The Three Paradises

by Robert Fabbri

  ‘Naturally, sir.’

  Eumenes looked around at the groups of bedraggled cavalrymen rubbing down their sweat-foamed mounts, or trying to light fires with damp wood with the view to a midday meal. ‘And, no doubt, he captured all of our baggage?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, sir. He’s even captured Hieronymus. He’s got everything we own.’

  ‘Well, that will buy the phalanx’s loyalty for him.’ Eumenes checked himself. ‘No, I mustn’t be bitter, however much I might enjoy it. Who can blame them, after all?’ He looked at Xennias and then Parmida. ‘So, gentlemen, we need a course of action. Antigonos will, no doubt, follow up his victory by chasing us all the way back to Kappadokia in an attempt to capture me, thus ending the war in the north. Well, let us help him in his endeavours. Xennias, you lead the rest of the men back to Kappadokia, we’ll meet up back at the fortress at Nora.’

  ‘Nora it is, sir.’

  ‘As soon as you get there collect firewood and anything edible in the surrounding area; the fort has been re-provisioned since we left, but who knows how long we might be forced to stay there if Antigonos decides it’s worth his while to besiege it.’

  ‘It’ll be done by the time you arrive from wherever you’re going; which is where?’

  ‘I’m going to take Parmida and his Kappadokians, along with the horse-archers and circle back around Antigonos. He’ll have left my mercenary dead where they fell in his hurry to chase me; if I don’t see to it that they receive a decent funeral and send them over the Styx in good order I’ll never be able to hire another soldier again. And then,’ he paused for a vicious smile, ‘I’m going to kill Apollonides just to make me feel a little better about myself.’

  And it was with the feeling of pent-up excitement at vengeance being nigh that Eumenes, cloaked and deep-hooded, walked through Antigonos’ camp the following night. It had been as he had suspected: the dead had lain thick on the plain before Orcynia, a feast for carrion birds and flies. With no ceremony, he sent his men into the town and conscripted its inhabitants – after the summary execution of the half dozen or so, refusing in overloud voices – to help build sixteen great pyres, each containing five hundred corpses, all with a coin under their tongue for the Ferryman; the coinage had been forced from the citizens on the basis that the corpses had been robbed and it was in all likelihood their own money being returned. The smoke they had raised still tinged his clothes as Eumenes made his way towards the heart of the camp with the victorious army sitting around a myriad of blazing fires, drinking to their own health and toasting their luck at capturing the entire baggage train of the defeated foe. Loud was their boasting and singing; intense was their rutting with the new batch of camp followers freshly fallen into their hands who, for the most part, cared not who swived them so long as they were paid, fed and sheltered – and not beaten with undue frequency.

  It was through this chaos that Eumenes passed unremarked, a small figure in the midst of thousands, stepping with care over drunken bodies, fornicating couples or groups, waving cheerfully at wineskins extended towards him and declining them in a gruff, disguised voice, making his way ever closer to the heart of the camp where his quarry would have his temporary dwelling. He stroked the knife in its scabbard beneath his cloak. Long and slender it was and double-edged, so that it could slip between ribs with barely a falter: an assassin’s weapon; one that gave Eumenes much pleasure.

  So it was that he came to the huge pavilion dominating the centre of the camp: Antigonos’ headquarters; the place where all his officers would be feasting, congratulating their commander on his stunning victory through treachery and a cunning ruse. Let them celebrate; they deserve it, all of them except one. Finding a corner of deep shadow between two tents, Eumenes sat down to keep watch on the pavilion entrance guarded by two bulky phalangites silhouetted by the light that poured from within.

  It would be a long wait, of that Eumenes was sure, but better to be early than to miss Apollonides and to risk having to repeat the process the following evening. No, the following evening Eumenes fully intended to be back, safe, in Nora; for it was within the safety of that impregnable redoubt that he would be able to wait out events and, perhaps, receive aid from his unwilling would-be-allies, Alketas and Attalus – although this was an unlikely eventuality. No, it was not aid that he was waiting for but, rather, death: a specific death, that of Antipatros. Eumenes had seen the will to live drain from the face of the old regent as he had grieved for his son, Iollas. He was certain that the event would not be long postponed and when it came…well, who knew what ructions and shifts of allegiance it would cause. From his bolthole in Nora, Eumenes would be able to watch the turn of the tide below him and, who knew, even end up emerging onto firm, dry land.

  But that was in the future and there, in the present, Eumenes tensed and forgot his schemes as the object of his immediate attention came within view, laughing with an officer, someone he felt he vaguely recognised, as they both left the pavilion. Right they turned and walked along the torch-lit main thoroughfare of the camp – if such a disordered, haphazard affair could be said to have a main thoroughfare – all the while joking as if they were old friends. Eumenes pulled his hood deeper over his face and followed, trying to keep as much in the shadow as was possible without conspicuously weaving out of the light.

  After a while they paused. ‘I bid you good night, my friend,’ the dimly remembered officer said, as they clasped forearms. ‘You will find Antigonos a very generous man as what is waiting for you in your tent will prove.’

  ‘I have no doubt of it, Leonidas,’ Apollonides said, ‘far more generous than the sly little Greek.’

  That’s just where you’re wrong, you traitorous piece of shit; I’ve got a very special gift for you, one that will last forever.

  The men parted, Leonidas walking further along the thoroughfare and Apollonides entering a leather tent, round with a central pole, the type reserved for officers. With a smile, Eumenes crossed to the neighbouring tent, snuck around it and settled down in the shadows behind Apollonides’ to wait. He did not wait long for soon the light seeping out from under the sides faded and the low moans of a woman being pleasured began to rise within, growing steadily, climbing slowly to a rousing crescendo of ecstasy that was interspersed with a series of deep, masculine grunts. The sound of deep breathing was not long in following.

  After waiting in the shadows for as long as he could bear, Eumenes lifted the leather enough to be able to see the interior, lit by a small nightlight; dimly he could make out the camp bed: judging by the shape, the woman was still there. That makes matters a little more complicated; it’s a shame for her, of course, but these things can’t be helped. He drew his blade, crept around to where he judged the bed to be closest to the edge of the tent and, lifting the leather, rolled under it. He was in; lying still he held his breath, listening to the sound of sleep. Satisfied that both were undisturbed by his entrance, he got to his feet and, with utmost stealth, went to the head of the bed.

  It was quick, so quick her body hardly tensed: one hand over her mouth as the blade slid into her eye and pierced her brain; with a couple of twists of the wrist he made mush of the organ. As soon as it was done he knelt by Apollonides’ side, and, clamping a hand over his mouth, pricked the side of his neck with the needle-like tip of his blade. His eyes sprang open.

  ‘Good evening, Apollonides,’ Eumenes whispered, the muscles in his arm tensing as he struggled to keep his hand compressed tight on the man’s face. ‘Now hold very still, we wouldn’t want this blade to slip; look what it did to your lovely girlfriend.’ He pushed Apollonides’ head to one side so that he could see the woman lying on her back with blood slowly oozing from the savaged eye socket. ‘Now, much as I’m tempted to ask you why you betrayed me, I think that I’ll just have to curb my curiosity as I imagine that the only answer you’ll give me if I take my hand away is a loud scream for help.’ Eumenes took pleasure in seeing Apollonides’ eyes stare at him, wide with panic.
‘So instead, I’m going to tell you my theory and you can answer or not with your eyes: I think that you were offered a lot of money, probably by that man who you said goodnight to this evening. Thinking about it he does seem familiar from this winter in Nora. But I suppose it doesn’t matter who was the go-between because the end result was the same: you accepted because, despite all you were saying last year about remaining loyal to me because I was your general and you didn’t care that I wasn’t a Macedonian, you felt that loyalty to a Greek could be discarded for money whereas loyalty to a Macedonian was much more about personal honour. Am I right?’

  Apollonides’ eyes showed neither admission of guilt or denial; he just lay there, his body stiff.

  Eumenes shrugged and punched his blade up under the jaw. ‘Well, ultimately, what do I care?’ He looked down into a pain-filled face as the back arched and the legs juddered. ‘But at least you got to see me before you met the Ferryman.’ He twisted the blade, again shredding the brain. ‘Although, not for very long, that’s for sure, which is a shame for you but a pleasure for me as the sight of you, even dead, makes me feel sick.’

  Pulling the blade from Apollonides’ skull he wiped it on the blanket, stood and then took a scroll from a pouch hanging from his belt and laid it on the dead man’s chest.

  *

  ‘“See you at Nora, with a man short,”’ Antigonos shouted up at the fortress walls waving the scroll. ‘Very witty.’

  ‘Yes, I thought so too,’ Eumenes replied, looking down at the small party on the bare rocks below under a branch of truce. ‘Although, if I were you I don’t think I could have trusted someone who could be bought for mere money so consider his death a favour from me to you.’

  ‘Why, thank you, Eumenes. You’ve always been known for your unselfish conduct. But it wasn’t mere money that bought Apollonides; it was a lot of money.’

  ‘It was still money. But that’s all in the past now; I had my revenge as you saw and thoroughly enjoyed it. It was a shame about the girl but, at least, judging from the noise she had been making, she died well fucked.’

  Antigonos grinned. ‘She was one of my favourites.’ He waved her memory away. ‘So, Eumenes, are you going to come out of there and talk to me face to face?’

  ‘What guarantee do I have for my safety?’

  Antigonos beckoned a middle-aged man forward. ‘This is Polemaeus, my nephew. You know him. He stays in the fortress for as long as you sit with me; fair enough.’

  ‘Your nephew’s life wouldn’t concern the Exile-Hunter; not that I’ve seen him since he tried to kill me at Sardis.’

  ‘That’s because he’s disappeared; no one’s seen him or his fox-fuckers.’

  Eumenes thought for a moment. ‘Very well, Antigonos, I’ll come and parley.’

  ‘But there is one condition: that you don’t—’

  ‘Keep on finishing your sentences for you. Agreed.’

  It was with surprising warmth that they embraced; indeed, Eumenes was genuinely pleased to see an old friend after twelve years, despite the fact that he had refused Perdikkas’ orders to help him to take Kappadokia, not to mention the recent defeat in battle.

  ‘So, my friend,’ Antigonos said after they had been made comfortable beneath an awning, with wine and stuffed vine-leaves, ‘are you really going to live in there for ever?’

  ‘Eventually I’ll have to come out, but it will be a long time yet.’ Eumenes looked around at the crowd, gathering now that word had got around Antigonos’ men that the sly little Greek, the killer of Krateros, was talking with their general. ‘I seem to be an object of some curiosity; have they never seen a Greek of less than average height before?’

  ‘Many, but not one still in possession of both his legs.’

  Eumenes raised his cup and drank to the humour.

  ‘So if you won’t come out—’

  ‘And be subject to an execution order from the army assembly.’

  ‘What if I could get that removed?’

  ‘Then we could talk again; you know where to find me. I’ve supplies for over a year and the world may well be a different place by then. I’ve dismissed most of the surviving elements of my army with grateful thanks for the loyalty they had shown me – I’d be obliged if when you come across them you would employ them rather than murder them.’

  ‘It depends whether they’re any use to me.’

  ‘Oh, they’re all good lads, as were the eight thousand you managed to slaughter at Orcynia, had you bothered to have a word with them first.’

  ‘Giving them a funeral was a nice touch; you earnt the respect of a lot of my men.’

  ‘It wasn’t their respect I was after, but I thank them anyway.’ He raised his cup to the growing audience and was rewarded with a stone whistling just past his right ear; another followed, far better aimed, taking him in the shoulder.

  ‘Murderer!’ came the cry. ‘You killed Krateros!’

  More stones fizzed towards him as the crowd began to close in.

  ‘Get back!’ Antigonos shouted, ‘Get back, you idiots. Another step and every one of you I can recognise is a dead man!’

  The advance halted, but the stones did not; Eumenes was forced into the undignified position of having to hold his chair before him as a shield.

  Antigonos went to stand in front of him, arms outstretched. When the first stone hit his back and he turned to face the men, glaring in his full fury, the fight went out of them and they slunk back. ‘I didn’t realise just how much animosity the lads still bear you,’ Antigonos said as he led Eumenes, a protective arm around his shoulders, back up the steep path to Nora. ‘You had better get back into the fortress, if only for your own safety.’

  Eumenes gave a wry smile. ‘You were saying something earlier about having the death sentence removed?’

  Antigonos grunted. ‘So you’re not going to come out and I’m going to be forced to lay siege to this lump of rock.’

  ‘No one’s forcing you.’

  ‘You know perfectly well what I mean. Well now, I’ll leave Leonidas here, in charge of the siege; I’m going back west to deal with your friends Alketas and Attalus.’

  ‘They’re not my friends although, I admit, I did want them to be.’

  ‘Yes, you seem to be rather short of friends at the moment; I’ve even got Hieronymus in my camp.’

  ‘You keep him for the time being, he’ll enjoy witnessing events from your perspective.’

  ‘He does; I’ve told him all about your sneaking little ways and a lot more besides about all the others.’

  Eumenes laughed as the fortress gates opened and Polemaeus walked out. He gripped Antigonos’ proffered forearm. ‘You hurry back west, Antigonos, and don’t you worry about me as you go after Alketas and Attalus. I’ll be fine all tucked up nice and warm in this fortress. Come back when you’ve dealt with those arrogant, ignorant bastards – perhaps you could do me the favour of giving them a slow and painful death seeing as it’s partially because of them that I’m here. Come back later on in the year as you may find that we have more things in common than we do now once Antipatros is having a nice little chat with the Ferryman.’

  ANTIPATROS.

  THE REGENT.

  IT WAS A bleak place, high on the cliff. It was bleak despite the warm sunshine and the sea glistering below, far below, stretching away into a deep blue distance. However, it was not bleak because of any device of nature: it was bleak because Antipatros had made it so in his mind, for here, just separate from those of the rest of his family, he had raised the tomb of his son, Iollas. Here, before the sombre edifice, the height of two men and with depictions of its young occupier in battle, at hunt and relaxing in the symposium, cup in one hand, a poetic text in the other, did Antipatros come to weep most days. Here he felt the years press heavy upon him; here he knew, before long, his bones too would rest for he was tired of life and desired nothing but peace. Peace: that was a word that echoed constantly around his head. Peace, how he longed for it, for nothing s
eemed to give him joy in the world anymore, not even in the arms of Hyperia, his wife, could he find the comfort that would banish the grief he felt for Iollas. But it was not only grief that tormented him; far from it: it was also guilt. The guilt he felt, in every waking hour, and no doubt also in the subconsciousness of sleep; guilt for having made the war against Eumenes a personal affair about his honour and thus not ending it when, from a business sense, it had become pointless. And as he grieved for Iollas, he also wished, with all his heart, that it had been Kassandros who had died and not his younger brother, for he could but feel that Iollas was worth ten of his older sibling. For Kassandros’ death would open the way for Nicanor and then…well, then his burden would lessen.

  But it was not so: Iollas had passed beyond the Styx and Kassandros still inhabited the realm of the living, watching over Antipatros with barely concealed impatience; for he, too, knew that his father was soon to die and thought only of the benefits it would bring to himself. So now Antipatros knew he would have to make the hardest decision of his life; and, as he sat on a rock gazing, with eyes weighed with sorrow, at the tomb, he struggled to see how the result of what he knew he had to do could be anything other than to bring the civil war into Macedon itself. For he realized that Kassandros would not take being passed over with a mild shrug of the shoulders and heartfelt congratulations to the man who had usurped – as Kassandros would see it – his rightful inheritance.

  That the regency was not a hereditary title would not be understood by Kassandros; he would see it as his right, as the elder son, to have whatever his father possessed at the time of his death, his unsuitability to the position never occurring to him. Antipatros gave a rueful smile as he reflected that should Kassandros actually realise his unsuitability to the task that might, ironically, make him far more suitable.