Memnon (6 page)

… and staggered as thunder and lightning exploded behind his eyes. A groan escaped his lips as his attacker drew back again and cracked a club across his skull. Memnon sank to his knees. His attacker towered over him.

“Ha! Gotcha, you son of a who—” The man stopped and looked down, his eyes bulging. Memnon followed his gaze. A spear blade had erupted from his chest like an obscene vine. He fell beside Memnon. He heard metal clash and ragged screams. The son of Timocrates glanced up, his world dwindling to a pinprick. A score of familiar faces emerged from the gathering dark, one in particular hovering close, edged in shadow. A sense of relief flooded his weary limbs. “P-Patron?”

“I couldn’t just leave …” Memnon heard him say as he sank into the welcoming arms of oblivion.

3

 

H
E COULDN’T BREATHE.
T
HE FINGERS AT HIS THROAT CHOKED OFF HIS AIR AND
threatened to crush his windpipe, his vertebrae. Memnon struggled. His hand grasped the hilt of his knife and, with a triumphant snarl, plunged it into his tormentor’s flesh. Hot blood spewed. Again and again, Memnon sank the blade into his attacker, until the pressure against his neck loosened and the fellow toppled to the side. Strength flooded Memnon’s limbs. Grasping his attacker by the hair, he wrenched his head back, exposing his throat for the killing blow. Memnon looked down. Staring back at him, his eyes glazed with the nearness of death, Timocrates spat blood and struggled to speak. “W-Why?”

Memnon jolted into wakefulness, unsure of his surroundings. His skull throbbed. Bright morning sunlight stung tears from his eyes, while the creak of rope against wood and the murmur of the sea added to his confusion.
Where am I?
Beneath his naked body, the weathered pine planks felt familiar, as did the smells of sweat and salt and sun-warmed pitch. Above him, an elaborate finial, carved in the shape of a woman, watched over him like a guardian spirit. “And I went through the dark to
Circe’s
flawless bed …”

Circe.

Memnon groaned as he ran his fingers through his hair, feeling the crust of matted blood, the knot behind his ear. Twinges of pain cut knifelike through the haze. He struggled upright, on his elbows, and saw Patron sitting a few feet away, grinning. Others of the crew—Zaleucas, the Argive brothers Lycus and Sciron, the golden-haired sons of Attalus—looked up from their dice games and whetstones.

“Zeus Almighty, lad! I thought that clout on the head did you in,” Patron said, tossing a skin of water to Memnon’s side.

Memnon dragged himself into a sitting position, picked up the skin, and uncorked it with trembling fingers. He drank a few swallows before upending the rest over his head. Cool water washed away the blanket of fog that clouded his memory. Memnon wiped his eyes. “I wish it had.”

“Get him a clean
chiton
,” Patron said to Zaleucas. Turning back to Memnon, he added, “I’d be a hand short, then, wouldn’t I? Besides, I rather like having you in my debt. It gives me leverage once we reach Mentor in the Troad.”

If he heard, Memnon gave no sign of it. He stared at his hands, at the grime, at the blood caked beneath his nails. “I failed him, Patron. There’s no way he and his men could have lasted the night, not with what the oligarchs were throwing against him. I had one chance and I failed.” Memnon looked up, his eyebrows cocked. “Why were you on the beach? I thought …”

“Conscience.” Patron allowed himself a faint smile. “It cannot be a virtue of any use to a mercenary, yet I find myself saddled with it. Nor am I alone.” He jabbed a thumb at the rest of the crew. “These malcontents thought you worth saving, too.”

The younger man’s head sagged. “I thank you, but you should have left me to my fate and rescued Timocrates, instead. He would have been of more use.”

Patron stood and accepted a bundle of cloth from Zaleucas. “Stop tormenting yourself. You tried, Memnon, and that’s more of an effort than most would have made. If Timocrates indeed died last night, then it was his destiny, woven from birth, regardless of what you or I might have done.”

“Tell it to his shade, Patron.” Memnon struggled to stand, his footing still unsure. With each movement a fresh barrage of pain lanced through his skull. “Where are we? How long till we make landfall?”

“Landfall?” Patron handed the
chiton
to him. “We’ve not left Rhodes, yet. We’re riding our anchor offshore a ways.”

Memnon’s brows knitted as he glanced out over the railing.
Circe,
her oars shipped, her stern to the wind, lay just outside the mouth of the smallest harbor, on the seaward side of a headland of surf-scoured rock. Water the color of lapis lazuli, flecked with white spray, faded to turquoise as it neared the shore. Beyond the headland, Memnon could see thin columns of black smoke rising over red-tiled roofs; towering above the city, the glittering temples of the acropolis appeared as distant and aloof as the Olympian gods, themselves. With a shudder, Memnon realized the thickest smoke rose from the neighborhood of his father’s house.

Patron came up beside him and sighed. “For some men, Conscience is a balm. For others, it’s a brass-winged Fury. That’s why I stayed.”

“Have you seen anything,” Memnon said, “any activity?”

Patron shook his head. “Nothing. The city’s been like a tomb most of the morning, almost as though …” the captain of
Circe
trailed off, frowning.

“Almost as though they’re ashamed of what they’ve done.” Memnon turned to face his captain, his eyes hard as flint, his voice thick with desperation. “I’ve got to go back. I’ve got to see for myself what’s happened to him. I’ll go alone if—”

“I failed you once, my friend,” Patron said, clapping the younger man on the shoulder. “I’ll not fail you a second time.” He spun away and bellowed at the crew. “Look alive, you sons of whores! Armor up and man the oars! This time, Memnon’s not going it alone!”

 

S
AND CRUNCHED BENEATH
C
IRCE’S
KEEL.
S
INGLY AND IN PAIRS, TWENTY-
five men vaulted the gunwales and splashed ashore, charging through the knee-high surf like Homer’s Achaeans. Sunlight blazed from the burnished bronze of their shield facings, shimmered silver and gray from the iron blades of their spears. Four of them bore heavy Persian style bows. They paused a moment while their fellows remaining onboard the ship bent their backs to the oars, forcing the
pentekonter
off the strand and back out into the harbor. Satisfied
Circe
would be safe with only half its crew, Patron gestured for them to move out.

Curious faces watched from the shelter of the ship sheds and fishing shacks as Memnon took the lead, guiding the double column of warriors up the beach and over the retaining wall. Palm fronds rustled in their wake. Around the little harbor, those few who braved the quiet streets, scavengers and honest men alike, fled as the armed party ascended the terraced hillside. Shutters slammed at the sound of jingling harness. A panicky hand stifled an infant’s cry. Memnon felt hidden eyes on him, glaring, hot with rage and afraid the least movement on their part would spark a fresh outbreak of violence. He sensed something else, too, lurking beneath the anger, the fear. He sensed despair. Those who had witnessed the savagery firsthand knew they had seen a singular event: fifty-one years of liberty destroyed in a matter of hours. It was almost too much for them to bear.

Ahead, Memnon caught sight of a familiar landmark: the columned portico of the
nymphaeum,
the fountain house, where he had spent a moment’s respite the night before. His pace increased. The street dipped into a shallow valley, thick with groves of cypress and olive watered by a gurgling spring sacred to Artemis. Like an Olympian sprinter, the son of Timocrates surged forward. He crested the ridge, his face ashen, and stopped.

“Zeus Savior! No!”

The gates leading to his ancestral home stood open, blasted off their hinges by makeshift battering rams; debris strewed the ground: chunks of masonry and broken roof tiles, splintered wood and scraps of scorched linen. Skeins of black smoke floated up from the detritus of day-old bonfires, thinning to translucent charcoal in the freshening breeze. The crisp smell of ruptured cedar mingled with the stenches of burning tar, seared oil, and cooked flesh. Memnon’s legs trembled; he might have fallen to his knees had a reassuring hand on his shoulder not imparted its strength on him. Patron stood by his side.

“He couldn’t have survived it. He couldn’t have.”

“Easy there, lad,” Patron said. The others drew up alongside them, muttering curses and admonitions to the gods. “Maybe his people got him out. Whoever built that place had a siege in mind when they raised those walls.”

The villa’s walls were old—older than the foundation of Rhodes-town—and thick, designed to repel raiders from land or sea. Ivy softened the hard lines of the stone, adding a touch of color to what once amounted to a fortress. “My grandfather’s grandfather,” Memnon said. “He grubbed each stone from the earth, cut, shaped, and mortared it into place with his own hands. All of this,” he gestured behind him, “from the shore to the summit of the acropolis was his.”

“How did Dorieus get a hold of it?”

“From my grandfather. He gifted the land to Dorieus in order to make the city of Rhodes a reality, with the proviso he could keep the house and grounds intact as a haven to raise his sons and grandsons. A haven …”

Through soot and sear, Memnon could still make out the image of Helios carved into the stone lintel over the gate. He imagined his father standing beneath it, his hair less gray, his face less lined and careworn, smiling as his two young sons ran a footrace up the road, the elder stopping to allow the younger time to catch up. The race would end in a tie, and Timocrates would sweep both sons up, balance them on his shoulders, and parade them through the gate like Olympian conquerors.

“Look,” Zaleucas said, pointing. A knot of men, eight in all, stood to the left of the gates. Most were young, Memnon’s age, armed with spears, knives, and harpoons, and displaying scraps of blue cloth knotted about their biceps. They stiffened, eyeing
Circe’s
war party with nervous anticipation.

Patron turned to his men. “Constrain yourselves. If it comes to blows I’d prefer not to have to kill the lot of them.” The captain of
Circe
didn’t bother lowering his voice and his words had an immediate effect on the young men at the gates: they paled; their weapons clattered as they sought reassurance in the touch of wood and iron.

One of them stepped forward. “Memnon?” he said. Sweat beaded his long forehead, plastering his unkempt dark hair to his scalp. A pale scar tugged at the corner of his left eye. “You may not recall who I am. I—”

“I remember you, Eumaeus,” Memnon said. “Father often paid you to look after his olive trees. If that blue rag you’re wearing marks you as one of Philolaus’s toadies, then we have nothing to discuss. Go back to your new master and tell him I will come for him soon enough!”

Eumaeus shuffled from foot to foot, taken aback at the rancor in Memnon’s voice. “He knew you’d come, Philolaus did. That’s why he put us here and gave us a message for you.”

“A message?”

Nodding, Eumaeus said, “Philolaus seeks a parley.”

Patron grunted and spat. “That son of a whore has balls the size of gourds if he thinks we’ll trust him. Likely it’s a trap, Memnon. A ruse to get you alone and cut your throat.”

“Likely,” Memnon said. “What are his terms?”

“You and he, alone, in the Assembly, at dusk. You may bring an escort of no more than ten men, and he will do likewise. As a gesture of goodwill, he ordered us to keep any looters away till you got here.”

“Goodwill?” Memnon snarled. “That’s his concept of goodwill? His dogs swarm over my father’s house but he’ll protect the ruins until I’m able to tour them! Zeus Savior and Helios! Goodwill? Someone shoot this fool! That should send a loud enough answer to Philolaus!”

In a single fluid motion, Sciron of Argos drew an arrow, nocked it, and bent his bow. Three others followed suit. Eumaeus’s courage flowed away like water through a sieve. His spear toppled to the ground; Eumaeus held out his hands, imploring, as he backed away. “Wait! Wait! I had no part in your father’s death! None!”

Memnon stopped the archers with a gesture. “So he is dead?”

“I … I don’t know,” Eumaeus said. “Not for certain, at least. We were told not to pass the gate, either. Philolaus’s orders.”

Memnon said nothing for a moment; then jerked his head, dismissing the guards. “Clear out, all of you.” Relieved, the other guards scurried away. Eumaeus, though, lagged.

“What do I tell Philolaus?”

Memnon exchanged glances with Patron. “There’s no way you can trust him, lad,” the older man muttered.

“I know.” Memnon’s eyes narrowed as he stalked toward his father’s home. He passed Eumaeus and said, “Tell him I accept his terms, but if I catch even the slightest whiff of betrayal he’ll not live to enjoy it.” Eumaeus nodded and withdrew as Memnon crossed the threshold of the gates, Patron and the others in his wake.

Rubble choked the courtyard—shattered stone and brick from where the battering rams had breached the gate; charred timbers, smashed floor and roof tiles, and toppled statuary all covered in a glaze of ash and pulverized plaster. Bodies lay twisted amid the ruins, their limbs crusted with dried blood, their right arms ending in jagged stumps. The faces of men Memnon had known for most his life now looked foreign to him; waxen, like masks carved at the instant of death. Memnon stepped lightly, cursing as his foot nudged a corpse and dislodged a cloud of flies from a gaping belly wound.

“Merciful Zeus!” Memnon felt a tightening in his stomach. “He’s here, I know it. But where to start? The grounds first, then the house? Or should we split up?”