The Three Paradises

by Robert Fabbri

  ‘This is all assuming that Antigonos does actually give Kassandros an army, that is.’

  Thessalonike smiled and sipped her iced wine. ‘Mother, there are so many armies around these days; Antigonos is bound to have one to spare.’

  Olympias considered her adoptive daughter’s advice. She’s right; she’s a shrewd one, that’s for sure. I need to wait until the outcome is clearer. But somehow, I will be the centre of attention soon. She picked up Antigonos’ letter and reread it to see if there was some hidden meaning that she had missed.

  Having now irrevocably split with Polyperchon due to my confiscation of a shipment of five hundred talents bound for Macedon, an ally to his west would be a comfort to me indeed. Although I do not promote the idea of an invasion of Macedon by an Epirot army, I cannot tell what you might do should the so-called Royal Army be called south due to my proxy’s arrival at a place of strategic importance. Rest assured that I shall support you whatever your actions, provided they do me no harm, and do not seek to influence events in Asia which I now consider to be under my personal control and not a part of the Kingdom of Macedon. I remain your friend, Antigonos.

  No, the meaning was clear enough: he wanted her to invade but could not say so directly; Kassandros was definitely his proxy and he had served notice that Asia and Macedon were now two separate entities, never to be reunited – at least whilst Antigonos still lived.

  So what should she do? I can’t trust the snakes anymore, not since I completely misunderstood the last answer; and if I did then what question should I ask?

  ‘You’re not thinking about the snakes again, Mother, are you?’

  Olympias looked at Thessalonike in surprise. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Because you always do when you have a decision to make; but what’s the point in consulting them when you can’t ask a personal question? Look how wrong they were the last time they spoke.’

  ‘I asked the wrong question.’

  ‘That’s my point. Why not consult the oldest oracle where you ask just one question?’

  ‘“What should I do?”’ Olympias smiled. ‘Yes, the Mother Goddess will help; we’ll set out for Dodona tomorrow.’

  The grove of oaks was a place of peace and of great spirituality situated on the plain between the foothills of snow-capped Mount Tomaros and the town of Dodona, thronged with pilgrims eager to buy religious tat from unscrupulous vendors only too pleased to take advantage of their superstition or religious fervour. It had been a place of worship and divination for centuries. Just eight leagues south of Passaron, it originally was a place sacred to the Mother Goddess, Gaia; she had later been joined by Dione but, by Homer’s time, Zeus had taken her place and Dione had been relegated to an aspect of his consort, Hera. But Olympias did not care about the religious hierarchy of the inhabitants, she cared only for the veracity of the oracle, whoever was the deity behind it; she had chosen to consult the priestesses of Gaia.

  Soft were the chimes of the bronze circlets suspended in the boughs of the oaks as they moved in the breeze; sharp was the hammer blow that stunned the ram that Olympias had brought as an offering. The beast knew nothing of its throat being slit and succumbed to its duty as an appeasement to the Mother with little struggle and even less understanding.

  It was now a time of prayer and hymns and the priestesses, all seven of them, veiled and swathed in voluminous gowns of whitest wool, swayed as they worshipped, delivering their praise and thanks to the earth beneath their feet, the being of the mother herself from which all life springs, whilst clinking small silver cymbals strapped to their thumbs and middle fingers.

  Olympias and Thessalonike joined with the priestesses, having been apprised of the sacred texts and given a day to learn them. On they sang and chanted as the sun rose over Mount Tomaros bringing the grove out of the shadow and in doing so freshening the breeze so that the chiming in the trees grew, blending with the rustle of leaves now tinged with autumnal colours.

  And as the sun reached its zenith, the worship came to a tinkling climax rounded off with a gasp of religious awe from all present.

  ‘Great Mother,’ the high priestess intoned, addressing the ground. ‘Show yourself generous to our sister, Olympias, who has come to seek guidance. Use your sight to delve into what has been ordained. Speak through me so that her question may be answered to her satisfaction.’ For a while she said nothing, listening to the sound of the chimes in the trees and the wind through their branches. Presently she knelt down on one knee, rang her cymbals and touched the earth with them, deadening the sound. ‘She is come,’ she announced in a voice that oozed reverence. ‘Ask and you shall receive wisdom.’

  ‘What should I do?’ Olympias said, moved by the mysticism of the occasion.

  No one moved as the priestesses all concentrated their minds on the sound of the trees, interpreting the rustling of the leaves, the creaking of the branches and the clinking of the chimes as the wind rose and then faded and then rose again.

  For how long they stood, motionless, Olympias knew not, filled as she was with rapture at the closeness of the Mother. She placed her hand on her womb, now infertile but still a powerful reminder of her femininity and called to mind the two children who had sprung from it: the first now dead and the other sitting in Sardis waiting to be claimed by one who would dare reach for the ultimate prize; but she knew that no man would ever be worthy of her now. She mourned her children’s fate and she mourned her inability to change it, as did she mourn the bitterness that now ruled her own life and she prayed that the oracle’s answer would sweeten her suffering.

  As one, the seven priestesses rang their cymbals and cried: ‘She has spoken!’

  Olympias felt a thrill of anticipation; her pulse quickened.

  The high priestess lifted her veil; her eyes were rolling. ‘Take care, Olympias. Do nothing yet for you are to be offered your desire. Seek the advice of your one true friend, for his actions will affect your decisions.’

  The eyes rolled once more and then, as they began to focus, the priestess replaced her veil and her colleagues began a low chant, turning their backs to Olympias, the oracle now complete.

  ‘What do you think that means?’ Thessalonike asked as they walked out of the grove.

  Olympias contemplated the question on the road back to Passaron, dozing in the comfort of deep cushions and furs in her covered travelling wagon: what was her desire, for she had many? Power, revenge, ecstasy, her son alive, the extinction of Antipatros’ house; all of them raced around her mind, each stressing its own urgency. And then who was her one true male friend, for she thought she had none?

  Nor could Thessalonike throw light on the oracle for she knew many of her adoptive mother’s desires but could not say which burned deepest. And so as the wagon trundled through the south gates of Passeron, Olympias was unsure as to whether she should seek an audience with the king and request that he ready his army march west in preparation for an invasion of Macedon, for surely preparing for something was not actually doing it in the sense of taking action? Or should she take the oracle literally, going against all instincts, and bide her time, for inaction at a moment such as this, when Macedon was there for the taking, was an anathema to her?

  Thus she entered her apartments as unsure of her course of action as when she had left them but with the knowledge that doing absolutely nothing was sanctioned by the Mother herself.

  And it was as she sat contemplating the frustration of inaction that the messenger from Polyperchon arrived; she all but tore at the scroll such was her curiosity to see which of her desires the Mother deemed to have precedence.

  She took the letter to the window so as to better read it.

  From Polyperchon, Regent of Macedon, to Olympias, Queen, greetings. I write at a time that sees great dangers for Macedon, the kingdom we both love. It is threatened from the south and the east; I would that it not be so from the west. To this end, Queen Olympias, I propose an alliance. I, as you know, am regent to two k
ings, Alexander and Philip, but I would suggest that now would be the time for you, as Alexander’s grandmother, to take him in hand and prepare him for his role in this world. I would deem it, therefore, a great favour if you would return to Macedon and share the regency with me.

  Olympias sat and unconsciously scrumpled the letter in her hand. The regency! Power once again at last. And then it hit her, her true desire: To meet my son’s son and to see how much of the father is retained in the child. Yes, Great Mother, you are right: of all things, that is my greatest desire.

  She clapped her hands, a slave appeared. ‘Send for Thessalonike.’

  ‘And yet you hesitate,’ Thessalonike said, having read the letter. ‘Why? It is all you want: power and your grandchild?’

  Olympias nodded and smiled. ‘Yes, but I’m sure it must be a trap; who would give something like that away and ask nothing in return?’

  ‘He secures his western border; that is a great deal for Polyperchon.’

  ‘But he tempts me to Pella where my person will be far more exposed, endangered.’

  ‘Then you must remember the oracle: you must seek the advice of your one true friend.’

  It was then Olympias realised who had, ever since her son’s death, always supported her family’s cause, even though it had led him to be an outlawed exile.

  She sat at her desk and began to write.

  My truest friend, Eumenes…

  EUMENES.

  THE SLY.

  EUMENES LAY ON his back looking up at the night sky, willing a cloud of decent proportion to move faster and cover the three-quarter moon. Around him he could hear the breathing of the hundred men he had chosen for the raid, ninety Macedonians and ten of his Kappadokians, many with ropes and grappling hooks; they were concealed in the rock-strewn slope halfway between the sally port of the fortress at Nora and the siege lines that had kept him and his remaining followers prisoners since the spring. Wearing no armour and with weapons and boots muffled with rags, they waited on the cloud’s slow progress, the thrill of impending action quickening their hearts.

  Finally the moon was shrouded and night became complete. Eumenes turned to Xennias, next to him and pointed down the hill with his finger. Xennias nodded and, at a crouch, threaded his way through the rocks, down the hill, taking the ninety Macedonians with him. Eumenes counted to two hundred in his head, his palm sweating on the leather-bound hilt of his sword, and prayed that the cloud blocking the moonlight would not suddenly find the need for some urgency in its wanderings across the sky.

  The allotted time reached, Eumenes got to his feet with care not to dislodge any loose rocks, and beckoned his Kappadokians to follow. Stooped low, he headed in the opposite direction to Xennias and his command for they were but a diversion, the real mission that night was Eumenes’, and for it he needed few, if any, men; the ten he was taking, armed with bows and swords, were there only should something unexpected occur and they were obliged to fight their way back up to the fortress.

  Down the slope they edged, careful with their footing, in the deep darkness of the cloud-covered night, down towards the trench backed by a wooden palisade, the height of two men, which circumvallated the steep hill upon which Nora perched. Almost a league in circumference and interspersed with fighting towers, the siege line was a huge area to man and Leonidas, Antigonos’ commander, did not have sufficient men to do so both day and night. So, if the ringed defence were to be breached, late into the hours of darkness was the best time to do it.

  A few times, over their confinement, Eumenes had probed, or even led a full-out attack on the besiegers, only to be repulsed each time; latterly he had continued leading these forays more to keep his men occupied. Both sides realised that the attacks were more for show and a relief to the tedium and so entered into them with good spirit, with very few fatalities ensuing and a free exchange of prisoners afterwards. But this mission was not to attack in order to break out, but, rather, to break someone in. One man, that afternoon, had signalled, reflecting the sun off a polished bronze disc, that he had a letter for Eumenes; that same man had brought letters before and therefore knew what to do and what to expect once he received the acknowledgement.

  Now it was just a question of timing.

  As he neared the trench, filled with sharpened stakes, Eumenes crouched and listened. A fox barked in the distance and received an answering call; motionless he remained, his men poised and tense behind him. The faint sound of voices floated on the breeze from the west, two perhaps three men talking in hushed tones and seemingly coming closer, most probably guards walking along the fighting platform that ran around the back of the palisade. He signalled to his men to duck down; looking up he could faintly make out the top of the wall as a completely dark line against an almost completely dark background. Sure enough, within a dozen heartbeats, the vague shapes of three heads and shoulders could be made out above the line of the palisade. Shit! That’s not what we needed and it’s too dark to try for a head shot. He looked back up at the sky: the cloud appeared to be holding its position over the moon but for how much longer he could not tell; but even if the moon were to come out the chances of hitting three heads simultaneously with killing accuracy was very slim, even for his Kappadokians who were reckoned the best shots in the fortress – and there had been plenty of time to ascertain the truth of that. And besides, the moon would illumine them just as much as the men on the wall and who knew what other eyes might be watching. Keep walking and you might get to live.

  But it was the sound of the diversionary attack that put an end to the men’s perambulation. Ostentatiously loud, with much shouting and cracking of sword hilts on wood as they scaled the walls using grappling hooks, Xennias’ command pierced the night with their din.

  The three men on the wall stopped and stared in the direction of the noise. ‘Do you think it’s just testing our defences or is it another diversionary attack,’ one asked his comrades.

  ‘Diversionary attack?’

  ‘Yes, how else do you think Eumenes gets letters? The only thing that Leonidas can’t figure out is how the messenger knows where to meet whoever it is who takes the letter up to the fortress.’

  I’m afraid you have just sealed your fate, my friends. Signalling to one of his men to follow him and two more to go twenty paces to the far side of the guards, Eumenes crept forward, the cries and halloos from the diversion masking any noise he made as he slid down into the trench. Unslinging his rope and grappling hook, he waited until he considered his other two men would be in position. With a nod to his companion, he whirled the hook around his head and hurled it over the palisade; it clunked on the other side, startling the guards; he pulled the rope taut; it held; he hauled himself up, hand over fist, walking the palisade, his comrade on a rope next to him as the guards ran towards them. Over he leaped, launching himself low at the three men running along the walkway, bowling his body into them, sending them tumbling to the ground. Down a blade hissed, crunching into flesh and bone with the dull thud of a butcher’s axe, causing a scream to pierce Eumenes’ ears as he jerked his body upright, landing on his two feet and swinging around whilst simultaneously pulling his sword from its muffled scabbard. At them he went, the last two standing, with a silent snarl, as his companion finished off his screaming victim.

  Now he wanted to kill, for now he enjoyed it. No longer was he the secretary from Kardia; that Eumenes had disappeared a long time ago when he had fought Neoptolemus single-handed and stripped the corpse of its armour. Now he was a leader of men, a winning general, a fighting man who had had little to do but train at arms for the last few months. He cut the first guard down, slitting his throat with the ease of one sacrificing a lamb whilst ducking under the swipe of the second man. Around he swung, full circle, bringing his blade slicing round into muscled thigh, cutting to the bone, wedging solid so that the hilt was wrenched from his grip as the guard went down with a howl to the gods. Eumenes’ two other comrades rushed to join them, weapons bared and in
moments all was quiet; the three guards lay motionless just as the moon slid from behind the cloud, its reflection glistening in a growing pool of blood.

  ‘Leave them where they are but lay them out with respect,’ Eumenes whispered to his comrades.

  As they obeyed his order, Eumenes looked around on the far side of the palisade. He smiled as he saw what he was looking for: a shadowed figure flitted through the various bits of detritus left by months of siege-craft. On he came, racing up the steps to the walkway.

  ‘Well done, Helius,’ Eumenes said, taking the proffered scroll case and handing the man a weighty purse.

  ‘I thought they would never go, sir,’ Helius said, nodding down at the corpses.

  ‘They didn’t; they’re still here.’

  ‘Yeah, well, you know what I mean, sir.’

  ‘I do. Next time we’ll meet between the first and second towers on the southern side of the fortifications. They’ve just moved out of the camp there because it’s diseased.’ Eumenes enjoyed the look of concern on Helius’ face. ‘Don’t worry yourself, you won’t be there long enough. In and out quickly and no one gets hurt, just like tonight; apart from those three.’ He slapped his messenger on the shoulder. ‘Safe trip back.’ Turning to go as the noise of the diversionary action began to subside, Eumenes grabbed his rope and slid down, wondering who it was who had written to him this time.

  … and so, therefore I would know your mind on this matter. Eumenes put down the letter next to that of Antigonos and shook his head in disbelief. Here he was, locked up in a hilltop fortress in Kappadokia with a little under six hundred men and their horses remaining and yet he was being courted by both Antigonos and Olympias. He smiled to himself. The world really is a different place with Antipatros’ death. The news of the old regent’s passing had come the day before with Hieronymus bearing Antigonos’ letter; he had been prepared for the political landscape to change after that momentous event, but to become so different as to be almost unrecognisable was pleasing in the extreme. Kassandros being passed over for Polyperchon! I didn’t see that coming; nor did Kassandros and the old nonentity for that matter. It wouldn’t surprise me to get an offer from Polyperchon or perhaps even have Kassandros turning up and asking me for help, at this rate.