respite the night before. His pace increased. The street dipped into a shallow valley, thick with groves of cypress and olive watered by a gurgling spring sacred to Artemis. Like an Olympian sprinter, the son of Timocrates surged forward. He crested the ridge, his face ashen, and stopped.
“Zeus Savior! No!”
The gates leading to his ancestral home stood open, blasted off their hinges by makeshift battering rams; debris strewed the ground: chunks of masonry and broken roof tiles, splintered wood and scraps of scorched linen. Skeins of black smoke floated up from the detritus of day-old bonfires, thinning to translucent charcoal in the freshening breeze. The crisp smell of ruptured cedar mingled with the stenches of burning tar, seared oil, and cooked flesh. Memnon’s legs trembled; he might have fallen to his knees had a reassuring hand on his shoulder not imparted its strength on him. Patron stood by his side.
“He couldn’t have survived it. He couldn’t have.”
“Easy there, lad,” Patron said. The others drew up alongside them, muttering curses and admonitions to the gods. “Maybe his people got him out. Whoever built that place had a siege in mind when they raised those walls.”
The villa’s walls were old—older than the foundation of Rhodes-town—and thick, designed to repel raiders from land or sea. Ivy softened the hard lines of the stone, adding a touch of color to what once amounted to a fortress. “My grandfather’s grandfather,” Memnon said. “He grubbed each stone from the earth, cut, shaped, and mortared it into place with his own hands. All of this,” he gestured behind him, “from the shore to the summit of the acropolis was his.”
“How did Dorieus get a hold of it?”
“From my grandfather. He gifted the land to Dorieus in order to make the city of Rhodes a reality, with the proviso he could keep the house and grounds intact as a haven to raise his sons and grandsons. A haven …”
Through soot and sear, Memnon could still make out the image of Helios carved into the stone lintel over the gate. He imagined his father standing beneath it, his hair less gray, his face less lined and careworn, smiling as his two young sons ran a footrace up the road, the elder stopping to allow the younger time to catch up. The race would end in a tie, and Timocrates would sweep both sons up, balance them on his shoulders, and parade them through the gate like Olympian conquerors.
“Look,” Zaleucas said, pointing. A knot of men, eight in all, stood to the left of the gates. Most were young, Memnon’s age, armed with spears, knives, and harpoons, and displaying scraps of blue cloth knotted about their biceps. They stiffened, eyeing
Circe’s
war party with nervous anticipation.
Patron turned to his men. “Constrain yourselves. If it comes to blows I’d prefer not to have to kill the lot of them.” The captain of
Circe
didn’t bother lowering his voice and his words had an immediate effect on the young men at the gates: they paled; their weapons clattered as they sought reassurance in the touch of wood and iron.
One of them stepped forward. “Memnon?” he said. Sweat beaded his long forehead, plastering his unkempt dark hair to his scalp. A pale scar tugged at the corner of his left eye. “You may not recall who I am. I—”
“I remember you, Eumaeus,” Memnon said. “Father often paid you to look after his olive trees. If that blue rag you’re wearing marks you as one of Philolaus’s toadies, then we have nothing to discuss. Go back to your new master and tell him I will come for him soon enough!”
Eumaeus shuffled from foot to foot, taken aback at the rancor in Memnon’s voice. “He knew you’d come, Philolaus did. That’s why he put us here and gave us a message for you.”
“A message?”
Nodding, Eumaeus said, “Philolaus seeks a parley.”
Patron grunted and spat. “That son of a whore has balls the size of gourds if he thinks we’ll trust him. Likely it’s
“Zeus Savior! No!”
The gates leading to his ancestral home stood open, blasted off their hinges by makeshift battering rams; debris strewed the ground: chunks of masonry and broken roof tiles, splintered wood and scraps of scorched linen. Skeins of black smoke floated up from the detritus of day-old bonfires, thinning to translucent charcoal in the freshening breeze. The crisp smell of ruptured cedar mingled with the stenches of burning tar, seared oil, and cooked flesh. Memnon’s legs trembled; he might have fallen to his knees had a reassuring hand on his shoulder not imparted its strength on him. Patron stood by his side.
“He couldn’t have survived it. He couldn’t have.”
“Easy there, lad,” Patron said. The others drew up alongside them, muttering curses and admonitions to the gods. “Maybe his people got him out. Whoever built that place had a siege in mind when they raised those walls.”
The villa’s walls were old—older than the foundation of Rhodes-town—and thick, designed to repel raiders from land or sea. Ivy softened the hard lines of the stone, adding a touch of color to what once amounted to a fortress. “My grandfather’s grandfather,” Memnon said. “He grubbed each stone from the earth, cut, shaped, and mortared it into place with his own hands. All of this,” he gestured behind him, “from the shore to the summit of the acropolis was his.”
“How did Dorieus get a hold of it?”
“From my grandfather. He gifted the land to Dorieus in order to make the city of Rhodes a reality, with the proviso he could keep the house and grounds intact as a haven to raise his sons and grandsons. A haven …”
Through soot and sear, Memnon could still make out the image of Helios carved into the stone lintel over the gate. He imagined his father standing beneath it, his hair less gray, his face less lined and careworn, smiling as his two young sons ran a footrace up the road, the elder stopping to allow the younger time to catch up. The race would end in a tie, and Timocrates would sweep both sons up, balance them on his shoulders, and parade them through the gate like Olympian conquerors.
“Look,” Zaleucas said, pointing. A knot of men, eight in all, stood to the left of the gates. Most were young, Memnon’s age, armed with spears, knives, and harpoons, and displaying scraps of blue cloth knotted about their biceps. They stiffened, eyeing
Circe’s
war party with nervous anticipation.
Patron turned to his men. “Constrain yourselves. If it comes to blows I’d prefer not to have to kill the lot of them.” The captain of
Circe
didn’t bother lowering his voice and his words had an immediate effect on the young men at the gates: they paled; their weapons clattered as they sought reassurance in the touch of wood and iron.
One of them stepped forward. “Memnon?” he said. Sweat beaded his long forehead, plastering his unkempt dark hair to his scalp. A pale scar tugged at the corner of his left eye. “You may not recall who I am. I—”
“I remember you, Eumaeus,” Memnon said. “Father often paid you to look after his olive trees. If that blue rag you’re wearing marks you as one of Philolaus’s toadies, then we have nothing to discuss. Go back to your new master and tell him I will come for him soon enough!”
Eumaeus shuffled from foot to foot, taken aback at the rancor in Memnon’s voice. “He knew you’d come, Philolaus did. That’s why he put us here and gave us a message for you.”
“A message?”
Nodding, Eumaeus said, “Philolaus seeks a parley.”
Patron grunted and spat. “That son of a whore has balls the size of gourds if he thinks we’ll trust him. Likely it’s
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