Memnon by Scott Oden

their companions. If he couldn’t lose them, perhaps he could demoralize them, sap their interest in him by killing them one at a time. Memnon stopped. Too late, he heard the crunch of a foot on sand, the whistle of wood swinging through the air. He half-turned …
    … 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,