by Max Overton
Orders went out to the army, to the officers and senior veterans, to attend an assembly in the great audience hall, where matters pertaining to the succession would be heard. They came, by the thousand, filling the hall, packing it so full that the doors had to be closed. Latecomers and those not invited stood in the courtyards outside, cursing and feeding the rumours. Inside, on the dais around the vacant throne, stood the generals and staff officers.
Nikometros looked out on the crowded hall, his heart hammering. He nudged his neighbour, an older staff officer named Peithon. "Gods, I've never seen so many men in a room."
"Impressive sight," drawled Peithon with a smile. "Damned dangerous too. Better keep your wits about you, young Nikometros...and your hand close to your sword."
"What's going to be decided today, have you heard?"
"The succession, of course. Maybe something about those responsible for his death."
"What do you mean?"
Peithon essayed a quick grin. "Don't worry, no one blames your wife. She tried to save him at least. No, it's Kassandros they suspect."
"They have him?"
"No. He and his brother Iollas fled immediately. A guilty action. They'll be caught and tried...if they aren't killed on the spot." Peithon turned and gave Nikometros a curious stare. "You knew the other one didn't you? The Roman."
"Caius Gracchus? What about him?"
"He's under house arrest." Peithon chuckled. "Made no attempt to leave the city. He just waited to be arrested."
A trumpet sounded, calling the assembly to order.
Perdikkas advanced to the empty throne. His hand caressed the purple robe draped over the back of the throne then lifted the royal ring above his head. "Alexander handed me his ring, his authority, before he died." Perdikkas turned and placed the ring on the throne, beside the royal diadem. "It is for you to choose on whom to bestow it."
Walking casually to the edge of the dais, Perdikkas surveyed the vast audience hall in silence for several long moments. "Roxane, the legitimate wife of Alexander, is five months with child," he announced. "We pray it will be a boy. If it is, it must first be born, and then raised until it comes of age. Only then can the child of Alexander become king. The question before you today is not who succeeds Alexander, but rather who do you want to rule you in the meantime?"
"There is another choice!" Heads turned as Niarchos strode out of the crowd. Alexander's admiral of the fleet, a lean weather-beaten Cretan, stepped up onto the dais beside Perdikkas. In a loud voice used to giving commands above the scream of gale winds, Niarchos addressed the assembly. "Have you forgotten Alexander has another child? What of Queen Stateira? This noble-born princess is the daughter of Darius. Remember how, at Susa, Alexander married her and made her his queen? Well, she too is with child."
He let this news sink in, letting the roar of conversation die away before continuing. "We all know the way Alexander did things. Without doubt he would have weighed the two boys carefully before deciding the best one to succeed him. Well, he didn't live to make his choice, so we must do it for him. I vote for Stateira's child, she has the right of rank."
Perdikkas swung round on Niarchos, his face darkening with anger. "What in Hades are you doing?" he hissed. "This isn't the time to argue which child will inherit. That choice is years away. We must settle the issue of the Regency."
"This is ridiculous," growled Ptolemy. He turned to Nikometros. "This isn't what Alexander would want. Help me here."
Nikometros called for attention to no effect. He walked up alongside Perdikkas and called again. "Hear me, men of Macedon!" He waited for the hubbub to die down. "A discussion of the inheritance is pointless at this time. Neither child is born, nor do we know the sex of the children. If only one is a boy then he must inherit. And what if the child is sickly?"
Perdikkas nodded and clapped Nikometros on the shoulder. "Thank you Nikometros," he murmured. "Someone with a bit of sense at last."
Nikometros stared at the general then turned back to the assembly, raising his hands. "No, what the heir, whoever he is, needs most is someone to act for him. However, instead of a single Regent I move that we appoint a Council of Regents. The power is too much for a single man."
Ptolemy joined his son. "Well said. A council, not a single Regent."
Perdikkas raised his voice in scorn. "And just who do you propose for this council? You and your cronies, I suppose?"
"There is one man that Alexander trusted above all others," Ptolemy said. "He trusted him so much that he sent him to govern Macedon for him--I speak of General Krateros. Surely this trusted general would be the logical choice to head the Council?"
"Krateros?" stormed Perdikkas. "He isn't even here. How can he take control when he's only halfway home?"
"Perhaps Alexander named him his heir," interposed Ptolemy. "Tell us yourself, Perdikkas. Did you mishear Alexander? Did he say Krateros rather than kratisto?"
The audience hall erupted into violent argument, men forming into factions and acrimoniously debating the relative merits of the candidates.
"Forget Krateros!" yelled Aristonous, one of the Bodyguard. "Alexander gave his ring to Perdikkas. He meant him to be the Regent."
Shouts of agreement drowned out the opposing views and a chant gradually took hold of the emotion-ridden men. "Perdikkas, Perdikkas!"
Perdikkas smiled triumphantly and moved toward the throne. As he reached out to pick up the ring he hesitated and looked across at the hostile faces on the dais. "Well," he muttered. "Will any of you support me?"
Aristonous and Seleukos stepped forward but before they could say anything another voice shouted from the floor of the hall.
"Give Perdikkas the ring and he'll keep it. The heirs aren't even born yet." A red-faced man shouldered his way through the crowd toward the dais. As he advanced, cheers arose around him and hands reached out to clap him on the back. "We only have the word of the generals that Alexander even gave him the ring in the first place. All they are after is power and what goes with it." The red-faced man turned to face the assembly. "Have you forgotten the treasury?"
The soldiers growled and surged forward, an avaricious gleam in their eyes.
"Who is that?" hissed Perdikkas.
Seleukos stared incredulously. "Meleagros, a commander of the phalanx, an infantry officer, for god's sake. Who in Hades is he to start poking his nose in?"
Perdikkas shouted for order, reminding the assembly they were soldiers of Alexander, not a mob. "Furthermore," he added. "This is a lawful assembly. Any man has the right to be heard, but let it be done in a seemly manner."
"Then why are we talking about unborn heirs and Regents?" called another voice from the crowd. "There is among us the very blood of Alexander. I say his brother should inherit."
Nikometros turned to Ptolemy. "He's talking about you, sir. You too are a son of Philip."
Ptolemy shook his head. "I? Egypt is all I want." He hesitated, a gleam of excitement in his eye. "But yes, by the gods, it could be." He made a hesitant step forward.
"Who are you talking about?" yelled a young man at the edge of the dais. "Alexander had no legitimate brothers."
"You're too young to remember," the voice shouted. A man, an old scarred veteran struggled free and pushed to the front. "I'm talking about Arridaios, legitimate son of Philip by his lawful wife Philinna."
"Arridaios! You must be joking, he's a halfwit."
"Besides, he's in Macedon!"
"No, no," the veteran disagreed. "He's here in Babylon. And if he once was a halfwit..." The man shrugged. "...he seems to have outgrown it. Why, not more than a month ago I saw him with Alexander at the morning sacrifice. He looked healthy enough then."
The mob, fickle as ever, began to call for Arridaios.
Meleagros slipped away into the crowd.
Perdikkas swore softly and turned to Seleukos, appealing for his help. "Call for Roxane's child again," he hissed. "Quickly, before they set their minds on Arridaios. I can persuade th
em but it'll be better if someone else calls for it."
Seleukos nodded. "Men," he started to say. "We do indeed need the blood of Alexander to rule us..."
Peithon interrupted him, striding angrily to the edge of the platform. "Are you fools?" he shouted. "This Arridaios is a halfwit. Everyone knows he was dropped on his head as an infant and has never grown up." He laughed. "Yes, what a great king he would make. He drools, he shits himself and he plays with dolls. Do you really want an idiot for a king?"
"Shame on you, sir!" called the old veteran. "He's Alexander's brother. We cannot go far wrong with him as king."
"Yes, Arridaios!" yelled another. "Arridaios, Arridaios, Arridaios!"
Perdikkas pulled Peithon back, his face contorted with rage. "You imbecile! Now they want him more. I could have persuaded them but you called them fools." He listened to the chanting grow louder and looked around at the others on the dais, biting his lip. He stepped forward, shouting for order.
The men continued yelling their support for Arridaios, drowning out Perdikkas.
Perdikkas stepped back, frowning and turned to Seleukos. "What can I do?" he muttered. "I must do something."
The shouting died down at the far end of the hall before suddenly increasing in volume and exuberance.
Meleagros appeared, dragging behind him a short, stout man with black hair and beard. He pushed through the crowd, grinning and triumphantly scrambled onto the dais with the other man. Panting, he turned to the mob of soldiers. "Behold your king!" He pushed the dark-haired man in front of him and stood with his hands on the man's shoulders. "This is the lawful son of King Philip of Macedon, the brother of the Great Alexander--your King."
"It's true," called a soldier in the front ranks. "Why, he's the spitting image of the old king. Good for you, sir! Long live King Arridaios!"
Perdikkas caught hold of Meleagros and spun him around. "You unmitigated fool!" he yelled. "This is no king."
Ptolemy joined the fracas. "This is a farce," he said angrily. "We should be honouring the memory of Alexander by choosing a successor wisely. Instead you've shamed us all."
Peukestas, Seleukos and Nikometros all joined in, their voices rising in anger.
Arridaios edged away, a frightened look on his bearded face. He bolted for the back of the dais but Meleagros lunged and caught him.
A roar went up from the watching army and Meleagros shouldered his way past the generals dragging Arridaios with him. "Don't run!" Meleagros hissed. "Just stand there and try to look like a king."
Arridaios shook his head, tears forming in his eyes. "I don't want to. I'm frightened. Why can't I just go back to my rooms? I want my breakfast."
Meleagros cursed, struggling to hold the reluctant man without seeming to coerce him. He looked around for inspiration and spotted the purple robe of state draped over the back of the throne. "How would you like a wonderful purple robe? It belonged to Alexander and King Philip before him. Now it is yours."
Arridaios' eyes grew wide, his face splitting into a drooling grin. "Yes, I'd like that. If I had on Alexander's robe no one would be nasty to me."
Meleagros snatched the robe off the throne and dropped it over Arridaios' shoulders. He turned the man once more to face the army and proclaimed. "See, your king--King Philip Arridaios. Long may he reign!"
A tremendous cheer went up from the soldiers, those with spears drumming them on the tile floor; others stamped and clapped, raising a cacophony of sound.
Ptolemy turned away disgusted. "What a ridiculous figure the man cuts," he sneered. "Alexander should have had him smothered."
Perdikkas, already angry, lost control. He threw himself at Meleagros and tried to wrestle him away from Philip Arridaios. A number of junior officers attempted to separate the two whereupon the Companions, standing nearby watching the developing situation with incredulity, drew their swords with a whisper of steel. They shook their weapons and lofted a piercing battle paean. Immediately the soldiers drew weapons and the mass of men started to divide into factions poised for bloodshed.
Meleagros paled, clinging to the trembling figure of Philip Arridaios. He racked his brains for inspiration as a new clamour filled the Audience hall. The squires pushed in through the crowd, some fifty strong and scrambled up on the dais. They stared at the mob of soldiers, their hair shorn close and ragged, and their eyes red from weeping.
"How can you betray Alexander like this?" yelled one of the squires. "While his body lies unburied?"
Meleagros smirked and pushed Philip Arridaios ahead of him. "The squires speak the truth. Alexander lies unburied. The burial of a king is the sacred duty of his successor. You have chosen your king already. Will you stand by him?"
The clamour died down as men turned to hear this new argument.
"Come with me," Meleagros urged. "Come with your king, Philip Arridaios of Macedon, as he performs his sacred duty of entombing his predecessor." He jumped down from the dais and strode toward the doors, Philip Arridaios stumbling along behind him, clutching his purple robe.
After a moment's pause, the army surged after him, cheering and shouting.
"Dear gods," cried Ptolemy. "If they secure the body, nothing will stop them. We must do something."
"Follow me!" said Perdikkas. He dashed for the rear of the hall, heading for the corridor that led straight to the king's apartments.
A few minutes later, Perdikkas and his followers burst into the bedchamber, the roar of the approaching mob already loud in the hallways outside the apartments. The body of Alexander lay on the bed, Bagoas sitting beside him, his face a mask of grief. The bedclothes, rumpled and sweat stained from the death had been changed and smoothed. Alexander's face, pale and hollow, lay in peace, his unruly hair combed and dampened in place.
Nikometros, arriving on the heels of the generals, stared at the body of his king. "He has lain for hours in this heat," he muttered. "Yet he...he looks as if he sleeps."
"Huh," grunted Seleukos. "Not even a whiff of decay. Are you sure he's dead?"
"Of course he is," Perdikkas snapped. "Quickly now. We must barricade the room."
The squires and the Companions that accompanied them hastened to drag furniture across the room, piling it against the door. The generals, Perdikkas, Peukestas, Ptolemy and Niarchos; stood by the bed, their swords drawn. Seleukos and Nikometros flanked them, with the squires and Companions standing by the barricade.
The tramp of feet and shouting outside the room died down and the door shuddered as the soldiers heaved against it. Furniture shifted and crashed to the floor, the doors pushing apart, revealing soldiers in armour standing several rows deep outside the bedchamber. Spears stabbed through the gap, sending the defenders reeling back. The soldiers pushed again and with a grinding screech the doors flew open, spilling men into the room.
"Fall back, lads," rapped Perdikkas. "Swords out but defend only."
The squires and companions withdrew until their legs touched the bed, crowding against the generals and staff officers. Others worked their way around it until Alexander lay inside an island sea of men.
For a moment the mob of soldiers stood uncertainly by the jumble of furniture near the doors. They stared at the resolute men around the bed. Then, reluctantly, they stumbled forward, impelled by the pressure of their comrades. With a yell, several men threw their spears before charging forward, dragging their swords out.
A spear glanced off Perdikkas' helmet, sending him reeling. Another hit one of the Companions. The man clutched his thigh and went down, cursing.
Bagoas threw himself onto the body of Alexander as the spears flew, taking a grazing cut on his arm. One of the squires picked up a spear and threw it back into the mob of attackers. A man screamed and fell.
Swords clashed and Nikometros found himself face to face with a sweating Macedonian. He tried to parry the savage blows of his opponent but felt a reluctance to retaliate. "I...don't want...to fight you," Nikometros panted.
His opponent grunted in r
eply and pressed home his attack, forcing Nikometros back.
Ptolemy grappled with a man trying to stab into the defenders with his spear, throwing him back. "Stop!" he bellowed.
Men hesitated, glancing sideways at the general.
"Are we beasts to fight over the corpse of one of our own, or are we men?" he asked. "What are we fighting about?"
"We're here to bury the king," yelled a voice from the back.
"Where is he?" asked another, more quietly. "What have you done with him?"
"Come and see then," replied Niarchos. "Give way there, lads," he added, motioning the defenders to step aside. "Look at your king."
The soldiers stood silently, taking in the sight of their Great King Alexander, lying dead on the bed before them. Some wept openly, and most put up their weapons.
"What are we to do, sirs?" asked an old grizzled veteran. "The king needs burying proper-like. It's what we came here to do, but we don't want no bloodshed, do we boys?" He looked around at his fellows. "How about it, sirs? A truce while we figures out what to do? You is outnumbered after all."
Perdikkas nodded. "A truce is acceptable but the body must not be touched in the meantime. Do you agree?"
"Don't listen to him," Meleagros snarled. "He's only seeking some advantage. Don't forget who your king is." He pushed a pale and trembling man forward. "You promised to stand by him."
"That's true," agreed the old veteran. "And so's we shall but we needs to parley, not fight. These 'ere are our comrades." He turned back to face Perdikkas. "We won't touch the body whiles we talk."
"Good man," said Perdikkas with a grim smile. "I, for my part, promise you the body of our king will be taken to Macedon and buried in the royal burial ground at Pella. It will be shown all the honours due it and interred in its rightful place."
Meleagros, hearing the mutterings of approval from the soldiers around him, gave up his efforts to take possession of the king's body. He scowled at the assembled men. "Can we trust them, though?"
"Send for a black goat," Perdikkas said. "We sacrifice to Hecate. We'll bind ourselves with a sworn statement."