The Three Paradises

by Robert Fabbri

  Demetrios looked between the two older men, his mouth opening and closing.

  ‘I dare you,’ Antigonos snarled.

  But it was a laugh that burst forth from the younger man, not a tirade of teenage invective. He sat back down. ‘You’re right, of course, Father. And my apologies to you, Aristonous, I spoke out of turn.’

  Antigonos reached over and cuffed his son around the ear. ‘You didn’t speak out of turn, you spoke without thinking; there’s a big difference. But you did well today; exactly what I told you to without getting carried away.’ He grinned. ‘Next time, perhaps, we won’t need the marines.’

  ‘You have a guest, Antigonos,’ Philotas said, limping through the entrance on a crutch.

  Antigonos turned round. ‘Who is it?’

  Philotas signalled the waiting man in. ‘A messenger from Antipatros.’

  ‘Nicanor,’ Antigonos said as Antipatros’ son came into the tent. ‘This must be serious.’

  ‘So I’m to be executed by vote of the army assembly,’ Aristonous said once Nicanor had briefed them on the developments since Perdikkas’ ill-fated attempt at crossing the Nile; he drained his cup and looked at Antigonos. ‘You had better do your duty by the army and get on with it.’

  ‘I’ve never heard such rubbish in my life!’ Antigonos thundered. ‘Execute one of our own? My arse, I will!’

  ‘I can see that Alketas must die,’ Philotas said, cracking a crab leg with a hammer, ‘if only because he was responsible for Cynnane’s death. Attalus condemned himself the moment he took those eight hundred talents from the Tyros treasury, but what happened to Atalante was shameful.’

  Antigonos shook his head, anger burning in his eye. ‘But you, Aristonous? You are a man of honour; I’ll not see you executed because of some misguided, emotional decree. The men should have been better handled. It was Eumenes who killed Krateros, let him be the one to pay for that, just as Attalus and Alketas should pay for their crimes.’

  Aristonous inclined his head. ‘You are a comfort, old friend.’

  ‘As for Atalante, Ptolemy should have ensured that women were exempt from this vindictive decree. Has it come to this that we execute our women? What sort of men are we? When I find the ringleaders who called for her death I’ll make them into women before I execute them.’

  ‘It was a foolish move,’ Aristonous agreed. ‘With that one death we’ve ensured that there can be no peace, no reconciliation until Attalus and Alketas are dead for they are honour-bound to avenge a wife and a sister. Such a blunder; so much so that it makes one wonder whether it wasn’t deliberate.’

  Antigonos frowned and looked at Nicanor. ‘Could Ptolemy have prevented her death?’

  Nicanor shrugged. ‘I wasn’t there.’

  ‘Ptolemy never does anything without a reason,’ Aristonous pointed out. ‘And it’s normally a self-serving reason. Who benefits most from war in the north?’

  Philotas wiped his fingers on a napkin and helped himself to another crab leg. ‘Ptolemy’s certainly ensured that we’ll be busy even after Eumenes has been defeated.’

  ‘He was ever the clever one, and always had ambition added to his love of the finer things in life.’

  Antigonos grunted in disapproval. ‘There’s nothing to be done about him now. I must garrison the island and then take the rest of the army over to The Three Paradises; we’ll be busy for the next few days if we’re to be there on time.’

  ‘And me?’ Aristonous asked.

  ‘I’ll give you a ship, two ships; take your companions back to Macedon, retire to your estates and don’t draw attention to yourself.’

  ‘That is all I’ve wanted to do since Alexander died.’

  ‘Then you have it; I’ll settle the matter with Antipatros.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m in your debt, Antigonos.’

  ‘I know, and you are in the position to repay it.’

  ‘I am?’

  ‘Yes, your estates are to the west near the border with Epirus, are they not?’

  ‘Ahh, I see what you want.’

  ‘Yes. Antipatros will become regent to the two kings so I want to hear any rumours coming out of Epirus; I want to know what she is up to. I want to know, before Antipatros or anyone else, what Olympias’ plans are.’

  OLYMPIAS.

  THE MOTHER.

  THE SNAKE FELT cool on her body; it slithered across her belly and then onto her thighs, working its way down her legs, its skin glistening in the red light of many flaming sconces. The low chanting soothed Olympias and, as the first serpent cleared her feet, she felt a second slide up onto her shoulder; a soft hiss in her ear, and then it began to traverse her breasts. For the first time in months she felt a modicum of peace; finally she could push the hatred that burned constantly inside her to the back of her mind as she focused on the purity of the snakes and on the question she had asked them.

  Behind her, she heard the priestess remove the lid from another basket and felt the rush of pleasure that she had experienced all her life at the thought of contact with another of those magnificent creatures. The raw power in their sleek bodies and the death in their fangs thrilled her to the point of worship; other than the rites of Dionysus, this ritual satisfied her the most, both spiritually and sexually. Again she squeezed her legs together and felt the head of the de-fanged serpent writhe within her and she let out another long moan of pleasure.

  The chanting increased as the second serpent completed the journey down her body and the priestess placed the third snake next to Olympias’ head; once again the creature hissed and climbed onto her shoulder and then travelled down all the way to her feet. That was three in a row; there could be no better omen – one that she had witnessed, but on a couple of occasions – three snakes in succession all making the same journey from her shoulder down to her feet.

  Three times they had replied in the affirmative; that was enough to give her the answer she had looked for.

  She squeezed her thighs together again repeatedly and, with chest heaving and throat contracting, let the rapture of the snake moving within build and take her to places that could not be found in the physical world, until she lay, sweat-covered and panting, limbs awry, trying to focus on the room around her and finding it a sad disappointment after the inner road upon which she had just travelled. Olympias felt the priestess remove the snake from between her legs and heard the soft shuffle of her and her chanting acolytes withdrawing to leave her alone with her thoughts.

  And what thoughts they were: dark and grim; full of hate, spite and malice.

  For a while she allowed herself to wallow in them but, from much previous experience, she knew that she could only indulge for the shortest of time as she exhausted herself in the depths of her malevolence.

  The sweat on her body began to cool with the early autumnal mountain air gusting, despite the shutters, through the room, fluttering the sconce flames so that the vivid murals of women – and a few men – copulating with snakes seemed to come alive, moving in the flickering light and shadow. She shivered and sat up, rubbing her upper arms and pulling her thoughts away from the vengeance that was rightfully hers for being excluded from the heart of power for so long; for the thirteen years since her son, Alexander, had gone east.

  But now the snakes had spoken and soon all would change, for soon Perdikkas would defeat Ptolemy and regain Alexander’s catafalque; of this she was certain for the news had come that morning of Eumenes’ defeat of Krateros and the death of that great general. With Antipatros now caught between Eumenes and Perdikkas he would be obliged to turn and face the Greek, leaving Perdikkas free to concentrate all his strength on defeating Ptolemy; and defeat him he would, for he possessed the larger army in terms of veterans – Ptolemy’s force being mainly local conscripts armed in the Macedonian manner.

  No, it was certain that Perdikkas would triumph and, between them, he and Eumenes would defeat Antipatros. With the body reclaimed, Kleopatra would then agree to marry Perdikkas and, in interring Ale
xander’s remains in the royal tomb at Argeas, he would claim the throne, adopt the child, Alexander, as his heir, and then, through her daughter and her grandson, Olympias would finally wield power. The snakes had spoken: her wait was over.

  And then what a reckoning there would be. The first who would suffer would be that toad Antipatros and his loathsome sons; they would make a fine beginning. It was all for certain for the snakes never lie and three in a row had slithered the length of her body, something that had happened only twice before and on each occasion they had answered the question true.

  Pulling on a robe and a pair of fleece-lined slippers, Olympias clapped her hands, summoning her body-slave. ‘Prepare my bath,’ she ordered the middle-aged woman who had served her all her adult life but had never once been addressed by her name. ‘And lay out my finest dress, the saffron one with the golden thread embroidery, and have the slaves ready for my hair and make-up; I’ll decide what jewellery to wear once I’ve seen the final effect. Warn the girls that I must look my best for my interview with the king or the skin will be coming off their backs and yours. And send Thessalonike to me.’

  With a bow, the slave retired to do her mistress’s bidding, well aware that this was no idle threat, having been subjected to many a whipping throughout her life of misery.

  Savouring the look of fear in the woman’s eyes, Olympias went to the window, threw open the shutters and breathed deep of the air coming down from the Pindus mountains away to the east. Feeling the mists of religious and sexual ecstasy blowing clear by the cleansing breeze, she composed, in her head, what she would say to her cousin, Aeacides, the young King of Epirus, to persuade him of the necessity of lending her the Epirot army. She intended to threaten Polyperchon, Antipatros’ deputy and ruler of Macedon during his absence in Asia, should he decide to oppose Kleopatra’s and Perdikkas’ arrival in Macedon. If necessary, she would invade from the west as Perdikkas came from the east; she would not stand one moment of delay to his and, therefore, her return; especially after she had received such a clear answer to her question.

  For too long she had been confined to Passaron, the capital of this mountainous realm of Epirus, but, despite her status, she was excluded from Epirus’ royal counsel by her insect of a nephew. Powerless, isolated, with no one of her standing, other than her adoptive daughter, Thessalonike, to keep her company, now that Kleopatra resided in Sardis awaiting Perdikkas, Olympias yearned for her return to the centre of politics and attention – and then what a reckoning there would be.

  Olympias savoured the thought of revenge as she awaited Thessalonike. Thessalonike was the daughter of her husband, Philip, and his third wife, Nicesipolis, born ten years after Alexander, a long time after Philip had deserted Olympias’ bed for younger flesh. But Olympias was nothing if not resourceful and just because the child had been sired upon another did not mean that it could not be hers – if it were a girl, that was; had it been a boy it would not have survived its first night. Fortunately for the babe it had been a girl, but that fact spelt death for her mother, slowly poisoned over twenty days so as to look like a natural decline after giving birth. Selflessly, Olympias had offered to bring up the child as her own, thus gaining herself another daughter with whom she could make advantageous political marriages that would help secure her position in the future. Although not nearly as pure-blooded as her natural daughter, Kleopatra, Thessalonike was still of Argead blood and Olympias now had a use for her stolen child, for that future she had foreseen had arrived.

  ‘You sent for me, Mother,’ Thessalonike said, gliding into the room, her movement elegant and her deportment graceful; together they provided a powerful shield that masked her true nature, a nature that had been imbued by her adoptive mother. I was far more successful with this one than I was with Kleopatra; this one is all mine.

  ‘I did, child,’ Olympias replied, indicating that they should both sit. ‘We are coming to interesting times and we need to take advantage of every opportunity to confound our enemies and strengthen our position.’

  ‘The snakes spoke?’

  ‘They did. I asked them as soon as I heard of Eumenes’ victory; it was the best of omens.’

  ‘What was the question?’

  ‘Is my time of waiting for power in Macedon over?’

  Thessalonike looked surprised. ‘Surely that was a little vague? Why did you not ask whether Perdikkas would defeat Ptolemy and then Antipatros?’

  ‘The priestess of the snakes will only allow questions about oneself, not the fortunes of others; it was ever thus.’

  ‘If you would allow me to be initiated then I would know such things.’

  ‘A virgin cannot serve, for obvious reasons.’

  Thessalonike snorted. ‘Mother, you know perfectly well that I am not.’

  ‘Whatever you get up to with your slaves or bodyguards is between you and them. To the world you must be a virgin and therefore you cannot serve; and you do well to remember that on your wedding night and refrain from doing tricks that one meant to be unschooled in the art of love would find difficult to explain away.’

  Thessalonike held Olympias’ gaze. ‘I am twenty-four; I should have been married eight or nine years ago. You can’t expect me to do without the pleasure of men just because you haven’t found the appropriate husband for me – or rather, for your purposes.’

  That’s it, girl; stir up a bit of resentment, you will feel so much better for it. ‘Don’t talk to me like that. I’ve sacrificed much to give you a life; who knows what would have happened to you had I not intervened and took you for my own.’

  ‘You would have poisoned me most likely, as you did—’ Thessalonike clamped her mouth shut.

  Olympias waited a moment for the sentence to be completed but it was left hanging. ‘As I did what – or who?’ Of course she has guessed by now; I’ve brought her up to think the way I do. How can she have not seen the truth? So much the better. ‘But come, my dear, it is about your marriage that I wish to talk to you.’

  ‘You want me to marry Eumenes?’

  My, she is quick, this one. ‘It would seem the logical thing to do.’

  ‘Because my real mother was a Thessalian of little consequence but of great beauty, whom Philip took out of lust rather than for dynastic reasons?’

  ‘One could put it that way.’

  ‘And so as a half-blooded Argead I can be given to a Greek from Kardia without causing offence to Macedonians but still binding Eumenes even closer with Perdikkas and his new bride, Kleopatra, because she is my half-sister.’

  ‘Exactly; you’ve read the situation perfectly, my dear. It will secure our position. No matter who Antipatros marries Phila to, now that Krateros has left her a widow, he won’t be able to drive a wedge between Eumenes and Perdikkas because of you and Kleopatra; he will be forced to come to terms with them or face the utter destruction of his house. I would wager that he will choose to spend what little time is left to him in retirement on his estates.’

  Thessalonike studied her adoptive mother, weighing her words. ‘Mother, I understand your position but I’ll make no commitment until we know for certain the outcome of the struggle.’

  ‘We already do, the snakes have spoken.’

  ‘They may have spoken, but you asked the wrong question.’ Thessalonike rose to her feet. ‘Having never witnessed the ceremony, I can place little faith in its validity.’ She turned and walked away as the slave-woman appeared in the doorway. ‘After all, Mother, you’re fifty-four, that’s quite an age; your time of waiting for power in Macedon could well be over any moment when you drop down dead.’ She paused at the door and gave a sweet smile, much exaggerated, over her shoulder. ‘It’s just an observation.’

  ‘Your bath is prepared, mistress,’ the slave said as Thessalonike left the chamber.

  ‘Get out!’ Olympias screamed, flinging a miniature statue of Dionysus at the woman.

  Doubts now plagued Olympias, normally so firm in her convictions. The trouble is, she’s righ
t; it was the most unsatisfactory form of question. I’ll redo the ceremony after I’ve spoken with Aeacides.

  ‘And who will pay for all this?’ Aeacides asked.

  It had been the first question that Olympias had expected of her weak and avaricious nephew and she was prepared. ‘Perdikkas will, as a debt of gratitude for you supporting his claim to the crown.’

  Small bloodshot eyes peered at her from a face already falling prey, despite the king’s age, to the ravages of excessive drinking. ‘And what if I muster the army and we lead it over the mountains and into Macedon, or at least to the border and wait only to find that Perdikkas is not installed as king? Who will pay then? Antipatros? I think not; no, it’ll come out of my treasury.’

  The relaxing effects of her bath, the pleasure of having her slaves whipped and the sweet anticipation of another snake-ceremony, once she had got her own way with the little fool, were rapidly wearing off; Olympias struggled to keep her temper as she always did when having an audience with her kinsman. ‘Perdikkas will be installed as king and Kleopatra will be his queen.’

  Aeacides affected to look puzzled. ‘I don’t think that even a daughter of yours would care to share a bed with a dead man; and I certainly don’t think the Macedonians would take kindly to a corpse sitting on their throne.’ He smiled at Olympias in triumph. ‘Because that’s what Perdikkas is, cousin, a corpse.’

  Olympias felt her belly sink and instinctively she knew the truth of the statement. ‘How do you know?’

  Aeacides produced a scroll. ‘Ptolemy sent this to you; unfortunately you were otherwise engaged, shall we say, when the messenger arrived a couple of hours ago, so I thought I’d better check its contents to see if it were important enough to disturb your devotions, as I know – from the noise – how seriously you take them.’ He flicked the scroll to Olympias; she read with increasing despair as her plans and schemes were exploded by misfortune. The fool, Perdikkas, the fool. And this part here where Ptolemy says that the news of Eumenes’ victory came just too late to save him; don’t think me a fool, Ptolemy, I can see what you have done. She screwed up the letter, threw it to the ground and stormed from the throne-room. Calm, I must have calm to think this through. Antipatros now has Phila and Nicaea widowed; two daughters to dispose of. Who will he give them to? To whom can I offer my two now? Who would be the most likely king? She halted and a smile of comprehension crept over her face. Forgetting dignity, she turned, broke into a run and only slowed as she entered her suite. Sitting at the desk she arranged her writing implements. After a moment’s pause for reflection she dipped her nib into the inkpot. Olympias, Queen of Macedon, greets her sister and fellow queen, Roxanna.