too.”
The younger man’s head sagged. “I thank you, but you should have left me to my fate and rescued Timocrates, instead. He would have been of more use.”
Patron stood and accepted a bundle of cloth from Zaleucas. “Stop tormenting yourself. You tried, Memnon, and that’s more of an effort than most would have made. If Timocrates indeed died last night, then it was his destiny, woven from birth, regardless of what you or I might have done.”
“Tell it to his shade, Patron.” Memnon struggled to stand, his footing still unsure. With each movement a fresh barrage of pain lanced through his skull. “Where are we? How long till we make landfall?”
“Landfall?” Patron handed the
chiton
to him. “We’ve not left Rhodes, yet. We’re riding our anchor offshore a ways.”
Memnon’s brows knitted as he glanced out over the railing.
Circe,
her oars shipped, her stern to the wind, lay just outside the mouth of the smallest harbor, on the seaward side of a headland of surf-scoured rock. Water the color of lapis lazuli, flecked with white spray, faded to turquoise as it neared the shore. Beyond the headland, Memnon could see thin columns of black smoke rising over red-tiled roofs; towering above the city, the glittering temples of the acropolis appeared as distant and aloof as the Olympian gods, themselves. With a shudder, Memnon realized the thickest smoke rose from the neighborhood of his father’s house.
Patron came up beside him and sighed. “For some men, Conscience is a balm. For others, it’s a brass-winged Fury. That’s why I stayed.”
“Have you seen anything,” Memnon said, “any activity?”
Patron shook his head. “Nothing. The city’s been like a tomb most of the morning, almost as though …” the captain of
Circe
trailed off, frowning.
“Almost as though they’re ashamed of what they’ve done.” Memnon turned to face his captain, his eyes hard as flint, his voice thick with desperation. “I’ve got to go back. I’ve got to see for myself what’s happened to him. I’ll go alone if—”
“I failed you once, my friend,” Patron said, clapping the younger man on the shoulder. “I’ll not fail you a second time.” He spun away and bellowed at the crew. “Look alive, you sons of whores! Armor up and man the oars! This time, Memnon’s not going it alone!”
S AND CRUNCHED BENEATH
C IRCE’S
KEEL. S INGLY AND IN PAIRS, TWENTY- five men vaulted the gunwales and splashed ashore, charging through the knee-high surf like Homer’s Achaeans. Sunlight blazed from the burnished bronze of their shield facings, shimmered silver and gray from the iron blades of their spears. Four of them bore heavy Persian style bows. They paused a moment while their fellows remaining onboard the ship bent their backs to the oars, forcing the
pentekonter
off the strand and back out into the harbor. Satisfied
Circe
would be safe with only half its crew, Patron gestured for them to move out.
Curious faces watched from the shelter of the ship sheds and fishing shacks as Memnon took the lead, guiding the double column of warriors up the beach and over the retaining wall. Palm fronds rustled in their wake. Around the little harbor, those few who braved the quiet streets, scavengers and honest men alike, fled as the armed party ascended the terraced hillside. Shutters slammed at the sound of jingling harness. A panicky hand stifled an infant’s cry. Memnon felt hidden eyes on him, glaring, hot with rage and afraid the least movement on their part would spark a fresh outbreak of violence. He sensed something else, too, lurking beneath the anger, the fear. He sensed despair. Those who had witnessed the savagery firsthand knew they had seen a singular event: fifty-one years of liberty destroyed in a matter of hours. It was almost too much for them to bear.
Ahead, Memnon caught sight of a familiar landmark: the columned portico of the
nymphaeum,
the fountain house, where he had spent a moment’s
The younger man’s head sagged. “I thank you, but you should have left me to my fate and rescued Timocrates, instead. He would have been of more use.”
Patron stood and accepted a bundle of cloth from Zaleucas. “Stop tormenting yourself. You tried, Memnon, and that’s more of an effort than most would have made. If Timocrates indeed died last night, then it was his destiny, woven from birth, regardless of what you or I might have done.”
“Tell it to his shade, Patron.” Memnon struggled to stand, his footing still unsure. With each movement a fresh barrage of pain lanced through his skull. “Where are we? How long till we make landfall?”
“Landfall?” Patron handed the
chiton
to him. “We’ve not left Rhodes, yet. We’re riding our anchor offshore a ways.”
Memnon’s brows knitted as he glanced out over the railing.
Circe,
her oars shipped, her stern to the wind, lay just outside the mouth of the smallest harbor, on the seaward side of a headland of surf-scoured rock. Water the color of lapis lazuli, flecked with white spray, faded to turquoise as it neared the shore. Beyond the headland, Memnon could see thin columns of black smoke rising over red-tiled roofs; towering above the city, the glittering temples of the acropolis appeared as distant and aloof as the Olympian gods, themselves. With a shudder, Memnon realized the thickest smoke rose from the neighborhood of his father’s house.
Patron came up beside him and sighed. “For some men, Conscience is a balm. For others, it’s a brass-winged Fury. That’s why I stayed.”
“Have you seen anything,” Memnon said, “any activity?”
Patron shook his head. “Nothing. The city’s been like a tomb most of the morning, almost as though …” the captain of
Circe
trailed off, frowning.
“Almost as though they’re ashamed of what they’ve done.” Memnon turned to face his captain, his eyes hard as flint, his voice thick with desperation. “I’ve got to go back. I’ve got to see for myself what’s happened to him. I’ll go alone if—”
“I failed you once, my friend,” Patron said, clapping the younger man on the shoulder. “I’ll not fail you a second time.” He spun away and bellowed at the crew. “Look alive, you sons of whores! Armor up and man the oars! This time, Memnon’s not going it alone!”
S AND CRUNCHED BENEATH
C IRCE’S
KEEL. S INGLY AND IN PAIRS, TWENTY- five men vaulted the gunwales and splashed ashore, charging through the knee-high surf like Homer’s Achaeans. Sunlight blazed from the burnished bronze of their shield facings, shimmered silver and gray from the iron blades of their spears. Four of them bore heavy Persian style bows. They paused a moment while their fellows remaining onboard the ship bent their backs to the oars, forcing the
pentekonter
off the strand and back out into the harbor. Satisfied
Circe
would be safe with only half its crew, Patron gestured for them to move out.
Curious faces watched from the shelter of the ship sheds and fishing shacks as Memnon took the lead, guiding the double column of warriors up the beach and over the retaining wall. Palm fronds rustled in their wake. Around the little harbor, those few who braved the quiet streets, scavengers and honest men alike, fled as the armed party ascended the terraced hillside. Shutters slammed at the sound of jingling harness. A panicky hand stifled an infant’s cry. Memnon felt hidden eyes on him, glaring, hot with rage and afraid the least movement on their part would spark a fresh outbreak of violence. He sensed something else, too, lurking beneath the anger, the fear. He sensed despair. Those who had witnessed the savagery firsthand knew they had seen a singular event: fifty-one years of liberty destroyed in a matter of hours. It was almost too much for them to bear.
Ahead, Memnon caught sight of a familiar landmark: the columned portico of the
nymphaeum,
the fountain house, where he had spent a moment’s
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