to fly,” Chares said. Of all the generals, only the Athenian looked the part. With his bronzed limbs and silver-chased armor, Chares could have sprung from a sculptor’s imagination,
andreia
given life, masculine virtue clothed in flesh. Memnon, though, knew Chares for what he was—a freebooter masquerading as an upright citizen of Athens, an admiral elected by popular acclaim, but more for his beauty than for his martial skill. “Now that he’s marched, Mithridates has squandered his only viable asset—Dascylium’s walls. That courtly fool and his peasant army could have held us off till midsummer.”
“A lack of respect for your enemy is the quickest path to defeat,” Artabazus said, capturing and holding Chares’ eyes for a long moment. He circled the table, limping from a spear wound older than the men he addressed. “You assume Mithridates is desperate or a fool because he doesn’t think as you do. I assure you, he is neither. But, he is an Achaemenid to his very core. He cannot conceive of losing to a rabble of
Yauna
led by a doddering old man. What does that tell us?”
Memnon frowned. Like a sophist, Artabazus taught war’s principles through disputation. “That he’s arrogant?”
“Indeed. And as with a spent arrow or a discarded sword, arrogance is a weapon that can be turned against its owner.” Artabazus patted Memnon’s shoulder.
“If Mithridates has been on the move for four days,” Mentor said, “he should be … here.” He touched a spot on the coast near the island of Arctonnesus and frowned. Artabazus noticed his clouded look.
“What troubles you, my friend?”
The elder Rhodian tapped the map with a black-nailed finger. His eyes narrowed. “Cyzicus. It’s a rich port, and from my experience such enclaves of wealth breed hotbeds of dissension. They could easily raise a mercenary force of some consequence. But, their loyalty is an unknown quantity. Could Mithridates have struck a bargain with them?”
“What of it, Memnon?” Artabazus said. “You’ve been in the vicinity of Cyzicus. Do they seem disposed to help us or hinder us?”
Memnon shook his head. “Neither. I’ve spoken with Demostratus, who leads their Assembly, and he assures me that the folk of Cyzicus value their independence too highly to interfere, as allies or enemies. They will pledge their allegiance only when a clear-cut victor is decided.”
“And if they’ve played you false?” Chares said. “What then? I mean you no insult, Memnon, but by what measure do you judge this Demostratus? In Athens we have politicians of every stripe, and in listening to the least of them even I have difficulty winnowing truth from tale. Have the gods granted you some special wisdom that allows you to see beyond political motivations and into a man’s heart?”
Memnon smiled, though his eyes remained cold and hard. “No, the gods gave me a far greater gift. It’s called forethought. If a man thinks I’m a fool, it keeps me from loosing my tongue and proving him right. I trust what I see, Chares. I trust what I hear and what I can feel in the pit of my stomach. Most of all, though, I trust what I know of democracies. In theory, it’s a noble endeavor; in practice, it’s as useless as racing a hobbled stallion. If Demostratus wanted to join forces with Mithridates, he would first need to present his case to the Council, argue it before the Assembly, secure the required votes, dicker over raising a mercenary force versus a citizen militia … Zeus Savior! By then, Mithridates will be dead and Artabazus in control of the whole of the Hellespont.” The Athenian’s face darkened, but a look from Artabazus silenced the retort forming on his lips.
“I am inclined to trust Memnon’s judgment,” Artabazus said. “What say you, Mentor?”
Mentor, hunched over the table, glanced from his brother to the map. He chewed his lip; his forefingers beat a staccato rhythm against the table’s edge, drumming out a message
andreia
given life, masculine virtue clothed in flesh. Memnon, though, knew Chares for what he was—a freebooter masquerading as an upright citizen of Athens, an admiral elected by popular acclaim, but more for his beauty than for his martial skill. “Now that he’s marched, Mithridates has squandered his only viable asset—Dascylium’s walls. That courtly fool and his peasant army could have held us off till midsummer.”
“A lack of respect for your enemy is the quickest path to defeat,” Artabazus said, capturing and holding Chares’ eyes for a long moment. He circled the table, limping from a spear wound older than the men he addressed. “You assume Mithridates is desperate or a fool because he doesn’t think as you do. I assure you, he is neither. But, he is an Achaemenid to his very core. He cannot conceive of losing to a rabble of
Yauna
led by a doddering old man. What does that tell us?”
Memnon frowned. Like a sophist, Artabazus taught war’s principles through disputation. “That he’s arrogant?”
“Indeed. And as with a spent arrow or a discarded sword, arrogance is a weapon that can be turned against its owner.” Artabazus patted Memnon’s shoulder.
“If Mithridates has been on the move for four days,” Mentor said, “he should be … here.” He touched a spot on the coast near the island of Arctonnesus and frowned. Artabazus noticed his clouded look.
“What troubles you, my friend?”
The elder Rhodian tapped the map with a black-nailed finger. His eyes narrowed. “Cyzicus. It’s a rich port, and from my experience such enclaves of wealth breed hotbeds of dissension. They could easily raise a mercenary force of some consequence. But, their loyalty is an unknown quantity. Could Mithridates have struck a bargain with them?”
“What of it, Memnon?” Artabazus said. “You’ve been in the vicinity of Cyzicus. Do they seem disposed to help us or hinder us?”
Memnon shook his head. “Neither. I’ve spoken with Demostratus, who leads their Assembly, and he assures me that the folk of Cyzicus value their independence too highly to interfere, as allies or enemies. They will pledge their allegiance only when a clear-cut victor is decided.”
“And if they’ve played you false?” Chares said. “What then? I mean you no insult, Memnon, but by what measure do you judge this Demostratus? In Athens we have politicians of every stripe, and in listening to the least of them even I have difficulty winnowing truth from tale. Have the gods granted you some special wisdom that allows you to see beyond political motivations and into a man’s heart?”
Memnon smiled, though his eyes remained cold and hard. “No, the gods gave me a far greater gift. It’s called forethought. If a man thinks I’m a fool, it keeps me from loosing my tongue and proving him right. I trust what I see, Chares. I trust what I hear and what I can feel in the pit of my stomach. Most of all, though, I trust what I know of democracies. In theory, it’s a noble endeavor; in practice, it’s as useless as racing a hobbled stallion. If Demostratus wanted to join forces with Mithridates, he would first need to present his case to the Council, argue it before the Assembly, secure the required votes, dicker over raising a mercenary force versus a citizen militia … Zeus Savior! By then, Mithridates will be dead and Artabazus in control of the whole of the Hellespont.” The Athenian’s face darkened, but a look from Artabazus silenced the retort forming on his lips.
“I am inclined to trust Memnon’s judgment,” Artabazus said. “What say you, Mentor?”
Mentor, hunched over the table, glanced from his brother to the map. He chewed his lip; his forefingers beat a staccato rhythm against the table’s edge, drumming out a message
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