Memnon (31 page)

“So unlike his father,” Memnon said, more to himself than his nephew. Indeed, Alexander shared very little with Philip; so slight was the resemblance, in fact, that it drove the King’s detractors to question the boy’s paternity. He had his mother’s dark eyes, brilliant in their intensity, and a thick mane of fair hair, which he wore long and loose to remind all of the blood he shared with immortal Herakles.

The sight of him put Memnon on edge. He reckoned it akin to watching an adolescent lion—lean and hungry—amid a flock of sheep, trying to apprehend when its rampage would begin.

Of Alexander’s retinue, Memnon only knew the three oldest by sight, youths already considered men in their fathers’ esteem. Parmenion’s eldest, Philotas, walked beside Ptolemy, son of Lagos (rumor, though, painted him Philip’s bastard). In their wake came a knot of five boys Cophen’s age. These poked good-naturedly at a sixth, a clubfooted lad who smiled and spouted curses with all the creativity of a lifelong soldier. Finally, walking alone, was Antipatros’s eldest son, Kassandros, a red-haired youth of seventeen whose sharp blue eyes flickered between Alexander and his tall companion, as though undecided on which one he hated more.

It was the clubfooted lad who spotted them first. “Cophen!” he shouted, breaking ranks and hobbling toward the portico. Cophen stepped down and met him halfway.

“Greetings, Harpalos!” The others, too, swirled around Cophen. Memnon heard a litany of names: Leonnatus, Erigyius, Laomedon, Marsyas, Nearchus. Ptolemy and Philotas held themselves aloof; Kassandros shouldered past them and went to sit under the portico.

“Alexander! Hephaestion!” Harpalos cried. “Look who has decided to pay us a visit!”

The Prince took leave of his tutor and, Hephaestion in tow, rushed over to greet Cophen. Memnon stood off to one side as the pair exchanged pleasantries, watching the tutor, this Aristotle, as he took Cophen’s measure, looking the boy up and down as though assessing a slave on the block. No doubt the sophist knew well how to discern Persian blood—and Cophen’s heritage was evident in his features. A look of disdain crossed Aristotle’s face; as he turned away, his eyes flickered briefly over Memnon. In less time than it takes a heart to beat, the Rhodian sensed he’d been catalogued and pigeonholed as a Median sympathizer, and thus beneath the philosopher’s contempt. Memnon dismissed Aristotle with equal ease.

Aristotle finished his turn, spotted the eunuch hovering over a rose bush. He smiled and raised a ring-heavy hand in greeting, his manner at once cordial.
Who is this eunuch? A diplomat, perhaps; or an intermediary between the philosopher and Philip?

Alexander’s voice brought Memnon out of himself. “You must spend a few days here, Cophen!”

“Alas!” Cophen replied. “We cannot. A ship awaits our return to Pella. Father has been recalled to Persia, to be reinstated with full honors. My uncle and I have come to pay our respects to you, as my guest-friend, and to say farewell.” Cophen extended his hand.

The gesture touched Alexander, Memnon could plainly see, and he grasped the proffered hand, pulling Cophen into an embrace. “I am pleased for your father,” Alexander said, with gravity beyond his years. “Macedonia will always be a place of refuge for you, my friend, should you ever need it.”

“As my home will be for you,” Cophen said. Smiling, Alexander released him from his embrace and turned to Memnon. The Rhodian inclined his head to the Prince.

“Parmenion is losing his best officer,” Alexander said. “Are you sure we can’t convince you, at least, to stay, Memnon?”

“You flatter me, Alexander. As much as I would like to remain, the needs of my family are paramount. Besides, where would Artabazus be without me to shepherd his sons to manhood?”

“Do you have time, at least, to see the Sanctuary of the Nymphs?” Alexander said, turning suddenly back to Cophen. “It is a place of great mystery, and not far from here.”

“Uncle?”

Memnon nodded. In an explosion of chatter, the younger boys swept Cophen off into the woods, following in Alexander’s wake. The older three stayed put.

“Come, Philotas,” Ptolemy said. “Let’s ride down to the village.”

“In a moment.” Philotas approached Memnon. “How fares my father?”

“I left Parmenion on the verge of a great victory in Thrace,” Memnon replied. “It pains me that I won’t be there to take part in it.”

Philotas beamed, pride for his father as evident as the sun’s light on snow. “I knew he would conquer those blue-skinned
barbaroi
!”

“Are you sure he’s victorious, Memnon? I had hoped Kersobleptes might send Parmenion packing,” Ptolemy said, smiling. “If only to teach his son the meaning of humility.”

Philotas laughed.

Behind them, though, Kassandros cursed and spat. “That’s treason.”

Ptolemy shook his head. He didn’t bother turning to face Kassandros, but directed his words into the air, as if addressing a disembodied nuisance. “No, you dolt, it’s a joke. But, I wouldn’t expect you to get it since you have the sense of humor of a Spartan.”

“Come,” Philotas said, walking toward where Aristotle and his guest stood in deep conversation. “The air is cleaner on this end of the house.”

Memnon followed them to the end of the portico. “Tell me, if you know, who is that fellow talking with your philosopher? If he’s not a eunuch, I’m a Nubian. I swear he is familiar to me though I cannot place his name.”

Philotas smiled. “Oh, he’s a eunuch, all right. Demokedes of Assos, I think is his name, a guest-friend of Aristotle’s and of his former patron, Hermeias.”

“Hermeias?” Memnon frowned. “Hermeias was his former patron? But, I thought Aristotle came here from Athens?”

Philotas and Ptolemy exchanged glances. The son of Parmenion lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “He left Athens after Plato’s death and settled in Assos, even marrying Hermeias’s adopted daughter, Pythias, though Alexander says he spent much of his time near Mytilene, on Lesbos. I’ve heard it told that the philosopher was angry over not being made head of the Academy.”

“He’s sworn to finish what Plato started in Syracuse,” Ptolemy added. Memnon nodded. “Well, Athens’s loss is Macedonia’s gain, it would seem. Demokedes of Assos … I must remember his name.”
And his relationship to Hermeias,
Memnon thought.
No doubt Mentor’s going to take a keen interest in Assos, especially if its tyrant has become Philip’s new Asian ally.
He watched Aristotle and the eunuch for a few moments more and then turned away. “This sanctuary Alexander spoke of, it is truly not far?”

 

I
T TOOK
M
EMNON THE BETTER PART OF THE MORNING TO GATHER UP HIS
nephew, but still they were on the road before the sun reached its zenith. Their horses were restive and in high spirits; as they cleared the foothills, with the Emathian Plain stretching out before them, Memnon gave them their head. Muscle and sinew surged. Miles flashed by beneath the Nisaeans’ hooves. Hour piled upon hour until finally, after sunset, the pair reached the outskirts of Pella.

Lights blazed from the doors and windows of the villa. Memnon dismounted and held the reins as Cophen slid to the ground. The youth was exhausted, his face caked with dust and grime; he stared at the house as though it held his doom.

“Go,” Memnon said. “I’ll see to the horses.” Cophen nodded, swallowed hard, and limped into the villa’s courtyard. Leading the horses off, Memnon smiled as he heard one of the younger girls give a squeal of joy.

At the stables, the Rhodian kindled lamps and set about taking care of the horses. The ride had taxed even the Nisaeans’ considerable endurance. Euphrosyne’s head dipped as Memnon removed her sweat-drenched saddlecloth, her bridle and headstall. Aglaia’s came next. Thaleia, either curious or concerned, looked on as he washed and curried her sisters; she pawed the ground and snorted, doubtless expecting the same treatment.

Memnon turned slightly, hearing footsteps behind him.

“We have grooms for that,” Artabazus said. He stood in the stable door, smiling. Young Ariobarzanes followed in his father’s wake, balancing a tray with a dish of food, a wine jug, a pair of goblets, and a stone bowl of damp cloths. “Not a drop spilled. A fine lad; now set that down and run along.” Artabazus watched the boy off before settling onto a bench by the stable door. “Come, sit. Take some wine with me.”

Memnon left off currying the horses and sank down beside the old satrap. His body ached; his wet tunic clung to him, and he stank of sweat and horseflesh. The Rhodian selected a damp cloth, using it to wipe the dust from his face before attacking the food with gusto—grilled fish crusted with garlic and thyme, bread and oil, and a thick honey-cake. “I hope,” he said around a mouthful of fish, “Cophen’s punishment is not too extreme. I gave him a harrowing on the road he won’t soon forget.”

“So he told me,” Artabazus said, stroking his white beard.

Memnon glanced sidelong at him. “You know I would never actually hurt the boy?”

“Of course not. No, this whole escapade has left me wondering if I am too lax with my other sons. Pharnabazus I kept on a close leash, overseeing his education, his training at arms. But Cophen, Ariobarzanes, even Hydarnes … perhaps I am too old to do justice to their upbringing.”

“Too old?” Memnon said. “Never. Perhaps it is simply their Greek blood that makes them headstrong and cantankerous. Truly, were Mentor and I any different?”

Artabazus chuckled. “No, not really.”

Memnon polished off the food in silence, then leaned back, stretched his legs, and enjoyed a goblet of wine. He sniffed it, smelling a familiar bouquet.

“Thasian.”

“None better.”

“Everything’s set, then? We leave tomorrow?”

“Your man, Laertes, has assured me of favorable weather,” Artabazus said. “Pharnabazus has all our possessions loaded, save for the contents of a small wagon. He has also contracted a slower galley to bring the horses over next week or week after. We have made our farewells, offered our sacrifices, and cast our omens. At dawn, we again become Persians.”

Memnon sipped his wine. “Will you miss it here?”

Artabazus sighed. “I have asked myself the very same question. I have dwelt here for nigh on ten years but it has never been a home to me, not like Dascylium. With Philip’s blessing we have striven to make our surroundings comfortable, even pleasing to the eye, but these touches of Lydia and Phrygia are a mockery of our homeland’s beauty. The soil of Macedonia, I’ve found, is too thin to support the roots of a Pharnacid family tree. Perhaps my children would have been content to live here, but I cannot be content for them. The world is more than Macedonia, more than Greece, and they should experience it in its full glory.

“So should you, Memnon.” Artabazus slipped his arm in the Rhodian’s and pulled him close, like a man in possession of secret knowledge. “You have served our causes—mine and Mentor’s—for much of your adult life and never have I heard a cross word from you.”

“You weren’t listening,” Memnon said, a mischievous gleam in his eye.

Artabazus smiled. “Surely, this is not the pinnacle of your ambitions?”

Memnon’s brow furrowed as he stared out through the stable doors, contemplating the fireflies and trying to read their movements as an oracle reads the stars. “When I was younger,” he began, “I wanted glory, nothing more. I wanted my name to be sung by poets for a thousand years. But I grew older and, as is the way of things, my desires changed. I became enamored of honor—earned through deeds and words—and the respect it engendered. I admit the quest for each still moves me in its own way, nor shall I ever be wholly rid of their attraction, but a new desire consumes me.” He paused, hunching forward with his elbows on his knees. Wine swished as he stirred the lees in his goblet. “Now, I want a place like this, in country of my own choosing, and the wife and family that needs must go with it. A stone house with fretted screens, Artabazus, built on a flat plain by the sea where I can breed horses and still answer Poseidon’s call. In the Troad, perhaps, under the shadow of Mount Ida. And with it, a wife who embodies Aphrodite and Athena, who will give me children as bold and bright as infant Hermes.” Memnon sighed; slowly, he poured the last of his wine into the sawdust at his feet and stood. “That is the pinnacle of my ambitions.”

“An admirable picture you paint,” Artabazus said, rising. He caught Memnon by the forearm. “You know, if Barsine had a full sister …”

“I know.” Memnon exhaled and stared at the stables around them. “I’ll leave the rest to the grooms. Come, my old friend, the sun will be rising before we know it.”

“Indeed,” Artabazus murmured, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across his features. “And when it does we become Persian once again.”