Alexander's Legacy: To The Strongest

by Robert Fabbri

  It was almost rapture that greeted this line; Philo spread his arms and soaked up the adulation. The gods grant that the Macedonians let us go; having faced their phalanx at Granicus and Issus, I have no wish to do so again.

  ROXANNA,

  THE WILDCAT

  HER SON WAS strong as he kicked within her; stronger than she had dared to hope. Roxanna placed both hands on her distended belly, the skin stretched tight over it, and waited for the baby to settle. It would not be long now, just a matter of days; two-thirds of a moon at the most. I could weep with the injustice of it; to give birth a little more than two months after Alexander’s death. She raised her finger over her shoulder to where her slave-girls awaited on their knees, and heard the soft padding of one approaching the couch upon which she lay, looking out of the window, east along the Royal Road towards Susa.

  She winced as another kick, stronger than the rest, caused a bulge in her tight flesh; as the baby settled, Roxanna signalled for the girl to come to where she could see her. With eyes to the floor, the slave knelt before her. Roxanna contemplated the girl for a few moments. I suppose she could be called pretty; she might be able to excite a man. She looked back down at her swollen stomach, the belly-button pushed out grotesquely, and felt disgust. Who would want me as I am now; who will ever want me again? Whereas this lucky little bitch will get rutted as much as she wants. The slap to the girl’s face was as loud as it was sudden; she fell sideways to the ground. Roxanna smiled with satisfaction as the girl whimpered, holding her cheek; with an effort, she pushed herself back up to her knees.

  Why did I do that? The thought intrigued Roxanna. Does a queen need reasons? Again she slapped the girl, who now started to cry.

  ‘Silence!’

  With terror in her eyes, the girl sniffed and swallowed as she tried to get a hold of her emotions. Her obvious fear pleased Roxanna, as did the swelling growing on her eyelid. You won’t be quite so pretty tonight, little bitch. She immediately felt better about herself and took a sip of the sherbet drink, iced and frothy in an engraved glass, enjoying the prickly sensation on her tongue. She frowned, remembering why she had called the girl in the first place. ‘Summon the steward of this place.’

  With a bob, the girl reversed away from the couch. Roxanna continued her staring out of the window along the empty Royal Road. Where are you? You should have been here days ago; it’s over a month and a half since Perdikkas sent you the summons. Alexander’s Persian widows’ tardiness had become a matter of deep concern for Roxanna as she had waited, for the previous half-moon, in the royal hunting lodge two days’ journey from Babylon. The lodge had always been used as a staging post in the royal progress along the road to or from Susa. Should her time come before Stateira and Parysatis’ arrival at the lodge, Roxanna knew that she would not be able to do as she had planned; that would be a disaster, for if the Persian widows were to reach Babylon then Perdikkas would protect them no matter how much Roxanna threatened him. Again she held her belly as another series of kicks caused her to draw a deep breath. Quiet, my son, settle down and bide your time. I must administer death to make you safe before I give you life.

  A low cough from the door, behind her, told Roxanna that the steward of the hunting lodge had arrived. She did not look around nor invite him to enter. ‘Well?’

  The steward did not reply at once.

  The fool must know what I’m talking about.

  ‘Begging your majesty’s pardon,’ the steward said, his soft, eunuch’s voice weak with fear.

  ‘No, steward, I do not give my pardon. I asked you a question, so answer it.’

  The steward swallowed. ‘If it is after the royal progress that you are enquiring, majesty, then I’m pleased to announce that the queens will be here by nightfall. A messenger arrived here within the last hour to instruct me to make the royal apartments ready.’

  ‘I am in the royal apartments.’

  ‘With respect, majesty, you are in one of the royal apartments. There are four more, other than the Great King’s personal suite.’

  ‘I shall inspect them and you will find much cause for sorrow if I feel I’ve been placed in lesser accommodation.’

  ‘Azhura Mazda forbid the idea, majesty. Here, only the best is good enough for the mother of Alexander’s child, majesty.’

  ‘Son!’ Roxanna corrected.

  ‘Indeed, majesty, Alexander’s son.’

  I hate his obsequiousness. But he may be of use to me so I’ll let it go unpunished – for the time being. ‘Very good. Inform me when my royal sisters arrive. In the meantime, have all the uncastrated slaves removed from the grounds and forbid access to my royal sisters’ guards; we will enjoy our stay far more if we don’t have to be veiled. Send a message to them informing them of the arrangements to which I’m sure they will both agree. I will meet them personally as they arrive.’ With a lazy wave, she sent him on his errand.

  ‘We are happy that you have done us the honour of riding out from Babylon to meet us, Sister,’ Stateira said. Her pale face, slender and sharp-nosed with huge, dark eyes and full lips, was guileless and her voice genuine. With long legs beneath clinging silk, she stepped down from the travel coach, designed more for comfort than practicality, drawn up in the central courtyard of the lodge; a flurry of eunuch slaves with brightly coloured parasols shielded her from the sun, still strong even as it sunk towards the west. Beyond the open East Gate to the complex, the queens’ bodyguard of Persian nobles set up camp.

  ‘Especially in such an advanced state of pregnancy,’ Parysatis added, appearing equally as pleased to see Roxanna as her cousin, whom she resembled closely in features and stature.

  Beautiful in the tall, lithe and pale-skinned Persian fashion, both of them; but they’re nothing but pampered court flowers. Roxanna’s smile was sweet and broad; she did not rise from the wicker chair set beneath an awning next to the raised well at the courtyard’s centre. ‘My dears, it was the least that I could do as we all share the gloom of widowhood. I wished for us to be acquainted before we grieve for Alexander together as is only right and proper that we should. A man as great as he should have no end of mourning for him; it is down to us to take the lead. Now we are all together we will be able to do justice to this grief.’

  With Roxanna’s refusal to rise to greet her guests, the battle lines were drawn.

  A trace of iciness flickered in Stateira’s eyes; she did not approach Roxanna. ‘I will gladly have you mourn by my side, Sister. When Perdikkas wrote to us inviting us to Babylon to grieve, we felt nothing but gratitude that our positions should be recognised.’

  So, she will not stoop to kiss me and she wishes me to be by her side rather than she at mine; it’s as I thought: she considers herself my superior. How right I was to have planned this. Roxanna pointed to the steward, sweating in the full glare of the evening sun. ‘My dears, that man has readied your accommodation and I have ordered him to prepare the baths for you to wash away the dust of travel. I trust you will not be discomfited by the exclusion of your guards from the lodge; I thought it would be more relaxed if we did not have to veil ourselves. All the male slaves remaining here have been fully castrated and I myself travelled here with just eunuchs for guards and doctors, as well as my slave-girls and some midwives.’

  ‘An admirable thought, Sister.’ Stateira’s smile was now fixed. ‘You are kind to think of our comfort; we shall enjoy bathing after the rigours of the road.’

  ‘Please take your time, my dears, I have commanded dinner to be served at the setting of the sun but that can always be delayed should you wish.’

  ‘That is most considerate, Sister; we have had little to sustain us on the journey today as we both suffer from a delicate stomach when travelling.’

  You poor palace-flowers don’t know the meaning of a delicate stomach, but you soon will. ‘I look forward to our meal together.’

  ‘And this was our royal grandmother’s favourite dish,’ Stateira claimed as the steward supervised two of Ro
xanna’s slave-girls with a large silver platter laden with grilled spatchcock quail rubbed with a red spice; the slaves placed it on the low table the three women shared. ‘The summaqa brings out the delicacy of the meat, provided it has not been overcooked or over-spiced.’

  That’s why I had it served this evening. ‘I was sorry to hear of Sisygambis’ death,’ Roxanna lied, helping herself to a grilled bird, placing it on her plate before dipping her greased fingers in a bowl of water and wiping them dry. With a wave she dismissed the steward and the two slaves. ‘The whole empire mourns for her.’

  Stateira inclined her head a fraction. ‘You are kind, Sister. It was a tragedy, but one that our royal grandmother chose to make. The news of Alexander’s death was too much for her.’ She plucked a quail from the platter and pulled a leg off; the flesh, perfectly cooked, gave way with ease. ‘After the death of my royal father, Darius, Sisygambis considered Alexander as an adoptive son; one son she could bear to lose but two was too much for her.’ She shook her head with regret and nibbled the flesh from the bone, chewing on it in such a refined manner that her jaw barely moved.

  ‘So she locked herself in her room,’ Parysatis said, picking up the tale as she too took a quail, ‘and refused food and drink. She was dead within four days, such was her desire to leave this world and be reborn in the light of our lord.’

  ‘I admire her willpower.’ Roxanna said, pulling off a wing, skinning it at leisure and then discarding both the skin and the flesh on the side of her plate.

  ‘She was ever a formidable woman,’ Parysatis confirmed before taking a delicate mouthful of breast.

  Stop talking so much and eat. Roxanna struggled not to appear impatient as she once again washed and dried her fingers. ‘Alexander always spoke to me of her with respect and referred to her as his mother. I believe that Olympias, his real mother, got to hear of it; I doubt there will be any condolences sent to Susa from Epirus.’

  Parysatis swallowed her mouthful. ‘We have heard many stories of the jealousies of Olympias; how will you fare with her?’

  Roxanna watched the two queens each take another morsel as she pretended to weigh her answer in her head; she ripped off the second wing, again taking her time to skin it before discarding it on the side of her plate. ‘Olympias needs my son more than he needs her; I fully expect her to come to me as a supplicant.’ Again she cleansed her fingers.

  ‘You are so lucky to be with child, Sister,’ Stateira said, kissing a small piece of the summaqa from her middle finger before slicing a slither of well-spiced breast from her carcass. ‘We would that our lord had graced our beds more than just the one time on our wedding night; but he had more pressing concerns.’ She popped the meat into her mouth and chewed.

  Sucking Hephaestion’s cock being one of them; I know because I caught him doing it and he showed no shame. ‘He was equally as sparing with his favours in my chamber, my dears; I sometimes would not see him for six months at a stretch.’

  Stateira swallowed and again inclined her head at the graciousness shown by sharing such intimate information. ‘We are all…’ She stopped mid-sentence and stared down at Roxanna’s still-full plate. ‘You do not eat, Sister?’ In alarm, she turned to her cousin. ‘Spit it out!’

  Parysatis looked at Stateira in incomprehension, her mouth half-full of semi-masticated quail.

  ‘Spit it out, it’s poisoned. The Bactrian bitch took the first quail to put our minds at rest and then has done nothing but play with it.’

  Parysatis spat the contents of her mouth out into a napkin.

  You can spit as much as you like, sweet queens, it’s too late. ‘I suggest you both lie back and relax,’ Roxanna said with false concern, ‘I wouldn’t want you to get agitated as that would cause you distress. The poison I’ve used will just numb you; you won’t feel any pain as you make the transition and once it takes effect it will be very quick.’

  Stateira stuck a finger down her throat and retched; nothing. Again she did it, this time forcing her hand in as far as possible. Another couple of retches were followed by an explosion of vomit that gushed over the table. Parysatis screamed and threw her quail at Roxanna.

  ‘Nothing can save you, my dears; the poison was mixed with the summaqa so you wouldn’t taste it and you’ve had far too much. No amount of spewing or hysterics will help now.’

  As one, Stateira and Parysatis leapt across the table at Roxanna, scattering the meal and sliding in vomit, nails flaying and teeth bared as they howled in anger and grief, aiming for her pregnancy. Jumping back, Roxanna avoided the joint attack as the steward and the two slaves she had requested to serve the party rushed back into the room. But the poisoned queens got no further than Roxanna’s deserted couch before both began to stumble and then weaken as the sensation in the extremities of their limbs faded.

  ‘I did tell you to remain calm,’ Roxanna reminded them. ‘I could have used much more painful poisons but instead I chose to show mercy.’

  ‘Mercy?’ Stateira questioned, her voice beginning to slur as her lips relaxed. ‘Murdering us is mercy?’

  Roxanna smiled, it was her best smile that she saved for rare occasions such as this. ‘My ancestors would have had you impaled; as would yours have had me. Of course you cannot be permitted to live; whoever married you would have had a claim to the throne and, therefore, been a direct threat to my son.’ At the mention of her unborn babe she tensed; a sharp pain shot through her lower abdomen. She bent over with a cry; her two slave-girls ran to her as the steward looked around the room, aghast at the sight of the two dying queens moaning amongst the debris of dinner.

  The pain grew, contorting her body with its violence. Roxanna took a series of deep breaths, shaking off the supporting hands of her slaves. ‘Leave me, I’ll be fine.’ She pointed down at Stateira and Parysatis, both of whom had now started to foam at the mouth. ‘Steward, they will soon be dead; throw their bodies down the well, I want no one to know of this so do it personally.’

  The steward did a swift mental calculation and, realising that there was no way to survive being complicit in Roxanna’s plot, fled the room. Running won’t save you, you freak; it’ll just get you a more painful death. She turned to her slave-girls. ‘You’ll have to do it, get the others.’

  As Roxanna watched her slaves drag the dead bodies of Stateira and Parysatis towards the well, across the flagstones of the courtyard lit solely by the rising half-moon, she grasped her belly once more. She supported herself against the wall and took deep breaths; her time was not yet due but the tension and exertion had aggravated her condition. I must keep strong; I must get to full term to give my son as much chance as possible. She stood up straight as she heard the splash of the second corpse hitting the water; the sound cheered her and she felt her body relax. She would be fine; she still had time, enough time to get to her carriage and summon the midwives and eunuch doctors who had accompanied her and leave through the West Gate back to Babylon, there to give birth. Soon, my son, soon is your time. Soon will come the age of the new Alexander. But what if I am wrong?

  It was then that a movement in the shadows caught her eye.

  PERDIKKAS, THE HALF-CHOSEN

  ‘DO YOU THINK that you will have it finished by the end of next year?’ Perdikkas asked as he and Seleukos admired the framework of the great catafalque that was to transport Alexander’s mummified remains back to his final resting place in royal tombs of Macedon. Four paces wide and six long, the frame was mounted, via a suspension system, on two axles, each ending in iron-rimmed, gold-spoked wheels the height of a man. A golden lion’s head holding a spear in its teeth adorned each of the wheel hubs.

  ‘With sufficient craftsmen working on the four statues of Nike that will be placed on each corner and then the goldsmiths to work on the gold-leaf olive wreath that will crown the barrel-vaulted roof and the artisans to make the golden columns supporting the roof. Need I go on?’

  ‘Yes, Arrhidaeus; you do need to. I must know.’ Perdikkas looked down
at the design, drawn with meticulous precision from various angles, that Seleukos was studying.

  Arrhidaeus, the namesake of the idiot king before he was renamed Philip, shrugged and continued counting off his requirements on his fingers. ‘I need the sculptors for the friezes around the wall and then more for the two golden lions guarding the entrance, and then the painters to depict the various feats of Alexander – all of which we still need to decide. Then I need founders to cast the four great bells that will hang from each corner. More goldsmiths to fashion the hundreds of overlapping gold plates to cover the roof and to make the meshwork of golden ropes that will cover the gaps between the columns. Then I need the men to train the sixty-four mules it will take to pull the thing, each of which will have a gold crown with two golden bells hanging from it as well as a golden collar set with precious jewels, all of which have got to be manufactured twice as we will need a reserve team. If I have all that, then yes, Perdikkas, provided I have all the gold and jewels that are needed, I will be ready by next year – or thereabouts.’ Arrhidaeus smiled, showing that he had run out of fingers. ‘Oh, and we have to discuss what the sarcophagus will rest upon and what we want for the decoration inside the catafalque.’