of harness as one of the guards shifted his weight, to the twittering of the chamberlain as he laid out plans for his master’s dinner. Memnon could feel a change in air pressure, a tension that presaged motion. Thunder rumbled in the distance. “We won’t fail,” he said suddenly, his voice low and brimming with a young man’s ferocity. “We can’t fail!”
T HE VILLAGE OF Z ELEIA LAY IN THE THICKLY WOODED VALLEY OF THE Aisopus River, its dark waters rain-swollen and frigid from the melting snows of Mount Ida. The land had known a variety of masters—from the Trojans, who seeded the woods with game for their hunting pleasure, to the kings of Lydia, who preferred fragrant gardens and exotic birds. The rise of Persia brought little in the way of change. Now, it was the King of Kings in distant Susa who granted estates to his favorites, to the cream of Iranian nobility, who brought their retinues here in the spring and autumn to hunt the uplands and to stroll the ancient parks.
To Memnon’s eyes, the town looked small and rustic, wholly unworthy of its noble antecedents. Houses of rough stone and timber, roofed with tiles of reddish clay brought overland from Sardis, lined the road leading up to the castle of the local grandee—a Milesian Greek who owed his position to Artabazus’s patronage. By rights, the old satrap could have commandeered the castle for his own use, but its small size would have forced him to billet his men elsewhere. Artabazus preferred to keep company with his soldiers.
Lightning crackled across the sky, followed by the crash of thunder. Thick drops of rain spattered on Memnon’s cloak as he trotted past the last house on the road to the castle, careful of the basket he carried. The wind picked up, roaring through the trees on the slopes above Zeleia. Another night of rain meant tomorrow’s departure would be a slow and muddy affair. For an instant, Memnon regretted the errand that brought him out of his quarters and up to the castle, but it was unavoidable. It would be bad manners if he didn’t pay his respects to the ladies of Artabazus’s harem.
Memnon ducked through the open gate of the castle as the sky unleashed its tempest. Just inside, a Persian, one of the
kardakes,
stood guard, his body muffled in a thick cloak. Though traditionally the term
kardakes
applied only to young Persian men in training for war, Artabazus’s father, the satrap Pharnabazus, used it to denote a hybrid soldier, a Persian who trained and armed himself in Greek fashion. The
kardakes
carried heavier spears, eight-footers counterbalanced by a butt-spike, and bowl-shaped shields faced with bronze. They wore the typical Median trousers and boots, with a coat of iron scales and a turban-wrapped helmet as their only defensive garb.
Memnon reckoned it was the innate stubbornness of the Persian that kept them from adopting the full panoply, despite witnessing its superiority in battle after battle. Perhaps Artabazus would allow him to experiment with it.
“Peace be with you, Memnon,” the guard said, leaning on his spear. “I rejoiced to hear of your return. Have you come to see the girls?”
“Greetings, Arius,” Memnon grinned, shaking water from his eyes. “This weather doubtless has them skittish. I thought they would enjoy a bit of company.”
“I imagine they would, at that,” Arius chuckled. “Is the rumor true? Are we moving out at dawn?”
“It’s true.”
“Praise Mithras,” Arius said. “I am ready to quit this place. The weather is abominable.”
“You’ll get no argument from me,” Memnon said. “If I’m still here when you’re relieved, tell your replacement.” The young Rhodian, mindful of his wicker basket, left the shelter of the gate at a dead run. He veered away from the entrance to the castle and made for the stables, vaulting the fence around the yard and sprinting inside. The foundations of the structure doubtless dated back to the days of Pandarus, who led the
T HE VILLAGE OF Z ELEIA LAY IN THE THICKLY WOODED VALLEY OF THE Aisopus River, its dark waters rain-swollen and frigid from the melting snows of Mount Ida. The land had known a variety of masters—from the Trojans, who seeded the woods with game for their hunting pleasure, to the kings of Lydia, who preferred fragrant gardens and exotic birds. The rise of Persia brought little in the way of change. Now, it was the King of Kings in distant Susa who granted estates to his favorites, to the cream of Iranian nobility, who brought their retinues here in the spring and autumn to hunt the uplands and to stroll the ancient parks.
To Memnon’s eyes, the town looked small and rustic, wholly unworthy of its noble antecedents. Houses of rough stone and timber, roofed with tiles of reddish clay brought overland from Sardis, lined the road leading up to the castle of the local grandee—a Milesian Greek who owed his position to Artabazus’s patronage. By rights, the old satrap could have commandeered the castle for his own use, but its small size would have forced him to billet his men elsewhere. Artabazus preferred to keep company with his soldiers.
Lightning crackled across the sky, followed by the crash of thunder. Thick drops of rain spattered on Memnon’s cloak as he trotted past the last house on the road to the castle, careful of the basket he carried. The wind picked up, roaring through the trees on the slopes above Zeleia. Another night of rain meant tomorrow’s departure would be a slow and muddy affair. For an instant, Memnon regretted the errand that brought him out of his quarters and up to the castle, but it was unavoidable. It would be bad manners if he didn’t pay his respects to the ladies of Artabazus’s harem.
Memnon ducked through the open gate of the castle as the sky unleashed its tempest. Just inside, a Persian, one of the
kardakes,
stood guard, his body muffled in a thick cloak. Though traditionally the term
kardakes
applied only to young Persian men in training for war, Artabazus’s father, the satrap Pharnabazus, used it to denote a hybrid soldier, a Persian who trained and armed himself in Greek fashion. The
kardakes
carried heavier spears, eight-footers counterbalanced by a butt-spike, and bowl-shaped shields faced with bronze. They wore the typical Median trousers and boots, with a coat of iron scales and a turban-wrapped helmet as their only defensive garb.
Memnon reckoned it was the innate stubbornness of the Persian that kept them from adopting the full panoply, despite witnessing its superiority in battle after battle. Perhaps Artabazus would allow him to experiment with it.
“Peace be with you, Memnon,” the guard said, leaning on his spear. “I rejoiced to hear of your return. Have you come to see the girls?”
“Greetings, Arius,” Memnon grinned, shaking water from his eyes. “This weather doubtless has them skittish. I thought they would enjoy a bit of company.”
“I imagine they would, at that,” Arius chuckled. “Is the rumor true? Are we moving out at dawn?”
“It’s true.”
“Praise Mithras,” Arius said. “I am ready to quit this place. The weather is abominable.”
“You’ll get no argument from me,” Memnon said. “If I’m still here when you’re relieved, tell your replacement.” The young Rhodian, mindful of his wicker basket, left the shelter of the gate at a dead run. He veered away from the entrance to the castle and made for the stables, vaulting the fence around the yard and sprinting inside. The foundations of the structure doubtless dated back to the days of Pandarus, who led the
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