: support Egypt and share in Sidon’s fate. An effective tool, fear.”

Memnon said nothing; he only nodded, remembering the bright courtyards filled with date palms and the attar of roses, the liquid laughter of sloe-eyed women. He shook his head. Unperturbed, Khafre launched next into a description of the forces arrayed against Pharaoh. Painting with words like an Egyptian Herodotus, he depicted the Great King’s satrapal levies in all their grandeur—from the prancing cavalry of Lydia and Ionia, to the white-robed archers of Syria and the savage spearmen of Cilicia, to the ten thousand Greek hoplites drawn from Thebes, Argos, and the Asian shore. “The King divided his army into three regiments,” he said, “pairing a Persian commander with a Greek general. Lacrates and his Thebans served alongside Spithridates, satrap of Ionia and Lydia. Nicostratus of Argos gave his orders with noble Aristazanes, who stands on the right hand of the King. Mentor and his Persian counterpart Bagoas, a eunuch and devilish rogue who had risen to high office, were given the hoplites of Greek Ionia and the Aegean. Ochus himself commanded from the rear.”

The actual campaign took Khafre less time to describe; it reminded Memnon that, despite his gruff and simple exterior, Mentor was a genius. Not only did he engineer the bloodless surrender of Khafre’s home city of Bubastis, and a dozen other towns besides, but he also spearheaded the siege of Pelusium and the capture of a portion of Pharaoh’s river fleet. All the while, Mentor allied himself with the eunuch Bagoas and joined in a campaign of intrigue against their fellow commanders, Greek and Persian, alike. With ruthless cunning, the duo enhanced their rivals’ failures while bolstering their own triumphs, all in an effort to elevate their standing in the eyes of the Great King.

“Zeus Savior,” Memnon said, shaking his head in grudging respect. “My brother’s become the worst predator imaginable: a Greek general with the mind of a Persian nobleman.”

“A dichotomy that has served him well. The King’s pardon of you and Artabazus was only the smallest portion of Mentor’s reward.”

Memnon stood, reeling a little, and tugged on the first
chiton
he could find. “He received a grant of land, then?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Khafre said. The Egyptian paused, frowning. “It is a difficult thing to describe, but I shall try. His Majesty has divided his kingdom into two halves. As Ochus is revered as the King of Kings, so each of his newly elevated deputies will act as a Satrap of Satraps; the men already in positions of power will be answerable to them, as they are answerable to the King. It is to be Bagoas’s lot to administer the East while Mentor governs in the West, from Sardis. If memory serves, your brother now holds the highest position of any foreigner in Persia’s long history.”

Memnon, his face unreadable, said at length: “And, when you relayed this news to Artabazus, how did he react?”

“Understandably,” Khafre said, “he wept. Philip has already given his blessing and wished Artabazus well in his new life. All that is left is to bring you and Pharnabazus home.”

The Rhodian shook his head slowly. “And so the wheel turns, again,” he muttered. Though the implications of having a brother who was now one of the most powerful men in the West was staggering, Memnon shortened his focus to the problems at hand—he had to find Pharnabazus and secure their passage back to Pella. Only then would he—

“I have another message,” Khafre said, shattering his ruminations. From the waistband of his kilt, the Egyptian drew out a wallet of soft leather. He extended it to Memnon. “This one is from Lady Barsine.”

Memnon’s composure slipped. Lines softened and the shrewd calculations going on behind his eyes abruptly ceased. He glanced at the wallet with a curious mixture of anticipation and fear. “Is she well?”

“She is, though she, too, wept when I told her the news. Later, she came to me and bid me deliver this to you. Will you not take it?”

Memnon accepted the wallet; he stared down at it for a long moment. Finally, with trembling fingers, he untied the thong holding the wallet flap in place, opening it to reveal a folded letter.

“Has this aught to do with her impending marriage?” Khafre asked.

The Rhodian blinked and looked up. “Could I beg a favor of you, Khafre?” he said. “Would you find Pharnabazus? Try the horse paddock, first. Ask outside, if there is a young Greek named Callinus about he will guide you where you need to go.”

Khafre pursed his lips and nodded. “As you wish,” he said, and ducked from the tent without further comment.

Memnon exhaled. He edged into a shaft of sunlight, drew out the letter and unfolded it with exaggerated care. The words on the fine vellum were unmistakably Barsine’s, her calligraphy as graceful as the hand that wielded the pen:

Two years have passed since my eyes last beheld yours, since my ears last enjoyed the soothing timbre of your voice, and not a day goes by that I do not think of you and miss you. Word of your acts has reached us here at Pella and we rejoice in your good fortune. With every dispatch to my father, I held out hope that I might receive a letter from you, a note—some token of forgiveness for my part in the deed which drove you away. Is the rift between us too deep for absolution? I pray that is not the case. If I had known, then, that the cost of a touch would be your friendship and the pleasure of your company, I would have stayed my hand and fled into the night.

Soon, I am off to my marriage bed, to perform the duty of every obedient daughter by exchanging the freedom of youth for the shackles of the harem. I accept this as my fate though I do not go to it willingly. I cannot control my heart, Memnon! I love your brother as my uncle, not as a woman loves a man, not as Penelope loved her Odysseus. I know not how I offended the gods, but whatever my crime they have doubly cursed me, for I can neither love the man I am to marry nor marry the man I hope to
love.

Time grows short. Return swiftly to us, dear Memnon. Return to me, so that we may walk one last time under the birches and listen to the song of the cicadas, or lose ourselves in debate over the merits of Homer’s children. Even the memory of an hour spent thus in your company will be as a balm to my soul in the years to come.

Take good care, and may the gods bless and keep you.

“She blames herself,” Memnon whispered, “when the fault is mine. I am a thrice-cursed fool!” He returned the letter to the wallet and glanced around the cluttered tent with clarity of purpose. Thrace, the army, this campaign, none of it concerned him any longer, and the sooner he was on the road to Pella the better.
We will need to travel light,
he thought, sorting at once through a dozen different scenarios and the obstacles they presented. Swift action called for swifter preparation …

An hour later, when Khafre returned with Pharnabazus, the Egyptian noticed a marked change the moment he entered the tent. Bathed, his hair and beard freshly trimmed, Memnon wore his linen corselet over a tunic of faded blue. Bronze greaves clung to his shins, their knee-guards carved and molded to resemble Medusa’s ferocious visage. He sat on a cypress-wood chest, balancing a waxed writing board on his thighs; he paused in his writing and glanced up at his nephew. “Good, you’re here.”

“What goes, Uncle?” Pharnabazus said, scowling. Runnels of sweat cut through the dust of the drill field. “Khafre said you had news of the gravest sort.”

“I thought it best he hear it from you,” the Egyptian said.

Memnon nodded. “We’re going home, Pharnabazus. Gather only those things you cannot bear to part with. When you’re finished, take Khafre and find a pair of horses. I want the two of you to be on the road to Aenus within the hour.”

“Do not be absurd, Memnon!” Pharnabazus said. “Going home? We cannot go home! This campaign is not remotely over! If this is because of your words with Parmenion, then swallow your pride, Uncle, and do as he tells you!”

“We’re going home,” Memnon said, “because Mentor summons us. His plan was successful. Your father is an exile no longer.”

Pharnabazus blinked. He glanced at Khafre and the Egyptian smiled, giving his shoulder a reassuring pat. “Uncle, I …”

Memnon held up a hand, forestalling him. “You’ve said nothing that requires an apology, Pharnabazus, but your haste and cooperation are another matter. I need both and I need them now! Pack swiftly; get a pair of horses and some rations, enough for a couple of days. Once you and Khafre reach Aenus, find a ship and secure us passage back to Pella. Understood?”

The young Persian thumped his armor-clad chest. “I have all I need here, but what of you, Uncle? Are you not traveling with us?”

“I will be hot on your heels,” Memnon said. He snapped the hinged cover of the writing board shut and stood. “First, though, I must settle our affairs with Parmenion.”

 

T
HE
M
ACEDONIAN CAMP WAS A HIVE OF ACTIVITY AS THE MEN MADE READY
to march the next morning. The last of the supply wagons had come from Aenus, and the quartermasters organized work gangs to help get the last of the rations—the barley and olives, smoked meat and cheese, dried figs, onions and garlic—squared away. No camp followers or slaves traveled with the army; each soldier was responsible for shouldering his own gear and a share of his squad’s communal property. Besides weapons and armor and personal items, a man might find himself humping spare
sarissa
shafts or tents and cooking gear, or anything else a file of ten men might require. The few wagons Philip allowed the army were allotted to the quartermasters and the secretariat, the surgeons and the smithy.

Created by Philip and implemented by Parmenion, the Macedonian army ran with a spare and deadly economy unmatched anywhere in the world. It could cover great distances at speed and its diverse arms were trained to fight in unison, under any conditions and in any season. As he walked his horse through its predatory heart in search of Parmenion, Memnon committed its every detail to memory.

Though not in his command pavilion, the Rhodian had little trouble finding the general. He needed only to follow the stream of aides and messengers. Parmenion stood at the edge of the Hebrus River, surrounded by a knot of officers, watching a division of Paeonian cavalry training on the far bank. Plumes of dust rose as the squadrons feigned a withdrawal only to wheel suddenly and fall into the wedge-shaped formation that ended in a thunderous charge.

“Still ragged, Polemocrates,” Memnon heard Parmenion say as he dismounted, handing his reins to an aide. “Signal them to do it again.” As Polemocrates moved, the general caught sight of Memnon. “By the Thunderer! There’s a face I didn’t expect to see today! Rhodian! Is it true you wrestled Dionysus during the night?” The other officers chuckled.