Memnon (23 page)

Pharnabazus laughed and put his burden aside. He caught Memnon in a rib-splintering hug. “It is good to see you again, Uncle!”

“And you, boy, and you! What is this?” Memnon tugged a tuft of Pharnabazus’s beard. “Are you trying to be a perfumed courtier, now?”

“A man needs some small vanity so as not to anger the gods with his perfection,” he said, making a show of smoothing his beard with his fingertips.

Memnon laughed. “Humility would better assuage their anger.” He nodded to the riding tack. “Which were you planning on taking out?”

“All of them, with Father and Cophen. Come, they are in the stables. Father will be pleased to see you again.” Pharnabazus eyed the Rhodian critically. “You have collected a few more scars since last you were home. How fares the war in Egypt?”

Together, they walked into the cool shade of the stables. “It fares poorly,” Memnon said, frowning. “For the last two years Mentor’s been in command of the garrison at Sidon, on the Phoenician coast, in collusion with Sidon’s king—part of Pharaoh’s plan to create a buffer between Egypt and Persia. Most of Phoenicia has joined Pharaoh’s rebellion but the Great King’s forces still outnumber us, and Ochus is loath to abandon his ports in that region.”

Pharnabazus nodded. “I would think so. We have heard very little news from the south, and what we do hear gets filtered through Philip’s eyes and ears. The truth will be a refreshing change.” He smiled and gestured to the far end of the stables, to where Artabazus sat with Cophen, instructing him how best to repair a loose chain on a horse’s headstall. The old satrap looked more weathered since last Memnon saw him, his hair thinner and consumed with gray. “Father! Look who the gods dropped on our doorstep!”

Artabazus looked up, eyes still sharp and unclouded. A broad smile creased his face; he put the headstall aside and, with Cophen’s help, rose to his feet. “I thought I recognized your voice, Memnon. Praise Mithras!” He shuffled forward, his limp pronounced, and clasped the Rhodian’s shoulders. “On my soul, with each passing year you look more like your father. It does my heart good to see you again, dear boy.”

“You’re looking well,” Memnon said. “How’s the leg?”

“It serves to keep me upright. Beyond that …” Artabazus waved. Like his sons, he too wore sandals and a Greek-style tunic, bone-colored and heavily embroidered, cut to allow him to sit astride a horse. Its brevity also revealed the puckered traces of ancient wounds—badges of honor to the warlike Macedonians.

Memnon was poised to reply when Cophen stepped up, his head cocked, and stared at him with all the undisguised inquisitiveness of a twelve-year-old. “Greetings, Uncle. Do you remember me?”

“Indeed, Lord Cophen. One is hard-pressed to forget you.” Memnon smiled and would have ruffled the lad’s hair had he not shied away.

“Have you a gift for me, from Egypt?”

Quick as a snake, Pharnabazus’s arm shot out and caught the scruff of his brother’s neck, hauling him close. “Manners, Cophen. It is enough that Memnon has returned home. Forgive him, Uncle. He has learned impudence from the son of Philip, himself.”

“Alexander is my friend!” Cophen said, straining under his brother’s grip.

Before Artabazus could intervene, Memnon knelt, his eyes level with Cophen’s. The boy ceased struggling; Pharnabazus relaxed his fingers. “The son of a king is a good friend to have, and if he is a true friend then the gods have blessed you both. But, in answer to your question: one cannot visit Egypt without bringing back a trove of trinkets. Find Khafre. He will know which is yours.”

“Khafre returned with you?” Wide-eyed, Cophen shrugged off Pharnabazus’s hand. “Does he still tell tales and weave stories?”

Memnon stood and smiled. “He does. Seek him out, but ask your father’s leave, first.”

“Father?” Cophen turned, as rigid as a soldier facing his commander. “May I beg off riding today?”

Artabazus nodded. “You have my permission.” As soon as the words left his father’s lips Cophen took off, sprinting through the stables in a flurry of dust and loose straw. “That one is his mother made over,” Artabazus said, shaking his head.

“He is foolish,” Pharnabazus said.

“No.” Artabazus corrected him. “He’s young. As were you. Go ready the horses, my son. Memnon will take Cophen’s place, or have the months at sea rusted your skill in the saddle?”

The Rhodian grinned. “Let’s find out.”

 

A
LONG THE MARSHY VERGE OF
L
AKE
L
OUDIAS, MILES FROM THE OUTSKIRTS
of Pella, the three Nisaeans stretched their legs into a full gallop, their riders’ wishes a trifling annoyance. Thundering hooves tore into the sun-baked earth, sending clods of dirt and pulverized reed into the air to cake the horses’ steaming flanks. A half-mile passed, and still they did not slacken. Herons exploded from clumps of sedge; wings beat the shallows as mallards, startled by the crash and clamor, lofted into the cloud-strewn sky. After a mile and more, Memnon, astride Euphrosyne, drew the animal back under control, slowing to a canter, then to a trot, giving it a chance to catch its breath. Artabazus and Pharnabazus followed suit.

All three men were flushed and panting, frosted with dust. Pharnabazus whooped; his father chuckled to himself, no doubt lost in a memory of distant Asia, of a cavalry charge from one of his myriad wars.

“Zeus Savior and Helios!” Memnon exhaled. “There’s nothing at sea to rival that! It’s as though you’re flying on the wings of a god!” He stroked the animal’s damp neck. Ahead, a stream, its rocky banks edged with willows, fed into Lake Loudias. Memnon led them upstream about a hundred yards, where all three men dismounted and walked their horses. Once they had cooled, man and beast drank their fill. While the mares nibbled on soft grass, the men sat in the late afternoon shade of a willow tree. Flies buzzed; plovers whirled overhead, hunting insects.

Pharnabazus dozed on a bier of grass and willow leaves; opposite him, his back to the willow-bole, Memnon sat with his legs out-thrust, one arm pillowing his head. Artabazus rested on a half-buried boulder, massaging his scarred thigh. He glanced sidelong at the Rhodian, whose face bore the gravest of frowns. Twice Memnon looked to be on the verge of speaking, only to lapse back into himself.

“There are times,” Artabazus said, “when silence speaks more eloquently than the most silver-tongued orator. Your tortured silence tells me this is no mere visit. A task has fallen to you that does not sit well with your conscience. Mentor has set this errand upon you, has he not? Be at ease, then, Memnon. Put aside your concerns and discharge your burden so that you may fully enjoy your homecoming.”

Memnon smiled. “You could ever read me as though I were an open scroll.” But his smile faded as quickly as it appeared. He hunched forward, elbows on knees, his tone becoming conspiratorial. “Suppose someone could broker a reconciliation between you and the Great King—a full pardon of all your supposed crimes and the chance to be welcomed back to court with a glad heart—what would such a thing be worth to you?”

“It would have as much worth as a palace made of smoke, Memnon. Many of my brother satraps tried to broker just such a compromise in years past. My royal cousin is implacable. Only one resolution will suit him—my head delivered to Susa on a silver platter.”

“Say he could be made to relent …”

“Memnon, I—”

“Just consider it, Artabazus! What price?”

The old satrap sighed. Pharnabazus, now awake and listening, watched his father with great interest, his brows meeting to form a ‘V’ over glittering dark eyes. Finally, Artabazus said, “Could it truly be done, it would be worth a great deal. As much as I admire the Greeks, they are not my people. I am a curiosity to them, a well-placed outsider, but an outsider, nonetheless. Yes, there is very little I would not pay for such a reconciliation to take place—as much for me as for my children, who should know their Persian heritage as well as their Greek.”

Memnon nodded. “Would it be worth Barsine’s hand?”

The old Persian’s eyes narrowed. Pharnabazus sat upright, his face a mirror of his father’s. “I will say no more,” Artabazus said, “until I have heard the whole story. Why does Mentor want to know what price I would pay? Has he a scheme?”

Memnon sagged back against the willow-bole. “Mentor has changed, Artabazus. You would no longer know him, were you to pass him in the agora. He’s lost weight and gray streaks his hair like a man twice his years. I noticed it more each time I’d return from the sea. This last time—I’d been away scouting Persian movements from the Gulf of Issus—it was more pronounced …”

“What news?”

Memnon marked well his brother’s long face, his sullen eyes. “You look as though you know it already,” he said.

“Perhaps. Confirm what I know, then, brother.” A pitcher of wine stood at Mentor’s elbow; his stained tunic and beard betokened a night of hard drinking.

Memnon looked out the window. A warm breeze ruffled his sweat-heavy hair. Sidon’s fortress overlooked the mole-protected North Harbor; though war loomed, the Phoenician merchants carried on with their business as usual. Lean ships, their hulls daubed red, hove close to the quays, offloading gold dust and ivory from Africa, tin and amber from Hyperborea, ironwork from Sinope, and wine from the Aegean. In exchange, they filled their holds with dyed textiles, cedar from the Lebanon Mountains, and jars of dried fruit: raisins from Berytus, prunes from Damascus, and dates from Jericho. Memnon could hear merchants’ voices buzzing up from dockside, mingling with the cries of gulls and the laughter of women and children.

“Dammit, what news?”

Memnon scowled as he turned back to face his brother. “Ochus is assembling an enormous force at Sardis. He’s summoned his satraps to him—Belesys of Syria, Mazaeus of Cilicia, Spithridates of Lydia—and he’s secured pledges of troops from Thebes, Argos, and Ionia. I think he plans on reducing Phoenicia to rubble, then marching to the very gates of Memphis. We should warn Pharaoh.”

Mentor gave a derisive bark. “Warn him? He wouldn’t listen! The pretentious ass believes he’s the son of a god, thus infallible.” The elder Rhodian hefted his wine pitcher and drained it.

Memnon frowned at the dangerous gleam in his brother’s eyes. “What do we do, then?”

“Another precarious situation,” Mentor muttered. “Another hopeless cause.”

“Perhaps we are always fated to play the underdog. Perhaps …”

The pitcher shattered against the far wall, peppering Memnon with wine lees and fragments of pottery, as the elder Rhodian snarled, “I’m done with it! That Sidonian whoreson thinks he can betray me? By Hades and the cursed Styx! I’ll show him what true betrayal is!”

“… Though it took some time, I finally got a full accounting from him. Mentor had intercepted an agent of King Tennes of Sidon bound for Sardis with an offer to betray the Phoenicians in exchange for clemency,” Memnon said, his voice full of contempt. “But, instead of arresting both men and packing them off to Pharaoh for execution, Mentor sent Ochus a counteroffer: not only would he give His Majesty Sidon and the Phoenician littoral, but he would hand over the keys to Egypt, as well. The Great King’s answer was brief. ‘Do so,’ he said, ‘and your heart’s desire will be my reward.’ That’s his scheme, Artabazus, and that’s why he sent me here instead of keeping me at his side! I tried to dissuade him from betraying Pharaoh—let Sidon rot for the perfidy of its king, but not Egypt! He would have none of it, though.” Memnon stared at the ground, shaking his head. “It shames me that my own brother no longer feels obliged to honor his word to an ally.”

“Ah, my dear boy,” Artabazus said, “life is not often as simple as you would have it to be. Hard, even distasteful, decisions are part and parcel of our existence. And we must make them, all honor aside, for the good of our families. Mentor’s intent is not to shame any of us, but to restore us to our former glory.”

“Where does Barsine fit into all of this?” Pharnabazus asked.

Artabazus slid off his rock and straightened his tunic. “Is it not obvious? If Mentor succeeds, the Great King will do more than grant his wish. Ochus will give him land to rule, either in Ionia or the Troad—both regions where Pharnacid blood carries great weight. A union with the daughter of a Pharnacid will transfer much of that weight onto him.” He motioned for his son to rise. “Fetch our horses. It is growing late.”

Memnon stood while Pharnabazus did as his father asked. The Rhodian brushed dust from his tunic with savage swipes of his hands. “And if he fails?” he snarled. “What if this lunatic plan of his gets him skinned alive and boiled in oil? What then?”

Artabazus shrugged. “There can be no gains without risks. Mentor understands this, just as I understand that he will do this thing regardless of whether or not I tender my blessing. Do I wish he would reconsider his actions? Of course. But you know as well as I that once Mentor sets his mind upon something he becomes as inflexible as granite. All I can do is reinforce his morale by entering into a compact with him—if he succeeds he will have Barsine as his wife, with my joyous blessing; if he fails, I will mourn him as one of my own sons. His stubbornness leaves me little choice in the matter.”