And so, as the great families of Macedon gathered for the funeral of their erstwhile regent, Kassandros studied each with a renewed interest for the one thing that he had in his favour was the obscurity of Polyperchon’s clan; although a noble line, they came originally from Tymphaia, just across the border in Epirus, until Philip had incorporated it into Macedon; despite the fact his father, Simmias, had married a Macedonian kinswoman of high birth and settled in Pella, Polyperchon could scarcely lay claim to true Macedonian blood. Where Polyperchon did have the advantage though – and it pained Kassandros to admit it to himself – was in his war record: he had served with distinction all through Alexander’s journey of conquest, commanding the Tymphaean units of the phalanx as a reward for his bravery at the battle of Issos. But what counts for more with the great families: blood or distinction? He contemplated the issue as the prayers were recited and the pyre lit.
Hymns accompanied the crackle of the flames and Kassandros felt nothing as the smoke from his father’s burning body rose to the sky: no grief, no loss, no remorse, no guilt; nothing. He was empty as far as his father was concerned, the final betrayal had purged him of feeling for the man whom he had never been able to please; whose expectations he had never lived up to and so had never felt the warmth of his unqualified praise; the man who had never liked him and had found it almost impossible, most of the time, to hide the fact. But now he was free of that; no longer would he have to struggle to gain the respect of the one man who had steadfastly refused to bestow it. No, that was all gone now; all gone and forgotten, wiped away by the greatest show of no-confidence and mistrust that could ever be displayed by a father to a son: to pass him over and give his inheritance to another, one who is not even a member of the extended family.
It was a liberating moment, Kassandros realised, for never again would he have any concern for anyone other than himself; now he only had one person to live for, now that he was free of his father.
But he would need help. With Nicanor, his full brother, away in Kappadokia as his father’s choice of satrap to replace Eumenes, Kassandros’ mind turned to his half-brothers; Hyperia’s sons. Nonetheless, they were still of his blood and without doubt anxious to gain renown and would see him as the person who could provide it, not the mediocrity, Polyperchon, who would, in the natural course of event, favour his own son, Alexandros. Iollas had been the oldest, then came the twins, Pleistarchos and Philip, both seventeen and coming into their own; the two youngest, Alexarchos, four, and Triparadeisus, still in his wet-nurse’s arms, were prospects for the future. And then, of course, there were his sisters and his brothers-in-law; this is where he would find the most support, for Antipatros had distributed them perfectly: Phila, his full sister in Asia with Demetrios; Nicaea in the north of Europe with Lysimachus and then Eurydike in Egypt with Ptolemy. One on each continent; this is where he would start but, such was his shock at the turn of events, he did not yet know how he would proceed after.
‘What if they seize us and keep us as hostages?’ Pleistarchos asked as Kassandros, Philip and he stalked a wild boar in the hills across the River Axius, to the east of Pella, the following day.
‘You’re family,’ Kassandros reminded him; do you think that Phila or Eurydike would countenance their brothers being used like that, especially when they’ve come on a diplomatic mission? No, Ptolemy and Antigonos will listen to you. I need money, men and ships; in return they will have a kinsman ruling in Macedon and not a usurper with his own agenda. We three, along with Lysimachus to whom I shall talk personally after I have summoned our kinsmen and bondsmen from the estates to my banner, will rule all the lands around the sea; we will give each other support but without prying into one another’s affairs. Tell them that and then bring me their answers as soon as you can. There will be a ship waiting for you when we reach Amphipolis; it will take you to Tarsus, Pleistarchos, and then deliver Philip to Tyros; it will then bring you both back to me. I’ll be in Thrace with Lysimachus.’ Kassandros wiped the sweat from his brow and gripped his sturdy boar-spear, determined to finally succeed in killing the beast that had so far eluded him.
‘You mean, we’re not going back to Pella.’
‘No; if I were Polyperchon, I’d kill all three of us.’
The twins looked at one another; silent agreement passed between them. ‘We’ll do it,’ they said in unison.
Kassandros had left Pella with his twin brothers as soon as was decent after the funeral feast; he had received wry looks as he had announced his intention of going hunting for boar so that he could finally earn the right to recline at dinner. It was not that he particularly wanted to take his boar, he was indifferent to how he ate his supper, it was because it was a perfectly plausible excuse for leaving Pella, travelling through the country and staying with families with whom he had ties of hospitality, people who would be sympathetic to his position; people who would calculate that they had more to gain from Kassandros being regent than Polyperchon; for he did not intend to come back to Macedon until he could claim his rightful place.
On they crept, slowly up the hill, the hunting slaves fanned out to either side in a ‘V’ ahead of them to funnel any game down to the three brothers at the apex. Behind came more slaves leading the horses.
‘Where should we tell Antigonos and Ptolemy to send whatever aid they might offer?’ Philip asked, his voice now a whisper as the tension of the hunt mounted.
‘I will come to Asia once I have spoken with Lysimachus, with our clansmen,’ Kassandros replied, trying to ignore the growing unease deep in his belly. I mustn’t let my fear show; whatever happens, I mustn’t turn and run.
It was a shout that heralded the charge and then a scream. With great porcine roars, inflamed by intrusion into its territory, the boar thundered from its lair, slashing the thigh of the slave who had disturbed it, leaving him pumping blood helplessly in its wake. Down the hill it came, its wrath driving the short legs that supported so much muscle and bulk, easily the weight of two men; tiny red eyes flashed from within a thick coating of bristles and the wicked tusks, razor-sharp and already blood-splattered, protruded from a slathering muzzle as it accelerated down the hill, towards Kassandros and his brothers.
Kassandros’ heart leaped and he felt urine dribble down his leg but managed to control the flow so that it would not be noticed. This was a mistake. But run he could not, especially as his brothers were now moving forward towards the oncoming beast. Kassandros steeled his will and forced himself to follow them as the slaves dashed to circle around the boar, preventing it from escape without killing one of them.
It was Philip that thrust first as, with terrifying speed, the enraged creature swerved towards him; the spearhead flashed down the beast’s side, opening a gash but not penetrating the ribcage. Philip jumped to his left a moment before the tusks would have emasculated him, leaving Kassandros directly in the boar’s path. He held his spear rigid before him, pointing at the monster’s breast; but the beast was canny and with a flick of its head it knocked the spear aside and closed on Kassandros. It was with a streak of pain, intense and stabbing, that Kassandros was launched skyward, screaming his agony, as below him the boar roared a bestial wail, loud and reverberating, drowning out that of Kassandros’ completely; down he crashed, somersaulting as he did, clutching his shattered shin that was ripped from knee to ankle, to see Pleistarchos holding onto his spear for all he was worth, being driven backwards by the impaled beast. It was the image of sitting on the couch as his younger brother reclined next to him that came to Kassandros as he passed out.
Pain was not a burden he found easy to bear and it soon hauled Kassandros from the comfortable depths of unconsciousness into the harsh realm of reality. He groaned, his face screwing up with agony, and thumped his fist down onto soft bedding.
‘Lie still,’ a voice said. ‘Your leg was badly hurt but I’ve set it and stitched it up; you will be fine given time.’
Opening his eyes, he saw a grey-flecked-bearded face lookin
g down at him. ‘Who are you?’
‘I am Nicanor’s physician.’
‘My brother Nicanor? But he’s in Kappadokia.’
‘No, I serve Nicanor of Sindus.’
Pain dulled his mind and he could not focus upon the name.
‘I knew your mother,’ a middle-aged man with long dark-brown hair and an auburn beard said from a chair on the far side of the room; the evening sun flooded in through an open window draped with fine linen, saffron in hue, that billowed in a soft breeze.
‘My mother’s dead.’
‘I know, and it saddened me greatly when she died.’
Kassandros was immediately suspicious. ‘What was she to you?’
Nicanor raised his palm in conciliation. ‘Nothing in the way you are imagining it. We were cousins and grew up together, until, of course, our respective sexes started to emerge and we were parted for decency’s sake. No, Kassandros, I was very fond of her. I would see her now and again, after she had married your father, when I came to Pella. Her death did grieve me, I can assure you.’
Kassandros winced again through the pain in his leg. ‘It grieved me more, I can assure you; and I’m sure that the child that was strangled in her womb wasn’t at all happy about it.’
Nicanor got to his feet and crossed the room, dismissing the physician with a wave. ‘You have a right to be bitter; in fact you have many reasons to be bitter, not least the way your father has treated you.’
Kassandros looked at Nicanor, puzzled. Is that sympathy? ‘It is customary that the eldest son should inherit from his father.’
‘Indeed. But here’s an interesting fact: before I went east with Alexander I spoke with your father just after he had been appointed regent. I asked him what the position entailed as we had not had a regent in Macedon for over a hundred years, so I was interested. He told me that he held all the powers of the king, with one exception.’
‘Which was?’
‘Which was that he could not pass the title on; only the king could do that.’
‘But I was his son!’
Nicanor raised both his hands to quieten Kassandros. ‘You’re not listening to me, Kassandros: he could not pass the title on, only the king can do that.’
Kassandros frowned; a spasm of pain passed across his face and he suppressed a groan. Slowly the implication of what Nicanor had said percolated through his mind. ‘In that case, he didn’t have the power to pass on the regency to Polyperchon.’
‘Nor could he have passed it on to you; only the kings can do that and, seeing as neither king is fit to rule, they cannot appoint their own regent and without a regent these kings cannot rule. It’s a paradox.’
Suddenly the pain ravaging Kassandros’ leg was forgotten. Of course. Why did I not see that before, it’s so perfectly obvious: my father did not have the power to pass his power on. ‘Polyperchon’s position is therefore not legal.’
‘Exactly; he has no right to the regency and nor would you have had, had your father not have passed you over.’
‘So I would not be rebelling against him if I were to raise an army.’
‘How can you rebel against someone who is not a ruler? Technically, at the moment, Macedon is without a government; so if it were to be spear-won you could argue that you had committed no crime and your seizing of power was legitimate.’
‘Why are you giving me this advice? You owe me nothing.’
‘And if I help you then you’ll owe me something; something that I shall never get from Polyperchon: I know the man, he is a strong subordinate but will be a weak and vacillating leader; in you I see ruthlessness and strength. As I have no ambitions to rule Macedon, I would much prefer it if you were to do so, rather than him. I take it that you are not happy with the situation and plan to do something about it.’
‘Yes.’
‘May I ask what?’
‘I’m sending my brothers to speak to Ptolemy, who’s still in Syria and Antigonos who, at the moment, is campaigning against Alketas and Attalus in Pisidia; I’m going to talk to Lysimachus.’
‘Your three brothers-in-law; yes, they could help, or if not actively help then they could certainly be induced not to hinder. What other measures are you taking?’
‘I’m summoning all the men who owe loyalty to my family to form the basis of an army and that’s as far as I’ve got. I need to know whether they will give me men, ships and money.’
‘And if they give you an army and the fleet to transport it, where will you take it?’
Kassandros felt a surge of anger; he did not like to be questioned, especially when the questions exposed a lack of forethought. He had not had time to think things through as it had all happened so quickly; all he had done so far was to escape Pella.
Nicanor was sensitive enough to realise this. ‘Pella is out of the question; any Macedonian who defiles the capital with war would be reviled; no, the war has to be won long before you get to Macedon. Fight it down south in Greece; let them bear the suffering of two armies on campaign. You need Piraeus. You need to control the garrison at Munychia there.’
‘Menyllus is the commander at the moment; my father appointed him after Athens surrendered.’
‘Can you trust him?’
‘I’ve no reason to; I barely know the man.’
‘Then send me; if I leave immediately in a fast ship there’s a good chance that I can get there before the news of your father’s death reaches Athens. I’ll bring the news to the garrison and a written order from you to replace Menyllus as commander.’
‘And then you can hold Piraeus for me until I arrive with my army.’
‘Precisely. Polyperchon will be forced to act; he would lose all face if he let you occupy Greece and did nothing. He would have to come south; defeat him there and then march north in triumph and seize Macedon without a blow being struck within her borders.’
‘And what about the kings?’
Nicanor smiled and made a vague gesture with one hand. ‘I would just take one step at a time, if I were you; after all, they’re not going anywhere.’
ADEA.
THE WARRIOR.
NOW, PERHAPS, WAS her chance – her last chance, in all likelihood – now that Antipatros was finally dead; how she had wept, tears of joy, at the news of his demise. The man who had denied her the right – her right as a queen – to speak for her husband and to rule in his name could no longer thwart her; he was gone and he had not named his son as his successor.
That Kassandros would rule after Antipatros had plagued Adea ever since she had returned to Europe; it had been clear that the old man would not last the year and it had been obvious that his eldest son should succeed him and she knew that Kassandros bore her no love. Indeed, there were few, if any, among the nobility of Macedon that bore her any affection which was why she had always made her appeals to the common soldiery; their reverence for Alexander and his blood extended to her husband, Philip, as his half-brother and to her as the cousin of the great man.
She looked at her husband, standing in his chamber, high in the palace overlooking Pella; he had a fixed grin on his face as his body-slave fastened his sword and put the final touches to his ceremonial uniform: the uniform of a king of Macedon.
She rubbed a blemish from the muscled, bronze breastplate, inlaid with silver prancing horses with rubies for eyes and diamonds on their hooves, and then adjusted the purple cloak that was draped over his shoulders and hung to the tops of his red-leather calf-boots.
Wiping a trail of drool from the corner of his mouth, she stood back to look at the whole effect. ‘Very good, Philip; you look splendid. A veritable king.’
Philip giggled, holding one hand to his mouth – the other clasped his helmet with a red horsehair plume and two tall white feathers on either side. ‘Can I ride a horse, Adea? Can I? Can I?’
‘Today you can, Philip.’
‘Oh, thank you, thank you.’ To emphasise his gratitude he sent a small stream of urine down his leg.
Used to such displays of excitement, Adea took no notice as the body-slave wiped his charge dry; he may have been a less than perfect king with the mind of an eight-year-old, but he was perfectly biddable and ridiculously grateful for any treat she allowed him, and “playing kings” was one of his favourites.
She checked herself in the polished bronze mirror: her breastplate, her helmet and her greaves all shone and her sword hung in the correct manner. An Amazon queen; Mother would be so proud of me. Satisfied that all was ready, she picked up the scroll that she had prepared for the occasion and, taking her husband’s limp hand, led him from the room.
The army of Macedon was by now a very mixed affair made up of beardless recruits, grizzled veterans old enough to be their great grandfathers and relatively untried garrison troops of indifferent quality more used to bullying the unfortunate local populations upon whom they had been forced. But despite its questionability in terms of combat, it could parade with rigid discipline and it was in precise blocks of men, both mounted and on foot, that it was drawn up on the parade ground beyond Pella’s North Gate.
Adea sat on her mare, next to her husband on his stallion, as Polyperchon took the salute in the name of the kings; his son, Alexandros, next to him, was as nondescript as his father except that what remaining hair there was on his head was brown rather than grey. Uninspiring and dull, the both of them; this has to be my chance.
Glancing to her left she caught the cold stare of her rival, Roxanna, eyes seething with hatred from behind her veil as she sat on a cushion-laden carriage with her four-year-old son next to her. Adea turned away, a feeling of triumph in her breast as she had scored a moral victory over the eastern wild-cat by appearing next to her husband mounted; she was the martial queen, prepared to lead men whereas Roxanna was nothing but a pampered easterner wallowing in luxury, the antithesis of a Macedonian. It had been a point well made and she knew that it would not go unnoticed as she swelled with pride upon the army hailing her husband as king – she ignored the fact that the bitch’s whelp was also included in the ovation. Philip beamed and nodded his head furiously, punching his fist into the air until Adea took his elbow and gently brought his arm down. ‘Stay still, Philip, act with some decorum or the Ferryman will come and get you.’
The Three Paradises Page 21
