Memnon (41 page)

Phraates grinned. “Mistress!” he bellowed, vanishing into the heart of the house. “Come quickly! There is a man at the door with news!”

Moments later, Memnon heard Barsine’s voice: “What news?” No music could have been sweeter, not even if made by Aphrodite’s fingers plucking the enchanted lyre of Orpheus. Memnon sighed.

“Hurry, mistress!”

News was ever slow in reaching Ephesus from the Troad, despite the surfeit of ships that called on the port or the caravans from the interior that came to meet them. In a city of commerce and enterprise information was the most precious commodity. Thus, Barsine discarded dignity and sped to the door, her eagerness tempered with dread—not all news was of a pleasant nature. “Have you word of my husband?” She rounded the corner, her eyes wide with anticipation.

“Indeed I do,” Memnon replied.

With a shout of joy Barsine sprang into his arms. “Oh, you cruel man! You cruel and heartless man!” The Rhodian caught her and spun her around. Both laughed like children, decency and decorum sloughing away as they kissed and laughed some more. Old Phraates wiped a tear from his eye and went to spread the good word: the master of the house had returned.

That night, fireflies danced through the garden, their glow competing with the lights of Ephesus burning in the valley below Mount Coressus and with the stars blazing overhead. Sounds of merriment drifted from the house as Khafre regaled the household with the story of Queen Nitocris’s cats, each comedic turn accompanied by the squealing laughter of the girls, Apame and Artonis.

Memnon cocked his head, smiling at the sound. On the bench beside him, Barsine stirred. “They love Khafre’s tales,” she murmured.

“He has that magical touch,” Memnon said. “In Egypt, I expected at every turn to encounter talking cats because of his stories. It disappointed me when they did nothing but yowl and demand attention.”

Barsine traced the line of his jaw with her fingertips. “When will it be safe to return north? The girls miss their horse trails so.”

“Hopefully soon.” Memnon caught her hand and kissed each fingertip. “Have you missed Adramyttium?”

Barsine rested her head on his shoulder. “I have missed the quiet. Ephesus has its … charms, but it has too much bustle and its politicians declaim too loudly for my tastes. I fear your Penelope has become a country girl.”

He kissed her forehead. “As soon as the Macedonians pull back across the Straits we’ll return to Adramyttium. I’ve missed the quiet, too.”

“Will they? Pull back, I mean?”

Memnon sighed and did not answer.

“You do not believe they will, do you?” Barsine read his thoughts. “Even though you have broken their spirit, shattered their army? What purpose could it serve them to remain?”

“A temporary setback to Philip’s plan is the only triumph I can claim,” Memnon said. “He’ll mend their hurt by bringing a new army. I’ve purposefully left open a route to Asia in hopes it will draw him in. Once that happens, our best option will be to crush Philip decisively, on ground of my own choosing.”

“Be careful, my love,” she replied.

Memnon ran his fingers through her hair; gently, scarred hands cupped Barsine’s face and drew her close. “Say it again,” he whispered, his lips brushing hers.

She laced her arms around his neck, caressing the muscles of his back and shoulders. “My love.”

She gasped as Memnon swept her up and carried her deeper into the garden, where none but the fireflies and the stars could witness their lovemaking.

Summer in Ephesus lacked the tedium, the monotony of the Troad. Memnon filled his days with the business of war, from reviewing Thymondas’s mercenary recruits to haggling with bronzesmiths over the price of shield facings, greaves, and helmets. His nights belonged to his family, to his niece and daughter, and especially to Barsine.

On such a night, a month after his return, a fist hammering at the front door shattered the evening calm; a familiar voice yelled Memnon’s name above the staccato pounding.

“Merciful Zeus!” the Rhodian said, rising from bed and pulling on a tunic. “What is Pharnabazus doing here?” Barsine reached for her robe. Her hands shook, and a sudden feeling of despair knotted her stomach. She followed Memnon out into the courtyard. Khafre, too, joined them, as well as Phraates and his fellow
kardakes.

Two of the soldiers helped Pharnabazus as he staggered into the courtyard. The Persian looked disheveled, caked in the dust of his hurried flight south. Memnon caught him as he tried to stand.

“Uncle!” he gasped.

“Barsine! Fetch water! Khafre, check him for wounds!” Carefully, Memnon eased his nephew down near the fountain at the center of the courtyard. Unbidden, Phraates brought a lamp closer as Khafre knelt and ran his hands over Pharnabazus.

“I … I am not wounded, Uncle!”

Barsine brought a pitcher and filled a clay cup. Water sloshed as Pharnabazus snatched it from her and gulped it down, spluttering and choking. “Not so fast, brother,” she said. A second cup blunted his thirst.

“What goes, Pharnabazus?” Memnon asked, his face a mask of concern.

“It’s Philip!”

“Has he crossed into Asia?”

The Persian shook his head. “He’s dead, Memnon! Assassinated by a man from his own guard!” Stunned silence followed. “I rode as fast as I could to bring you the news.”

Memnon exchanged glances with Barsine; Khafre clutched a scarab amulet hanging around his neck, his lips moving in silent prayer. The
kardakes
in earshot blinked, unsure if they should credit what they had just heard. Philip? Dead?

“A man of his own guard did it, you say?” The Rhodian rocked back on his heels. “Who paid him, I wonder?”

“It was Pausanias,” Pharnabazus said. “Do you remember him? An Orestid; he was one of Philip’s former lovers.”

“I remember him,” Memnon said, though he could scarce believe that the man had nursed a grudge against Philip for nine years. What had caused him to exact vengeance now? Memnon noted the confused expressions on Barsine and Khafre’s faces. “Pausanias insulted the King’s new lover,” he explained, “causing the lad to get himself killed against the Illyrians—this would have been the year I returned from Sidon. The lad’s kin, with the King’s blessing, got their revenge on Pausanias by getting him drunk and handing him over to the stable hands. As a gesture of reconciliation, Philip promoted him to his guard. Pausanias obviously never forgave the slight. How did it happen?”

“As I heard it, Philip was preparing to enter the theater at Aigai, part of the celebration of his daughter’s marriage to the king of Epirus. Philip planned to go in alone, to show his Greek guests he had nothing to fear from his own people. Pausanias approached, made to embrace the King, and put a dagger through his heart, instead. He tried to escape, but soldiers of Alexander’s entourage killed him before he could get far.”

“Or before he could be questioned.”

Pharnabazus raised an eyebrow.

“Come, nine years is a bit long to nurse a grudge, don’t you think?” Memnon said. “Someone had to put Pausanias up to it. If not Alexander, then likely it was Olympias. The queen has ever hated her husband.”

“No matter. Alexander rules Macedonia now,” Pharnabazus said.

“We’ll send word to Artabazus, to the Great King, and continue with our own preparations.”

“Preparations for what? Philip’s dead, so too his crusade against Persia. Parmenion has withdrawn from Asia, leaving his deputy, Calas, in charge of the few troops that remain. We should sweep them into the Straits and celebrate our victory, Uncle.” Pharnabazus smiled through the dust.

Memnon stood. Seeing the grim look on his face, Barsine felt the knot in her stomach tighten. “Nothing’s changed,” he said. “Alexander will come in Philip’s stead, with Philip’s generals and Philip’s army. We’ve earned a respite, perhaps, but that’s all. Only celebrate when your enemies are dead, Pharnabazus.
All
your enemies.”

20

 

N
O SOONER HAD
P
HILIP BEEN LAID TO REST THAN THE FIRST RIPPLES
of discontent began, spreading outward from the cultural epicenter of Athens. Even as the Greeks did homage to Alexander, they whispered against him. “A mere Margites,” sneered the orator, Demosthenes, recalling the Homeric buffoon who lacked the intellect to count beyond ten. Alexander ignored them; he went about securing his borders in preparation for his march to Asia.

A year of Demosthenes’ rhetoric stoked mere discontent into fiery, full-blown defiance. Thebes struck the first blow. Supported by Athenian weapons and money, and with promises of aid from Sparta, the Thebans threw off the Macedonian yoke, laid siege to the garrison inside the fortified acropolis, the Cadmeia, and slaughtered those citizens whose sympathies were with the King. News of the uprising reached Alexander in Illyria, where he campaigned against the tribes of the Apsus Valley. Though only twenty-one, Alexander responded with the ferocity of a seasoned monarch.

He razed Thebes.

Perhaps Alexander meant it as a warning to the Greeks, or perhaps to illustrate the lengths to which he would go to punish those who flouted his will. Regardless, a city that had stood for centuries, a city celebrated in song and poetry, ceased to exist after only a few days of fighting. Six thousand men were massacred; their women and children sold into slavery. Twenty thousand Thebans, Memnon heard later, had glutted slave markets as far away as Egypt.

“Yet,” Memnon said, “he proclaims it’s his intent to bring freedom to the Greeks of Asia and avenge Persia’s past invasions of Hellas.” Along with the sons of Artabazus—Pharnabazus, Cophen, Ariobarzanes, and young Hydarnes—Memnon rode across the ridges of Mount Ida and into the valley of the Aisopus River at the head of three thousand cavalry, mounted
kardakes
and mercenaries. Omares with five thousand Greek mercenary infantry followed in their wake. They were bound for Zeleia at the behest of the western satraps, to attend an assembly of war.

“Alexander is a hypocrite!” Pharnabazus snarled. “Mark my words, brothers—he will kill more Hellenes on his own than any Persian in history!”

“We should send an embassy to Pella,” Cophen said. The twenty-three-year-old half-Persian chewed his lip, his dark brows furrowed in thought. Unlike his brothers, Cophen was clean-shaven, a Greek affectation frowned upon among the Persians. “Perhaps there’s a diplomatic solution we’ve overlooked.”

“An embassy?” Ariobarzanes twisted in the saddle, staring at his brother with a mix of shock and contempt. Though only nineteen, Ariobarzanes towered over the others—he had Deidamia’s height, Artabazus’s sharp features, and Mentor’s thick shoulders and corded muscle. Even lanky Hydarnes, two years Ariobarzanes’ junior, derided Cophen’s comment, snorting under his breath.

Pharnabazus shook his head. “The time for talk is past, Cophen. We go to fight, and if you have not got the stomach for it, you had best tell us now.”

“I’m no coward!” Cophen snapped.

“No?”

“No,” Memnon said sharply. “But he is in a delicate situation.”

Relief flooded Cophen’s face. Beside him, Ariobarzanes frowned. “How so?”

The Rhodian glanced back. “He’s Alexander’s guest-friend.”

“A silly boys’ pact,” Pharnabazus said.

“It is nothing of the sort,” Memnon replied, his tone chiding. “He is a prince of Pharnacid blood who pledged friendship to the son of a Macedonian king. They were too young, perhaps, but it was rightly done. Though now, Cophen, you’re also a soldier of the Great King, and the Great King has ordered us to stop Alexander. To do otherwise is to betray your oath to Darius. So, which do you break? Your word to Alexander, sworn before the gods, to always act in friendship, or your word to the Great King, also sworn before the gods, to serve him to the best of your ability? A delicate situation, to be sure.”

“I do not envy you,” Hydarnes muttered.

“Who would the rest of you choose were you in my place?”

“The Great King,” Ariobarzanes said without delay. “He is our kinsman, our blood.”

“I would never have befriended that little peacock in the first place, but I agree with Ari,” Pharnabazus said. “What’s more, Alexander owed it to you, too, to not act in an unfriendly manner. In my mind, he broke the bond the moment he declared war on your kinsman.”

“Hydarnes?” Memnon looked back at him. “Speak up. What say you on this matter?”

The teen blushed at being singled out. “I would hold my oath to the Great King above my friendship with Alexander,” he replied. “If for no reason beyond Father and Mother’s sake. We are beholden to them to act in a forthright manner. Should we not, their lives would be forfeit.”

Memnon nodded.

Cophen listened, his head cocked to one side, absorbing his brothers’ opinions. “What about you, Uncle?”

Memnon did not answer immediately. His brow furrowed as he turned the question over in his mind, examining it from every angle. His silence stretched into minutes.

“Uncle?”

“I would fight,” Memnon replied, at length. “And here’s my reasoning: you’ve befriended Alexander, not the whole of Macedonia. Therefore, you’re under no compulsion to avoid battle against the followers of Alexander, only against Alexander in person. It is simple, really. Keep clear of his path and fight with all your heart. That way, you will have kept both your oaths—to your friend and to your King.”

The brothers nodded in unison.

“My thanks,” Cophen said. “You’ve made clear my obligations. I will fight.”

Pharnabazus wiped his brow in mock seriousness. “I, for one, am relieved, brothers. We should tell the men. It will ease their concerns …”

Laughter erupted; even Memnon grinned, shaking his head at the eldest of Artabazus’s sons. Cophen took their ribbing in stride. “None of us will fight if we don’t pick up the pace.” He spurred his horse to a canter.

Memnon’s forces reached the shaded vale of Zeleia late the next day. The small hamlet had changed little since Artabazus ruled the region. A few more buildings, perhaps, but still rustic by comparison with the towns of the Aegean coast. More impressive was the second city that ringed Zeleia, a city of tents and pavilions crawling up the sides of the valley from both banks of the Aisopus. Cook fires and forges spewed smoke into the cloud-laced sky; shouts in half a dozen tongues competed with the clamor of ironworkers and the bellow of oxen. Battalions of levies drilled in open fields, farmers given spears and told how to march by a cadre of grizzled old soldiers. Squads of cavalry, Hyrkanians in fur-trimmed helmets or turbaned Medes, cantered past on reconnaissance duty.

“How many men do you estimate the satraps have gathered?” Pharnabazus asked.

“Thirty or forty thousand,” Memnon replied. “But only a fraction of them are soldiers. The rest are an armed rabble.”

Memnon signaled a halt as a mounted Persian officer in a jacket of brilliant green, shimmering with gold embroidery, met them on the road. He reined in and raised a manicured hand in greeting. “Memnon of Rhodes? Lord Arsites bids you welcome. I am Niphates and I have been instructed to show you to your camp site.”

“Greetings, Niphates,” Memnon said, bowing at the waist.

“Lord Arsites also bid me remind you that the council of war begins the third hour after dawn tomorrow.”

“I would speak with him tonight.”

“Alas, that is not possible,” Niphates said. “Lord Arsites is closeted with his brother satraps, and they have commanded that no one disturb them. They will speak with you tomorrow, sir.”

“Which satraps, good Niphates?” Memnon felt the initial sting of exclusion turn to suspicion.

“The lords Spithridates and Rhosaces,” Niphates said. “Arsamenes of Cilicia, Mithrobarzanes of Cappadocia, and Rheomithres of Greater Phrygia. If you will follow me, sir?”

Memnon gestured for him to lead the way and followed with his troops.

“A rogue’s gallery,” Pharnabazus muttered, in Greek. “And we arrived just in time, I think.”

“I don’t believe they would have summoned us at all,” Memnon said, “if not for your father’s influence with the Great King.”

“Will this council be a waste of time, you think? If they have already decided on a plan of action …”

Memnon shrugged. “I doubt it. They will drink tonight and dicker tomorrow, each man jockeying for the most advantageous position. For myself, I will say and do what is best for the kingdom, no matter how uncomfortable it makes our hosts. We’re all fighting for the common good, after all.”

Pharnabazus nodded to their guide. “Let us hope they realize that, as well.”

Niphates escorted them to a dusty field close to a mile down river from Zeleia. Crude tents already clogged a portion of the field. Tribal levies, Memnon reckoned, noting their rough homespun tunics and leather leggings, men of the river valleys and hollows of the Phrygian interior. Curious eyes watched as glittering ranks of Greek infantry filed onto the field. Memnon ignored the implied insult that came from billeting his men at the ass-end of the army and bid Niphates farewell.

“Send my compliments to Lord Arsites,” he said, smiling as the smug Persian trotted off. When Memnon turned back to the sons of Artabazus, his eyes were as cold and hard as flint. “Ari, find who commands these levies and ask them to join me. Pharnabazus, we will share our food with them, our wine. Instruct the men to fan out and get to know our neighbors. I want them to be our allies by dawn.”

He would show these satraps how well he could play their political games.

 

B
Y THE SECOND HOUR AFTER DAWN
, M
EMNON’S OFFICERS HAD THE
P
HRYGIAN
levies on the drill field, inculcating in them the necessary skills to fight a Macedonian phalanx. They were light troops—javelineers and slingers mixed with a few hundred archers. Omares made new battalions out of them, assigning animal totems they would recognize from their homeland: fox, lion, and bear. While he taught them flank and cover, augmenting the Phrygians’ already prodigious skill at hit-and-run, their headman, Bocchus, stood off to one side, grinning in approval.

Leaving orders for a day of merciless exercise, Memnon and Pharnabazus took their horses and cantered up the Aisopus to Zeleia. Both men cut striking figures, grim-faced and armored in glittering bronze with gold and silver ornaments. Beneath his armor, Memnon wore the plain
chiton
and leather kilt of a Greek soldier; Pharnabazus opted for the richly worked tunic and trousers of a Persian lord.

The castle of Zeleia, with its tall turrets and ancient stables, bustled with activity as servants scurried to do their lord’s bidding. Arsites had commandeered every inch of space, evicting the town’s ruler and his family so he might have extra room for courtiers, kinsmen, soothsayers, and musicians. Graciously, he offered shelter his brother satraps Arsamenes and Mithrobarzanes who did not have palaces nearby, their personal entourages adding to the swirling chaos.

Niphates met them in the crowded castle yard. “I trust you slept well, sir?”

Memnon and Pharnabazus dismounted and passed their reins to a pair of grooms. “Exceptionally well, good Niphates,” Memnon replied through a mask of politesse. A hint of mockery clung to the Persian as he gestured for them to follow.

Their path took them through the heart of the castle and out onto a stone-paved terrace overlooking the Aisopus River. At its center, slender columns carved of local hardwood supported a loggia, its roof tiled in slate and terracotta. In true Median fashion, gardeners had positioned pots of fragrant shrubs and flowers around the loggia; divans awaited their repose while servants and wine stewards stood close at hand, ready to answer the satraps’ needs. Under the loggia, a map table awaited their perusal.

Memnon spotted the gaunt form of Spithridates reclining on a divan, his eyes serpentine and his beard peppered with gray; his brother Rhosaces and other high-ranking officials, perhaps a dozen men altogether, clustered around him, laughing and chatting amiably.

“Is this a council of war or a garden party?” Pharnabazus muttered.

Niphates announced them. “My lords, Memnon the Rhodian and Pharnabazus, son of Artabazus.”

Heads swiveled.

“My lords,” Memnon said. He and Pharnabazus sketched slight bows, a minor obeisance reserved for perceived equals. After a pause conversation resumed; Memnon and his nephew exchanged glances. They were to be ignored, it seemed. But two men detached themselves from the rest and approached Memnon. One was tall and well muscled, perhaps thirty, with jet-black hair and beard. His companion was older by twenty years, at least, with the expansive girth of a man accustomed to rich foods and wines. His flushed face, all wattles and jowls beneath an unruly beard, bore scars of debauchery rather than battle.

“You are the brother of Mentor?” the younger man asked.

“I am.”

“It saddened me to hear of his passing. I am Arsamenes. This is my uncle, Mithrobarzanes.”

“Rhodian,” the fat Persian burbled.