Alexander's Legacy: To The Strongest

by Robert Fabbri

  A tall, dust-covered figure in a stained travel coat, pushing past the guard at the entrance of the tent, drew a halt to Perdikkas’ thought-process. ‘Seleukos.’

  ‘Here’s another possibility for Kleopatra,’ Eumenes said, not entirely to himself.

  ‘It’s done,’ Seleukos announced, pulling off his cloak and throwing it over the back of a chair. ‘Over twenty thousand mercenaries killed. Murdered, in fact; it was as I – I mean we – suspected: Peithon made a deal with them and was going to take them into his army.’

  Eumenes raised his brow. ‘Peithon showing initiative? Well, well, well.’

  Perdikkas ignored the comment. ‘What did you do with him?’

  Seleukos poured himself a drink and sat down. ‘Nothing. I told him to give the bodies a decent funeral and not to be a naughty boy again. He’s to stay in his satrapy until you summon him. I sent his troops to replace the garrisons out in the east until we can recruit more mercenaries to take up the posts; and brought those that you had lent him with me.’

  Perdikkas sighed and shook his head. ‘Is there no one I can trust?’

  ‘You can trust me,’ Seleukos replied and then looked at Eumenes. ‘You might even be able to trust this sly little Greek, although I wouldn’t. But I’ll tell you one person in whom you’ve misplaced your trust and that is Neoptolemus; he’s completely fucked things up in Armenia. I came through the satrapy, following the Royal Road back from Media.’

  ‘I won’t say I told you so,’ Eumenes muttered.

  Perdikkas scowled at the Greek and then turned back to Seleukos. ‘What’s he done?’

  Seleukos tore off a hunk of bread. ‘He’s pissed off his lads by not paying them and they’re refusing to fight for him; he, in turn, is now refusing to pay them until they fight for him. Don’t ask me why, I don’t know; all I know is that there is a Macedonian army in Armenia sitting around doing nothing whilst local petty potentates strut around without a care in the world. I had to bribe my way through the country.’

  Perdikkas slammed his fist down onto the table, spilling all three cups. ‘Then you had better get back there and sort it out, hadn’t you?’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘Bollocks? Are you refusing an order?’

  ‘I have just arrived after being out in the east for months and I’m not about to go to Armenia to sort out someone else’s mess.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ Eumenes put in quickly.

  Perdikkas and Seleukos looked at the Greek in surprise. ‘You?’ they said in tandem.

  ‘Yes, me. Me and my Kappadokian cavalry. It’ll give us a chance to get to know one another.’

  Seleukos waved a dismissive hand. ‘Better you than me.’

  ‘Yes, I think so too,’ Eumenes agreed, looking to Perdikkas.

  Well, it gives me a way out of a nasty situation; I suppose I should be grateful to the aggravating little man. ‘Very well, then, Eumenes,’ Perdikkas said as the guard came through the entrance of the tent. ‘Take them east whilst I deal with Pisidia.’ He looked at the guard. ‘What is it?’

  ‘They’re bringing Ariarathes in, sir.’

  ‘Ah, some good news at last; summon the kings.’

  ‘Can I really have him killed?’ King Philip asked, excitement in his voice and drool on his chin.

  ‘Keep your voice down, your majesty,’ Perdikkas said out of the corner of his mouth as the tall, imposing figure of Ariarathes was brought before the assembled army. ‘If he does as you ask then you must show mercy.’

  ‘Mercy?’ The term evidently did not mean much to the king.

  ‘Slit his belly open and laugh at his suffering,’ Roxanna hissed, holding her infant son.

  Perdikkas ignored her as he had ignored the fact that she had come despite his command that only the infant and his nurse should be present. ‘Ariarathes,’ Perdikkas declaimed as the rebel stood before him next to a sharpened stake implanted in the ground. ‘The army of King Philip and King Alexander has defeated you in the field; however, the kings are merciful.’ He gestured to Philip. ‘Your majesty?’

  Philip shook with eagerness as he recalled his line. ‘Kneel!’ he shouted, far too loud for regal dignity.

  Ariarathes spat on the floor and then laughed, deep and hollow. He looked at Perdikkas. ‘What’s that? Is that what you Macedonians now call a king? That and that babe in arms?’ He spat again. ‘I’ll not kneel to that.’

  ‘Slit his belly open!’ Roxanna shrieked.

  ‘Quiet, woman!’ Perdikkas said without turning to her. ‘You will kneel or die, Ariarathes.’

  ‘I know, Perdikkas. That is why I chose not to kill myself. I wanted to show you the contempt in which I hold your drooling idiot and your suckling babe. Alexander’s heirs? Pah!’ He looked at the stake. ‘I chose the most painful of deaths.’

  The bastard is making me look stupid even as he dies but I can’t go back now. Why is it never straightforward? ‘Very well.’ He nodded to the guards. ‘Impale him.’

  Ariarathes did not struggle as his robes were ripped off and made not a sound as he was lifted into the air and the point of the stake was placed in his anus so that his toes could not quite touch the ground. The guards let go of him; he did not try to support his own weight as the point slipped into him and his toes tipped the ground, but, rather, spitting once more towards the royal party, he pushed himself down onto the stake sending it searing up through his entrails to burst his heart. He was dead by the time it exploded out of his left shoulder.

  ‘Well, that went well,’ Eumenes commented to Perdikkas as they walked away from the impaled body. ‘He came over as a hero, refusing to be ruled by an idiot and a baby. Very clever. Let’s hope you have better luck in Pisidia.’

  ‘Shut your aggravating mouth and get yourself to Armenia,’ Perdikkas snapped, in no mood for Eumenes. ‘Antigenes, give the order to break camp.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And send a messenger to Menander in Lydia and Antigonos in Phrygia, telling them to meet me in Pisidia in a month’s time with three thousand men each.’

  Eumenes stared in horror at Perdikkas. ‘Antigonos? You are not serious, are you?’

  Perdikkas frowned. ‘Why not? I’m giving him the chance to make up for disobeying my order to support you in Kappadokia and show his loyalty to the kings.’

  ‘You’re also giving him the chance to give you the same answer as he did last time; what will you do then?’

  What will I do then? Well, then we will be one more step closer to war.

  ANTIPATROS, THE REGENT

  ‘YOU WALKED AWAY last time because you couldn’t stomach the idea of unconditional surrender.’ Antipatros looked between Phocion and Demades, completely ignoring the third member of the Athenian delegation, the ageing philosopher and one-time friend of the recently deceased Aristotle, Xenocrates. ‘For the sake of our long acquaintance and mutual respect, Phocion, I did you the kindness of not bringing my army into Attica so that your people would not have the burden of feeding it. But remember, I can reverse that decision any time.’

  The three Athenians sat in a row on a low bench opposite Antipatros and Krateros in their comfortable chairs; around them the overgrown ruins of the Theban agora, weed-strewn and choked by creepers and home to two rival packs of wild dogs, served as a reminder of Macedonian ruthlessness to a defeated enemy.

  Phocion, of an age with Antipatros, wrinkled under a full white beard but with the bright eyes of a younger man looked at Demades, twenty years his junior, portly, clean-shaven and with the oiled hair and bejewelled fingers of an ageing dandy; the two men shared a moment and then, reaching a silent agreement, turned back to Antipatros.

  ‘It was a kindness, Antipatros,’ Phocion said, ‘and one that we hope you do not reverse.’

  Xenocrates cleared his throat and stood to make a speech. ‘I demand that—’

  ‘Sit down!’ Antipatros snapped. ‘I’m talking to Phocion.’

  ‘But I demand that—’

  Antipatros r
aised his voice. ‘When I was trapped in Lamia, Phocion, your general, Leosthenes, would not listen when I offered him terms; in fact, he said that it’s the victor who sets the terms and I had to admit, grudgingly, that he was right. So, now you’ve been back to Athens, to report on our first meeting, and they have sent you to me again, I assume that you are willing to hear my terms; the terms of the victor.’

  Xenocrates went puce with indignation. ‘Barbarian! I demand that—’

  ‘Enough!’ Ignoring the insult, Antipatros pressed on, keeping his focus on Phocion. ‘Firstly, that Athens should reduce the number of people allowed to partake in its democracy; from now on only men with property worth over two thousand drachmas will be allowed to vote.’

  Phocion stiffened. ‘But that–’

  ‘Will make the city an oligarchy, I know; oligarchies are easier to control. People with less property have less to lose and are, therefore, more likely to vote for rash and destructive policies. The wealthy have more interest in keeping the peace.’

  ‘But I demand that—’

  ‘A Macedonian garrison of five hundred men will be installed at the Munychia fortress in Piraeus and, finally, Athens will pay all the costs that Macedon has incurred during the course of the war plus a fine of fifty per cent of those costs. Those are my terms.’

  Phocion and Demades again shared a look as Xenocrates started making his list of demands, ignored by all.

  ‘The garrison,’ Phocion said, talking over Xenocrates. ‘Is that an absolute necessity? Macedon has always spared Athens that humiliation in the past.’

  ‘Phocion, I am willing to grant you anything, except what will destroy us both. If Athens is left unguarded and revolts again then you will be as much their enemy as I, for it is you who is negotiating with me and not Hyperides or Demosthenes.’

  ‘Sadly, I believe you have a point, old friend.’

  ‘And as for Hyperides and Demosthenes, I will send the Exile-Hunter after them; he and his Thracian friends enjoy that kind of sport and I can think of no reason to deny them it. How many lives have been lost because of their demagoguery?’

  ‘Too many and I won’t plead for mercy on their part but I will plead for one favour.’ He turned and looked up at Xenocrates, who was still declaiming. ‘Would you please be quiet; we’re trying to talk.’

  Xenocrates stopped and looked down at Phocion. ‘But I demand that—’

  ‘You can demand as much as you like,’ Antipatros said, ‘but no one will listen.’

  Xenocrates looked down his nose at Antipatros. ‘You are treating Athens too generously for slaves and too cruelly for free men. That Athens, the centre of civilization, should be treated thus by barely literate barbarians from the hills is intolerable.’

  Antipatros rolled his eyes, weary of Athenian snobbery. ‘Your opinion is your own to have and yours to keep; please don’t bother me with it again. Now, Phocion, what was that one favour?’

  ‘That Athens may keep Samos.’

  Antipatros shook his head. ‘Alexander’s Exile Decree stands and you will remove your colonists from the island so that the original inhabitants and their descendants can return.’ He got to his feet to indicate that the meeting was now over. ‘But I will provide lands in Thrace for all those who have nowhere else to go and those in Athens who will lose their franchise and do not wish to stay in a city in which they have no stake; I think that is more than fair.’

  ‘It’s far more than fair,’ Krateros said as he and Antipatros walked through what had once been a city gate, beyond which a rough-looking group of men were waiting. ‘I would have installed a Macedonian tyrant and completely got rid of the vote.’

  ‘But you have been in Asia for more than a decade, Krateros, and have forgotten that things work differently here in Europe. I need Athens to have a semblance of freedom to give the other cities hope; if we treat them all like slaves then they will have nothing to lose and, frankly, I’m too tired to have to keep on dealing with rebellion; I just want to go home to my wife.’

  ‘You sent for me, Antipatros,’ the leader of the waiting group said; he possessed a round, almost boyish face with humorous eyes and topped by luxuriant black curls.

  ‘Yes, Archias; I have three jobs for you and your…er…associates.’ Antipatros surveyed the half-dozen men, red-bearded and dressed in fox-fur hats, high boots and foul-smelling tunics and cloaks; each carried on his back the long-handled curved blade favoured by the Thracians, the rhomphaia, feared by all who had had the misfortune to stand against it.

  ‘I am yours to command.’ Archias smiled, revealing surprisingly white teeth; but then he had once been a tragic actor and knew the value of keeping up his appearance, Antipatros reflected.

  ‘Hyperides and Demosthenes are to be killed; I’ll give you one talent in gold when you come back to Macedon with the news.’

  ‘Where will I find them?’

  ‘No doubt they would have gone into exile and, as you are an exile hunter, I leave that to you. You can sail to Athens with the garrison that I’m sending there and then I’ll have one of the ships put at your disposal to seek them out.’

  Archias inclined his head. ‘I will bring you their tongues seeing as they have caused you the most trouble. And the third job?’

  ‘I have brief business in Corinth and then will head back to Macedon. When you get back to Pella I want you to accompany my son Iollas who will be escorting my daughter Nicaea to Asia to marry Perdikkas.’

  The Exile-Hunter frowned and looked at Antipatros questioningly. ‘Perdikkas? Why would you want to marry a daughter to him, a mere regent like yourself, when there is a king to marry, if you don’t mind me asking that is?’

  Antipatros was, for a moment, rendered speechless by the impertinence of the question. ‘I don’t think that it is any of your business, Archias.’

  ‘Fair enough, sir; I only wish to point out that there remains an unmarried king and, as Sophocles so wisely pointed out in Phaedra: Fortune is not on the side of the faint-hearted. I would have thought you aim too low and…’ He discarded the thought with a flick of his hand. ‘But have it your way. I’ll be back in Pella in ten days.’

  ‘He has a point, you know,’ Krateros said as they watched the Exile-Hunter and his men walk away. ‘Perdikkas is Philip’s regent; his son can never be a king, just like yours or mine. Why not marry her to Philip? She might well produce an Argead heir that could reunite the whole empire eventually.’

  ‘The man’s a fool and I’ll not have him drooling over my daughter.’

  ‘Well, he’s going to drool over someone one day, and that someone will be in a very good position to advance her family.’

  ‘Perdikkas is the better choice. With you, he and Ptolemy all married to siblings we have a chance of avoiding war. Only a fool would marry a fool.’

  ADEA, THE WARRIOR

  THE BLADES RANG metallic as they parried; with a fleet movement Adea thrust the knife in her left hand down to block that of her foe as they struggled with swords in their right hands, now locked together, hilt to hilt. A jump to her left with a kick into the belly of her opponent, a man twice her age but no bigger than her, took Adea free of the impasse, her sword flashing through the air to parry another attempted stab from the knife which had darted around her the entire encounter. Sweat dripped into her eyes but, resisting the temptation to wipe it, she pressed an attack with repeated cuts of her weapon, forcing her opponent back and back, towards where her mother, Cynnane, sat watching her fight with rapt interest.

  Another quick jump, this time to the right, brought Adea to a three-quarter profile to her sparring partner; he flicked another lightning jab of his dagger that she caught on her sword forcing his left arm out wide, pushing with all her considerable strength as she ducked beneath a swipe of a sword and thrust the blunted tip of her knife onto her sparring partner’s chest, above his heart. ‘My kill, Barzid!’

  ‘Indeed, mistress,’ Barzid said, breathless from the frenetic exercise. ‘And a go
od one, worthy of a princess. That is the tenth time in a row you’ve bested me; I have nothing more to teach you.’

  Adea looked over to her mother, who smiled approvingly.

  ‘Barzid is right,’ Cynnane said, rising to her feet and walking towards her daughter. Tall and broad-shouldered with a heavy brow and a prominent, bulbous nose, Cynnane could not be called beautiful in a classical way. However there was something about the power in her almost masculine body that men found attractive; since Alexander had murdered her husband, Amyntas – his cousin and therefore a direct threat – upon his succession, she had not been lacking of suitors. However she had different tastes and rejected all of them in order to focus on bringing up her daughter in the Illyrian way: to be a warrior.

  And Adea, at the age of fifteen, was certainly that. A thumb’s-breadth taller than her mother and as tall as most men if not quite so broad, Adea was a killer and it was time for her to go to war.

  Cynnane held Adea’s face in her hands, tilted it down and kissed her forehead. ‘Are you still willing to do as we planned?’

  Adea looked her mother in the eyes; she nodded slowly. ‘I will, Mother. Although I still feel that it would be better for you to do it. You can still bear children and the king is only your half-brother. You are, after all, Alexander’s eldest sibling and that would make it far more likely that you are listened to, even if you are a woman.’

  Cynnane smiled and kissed her daughter again. ‘We’ve been through all this before: I am the product of a Macedonian king and an Illyrian princess; you are the product of a Macedonian princess – me – and a Macedonian nobleman, the cousin to Alexander, who had as much right to the throne as he did, which was why he was killed. You, my sweet girl, are far more qualified to be the wife of the half-wit king. Had you been a boy it would have been you they would have placed on the throne, not a babe and an idiot.’

  Adea took a deep breath and steeled herself against the coming ordeal. How will I find the strength to go through with this when I know that everything about Philip will disgust me?