Alexander's Legacy: To The Strongest

by Robert Fabbri

  ‘My arse I will; it’s foolish behaviour like that that gets people killed unnecessarily. He’s either got to learn discipline or resign himself to a short life.’

  ‘In my experience it’s not always the foolish that suffer as a result of their actions.’

  Antigonos’ face darkened. ‘If my son ever does that again, Philotas, I pray to Ares that you’re right and he doesn’t kill himself.’

  ROXANNA, THE WILD-CAT

  THE CHILD KICKED within her. Roxanna put both hands to her belly; she sat, veiled, in the open window of her suite on the second floor of the palace in Babylon. Below her, in the immense central courtyard of the complex, now ablaze with torches as the sun sank from the overcast sky, the Macedonian army gathered for yet another meeting.

  It was just one more strange thing that she had never been able to fathom about the way the Macedonian mind worked: why did they allow all their citizens to have a say? Before Alexander had defeated her father, Oxyartes – and then appointed him satrap of Paropamisadae – his will in her native Bactria was questioned on pain of impalement and yet, Alexander, a man who, she had to admit, had been far more powerful than her father could ever hope to be, actually listened to the opinions of the common soldiery. Indeed, it had been a near mutiny that had forced him to turn back from India. She shook her head at the lawlessness of a system whereby consensus ruled and swore that the boy-child she carried would not have such a handicap inflicted upon him when he came to the throne.

  And that thought turned her mind back to her main preoccupation during Alexander’s illness which had now become a burning issue since his death but two hours previously: how to ensure the boy would come to rule, for she knew that her life depended upon it.

  Again the child gave a mighty kick and Roxanna cursed her late husband for abandoning her just at the time she needed him most. Just when she was going to triumph and produce an heir before his other two wives, the Persian bitches whom Alexander had married in the massed wedding at Susa when he had forced all his officers to take Persian spouses; just as she was on the point of becoming the most important person in Alexander’s life now that her main rival, Hephaestion, was no more.

  She turned and clicked her fingers at the three slave-girls waiting on their knees with their heads bowed, just as Roxanna liked it, in the far corner of the room. One girl got to her feet and padded, head still bowed, over the array of carpets of varying hues and designs of the type favoured in the east; she stopped close enough to her mistress so that Roxanna would not be forced to raise her voice, for that required energy and Roxanna believed that a queen should not be expected to expend her energy unnecessarily; it should be preserved for her king.

  Roxanna ignored the girl, turning her attention back to the events unfolding below; horns were sounding and the fifteen-thousand-strong Macedonian citizens present in the army of Babylon, now formed up in their units, became silent as seven men mounted the podium in the centre of the courtyard.

  ‘Which one?’ Roxanna muttered to herself, under her breath, scrutinising Alexander’s bodyguards. ‘Who will it be?’ She knew them all, some better than others, for she had vied with them all since her marriage three years ago, at the age of fifteen, as she had struggled to maintain her position in such a masculine society that was the army of Alexander.

  It was Perdikkas, dressed in full uniform – helm, cuirass, leather apron, greaves and a cloak of deepest red – who stepped forward to address the assembly. Roxanna had thought it would be as she had seen him take the ring from Alexander but still cursed her luck: Leonnatus would have been far more malleable, his vanity made him so; Peucestas, the lover of pleasure and fine things, would have easily slipped into her bed or, indeed, Aristonous, to whom she could have appealed to his strong sense of duty to the Argead royal dynasty of Macedon. But Perdikkas? How would she bend him to her will?

  ‘Soldiers of Macedon,’ Perdikkas declaimed, his voice high and carrying over the vast, shadowed host; the bronze of his helmet glistering in the torchlight as the light breeze fluttered its red horse-hair plume. ‘I expect you have all heard of the tragedy that has befallen us for bad news is fleeter than good. Alexander, the third of his name, the Lion of Macedon, is dead. And we, his soldiers, will mourn him in the Macedonian manner. The campaign in Arabia is, therefore, postponed so that funeral games with rich prizes may be held over the next few days. But first we shall do what is right and proper: we shall, each and every one of us, pay our last respects to our king; his body has been moved to the throne-room. We will file past in our units. The cavalry shall go first. Once all have been witness to his death, then, and only then, will we have an assembly to appoint a new king, two days hence.’

  As Perdikkas continued addressing the army, Roxanna snapped at her slave waiting behind her. ‘Fetch Orestes, I have a letter to write.’

  The secretary arrived within a few moments of the girl leaving the room, as if he had been awaiting her summons; perhaps he had been, Roxanna reflected, he had been most attentive since she had caused the little finger of his left hand clipped off for keeping her waiting too long after being called for. Alexander had chided her for inflicting such a punishment on a freeborn Greek and told her to make recompense but she had laughed at him and said that a queen should never be kept waiting and, besides, she had done it now and no amount of recompense would re-grow it. Alexander, fool that he was, had compensated the man from his own purse. ‘To Perdikkas,’ she said without turning around to see if the man was ready. ‘From Queen Roxanna of Macedon, greetings.’ She heard the stylus begin to scratch as she formulated the next line in her head, never once taking her eye off her quarry who was still addressing the troops below. ‘I require your presence to discuss the regency and other topics of mutual benefit.’

  ‘That is all, majesty?’ Orestes asked as his stylus stilled.

  ‘Of course it’s all! Had there been more I would have said it! Now get out and write a fair copy and then bring it to me so I can have one of my maids deliver it.’ Roxanna smiled to herself as she listened to Orestes hurriedly gather his things and scamper from the room. Greeks, how I loathe them; especially those who can write. Who knows what secrets and spells they conceal? Down in the courtyard Perdikkas had finished speaking and Ptolemy had taken the podium to declaim his grief. She wondered whether lots had been drawn but she rather thought not; what she was witnessing was the order of precedence that the bodyguards had sorted out amongst themselves.

  By the time she had despatched her letter, Peucestas was the last to speak, following Lysimachus, Leonnatus and Aristonous – Peithon, being a man of few words, each preferably with few syllables, had not attempted to. As the assembly broke up and the great file-by had begun, Roxanna ordered a jug of sweet wine and commanded her maids to redo her hair and makeup as she awaited her guest.

  Her coiffure could have been reworked thrice by the time Perdikkas was announced by her steward.

  ‘You kept me waiting,’ Roxanna said, her voice low, as the tall Macedonian strode into her chamber. She removed her veil and stared at him with almond eyes, giving a hint of a flutter of the eyelashes.

  ‘You’re lucky that I had the time to come at all; there have been messengers to send out and much to organise,’ Perdikkas replied, sitting without asking leave or commenting on her naked face. ‘Are you going to cut one of my fingers off as a warning against tardiness? Next time I suggest you come and find me.’

  Roxanna’s eyes flashed with anger; she waved her slaves out of the room. ‘I’m your queen; I can summon you any time I wish.’

  Perdikkas stared at her levelly, contemplating her with his sea-grey eyes; she did not relish it but held his gaze. Clean-shaven, like many close to Alexander, his face was lean with high cheekbones and a slender nose and close-clipped black hair; a pleasing face, she allowed, one that she would not mind being in close contact with, should the need arise. She glanced at his hands; he was not wearing the ring.

  ‘You are not my queen, Roxan
na,’ Perdikkas said after a few moments, ‘nor have you ever been. To me, and the rest of the army, you are nothing but a barbarian savage whom Alexander brought back from the east as a trophy. And you would do well to remember that in the coming days.’

  ‘How dare you speak to me like that? I—’

  ‘You are now no more than a vessel, Roxanna,’ Perdikkas cut across her with force, pointing at her pregnancy, ‘a useful vessel, granted, but a vessel nonetheless. What you carry within you has value, you do not. The only question is: how much value does it possess? Not much if it turns out to be female.’

  Roxanna put a hand on her belly and clenched her jaw. ‘He is a boy-child,’ she hissed through her teeth, ‘I know it.’

  ‘How can you be certain?’

  ‘A woman knows; he sits low within me and he kicks with all his strength.’

  Perdikkas dismissed her assertion with a wave of his hand. ‘Believe what you want; we will all know one way or the other in three months. Until then I would advise you to keep out of sight so the men aren’t constantly reminded of the fact that Alexander’s heir is a half-breed.’

  ‘They love me.’

  Perdikkas sighed and shook his head; the harshness came out of his voice. ‘In the last year of his life, Alexander began training easterners in the Macedonian fashion, making phalangites out of them. When he sent Krateros home with ten thousand veterans he did not replace them with Macedonians but, rather, these new pseudo-Macedonians, and the men don’t like it. If your child is a boy we will have a struggle to have him accepted by all Macedonians.’

  ‘Which is why I summoned you.’

  Perdikkas gave an exasperated look. ‘Roxanna, I will not play games with you; I hold Alexander’s ring, I am summoned by nobody. I came because I would rather talk to you here where there is a certain degree of privacy. Now, what did you want to say to me?’

  Roxanna, realising that trying to assert her rightful position would just aggravate Perdikkas more, decided against forcing her claim to superiority. ‘You need me, Perdikkas.’ She was taken aback by his sudden outbreak of mirth. ‘You laugh at me? Why?’

  ‘You are the second person to have told me that this evening.’

  ‘Who was the first?’

  ‘You don’t need to know that.’

  I do, I do very much need to know who else is vying for his attention. ‘I’m sure that he can’t be nearly as useful as I can be.’

  ‘I’m not sure that he could.’

  Good, it’s not a woman. ‘You hold the ring, and your six colleagues in the Bodyguard have evidently deferred to you as it was you who addressed the army first this evening. Now, let us be practical: you would like to rule in Alexander’s place but the others won’t accept that, if they did you would be wearing that ring now, but you’re not. I can offer you the regency of my son until he comes of age in fourteen years.’

  ‘I could just take the regency; I have no need to receive it from your hand.’

  Roxanna smiled; it was, she knew, her finest feature, which was why she bestowed it rarely, thereby adding to its effect. ‘To be an effective regent you have to be ruling over a united realm and all your subjects must accept you as the regent. If I endorse you then that could well happen. But just imagine if I make that proposal to Leonnatus, for example; can there be two regents? I rather think not. And do you think that Leonnatus would turn down the chance of that power knowing what he thinks of himself? And who do you think Ptolemy would support if it were a choice between you and Leonnatus?’

  ‘You wouldn’t.’

  The smile faded and her eyes hardened. ‘I would, what’s more, you know I could.’

  Perdikkas considered the situation.

  I think I have him.

  ‘What do you want,’ Perdikkas said eventually.

  I do have him, now I just need to teach him some manners. ‘Stability for my son; there can be only one true-born heir.’

  ‘You want Heracles dead?’

  ‘Heracles? No, that bastard is not a threat to me. Alexander never acknowledged Barsine so he has no precedence over my son. It’s the two bitches in Susa.’

  ‘Stateira and Parysatis? They can’t threaten your position.’

  ‘They’re pregnant, both of them.’

  ‘Impossible; Alexander hasn’t seen them since Hephaestion’s funeral cortège passed through Susa nine months ago. If he impregnated them then we would all know by now.’

  ‘Even so, I want them dead and I want you to kill them for me.’

  ‘Kill women? I don’t do that; especially as the women concerned are Alexander’s wives.’

  ‘Send someone to do it then or I go to Leonnatus.’

  ‘Do you really think Leonnatus would stoop to murdering women, knowing what he thinks of himself?’ It was Perdikkas’ turn to smile. ‘Or any of the bodyguards, for that matter.’

  Roxanna cursed the man inwardly and then tried a different tack. ‘Shouldn’t Alexander’s wives all be in Babylon to mourn him? Surely Stateira and Parysatis would welcome the chance to weep by his body?’

  Perdikkas gave a grim smile as he grasped the meaning of what Roxanna was saying. ‘I will be responsible for their safety once they are here.’

  ‘But not whilst they are on the road, how could you be?’

  Again he looked at her long and hard and, from his eyes, Roxanna knew that she would triumph.

  Perdikkas stood. ‘Very well, Roxanna, I will summon Stateira and Parysatis to Babylon and you will endorse me as regent. If it becomes appropriate, I shall inform the senior officers of the army of your decision when we meet the day after tomorrow before the army assembly.’

  ‘You may indeed do that,’ Roxanna said with much grace whilst bestowing another rare smile. She watched him turn and leave the room, the smile fixed to her face. So, Stateira and Parysatis, you will soon learn what happens to my rivals; just as did Hephaestion.

  PTOLEMY, THE BASTARD

  CLEVER, VERY CLEVER, Ptolemy thought as he looked at the layout of the throne-room in which he and his colleagues were gathering, two days after Alexander’s death. He hated to admit it, but, however much he disliked the man, Perdikkas had been clever; but Ptolemy had always found that enmity did not need to preclude admiration.

  At the far end of the hall the final few infantry units of the army of Babylon continued to file past the body of their king, lying dressed in his richest uniform: a purple cloak and tunic, a gilded breastplate inlaid with gemstones and engraved with gods, horses and the sixteen-point sun-blazon of Macedon and knee-length boots of supple calfskin; his parade helmet rested in the crook of his right arm. But it was not calling the meeting in full view of the last part of the army paying its respects to Alexander that impressed Ptolemy, it was what Perdikkas had made of the other end of the room: the great carved-stone throne of Nebuchadnezzar was draped with Alexander’s robes, his favoured hardened-leather battle-cuirass, inlaid with a leaping horse on each pectoral, was placed, along with his ceremonial sword, at its base; but the master-stroke in Ptolemy’s eyes was his diadem resting on the seat with The Great Ring of Macedon laying within it.

  He’s set up the meeting to be as if it is in the very presence of Alexander, Ptolemy thought, looking around the gathered senior officers: the six other bodyguards plus Alketas, Meleagros, Eumenes and the tall, burly Seleukos who was now the Taxiarch, the commander, of the Hypaspists, one of the two elite infantry units of the army; he had made his name, three years previously, commanding the newly formed elephant squadron. How many of them will support Perdikkas? Ptolemy mused as he studied each face. Eumenes certainly because, as a Greek, he needs a Macedonian sponsor to stand any chance of reward. His attention was drawn by an older man entering the room, weather-beaten with eyes like slits from years of squinting into the sun. Nearchos, interesting; he has the same problem as Eumenes, but our formidable Cretan admiral will be a boon to whoever he chooses to support; it’s a shame I have nothing to tempt him with.

  It was no s
urprise to Ptolemy that Kassandros was the last to arrive. Now he will need watching; how such an arrogant piece of vixen vomit was sired by Antipatros, I’ll never know. Still, I hear the old man’s latest batch of daughters have matured nicely. Kassandros as a brother-in-law? Now there’s a thought. And indeed it was, for it set Ptolemy’s mind working; no route to the life of wealth, leisure and power that he so craved after years of enduring the rigours of campaign should be left unexplored. And that was what Ptolemy was determined to reward himself with, seeing as no one else would; being reputedly the bastard son of King Philip, he had always been treated with subtle contempt. Only Alexander had accorded him respect, making him one of his bodyguards to the ill-concealed surprise of those better born. Having lived his life under the taint of bastardy, his happiness was his alone to grasp and he meant to have a firm grip on it over the coming months.

  With the final arrival, Perdikkas called the meeting to order; all were dressed as if for battle to stress the urgency of the situation. I’d best be on my guard as whatever is decided here will be with Alexander’s blessing and I wouldn’t wish another to get my prize.

  ‘Brothers,’ Perdikkas began as they stood in the shadow of the ghost seated on the throne above them, ‘I’ve called you here to decide upon a common proposal that we can put to the army assembly.’

  A proposal that you hope will grant you full power whether as regent or king, Ptolemy mused whilst nodding his head with much solemnity as if Perdikkas’ purpose was altruistic and for the common good rather than, as he suspected, self-serving. I saw your eyes when Alexander gave you the ring.

  ‘As we all know, Alexander’s first wife, Roxanna, is close to full term; if the child is a boy then we shall have a legitimate heir. I propose that we should wait to see the outcome of the birth.’

  It was what was left unsaid that interested Ptolemy the most: who would rule until then? Well, that’s obvious.