Memnon (4 page)

“Father!” Memnon surged forward, riding the crest of a human wave. Some fought for their cause; others fought to get away. Underfoot, a shoal of trampled bodies made each step treacherous. Memnon grabbed two men by the scruff of their necks and flung them aside. A fist grazed his cheek. A heel bruised the meat of his thigh. A walking stick cracked across his shoulders. Memnon snarled at this last, turned, and wrenched the stick from an old man’s hand.

Armed now with a truncheon of bronze-capped olive wood, Memnon waded through the flailing mob. Oligarch or democrat, he did not care; he left a path of broken bones, teeth, and heads in his wake. He gained the plinth and found Timocrates on the ground, struggling against a wild-eyed young democrat whose hands were knotted around Philolaus’s throat. A callous man might have left the oligarch to his fate—is he who incites rebellion not deserving of death?—but Memnon believed in the rule of law, in justice. A man should face trial before his execution. With a savage blow of his cudgel, Memnon broke the zealot’s grip and dragged him, cursing and screaming, off Philolaus. A second blow sent him plummeting into oblivion.

Memnon crouched and helped his father to his feet.

“Have they lost their minds?” Timocrates muttered, disoriented. “Violence only begets violence!”

“Orators beget violence with their loose tongues!” Memnon said. Through the wrack he spotted Glaucus, his face scratched and bloody, his robes torn. “Here, Glaucus!” Seeing Timocrates alive bolstered the secretary’s flagging spirits. He rushed to his master’s side.

“Thank the gods! I thought—”

Memnon cut him off. “Your people are getting the worst of it! Take Father home and keep watch over him. Keep him safe! I will come when I can.”

“As you wish,” Glaucus said. Like a Spartan general, the secretary gathered a phalanx of democrats around Timocrates and hustled him from the Assembly building. Memnon watched them leave before turning his attention to Philolaus. The oligarch, on his knees now, clawed at the edge of the plinth as he sought to find his footing. Blood smeared his face, dripping from his beard to stain his blue robes. He coughed and struggled for breath.

“Get up, you damn fool!” Memnon knelt, looped Philolaus’s arm around his neck, and pulled him upright. “Get up before someone kills you!”

“They’ve tried,” the oligarch gasped. “I owe you my life. To which faction are you pledged?”

“Neither, and you owe me nothing.” Memnon noticed a half-dozen of Philolaus’s men nearby, watching as one of their number kicked a fallen democrat in the ribs. Memnon’s proximity to their leader, and Philolaus’s reliance on him, registered in their minds as the actions of an ally. The young Rhodian gestured to one of them.

Philolaus shook his head. “No. I never forget a debt, or a face. Seek me out when all this is over. I could use a man of your talents.”

Memnon dropped his bloody cudgel, shrugged himself free of the oligarch’s arm, and entrusted him to the care of his men. “My talents, as you call them, are pledged elsewhere.” He turned and walked toward the door. Clumps of men dotted the floor of the Assembly, moaning, crawling. Some of those trampled would never move again.

“Wait!” he heard Philolaus croak. “At least tell me to whom I am indebted!”

Memnon paused at the head of the stairs, under the statue of Dorieus. For a moment, he flirted with the idea of a lie. No. He had no reason to be ashamed of who he was. With a nod, he said, “Memnon, son of Timocrates.”

Philolaus’s face paled beneath its veneer of blood. “I sense the hand of a god in this,” he said. “Very well, son of Timocrates. Go in peace with my thanks. Perhaps someday the gods will allow me to discharge my obligation to you.”

Memnon turned and ascended the last few steps. “I said you owe me nothing.” But, his voice was lost amid the cries of victory that arose from the Assembly building. They could only claim dominance by the slenderest of margins, but claim it they did.

Memnon imagined word of the battle had already reached the harbor.
The oligarchs have risen! Death to the democrats!
Both factions would arm themselves with spears and javelins, swords and knives, arrows and sling stones. Old soldiers would take their shields down from the hearth; young soldiers would don their bronze panoplies. Merchants would beat a hasty retreat to their country manors, or load their wealth onto ships bound for secluded beachheads on the western shore of the island. The threat of civil war, of
stasis,
would paralyze the city. Memnon glanced back over his shoulder at Philolaus, who held court amid the wounded like a conquering king.
All of this because I spared you.

Memnon had not reckoned that his act of conscience might cost Rhodes its life.

2

 

“C
OME AWAY FROM THE WINDOW,”
T
HALIA SAID, CLUTCHING HER
bedclothes tight. The rooms she rented above a tavern on the Street of Ophioussa, near the temple of Aphrodite, reminded Memnon of the seraglio of a Persian satrap. Paneled and furnished in dark wood, its four lamps, two of polished bronze and two of terracotta, drove away the shadows, their sweetened smoke mingling with a haze of costly frankincense. Colorful carpets and brocades covered the floor and the walls. Wide-eyed, Thalia gestured to Memnon. “Please! Come sit by me. I’m afraid.”

Memnon smiled, but stood his ground, peering out into the flame-flecked night through drawn shutters. At dusk, Rhodes had erupted in an orgy of fiery violence. A foreign mob, no doubt purchased with Carian gold, rampaged through the homes and shops of known democrats, torching what they could not kill or carry off. Though he’d hoped otherwise, this descent into
stasis
caught his father’s faction off guard; the threat of mob rule swayed any who might have thrown in with them to the oligarch’s cause. Disgusted, Memnon turned from the window.

“Please, Memnon!” Tears sparkled on Thalia’s lashes.

The young Rhodian sat beside Thalia, pulling her into his embrace. “Don’t worry yourself so,” he said, stroking her tawny hair. Thalia came from Cyrene in North Africa; her straw-colored hair, common in her homeland, gave her an exotic cast favored by the jaded sailors of Rhodes. “This will be over soon, and your life will return to normal.”

“But what will I do with you gone?” she said. “Who will care for me?”

“I expect you’ll find yourself a fat, rich merchant and settle down to a life of luxury. Maybe even see something of the world, yourself.” Memnon had no illusions about the young woman in his arms. Men were a flock of sheep to her; some ripe for shearing, others earmarked for the altar of Aphrodite—sacrifices to the patron goddess of the
hetaera.
Among men, Thalia could be as sleek and predatory as any leopard.

“The world holds no allure for me if I’m not at your side,” she said, her voice a throaty murmur. She craned her neck, kissing the hard line of his jaw. “Take me with you.”

Memnon shook his head. “A mercenary camp is no place for a woman of your tastes. The food is of the roughest sort, inedible by all save the hungriest of foot soldiers. And there are no beds, no sheets. Everyone sleeps on the ground at the mercy of the heat and the cold, exposed to the elements. Can you see yourself carrying my gear over mountains and through valleys? No, Thalia. A life as a mercenary’s woman is not one I’d wish on you.”

“Forget the mercenary life, then,” she said. “We could go to Ephesus or Athens or Corinth … Corinth, Memnon! Imagine it! They say even the most common courtesans wear gold and jewels in Corinth. What would they make of me, I wonder?” Thalia tossed her head and preened. Her fingers loosened, and the linen bedclothes slid down her body, bunching about her trim waist. Golden skin glowed in the lamplight; the lush curves of her breasts brought a lump to Memnon’s throat.
Like a lamb to the altar.

“What, indeed,” he said, reaching for her.

Thalia stiffened as a sound drifted through the door, the squeak of a floor plank. Memnon frowned. A soft knock brought him to his feet. He drew his knife and crossed to the door. “What do you want?”

“Open the door, you damned pup!”

Though muffled, Memnon recognized the voice. He lifted the bar. Patron stood in the narrow hall, his attitude one of wariness. He wore a mariner’s leather cuirass, reinforced with disks of bronze pitted from the sea air and waxy with verdigris. A curved sword hung from a baldric over his left shoulder.

“You risk life and limb going abroad alone on a night like this, Patron,” Memnon said, stepping aside to allow
Circe’s
captain entrance. “What goes?”

“Still eager to be gone from Rhodes?” Patron glanced sidewise at Thalia, who stretched catlike.

Memnon followed his gaze. “I am.”

“We’re leaving at dawn instead of week’s end,” Patron said, keeping his voice low. He walked to the window and inched the shutter open. Acrid smoke drifted in on the night breeze. “I’ve seen cities under siege, I’ve seen them sacked and burnt, I’ve even seen them decimated by plague, but I’ve never seen a city tear itself apart. Men who were neighbors at breakfast are sworn enemies at supper. All of this because of what, an ideal?”

“There’s a point in time,” Memnon said, “when the inhabitants of a region or an island come together as one to form a
polis.
Philosophers call this
synoikismos.
Father likened it to the way embers can be raked into a pile and a fire built from them. These flames of political unity burn in different ways, but they all need fodder—new ideas, new obstacles, new challenges. Without such nourishment, the
polis
will consume itself, destroying the very embers that gave it life. Yet, even then hope is not lost. Consider the bird of Ethiopia, the phoenix, whose young rise from the ashes of its elder. If a
polis
destroys itself, invariably the survivors will band together and a new
polis
will emerge.” Memnon gestured out the window. “This looks chaotic to our eyes, but in reality it’s part of the life cycle of a city. Rhodes will be reborn, hopefully stronger and wiser.”

Patron smiled and clapped Memnon on the shoulder. “You are your father’s son, Memnon. It gladdens me to see you well after your adventure in the Assembly.”

“You heard?”

“It’s on everyone’s lips.”

Memnon’s eyes clouded as he leaned his shoulder against the window frame. “What are they saying? Are the democrats cursing me for saving Philolaus’s life? Had I done nothing, perhaps all of this,” his gesture encompassed Rhodes, “would not have come to pass. The democrats would still be in control.”

“The gods marvel at your arrogance, Memnon,” Patron said. “Even if you’d let Philolaus die, civil war would have been inevitable. Rhodes has chafed for years under Athens’s thumb. The democrats, your father included, are little more than Athenian puppets even as the oligarchs serve the wishes of Mausolus of Caria. Civil war is the culmination of a long chain of events that has little to do with you.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Memnon said.

“Of course I am. Come, though, make your farewells brief. Some of the others await me out—” Patron stopped as the sounds of a commotion floated up from below, a babble of voices. He and Memnon glanced at one another, then went to the door. One of
Circe’s
crew had just gained the head of the stairs, his face pale, his brow beaded with sweat. Patron frowned. “What is it, Zaleucas?”

“It’s t-the mob! T-They’ve murdered Diogenes!”

 

M
EMNON’S WEAPONS GLITTERED IN THE LAMPLIGHT—A SWORD, A KNIFE, A
pair of javelins—their polished iron edges less cold and unyielding than the eyes watching his preparation. At his back, Patron paced like a caged wolf; Thalia sat on a divan in icy silence. Despite his inexperience in the arena of war, Memnon handled his weapons like a veteran, checking balance, heft, and haft. Satisfied, he placed them on the bed and lifted an oilskin bag off the floor. From it, he pulled a leather corselet.

“Dammit, Memnon! Use your head!” Patron said. “No man can predict the actions of a mob! They’re like a pack of feral hounds, driven mad by the stench of blood. There’s no reason to their movements.”

“I am using my head! This mob is guided, Patron! The oligarchs are using them to dispose of their enemies! Who do you think they’ll go after next?” The supple corselet, reinforced in the chest and abdomen with bronze studs, slid easily over Memnon’s head. He tied off the thongs that laced down his left side. “Diogenes was one of my father’s staunchest allies. Logic dictates their next victim.”

“Say it’s true, say they’re going after Timocrates, what do you think you’re going to do? Storm into his home and drag him down to the harbor? Zeus Savior! His own people will kill you if you try that! Then there’s the oligarchs … will you hold them off single-handedly? You’ve fought in one skirmish with pirates! One skirmish! You’re not Achilles, boy! Get out there in that mob’s way and they’ll tear you to shreds!”

“So, help me!” Memnon said through clenched teeth. “Or were all those hours spent listening to you go on about our brotherhood just wasted time?”

Patron looked away, stung. “I’ve got a ship to think about, a commission to fulfill, and forty-nine other lads who look to me for guidance. I can’t abandon them and I can’t squander them in a street fight. Not now.”

Memnon tucked his knife into his belt, slipped the baldric of his sheathed sword over his head, and took up the pair of javelins. “And I can’t leave my father here to die,” he said. “I’ve got to get to him, convince him to come with us. Artabazus will offer him asylum, I’m certain. We—”

Patron caught him by the arm. “Listen to yourself, Memnon! You’re a fool if you think you can pry Timocrates from Rhodes in her time of need! Not the gods, not the Furies, not even the golden hoard of Midas could sway the man! This is what he’s been preparing for! This is his Great Battle, and he’ll not stop till it’s over!”

Memnon wrenched free of Patron’s grasp. “I won’t leave him to die! How can I face Mentor if I don’t at least try? What will he say to me when he asks for news of our father and I answer ‘I do not know, brother, for I left him to be slaughtered by a mob’? I have to try, Patron!”

Patron exhaled, recognizing the futility of further argument. “We all have our fates, Memnon. Perhaps this is yours; perhaps it’s your father’s fate to die here. I cannot say. I promise you this, though: I will keep
Circe
here as long as I can. Grab Timocrates and get him back to the ship, if you can.” The two men clasped hands. Patron let himself out, leaving Memnon alone with Thalia.

She sat in silence on the divan, her body wrapped in the bedclothes, her fingers knotted together. Tears wetted her cheeks. When she finally spoke, her voice trembled. “You spoke of logic earlier. Does your logic dictate that you throw your life away to save his?”

“No, but my blood does,” Memnon said. “He’s my father, Thalia. I have a responsibility to him. I don’t expect you would understand, since—”

“Since I’m a woman?” she snarled.

Memnon paused, at a loss for the words to make Thalia comprehend the sense of duty a son possessed for his father. This sacred covenant meant that no matter how bitterly he and Timocrates fought they would stand shoulder to shoulder against a common enemy, unite against a common threat, and lay down their lives if the need arose. Memnon sighed, leaned down, and kissed her hair. In a soft voice, he said, “Remember me with kindness, if not love.”

The sound of her sobbing followed him into the street.

 

T
HE WALLED VILLA OF
T
IMOCRATES LAY ON THE NORTHERN SLOPES OF THE
acropolis, overlooking the least of Rhodes-town’s four harbors. The path Memnon chose carried him through neighborhoods where the violence had come and gone. Shops and homes gutted by the mob were defiled again as scavengers of every stripe picked through the smoldering ruin, oblivious to the survivors who crept from hiding to survey the devastation. Bonfires spewed a pall of smoke into the air, a shroud that could not be seen in the darkness, only felt; the flames added an unclean orange glow to the oppressive atmosphere.

Memnon jogged along. With each step, the impression of the mob being led—focused, rather—strengthened in his mind. The destruction was not wholesale, as one would have expected from a rampaging horde; nor did it radiate out from its flashpoint in concentric waves, as though following the whims of capricious looters. No, this mob kept an even course, unwavering, flowing down the street as water through a sluice. At one point, where the avenue narrowed into a natural bottleneck, the democrats had thrown up a barricade of wagons and carts to dam this rage-swollen river of humanity. It proved too flimsy.

Memnon slowed. Amid the detritus of the splintered barricade, a score of bodies peppered the ground, some slashed and trampled, others pierced by arrow and spear. A man with the dark copper complexion of a sailor sat against the wall of a building, holding glistening loops of intestine in his hands. He looked at Memnon, confusion plain in his glassy eyes, and opened his mouth to speak. Blood gushed down his chin. Memnon turned away, a cold knot forming in his belly as he grew cognizant of the sounds rising around him. Whimpers of fear and pain mixed with keening wails; stammered prayers were lost amid pleas for succor. The stench of blood and bowel tainted the heavy air.