Memnon by Scott Oden Page A

of war. Beneath his blunt and brutal features, Memnon could see the mechanisms of thought grinding away as Mentor tallied their numbers. Seven thousand Athenian hoplites under Chares formed the core of Artabazus’s army, supported by five thousand of Pammenes’ Boeotian brothers. The satrap had his own contingent of household troops, called
kardakes,
which numbered twenty-five hundred, and a small force of horsemen. All told, fifteen thousand men compared with what Mithridates could raise: ten thousand Persian spearmen, levies from as far away as Babylon, provided by the King to see his will be done; another ten thousand local levies, both spearmen and archers, along with upwards of two thousand horsemen from Paphlagonia. Twenty-two thousand versus fifteen thousand. Levies versus professional soldiers. Still, despite their inferior numbers, the odds favored Artabazus.
    Finally, Mentor said, “Memnon’s right. Cyzicus poses no real threat for the near future. I say we strike camp at dawn and march west toward the Granicus. We swing wide, in a half-circle, with enough outriders deployed to give us warning of Mithridates long before he’s aware of us.” He gestured to a point on the map, between Zeleia and the island of Arctonnesus, where the road skirted the shores of Lake Manyas. “And we take them here.” The other generals nodded.
    “Until now,” Artabazus said, “your only crime has been by association. For myself, I have no choice but to rebel. But you, my friends, can still depart here and be held blameless. I daresay Ochus would reward you for it. The time to decide this once and for all is at hand. What say you?”
    Mentor stood up straight. “I speak for myself, my brother, and my followers: we will stand with you, till death if need be!” Memnon muttered in agreement, his chest swelling with pride.
    Pammenes came over to face Artabazus. “You’ve given me a home when the city of my birth would rather see me dead. I swear by Herakles that my men and I will not fail you!” At this, Pammenes clasped Artabazus’s hand and kissed his signet ring.
    Lastly, Chares stepped forward, his manner one of unaccustomed humility. “In autumn, after our defeat at Embata, my men and I lacked the will to live. We had failed our city against the rebels of Cos and Chios and slunk away like whipped dogs, our honor lost. When you found us on Imbros, Artabazus, we were starving, unable to repair our ships, and ready to fall on our own swords; we needed succor and a cause, and you gave us both. What could warm an Athenian’s heart more than bloodying the nose of a Persian king? If the hour is indeed at hand, the men of Athens will stand with you!”
    Artabazus exhaled. He approached each man in turn, embracing him in the Persian fashion and kissing his cheek. As he drew close, Memnon saw tears sparkling in the old satrap’s eyes. “The gods have blessed me with sons, with station, and with long life. Now they have blessed me yet again with companions of the highest caliber. If our enterprise succeeds, I’ll not forget the loyalty you’ve all shown me. If we fail,” Artabazus shrugged, “well, if we fail nothing we’ve said or done here will matter. We’ve much to do in the coming days, and I daresay there will be precious little time for food or rest. After you’ve seen to your men, I invite you to return here and join me for the evening meal.” Artabazus dismissed his generals. He smiled as he took Memnon’s elbow and walked with him toward the door. “Except you. You’re useless to me exhausted. Go and rest, Memnon. You’ve earned it.”
    “I will,” Memnon said, his brow furrowing, “after I’ve seen to my men.”
    “Your enthusiasm does you great justice. Very well, then. Tend to your men, and pass along to them my gratitude.” Artabazus turned and limped back into the heart of the pavilion.
    Memnon paused by the entrance for a moment, listening to the faint murmur arising from the camp, to the clash