Memnon (37 page)

“Wait!” the Chief Eunuch squealed, rising and scattering the maids. “The mistress is taking her rest!”

“Then lower your voice so you don’t disturb her,” Memnon replied. Unperturbed, the Rhodian entered Barsine’s rooms, closing the door in the Chief Eunuch’s face. Lamps of silver filigree revealed a suite spacious enough for a large family. Rugs cushioned a floor of patterned marble, muffling Memnon’s footfalls as he traversed a central hallway that ended in a small fountain court still aglow with the last light of day. He peered into sitting rooms and changing rooms, rooms for bathing and rooms for sleeping, all empty. As he neared the courtyard, its cool shadows scented with lilies and jasmine, he heard faint sounds of whimpering.

Outside, Barsine slept on a divan near the softly trickling fountain. Her fingers knotted in a shawl draped across her upper arms. Memnon placed the basket on the ground and knelt by her side. Loose, her dark hair pillowed her head. Delicate brows were drawn together, troubled, her features as pale as alabaster. Morpheus, god of dreams, had her in his clutches.

“No,” she muttered in Persian, barely audible. “Wait … come back.” Her fingers convulsed.

Memnon placed his hand over hers. “Barsine,” he said, softly so as not to startle her into wakefulness. A dreamer had to return gradually or else run the risk of being separated from their
daimon.
“Barsine.”

“No!” She gasped; her eyes, moist with tears, fluttered open as her hands locked on Memnon’s. Barsine glanced around, frantic. “Where is he?”

“Who? There’s no one else here.”

“Memnon?” She flung her arms around his neck. He could feel tremors running through her. “Memnon! Thank the gods!”

“It was just a nightmare,” he said, stroking her hair. “You’re safe now.”

“It … It seemed so real. I was trapped in a labyrinth of the kind Daedalus had crafted for his patron, King Minos of Crete,” she said.

“Were you being chased by the Minotaur?”

“No.” She released him and pushed her hair from her eyes, wiping away the tears with the heel of her hand. “I was the pursuer. A man ran from me, though not from fear. He taunted me, pausing to let me get close before sprinting off, again. He had something I needed to retrieve, something whose loss left me aching with sorrow, though I have no clear memory of what it was. I ran faster and faster still, my heart pounding against my ribs like a blacksmith’s hammer. The gap between us narrowed with each step. But, as I came within arm’s reach, I woke.” Barsine settled back on the divan, hugging her shawl to her chest. She smiled. “Listen to me. Rambling on like mad Cassandra. I am pleased you have returned from the Troad unscathed.”

“And I am glad you’ve emerged from the realm of Morpheus unharmed,” Memnon said, returning her smile. “This dream-figure, did you recognize him?”

She shook her head. “I saw his face but for a moment, and that moment was enough.”

“That hideous, eh? Perhaps you did see the Minotaur.”

“No,” she replied, “he was that heartbreakingly beautiful. It was as if I looked upon the model for Praxiteles’
Apollo.
His hair and beard were a silvery-gold and he seemed to glow with a divine light … what is it, Memnon?” Color drained from the Rhodian’s face; for a moment, the old scar on his right shoulder pulsed and burned. “Memnon?”

“I think I’ve seen the very man you describe,” he said, “though not in a dream.”

She bolted upright. “When? Here in Sardis?”

Memnon rocked back on his heels. “Years ago. In the Macestus Valley, before we were forced from Dascylium.” And Barsine listened, enraptured, as Memnon told the tale. Twilight deepened. Stars flickered in the heavens. Over the trickle of the fountain, night creatures chirped and trilled. Light spilled out into the courtyard; inside, Barsine’s maids went about their nightly duties while the Chief Eunuch spied on the two figures near the fountain …

Memnon exhaled. “I have never spoken of that night to another, not to Mentor, not even to Khafre. Perhaps he was but a figment of my imagination, an illusion borne of trauma.”

“If that is true, how does he come to my dream?” Barsine said. She sat with her knees drawn up under her, her fingers worrying the fringe of her shawl. “What if he is a messenger of the gods?” Suddenly, Barsine began to cry. She cradled her face in her hands, her shoulders wracked by spasms.

“Come, now,” Memnon said. “There’s no need for tears. You’re safe.” He rose and sat alongside her, pulling her into an embrace. Her anguish made him regret sharing the story with her. “Everything’s fine, Barsine.”

“You do not understand,” she sobbed. “If … if he is a messenger, what message did he bear for me? He did not speak save to urge me on, to taunt me. He stole something from me … something precious …” She looked up, her eyes shining with tears. “I am with child, Memnon. Is this an omen that I will not bear the infant to full term?”

Memnon blinked, taken aback. “You’re … with child?” Barsine’s head bobbed in assent. The Rhodian’s mind whirled. Though not unexpected in and of itself, the revelation coupled with Barsine’s dream left Memnon virtually dumb with shock. “Does Mentor know?”

She wiped her eyes again. “I only became sure of it myself a few days ago. I will tell him soon, though I doubt the need if my dream rings true and the gods plan to steal this child from me.” Barsine’s rubbed her palms across her belly, offering a silent benediction.

“No, you must tell him,” Memnon said. He smiled, and then laughed. “He would never admit it, but my brother’s hope is to have a large family, large enough to rival your father’s. You must tell him, Barsine, and soon.”

“But my dream …?”

“I can’t explain the similarities, but not every dream is an omen of things to come. Some are simply dreams.” He rose and gently helped her to her feet. “I can promise you this, though. Man or god, anyone seeking to harm that child will answer to the sons of Timocrates! By Zeus Savior and Helios, I swear it!”

 

M
ENTOR REACTED TO THE NEWS OF
B
ARSINE’S PREGNANCY WITH UNACCUS
tomed solemnity. He summoned priests, both Persian and Greek, to take the omens and offer sacrifices to Hera and Anahita. He brought a Lydian wise-woman into the palace to propitiate the local spirits with chants and clouds of sweet incense. At Memnon’s urging, Mentor appointed Khafre to be Barsine’s chief physician; after the Egyptian announced that she and the baby were both in good health, Mentor dispatched couriers east, along the Royal Road. In a fortnight, it was common knowledge in the streets of Babylon that a Pharnacid princess was with child.

All the while preparations for war continued apace. Through Thymondas’s efforts, mercenaries filtered in from mainland Greece, first to Pharnabazus at Ephesus and thence into camps in the Hermus Valley. Summer waned. Before the first frosts of autumn, word reached Sardis of the death of the Carian satrap, Idrieus. Seizing the opportunity to rid himself of the threat of petty dynasts, Mentor—backed by five thousand mercenary hoplites and a thousand mounted
kardakes
—descended on Halicarnassus, capturing Idrieus’s younger brother and self-styled heir, Pixodarus, at unawares. In the aftermath, he confirmed their older sister, Ada, as satrap and left a Persian garrison behind to insure her loyalty.

Mentor returned to Sardis to find his pregnant wife bedridden. “Khafre’s orders,” Memnon explained. “Something about an imbalance in her humors and her body’s desire to expel the child too early.”

“Is she in any danger?”

Memnon shrugged. “Who’s to say? Giving birth is deadly business, brother, even under the best of circumstances. But, if anyone can lessen the danger, I trust it to be Khafre.”

Memnon visited her daily, bringing scrolls to read to keep her spirits up; as the affairs of state allowed, Mentor would drop in on her, and the three of them would spend hours locked in conversation until Khafre or weariness drove them away.

Autumn drew to a close and winter’s cold north wind whistled over the bare rocks of the Tmolus range. It was on a day of pale sunshine, though, that a messenger came west along the Royal Road—a messenger from Babylon.

Memnon found his brother in the silent Apadana, wrapped in his cloak and sitting next to a crackling brazier. His chin on his fist, he tapped a roll of parchment against his thigh as he stared into the brazier’s smoldering depths. “We’ve buggered ourselves,” he said as Memnon drew near. “The bastard begins to think the impossible is commonplace where we’re concerned.”

“What is it?”

“Ochus’s newest edict.” Mentor held the parchment up; Memnon could tell he fought hard the urge to hurl it onto the coals. “Artabazus has finally convinced him of the threat Philip represents. To counter him, the King wants the Aegean islands returned to the Persian fold. He wants sixty ships brought north from Cyprus, and he wants them in place
before
sailing season begins!”

“A winter campaign I can understand, but a winter campaign at sea? Is he mad?”

“No, just an old fool! I guarantee you it was Bagoas who put this idea in his head! That eunuch bastard has hated me since I saved him from his own stupidity in Egypt and this is his way of settling the score! I would stake my life on it!”

“It seems that’s his intent,” Memnon said. “What will you do?”

“My duty, of course! I’ll bring his ships into the Aegean, Bagoas and the north wind be damned!”

Memnon shook his head. “Send me.”

“You would seize all the glory for yourself?” Mentor growled.

“Glory? You’re an idiot if you think glory’s my concern! No, brother. You’re many things—a peerless tactician, a brilliant strategist—but you’re no idiot and you’re no sailor. You never were. How often have you lectured me to choose the proper tool for the proper task? For this task, I am that tool. Besides,” Memnon said, his voice softening, “you should be here for the birth of your child, in case there are any complications.”

Mentor squinted at his younger brother. He scratched at the back of his neck, rubbed his bare scalp as he mulled over Memnon’s logic. “Damn you and your slick sophistry!”

“Then it’s settled?”

Mentor sank back in his chair. “Aye, it’s settled. Leave quickly, before this mild weather breaks. A messenger should reach Salamis well before you, so your arrival won’t be unexpected. Take command of two trireme squadrons—thirty from the Cypriots and thirty from the Tyrians—and return north. I’ll see that you have the required documents as well as sufficient funds before you leave.”

“And the campaign?”

“If you survive the voyage north,” Mentor said, his eyes narrowing, “wage the campaign as you see fit.” Memnon nodded and made to turn away, but his brother’s hand on his forearm stopped him. It was obvious by Mentor’s expression that relinquishing the responsibility for such a dangerous task pained him; still, he forced a smile. “Don’t do anything reckless, Memnon. I’d hate for my children to grow up without their favorite Rhodian uncle.”

Memnon returned the grip on his forearm. “Don’t worry, brother. I’ll be a paragon of caution.”

18

 

“H
ARD TO PORT!”

From the fighting deck of his Tyrian flagship
Astarte,
Memnon shouted orders to his crew. He clutched the railing as the trireme slewed about, brushing alongside an enemy ship whose oars splintered under a glancing blow of
Astarte
‘s bronze ram. Men screamed; grapnels crunched into the wood of the crippled vessel, while sailors brandishing axes struggled to hew the ropes tethering both ships together. Archers exchanged volleys, the higher deck of the Tyrian giving Memnon’s Persians a slight advantage. Javelineers hurled their darts. From behind his shield, Memnon shouted for his rowers to drop their oars and seize the grapnel lines. Sailors scurried to do his bidding. They ignored the withering barrage of arrows and pulled in unison, with all their might.

Slowly, the two hulls met with a sinister
choonk.

“Marines!” Memnon bellowed. Greek and Phoenician soldiers in bronze breastplates and open-faced helmets, armed with axes and boarding pikes, boiled over
Astarte’s
outrigger. Enemy archers redoubled their effort, filling the air with the whistle and hiss of greased iron-heads. Arrows ripped through the close ranks of the marines, killing many outright, in mid-leap, their bodies falling to foul the deck of the enemy ship below.

From his position high in the stern of
Astarte,
Memnon caught sight of the enemy captain, a bearded man of Chios in bronze and leather armed with a heavy-bladed saber. He exhorted his archers, offering them a
drachma
for every one of Memnon’s men they killed.

The Rhodian cursed. He wrenched a javelin from the deck near his feet, twisted, and slung the weapon with uncanny accuracy. It struck the Chian captain in the collarbone, transfixing his body at a downward angle. The man staggered, spewing blood into his beard; a pair of Persian arrows finished him off. He went over the side, vanishing beneath the reddening waters of Chios Harbor …

 

S
MOKE FROM BURNING HULKS DRIFTED OVER THE CITY, OBSCURING THE
face of the late-morning sun. A carpet of flotsam clogged the bloodstained waters of the harbor: splintered oars, deck planking, tholepins, scraps of charred rigging, bilge buckets—and the arrow-riddled corpses of Chian sailors and marines. A rower’s bench bobbed in the wrack like a child’s cork, the body draped across it long since bled dry. A great wailing arose from women onshore as triangular fins churned the water into a bloody froth.

In a little more than an hour, Memnon’s fleet had sent the cream of the Chian navy to the bottom of the harbor in an attack so swift that most of the enemy captains were unable even to cut their mooring cables. Tyrian and Cypriot rams holed them while still tied to the docks, smashing broadside or astern then backing water and moving to the next. Those that got underway had their oarsmen and tiller crews targeted by archers or were set ablaze by marines wielding crocks of flaming pitch. A single ship had run their blockade and made it to open sea.

Memnon, surveying the ruin from the deck of
Astarte,
felt little remorse for the Chians. He had given the island a chance to surrender under the same terms embraced by the rulers of neighboring Cos and Rhodes. The democrats on Chios, though, had refused, banking on the hollow promises of that Athenian rabble-rouser Chares, who swore his own fleet would aid them in their rebellion against the Great King’s minions.

“Where’s your savior now?” Memnon said, turning to face the deputation of city officials who had come to beg his mercy. “Are those Chares’ ships we sent to the harbor bottom? Are those the bodies of Chares’ men the sharks are defiling? Where is he, gentlemen? Don’t you know? Well, let me enlighten you—Chares is sitting warm and dry in Mytilene because it offends his Athenian sensibilities to put to sea before spring is properly underway!”

“Everything you say is true, my lord,” their spokesman said with a grave humility Memnon found suspect. “We were fools to have believed the words of a man such as he. We understand that now and beg your—and the Great King’s—forgiveness.”

“You must think me a fool as well.”

“What?” the spokesman stammered. “No, my lord! No!”

“You must,” Memnon said, his eyes narrowing. “Why else would you ask me now to grant Chios the same terms as those offered to Rhodes and to Cos? You Chians had your chance for a peaceful settlement but you refused! Why should I show you leniency?”

“We … we were led astray, my lord! We—”

Memnon silenced him. He walked to
Astarte
‘s railing, lost in thought. Absently, he watched as Autophradates, who commanded his Cypriot squadron, deployed marines along Chios’s long mole in anticipation of the city’s occupation. Their weapons and armor glittered in the pale spring sun.

“Rhodes and Cos both capitulated without bloodshed,” Memnon said. In each instance, too, the act of leniency had cost him nothing but brought about great dividends. Cos provided him with sailors and stores to replenish those lost on the voyage from Cyprus. Rhodes opened their shipyards to him and had even given him a hero’s welcome worthy of one of the island’s long-lost sons.

The old oligarch Philolaus,
Memnon wrote to Barsine in the days after the subjugation of Rhodes,
did not long survive his coup, they told me. Queen Artemisia, widow of his Carian benefactor Mausolus, put him to death in the very same year as our flight to Macedonia. That I did not learn of this sooner speaks to my profound dislike of the island and my long-standing refusal to set foot on it; still, I’ve buried my animosity. It is high time Mentor and I returned our father’s bones to the soil for which he died
…

In the end, he treated both states fairly, expelling their Carian garrisons and instituting moderate pro-Persian oligarchies in place of harsh governors. But, with staunchly democratic Chios eager to avoid the Persian yoke by war or wiles, leniency would likely come at great cost and offer little in return.

“There will be no terms,” Memnon said suddenly, turning to face the startled envoys. His eyes were cold and hard as he indicated the troops onshore. “Chios surrenders unconditionally or I order its destruction.”

The men of the deputation—stolid democrats, merchants, and members of the old aristocracy—exchanged glances. One by one, they nodded to their spokesman. It required no great intellect to divine their plot. They would agree to anything Memnon demanded now; later, when his back was turned, they would renege and plead to Athens for aid. “Chios surrenders, my lord,” the spokesman said.

Memnon smiled. They would not find him an easy mark. “I accept Chios’s surrender,” he said. “And to insure your complete cooperation and continued goodwill, I require hostages. The eldest sons of all the island’s leading men should do …”

 

C
HIOS PAID A HEAVY PRICE FOR ITS FOLLY.
N
OT ONLY WERE THE HEIRS OF
its greatest families—from toddlers to men in their fifties—herded onto a ship and sent to Ephesus, thence overland to Sardis and beyond, but many of the island’s most outspoken democrats faced execution or exile. Memnon established an oligarchy backed by a garrison and levied a crushing tax designed to make other enclaves of wealth and prosperity think again before challenging his will. He sailed away confidant he had emasculated any plans Chios might have had to rise against him.

News was slow in reaching the fleet in the Aegean, but Memnon received the very best news at Erythrae on the Ionian coast at the beginning of summer, borne by Pharnabazus: two months prior, in early Elaphebolion, Barsine had given birth to a healthy little girl.

“And how’s the mother?”

Pharnabazus smiled. “She had fully recovered by the time you stormed Chios. And you should know … she now swears by Khafre and refuses to let him leave her service, and woe to any who try to take him from her!”

“Staying put will be good for him,” Memnon said. “Our Egyptian’s getting too old to go traipsing around the Mediterranean. Have they decided on a name for the baby?”

Pharnabazus beamed. “Apame, after our grandmother.”

They shared a meal of fish stew and bread in Memnon’s cramped quarters onboard
Astarte,
eating from wooden bowls over a table cluttered with maps and correspondence, many of them from cousin Aristonymus. Pharnabazus raised an eyebrow. “What goes?”

“Chares has moved against Methymna. Athenian ships blockade the harbor while Athenian allies attack Methymna’s landward wall. If I handle Chares, Aristonymus assures me he can break the allied siege.” Memnon licked stew from his fingers and shuffled through the letters and missives. “However,
this
concerns me more. It’s from the governor of Abydus, on the Hellespont.” He handed Pharnabazus a brief note.

 

“They need only look as far as Lesbos to find their wayward admiral,” Pharnabazus said. “Are we to fight Chares on one front and be allies with him on another?”

Memnon gave a dark chuckle. “In a manner of speaking, yes. We split the fleet at Lesbos. You and Autophradates take the Cypriots and sail west around the island, through the Straits and into Propontis. Once there, keep to the Asian shore until Mentor or the Great King orders otherwise. I’ll take the Tyrians and sail east, into the Bay of Adramyttium, and break Chares’ blockade.”

“Just like that?” Pharnabazus looked askance at his uncle.

“Just like that. Do you see a flaw?”

“Only the one father has drilled into me since birth: never underestimate your enemy. Are you sure you do not underestimate Chares?”

Memnon smiled. “I’ve already taken Chares’ measure. He has a silver tongue and a surfeit of bravery. But, in and of itself, bravery means nothing. Tartarus overflows with the shades of brave men. No, Pharnabazus, I don’t underestimate him at all. The gods granted Chares many gifts, yet they withheld the most important—the
daimon
of a true leader. Without it, he is a figure of great splendor but of little substance.”

“You can tell who has this gift, this
daimon
?”

“Can you not?” Memnon said. “Examine the traits of those men you admire most and you’ll begin to see it, weaving through their deeds like threads on a loom. It transcends bravery or thirst for glory. A man in possession of it elevates not only himself but also those around him; he inspires them to be greater than they ever thought possible. If you must fight, Pharnabazus, it’s best to fight a man who owns nothing of this
daimon.
A man like Chares.”

Pharnabazus leaned forward, his forehead wrinkled in thought. “What if you are given no choice? What if it is your misfortune to be arrayed against a man whom the gods had graced with this gift, and others to boot? How would you fight him?”

“Honestly,” Memnon said, smoothing his beard with his thumb and forefinger. “I don’t know. I’ve never fought a man in possession of it. Perhaps I would refuse to engage him head-on, let him expend himself in bits and pieces, or maybe devise a way to assault his followers’ morale. The trick, I think, is in knowing where your own gifts lie.”