Memnon (35 page)

Memnon drained his wine. “None I can recollect, but think nothing of it, good Hermeias. I would beg a favor of you, though. I have an errand I must run—one I have put off for far too long—and I should require a lantern to light my way.”

Both men stood. “That is an odd request,” Hermeias said. “What errand could draw you away so soon after your arrival, I wonder?”

“A family matter,” Memnon replied. “I must attend my father’s grave.”

The eunuch clicked his tongue against his teeth and nodded. “Of course. Assos does homage to all of its honored dead, without fail, but the reverence of a community cannot replace that of a son. Sthenelos, see our guest has whatever he needs. I will personally instruct Kritias to look for your return after dark. And now to business.” With a smile and a nod, Hermeias swept from the room.

Memnon’s own smile faded; his eyes hardened as he watched the eunuch’s departure.
Our business is only just beginning
…

 

B
EYOND THE
L
EKTON
G
ATE, THE DEAD WAITED IN DEEPENING SHADOW.
Statues decorated the tombs of the great and mighty—nude athletes frozen for all time in poses of victory, armored soldiers bidding their wives and mothers farewell, sailors watching the horizon from the prows of ships long since claimed by Lord Poseidon. Smaller monuments marked the graves of lesser men and of women, hung with grave wreaths or sprays of flowers woven with locks of mourners’ hair, their offering bowls empty and overturned. Their painted
steles
revealed something of the deceased’s personality. One depicted a man with his sons, and another, a woman at her dressing table combing her hair. A child played with his favorite ball for eternity while an elderly couple enjoyed their small stone garden. The dead waited, but they did not fret over their fates.

In the smoky yellow light of the lantern Memnon made his way to his father’s grave. Timocrates’
stele
captured his spirit perfectly. He stood on a plinth, declaiming to a sea of upturned faces. Though not the most elaborate monument in the necropolis, it was of exceptionally higher quality, wrought of Parian marble by the hands of the Athenian master Praxiteles.

Under the watchful eyes of sentries atop the Lekton Gate, Memnon knelt and placed the lantern on the ground beside him. He carried a basket prepared by Sthenelos for the occasion with everything he would need to pay homage to his father’s shade—a flask of oil and one of wine, a honey-cake, a new offering bowl, and a fresh wreath. He lifted the old wreath off the grave and put it aside, replacing it with the new, and did the same with the old chipped offering bowl. A cold wind fanned the flames of his lantern.

“Forgive me, Father, for my absence,” he said. “Long have I been away, toiling in lands not my own for causes unworthy of my efforts. Soon, perhaps, I can return you to your beloved Rhodes, where men would doubtless raise their voices in admiration of your deeds.” Memnon placed the honey-cake in the offering bowl. Next, he uncorked the oil flask and used its contents to anoint the
stele.
“May you be blessed in Hades’ realm, and if down there the good have merit, then may you be raised up to sit beside Hades’ dread and beautiful Queen.”

Finally, Memnon picked up the wine flask. “Do not think ill of me, Father, for straying so far from the path you had envisioned for me. Though I never became an Alcibiades or a Pericles, I am something those men never could be—a son of Timocrates. That honor is enough for me. May Zeus Savior and Helios watch over you.” He poured his libation into the dead grass at the base of the
stele.

Sighing, Memnon gathered up the old bowl and wreath and placed them in the basket. As he rose to his feet, however, a flash of movement out beyond the ring of his light caught his eye, an impression of silvery-gold hair. Memnon’s breath caught in his throat.
Did Hermeias send a spy?
He raised his lantern higher.

The light flickered on a man-high
stele
of yellowish marble.

“Zeus!” the Rhodian said, chuckling. “Now I’m jumping at shadows.” He gathered up the basket, waving to the sentries as he retraced his steps through the Lekton Gate and into the city. No doubt word of his every move had already made its way to Hermeias’s ears.

Memnon reached the palace near the end of the first watch, three hours after dusk, and was shown to his rooms by one of the eunuch’s household slaves. Tidy and well kept, the accommodations followed the philosopherking’s bias against excess—a sitting room with divans and a table, and a bedroom with a low mattress, bolsters, and thick furs. His travel chest sat in the corner, untouched.

In the sitting room, a fire roared on the hearth. Platters of food awaited sampling on the heavy oak table and a pitcher of mulled wine stood ready. Memnon, though, ignored these temptations. Nudging a divan closer to the hearth, he sat and removed the old grave wreath from the basket.

Memnon studied it by the light of the fire, his eyes narrowing. Its flowers were dry and crackling, bound together by a fillet of fine gray wool. He turned the wreath over in his hands, knowing exactly what he would find. On the underside, someone had stitched another scrap of wool over the first to form a pocket. It was recent work, and hastily done. Memnon plucked out the threads. From between the two pieces of fabric a tiny scrap of parchment fluttered to the floor. The Rhodian tossed the wreath into the fire, bent to retrieve the parchment. He could see it bore three words written in a strong hand:

All is ready.

Memnon exhaled. “You’re a good man, Omares,” he whispered. The Rhodian touched an end of the parchment to the fire and watched as it burned, then ground the ashes between his thumb and forefinger …

“By the dog of Hades, Memnon!” Aristonymus threw his hands up in exasperation. “How can you remove the eunuch if not by assassination? True, it will call for tense times and loss of life, but such things must be part and parcel of the Troad’s reunification.”

Memnon tapped his map of the region. “No. I reject your hypothesis. I believe I can return the Troad to the Persian fold without bloodshed. It’s going to require a bit more planning, a dash of creativity … and earning the eunuch’s trust.”

Aristonymus laughed. “Would you listen to yourself? You sound like a madman! If you think Hermeias’s trust is such an easy commodity to earn then you’ve obviously taken leave of your senses and should be bundled off to Sardis, and back to your brother, without delay!”

“I’m perfectly sane, cousin,” Memnon replied, smiling. “Perfectly sane and perfectly sure that I can not only earn Hermeias’s trust, but that I can earn it in the span of a single hour.”

Aristonymus’s laughter failed. He stared at the Rhodian’s smiling face, bereft of humor, and his eyes narrowed. Something about his kinsman’s vast reserve of confidence gave him pause. Was he privy to some mystery no other man could see? “An hour, you say? How?”

Memnon’s gaze returned to his map. “There is a man in Assos I’ve known since the days of Artabazus’s rebellion. He was one of Mentor’s officers and as good a man in a pinch as any I’ve met. In turn, this man knows dozens of others in the city who are in desperate straits, men of the former regime who have been persecuted and driven to the depths of poverty by the eunuch’s reign. I’m certain he can find the perfect pawn for this game we play.”

“What is the perfect pawn?”

“A man,” Memnon said, “who is both courageous and a fool.”

 

T
HE NEXT DAY, THE DAY OF THE
L
ENAEA, DAWNED CLOUDY AND COLD.
Memnon rose early to break his fast with Hermeias in the eunuch’s study, their conversation constantly interrupted by ministers clamoring for their king’s attention. It struck Memnon as odd that a self-professed philosopherking did not give more thought to the everyday problems of his rule, but Hermeias breezed through his affairs in a manner the Rhodian could only describe as informed neglect. If one of his ministers said he needed a
talent
of silver for some ridiculous purpose, the eunuch trusted the man at his word. Those who embraced the teachings of Socrates and Plato he considered beyond reproach, while the eunuch treated better men who espoused the causes of rival sophists as enemies of the state.

“For all that I admire Isocrates,” Hermeias said as they left the palace and made their way to the theater, “I would never give him leave to dwell in lands under my control. Can you imagine the mischief he would cause if he decided to unleash his literary arsenal on autocrats and tyrants?”

“A wise decision,” Memnon murmured. He and the eunuch walked side by side, trailed by courtiers and hangers-on, flanked by Kritias and the
Basileus’s
Guard. Not even an early morning rainstorm could dampen the enthusiasm of the crowd streaming into the theater. There was a carnival atmosphere despite the lowering sky, a cacophony of voices glad for the opportunity to pay homage to the god Dionysus. This year, a great part of that homage would be a comedic contest—five plays in the Attic mode enacted by some of the finest players in all of Hellas, including Thettalos of Athens and Nikos of Olynthus. One could hear musicians tuning their instruments in the orchestra as the throng, with their cushions and awnings and bags of food, found places to sit.

Five thousand souls packed into the tiered seats, citizens and foreign guests mostly, leavened with a handful of courtesans who flouted social customs by being seen with their favorites in public. The whole erupted in a thunderous ovation as Hermeias entered. He acknowledged them with a wave and took his place, his guards discreetly out of the way. Next came a parade of the gods, Dionysus in the lead; priests made sacrifices and read the omens, declaring it a blessed day.

As this was going on Memnon scanned the audience. Once or twice he thought he caught sight of Omares or his sons, though he could not be certain; regardless, he did nothing to draw attention to them. The faces around him were smiling and gay as the first play, a bawdy piece called
Lesbia
by Eupolis, got underway.
Which one?
Memnon wondered, staring at those nearest him.
Which one is my pawn?

“Nikos of Olynthus is an excellent Phaon, is he not?” Hermeias said, his lips barely moving. He gave the impression of rapt attention. “A rare find, though Eupolis bores me to tears.”

“Indeed,” Memnon replied. “I prefer tragedy to comedy on the stage.”

“As do I. Since we are both bored, perhaps you would share an anecdote,” the eunuch said. “Tell me how your brother earned the Great King’s gratitude.”

And so, in a voice barely rising above a whisper, Memnon related to Hermeias the story of Mentor’s conquest of Egypt. He had little need to embroider the tale, though he did add details of intrigue and slaughter that perhaps Khafre had been remiss in mentioning to him. In all, he made it last through Eupolis and well into Aristophanes’
Frogs.

“Extraordinary,” Hermeias said at the conclusion of Memnon’s tale. “He virtually rules western Asia, you say?”

“Not virtually. He
is
the commander of the Great King’s western armies and a Satrap of Satraps. We—Artabazus and I—were only pardoned by Ochus because Mentor wished it,” Memnon said. “Now, Mentor wishes to pardon other Greeks who once opposed the Persians and quietly move them into positions of authority.”

“To what end?”

Memnon watched the actors for a moment, listening as their lines gave way to the chorus’s final song. “Ochus is an old man. When he dies, Mentor’s afraid the Great King’s heirs will renege on their sire’s patronage. He seeks to guarantee himself a position in future regimes, be it through bribery, marriage, or threat of arms.”

Hermeias looked pensive, his scarred face grave. Memnon knew, though, that he had snared the eunuch with that last bit of fiction. An ally of Philip’s could not ask for a gift greater than news—reliable news, at that—of an exploitable rift in the Persian high command. It was as irresistible to him as an unbarred door to a thief. “A bold man, your brother,” he said. “Bold and not without foresight. No doubt many men along the Asian shore are eager to deal with him, and I know of at least one in Europe who would welcome a strong Greek ally on this side of the Hellespont.”