Free Memnon by Scott Oden

to look after the other bodies, leaving Memnon alone in the shadow of the peristyle. He sat grim-faced, his chin resting on the pommel of his sheathed sword as he contemplated the corpse of his father. Timocrates had been an elemental force in the young man’s life—a god to be appeased; a tempest who thrived on struggle; a taskmaster who demanded excellence from his sons. Though Memnon longed to be free of his influence, Timocrates’ passing left a bewildering void, a tainted sense of freedom.
    I should have stayed with him instead of running off to Thalia’s.
After the brawl in the Assembly, his natural inclination had been to seek out a safe place where he could regroup and gather his thoughts. The speed of the oligarchs’ response had surprised him, true, but it wasn’t unexpected. He should have been prepared; instead, he created a lull in the fighting where none existed and it had cost his father his life.
Is this how I’ll act in the Troad? If battle is offered, will I scamper away to hide in my mistress’s skirt?
    From beyond the open gate leading to the heart of his father’s villa, the sounds of men arming—coarse jokes, muted laughter, the jangle of harness—broke his concentration. He heard footsteps on the paving stones. “Memnon?” Patron called, his voice echoing in the entryway.
    “In here.”
    Circe’s
captain ambled into the inner courtyard, glancing at the makeshift bier as he walked over to where Memnon sat. “Come, it’s getting late. I’ve picked ten men to go with you to this damnable parley. Zeus! I hope you know what you’re doing.”
    Memnon’s eyes hardened. “Philolaus owes me his life. I go to collect.”
    “A wise man,” Patron said, shaking his head, “would knock you senseless and haul your carcass back to the ship. I should be the one going, not you.”
    “No, Patron. This is something I must handle on my own.” Memnon’s leather armor creaked as he stood and looped the baldric of his sword over his shoulder. The weapon settled on his left hip; he slid the blade partly from its sheath, loosening it. “As you said, it’s likely I go to an ambush. If that’s true and I don’t return, will you see to my father?”
    “If that comes to pass I’ll see to the both of you,” Patron said. “But, no matter what happens, lad, don’t trust anything that comes from Philolaus’s mouth. Accept no promises from him, and promise nothing in return. His cause isn’t served by bargaining with you.” He glanced again at the bier, at the shrouded body, and exhaled. “My father died a few years back. I wasn’t there for it.”
    “I pray he died with more pride in his heart for his son than my father had for me,” Memnon said.
    “I wouldn’t wager coin on that. When I was your age, my father arranged for me to apprentice with a counting house in Phocaea. He thought I should make my fortune selling Chian wine to merchants out of Naucratis.”
    Memnon raised an eyebrow. “You? A trader’s apprentice?”
    Patron smiled. “I know, but the old man had a dream. I had a dream, too. So, one night I slipped from my bed, gathered my things, and fled down to the docks. By sunrise I was an oarsman on a galley bound for Taenarum in the Peloponnese. He never forgave me, and he died ‘ere he could see me at the tiller of my own ship. I don’t doubt his shade wanders the grim landscape of Hades’ realm, unable to forget the bitter disappointment I caused him.”
    Memnon extended his hand. “I swear to you, Patron, on my honor, when I meet your father across the river I will set him right on that score.”
    Patron took the proffered hand and tugged the younger man into an embrace. “Do nothing foolish, you damnable pup,” he said, “or, on my honor, I swear I’ll send you across the river myself.”

4
     
    I N THE FADING LIGHT OF DUSK, M EMNON LEFT HIS FATHER’S VILLA AND ascended the hillside. Behind him, the Argive brothers Lycus and Sciron, with eight others of
Circe
‘s