Robert Fabbri read Drama and Theatre at London University and worked in film and TV for twenty-five years. He has a life-long passion for ancient history, which inspired him to write the bestselling Vespasian series and the Alexander’s Legacy series. He lives in London and Berlin.
Also by Robert Fabbri
ALEXANDER’S LEGACY
TO THE STRONGEST
THE VESPASIAN SERIES
TRIBUNE OF ROME
ROME’S EXECUTIONER
FALSE GOD OF ROME
ROME’S FALLEN EAGLE
MASTERS OF ROME
ROME’S LOST SON
THE FURIES OF ROME
ROME’S SACRED FLAME
EMPEROR OF ROME
MAGNUS AND THE CROSSROADS BROTHERHOOD
THE CROSSROADS BROTHERHOOD
THE RACING FACTIONS
THE DREAMS OF MORPHEUS
THE ALEXANDRIAN EMBASSY
THE IMPERIAL TRIUMPH
THE SUCCESSION
Also
ARMINIUS: LIMITS OF EMPIRE
First published in Great Britain in 2021 by Corvus,
an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.
Copyright © Robert Fabbri, 2021
Map and illustrations © Anja Müller
The moral right of Robert Fabbri to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Hardback ISBN: 978 1 78649 800 7
Trade paperback ISBN: 978 1 78649 801 4
E-book ISBN: 978 1 78649 802 1
Corvus
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To my daughter, Eliza, and her husband-to-be,
Tom Simpson, wishing you both every happiness in your lives together.
A list of characters can be found on page 410.
PTOLEMY.
THE BASTARD.
ARMIES ALWAYS COMPLAIN, Ptolemy mused, stepping out of the boat and over a severed arm washed up on the eastern bank of the Nile, but this one has more cause than most. With a smile and a nod he acknowledged the Macedonian officer, ten years his junior, in his mid-thirties, awaiting him with two horses; a mounted escort stood a few paces off, the rich glow of the westering sun on their faces. ‘They are ready to talk, I take it, Arrhidaeus?’
‘They are, sir,’ Arrhidaeus replied, offering his hand as Ptolemy slipped on the mud edging the blood-tinged waters of Egypt’s sacred river.
Ptolemy waved away the proffered help. ‘The question just remains as to who will lead their delegation, Perdikkas or one of his senior officers?’
‘I spoke with Seleukos, Peithon and Antigenes; they agree that Perdikkas is the obstacle to peace and, therefore, if his intransigence continues, he needs to be removed.’
Ptolemy grimaced at the idea, rubbing his muscular neck and then clicking it with a swift head movement. ‘It would be better for all of us if he can be induced to negotiate sensibly; there’s no need for such extreme measures.’ He gestured up and down the riverbank, strewn with bodies in various states of dismemberment; the work of the river’s many crocodiles. ‘Surely having lost so many of his lads trying to cross the Nile he will see sense and withdraw with a face-saving compromise.’
‘He’ll never forgive you for hijacking Alexander’s funeral cortège and taking it to Egypt; his officers don’t think he will come to the table unless you give it back to him.’
‘Well, he won’t get it.’ Ptolemy grinned, his dark eyes twinkling with mischief. ‘Perhaps I’m the one who is being intransigent, but it’s for my own sake; interring Alexander’s body in Memphis and then moving it to Alexandria once a suitable mausoleum has been built gives me legitimacy, Arrhidaeus.’ He thumped his fist on the boiled-leather cuirass covering his chest. ‘It proclaims me as his successor in Egypt and I fully intend to stay here. Perdikkas is welcome to whatever else he can hold but he won’t get Alexander back and he won’t get Egypt.’
‘Then my feeling is that he won’t be at the negotiations.’
‘Unfortunately, I think you’re right. He was a fool, was Perdikkas; he should have kept the body in Babylon and concentrated on securing his position in Asia rather than attempting to get the whole empire by taking Alexander home to Macedon. Everyone knows that Kings of Macedon have traditionally buried their predecessors; he wanted to be king of us all: unacceptable.’
‘Which is why you were right to take the body.’
‘It wasn’t just me, my friend. You were the one in command of the catafalque; you allowed me to steal it from Perdikkas.’
‘It was a pleasure just to imagine the expression on the highhanded, arrogant bastard’s face when he heard.’
‘I wish that I’d actually seen it, but it’s too late now.’ Ptolemy sucked the air through his teeth, taking his horse’s bridle and stroking its muzzle. ‘That it should have come to this,’ he confided to the beast, ‘Alexander’s followers killing each other over his body.’ The horse snorted, stamping a foot. Ptolemy blew up its nostrils. ‘You’re wise to keep your own counsel, my friend.’ Ptolemy looked over to the Perdikkan camp, a little more than a league distant, hazed by the heat and the smoke from many cooking fires, and then heaved himself into the saddle. ‘Shall we go?’
Arrhidaeus nodded and mounted, then eased his horse into a gentle trot. ‘Just before I sent the message for you to cross the river, Seleukos guaranteed your safety in the camp and said that you would be allowed to address the troops. He’s very keen to come to an accommodation with you.’
‘I’m sure he is. He’s the most ambitious of Perdikkas’ officers; I almost like him.’
‘And I’m sure that he almost likes you.’
Ptolemy threw his head back, laughing. ‘I’ll be needing as many almost-friends as I can get. I imagine he’ll be looking for something lucrative: Satrap of Babylonia, for example – should the post become vacant and we get rid of Archon, Perdikkas’ nominee, that is.’
‘I would say that is exactly what he wants. Like all ambitious men he can see opportunity even in defeat.’
‘Perdikkas and his allies may have lost to me here in the south but not in the north; they still haven’t heard that Eumenes defeated and killed Krateros and Neoptolemus.’
A conspiratorial smile played on Arrhidaeus’ lips. ‘If they had then I’d wager that they would not be in the process of assassinating their leader should he not agree to talks.’
Ptolemy shook his head, frowning, unable to suppress the regret he felt at the murder of a fellow member of Alexander’s bodyguard, seven in number. ‘That it should really come to this and so soon; once we were brothers-in-arms, conquering the known world, and now we slip blades between each other’s ribs, and all because Alexander gave Perdikkas his ring but then refused to name a successor. Perdikkas the Half-Chosen now becomes Perdikkas the Fully-Dead.’ He leaned over and clapped Arrhidaeus on the shoulder. ‘And, I suppose, my friend, that you and I must bear a lot of responsibility for
his death.’
Arrhidaeus spat. ‘He brought it upon himself by his arrogance.’
Ptolemy could see the truth of that statement. In the two years since Alexander’s death in Babylon, Perdikkas had tried to keep the empire together by assuming command in a most highhanded manner purely because Alexander had given him the Great Ring of Macedon on his deathbed saying: “To the strongest”, but neglecting to say exactly whom he meant by that.
Ptolemy had realised immediately that the great man had sown the seeds of war with those three words and he suspected that he had done so deliberately so that none would out-shine him. If it had been an intentional ploy it had worked magnificently, for the previously unthinkable had happened: Macedonian blood had been spilt by former comrades-in-arms within eighteen months of his passing. Indeed, war had flared almost immediately as the Greek states in the west had rebelled against Macedonian rule and the Greek mercenaries stationed in the east had deserted their posts and marched back west. More than twenty thousand had joined in one long column and headed home to the sea; they had been massacred to a man, at Seleukos’ instigation, at the Caspian Gates as a warning to others seeking to take advantage of Alexander’s death.
In the west, the Greek rebellion had been crushed by Antipatros, the aged regent of Macedon, but not without considerable difficulty having been defeated and forced to withdraw to the city of Lamia and there endure a winter siege. It had been the vain and foppish Leonnatus who had come to his aid, breaking the siege, but he had lost his life in the process thus becoming the first of Alexander’s seven bodyguards to die. Antipatros had regrouped back in Macedon and, with the help of Krateros – Macedon’s greatest living general, the darling of the army – had defeated the rebellion and imposed a garrison and a pro-Macedonian oligarchy upon Athens, the city at its head.
With the west secured, Antipatros had then declared war on Perdikkas for marrying and then repudiating his daughter, Nicaea, at the same time as conspiring to marry Kleopatra, the full sister of Alexander. And thus the first war between Alexander’s successors had commenced with the diminutive Eumenes, Alexander’s former Greek secretary, and now Satrap of Kappadokia, supporting Perdikkas. But Eumenes had been unable to prevent Antipatros and Krateros crossing the Hellespont into Asia due to the defection of Kleitos, Perdikkas’ admiral. Underestimating Eumenes’ martial abilities, Antipatros and Krateros had made the fatal mistake of dividing their forces: Krateros had been despatched to deal with the Greek whilst Antipatros had headed south to confront Perdikkas. But the wily little Eumenes had shown a degree of generalship that had not been expected of a man who had held no significant military command and, despite his former ally, Neoptolemus, switching sides, he had defeated Krateros, killing the great general and the treacherous Neoptolemus in the process.
This fact was, as yet, only known to Ptolemy as it was his navy that controlled the Nile and he had prevented the news getting quickly through to Perdikkas’ camp: had they known of their victory in the north and that Antipatros’ army was now between them and Eumenes, their willingness to make peace might have been severely dampened.
And thus was Ptolemy a man in a hurry.
SELEUKOS.
THE BULL-ELEPHANT.
SELEUKOS GLANCED AT the blood coating the naked blade clasped in his fist as he stepped out into the crowd surrounding Perdikkas’ tent; broad-shouldered, bull-necked and a head taller than most men, he looked down at the, mainly, full-bearded faces around him, most in their forties or older – at least ten years his senior. All were veterans of Alexander’s campaigns and all now found themselves fighting for Perdikkas against fellow Macedonians who, by force of circumstance, were in Ptolemy’s army. It had been the promise of a share in Egypt’s riches that had motivated these men to turn on their former comrades; but those former comrades had defeated them, denying them passage across the Nile. Many had been swept away when the silt on the river’s bed had been dislodged by the army’s elephants that Perdikkas had ordered into the river upstream of the crossing in an attempt to slow the current; the disaster had attracted crocodiles who had relished the feast that had resulted from this blunder. And so it was in anger that the crowd jostled around their commander’s tent, anger for the grisly death meted out to many of their fellows; to die in the maw of a reptile having conquered so much of the world was a fate unacceptable to Alexander’s proud veterans – and it was clear to them who had been responsible.
‘What have you done?’ a voice to his right growled.
Seleukos turned to see Docimus, ever faithful to Perdikkas, walking towards him with his hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘I’d turn around if I were you and go to find your little friend, Polemon, and get out of here before you get lynched, Docimus; your protector is dead.’ He held up the bloodied knife. Behind him, Peithon and Antigenes, they too with blood on their hands, smiled, thin and threatening. Docimus paused, looking again at the blood before walking away at pace.
Seleukos turned, dismissing Docimus from his mind as an irrelevance; he had a far more important task to accomplish. Feeling no fear, he stepped up onto a cart and held his bloodied dagger above his head; behind him, Peithon and Antigenes, his two fellow conspirators, joined him on the makeshift dais. They will either lynch us or laud us; yesterday it would have been the former but after today’s debacle I rather suspect it will be the latter. At the sight of Perdikkas’ three most senior officers openly acknowledging their guilt in the assassination of the bearer of Alexander’s ring, received from his own hand upon his death bed, the veterans growled their approval – an act unthinkable just two years previously, soon after the great man’s untimely demise. But then two years previously it would have been unthinkable that a Macedonian should spill a fellow-countryman’s blood.
So much had changed.
‘Perdikkas is dead,’ Seleukos announced, his voice high and resounding so that it carried over the few thousands in the large crowd. ‘We three took it upon ourselves to remove the one obstacle to peace; the man whose arrogance has caused the deaths of so many of our comrades. The man who recklessly married and then repudiated Nicaea, the daughter of Antipatros, the regent of Macedon, thus setting Asia against Europe; the man who then intrigued to marry Kleopatra, Alexander’s full sister, in order to make himself king. King! King, when he was sworn to be the regent for his two wards, the rightful kings, Alexander and Philip.’ Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of two women turning away, with their retinues, and each making their separate ways back to their tents: Roxanna, the mother of three-year-old Alexander, the fourth of that name, and Adea, now known as Queen Eurydike since her marriage to Alexander’s imbecilic half-brother Philip, the third king of Macedon to be thus called. Now that you know just what your erstwhile protector really had in mind, you might both find it politic to be a little more grateful and a little less vocal, bitches. ‘I suggest that in the spirit of reconciliation and in acknowledgement of Perdikkas’ folly – a folly that we all shared in – we should ask Ptolemy to act as the regent of the two kings.’ He studied his audience but could find no trace of dissent. I think that I may have timed this just right. If they’ll not object to my suggestion that Ptolemy become regent then I’m sure that he’ll show his gratitude by giving me Babylonia in return. It’s down to Ptolemy to continue in a spirit of reconciliation. ‘Ptolemy, our brother whom, through a collective madness stoked by Perdikkas, we were forced to fight, is coming across the river to talk peace; we shall ask him then.’ Mutterings of agreement greeted this statement. ‘Kassandros is also here.’ He pointed to where he had last spoken to Antipatros’ eldest son just before he had entered Perdikkas’ tent, and failed to spot his pinched, pock-marked face in the crowd. ‘He comes with an invitation from his father, Antipatros, for us all to meet at The Three Paradises in the cedar hills above Tripolis in Syria and there we shall make a final settlement.’ He paused for the expected cheer, only to be disappointed by its volume.
‘A settlement to include all,’ Kassand
ros shouted, springing onto the cart behind Seleukos, taking him by surprise. He smiled at the crowd with all the charm of a rabid dog, his pale, sunken eyes, either side of his beak of a nose, dead to emotion; with lanky, spindly legs, narrow shoulders and a weak chest, he looked out of place in the richly decorated cuirass and pteruges of a Macedonian general, an avian error in uniform, and yet he had a presence that could command attention; the crowd stilled. ‘My father has called for all the satraps from all over the empire to be present, even Eumenes, despite – or perhaps because of – his support for Perdikkas. My father and I are determined that never again shall Macedonian fight Macedonian! My father and I will ensure that you, brave soldiers of Macedon, will never again suffer at the hands of your comrades.’
The cheer thundered into the darkening sky as Kassandros held both arms aloft, hands clasped, as if he had just won a wrestling bout at the games.
Seleukos shared a brief, but significant, look with Antigenes and then smiled at Kassandros, placing a well-muscled, hirsute arm around his tall but wiry frame. I can see that I’m going to have to watch you, my ugly worm; no one gets a louder cheer than me from my own men and expects to go un-humiliated. ‘That was well said, Kassandros,’ he shouted for all to hear. ‘I can see we have a common purpose.’ Although his response was positive, one look from Kassandros’ pinched face was enough to disabuse Seleukos of the notion; a fact that did not surprise him. And what would I possibly want to achieve with you? He turned back to the crowd and gestured for silence. ‘For now, though, we will mourn our dead and at dawn tomorrow we will convene an army assembly and there we will hear what Ptolemy has to say.’
‘Is it right to allow Ptolemy to address the men?’ Antigenes asked, as he, Seleukos, Peithon and Kassandros waited for the Satrap of Egypt to arrive; night was falling and, with it, the temperature. A dozen lamps and a couple of braziers heated the command tent and lit the dark blood stain on an eastern-made carpet, testimony to the crime committed not three hours previously; the hard evidence, the body itself, had been removed in secret to prevent it becoming a focus for dissent of the new regime.
The Three Paradises Page 1
