Alexander's Legacy: To The Strongest Read online

  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

  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 2020 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

  Copyright © Robert Fabbri, 2020

  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 796 3

  Trade paperback ISBN: 978 1 78649 797 0

  E-book ISBN: 978 1 78649 799 4

  Corvus

  An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

  Ormond House

  26–27 Boswell Street

  London

  WC1N 3JZ

  www.corvus-books.co.uk

  To my agent, Ian Drury, with whom I share a

  passion for this period of history.

  A list of characters can be found on page 412.

  PROLOGUE

  BABYLON, SUMMER 323 BC

  ‘TO THE STRONGEST.’ The Great Ring of Macedon wavered in Alexander’s dimming vision; his hand shook with the effort of raising it and then speaking. Emblazoned with the sixteen-pointed sun-blazon, the ring represented the power of life and death over the largest empire ever conquered in the known world; an empire that he must bequeath so early, too early, because he, Alexander, the third of that name to be King of Macedon, knew now that it was manifest: he was dying.

  Rage surged within him at capricious gods who gave so much and yet exacted so high a toll. To die with his ambition half-sated was an injustice that soured his achievements, augmenting the bitter taste of death that rose in his gorge; for it was but the east that had fallen under his dominion; the west was yet to witness his glory. And yet, had he not been warned? Had not the god Amun cautioned him against hubris when he had consulted the deity’s oracle in the oasis of Siwa, far out in the Egyptian desert, nigh on ten years ago? Was this then his chastisement for ignoring the god’s words and reaching further than any mortal had previously dared? Had he had the energy, Alexander would have wept for himself and for the glory that was slipping through his fingers.

  Without an obvious, natural heir, who would he allow to follow him? To whom would he give the chance to rise to such heights as he had already attained? The love of his life, Hephaestion, the only person he had treated as an equal, both upon the field of battle and within the bed they shared, had been snatched from him less than a year previously; only Hephaestion, beautiful and proud Hephaestion, would have been worthy to expand what he, Alexander, had already created. But Hephaestion was no more.

  Alexander held the ring towards the man standing to the right of his bed, closest to him, the most senior of his seven bodyguards surrounding him, all anxious to know his will in these final moments. All remained still, listening, in the vaulted chamber, decorated with glazed tiles of deep blue, crimson and gold, in the great palace of Nebuchadnezzar at the heart of Babylon; here in the gloom of a few weak oil-lamps, for little light seeped through the high windows from the early-evening, overcast sky, they waited to learn their fate.

  Perdikkas, the commander of the Companion Cavalry, so far loyal to the Argead royal house of Macedon but ambitious in his own right and ruthless with it, took the symbol of ultimate authority from his king’s forefinger; he asked his question a second time, his voice tense: ‘To whom do you pass your ring, Alexander?’ He glanced around his companions before looking back down at his dying king and adding: ‘Is it to me?’

  Alexander made no attempt to reply as he looked around the semi-circle of the men closest to him, all formidable military commanders capable of independent action and all with the human lust for power: Leonnatus, tall and vain, modelling his long blonde hair in the same style as his king, aping his looks, but whose devotion was such that he had used his own body to shield Alexander when he fell wounded in far-off India. Peucestas, next to him, already was showing signs of going native in his dress, having been the only bodyguard to have learnt Persian. Lysimachus, the most reckless of them all, was possessed of bravery that was often a hazard to his own comrades. Peithon, dour but steadfast; unquestioning in his execution of even the most cruel orders, when others might quail. And then there were the older two: Aristonous, who had been Alexander’s father, Philip, the second of that name’s, bodyguard; the only survivor of the old regime, whose counsel was infused with the wisdom of one old in the ways of war. And finally, Ptolemy; what to make of Ptolemy whose looks hinted at him being a bastard brother? At once gentle and forgiving and yet capable of ruthless political adroitness should that part of his nature be abused; the least competent militarily but the most likely to succeed in the political long game.

  Alexander looked past the seven, as Perdikkas repeated the question a third time, to the men beyond the bed; men who had followed him, sharing the dangers and the triumphs, on his ten-year journey of conquest, silent in the shadows as they strained to hear him answer. Passing along the dozen or so faces he knew so well, his weak gaze rested on Kassandros standing next to his younger half-brother, Iollas, and Alexander thought he detected triumph in his eyes; his sickness had started the day after Kassandros’ arrival from Macedon as his father, Antipatros’ messenger; had Antipatros, the man who had ruled as regent in the motherland for the past ten years, sent his eldest son with the woman’s weapon of poison to murder him rather than obey the summons that Alexander had sent? Iollas was, after all, his cup-bearer and could easily have administered the dose. Alexander cursed Kassandros inwardly, having always hated the ginger-haired, pock-marked prig whose loathing had been returned in equal measure and augmented by his humiliation at having been left behind for all those years. His mind turned back to Antipatros, a thousand miles away in Pella, the capital of Macedon, and his constant feud with his, Alexander’s, mother, Olympias, scheming and brooding back in her native Molossia, a part of the kingdom of Epirus; how would that resolve without him playing off one against the other? Who would kill whom?

  But then, half obscured by a column at the far end of the dying-chamber, Alexander glimpsed a woman, a pregnant woman; his Bactrian wife,
Roxanna, three months from full term. What chance would a half-caste child have? Not many shared his dream of uniting the peoples of east and west; there would be few Macedonians of pure blood who would rally behind a half-breed infant born to an Eastern wildcat.

  So it was with certainty, as he closed his eyes, that Alexander foresaw the struggles that would mark his passing, both in Macedon and here in Babylon and then throughout the subject Greek states, as well as among those of his satraps who had carved out fiefdoms of their own in the vast empire he had wrought; men such as Antigonos, The One-Eyed, satrap of Phrygia and Menander, satrap of Lydia, the last of Philip’s generals.

  Then there was Harpalus, his treasurer, whom he had already forgiven once for his dishonesty, who, rather than face Alexander’s wrath a second time, had absconded with eight hundred talents of gold and silver, enough to raise a formidable army or live in luxury for the rest of his life; which would he choose?

  And what would Krateros do? Krateros, the darling of the army, a general second to only Alexander himself, now somewhere between Babylon and Macedon, leading ten thousand veterans home; would he feel that he should have been named Alexander’s successor? But Alexander, weakness creeping through him, had made his decision and, as Perdikkas once more put the question, he shook his head; why should he give away what he had won? Why should he give the chance to another to equal or surpass him? Why should not he, alone for ever, be known as ‘The Great’? No, he would not do it; he was not going to name the Strongest; he was not going to give them any help.

  Let them work it out for themselves.

  Opening his eyes one last time, he looked up at the ceiling, his breathing fading.

  All seven around the bed leant in, hoping to hear their name.

  Alexander twitched one last smile. ‘I foresee great struggles at my funeral games.’ He gave a sigh; then the eyes, that had seen more wonders than any before in this world, closed.

  And they saw no more.

  PERDIKKAS,

  THE HALF-CHOSEN

  THE RING FELT heavy in his hand as Perdikkas’ fingers closed about it; it was not for the gold of which it was wrought but for the power in which it was steeped. He looked down at the still face of Alexander, as beautiful in death as it had been in life, and felt his world teeter so that he had to steady himself with his other hand on the oaken bedhead, alive with ancient animalistic carvings.

  He drew breath and then looked to his companions, the six other bodyguards sworn to the death to the king who was no more; on the countenance of each was evidence of the gravity of the moment: tears on the faces of Leonnatus and Peucestas, each heaving their chest with irregular sobs; Ptolemy, rigid, eyes closed as if deep in thought; Lysimachus clenched and unclenched the muscles of his jaw, his hands in white-knuckled fists; Aristonous struggled for breath and then, forgetting dignity, squatted down on the floor with one hand supporting him. Peithon stared at Alexander, his eyes wide, dead to emotion.

  Perdikkas opened his hand and gazed at the ring. Now was his time – should he dare to claim it as his own; Alexander had chosen him to receive it after all. And he chose well, for of all here in this room I am the most worthy; I am his true heir. He picked it up and held it between thumb and forefinger, examining it: so small, so mighty. Can I claim it? Would the others let me do so? The answer came quick, as unwelcome as it was unsurprising. In the second group, beyond the bed, his younger brother, Alketas, standing between Eumenes, the sly little Greek secretary, and the grizzled veteran, Meleagros, caught his eye and slowly shook his head; he had read Perdikkas’ mind. In fact, all in the room had read his mind as all eyes were now upon him.

  ‘He gave it to me,’ Perdikkas affirmed, his voice imbued with the authority of the symbol he held before him. ‘It was I whom he chose.’

  Aristonous got to his feet, his voice weary. ‘But he did not name you, Perdikkas, although I would that he had.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I hold the ring.’

  Ptolemy half-smiled, bemused, shrugging his shoulders. ‘It’s such a shame, but he half-chose you; and a half-chosen king is just half a king. Where’s the other half?’

  ‘Whether he chose anyone or not,’ a voice, gravelled by the shouting of battlefield commands, boomed, ‘it is for the army-assembly to decide who is Macedon’s king; it has ever been thus.’ Meleagros strode forward, his hand on his sword-hilt; his beard, full and grey, dominated his weathered face. ‘It is for free Macedonians to decide who sits on the throne of Macedon; and it is the right of free Macedonians to see the body of the dead king.’

  Two dark eyes stared at Perdikkas, daring him to defy ancient custom; eyes that were full of resentment, as he knew only too well, for Meleagros was almost twice his age and yet remained an infantry commander; Alexander had passed him over for promotion. However, it was not through ineptitude that he had failed to rise, it was because of his qualities as a leader of a phalanx. It took much skill to command the sixteen-man-wide-and-deep Macedonian phalanx unit; it took even more to command two score of these two-hundred-and-fiftysix-man speira in conjunction, and Meleagros was the best – with the possible exception of Antigonos One-Eye, Perdikkas allowed. To ensure the right pace as the unit manoeuvred over various terrains so that every man, wielding his sixteen-feetlong sarissa, pike, was able to keep formation could not be learnt in one campaigning season. The phalanx’s strength was its ability to deliver five pikes for every one-man frontage; armies had broken on it since its introduction by Alexander’s father, but only because of men like Meleagros knowing how to keep it ordered so that the front five ranks could bring their weapons to bear whilst the rear ranks used theirs to disrupt missiles raining down upon them. Meleagros kept his men safe and they loved him for it and they were many. Meleagros could not be dismissed.

  Perdikkas knew that he was beaten, for the moment at least; to realise his ambition he needed the army, both infantry and cavalry, on his side and Meleagros spoke for the infantry. Gods, how I hate the infantry and I hate this bastard for blocking my way – for now. He smiled. ‘You are, of course, right, Meleagros; we stand here debating amongst ourselves as to what we should do and we forget our duty to our men. We should muster the army and give them the news. Alexander’s body should be removed to the throne-room so that the men can file past it and pay their respects. On that, at least, do we all agree?’ He looked around the room and saw no dissent. ‘Good. Meleagros, you call the infantry and I’ll summon the cavalry; I’ll also send out messengers to every satrapy with the news. And let’s always remember we are brothers with Alexander.’ He paused to let that sink it, nodded at them and then made for the door, wanting only some time to himself to reflect upon his position.

  But it was not to be; as a dozen conversations broke out around the corpse of Alexander, echoing around the cavernous chamber, Perdikkas felt someone fall into step beside him.

  ‘You need my help,’ Eumenes said, without looking up at him, as they walked through the door and into the main central corridor of the palace.

  Perdikkas looked down at the little Greek, a whole head shorter than him, and wondered what it had been that made Alexander give him the military command left vacant when he, Perdikkas, had replaced Hephaestion; there had been much disquiet when Alexander had rewarded Eumenes’ years of service, firstly as Philip’s secretary before transferring his allegiance to Alexander upon his assassination, by making him the first non-Macedonian commander of Companion Cavalry. ‘What could you possibly do?’

  ‘I was brought up to be polite to someone offering a service; in Kardia it is considered good manners. But, I grant you, we do differ in many ways from Macedon: for a start, we’ve always enjoyed eating our sheep.’

  ‘And we’ve always enjoyed killing Greeks.’

  ‘Not as much as the Greeks do themselves. But be that as it may, you do need my help.’

  Perdikkas did not reply at first as they marched, now at speed, along the corridor, high and broad, musty with age, the geometrical paintwork fadin
g and peeling in the humid atmosphere that afflicted Babylon. ‘Alright; you’ve made me curious.’

  ‘A noble condition, curiosity; it’s only through curiosity that we can reach certainty as it causes us to explore a topic from all angles.’

  ‘Yes, yes, very wise, I’m sure, but—’

  ‘But you’re just a blunt soldier and have no use for wisdom?’

  ‘You know, Eumenes, one of the reasons that people dislike you so intensely is—’

  ‘Because I keep on finishing their sentences for them?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘And there was me thinking that it was only because I’m an oily Greek. Oh well, I suppose one can’t help but learn as one gets older, unless, of course, one is Peithon.’ A sly glint came into his eye as he looked up at Perdikkas. ‘Or Arrhidaeus.’

  Perdikkas waved a dismissive hand. ‘Arrhidaeus has never learnt a thing in his thirty years other than to try not to drool out of both sides of his mouth at the same time. He probably doesn’t even know who his own father is.’

  ‘He may not know he’s Philip’s son but we all do; as does the army.’

  Perdikkas halted and turned to the Greek. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘You see, I told you that you needed my help. You said it yourself, he’s Philip’s son which makes him Alexander’s half-brother and, as such, his legitimate heir.’

  ‘But he’s a halfwit.’

  ‘So? The only other two direct heirs are Heracles, Barsine’s four-year-old bastard, or whatever is lurking in that eastern bitch Roxanna’s belly. Now, Perdikkas, where will the army stand when presented with that choice?’

  Perdikkas grunted and turned away. ‘No one would choose a halfwit.’

  ‘If you believe that then you’re automatically ruling yourself out.’

  ‘Piss off, you Greek runt, and leave me alone; you can make yourself useful by mustering your cavalry.’