Corinth … Corinth, Memnon! Imagine it! They say even the most common courtesans wear gold and jewels in Corinth. What would they make of me, I wonder?” Thalia tossed her head and preened. Her fingers loosened, and the linen bedclothes slid down her body, bunching about her trim waist. Golden skin glowed in the lamplight; the lush curves of her breasts brought a lump to Memnon’s throat.
Like a lamb to the altar.
“What, indeed,” he said, reaching for her.
Thalia stiffened as a sound drifted through the door, the squeak of a floor plank. Memnon frowned. A soft knock brought him to his feet. He drew his knife and crossed to the door. “What do you want?”
“Open the door, you damned pup!”
Though muffled, Memnon recognized the voice. He lifted the bar. Patron stood in the narrow hall, his attitude one of wariness. He wore a mariner’s leather cuirass, reinforced with disks of bronze pitted from the sea air and waxy with verdigris. A curved sword hung from a baldric over his left shoulder.
“You risk life and limb going abroad alone on a night like this, Patron,” Memnon said, stepping aside to allow
Circe’s
captain entrance. “What goes?”
“Still eager to be gone from Rhodes?” Patron glanced sidewise at Thalia, who stretched catlike.
Memnon followed his gaze. “I am.”
“We’re leaving at dawn instead of week’s end,” Patron said, keeping his voice low. He walked to the window and inched the shutter open. Acrid smoke drifted in on the night breeze. “I’ve seen cities under siege, I’ve seen them sacked and burnt, I’ve even seen them decimated by plague, but I’ve never seen a city tear itself apart. Men who were neighbors at breakfast are sworn enemies at supper. All of this because of what, an ideal?”
“There’s a point in time,” Memnon said, “when the inhabitants of a region or an island come together as one to form a
polis.
Philosophers call this
synoikismos.
Father likened it to the way embers can be raked into a pile and a fire built from them. These flames of political unity burn in different ways, but they all need fodder—new ideas, new obstacles, new challenges. Without such nourishment, the
polis
will consume itself, destroying the very embers that gave it life. Yet, even then hope is not lost. Consider the bird of Ethiopia, the phoenix, whose young rise from the ashes of its elder. If a
polis
destroys itself, invariably the survivors will band together and a new
polis
will emerge.” Memnon gestured out the window. “This looks chaotic to our eyes, but in reality it’s part of the life cycle of a city. Rhodes will be reborn, hopefully stronger and wiser.”
Patron smiled and clapped Memnon on the shoulder. “You are your father’s son, Memnon. It gladdens me to see you well after your adventure in the Assembly.”
“You heard?”
“It’s on everyone’s lips.”
Memnon’s eyes clouded as he leaned his shoulder against the window frame. “What are they saying? Are the democrats cursing me for saving Philolaus’s life? Had I done nothing, perhaps all of this,” his gesture encompassed Rhodes, “would not have come to pass. The democrats would still be in control.”
“The gods marvel at your arrogance, Memnon,” Patron said. “Even if you’d let Philolaus die, civil war would have been inevitable. Rhodes has chafed for years under Athens’s thumb. The democrats, your father included, are little more than Athenian puppets even as the oligarchs serve the wishes of Mausolus of Caria. Civil war is the culmination of a long chain of events that has little to do with you.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Memnon said.
“Of course I am. Come, though, make your farewells brief. Some of the others await me out—” Patron stopped as the sounds of a commotion floated up from below, a babble of voices. He and Memnon glanced at one another, then went to the door. One of
Circe’s
crew had just gained the head of the stairs, his face pale, his brow
Like a lamb to the altar.
“What, indeed,” he said, reaching for her.
Thalia stiffened as a sound drifted through the door, the squeak of a floor plank. Memnon frowned. A soft knock brought him to his feet. He drew his knife and crossed to the door. “What do you want?”
“Open the door, you damned pup!”
Though muffled, Memnon recognized the voice. He lifted the bar. Patron stood in the narrow hall, his attitude one of wariness. He wore a mariner’s leather cuirass, reinforced with disks of bronze pitted from the sea air and waxy with verdigris. A curved sword hung from a baldric over his left shoulder.
“You risk life and limb going abroad alone on a night like this, Patron,” Memnon said, stepping aside to allow
Circe’s
captain entrance. “What goes?”
“Still eager to be gone from Rhodes?” Patron glanced sidewise at Thalia, who stretched catlike.
Memnon followed his gaze. “I am.”
“We’re leaving at dawn instead of week’s end,” Patron said, keeping his voice low. He walked to the window and inched the shutter open. Acrid smoke drifted in on the night breeze. “I’ve seen cities under siege, I’ve seen them sacked and burnt, I’ve even seen them decimated by plague, but I’ve never seen a city tear itself apart. Men who were neighbors at breakfast are sworn enemies at supper. All of this because of what, an ideal?”
“There’s a point in time,” Memnon said, “when the inhabitants of a region or an island come together as one to form a
polis.
Philosophers call this
synoikismos.
Father likened it to the way embers can be raked into a pile and a fire built from them. These flames of political unity burn in different ways, but they all need fodder—new ideas, new obstacles, new challenges. Without such nourishment, the
polis
will consume itself, destroying the very embers that gave it life. Yet, even then hope is not lost. Consider the bird of Ethiopia, the phoenix, whose young rise from the ashes of its elder. If a
polis
destroys itself, invariably the survivors will band together and a new
polis
will emerge.” Memnon gestured out the window. “This looks chaotic to our eyes, but in reality it’s part of the life cycle of a city. Rhodes will be reborn, hopefully stronger and wiser.”
Patron smiled and clapped Memnon on the shoulder. “You are your father’s son, Memnon. It gladdens me to see you well after your adventure in the Assembly.”
“You heard?”
“It’s on everyone’s lips.”
Memnon’s eyes clouded as he leaned his shoulder against the window frame. “What are they saying? Are the democrats cursing me for saving Philolaus’s life? Had I done nothing, perhaps all of this,” his gesture encompassed Rhodes, “would not have come to pass. The democrats would still be in control.”
“The gods marvel at your arrogance, Memnon,” Patron said. “Even if you’d let Philolaus die, civil war would have been inevitable. Rhodes has chafed for years under Athens’s thumb. The democrats, your father included, are little more than Athenian puppets even as the oligarchs serve the wishes of Mausolus of Caria. Civil war is the culmination of a long chain of events that has little to do with you.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Memnon said.
“Of course I am. Come, though, make your farewells brief. Some of the others await me out—” Patron stopped as the sounds of a commotion floated up from below, a babble of voices. He and Memnon glanced at one another, then went to the door. One of
Circe’s
crew had just gained the head of the stairs, his face pale, his brow
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