With a sigh he got to his feet, pushing down with his hands down on swollen knees to ease the action, walked across to the tomb and laid a hand upon it. ‘I should never have sent you up into those hills, Iollas; I can never forgive myself for doing so.’ Another surge of grief passed through him followed by the inevitable guilt as the irresistible wish that Kassandros had been there to lead the scouts came unbidden to his mind and, kissing the cold stone, he turned and walked away to where his horse and groom awaited him.
‘You must eat, my dear,’ Hyperia said in her gentlest, most wifely voice. ‘Just looking at the lamb won’t bring you any sustenance.’
Antipatros roused himself out of his reverie. ‘Sorry, Hyperia, what did you say?’
Hyperia stretched a hand across the couch they shared and stroked his forearm. ‘I said that you must eat.’
‘I know I must, but everything tastes the same; there’s no joy in food anymore for me.’
‘Come, Father,’ Kassandros said from the other side of the table where he sat on the couch with Polyperchon reclining next to him. ‘Eat, whether the food tastes or not, or you will certainly waste away.’
And how you would love that. Antipatros picked up a chop and ripped the flesh from it if only to help him stay alive a little longer and, therefore, postpone the inevitable. As he chewed he looked over to Polyperchon, bald and in his sixties, with a nondescript, round face, uneventful eyes and a mild manner. He was a thorough second-in-command: reliable and with a good, if pedantic, attention to detail – Krateros himself had chosen him to be his own number two, and that was praise indeed – but a great follower does not always make for a charismatic leader, and it was a leader with charisma that Macedon would need to prevent Kassandros from stealing first the regency and then, the gods forbid, the throne. The throne that belonged to his childhood friend, Philip, the second of that name, and then to his son, Alexander; the throne that he, Antipatros, had been charged with preserving for the heirs of the Argead line; the throne that he suspected Kassandros coveted – he had, after all, stolen the Great Ring of Macedon from Perdikkas’ dead hand. Shame would be brought upon their house for ever should Kassandros achieve that ambition and steal the throne that he, Antipatros, was honour-bound to preserve.
No, it would be Polyperchon to whom he would pass the regency; it would probably be a death sentence for him, but what alternative was there? Should he give it to Nicanor, then he would be dooming one of his sons to murder the other; all the other possibilities were far less suitable and the kings themselves were unfit to rule. Adea or Roxanna would rule for their own ends each, trying to assassinate the other and, besides, the Macedonian aristocracy and army would not accept them. Adea had made another attempt to seize power as the army had journeyed back to Europe, protesting in the name of her husband, Philip, about the men’s conditions. Again the troops had mutinied over their pay, or lack of it; but this time Antipatros had just walked away, crossing the Hellespont in secret and returning to Macedon. Once the army had realised that they were stranded and Adea had no answers to the problems they faced, they slunk back across to Europe and begged forgiveness from Antipatros, leaving the young agitator as a spent and broken force; no, she could never rule now. And nor could her bitter rival, Roxanna, excluded because of her outlandish foreignness.
So that just left Olympias, who would bring nothing but vengeance and death. Antipatros put down his cleaned bone and took another chop, shaking his head with regret. It has to be Polyperchon. I will write to Antigonos, Lysimachus and even Ptolemy and Eumenes begging them to support him against Kassandros. Perhaps with their help Polyperchon can survive long enough for the young Alexander to come of age. But what then? He would be in the power of Roxanna, his mother, and his grandmother, Olympias; what chance would Macedon have then? But at least my line will be spared the dishonour of stealing what I have been charged to preserve.
‘I’m told that Athens is sending an embassy, Father,’ Kassandros said, his tone casual as he flicked a morsel of lamb fat off his finger, hitting a slave on the chest.
‘You hear correctly,’ Antipatros replied with little enthusiasm.
‘Concerning our garrison in the Munychia fortress at Piraeus, no doubt?’
‘It’s all they ever think about. There is a faction, an unrealistic faction, who believe that they can persuade me to remove our troops from the city, knowing that if I did so then many of the democratic exiles would return and the oligarchy would fall, to be replaced by the irresponsible lunacy of democracy.’
Polyperchon nodded, chewing thoughtfully. ‘It’s democracy that got them into the position they’re in now: allowing the vote to people with nothing to their names, who therefore have nothing to lose, breeds suicidal foreign policies.’
Antipatros put down his half-eaten chop, took a green olive and examined it before nibbling on it. ‘My old friend Phocion appreciates that, which is why he refused to head the delegation; he wrote to me apologising for the naivety of the anti-Macedon faction in thinking that I would remove the garrison as a mark of respect for him and our late friend Aristotle, thus opening the way for a return to democracy.’ He surprised everyone around the table by chortling, the first sign of any mirth since Iollas’ death. ‘Phocion was schooled by Plato and so understands intimately the follies of that bizarre system.’
Kassandros led the conversation in the manner of one who has a particular destination in mind. ‘So if Phocion’s not coming, who will head the delegation?’
He knows the answer to that already; what’s he planning? ‘Phocion said in his letter that Demades has volunteered for the task, along with his son, Demeas. Demades thinks that because he’s such a loyal supporter of mine and actively works to get pro-Macedon legislation through the assembly and prosecutes many of his fellow citizens who are making life difficult for me, then I might favour his embassy.’
‘Did you say loyal, Father?’
Antipatros looked at his son, frowning. Ah, so this is it, is it? ‘What do you know?’
Kassandros gave a vicious smile – it was one of the many characteristics that Antipatros found distasteful about his son. ‘Just after he was murdered, I slipped into Perdikkas’ tent.’
‘And stole his ring, I know.’
Kassandros was astounded. ‘Who told you?’
Antipatros looked at the item in question on his forefinger. ‘Just about everyone; but go on.’
‘Well, I had time to look around the place and open a few chests and rummage through some private letters.’
Antipatros found it impossible to criticise Kassandros for this breach of privacy. ‘I don’t blame you.’
Hyperia added her approval. ‘After all, knowledge is power.’
‘Indeed. And I gleaned some knowledge which will give us power over Demades.’
‘What?’
‘A letter, well, three to be precise; they were all bundled together. The first was from Demades to Perdikkas; the second was a copy of Perdikkas’ reply and the third was Demades’ response to that.’
Antipatros was interested, very. ‘And?’
‘And in the first one Demades describes you as “a piece of old and rotting rope” that ties down the once glorious city of Athens in spiteful servitude. He then proposes an alliance to overthrow your regency, the armies of the Greek city states and Perdikkas’ working in tandem.’
‘The treacherous bastard; after all the money I’ve passed his way. What did Perdikkas say?’
‘Well, he was interested, naturally, considering how things were between you at the time, but he wrote saying that if they thought that he would withdraw the garrisons they were sadly deluded.’
‘Well, at least he got one thing right,’ Polyperchon said, licking his fingers.
‘Yes. And then, in the third letter, Demades suggests that if Perdikkas was to declare the freedom of the Greeks, taking away the yoke of Macedon, he would have very willing allies.’
Both Antipatros and Polyperchon choked at
the sheer scale of the lie.
‘Who would slip a knife into your back as soon as it was turned,’ Antipatros said, once he had managed to control himself.
‘Even if you have a Greek by the balls and ask him what his favourite colour is,’ Polyperchon pointed out, ‘you can’t be sure that his answer is the truth.’
‘Why haven’t you told me about these letters before?’
Kassandros shrugged. ‘Because they weren’t relevant before as we were dealing with the problems in Asia; Europe was relatively quiet. But now we’re back I think we would do well to make people realise that we’re still in control. What would you like me to do about this, Father?’
‘I would like you to make what little is left of Demades’ life as unpleasant as possible, but, unfortunately, we can’t do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because if we’re to have any moral authority over the Greek states then we have to act within the law; so seize him and his son as soon as they arrive and we shall put them on trial so that all can see the impartiality of justice in Macedon. Have Deinarchos, the Corinthian, prosecute them as he is presently in the city; he has always been a loyal friend to me and can be relied upon for a just verdict.’
‘And these three letters,’ Deinarchos declaimed, holding up the offending items one by one. ‘These three letters are all that are needed to prove beyond any doubt, the treachery of Demades and his son, Demeas.’ Deinarchos looked around the fifty jurors sat on benches in the court in the agora. ‘These are evidence of a deliberate approach to Perdikkas, offering an alliance against Antipatros, the regent of Macedon.’ With a dramatic flourish he extended an arm towards Antipatros. ‘Palpable treason as Athens is subject to Macedon and Antipatros was at the time and still is the regent of Macedon.’
Antipatros felt a shortness of breath as Deinarchos read through each of the letters in turn and then submitted them to Kassandros, the president of the court, for him to pass around the jurors for perusal. He rubbed his chest and looked across to Demades and Demeas, both of whom had been apprehended the moment they had arrived in Pella. Demades, still a richly dressed, portly dandy despite being close to seventy and bald, was a veteran of many a show trial and he sat with an amused expression, occasionally taking notes. Antipatros enjoyed the symmetry of him now being the accused as it had been Demades who had secured the death sentence for his compatriots, Demosthenes and Hyperides, at Antipatros’ behest and for a very handsome fee, just four years previously. Having taken his money, Demades was getting nothing less than he deserved for throwing it back in Antipatros’ face.
Demeas, an elegant and perfumed playboy in his late twenties, the product of a liaison between his father and a notorious flute girl, was looking far less relaxed than Demades; sweat stained his fine linen tunic, a pastel blue with rich embroidery around the hem and sleeves and he continually ran his hand through his oiled curls that fell to his shoulders. You thought you were coming here on a mission of glory, taking me for granted, young pup, instead you are going to be beginning your final journey. Antipatros winced as another sharp pain struck his chest; his breathing grew shorter and faster for a few moments before settling down again.
‘You are nothing but a Macedonian shrill,’ Demades shouted over Deinarchos’ long list of other outrages, some true but mostly false, committed by him over the course of his long career of bribe-taking as he worked his way up in life from a mere rower in the Athenian navy. ‘A shrill, do you hear? A shrill wielding a thunderbolt borrowed from Zeus because you have no weapon of your own to throw at me. Why are we all wasting our time with this trial when you could have got any tavern-keeper on the road up here to slip a knife between my ribs?’ He turned to address Antipatros. ‘Or what about your Exile-Hunter, Archias, Antipatros?’ He slapped his forehead, theatrically. ‘But of course, I forgot: Archias was persuaded to go to Ptolemy’s court in Tyros to chat about his role in procuring the poison that Kassandros took to Babylon with him; you know, the poison that Iollas murdered Alexander with.’
As the court erupted in outrage, Antipatros felt his chest tighten again; he drew some quick, shallow breaths. So that’s where he disappeared to; Ptolemy’s getting him to corroborate the lies in The Last Days and Testament of Alexander.
‘This seems to me to be a grievous error, Antipatros,’ Demades went on through the din. ‘It seems to me that it shouldn’t be me and my son on trial here but, rather, you and your son on trial for murder; for the murder of Alexander himself.’
This was too much for the jurors, who stood and pointed at the accused pair. ‘Guilty! Guilty!’ they chanted. Demeas turned to his father in terror but Demades just sat there with the contented look of a man who, on the verge of death, has just sown his last and greatest piece of mischief, for he knew that the reports of this trial would travel throughout the Hellenistic world.
Antipatros gasped and held his chest again as Kassandros pronounced a sentence of death and immediately took matters into his own hands, walking forward with a drawn sword.
With rough handling, Demeas was pushed to his knees by the guards; with no ceremony and a force fuelled by rage, belying his puny frame, Kassandros struck off his head before the horrified eyes of his father that were soon blinded by a powerful spray of warm blood as Demeas’ oiled locks wafted to the ground.
To see a son die before your eyes! He did not deserve that, Kassandros; that was cruel for cruelty’s sake. If I had a shred of doubt before, it has gone now: you cannot rule. Again another streak of pain shot through Antipatros’ chest; he gasped and cried out loud, his cry going unnoticed as Demades’ head fell from his shoulders. He struggled to stand and cried aloud once more before the paved stone ground rose to punch him in the face.
‘Give him room to breathe, my lady,’ a voice said coming out of the darkness. ‘He’s coming round. If he has enough air he will be fine.’
But Antipatros knew that was not to be the case for he was coming back but not for long; he had one last job to do before his appointment with the Ferryman. He opened his eyes.
‘Husband,’ Hyperia said, as the doctor peered into Antipatros’ eyes. ‘I was so worried.’
With a feeble wave, Antipatros dismissed the doctor. ‘Don’t be, Hyperia, I’m quite fine in my mind. Call Kassandros, Polyperchon and all the heads of the senior families.’
‘They’re already here, waiting below.’ She turned to the doctor. ‘Call them in; all of them.’
‘But my lady—’
‘Just do as I say!’
The sharpness of her tone overcame any medical objections and soon the room was full of people.
Antipatros took the Great Ring of Macedon from his finger and viewed it through dim eyes, then surveyed the faces of those around his bed: Hyperia, Kassandros and Polyperchon; the heads of the high families were arranged behind them; he felt his strength seeping away and his breath fade and then made one last effort. ‘Kassandros, you must bear this well.’
‘Yes, Father, I will.’
‘You are to be the second-in-command to Polyperchon.’ He passed the ring to his deputy. ‘Polyperchon, in front of witnesses, I name you Regent of Macedon and of the two kings.’ He wheezed a couple of shallow breaths, gathering his little remaining strength for a last word. ‘Do not ever let Macedon be ruled by a woman.’
KASSANDROS.
THE JEALOUS.
IT WAS FURY, raw, blind fury that raged through Kassandros as his father’s hand slumped back down, leaving an astounded Polyperchon holding the Great Ring of Macedon. Fury as Antipatros’ eyes glazed over, the light of life fading from them beyond the point of recall. But recalled he must be to redress this terrible injustice.
‘Father!’ Kassandros shrieked into the immobile face of the man who had just robbed him of his inheritance. ‘Father! Father!’ He slapped Antipatros across the right cheek and then backhanded the left, back and forth until rough hands hauled him, screaming, from the body. ‘Put me down! Father! Father!’ He wrenched himself
free and turned to the corpse, his eyes flooded with unmanly tears. ‘I’m your son; not this old mediocrity.’ He twisted and slammed a punch at Polyperchon, who dodged it.
‘Restrain him,’ Hyperia ordered, her voice shrill but commanding as she backed away from her stepson now lashing out in all directions.
The same rough hands grabbed Kassandros’ arms and shoulders; this time he could not break free. ‘Hyperia, did you know he would do this?’
‘Kassandros, your father has just died; show some respect for his wishes and act with decorum; do not bring disgrace upon yourself with histrionics that would shame even one of my sex.’
‘Did you know?’
‘No, Kassandros, but I suspected it and had your father consulted me upon the matter then I would have agreed with his course of action. You are not of the right temperament to hold too much power.’
‘And that faded nobody is?’ Kassandros spat at Polyperchon.
‘Take him away,’ Polyperchon ordered, putting the great ring on his forefinger, ‘and lock him in a room until he has calmed down enough to behave in a dignified manner becoming of a grieving son.’
‘Dignified manner? Fuck dignity! Grieving son? Robbed son! That’s what I am, robbed. I have been robbed of my inheritance and you expect me to be dignified about it?’
But Kassandros ceased to struggle and allowed himself to be escorted from the death chamber, through a crowd of mourners, none of whom could meet his eyes. That’s it, look away, you sheep. There’ll be a time, in the very near future, when you will all be begging me for favours and then we shall see who can look me full in the eye. The thought soothed him to the point that the methodical part of his mind began to restore itself, banishing the hysterical side that had always plagued him when thwarted, since early childhood. No, this is a situation that cannot just be reversed because I want it so; I have to go quietly and subtly to have my own way. Murder is out of the question; this has to be done legally so that there can be no reversing it. I’m going to need the one commodity I’m short of: friends.
The Three Paradises Page 20
