Memnon (8 page)

Memnon extended his hand. “I swear to you, Patron, on my honor, when I meet your father across the river I will set him right on that score.”

Patron took the proffered hand and tugged the younger man into an embrace. “Do nothing foolish, you damnable pup,” he said, “or, on my honor, I swear I’ll send you across the river myself.”

4

 

I
N THE FADING LIGHT OF DUSK,
M
EMNON LEFT HIS FATHER’S VILLA AND
ascended the hillside. Behind him, the Argive brothers Lycus and Sciron, with eight others of
Circe
‘s crew, followed in silence. The road approached the acropolis from the north, its slope gentler than the dramatic cliff face that loomed over the great harbor. Around them, groves of cypress, olive, oak, and poplar provided shade for fields of fragrant violet and narcissus, hyacinth and wild thyme. Amid this
pairidaeza,
on stepped terraces whose retaining walls were of dressed stone and timber, rose the temples and public buildings of the Rhodians.

The architecture bore the stamp of Doric simplicity: baseless columns with wide shallow flutings, plain capitals, and friezes of unadorned marble suffused with the crimson glow of twilight. Memnon led them past the Odeion, the music hall where wealthy
choregoi
prepared their singers for the great festivals of Greece; they skirted the Prytaneion, the symbolic home of Rhodes, where priests tended to the sacred flame of Helios, and cut through the deepening gloom of a columned stoa. Ahead, above the dark boughs of Athena’s hallowed olive grove, the red-tiled roof of the Assembly glistened as though drenched in blood.

Sciron caught Memnon’s arm. “Wait. Let us scout it out.” He gestured to his brother, and the two Argives sprinted off, vanishing under the trees. They returned minutes later, barely winded.

“How many?” Memnon asked.

“Only ten,” Sciron said. “Mainlanders; Carians, most likely. I couldn’t get close enough to tell if any were hiding inside. The bastard looks to be keeping his word.”

“We’ll find out soon enough.” As a group, they left the shelter of the stoa and plunged into Athena’s grove. Fingers of ruddy light pierced the leaf canopy. Under the trees, the cooler air of dusk mingled with the warmth rising from the ground, intensifying the smells of freshly spaded earth and crushed olive husks. Memnon followed the main path, passing the bench where he and Timocrates had spoken the day before, and emerged near the entrance of the Assembly.

Sciron gestured. Light spilled out from between the columns of the Assembly and striped the shadows with bands of pale gold. Opposite the main entrance, seven men in bronze-scaled corselets lounged in the grass, their spears planted upright. Three others stood together, watching the grove. One of them spotted
Circe
‘s crew; the others clambered to their feet, their movements deliberate, non-threatening. The spotter acknowledged Memnon’s presence with a wave of his hand then withdrew with his mates to the other side of the building.

The son of Timocrates returned the wave. In a low voice, he said, “Wait here in the grove. The trees will give you cover if they have any archers hidden about. Should something happen to me—and I mean anything—get back to Patron. Understood?” Memnon looked at each man in turn; though he was the youngest of
Circe’s
crew, the past few hours had given him gravity beyond his years. Nodding to himself, Memnon turned and strode down the path to the entrance of the Assembly.

Beyond clumps of torn sod and flattened grass, Memnon saw no signs of the past day’s violence. Where were the swatches of bloodstained turf? Where were the mounds of severed hands or the makeshift tables where Philolaus’s paymasters would have disbursed their coin? He had expected some outward display of the shift in power, but the grounds of the Assembly remained virtually unchanged.

Memnon made his way to the stairs and peered inside. At the center of the sunken chamber Philolaus sat alone, his forehead bandaged, his fleshy legs dangling over the edge of the plinth. A wooden platter of food rested next to him, along with a clay jug of wine and a pair of cups. The oligarch selected the wing of a small fowl from the plate, stripped the flesh from it with his teeth, and tossed the bone into the shadows. With the same relish, he raised a cup of wine and drained it. He caught sight of Memnon standing in the doorway. Grinning, Philolaus wiped his face and hands on a linen napkin and hopped off the plinth.

“Blessed Zeus! You came! Eumaeus made it sound like you’d see me chained to a wheel in Tartarus first. I’m pleased you’ve agreed to talk. Can I offer you some—” Philolaus’s voice trailed off as he noticed the hard line of Memnon’s lips, the naked fury in his eyes.

The younger man’s hand dropped to the hilt of his sword; metal rang against metal as he tugged the weapon free, stalked down the stairs, and crossed the limestone floor of the Assembly.

“Don’t be foolish, Memnon,” Philolaus said, frowning. “This is a parley, not a duel.”

“This? This is neither. I have a loose end to tie up before I leave Rhodes. I saved your life yesterday because of my own misguided sense of fair play. I see now I was wrong. I’ve come to set the balance straight.” Lamplight glinted on the edge of Memnon’s blade.

Philolaus backed away, his hands away from his body, away from the knife belted about his waist. “If you mean to kill me then there’s little I can do to stop you, but at least hear me out before you put me to the sword. I called this meeting to offer atonement for your loss. I’ve brought you your father’s slayer.”

A grim smile twisted Memnon’s lips. “Indeed.”

“You have it wrong. I didn’t kill Timocrates. For all our differences, he was a worthy adversary and an honorable man. I wished him no harm.”

“Liar! I saw what your men did to him!”

Philolaus bristled, matching anger with indignation. “Do you think me a barbarian, that I would order the mutilation of my own countrymen? Faugh! What the mob did last night they did of their own volition, not because of anything I offered them! I ordered my captains to keep a close tally of the dead; I did not realize to a Carian that meant lopping off the right hand. In that, the blame is mine, but the idea of a bounty is fiction, a lie propelled by greed. For myself, I desired a peaceful exchange of power, at most a few scuffles and a cracked head or three, with exile for those who did not share my vision, your father included. Now, I assume a mantle of leadership tainted by slaughter.”

Memnon closed the gap between them; his hand snaked out, catching a fistful of Philolaus’s tunic. He raised his sword, its tip angled toward the hollow of the oligarch’s throat. “Tell it to the Ferryman, you son of a bitch!”

Philolaus’s eyes blazed. Recklessly, he seized hold of Memnon’s naked blade and pulled it toward his breast. “Strike me down, then! Strike me down and avenge your father! But if you kill me, my Carians will annihilate you ‘ere you reach the harbor! Your friends, those not slain outright, will die slowly, their tortured passing an example of what will befall those men who flout Mausolus’s will!” The oligarch’s voice held a note of cold certainty that gave Memnon pause. “Go ahead! See your vengeance through, consequences be damned!”

Memnon’s blade wavered. In a rush to pronounce judgment on his father’s slayer, he had not given thought to the effect his actions might have on those closest to him. Philolaus wasn’t bluffing. If he chose vengeance, Patron and the others would die; if he chose mercy, Timocrates’ shade would wander Hades’ realm unavenged. Caught between hammer and anvil, Memnon ground his teeth in frustration.

“We’re not so different, you and I,” Philolaus continued, softening his tone in response to the boy’s uncertainty. “Neither of us believes in the supremacy of
demokratia;
we’re both fiercely loyal to our friends and ruthless to our enemies. But, I have the benefit of years and the meager wisdom their passage imparts. Choose only those battles you can win, Memnon, and if you must lose, do so with grace and dignity. I understand your desire to avenge Timocrates. He was your father and blood calls out for blood. I beg of you, let me ease the burden of your task! I’ve brought the man who murdered your father. I’ll give him to you, along with what he took from Timocrates’ body. Afterward, we part ways—you to the service of Artabazus and me to the service of Mausolus. What say you?”

Philolaus’s words incited a war between Memnon’s logic and his emotion, and its effects were plain to see. Cords of muscle stood out in his arms and neck; the knuckles of the hand holding his sword whitened and cracked. His eyes, though, presaged the war’s outcome: they gleamed with tears of resignation. Slowly, Memnon let his blade fall to his side. With great effort he nodded assent.

Philolaus gave a small sigh of relief. “There’s a sensible lad. I must signal my men now. Upon your life, make no sudden moves.” The oligarch raised two fingers to his lips and whistled. A moment later, a pair of his Carians appeared at the side door to the Assembly. One carried a covered wicker basket in his arms; the other dragged a third man by the scruff of his neck, his arms and legs bound, his tattered clothing smeared with soot and blood. The Carian dropped him at Philolaus’s feet as his mate placed the basket on the plinth. Both men stood their ground, glaring at the sword in Memnon’s fist, until Philolaus waved them away. “This is the wretch who slew Timocrates, who struck his head from his body.”

Memnon scowled at the figure crawling at Philolaus’s feet. “Is this true? Did you kill my father?” The man groveled, rolling moist eyes toward the heavens, toward the oligarch, toward Memnon. Dried blood and sputum caked his scraggly beard. Indelicate hands had worked him over, breaking teeth and splitting open his cheek. Fear paralyzed the man’s tongue.

“Answer him!” Philolaus barked, to no avail.

Disgusted, Memnon shook his head. “I cannot kill this man. I have only your word that he has done me injury.”

Philolaus shrugged. “I have played fair by you. This
is
the man who killed your father, whether you acknowledge it or not. If you agree I’ve kept my word, then our business is done.”

Memnon slammed his sword home in its sheath. “I will take the tale to my brother, along with the details of our arrangement. If Mentor rejects it, I expect he and Artabazus will either petition Mausolus for your head or come for it themselves. Is this still acceptable for you?”

“It’s a chance I’m prepared to take,” Philolaus said. “What of this wretch?”

“Do with him what you will.”

“As you wish.” Philolaus turned, lifted the basket off the plinth, and handed it to Memnon. “Take what time you need to set your father’s affairs in order. None of my men will molest you so long as you cause no trouble. Farewell, Memnon. I hope you find everything you deserve on distant shores.”

The son of Timocrates gave a slight nod; his eyes lost none of their murderous fire. “And I hope the mantle of leadership you covet so becomes your death shroud.” And with that, Memnon backed away and slipped from the Assembly. For the second time in as many days, he couldn’t help but feel as though he had betrayed Rhodes.

 

T
HE MEN OF
C
irce
DESCENDED FROM THE ACROPOLIS BY THE LIGHT OF THE
rising moon. As they neared the walls of Timocrates’ villa, a sentry caught sight of them and bellowed a warning. Sciron answered, and at the sound of his voice a ragged cheer went up. Patron walked out to meet them. “So?”

Memnon brushed past him, clutching the basket to his chest like it was wrought of gold. Patron glanced at Sciron; the Argive shrugged.
Circe’s
captain turned and followed Memnon inside. A dozen feet from the gate, on a level stretch of ground leading up to the house, the pyre stood ready.

“It’s done,” Memnon said, thankful that the torchlight concealed his red-rimmed eyes.

“What happened?”

In a few words, Memnon sketched out his meeting with Philolaus.

Patron shook his head in disbelief. “Zeus! You left him alive?”

Memnon glanced at his captain. “I did what needed to be done, to assure our survival. The final decision of what should befall Philolaus I leave to Mentor. It’s his right, as elder brother.” He placed the basket on the pyre, near his father’s body. Bion and Glaucus rested on either side, their corpses washed, wrapped in linen, and saturated with oil. It would be a quick funeral, without sacrifices. Memnon prayed the gods would understand.

“When you left here, you were adamant about his punishment. What leverage could he have used to sway you? What …?” Patron glanced from Memnon to the others of
Circe’s
crew and found the answer to his question. “He used us against you.”

Memnon motioned for Zaleucas to bring him his torch. “Did you not counsel me to embrace wisdom, to do nothing foolish? I said it’s done. Let it be, Patron.” He accepted Zaleucas’s torch and, without preamble, thrust it into the heart of the pyre. Old pitch-soaked wood ignited; the flames, fanned by the gentle sea breeze, crackled and spread, following rivulets of oil seeping from the linen. Gouts of black smoke vanished in the night sky. Cleia hung on the arm of her neighbor’s wife, both women sobbing as the flames roared fully to life. Other shapes gathered on the edge of the firelight, men who had known his father in life come to pay their respects in death.
Circe’s
crew stood apart from the rest. Memnon turned from the pyre, a nimbus of light playing over his body.