Perdikkas stared at him in confusion.
You really can’t see what you’ve done, can you? You’ve just pushed Leonnatus into the arms of Antipatros and, no doubt, Antigonos too, when he refuses your order for him to help Eumenes; and if you want any friends in that part of the empire then you’ll be forced to help the little Greek win his satrapy yourself. But if you can’t see that then I’m certainly not going to tell you; it would ruin the fun of hearing of your reaction when you do finally get there. ‘Never mind, Perdikkas,’ Ptolemy said with a warm smile, ‘perhaps I’m just being gloomy in my assessment of your diplomatic skills.’ He looked around the assembled officers of Alexander’s army; men he had shared so much with; faces he knew so well and yet now felt that they were all receding from him, becoming strangers, as the bond that had held them together gradually dissolved. ‘Well, gentlemen, I shall take my leave of you. I don’t suppose that we shall ever all be together in the same room again so I would like to say one thing for the time that we have all shared; a time that I know, whatever happens in the future, we shall all of us always hold dear…’
The commotion at the other end of the chamber was sudden and violent, cutting Ptolemy off, causing all to turn towards where Alexander lay; the embalmers halted their work of emptying the corpse of its internal organs.
‘I had claimed sanctuary!’ a voice shouted from the middle of a scrum of men. ‘Sanctuary, you godless scum!’
Well, well, our old friend Meleagros does have a very antiquated way of going about things; sanctuary? Really? How did he think that would help when the only option for anyone in this room is to see him dead?
‘Where did you find him, Neoptolemus?’ Perdikkas demanded of the officer in charge as Meleagros, bleeding from his nose and mouth, and with his tunic torn, was forced to his knees under the empty throne. ‘Was it in a sanctuary?’
‘You told me to seize him wherever he was,’ Neoptolemus replied in his thick Molossian accent; the three men with him struggled to hold their captive down.
‘Molossians have never troubled themselves too much with decency,’ Eumenes observed, much to Ptolemy’s inner amusement.
‘Piss off, you undeserving Greek runt,’ Neoptolemus spat, venom in his voice and hatred in his eyes.
No love lost there ever since Alexander promoted Eumenes to a cavalry command over our Molossian friend; that might be useful for me some day.
‘I was claiming sanctuary in the Temple of Baal,’ Meleagros insisted, refusing to give up struggling. ‘They killed Eukleides on the altar steps.’
Neoptolemus shrugged. ‘He’s no god of mine or yours so why should you expect him to protect you?’
Why indeed, you foolish old man? And why, after all these years of brave service, did you take the coward’s choice of sanctuary? Had I had any sympathy for you, I would have just lost it.
Perdikkas looked down at Meleagros; Ptolemy could tell that the same thought was going through his head. That might be the first time that he and I have agreed. ‘The king has signed your death warrant for treason, Meleagros,’ Perdikkas said, ‘do you have anything to say before sentence is carried out?’
‘I made you king!’ Meleagros spat.
And now he makes you dead.
Philip’s grin widened as he looked to Perdikkas for reassurance and held his elephant close to his breast. ‘He did make me king, didn’t he?’
‘No, majesty, the army made you king; this man wanted to take advantage of that and use your power for himself.’
And you don’t? Oh, Perdikkas, your blatant hypocrisy is something that we can all admire.
‘Take him outside,’ Perdikkas ordered, ‘and make it dignified.’
With a couple of powerful wrenches, Meleagros broke free and jumped to his feet, spinning and crashing a fist into Neoptolemus’ face, arcing him back with blood flying from a crushed nose. With a speed that surprised all for one so advanced in years, Meleagros chopped the side of his hand into the throat of one of his captors as he shoulder-barged another from his way to make a break down the throne-room.
‘Get him!’ Neoptolemus shouted at the uninjured guard, whilst trying to stem the flow of blood from his nostrils. ‘Kill him.’
The guard pelted after the fugitive, whipping his sword from his scabbard as he pumped his legs with all the vigour of a young man.
Looking back over his shoulder, Meleagros saw that he was outmatched for pace and pushed himself harder, straight onto the outstretched foot of one of the embalmers. Over he went, crunching down on his chin, to slide along the polished marble floor. The guard was on him in an instant, knee in the small of his back and left hand pulling his grazed chin up; with no pause to verify his orders, the tip of his sword plunged into Meleagros’ back. With bulging-muscle strength he forced his blade up into Meleagros who stiffened and then spasmed as honed iron cut the life from him.
That’s the first one of us gone; ironic that it should be at the foot of Alexander’s corpse, Ptolemy noted with a grim shake of his head; he looked around his fellow officers, all of whom were taking obvious satisfaction in the death of the man who had come so close to splitting the army. I wonder how many of them I’ll ever see again as I’m sure Meleagros won’t be the last. With a final, disbelieving look at the grinning king he turned to go. ‘Goodbye, gentlemen; it’s been great but that time is no more. I hope to see some of you again.’ Either on the dining couch or across the battlefield, depending on whether you help me or hinder me as I make myself Egypt’s king.
OLYMPIAS, THE MOTHER
SHRILL AND FELL was the scream that echoed through the corridors and chambers of the palace of Passeron, the capital of Epirus. On it went as a woman, of striking late-twenties beauty, ran, skirts lifted, with undignified haste towards its source. Pushing a frightened slave-girl aside, she crashed open a tall oaken door to barge into a high-ceilinged room, adorned with many images of women, and some men, copulating with snakes of all sizes.
At its centre lay a crumpled woman, in her fifties, emitting a wail that would quail the cold hearts of the Harpies. Her prostrate body shuddered with each new grief-stricken howl.
‘Mother! Mother! What is it?’ the younger woman shouted above the noise, shaking a heaving shoulder. ‘Mother! Mother! Get a hold of yourself. What is it?’
With red-rimmed eyes, Olympias looked up at her daughter, brandishing a scrunched scroll in her fist. ‘Ten days ago, Kleopatra! Ten!’
‘What ten days ago?’
‘Dead! Dead! Murdered by that toad, Antipatros, I shouldn’t wonder, or that bastard son of his. Dead!’
‘Who’s dead, Mother?’
Olympias looked at her daughter as if she were the biggest fool in Epirus. ‘Alexander, that’s who. My son, your brother, Alexander. What will become of me now?’ Ripping up the scroll, she threw the pieces in her daughter’s face, howled and then began to tear at her hair, pulling it out in chunks so that the white, undyed roots were exposed.
With a shout to summon the help of the dozen slaves now hovering in the doorway, Kleopatra grabbed at the flailing wrists, restraining her mother as hanks of hair flew from her fingers. ‘Hold her legs!’ she screamed over Olympias’ wails at a shaven-headed youth. ‘Bring wine!’ she ordered to no one in particular, sending at least four girls scurrying off in search of the beverage. ‘Here, take an arm each,’ she barked to two older slaves. ‘Try to keep her still.’ Kleopatra waited until the two men had firm grips on her mother before she clamped her hands onto Olympias’ kohl-smeared, tear-stained cheeks and strained to halt the violent shaking of her head. ‘Mother! Mother! Control yourself. Mother!’
Thrashing her limbs as the slaves attempted to hold her down, Olympias howled and wailed, oblivious to her daughter shouting at her with her face just a hand’s breadth away from her own.
It was the suddenness of the first slap and the speed of the second that brought some degree of focus back to the mourning queen. Her eyes cleared and she stared in shock at her daughter. ‘
You hit me!’
‘Yes, Mother, twice.’
‘You hit me?’
‘Yes, Mother, I did; and I’ll do so again if you lose your dignity like that once more.’
Olympias turned her head left and right, eyeing the slaves holding her arms with a malevolence that forced them to quickly release their grip and back off; the youth struggling with the ankles dropped them and, with eyes lowered, retreated towards the door. ‘I’ll have you all whipped until I can see the white of your ribs,’ Olympias hissed, her voice serpentine.
‘No, Mother, you will not,’ Kleopatra said, shooing the three slaves from the room with the back of her hand as a girl came through the door with a jug of wine and two cups. ‘I ordered them to put hands on you for your own good; now drink.’ She poured a cup of wine, handed it to her mother and dismissed the remaining slaves in the room.
Once the door was closed, Olympias pulled herself up and sat cross-legged on the floor, her hair awry and her make-up running; she took a long draft, swallowed and then steadied herself with a deep breath, exhaling long and slow. ‘What’s to become of me?’
‘Mother!’
The sharpness of Kleopatra’s tone startled Olympias; wine slopped over her dress.
‘It’s not just you, Mother, it’s me as well. Now is not the time for histrionics; we must think the situation through logically.’
Olympias closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She’s right; thanks to Dionysus that I birthed a daughter not totally a prey to her emotions. ‘Very well, Kleopatra; I’ll control myself and grieve for my son later.’
Kleopatra took a restorative gulp of wine and then refreshed both their cups. ‘Now, calm as you can, tell me whom the letter was from and what it said exactly.’
Olympias thought for a few moments, sipping steadily. ‘It was from Perdikkas and all it said was that Alexander had died of fever in Babylon leaving no named successor and his wife Roxanna pregnant. It’s Perdikkas’ plan to build a catafalque to transport the mummified body back to Macedon for internment in the royal crypt.’
‘Perdikkas is organising this?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, he must have assumed Alexander’s authority despite him not naming an heir?’
‘Yes, I suppose he must have; that’s interesting. You would have thought that it would have been Krateros as the most senior general.’
Kleopatra shook her head. ‘He’s on the way home; according to our spies he’s in Cilicia enjoying Phila, Antipatros’ eldest daughter by Hyperia.’
At the name of the regent of Macedon, Olympias hissed, ‘I hope he splits her in two.’
Kleopatra ignored her mother’s venom. ‘So, already we have conflict as Krateros may feel that it ought to be he and not Perdikkas who should take over Alexander’s mantle. Therefore, the questions are: which way will he turn? East or west? When will he make his move? And which direction would it be best for us for him to choose?’
Olympias contemplated her daughter’s thoughts; she downed the rest of her wine and then nodded, holding her cup out for refilling. ‘You’re right, Kleopatra: Krateros is the key. If he decides to go back then he won’t replace that toad, Antipatros, as regent and I will still be excluded from influence in the governing of Macedon. So we must make sure he carries on west and ousts the toad by force if necessary.’
Kleopatra poured the remaining wine into each of their cups. ‘I agree. But if you were Krateros, how would you make your decision, bearing in mind that he only has a little over ten thousand troops under his command and both Perdikkas and Antipatros have far more?’
Olympias thought for a few moments and then smiled. I’ve taught this one well; she has the subtlety that I sometimes lack through impetuousness. ‘I would wait to see who makes the first offer of friendship to me, Perdikkas or Antipatros,’ she paused and hissed as if the very presence of the name on her tongue was an abhorrence, ‘knowing that my troops give me the ability to change the balance of power between the two of them.’
‘Precisely; so we want Antipatros to approach Krateros with an alliance, not Perdikkas. In fact, Perdikkas must be seen as a threat to Krateros, one who needs to be countered.’
‘But Krateros is meant to be replacing Antipatros.’
‘When Alexander was alive, yes; but now that he’s dead?’ Kleopatra shrugged, raising her hands. ‘Anything can happen.’
‘So what will make Antipatros,’ again she hissed as the name issued from her mouth, ‘hold out the hand of friendship to the man who, by rights, should be taking his power?’
‘War, Mother, war. In the morning we need to have an audience with the king – however much you resent him for ignoring you since he came of age last year and your regency ended. Put that behind you as we must convince him that he should make a few promises to the Greek states, Athens in particular. Nothing too overt: offers of friendship or mutual support in the difficult times ahead, vague hints about the injustice of the Exile Charter, that sort of thing; just enough to whet their appetites for freedom.’
‘How will Aeacides be persuaded to do anything for me? He’s refused to speak to me since he threw me out of the council chamber when I tried to claim my seat at the table.’
‘Are you surprised after you hissed at him like a nest of snakes and tried to scratch his eyes out? I’m not. But now you have something he would want.’
‘What?’
‘Alexander’s wife is pregnant with your grandchild. Aeacides’ daughter, Deidamia, is two years old. What if the child is a boy?’
‘What if it’s not?’
‘Will Aeacides want to risk losing the chance for his daughter to bear the heirs of Alexander? I think you can bend him to your will. And, what’s more, you don’t have to keep your promise to sanction the betrothal.’
Olympias studied her daughter, proud of her devious mind. I forget that she was the queen of this country until her husband died and my nephew came to the Eperiot throne. Aeacides owes me for his ingratitude, banishing me from his council and giving me no influence after serving as his regent for six years. Yes, he owes me at least this and it could well work; if Antipatros is threatened from the south by the Greek states and we threaten him from the west then who can he turn to, at the moment, other than Krateros and his ten thousand just across the sea? ‘Yes, I see. And if we get Krateros to Macedon we can then play him off against Antipatros and that will just leave us finding a way of gaining influence over Perdikkas and then I’ll be right back in the centre of power for the first time since Aeacides’ coming of age.’
Kleopatra took her mother’s hand. ‘Don’t you worry about Perdikkas; we’ll deal with him when the time comes. First you must see my cousin, the king.’
‘I don’t trust you,’ Aeacides said, his eyes narrowed as he looked down from his throne to his aunt standing, posed with jaw jutting and fist on hip; four armed and shielded guards separated them.
‘Roxanna is pregnant,’ Olympias insisted, her voice echoing around the stone walls of the colonnaded audience chamber.
‘I’ve no doubt of that, dearest aunt; I too had a letter from Perdikkas.’
‘You!’
‘Of course, I’m the king of Epirus and am deservedly treated with respect. No, I don’t trust that you will keep your word to marry the boy to Deidamia.’
‘Deidamia is my great-niece, who better from my point of view to marry my grandson?’
‘Who isn’t even born yet.’
‘Who will be born soon.’
‘And if he is born a she then do you promise to marry her to my son who is also as yet to be born – or, to be precise, is yet to be conceived?’
Olympias frowned. What does he get from that? A son of his can have no claim to the throne of Macedon even if he were to marry the daughter of Alexander; the noble families would never tolerate it.
Kleopatra stepped from the shadow of a column half-way down the room. ‘It’s his price, Mother,’ she said as if reading Olympias’ mind. ‘He gains nothi
ng by it but prevents you from marrying a grand-daughter off elsewhere to better advantage.’
She’s right; the odious creature exacts a high toll for a few letters.
‘Who allowed you in here?’ Aeacides demanded of Kleopatra, petulance playing on his boyish face.
‘You must remember, Cousin, my husband sat on that throne before he was killed in the wars in Italia. I come and go as I please.’
‘I should have had you killed.’
‘And my brother would have returned the favour, which is why you didn’t.’
‘But he’s dead now so what’s to prevent me from indulging my wish?’
‘Fear, Cousin, fear. Fear of killing anyone related to the man who so far surpasses you. You know you would be hunted down, and hiding behind your little throne won’t save you. So enough of empty threats; are you going to do as my mother asks on such generous terms or are we going to be obliged to force you?’
‘Force me? How?’
‘If I told you that then the threat would disappear.’
Olympias stared hard at her nephew, disliking his pudgy lips and soft, rounded jaw; her daughter’s husband, King Alexandros of Epirius, had been a real man, so opposite to this womanish boy. Kleopatra should have succeeded her husband, not this proud but weak man. But those are the laws of succession and such is a woman’s place in the world and she only gave her husband daughters: we can only rule through our men.
Aeacides laughed, it was forced and hollow. ‘Of course I’m going to do as you asked; in fact, there was no need to ask it of me as it was exactly what I planned to do when I heard of Alexander’s death. It is to my advantage should the Greek states rise up against Macedonian rule; Epirus always benefits from a weakened Macedon looking another way.’
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