Alexander's Legacy: To The Strongest Page 6

  Ptolemy inclined his head a fraction. ‘You have me exact, Eumenes: a normal man with normal desires; when I saw Egypt, when I accompanied Alexander to The Oracle of Amun in Siwa, I knew that it would suit me perfectly in my advanced years. And now that they approach, I do not wish them to be so strenuous that I cannot enjoy them to the full.’

  ‘A sentiment that I agree with entirely.’

  ‘So what do you want if you give me your support in this matter?’

  Eumenes looked up at him. ‘Nothing that you can’t afford. Just your support for me not being left out of the division of the satrapies only because I’m a Greek.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘That will be enough for the present.’

  ‘For the present?’

  ‘Let’s just agree that you will be getting far more out of our mutual understanding than I will, so perhaps you could consider yourself in my debt?’

  ‘You’re a clever and a sly little Greek, aren’t you?’

  ‘Am I? Why, thank you, Ptolemy; and you’re not so straightforward and open yourself.’

  Ptolemy grinned despite himself. ‘We have an agreement, but with one caveat—’

  ‘That just because you agree to be in my debt does not mean that I can ask anything of you and you should be expected to honour it?’

  ‘What I find most annoying about you is—’

  ‘That I always finish people’s sentences for them? Yes, I know; people often tell me that. It’s a weakness of mine as a result of having a sharper intellect than most.’ Eumenes turned and walked through the doors of the throne-room leaving Ptolemy smiling and shaking his head.

  Now, for once I shall put my lack of Macedonian blood to good use, Eumenes told himself as he approached the bier upon which Alexander still rested. Despite it being the third day since his passing there was, intriguingly, no stench of decomposition and no outward sign of corruption; he looked exactly as he did at the moment of his death. Much to Eumenes’ relief, the diadem was still around his head. So the one they crowned Philip with is false; that should make things much easier. But how to get it? That will take a bit of work. As Perdikkas put details of the newly arrived soldiers on every door to barricade them in, Eumenes lurked by the body but never felt securely enough that he was not noticed in order to try for the diadem. And it was almost a relief when Meleagros shouted from outside the main doors to the chamber: ‘Open in the name of King Philip.’

  ‘There is no King Philip,’ Perdikkas called back.

  ‘He was acclaimed by the army assembly and you were present, I saw you. Now, open up!’

  Perdikkas made no reply and, having repeated the order a couple of times, Meleagros finally lost his patience; the doors vibrated under a barrage of heavy blows.

  It was the work of a moment, as men rushed to add their weight to the doors; with his thumb and middle-finger, Eumenes plucked the diadem from Alexander’s head and dropped it down the front of his tunic, feeling it lodge on his belt.

  The pounding on the doors grew; an axe crashed through, and then another followed by two more, exploding splinters into the faces of the defenders as they leant their shoulders to the wood. But the flesh of a shoulder is no match for an axe blade and as the breaches became more frequent and the first men went down injured, the rest backed off for there was no hope.

  Now this will be interesting, Eumenes considered, backing slowly away as Meleagros kicked the doors open and the infantry stormed in, javelins raised.

  Perdikkas and Aristonous stood their ground but of Ptolemy there was no sign; Eumenes kept up a steady pace backwards as Meleagros approached Perdikkas with a triumphant sneer on his face. ‘King Philip has come to claim the body of his brother for burial, Perdikkas; you have no right to deny him.’

  ‘I am one of the regents, Meleagros; we all agreed to it and swore an oath in front of Alexander. Arrhidaeus is not king because he hasn’t been proclaimed by the full army assembly; solely the infantry.’

  ‘The infantry outnumber the cavalry so therefore their will must prevail.’ Meleagros stepped closer to the corpse. ‘Stand aside or die.’

  Perdikkas’ blood the first to be spilt? I think not. Eumenes continued his slow retreat, as the tension mounted.

  Perdikkas faced Meleagros, motionless, for a few moments and then stepped back. ‘Very well, you have control of the throne-room and the body.’ He turned away and beckoned to Aristonous and his men. ‘Come.’

  That might well be the best decision Perdikkas has made so far, Eumenes reflected as he reached the door into the long corridor. Turning, he made his way with haste along its length, coming out into the courtyard to find Ptolemy waiting for him; the cavalry were nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Leonnatus led them out when I told him that Perdikkas could not possibly hold the throne-room,’ Ptolemy said, explaining their absence. ‘He’s taking them all the way out of the city.’

  ‘A very sensible precaution.’

  ‘And I think I shall be joining him until things settle down. I thought I might find Seleukos and go with him via the elephant camp in the gardens beyond the Ishtar Gate; his old command would be a handy addition if it should come to a fight and he still has their loyalty.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think that there is any need for that; just when things are going so well and we’re another step closer to achieving what we both want.’

  ‘There’s no need for it at the moment but whilst Meleagros remains alive there is always the possibility.’

  ‘So let’s hasten his demise by making use of the cavalry outside the walls and blocking off all food supplies to the city. It’s so much easier to negotiate with the hungry.’

  Ptolemy wagged a finger at Eumenes as Perdikkas and Aristonous led their men out of the corridor. ‘You are a sly, scheming—’

  ‘Little Greek, I know. How else do you think that I managed to become firstly Philip’s secretary and then Alexander’s; by being nice? Or was it really just my learning?’

  ‘Are you coming?’ Ptolemy asked as he turned to join Perdikkas.

  ‘I don’t think so; when Macedonians are arguing, the only person who can talk to both sides is a sly, scheming little Greek.’

  KRATEROS,

  THE GENERAL

  SMOKE BILLOWED, THICK and black, from each of the four dozen wooden huts in the cove. A line of women and children, chained together, sobbed and pleaded for mercy but there was to be none. Krateros had been specific on that point: the men were to be executed and the rest were headed for the slave-markets of Delos; that was the only way to deal with pirates.

  Krateros jumped down from his bireme, newly beached on the cove’s sand, to look at his men’s handiwork; they had been thorough: a pile of freshly executed pirates was being raised, interspersed with plenty of driftwood, ready for burning as the slaves were corralled, waiting to be led off to a life of misery that, to Krateros’ mind, was thoroughly deserved. However, it was not the fate of the inhabitants of this cove that interested Krateros, it was the tools of their trade he had come for: three lembi, swift little ships with single banks of fifteen oars a side, were beached at the centre of the cove and had been untouched by the raid, just as Krateros had ordered. He took off his kausia, the leather-topped, brimless woollen hat of a peasant, which he always wore rather than a helmet, and rubbed the sweat from his forehead as he examined his prizes. They were in excellent condition: ideal for the piratical work of attacking traders, they would also be a boost to the navy he was assembling; although too small to be of much use for troop transportation, they were perfect as supply vessels. And if Alexander was really going to do what he envisaged, then there would be much need of supply vessels.

  It was a bold vision Alexander had, to take the west and bring almost all the known world under his sway, but no bolder than his original dream of stealing an empire, and yet that was what he had done. Had it not been for the mutiny he would have stolen two, for Krateros had no doubt in his mind that all India would have fallen to him
and they would have stood together on the shores of the farthest sea, looking towards the end of the world. But that was not to be and his infantry had forced Alexander to limit his dreams, something that he could never forgive them for and that was why Krateros was leading the worst-offending units home; and then he was to relieve Antipatros as governor of Macedon, a position he had not sought nor did he want. However, there was no rush to get there and he was putting the journey to good use. Already he had amassed almost four hundred ships of varying sizes and was gathering them at Tarsus, the capital of Cilicia set not far from the mouth of the Cydnus River.

  Piracy had become a problem along Cilicia’s coast since Alexander’s conquest, as, by removing the Persian satrap and replacing him with a Macedonian, Alexander had unwittingly caused the conditions needed for successful piracy to be met. With no one to advise him against it, for the new satrap did not know the conditions of his province, Alexander took the Cilician navy with him to shadow him as he made his way east along the coast. Thus, free from naval patrols, the pirates flourished in coves protected by the high cliffs of the coastline.

  Now Krateros was putting an end to that and at the same time creating the navy that would be needed for the next big adventure. The very thought of it made him smile with anticipation; at the age of forty-seven he knew that he still had some time left to him; having been denied a sight of the furthest sea to the east, the sight of the endless sea beyond the Pillars of Heracles would be equally as intoxicating – if Alexander allowed him to join the campaign and didn’t force him to languish in the mire of Macedonian and Greek politics. He shivered at the thought and then banished it from his mind as he again admired his prizes and captives.

  ‘That’s a good evening’s work, Antigenes,’ Krateros said to the commander whom he had detailed to carry out the raid. ‘Three ships, a pile of dead pirates and a nice long chain of slaves whose price will boost our war-chest.’

  ‘I’ve kept a few of the prettier ones and a couple of the boys back for the lads to have a bounce on once they’ve burnt the dead.’

  ‘Well done, they deserve a bit of fun after gaining three such good prizes; I might have a go with one myself once they’ve finished. It never hurts to be seen to be sharing the men’s sport. Tell them they can keep anything they find amongst the ruins.’ He looked out to sea, shading hazel eyes, to see two more biremes clearing the eastern point of the cove and nodded with approval at the timely arrival. ‘Here’s Kleitos with the replacement oarsmen.’ He replaced his kausia and smiled at the thought of yet another job well done.

  And that was how it had been since his arrival in Cilicia, three months previously, when he had resolved to wash two tunics in the same tub by destroying the pirate threat whilst building a fleet: sailing from Tarsus with three biremes, Krateros would land Antigenes and a unit of his Silver Shields a little distance from the target and then hold position just off the shore, preventing any escape by sea once the infantry set upon the village. Kleitos would follow in the other two biremes; one with replacement crews for any prizes captured and the other to put on a chase should a pirate vessel break out of the trap. It was a very successful system, Krateros allowed, and it was one which had the added bonus of keeping the Silver Shields busy. Veterans of Philip’s wars, the men of the Silver Shields, so named after their silver-covered shields engraved with the sixteen-point sun-blazon of Macedon, were now all in their fifties and sixties; they had spent their lives on campaign and now were being pensioned off with plots of land back in Macedon, for it had been them who had been most vociferous in demanding that Alexander turn back. They said they wanted to return home but when Alexander had actually sent them home as they arrived in Babylon, as a punishment for curtailing his conquest, they had thought the better of it and had pleaded not to go. Still, Alexander had not relented and now, halfway through that journey, many wondered what a farm in Macedon would actually hold for them, old as they were.

  Krateros had sympathy for them, for he too had been a soldier all his life and could not imagine being anything else. For their part, although they had ten to fifteen years more service than he, they loved him because they saw him as one of Philip’s generals and, therefore, a man after their own minds: steeped in the traditions of Macedon before Alexander had watered them down with his embracement of the east. And it had been when this embracement had come to include the recruitment of foreigners, eastern foreigners at that, into the ranks of the Macedonian army he, Krateros, could remain silent no more. The words he had spoken to Alexander condemned him to exile from his presence in the form of leading the veterans home.

  Although numbering now less than three thousand, they were still a formidable force; whether fighting in the phalanx with a pike or in looser order with a long-thrusting spear and a sword, as they did on these raids. They had spent their lives in the business of death and knew how to deal it out like few others. In short, of the ten thousand men Krateros was leading home, these were the most formidable and he needed them on his side as he had no idea what he might face when he got to Macedon to replace Antipatros. And that was one of the reasons why he tarried in Cilicia collecting ships: he foresaw conflict between himself and Antipatros, conflict that might only be solved by force of arms. The other reason was personal.

  Smoke spiralled from the pyre and the cries of the captives selected for the amusement of the men rose with it. Circles formed around each of them as the Silver Shields cheered each other on as they took their turns at their pleasure. Krateros walked over to one of the groups; a grizzle-bearded file-leader was working a sweat up, tupping a howling youth of twelve or thirteen, held down by two of his comrades as the men around clapped hands to the rhythm. Krateros joined in the cheering, slapping a couple of men on their shoulders to move them aside so that he could join the circle. ‘You fuck harder than you fight, Demeas,’ he shouted over the noise.

  Demeas, a hand grabbing each of the boy’s hips, grunted as he thrust, unable to catch enough air to reply. With an increase in his rhythm, he came to a growling climax, cheered by his mates, and then, pulling out of the lad, he got to his feet and grinned at Krateros as another took up position and the clapping started again. ‘I used to be able to fuck and make jokes whilst I was at it, sir; nowadays it’s just one or the other.’

  ‘Well, at least you can still do both. Enjoy your fun; you and your men did well today.’

  ‘Thank you, general. Thank you for giving us this opportunity; we all appreciate it, as you know.’

  Krateros raised a hand indicating that there was no reason to thank him and turned to inspect the newly arrived crews for the lembi who were boarding their new ships; nearby, the slaves were being hauled aboard Kleitos’ two biremes, now beached next to his own. ‘You keep your boys on the ship,’ he called up to the triarchos, standing in the bow supervising the loading of the slaves. ‘I don’t want them getting in fights with Antigenes’ lads over whose turn it is with the slaves.’

  Kleitos, naked and with seaweed draped over his head and shoulders, waved his trident at him – he liked to play at being Poseidon when at sea, a foible that many thought blasphemous but it never seemed to do him any harm. ‘Don’t worry, general, most of my lads are happy with each other.’ He grinned, before adding: ‘By the way, there were another couple of ships following us half an hour behind, both of them ours. I don’t know whether they’re headed for here or going along the coast.’

  But it was to the cove that the second ship was heading soon after the first, a trireme, painted jet-black, had passed with its oars dipping fast as if it were heading into battle. As the second ship neared the beach it was the wizened Polyperchon who Krateros saw standing in the bow; his second-in-command on the road back to Macedon.

  Holding fast to the rail as the ship beached, Polyperchon belied his look of advanced years and leapt down onto the beach. ‘General,’ he said, striding over the sand with the ease of a far younger man, ‘soon after you left Tarsus this morning an imperial messenger
arrived.’

  Krateros’ heart jumped, perhaps Alexander had changed his mind and he would be spared the possible conflict with Antipatros. ‘Well?’

  Polyperchon rubbed his bald head and looked at him with rheumy eyes. ‘Well, there’s no other way to say this, general; but Alexander is dead these four days in Babylon.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Dead.’

  It was as if he were on a ship in a gale with the deck rocking beneath his feet; he looked at Polyperchon, trying to detect the hint of a tasteless joke in his lined and weathered face. There was none. The man spoke true.

  Alexander was dead and the world had just changed for ever.

  Krateros sank down, squatting on the sand, his left hand helping to keep his balance as his head reeled.

  ‘Where does that leave us?’ Polyperchon asked as another circle of men cheered a completed rape.

  Krateros was silent for a few moments, blocking out all the sound. Is that why I lingered here? Have the gods put Phila in my way to make me reluctant to go forward because they knew that I must soon turn back? The vision of his new mistress lying naked on his bed in the palace at Tarsus distracted him for a few moments as he contemplated the swell of her breasts, her skin so pale and soft beneath his calloused-fingered touch; such love in her blue eyes as he caressed her sunset hair, almost the same hue as that of her half-brother, Kassandros; how two such different people could be sired by the same man mystified Krateros. And then Phila’s face transformed into that of his Persian wife, Amastris, forced upon him at the Susa weddings; it was becoming easier to forsake her, Phila had seen to that. He shook his head to bring his thoughts back to the present and looked up at Polyperchon. ‘What do we know about the situation in Babylon?’

  ‘Only that it was to Perdikkas that Alexander gave the ring, but he did not name an heir; he said only: “to the strongest”. But it was Perdikkas who sent the messengers out.’