Memnon (20 page)

“Memnon, I … I have no words …”

Memnon smiled. “None are needed, Khafre. Were our situations reversed, I know you’d do the same for me.” Waving to the Egyptian, Memnon crossed to where Mentor waited. He passed wagons piled high with bales and bags, slender-necked
amphorae
and fat pottery jars. Porters assigned to each ship descended on the goods like flies, jostling and shouting in their haste to get each wagon unloaded. Their clamor made Mentor’s horse skittish. “Calm down!” the elder Rhodian growled, sawing back on the reins.

“Stop, stop! You’ll dislocate his jaw. You have to be patient with them,” Memnon said. He reached up and caught the animal’s headstall, loosening the bit and stroking its nose. The horse huffed and whinnied. “These wagons are from the supply magazines?”

“Yes,” Mentor said. “Personal effects will come later. Artabazus told Deidamia to be frugal in her packing, to leave behind anything too large to fit in a good-sized chest. I think we should burn the excess, but Artabazus balks at that.”

Memnon let the horse nuzzle his neck. “Would you expect otherwise? Much of what will remain has been in his family for generations; he’ll not destroy it, but leave it in trust for the new masters of Dascylium.”

“Nostalgic foolishness. He should raze the palace; deny Tithraustes the benefit of Dascylium’s walls.” Mentor dismounted, tossing his reins to an adjutant. “Walk with me, brother.”

Patting the horse farewell, Memnon fell in beside Mentor. The elder Rhodian moved down to the harbor’s edge and away from the moored ships. Water lapped against old stonework. “I’m staying behind, along with some of the younger men, those with no families, to screen Artabazus’s withdrawal.”

“I’ll stay, too,” Memnon said.

“No. Artabazus needs one of us with him, and since you’re wounded …”

“By Hades!” Memnon snarled. “Would you stop trying to protect me?”

Mentor stopped suddenly, caught Memnon’s arm and spun him round. “Idiot! You think this is about my sheltering you from harm? I’m not sending you with Artabazus to spare you! If the Hyrkanians trample over my rear guard and reach the mouth of the Macestus, Artabazus’s ship will be overwhelmed ‘ere it reaches Propontis! That’s why you’ll be onboard!”

Memnon cocked his head to one side, his expression quizzical.

In answer, Mentor drew his knife and pressed its bone hilt into his brother’s palm. “If I fail,” he said, “you cannot let them take Artabazus alive!”

Memnon stared at the knife like Mentor had handed him a deadly asp and bid him press it to his bosom. A cold, hard knot formed in the pit of his stomach. “Zeus! I’m no murderer!”

“Consider what the King will do to him if he’s taken. He’ll be sent to Susa in chains, tortured, and only executed after Ochus has wrung the last bit of sport from him. Tell me you would not spare him that fate!”

Memnon could not argue otherwise. “Are we to abandon you to Ochus, instead?”

“Don’t worry about me, brother. I’ve taken care of myself for nearly as many years as you’ve had under heaven. In two weeks time, Zeus willing, I’ll meet you at the headland of Sigeum, overlooking the entrance to the Hellespont. You remember the place? The shrine to Poseidon, on the cliffs above the shingle called Priam’s Harbor?”

Memnon nodded. The brothers had ridden there from Assos the previous autumn, to propitiate the vengeful Lord of the Deep. “You’re sure you can get there in two weeks?”

“With days to spare,” Mentor assured him. “For now, though, we’ve little time. I’ve deployed men to guard the bridge over the Little Macestus. Unless the Hyrkanians ride east for half a day, that’s the only way cavalry can get across. I leave it to you to get the ships loaded.”

“They’ll be ready before nightfall.”

Mentor started to turn, to make his way back to his horse, but paused. His features clouded; he looked as close to tears as Memnon had ever seen him. “What happened, little brother? Five months ago we were masters of our world. We were victors, wreathed and garlanded. Now look at us—reduced to mere shadows, forced to slink away with tails tucked just to ensure our survival. Did we offend the gods somehow?”

“No more than we’re wont to do as men,” Memnon said. “Life is a great wheel, Mentor. We rose to ascendancy as much from our own strengths as from Mithridates’ weaknesses. Now, through no fault of our own, we find ourselves on the wane. Such is the nature of the wheel. No matter how bad things might get, we have only to be patient and our fortunes will be on the rise once more.”

“A capricious philosophy,” the older Rhodian said, shaking his head. “Come, there is much yet to do.”

Memnon, though, stood his ground for a moment, staring off through the trees. Not a hundred yards from his position, the Little Macestus drained into Lake Dascylitis, pouring over a rocky cataract and into the marshiest portion of the lake. Beyond lay open fields. These stretched along the lakeshore, following its curve to the delta of Macestus proper, broken now and again by stands of oak and sycamore and scrubby pine. Metal flashed in those distant trees. Dust rose.

“Mentor!” His brother turned back toward him, frowning. Using the knife, Memnon gestured off across the fields. “The Hyrkanians are on the move!” Mentor’s face darkened.

“Get them out of the palace! Now!”

 

T
HE TWIN FORCES OF
C
HAOS AND
F
EAR SWEPT LIKE VENGEFUL
F
URIES
through Dascylium. What should have been an orderly evacuation to the harbor became, instead, a rout, fueled by the sounds of brazen horns, clashing iron and the screams of dying men arising from the vicinity of the bridge. Memnon waded through the torrent of men and women bearing the balance of their lives in hastily tied bales and wicker panniers, their children driving geese and goats before them. He passed knots of townspeople—carpenters and smiths, potters and painters—who were trying their best to secure their properties against the tide of refugees. These last were the folk who would stay behind, the
emporoi,
the scions of mercantile families; some had pedigrees reaching back to the time of great Cyrus or beyond, to the days when the Trojan King Priam claimed these lands as part of his realm. No doubt they would praise the King’s Men as saviors and throw garlands at their feet, even as they had done for Artabazus.

Even at a fast jog, it took Memnon the better part of an hour to reach the fortress. But, unlike the rest of Dascylium, here he found good order had reigned. The palace had resisted the grip of Phobos, herald of Ares, though its walls stood closest to the War God’s domain. At the foot of the stairs, three horse-drawn wagons waited, each loaded with trunks and chests containing the whole of Artabazus’s treasury, Deidamia’s personal effects, and the children’s belongings; a fourth wagon remained empty.

Guards ringed the wagons, weapons drawn, pacing like caged lions and eager to join in the fighting or be away. Among them, he saw Omares.

“Where are they?” he asked, breathless.

“On the way out, or so I have been told,” Omares said. Blood spotted the bandages encircling his head. “How are our lads doing?”

“I don’t know.” Memnon grimaced, glancing toward the bridge spanning the Little Macestus. A spur of the hill on which the fortress sat, girded with trees, screened the bridge from view, but the sounds coming from that direction were appalling. “Send a scout, if you must, but be ready. We have no time.” Omares detailed a man as Memnon headed up the stairs to the palace gates.

As he crested the final flight of steps, he nearly collided with a cortege of women and children—the maids of his sister’s
gynaikeion
and her wet nurses, who carried the twins, Artacama and Ariobarzanes, swaddled to their breasts; behind them came Barsine with Cophen in tow, all of them herded along by Deidamia, her mantle black as cerecloth. Datis trailed the women, and last of all came Pharnabazus, clad in a leather cuirass and armed with a pair of javelins. Memnon did not see Artabazus.

“Where’s your father?” he asked.

Pharnabazus jerked his head back toward the palace. “I saw him last in the great hall. Where do you want me, Uncle?” Despite his brave demeanor, Memnon could tell the boy was scared. His lips trembled; he flinched at the sounds of battle coming from the distant bridge.

“Report to Omares,” Memnon said. “Ask him to put you where you’ll be the most use.” He caught and held Pharnabazus’s eyes, his hand resting on his shoulder. “Don’t be afraid. Your mind inflates what it cannot see. Courage, son of Artabazus, is not fearlessness, but action in spite of fear.”

“Y-Yes, Uncle.”

Memnon tousled the boy’s hair. Before he could go, Deidamia caught his arm.

“Where is Mentor?” she whispered.

Memnon nodded off toward the bridge. “He has volunteered to lead the rear guard.” At this, Deidamia paled. Memnon took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Remember your words to me, sister. He, more than all of us, is capable of making his own way. We’ll see him again. I promise. Hurry, now, get to the wagons.” Not waiting to see if she obeyed, Memnon turned and swept through the palace gates.

His footsteps echoed through the deserted courtyard, its walls and niches stripped of anything of value, ready for its new masters. Even the potted trees and shrubs were gone, taken to a place of safety by the gardener. Devoid of life, the palace reminded him of a crypt. Memnon passed through the colonnade and entered the great hall.

At its far end, wreathed in light, Artabazus sat on his throne.

“It’s time to go,” Memnon said. Nothing. “Artabazus?” The old satrap wore the leather-reinforced trousers of a cavalryman, a saffron tunic, and a long emerald coat stitched with gold thread. His sword, a curved saber in a silver-chased sheath, rested across his thighs. At the sound of his name, Artabazus stirred.

“Do you remember my father, Memnon?”

“No. He died ‘ere I took my first steps. Timocrates always spoke of him with reverence, though, even years later. Come, Artabazus. We’ve not much time. The ships …”

“They were a pair, your father and mine. How two men of such different perspectives could become fast friends is a mystery worthy of the gods. I was younger than you are now when Timocrates entered my father’s service.” Artabazus chuckled. “My first foray to Hellas was at your father’s side, to distribute the wealth of Persia to the enemies of that Spartan jackal, Agesilaus, who was ravaging the Asian shore. It worked. Our gold roused Corinth and her allies to war. What the King’s myriads could not achieve in years, Timocrates achieved in a single season. He forced Agesilaus to leave our lands and defend his own. Oh, the Spartan’s rage was epic, like something from the Poet’s verse.” The old satrap’s smile faded. “Afterwards, my father disliked keeping himself in any one place for too long—Agesilaus had instilled in him a terrible fear of being surrounded or besieged—so he stayed on the move, a nomad in his own lands. ‘A man in a fortress is a target,’ he would say, ‘while a man on horseback is a threat.’ But he had one weakness.” Artabazus raised his head and looked around the great hall, his eyes distant, as though staring at something Memnon could not apprehend.

“Artabazus, please … we must go.”

“He called this the dwelling place of his soul, and he bid me never again to let it pass into the enemy’s hands. I have failed him in this, not once but twice.”

“Your father’s wishes cannot supersede the will of the gods, Artabazus. You’ve fought an honorable war, and you’ve made Dascylium a place of pride. Men will remember your legacy as they toil under Ochus’s lash.”

“They’ll remember an old fool who thought himself better than the rightful King.”

Memnon bristled. “They’ll remember a just man who defied a despot!”

Artabazus sighed. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. You are right about one thing, though. The will of the gods hold sway, and I can no more change that than I can change the sun’s course across the heavens.” The old satrap stood and limped down the dais.

“I wish it could be otherwise,” Memnon said. Artabazus smiled.

“Even ill fortunes can be reversed. It is all one, Memnon. It is all one.”

“My lords!” a familiar voice rang from the courtyard.

“Here, Omares!”

The officer appeared at the door to the great hall, out of breath. “General Mentor sends word, my lords! He bids us hurry and get away! He cannot hold the Hyrkanians back much longer! I dispatched the wagons on to the harbor with a dozen men guarding them! Horses await us! Come, my lords! Hurry!”

“Yes,” Artabazus said, frowning, “I’ve tarried too long.” And without a backward glance, he quit the great hall, crossed the courtyard, and passed between the cyclopean statues flanking the gate. “It is Mentor’s belief that I should burn the palace, surely an affront to my ancestors. What is your counsel, Memnon?”

Memnon, though, paid him no heed. Something else had captured his attention. The young Rhodian took a step forward, shading his eyes with the palm of his hand.

“What is it?” Artabazus mimicked the gesture.

From their vantage at the head of the stairs, all three men could see the wagons trundling toward the harbor, sunlight striking fire from the helmets and corselets of the guards. But, the brilliant sun betrayed something else, as well: a detachment of Hyrkanians, on foot, crossing the bed of the Little Macestus and scaling the near bank. Unchecked, they would emerge in the wagons’ path.