The Three Paradises

by Robert Fabbri

  Xennias looked down at his new commander. ‘So, what do we do now?’

  We? He said we; that’s the first time for a long while that a Macedonian has asked me ‘what do we do now’. If only Perdikkas could have done the same then we wouldn’t be in this mess. ‘We go on fighting for the Argead royal house; so we go south to help Perdikkas and hope that we are not too late.’ Eumenes took the helmet from under his arm and set it upon his head as the rider trotted through the gates of the camp. ‘Come, gentlemen, by the looks of him, that horseman is an imperial courier, perhaps he brings counsel. The question is: is he from Perdikkas or Antipatros?’

  But he was from neither as Eumenes realised when he looked at the seal on the scroll-case. ‘Kleopatra? Intriguing.’ He broke it, pulled out the letter and unrolled it.

  My dear Eumenes, this is written in haste as it must outrun the assassins who will inevitably wish to claim the price that is now on your head; I know for a fact that Antipatros greatly prizes the skill of Archias the Exile-Hunter. I have just received a despatch from Ptolemy sent by the fastest of his ships. Assuming Antipatros receives the news by overland courier then he would have heard it a day or so before you; however, if the news travels by sea his assassins could already be closing in on you. Perdikkas is dead, murdered by Seleukos, Peithon and Antigenes; the new regents are Peithon and Arrhidaeus until a settlement is agreed at a conference at The Three Paradises as soon as all can assemble there. You will not be receiving an invitation to attend as when news of Krateros’ death was given to the army assembly it immediately passed a sentence of death upon you. You are now outlawed; as I see it, you have but two choices: flee the empire or tell your men before they find out from another source and pray that they stay loyal to you.

  ‘“There will be no chance of removing the sentence.”’ Eumenes paused and looked up from the scroll across the faces of men in the front ranks of the units closest to him in the army assembly he had called immediately after reading the letter; none were hostile now that they too knew of its contents. ‘“And so you will find no allies anymore. I wish you luck. Your friend, Kleopatra.”’ Eumenes rolled up the scroll; silence enveloped his entire army. He opened his arms. ‘Here I stand, condemned to death. Is there any man here who wishes to carry out that sentence?’ Still there was silence. ‘Shall I flee the empire?’

  The response to the negative surprised Eumenes by its vehemence. Being popular is a new sensation; I find it rather disconcerting. ‘Then I stay.’ With a roar his men saluted him, helmets raised in the air and feet stamping the dust-dry ground. Such was his surprise at the warmth in which his men held him that Eumenes let the ovation run on for longer than good manners dictated. ‘If I stay,’ he shouted as at last he begged for silence, ‘then there is no alternative but to fight. As soon as I stop I am a dead man. Now I understand that in supporting me you are also sharing in my sentence and therefore I release any man who is unwilling to be condemned to death on my behalf.’ Again he paused but none made to move away. ‘Very well; we’ll cross the river back into Kappadokia and winter there around the fortress at Nora. In the spring we will take to the field back in the west and choose our ground against the army that I am certain Antipatros will send against us.’

  ANTIGONOS.

  THE ONE-EYED.

  NOW I’LL FINALLY get to see what Aristonous is made of. With his one eye, Antigonos surveyed his enemy’s ranks of pike-armed Macedonian phalangites, screened by light archers and slingers, facing his own troops armed in exactly the same fashion and formed up in a similar manner as if a giant mirror had been placed before them. They were two opposing armies both fighting for control of Cyprus, the key, along with Rhodos and Tyros, to naval power along the Asian coast. But it was not just two armies, one fighting for Perdikkas and one for Antipatros, that contested the day, just to the south of the city of Salamis, on the east coast of the island. Antigonos felt a surge of delight as his gaze roved along the opposing phalanx, past the local Cypriot light infantry and cavalry, covering its right flank on the beach, and then out to sea to the two fleets lined against each other. With over a hundred vessels in each, drawn up, in deep water, ready to do battle, they were a formidable sight. Today it will all be decided, Antigonos mused, lifting a wineskin to his lips and taking a long swig of resinated wine, as he watched the distant figure of Kleitos the White, the captain of his fleet, walk to the bow of the leading ship, naked but for a cloak that fluttered in the breeze, and shake his trident at the enemy. And with Poseidon on my side, how can I fail? Dismissing the eccentricity of his admiral, he turned to look at his inland flank and the massed, lance-armed cavalry led by his seventeen-year-old son, Demetrios, resplendent in a purple cloak. The cocky little bugger dressing as if he were royalty; where did he get that cloak? I’ll have it off his back once we’ve dealt with Aristonous. And I’ll have his skin along with it if he fails to obey my orders again.

  Satisfied that all was ready, Antigonos handed the wineskin down to a groom, wiped a tear from the seeping ruin of his left eye, and then dismounted, giving his horse to the groom to be led back through the sixteen ranks of his four-thousand-strong phalanx. Rubbing his hands together in excited anticipation of the looming battle, he took his place at the very centre of the front line.

  A grey-bearded man, with eyes to match, grinned as he handed Antigonos his sixteen-foot-long sarissa, the pike used by the heavy, close-formation Macedonia infantry, whomever they were fighting for.

  ‘Thank you, Philotas,’ Antigonos said, testing the weight of the weapon in both hands. ‘How many does this make it today?’

  ‘It’s the sixty-fourth time we’ve stood together shoulder to shoulder, old friend.’

  ‘And yet I still feel the same excitement as I did the first time. Gods, this will be good. We may not have big armies, but they’re big enough for an excellent scrap and the fleets will have a good go at each other. I’ve a mind to be generous with Aristonous; I’ve always rather liked him and he’s been a worthy opponent here in Cyprus.’

  And it had been an enjoyable three-month campaign that had seen Antigonos cover most of the island as he and his adversary had played cat and mouse with one another, trying to get the advantage of ground because, numerically, their armies were about equal. With the civil war escalating on the mainland there had been no question of reinforcements for either side, so Antigonos and Aristonous contented themselves with fighting on a smaller scale in a smaller theatre; the one variable had been the fluctuation in loyalties of the petty kings who infested the island, but their troops were so poor that they were often more hazardous to their own side than to the enemy. And so the engagements that they had fought had been inconclusive and, as both armies were supported and supplied by fleets of equal size, neither could corner the other to try to starve them into surrender.

  But now, as the campaigning season was drawing to a close, both Antigonos and Aristonous seemed to have, as if by mutual consent, decided upon a battle on even ground, advantageous to neither side as both their armies were so similar. It was as if the two generals had tired of the niceties of campaign strategy and tactics and decided, rather, just to settle the issue much as two boxers at the Olympic games, toe to toe, blow for blow.

  Looking back at his trumpeter, six ranks behind him, Antigonos gave a nod. ‘Sound the advance.’

  At almost the identical moment, the same signal resounded from the other side of the field and both armies began to close on each other whilst, out at sea, glistering in warm afternoon sun, the shrill pipes of the stroke-masters wailed over the cries of gulls flocking around the ships, scavenging their waste.

  Gods, this will be good. We just need to hold them as Demetrios outflanks their cavalry and sweeps around to the rear of the phalanx; and if Kleitos can break through and land his marines behind them as well, then Aristonous’ lads are bound to surrender. Not too much Macedonian blood should be spilt; although I wouldn’t want my pike-blade to come through completely unsullied. He glanced up a
t his weapon, still held in one hand upright, resting upon his shoulder, so that he could keep his round shield – slightly smaller than that of a hoplite – firm with the left, protecting him fully as the phalanx trudged across the sparsely grassed sandy ground.

  On they went, with the light troops screening them and releasing volley after volley of arrows or slingshot, mostly at their opposite numbers as to shoot at the enemy phalanx at this distance was a wasted effort, their shields also being still held before them.

  The distance between the two sides closed; at a hundred paces Antigonos turned and nodded to his trumpeter. A call rang out to be repeated to either side along the formation; down the sarissas came in a gentle wave spreading along the frontage, like a roller hitting the beach. Each man now needed two hands to wield his weapon and could not, therefore, hold a shield rigid before him; they were, instead, slung over the left shoulders to provide limited protection. And this is what the light troops had been waiting for: no longer focusing their attentions on their opposite numbers, they raised their aim and sent their volleys over the skirmishers’ heads to land in the mass of barely shielded close-formation infantry. But only the first five ranks had their pikes at the horizontal, the next eleven held the weapons at progressively steeper angles so that they broke the flight of many an arrow or stone; but some got through, thumping into helm, leather cuirass, shield or flesh. The first cries rent the air as the wounded and dying clattered to the ground, disorganising their comrades around them as they strove to keep their feet and formation.

  And then the skirmishers fell back for fear of coming between two great weights of infantry; through special, thin gaps left in the formations they filtered to spill out the other side, reform and then send high looping volleys over the heads of their phalanx to rain down upon the enemy.

  As the last of the light infantry slipped past, Antigonos felt his comrades to either side close on him; the phalanx tightened its ranks, ready for impact. Not far to go now; finally I’ll get to see exactly what it is like to face a phalanx. He glanced down and saw that the fifth ranker’s pike blade was just past his belly, exactly where it should be, with the fourth ranker’s a pace and a half further forward and then the third, second and finally his own: five blades coming to bear on the enemy for every man in the front rank; he felt the familiar pride of leading an exceptionally fine body of men into battle but knew that they faced an equally skilled and disciplined army; for this was civil war and many of the men opposite would have been trained by him or his officers.

  Closer they came, both sides with the sixteen-point star of Macedon emblazoned on their shields, the whites of eyes clearly visible; the pike-blades of the two front ranks passed each other with a mass of metallic rings and wooden rasping as haft scraped haft. On came the wicked blades, coming closer and closer, bringers of death glinting in the sun. Gods, this is going to be good; phalanx against phalanx, who’d have thought it would ever come to this. ‘Now!’ he cried as he thrust his pike forward to the extent of his reach, ramming it into the throat of the man directly opposite. Forward the first, second and third ranks thrust, blades flashing in both directions, jamming into flesh, armour or just waving in thin air. Heaving forward, Antigonos ducked under a vicious jab and drove his skewered adversary back into the man behind, halting his progress and preventing any further advance by that file. All along the line, on either side, similar incidents were occurring as the far-reaching sarissas pushed forward and stopped dead the advance. Rear rank troops heaved on the backs of those in front of them, attempting to push them forward but none was willing to venture further into the razor-sharp hedge of points. Five paces apart, the two phalanxes came to a halt and a stabbing match ensued. Blades dripped red; men fell, crying to the gods, wounds gaping, to be replaced by the man behind.

  On and on Antigonos thrust his pike, back and forth, stabbing, stabbing, stabbing, all the while dodging the honed iron hissing around him intent upon taking his life, and trying to ignore the missiles clattering down through the forest of pike-hafts above him. Philotas, next to him, as ever bawling every obscenity he could think of as he too worked his blade, attempted to push forward, past the second rankers’ weapons, to fall to a thrust to the thigh from the next line of glistening pike-tips. Down he went, ignored by all as the battle continued, both sides knowing that it was futile and that they were at stalemate but also sensing that to lessen their endeavours would mean the other side gaining the upper hand. It’s all down to whatever is happening on the flanks and out at sea; we must hold them until that is resolved. But marooned as he was in his own small realm of violence, he could see no further than ten paces; the flanks might as well have been on another island.

  Blood and viscera tanged the air, slopping to the ground and the footing grew treacherous, but still the pikes punched and still they found their mark. But it was with equal success on both sides; neither, therefore, could advance, and to withdraw would be certain death. With the phalanxes cancelling one another out, I can see that I’m going to have to develop a different way of going about things if this civil war continues. But this thought was a brief flash across his mind as from the rear ranks of the enemy a great scream arose and the stones and arrows that had tormented them from above ceased. As quickly as the scream had started, it stopped; Aristonous’ phalanx began to sit down.

  Pikes dropped to the ground and the enemy sat or squatted, a mass of men in surrender. ‘Enough!’ Antigonos called; behind him his trumpeter sounded “disengage”. Over the surrendering phalanx Antigonos saw horses and within that formation was a distinctive purple cloak. Good lad, Demetrios; you managed to do exactly as you were told for once. He dropped his weapon and stepped forward to Philotas, lying face down on the ground. ‘How are you, old friend?’

  Philotas turned over and took his hand from his wounded thigh. He smiled in relief. ‘It’s not spurting blood, just oozing. I’ll be alright after it’s been strapped up. Hurts like rough buggery, though.’

  Antigonos clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I want you ready for our sixty-fifth battle, brother.’ He turned to the men in Philotas’ file. ‘Get him to my doctor. Gentle as you can with him; he’s getting on a bit, you know.’

  ‘Goat turd,’ Philotas said through clenched teeth as he tried to stand. ‘I’m six months younger than you.’

  ‘Antigonos!’

  The shout prevented his response to Philotas’ insult as Antigonos looked around for its source.

  It was obvious: an officer, ten or so years Antigonos’ junior, in a high-plumed, gleaming bronze helm and a fine silver-inlayed breastplate rode a magnificent white stallion through the surrendered phalanx. Antigonos gave a grim smile. ‘Aristonous, it’s been a while.’

  ‘Thirteen years, my friend, since we said goodbye when Alexander left you to conquer the rest of Anatolia.’

  ‘That long, eh? And now we find ourselves fighting each other.’ He indicated to the tidemarks of dead and wounded that showed the extremes of each side’s advance. ‘Good lads too; well, most of them.’

  ‘I would that it could have been avoided but our masters both sent us to hold this island and now, I think it’s fair to say, I have done all that honour dictates and you have possession of it.’ He drew up his horse in front of Antigonos and looked across to the beach, past where Kleitos’ marines had landed behind his army’s flank and on out to sea where his fleet lay scattered. ‘And you also have possession of the sea. I surrender. What will you do with my men?’

  ‘Bring them into my army; I imagine they don’t much care whom they’re fighting for as long as they are fighting and are getting paid well and regularly.’

  Aristonous smiled at the one-eyed general and dismounted. ‘You know the men so well, Antigonos, and you make it sound so simple. So, what about me? What will you do with me?’

  ‘Give you a cup of wine, I should think; you must have worked up quite a thirst.’

  ‘That is much better,’ Aristonous said, holding his freshly drained cup o
ut for the slave to refill. He looked over to Antigonos and Demetrios, reclining on the other side of the low table, loaded with many varieties of seafood. ‘Do we know how many died yet?’

  ‘Enough for honour’s sake,’ Demetrios replied, adjusting his folded-up cloak so as to cushion his elbow better. ‘The phalanx surrendered once we had seen off your cavalry and got behind it at the same time as our marines landed to its rear on the beach.’ He looked to his father. ‘Although I don’t understand just why you felt the need to take away from my glory by having the marines share the victory; I was managing perfectly alright by myself.’

  Antigonos gave his son a one-eyed glare as the puckered scar of his other wept a clear pink fluid. ‘My arse! You think you were on your own, boy? My damp, hairy arse, you weren’t! You had close on a thousand men with you, each one at least your equal in arms; you can’t fight without your men and never forget that. Share your glory with them or you might one day feel a knife slip into your back during a fight; unpopular officers are often dealt with that way.’ Demetrios began to protest, but Antigonos cut across him. ‘And I had the marines land because in your first battle you got carried away and chased the enemy all around Kappadokia for a couple of days. I can’t trust you not to just disappear off the battlefield chasing a routed foe.’ He leaned across and grabbed the cloak, swiping it from under Demetrios’ elbow. ‘And only kings wear purple, Demetrios, you have a long way to go.’

  Demetrios jumped to his feet, outraged. ‘Don’t you humiliate me, Father! Especially in front of a defeated enemy.’

  Antigonos pointed to Aristonous. ‘In this man’s forty years in the field he has seen more battles on a greater scale than you are ever likely to see. He may have been defeated today but he is not an enemy; he was one of the King of Macedon’s seven bodyguards. And I am not humiliating you, I’m teaching you; if you can’t tell the difference then I suggest you go back to your mother and learn how to sew because you are of no use to me.’