Memnon by Scott Oden Read Free Book Online Page A

and crept through the labyrinthine garden, past garland-wreathed statues of Demeter and Persephone; a haze of smoke drifted in the air, sweetened with attar of roses. The springy turf muffled Memnon’s footsteps.
    At the corner of the house, Memnon stopped. He heard voices ahead, harsh grumbles distorted by the thudding of axes on wood. “Shame we can’t get in there before the others and claim the bounty ourselves. Are you sure there’s no other gate?”
    Another voice: “What about it, Brygus?”
    Inching to the corner, Memnon peered around. Illuminated by the light of distant fires, two men alternated hacking at the base of an ancient olive tree. Both men paused and turned toward the figure cowering behind them. Brygus knelt in the grass, a slight man clad in a torn and grimy
chiton,
blood staining his face and beard as he watched the destruction of his property through swollen eyes.
    “You’ve been his neighbor for a dozen years, is there another way in?”
    Brygus shook his head. “Only t-the front gate.”
    One of the men spat. “And we need a battering ram for that. You’re a useless bag of shit, Brygus. You know that? We should take one of these axes to your hand and use the money for a skin of wine. How about it, Sacadas? You hold him; I’ll whack off his hand.”
    The man called Sacadas shrugged, scratching at a scabby beard that couldn’t hide the scars of a childhood pox. “Do what you will, Dyskolos, but kill him first. I don’t want to hear the little shit-bag screaming all night long.”
    Brygus scrambled away from them. “Y-You can’t!”
    Dyskolos hefted his axe, grinning as he stalked the smaller man. “Who’ll know? I should have thought of this sooner, Sacadas. Could have saved ourselves—” Dyskolos never finished. He saw a flicker of movement seconds before Memnon’s javelin tore through the base of his throat, its blade nearly taking his head off. Brygus screamed. As Dyskolos toppled, Memnon stepped out into the light, his arm drawn back, his second javelin poised to throw. To his dismay, Sacadas reacted faster.
    Time slowed. His senses sharpened by adrenalin and fear, Memnon watched Sacadas lunge, his arm snapping forward, his axe whirling end over end. The clumsy tool missed him by inches, but its proximity caused Memnon to recoil and, from reflex, to throw his javelin.
Too soon!
He knew the second it left his hand that his cast had gone awry. Memnon stared as it soared off into the darkness; when he returned his gaze to Sacadas, the larger man had wrenched the javelin from Dyskolos’s corpse and was in motion.
    Memnon fumbled for the hilt of his sword. He’d half-drawn the blade when Sacadas smashed into him, driving the butt of the javelin into his midsection. The young Rhodian’s breath
whooshed
from his lungs; his body catapulted into the air. He struck the ground amid flashes of color and slid across the grass, struggling for breath. Sacadas straddled his fallen body. Memnon caught the javelin shaft with one hand as the mercenary drove it lengthwise across his throat.
    Sacadas fought in silence, without taunts or curses, his lips fixed in a businesslike snarl. Memnon’s free hand flailed about for a weapon—a rock, a branch, anything. His sword lay beneath him, its hilt grinding painfully into his back. Memnon’s fingers brushed the handle of his knife. In one motion he dragged it free of its sheath and buried it in Sacadas’s side. It had no effect. The mercenary bore down harder on the javelin shaft, forcing Memnon’s own knuckles into his windpipe and cutting off his air. Memnon gasped, his eyes bulging. Again and again he plunged his knife into his attacker’s flesh. Blood sprayed over his hand.
    Mentor’s voice thundered through his brain. “To kill a man, you must face him eye to eye and plant your spear in his guts before he does the same to you. When the blade goes in, you’ll see his eyes change—anger, fear, pain, grief …”
    The eyes staring down at