An Empty Throne E-Book

Robert Fabbri

• Herausgeber: Corvus
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

'This may be the greatest tale of the ancient world. Hugely enjoyable' CONN IGGULDEN * FROM THE BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE VESPASIAN SERIES The third instalment in a huge, bloody and brutal new series from Robert Fabbri, set after the death of Alexander the Great. Who will win the fight to control the largest empire the world has ever seen? Let the battles begin... The cause of Alexander the Great's sudden death is no longer in doubt - it was murder. But by whom? As his former followers struggle for power, the bonds of family, friendship and political loyalties are tested to the limit. As is the strength of the formidable empire that Alexander had wrought. Never before has the Western world seen such turmoil, such a threat to civilisation. As battles rage, armies, cities and thousands of lives are destroyed by the ruthless scheming of those who would be King. Or Queen. Could a marriage be the one thing to bring the broken strands of the empire back together, preventing years of further warfare? Will a woman succeed where no man can? * * * Praise for Robert Fabbri: 'The location and characters are truly epic. Terrific series' CONN IGGULDEN, bestselling author 'A powerful retelling of one of the most dramatic events in ancient history' BBC HISTORY 'A stonking read' CLASSIC FM 'Shockingly good' SUNDAY SPORT Readers are raving about Robert Fabbri: 'A delight, full of plot twists and bloodthirsty battle sequences' Goodreads review 'Vivid descriptions and the battles are brutally and compellingly described' Goodreads review 'Action-packed and sumptuous - not for the faint-hearted!' Goodreads review 'Perfect for fans of Simon Scarrow's "Eagles" series!' Goodreads review

Leseprobe

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

ALEXANDER’S LEGACY

TO THE STRONGEST

THE THREE PARADISES

ARCHIAS THE EXILE-HUNTER

THE ISSOS INCIDENT

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 2022 by Corvus,an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

Copyright © Robert Fabbri, 2022

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 theCopyright, 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 8045

Trade paperback ISBN: 978 1 78649 8052

E-book ISBN: 978 1 78649 8069

Corvus

An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

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www.corvus-books.co.uk

In loving memory of Joyce Imogen Husbands.‘Joycie’. 1924–2019. A much missed family friend.

A list of characters can be found on page 412.

ANTIGONOS.THE ONE-EYED.

AMBITION, ANTIGONOS HAD learned late in life, is a motivation that feeds upon itself, growing fatter upon its own achievement; and he was in its thrall.

It had not always been so. Before the death of Alexander, the third so named to be King of Macedon, Antigonos had been content as the satrap of Phrygia, left behind to complete the conquest of central Anatolia by the great man as he rode east to steal an empire. And he had been happy with his lot, for nothing pleased him more than the sound, smell and thrill of battle; his campaign tent was his home, his men were his kin and his weapons his tools. For years he had lived for nothing but the joy of combat to the virtual exclusion of all else; yes, he had taken a wife, Stratonice, and yes, he had found time to father two children upon her, but this excursion into domesticity had been in his late forties and more an afterthought than a considered plan.

But now, fighting for fighting’s sake, despite the deep pleasure he still gained from it, was no longer sufficient for Antigonos; for he had glimpsed an empty throne, and to seize it so that his eldest son, Demetrios, could inherit, thus establishing a dynasty, was now his desire. Granted, there were technically two occupants of that throne – or so he thought at the time – but one was a child and the other a fool. The child, named after his father, was the five-year-old issue from Alexander’s marriage to the eastern wild-cat Roxanna, and was, therefore, tainted with non-Macedonian blood. The fool was Alexander’s elder half-brother, now known as Philip, whose intellect had been damaged by a potion ministered by Alexander’s mother, Olympias, to keep the path to the throne clear for her own progeny; it had failed to kill him but had left him with the mind of an eight year old. Antigonos could bow to neither; indeed, he could bow to no one since Alexander had drawn his last breath with his seven bodyguards around him straining to hear him name a successor. But he had only said, ‘To the strongest,’ as he handed the Great Ring of Macedon to Perdikkas – the most senior of the seven but not the eldest – and had neglected to say who ‘the strongest’ might be.

It had not been long before the empire had descended into civil war; Perdikkas soon fell to the assassin’s blade.

Then there came the death, at eighty-two, of the last man Antigonos truly respected – Antipatros, the regent of Macedon in Alexander’s absence. And Antipatros’ replacement was not his son, Kassandros, but the nonentity Polyperchon, for whom Antigonos had no regard. So the seed of ambition had grown within Antigonos, as he had realised if Macedon was not to lose her empire it must be grasped by one man; and the seed had grown to fruition and was now in full bloom, for Antigonos was certain he could be that man. Indeed, he craved it with all his being.

However, there were many men who stood in his way; not the least of these his one-time friend, Eumenes. A Greek from Kardia whose loyalty to the Argead royal house of Macedon was absolute, Eumenes had recently reneged on an agreement with Antigonos to serve under him. Eumenes had taken his army south from his satrapy of Kappadokia down into Syria to recruit mercenaries and build ships. Antigonos had given furious chase, for he needed to destroy Eumenes – there could never be trust between them again.

And thus it was with a mixture of emotions that Antigonos received his old friend, comrade and contemporary, Philotas, as he slaked his thirst with resinated wine, sitting beneath a canopy overlooking his army’s coastal camp at Issos – the site of Alexander’s stunning victory against Darius of Persia fifteen years previously.

‘I assume, in the absence of Eumenes in chains – or at least his head in a sack – you weren’t successful,’ Antigonos observed, indicating to the pitcher of wine on the table next to him.

‘I did what you asked: I infiltrated his camp with thirty of our lads and tried to persuade Eumenes’ men to turn on him.’ Philotas sat and poured himself a drink.

‘And?’

‘And he’s gone, five days ago; heading east towards Mesopotamia.’

Antigonos grunted and held out his cup to be refilled. ‘With his army or as a fugitive?’

‘With his army. The news from the east is Peithon, satrap of Media, tried to install his brother as the satrap of Parthia, having executed the incumbent. Peucestas and the other eastern satraps formed an alliance and defeated him. I think Eumenes is hoping to unite the eastern alliance’s thirty-thousand-strong army with his.’

‘That would be a match for us.’ Antigonos contemplated the news for a few moments, scratching at his thick, grey beard as if he were trying to remove a small rodent from it. ‘And the Silver Shields weren’t tempted to desert Eumenes?’

‘I tried to persuade them, but no, they wouldn’t. They’ve proved surprisingly loyal to him.’

‘Considering he’s a Greek; and a sly little Greek at that.’ How does the most elite unit in the whole army end up supporting Eumenes? Antigonos mused as he glared out to sea with his one eye; his other, the left, a mass of scar tissue, the victim of a Greek arrow at the battle of Chaeronea, seeped a blood-tinged tear. ‘What reasons did their commanders give you for supporting him?’

‘Antigenes and Teutamus don’t trust you not to execute them if they were to come over to you. They told me that because he’s a Greek, Eumenes has few friends and is therefore more likely to keep the ones he does have alive.’

‘My arse! They trust a Greek over me! My damp, hairy arse! They’re Macedonian officers like me, and they don’t trust me. Wait until I get my hands upon them, I’ll…’ Antigonos calmed himself with a deep draught.

‘That’s exactly their point, old friend; and I had to admit to them they were probably right.’

‘You did what?’

‘You heard.’ Philotas reached over and once again refilled Antigonos’ cup. ‘Don’t act so outraged, Antigonos; you and I have fought shoulder to shoulder in the front rank nigh on seventy times, certainly enough for me to know you. Of course you would have killed them. The Silver Shields are the most experienced and feared unit in the whole army, three thousand men in their sixties or over who have known nothing but war all their adult lives, and because of that they’re the most opinionated and influential. It was they who forced Alexander to turn back from India; it was they who backed the fool, Philip, to be king and put us in this mess of having two kings. They rebelled against Antipatros for not giving them their back-pay, you remember? Antipatros would have been murdered had you and Seleukos not saved him. Need I go on? No, of course not. They’re trouble and, had I managed to persuade them to come over to you, executing their leaders and sending the unit to some out-of-the-way shithole on the fringe of the empire would have been the only sensible thing to do – for the benefit of the whole army’s morale and not just your peace of mind. So no, old friend; don’t act so outraged.’

Antigonos growled and glowered but said nothing for he realised all Philotas had said had been true. The nub of the issue was Eumenes could not survive without the Silver Shields at the heart of his army, but Antigonos could, and that was understood by all.

‘Ptolemy had also sent representation,’ Philotas carried on, ‘but only to Antigenes and Teutamus, not the men, but with the same request: kill Eumenes and come over to him.’

‘And they didn’t fancy going to Egypt?’

Philotas shook his head. ‘It was the same problem: they knew Ptolemy would have them dead in a trice and the Silver Shields would have been stationed as far down the Nile as possible and then forgotten by all but the crocodiles.’

Oh Ptolemy, you think you’re the canniest of Alexander’s seven bodyguards, safe in your fortress, Egypt; but I’ll have you too, very soon. But even as the thought crossed his mind he knew that, of the surviving five bodyguards, Ptolemy was the most secure. Perdikkas, to whom Alexander had given the Great Ring of Macedon with those fateful words, had been murdered for his high-handed attitude in trying to force himself upon the empire; he had met his match trying to invade Egypt.

Leonnatus, arrogant and vain, had been killed in battle. He had tried to relieve Antipatros, who was besieged within the walls of Lamia by an Athenian army as the Greeks rose against Macedonian rule, soon after Alexander’s death. But can I move against Ptolemy with Eumenes heading east to gather support there? And that was the problem which now presented itself to Antigonos: should Eumenes gain the support of the former bodyguard in the east, Peucestas, satrap of Persis, and the eastern alliance, as well as Seleukos, the new satrap of Babylonia, an ambitious man on the rise – in need of slapping down – then the little Greek would have a formidable force indeed.

Antigonos got to his feet and looked out over the coastal plain at his army. Over fifty thousand strong, of which almost ten thousand were cavalry. Wafts of smoke, blended with the scents of roasting lamb and grilled seafood, rose from the thousands of cooking fires that punctuated the host. He breathed deeply, savouring the smell of an army in camp. Gods, I love this life. He looked north along the plain to where, all those years ago, he had commanded a part of the phalanx – sixteen ranks deep of pikemen, the anvil of the Macedonian army to the cavalry’s hammer – when Alexander had turned his army and beaten the pursuing Persians. Darius, the Great King, had fled the field that day and his rule had been effectively finished. Antigonos closed his eye and relished the memory of a quarter of a million men in mortal combat. Gods below, that was a day; I’ll never see the like of it again. But if Eumenes is successful gaining allies in the east then the battle that ensues could be almost as big.

Smiling at the thought, Antigonos opened his eye and looked at Philotas. ‘So, what about Eumenes’ fleet?’

‘It was stationed in Rhosos, a couple of leagues south along the coast; I persuaded it to come over to you as soon as they saw your fleet fresh from its victory in the north. What’s more, Eumenes had already loaded his treasury aboard to transport it over to Europe. A shame for him really.’

Antigonos rubbed his hands together, chuckling. ‘How unfortunate. How much was it?’

‘Thirty boxes of coinage, bullion and jewellery; we haven’t counted it all yet. It’s all in Rhosos.’

‘At least five hundred talents, I should guess,’ Antigonos said, looking in satisfaction as the treasurer opened the last of the strongboxes lying open on the treasury floor in the palace of the port of Rhosos, three leagues south of Issos. He slapped his nineteen-year-old son, Demetrios, on the shoulder. ‘What do you think of that, my boy?’ Bending forward, he pulled a gold necklace, with sapphires set around it, from the nearest box. ‘That should do nicely for your mother; appease her for leaving her behind in Celaenae. Choose something for Phila; I’m sure she deserves it.’

Demetrios, now taller than his father, with a clean-shaven face that was far more appealing – although dominated by an impressive nose – and a full head of wavy, dark brown hair, looked down at Antigonos with pride in his eyes. ‘She does, Father, most certainly she does; she’s pregnant.’

This provoked a firmer slap and a hearty chuckle. ‘Well, you’ve been trying hard enough, my boy; and there were you worrying because she’s ten years older than you she would be difficult to manage.’

The look of pride turned into injured dignity. ‘I’ve never had a problem with handling women.’ Demetrios twisted away from his father’s hand still clasping his shoulder. ‘And I’ll thank you not to imply it, Father; especially not in public.’ He glared at the treasurer and his attendant slaves.

Antigonos put his hands up. ‘Don’t be so quick to take offence, Demetrios; I had to force you into the marriage, remember? It was a shrewd political move to marry one of Antipatros’ daughters who just also happened to be the widow of Krateros.’ Antigonos held his son’s gaze for a moment and wondered what would have happened if Krateros, the darling of the army and Macedon’s most successful general after Alexander, had not been killed by Eumenes in battle. He was Antipatros’ first choice to succeed him as regent rather than that nobody, Polyperchon; if Krateros were regent I’d still be just the satrap of Phrygia and taking orders from him. Perhaps Eumenes did me a great favour by killing him and I should be grateful to the little Greek after all. ‘Now choose a piece of jewellery for the mother of your forthcoming child and don’t be so prickly.’ He drew closer to his son, gestured to the treasure and lowered his voice. ‘And remember, Demetrios: I’m funding Kassandros’ war in Greece against Polyperchon. Some of this will end up with him; enough to ensure he wins and he’ll be greatly in my debt. Knowing just how poisonous the man is, it’s safe to assume he’ll do away with the kings and try to take the throne of Macedon for himself. Your child will be his nephew and he, as yet, is without an heir. Once we have secured Asia…’ Antigonos gestured for his son to finish the thought.

Demetrios considered for a moment. ‘We would look west and take Macedon from Kassandros.’

‘And in the process kill him.’

Demetrios smiled, cold. ‘And my son will claim the throne and I will be regent.’

‘No, Demetrios, you’ll be king; King of Macedon and her empire; and your son will inherit the title, uniting Antipatros’ family and our own, making the claim incontestable with the Argead heirs dead, and our dynasty will be founded.’

Demetrios’ eyes widened at the sheer scale of his father’s dream. ‘You’re aiming for it all?’

‘Yes, my boy, all of it.’

‘Even Ptolemy in Egypt?’

‘Especially Ptolemy in Egypt, otherwise we’ll be continually fighting him for control of Syria and Cyprus. The question is, do I defeat him before or after I take Eumenes and the east?’

‘And what about Lysimachus in Thrace?’

Antigonos dismissed the name of the cruellest of Alexander’s bodyguards with a gesture. ‘He’ll be content owing us loyalty provided we leave him to his own devices in Thrace; he’s very happy fighting the northern tribes and making a big point about how he keeps us all safe from a barbarian invasion from the north. If we give him money so he can carry on building his fortresses up there, he won’t bother us.’

‘And Olympias?’

‘That’s where the value of good intelligence comes in. Come, let’s walk.’ He led Demetrios out into the palace courtyard, overlooking the port. ‘You’ve heard of Archias the Exile-Hunter, have you not?’

Demetrios nodded. ‘The one-time actor turned assassin, of course.’

‘Well, a couple of months ago, Ptolemy, for an unbelievable price, persuaded the Exile-Hunter to travel to Macedon and reveal to Olympias his part in Alexander’s death.’

Demetrios looked at his father with a mixture of curiosity and surprise. ‘Which was?’

‘When old man Antipatros sent Kassandros to Babylon to request confirmation of Alexander’s wish to replace him with Krateros, Archias travelled with him as far as Tarsus. There, he procured a poison for Kassandros, who then travelled on to Babylon; Alexander died very shortly after his arrival. Iollas, Kassandros’ younger half-brother, was Alexander’s cup-bearer and therefore mixed his drinks for him.’ Antigonos paused to let the implication of that sink in as he watched a sleek and fast lembus – a small undecked vessel – glide through the harbour mouth; his eye squinting in the sun, glittering on a gentle sea.

Demetrios did not disappoint his father. ‘Olympias has always claimed Alexander was murdered by either Antipatros or one of his family but she has never had proof. Not until now.’

Antigonos grinned. ‘Now she knows for certain in her mind; although it’s circumstantial and not proof positive, it’s enough for her.’

‘She’ll go all out for vengeance.’

‘She will, and we all know what a vengeful bitch she is and yet no one can move against her because, as the mother of Alexander, she’s sacred; not even Antipatros tried to have her killed as she plotted against him all the ten years Alexander was away. No one can kill her…’ Antigonos left the thought hanging.

‘Except for someone who hated Alexander with all his being; someone who knows if he doesn’t kill her she will kill him and his entire family. Kassandros will have to kill her.’ Demetrios looked at his father in appreciation. ‘That was very clever of Ptolemy.’

‘Yes, I will give him grudging respect. So you see, Demetrios,’ Antigonos continued as he watched a figure leaping off the lembus onto the quay before the vessel had even docked, ‘we have someone in the west who thinks he’s advancing his own position by waging war against Polyperchon and, by default, Olympias, but is actually clearing the way for us once we finish Eumenes and Ptolemy; all in all a very satisfactory state of affairs. Now, why don’t you choose a piece of jewellery for your wife who, even at her advanced age, is playing such an important role in our scheme.’

‘Yes, Father, I will.’

‘Antigonos!’ Philotas called as he entered the courtyard, a scroll in his hand. ‘This has just come from Kassandros.’

Antigonos took the letter and read it, mouthing the words. ‘Well, things are beginning to move along at a fair pace.’

‘What is it, Father?’ Demetrios asked.

‘Kassandros tells me his spies have reported that the fool, King Philip, and his troublesome wife, Adea, have been murdered by Olympias, along with hundreds of Kassandros’ supporters and kin. She also desecrated his family’s tombs and murdered his brother, stepmother and two young half-siblings. Kassandros will move north as soon as he has dealt with Polyperchon’s son, Alexandros, in the Peloponnese and have his revenge.’ He smiled, shaking his head. ‘Olympias has just signed her own death warrant.’ He handed the letter to his son. ‘It would seem we’ve cause to be grateful to her. See for yourself.’

‘Will you send more troops to help Kassandros?’ Demetrios asked, having read the letter.

‘My arse, I will; we don’t want him getting too powerful. I’ll send him money for mercenaries and bribes but that’s it. And I’ll remind him I want my men and fleet back as soon as he’s killed Olympias and taken Macedon.’

‘Do you think he will?’

‘No, which will give me the excuse I need to invade.’

‘And Ptolemy?’

‘If necessary, an alliance of convenience could be forged there whilst I deal with Kassandros. This makes it plain to me what to do now: leave Ptolemy alone for the time being in case I need him later and, instead, follow Eumenes and defeat him before he manages to unite the east.’

‘It’s a bit late in the year to start another campaign, isn’t it?’

Good lad, always thinking. ‘It’ll take a month to march to the Tigris. We’ll winter there in Mesopotamia, using the time to resupply and have Nearchos build a river fleet so we can have the whole army in Babylon by the spring equinox. Then, using that as our base, we’ll head east.’

‘Meanwhile, Kassandros deals with Olympias for us.’

Antigonos beamed at his son and grasped his shoulder. ‘Indeed; by the time we come back west, Alexander’s mother will be dead and the Argead royal house will be one step closer to extinction.’

OLYMPIAS.THE MOTHER.

BLISS IT WAS for Olympias to feed her lust for vengeance with the blood of her foes; and they were many, for throughout life she had found more pleasure in making enemies than cultivating friends. Why would she need friends when she was the mother of Alexander? Alexander was now dead but, despite that, she still made no effort to ingratiate herself with the people she effectively ruled over. For she now held the Great Ring of Macedon and was the regent for her grandson, the five-year-old king, the namesake of his father. Polyperchon, Antipatros’ nominated successor to the regency, had abdicated the responsibility in her favour; she had grasped it, taking the ring and setting it on her forefinger to hold it high in the air as she admired such a compelling symbol of power.

From the heart of the palace in Pella, the capital of Macedon, Olympias had tightened her grip on that power so all but a few lived in fear of her. Now in her late fifties, hair dyed black and, save for a ringlet to either side, piled abundantly atop her head and set with jewels and pins of gold, she was still a striking woman; elegant and dangerous.

‘I will not be spoken to like that, Thessalonike.’ Olympias’ voice was low with menace; her kohl-rimmed eyes slits – serpentine like the beasts she worshipped – as she looked down from her raised throne at the woman before her, barely in her twenties but exuding a force belying her years.

Thessalonike, the adopted daughter of Olympias after she had poisoned her real mother, a rival wife of Philip, the second so named, stood her ground against Olympias’ rising wrath. ‘You’ve not been listening, Mother; you’re too focused on killing anyone who might have looked at you in a strange manner thirty years ago.’

‘I take only the vengeance I’m due.’

‘You don’t have a monopoly in that. Kassandros will soon deal with Polyperchon’s son, Alexandros, in the Peloponnese; the siege has been going on for four months now. Tegea will fall soon and when it does Kassandros will come north and he’ll be looking for the vengeance he feels he’s due.’

‘Pah!’ Olympias waved away the suggestion. ‘Eumenes will arrive with his army before that and we’ll crush Kassandros between us.’

‘Where is he, then? We should’ve had news of him arriving in Greece days ago. He has the ships and the weather has been clement; there’s been nothing to delay him.’ Thessalonike paused for emphasis and held Olympias’ gaze. ‘Unless…’

‘Unless what?’

‘Unless Antigonos’ fleet has left the Hellespont, come south and defeated him.’

She’s right, Olympias considered as she tapped a forefinger on the arm of the throne. It’s been almost a month since Polyperchon managed to lose his navy by attacking Antigonos’ fleet in the Hellespont. Antigonos would’ve had time to make his repairs by now. ‘If you’re correct then we can’t expect Eumenes at all.’

‘No, we can’t; and in that case there’ll be nothing to stop Kassandros coming north as we don’t have a fleet to counteract his.’

‘Let him come; I’ll gouge out his eyes, tear his balls off and ram them into the empty sockets.’

‘Mother, you’re putting emotion before pragmatism.’

‘Of course I am! The pockmarked coward murdered my son. My son! The greatest man ever to have lived, murdered by him – a man who doesn’t even have the right to recline at the table because he is yet to kill a wild boar in a hunt. Pah! Of course I respond emotionally.’

Thessalonike drew a deep breath and glanced over to Polyperchon sitting, hardly noticeable, at the throne room’s council table.

‘He won’t help you,’ Olympias sneered. ‘He’ll just do as I tell him like a good hound.’

‘Then tell him to gather whatever ships he can find, muster the army, and garrison the passes from Thessaly into Macedon in order to halt Kassandros on ground of our choosing and there defeat him; if he enters Macedon the people will flock to him.’

‘To Kassandros, the murderer of Alexander? Pah! The people of Macedon would never support him against Alexander’s mother.’

‘They would, Mother; they bear you no love and you know it.’

She’s right again. They may fear me but it’s not enough to bind them to my cause; they might hate Kassandros but they loathe me more. But what do I care for the love or opinions of the people? It’s Kassandros I want, not love. She turned her gaze onto Polyperchon. ‘Well? Will Kassandros soon defeat that useless son of yours?’

Grey and balding, a slight man destined always to follow rather than lead – thus his willingness to give up the ring – Polyperchon had little hesitation, for he was a master of detail; a consummate second-in-command. ‘Without Eumenes coming to relieve Tegea, it will fall. Alexandros may escape but most of his surviving men will be drafted into Kassandros’ army and then, yes, he will come north even more powerful than he was before. Without a fleet to oppose him he can sail his army past Thermopylae, making the very expensive deal we did with the Aitolians to hold the pass against him irrelevant.’

Olympias frowned. ‘But we still have more than enough men to face him: we have your army, and my kinsman King Aeacides’ army is still encamped to the west of the country and won’t return to Epirus until after the betrothal of my grandson to his daughter. And then there are Aristonous’ men.’

‘Aristonous has gone back to his estates, taking his men with him, as you well know, Mother,’ Thessalonike said, clenching her fists at her side. ‘Your behaviour disgusted him, murdering Adea and Philip and all of Kassandros’ prisoners.’

‘They deserved to die!’

‘For a man with Aristonous’ sense of honour, they did not.’

‘The man’s weak; the only one of my son’s seven bodyguards to retire back to his estates rather than take a satrapy.’

‘Perhaps he knew what would happen and wanted no part of it.’

‘Well, he is a part of it. I shall order him back to Pella immediately. Polyperchon, see to it at once.’

Polyperchon nodded.

Olympias glared at him. ‘Why are you still sitting there, old man? I said at once. Go!’

Polyperchon jumped to his feet and scuttled from the room.

Olympias shook her head as she watched him leave and then turned her attention back to her adopted daughter. ‘Aristonous can take care of our defence when he returns; I wouldn’t trust that balding nonentity with it.’

‘If Aristonous refuses to come, Polyperchon may be your only choice, so order him to start mustering the army and take it south to the border.’

Olympias fought against her reluctance to act upon a suggestion that was not her own before giving a grudging nod of assent.

‘And tell Aeacides he had better not take his army back to Epirus because you are going to need it.’

‘I’ll speak to my cousin when he arrives tomorrow to celebrate the betrothal.’

It was far from a holiday atmosphere that greeted Aeacides, the King of Epirus, when he rode through the western gate of Pella the following afternoon, a kingly diadem upon his head and a gold-edged purple cloak about his shoulders. Many lined the streets, indeed the whole population had turned out to see the king, but it had not been out of curiosity or through any sense of love or respect: they had been ordered to. The edict had gone out the evening before and all who did not obey would face punishment unless they could prove they had an occupation that could not be forsaken for any length of time. Yes, they cheered as the portly young king rode into the city with his seven-year-old daughter, Deidamia, sitting next to her mother, Phthia, in a carriage at his side. Accompanying them, clattering behind, were an ile of two hundred of his Companion Cavalry – armed in the Macedonian fashion: with a lance and no shield – followed by a syntagma of two hundred and fifty-six phalangites, pikemen, again identical to the Macedonian equivalent. All the troops had flowers tied to their weapons and the horses were arrayed in high plumes and ribbons of many colours.

The soldiers waved as they progressed, calling out greetings to the crowd; but the return cheers of the citizens were forced and there was no joy in the people’s faces despite the flautists, drummers and choir raising a rousing marching tune. On, along the main thoroughfare, straight as a spear shaft, towards the agora at the centre of the grid-planned city the procession went; there, among the throngs of spectators, their meagre enthusiasm waning by the moment, it turned north towards the palace on the edge of the city.

Olympias waited at the top of the main steps, the ancient marble worn with use, leading up to towering oaken double doors studded with bronze, both open, revealing a hall of grandeur within. An honour guard of elite Hypaspists in polished bronze cuirasses, helms and shields, the sixteen-point star-blazon of Macedon engraved upon them, lined the steps four deep, red horsehair plumes and cloaks fluttering in a light breeze, white-knuckled hands gripping long thrusting-spears held rigid, vertical, at their sides.

Olympias’ hands rested on her five-year-old grandson’s shoulders; the boy’s mother, Roxanna, had been confined, screeching and lashing out with long-nailed fingers, to her quarters, and was now locked away and guarded by two huge soldiers. The scene had given Olympias much satisfaction, but there was very little satisfaction to be had from the present situation.

‘Why are the people so sullen?’ she demanded of Thessalonike, standing behind her right shoulder. ‘They’ve been told to cheer and celebrate the coming betrothal. And instead, look at them.’ She gestured to the crowd as Aeacides passed; with limp waves and shallow cheers their lack of enthusiasm was evident to all. ‘I should have a few of them strung up to encourage the others.’

Thessalonike’s sigh was easily audible. ‘Oh, Mother, how little you know about the ordinary people of Macedon.’

‘The ordinary people, as you call them, should do as they are told; and they’ve been told to be happy.’

‘And what have they got to be happy about?’

‘I’m just about to secure the future of the Argead dynasty through this betrothal.’

‘They’re not stupid; what they see is you securing your place as regent to rule over them for the next ten years and, seeing what you have achieved in less than a month and knowing your reputation, they don’t like the thought of that.’

‘My reputation?’

‘As a power-hungry murderess, yes.’

Olympias swung around to face her adoptive daughter, knocking the young Alexander to the ground. ‘How dare you talk to me like that; me, the mother of Alexander!’

‘I dare, Mother, because you need to hear the truth about yourself. We both know you killed my real mother and she is just one of many on your list of victims; and we both know you spend all your time plotting, trying to obtain power, which makes you a power-hungry murderess and the people are wary of that. And no, being the mother of Alexander, as you ceaselessly and pointlessly keep reminding everyone, does not give you the automatic right to do whatever you wish and be loved or respected regardless.’

The blur of Olympias’ right hand struck Thessalonike hard across the cheek; she reeled back, clutching at her face, stepping her left leg behind her to steady herself and then pulled herself upright and, with cold eyes and an iced smile, stared at Olympias. ‘You will regret that one day, Olympias. I swear it.’

I may have been a little hasty with my reaction but the bitch had it coming. ‘There’s nothing you can do to frighten me.’

‘Oh, I’ll think of something; don’t you worry.’ She leaned over and pulled the crying king to his feet. ‘Come, Alexander, kings don’t cry, do they?’

Alexander looked up at her, suppressed a couple of sobs and shook his head. Thessalonike ruffled his black hair and then stroked his almond-skinned cheek. ‘There’s a good boy.’ She eased him back into Olympias’ grasp and held her gaze with flint eyes for a moment before resuming her position behind Olympias as Aeacides reached the foot of the steps and dismounted.

Olympias creased her face into a smile, cold and grim, and extended a hand towards him. ‘Aeacides, King of Epirus,’ she declaimed high and clear to carry far back into the crowd, ‘we welcome you to Pella.’ He looks worse each time I see him.

Bloated from excess of wine, his jowls sagging and his hair receding, with his blotched face looking ten years older than his twenty-three years, Aeacides made his way, none too steadily, up the steps and took the extended hand. ‘Queen Olympias, cousin, it’s a pleasure to be here.’

You can’t stand the sight of me, as neither I can you. ‘We look forward to uniting our houses with the betrothal of your daughter, Deidamia, to my grandson, Alexander, the fourth of that name of Macedon.’ She raised both arms to the crowd encouraging a cheer and was, once again, both disappointed and enraged by the response. Stamping her foot, she turned and, with an abruptness that shocked all, withdrew within.

Thessalonike glanced at her adoptive mother’s receding form and gave a trace of a smile before turning to Aeacides and gesturing that they should follow Olympias. ‘Shall we?’

‘And thus, before the gods and before this present company I declare this man, Alexander, and this woman, Deidamia, to be betrothed.’ Aeacides, the father of the bride, stared down with bloodshot, porcine eyes at the two bewildered children standing before him. They held hands, symbolically tied together with a leather thong. Thessalonike and the handful of noblemen currently in favour with Olympias – in that they had been permitted to live – stood by as witnesses. ‘They will marry after my daughter’s first moon. As agreed, for a dowry I will provide a thousand head of cattle and a hundred talents in silver and gold.’

As Aeacides continued to list the dowry, Olympias looked with distaste at the King of Epirus, her former ward who had come to the throne as a minor after his cousin had managed to get himself killed campaigning in far-off Italia. She had hated him ever since he had come of age and she had been obliged to stand aside as regent of Epirus. To compound the injury, he had then barred her from taking a seat at the council table, denying her the one commodity she craved: power. With luck you’ll drink yourself to death; unless, of course, I decide to poison you. She considered the notion for a few moments. Perhaps in a few years I’ll—

‘What is this!’ a shrill voice screeched from the chamber’s door. ‘Why have I been prevented from attending the ceremony as well as the welcoming?’

Olympias turned to see Roxanna, Alexander’s mother, scratching at the face of a guard attempting to inhibit her entry. How did she get out? There’ll be some hard punishment for the two brutes I left on the door.

‘Get out of my way,’ Roxanna hissed, clawing at the man’s eyes with both sets of talons.

‘Let her pass,’ Olympias ordered.

Spitting at her victim as he stepped aside, his face bloodied, Roxanna stepped into the room, her dark eyes glaring out from between her veil and a high headdress. She stood and pointed at Olympias, a piece of bloody skin hanging from her long nails. ‘You exclude me, you shun me and you steal my child from me. And now you don’t allow me to see my son betrothed. I am a queen and a queen should be at the centre of everything.’

Olympias smiled without warmth. ‘Oh, my dear, did your guards not get the message to allow you out? I shall have the slave bearing it whipped.’ The guards, more like. ‘Where are your guards, by the way?’

Roxanna’s eyes betrayed a triumphant countenance beneath her veil. ‘I took pity on them and sent my slaves out with food and drink.’

Fools to trust a gift from this wild-cat; how many times must I warn them but they still do it. ‘Dead, then?’

‘By now, yes.’

‘Well, seeing as you are now here.’ She indicated for Roxanna to take her place next to Alexander. The boy flinched as his mother laid a hand on his shoulder; his eyes, as dark as hers, looked around the room as if searching for a friend but finding none. See how little love he bears you.

Aeacides cleared his throat and carried on, anxious to get to the drinking part of the ceremony. ‘In addition I will sign an alliance pledging the support of Epirus in defending my future son-in-law’s throne from external and internal threats.’

‘You’ll do more than that, Aeacides,’ Olympias said, ‘you will leave your army here so I may use it against Kassandros.’

Aeacides blinked rapidly as he regarded her with shock.

‘I’ll send it back to you once Kassandros is dead.’

‘But that’ll leave Epirus undefended.’

‘Try not to be so obtuse, Aeacides; it doesn’t suit a king. Macedon is the only country likely to attack you and why would I do that? I think you can manage the odd incursion from the Illyrian tribes in the north with the garrisons you left behind.’

Aeacides opened his mouth to speak.

‘I’ll not take no for an answer.’

‘I am the King of Epirus and I don’t take orders from anyone.’

‘Wrong, Aeacides, you take orders from me; that is, if you want your little son, Pyrrhus, to have a kingdom to inherit.’

‘Are you threatening me?’

‘A good observation. Yes, I am threatening you, again. Although I shouldn’t really need to as it’s in your own interests to leave your army here to help in the war against Kassandros.’

‘How so?’

‘Think. If Kassandros should take Macedon, he will certainly want someone on the throne in Epirus who has no connection with me, cousin, wouldn’t you agree?’

Aeacides reflected on the thought, his face working hard as he calculated. ‘Very well,’ he said eventually. ‘I have decided to stay with the army of Epirus within the realm of Macedon to safeguard my daughter’s interests.’

Olympias smiled at her kinsman. ‘That’s a very good idea you’ve just had, Aeacides. You can stay with them in the west of the country, close to your border, in case Kassandros should try surprising us by launching an inland attack rather than coming along the coast.’

Aeacides muttered something inaudible. Ignoring him, Olympias looked down at the two children, who seemed even more bewildered than before; she unbound their hands. ‘Now, my sweets, it’s time for you to say goodbye to each other for the time being; and remember, in six or seven years you will be married. Say goodbye to Deidamia, Alexander.’

Alexander looked at his betrothed, two years older and half a head taller and far paler than him. ‘Goodbye, Deidamia.’

‘Tell her how pleased you are that she’s consented to be your wife.’

‘It makes me pleased that you will be my wife.’

Deidamia regarded him with grave, blue eyes. ‘We shall see, Alexander; it’s a long time away.’

The girl shows promise if she can reason like that at the age of seven. Olympias bent to kiss her on the cheek and then took Alexander’s hand.

‘Give him to me,’ Roxanna hissed from behind her veil.

‘What, so you can terrorise him and spoil him in equal measure? No, Roxanna, you are no longer involved in his upbringing; he’s to be brought up as a Macedonian king and not some pampered eastern potentate with a penchant for boys and sherbets.’

Roxanna hissed, her veil flapping. ‘I’ll have my revenge one day, Olympias; I swear it with all the steel in my heart.’

‘Be careful what you wish for, bitch; I’m the only person keeping you alive. The gods help you if you fall into Kassandros’ clutches.’

KASSANDROS.THE JEALOUS.

‘THEY SAID WHAT?’ Kassandros’ thin, pockmarked face went puce with indignation; his sunken eyes burned to either side of his beak of a nose as he stared at his younger half-brother.

‘They said no,’ Philip repeated.

‘Then tell Crateuas and Atarrhias to act like generals with backbone and send the assault in again!’ Kassandros roared down into Philip’s face. ‘And this time tell them any man who falls back will fall back onto my sword.’ Kassandros cursed and looked over, across the siege lines and no-man’s land, full of retreating shock-troops, to the walls of Tegea, wreathed in smoke from the burning buildings within them and lined with the spectral figures of cheering defenders; before them was a tidemark of dead and writhing wounded. ‘We have to take Tegea and defeat Alexandros before Eumenes arrives with his fleet and army.’ He turned his thin, hollow-eyed, beak-nosed face to his half-brother, almost a head shorter and half a shoulder broader, and grabbed him by the tunic edge protruding from above his breastplate. ‘We have to! Have to! If not we’ll be surrounded: Eumenes to the east with sea power and a land force; Alexandros here, free to break out as soon as I move away; Aeacides to the north west and Olympias with Polyperchon – and maybe even Aristonous – to the north-east. And what then?’

Philip grasped his half-brother’s wrist and wrenched his hand away. ‘Herding men to certain death is not how to take a city, Kassandros. Crateuas and Atarrhias are well aware of that and told me to tell you that these are their men; you are only borrowing them on Antigonos’ orders. And I think they’re right to refuse to try another attack.’

Kassandros drew up his lanky frame and sneered. ‘What do you know about taking cities? You’re just seventeen.’

‘Enough to know that a defending force, one that’s been under siege for over two months, can still push back a determined assault by far fitter men, and that threatening death to any man who refuses to go again to the walls will not lead to victory but mutiny.’

Kassandros drew a breath, ran a hand through his spiky red hair and relaxed, nodding slowly. It had always been a default position of his to threaten violence but he could see in this instance his half-brother was right – Philip had always been so much sharper than his twin, Pleistarchos. This had been the fifth assault to have failed during the course of the siege and the men were losing morale; killing those less enthusiastic for a fight would not put heart into the rest. No, something else was needed to winkle Alexandros out of Tegea and thereby remove the last threat in the Peloponnese, thus freeing him to turn his attention north to the real prize, Macedon, and his revenge on Olympias. ‘So, Philip, the great teenage tactician, do you have any suggestions?’

‘I know you don’t like to think of him but ask yourself what Father would’ve done.’

The mention of his late father, Antipatros, was never pleasant for Kassandros; the memory of the man who had denied him his birth-right and passed the regency of Macedon on to another pained him. What would he have done? He wouldn’t have consulted me; that I can say for certain. His expression was grim at the thought.

His father had never loved him and, at times, only barely tolerated him, despite his efforts to please him. But it had been ever thus for Kassandros; he had never found it easy to be liked and soon gave up the attempt utterly. His contemporaries, learning from the great Aristotle in the palace at Pella, had despised him; Alexander, Hephaestion, Lysimachus, Peucestas, Seleukos, Nearchos, Peithon, all of them. His jealousy of their feats of prowess could not be contained and he had resorted to spiteful acts in order to even the score with them: hamstringing hunting dogs or drowning their pups or adding salt to their horses’ feed at first. But then, as they all grew, and he was increasingly left behind in martial and hunting competition, it became more vicious: favourite hunting horses would be found dead in their stables of a morning; attractive slave-girls, kept for pleasure, would disappear and then turn up a few days later horribly mutilated; and then much worse still.

There had been nothing he would not do to ease his jealousy and sense of inadequacy which was manifest every time a meal was served; for Kassandros remained obliged to sit upright on the couch whilst all his peers had earned the right to recline at table. Only a fully-fledged man could recline and, to be one, one had to have killed a wild boar in the hunt. And Kassandros had not for he was not the martial type: gangly, skinny and, most importantly, a coward. Yes, he could admit it to himself, for what was the point of denial? It was obvious: should a threat come towards him his urge was to run and he was lucky if he managed to retain control of his bladder.

Thus scorned and shunned by all but his reluctant family, he had grown up with the great men of his generation; but he had not grown with them. And then Alexander had left him behind when he had set out on the greatest adventure of all time. But during the ten years Alexander had been away, Kassandros had learned to accept what he was, so he no longer found shame in it; easily and without embarrassment could he now take his place at the table, sitting upright like a woman or small boy. And yes, he had fought with his father in various battles and had managed not to shame himself by running away, but this had been through the expediency of never fighting in the front rank or, indeed, being anywhere close to danger.

Nevertheless, the shock and humiliation of his father’s final act still burned within each time he was forced to think of him; and now, to consider what Antipatros would have done had he been in this same position was to remind himself just what a disappointment he had been to his father. He sat down on a folding chair outside his command tent and forced himself back into the mind of the man who had never shown him love. Above all, Antipatros had been a wily politician, and then a consummate diplomat, and thirdly he had been a good – although not brilliant – general. Kassandros looked up at his half-brother. ‘He would have been clearer with his objective; my objective is to take Macedon and have our family’s revenge on Olympias for the murder of our brothers and your mother, the desecration of our family tombs and the execution of many of our followers.’

Philip nodded his agreement. ‘So why are we here?’

Kassandros looked across to the besieged town, its delineation becoming clearer as the smoke thinned. ‘To rid ourselves of the threat to our rear when we turn north to our real objective.’

Philip smiled – a far more agreeable sight than when his half-brother attempted it. ‘That’s how I see it too; but do we have to kill everyone inside to ensure that? What you said about being surrounded just now made me think, Kassandros: yes, Alexandros is a threat to our rear but not a great one – fewer than ten thousand men. He would be a great boost to Eumenes’ army but only if Eumenes actually arrives. Our spies in Asia reported that Eumenes was ready to cross more than ten days ago; but where is he? Without Eumenes, Alexandros is no threat to us in the south; he knows that, as well as we do. So let’s negotiate; see what he wants.’

Kassandros considered the notion, rubbing the vivid scar on his right thigh – it, along with the limp it had caused, was another reminder of his cowardice and failure to kill a wild boar in the hunt. Ever since he had persuaded Antigonos to lend him men and ships he had been keen to prove himself a general to be reckoned with – albeit one who led from the rear, naturally. In his haste he had forgotten the principle his father had operated by: to use force as a last resort. Father made most progress through diplomacy and bribery; I’ve been wrong and it’s taken a lad half my age to point it out. I was too hasty to claim my first victory as a general. It would be far preferable to have Alexandros on my side; or, at least for the time being, just pursuing his own ends in the Peloponnese. ‘You have a point, Philip. Perhaps I was too quick to go to war; there’re far easier ways of achieving your goals and we shall discuss them with Alexandros in the morning. Send a herald to ask for a parley.’ He turned and walked away so Philip would not see the embarrassment written upon his face. It hurt Kassandros to take the advice of a younger sibling but he had seen enough of Philip’s evident good sense to know it was in his interest to do so.

The hostages were led away to either camp, leaving Kassandros facing Alexandros across a table set just outside the open gates of Tegea. From a position of strength, Father used to say. I wonder which one of us considers himself the strongest, me with an army of twenty-five thousand or him with his ten thousand safe behind these walls?

For a while the two men sat and regarded one another, busy in their own thoughts as each formed an opinion of the other.

‘Our fathers were good friends,’ Alexandros, as nondescript as his sire, but with more hair, observed.

Kassandros winced. ‘My father hated me.’

‘Which is why he gave the regency to mine. A mistake in my view.’

That statement caused Kassandros to frown; he leaned forward, cocking his head as if he had not heard correctly. ‘You surprise me.’

‘Do I? Of course I think it was an error,’ Alexandros confirmed. ‘I know my father and he’s the first to admit he’s no leader; he loves to obey an order but is too unsure of himself to lead and so finds it hard to issue one. No, his joy is in well-turned-out, well-supplied soldiers ready to implement strategy and not to formulate it himself. That’s why he gave the ring to Olympias; he’s happy to be her lackey.’ Alexandros smiled in a relaxed manner. ‘I can’t say I blame him for doing so; she would’ve killed him had he not.’

‘Had I not have killed him first.’

Alexandros inclined his head a fraction. ‘And you might have been in that position had you not wasted your time trying to deal with me.’

Kassandros frowned once more, this time not in surprise but in confusion. ‘Why do you say securing my rear is a waste of time?’

‘What could I have done to you, Kassandros? Really? Retake Athens with a small army like mine now you’ve executed or exiled the democrats and installed your creature, Demetrius of Phaleron, as the leader of the oligarchy? Of course not. I could only have been a slight irritant at the most.’

Is my lack of experience so obvious? Does everyone take me for a fool blundering about, playing at being a general? ‘You could’ve raised an army from the democratic Greek cities and come against me.’

‘And why would I do that? The most I’ll do is carve out a little patch for myself, here in the Peloponnese, in order to give me some sort of leverage with whoever wins in the north – you or my father and Olympias.’

‘And when, not if, I am the winner?’

‘Then we talk, Kassandros. You might find that I, and, indeed, my father, could be of great service to you; but we would both need insurance policies. I heard what you did to Nicanor of Sindus, executing him for being successful in your cause.’ Alexandros tutted. ‘Being jealous of success is not how to invite others to be your friends.’

Kassandros suppressed the urge to lean over the table and slit the man’s throat for being so patronising; not least as it was impossible, for both of them were unarmed. How dare he talk to me as if I were a belligerent youth! He stood. ‘I’ll not sit and be lectured by you as to how to behave.’

Alexandros shrugged, spreading his hands. ‘As you wish, Kassandros. But for the record: if you go north, I won’t be following you, but I’ll still be here in the Peloponnese when you come back. Whether we fight each other or join forces is up to you. But I promise you one thing: if you kill my father, we can never be reconciled.’

‘I’d say that is a very good piece of advice,’ Philip said, having listened to a summary of the parley in Kassandros’ tent.

His twin brother, Pleistarchos, recently arrived by sea from Athens, nodded. ‘I agree, Kassandros; we want to make as few enemies as possible in Macedon if we’re to keep it. Yes, Olympias must die, but other than her we owe no one else any mortal vengeance.’

Kassandros brooded upon clemency. I will have people fear me, though; for too long have I been dismissed. But I suppose there are other ways to assert myself and keep what’s mine by right. ‘Very well; Polyperchon lives – should he survive the war, that is. We’ll see if we can make use of him afterwards. Now, summon the commanders; I’m going to break off the siege and return to Athens to prepare for moving north before the weather closes in. I’ll take the fleet and whatever troops we can transport; you two can help Atarrhias and Crateuas bring the rest of the army back overland.’

‘The granaries are as full as can be expected after having two armies foraging in Attica,’ Demetrius of Phaleron informed Kassandros upon the latter’s disembarkation at Piraeus, the port of Athens. Tall with high-cheekboned and dark-eyed good looks, framed by black oiled ringlets falling to his shoulders, the de facto Tyrant of Athens – in that he controlled the oligarchy in Kassandros’ name – grasped his master’s proffered arm with a bejewelled hand, as, one by one, Kassandros’ fleet glided, under oars, through the harbour mouth of the largest port in Greece.

‘Enough to supply the army for ten days?’ Kassandros asked, looking at the rings on his creature’s fingers. At least two more than the last time I saw him; he must be doing a good business in bribes. Excellent; it means the citizens see him, and therefore me, as the true power in Athens.

‘Yes, leaving just about enough to get the city through the winter.’

Kassandros disengaged from Demetrius’ grip; the needs of the city were no concern of his. ‘How are they taking the return of the oligarchy?’ he asked while walking, his limp pronounced, along the quay; dockyard-slaves jumped out of his way and their Macedonian overseers saluted as he passed.

‘There may be some opposition in private but very little in the assembly,’ Demetrios replied, striding next to his master. ‘Those democratic demagogues who haven’t been exiled or executed have all fled.’

‘Where to?’

‘Mainly back to the colonies in Thrace where the disenfranchised were allowed to settle last time.’

‘Hmm. They should be dealt with; I can’t risk them coming back. Is there any news of Archias the Exile-Hunter? He would be perfect for the job seeing as his men are all Thracians.’

‘It’s said he’s gone back to Ptolemy. No doubt he’s hoping to have a repeat of the very generous fee he’s rumoured to have received for facing Olympias and telling her about the poison he procured for you in Tarsus.’

‘That was bravely done,’ Kassandros admitted with grudging respect. ‘What he said to dissuade the harpy from killing him I’d dearly like to know. It was a clever ploy of Ptolemy’s; it must have enraged her beyond all endurance, knowing the bitch.’ And, as I’ve been discovering: if you let your emotions take control, you make mistakes. I’ve been taught a good lesson. I just hope Olympias is less willing to learn. ‘If Archias isn’t available, find someone else to do the job.’

‘I’ll see to it immediately.’

‘No, you’ll be too busy preparing the fleet. The bulk of the army coming overland will be arriving in two days’ time. I want the grain loaded onto the fleet; it should be ready to sail three days after that. Once I’m gone you can find your assassin.’ Dismissing his creature with a wave, Kassandros limped off along a warehouse-lined street towards the fortress of Munychia, the home of the Macedonian garrison, which overlooked both the harbour and the ruins of the Long Walls that once connected Piraeus to the mother city, its towering Acropolis glowing multicoloured in the sun, a league and a half away.

‘Provided the rest are not gone for too long,’ the garrison commander informed Kassandros as they walked along the high walls of the Munychia, ‘I’m confident we can keep control with just five hundred men, especially as Eumenes’ fleet has deserted to Antigonos and the little Greek is now heading east with his army.’

‘What?’ Kassandros said, halting mid-step.

‘You haven’t heard, sir?’

‘Evidently not.’

‘The news arrived this morning with a merchant—’

‘I don’t care when it arrived or who brought it!’ Kassandros roared, his face redder than his hair. ‘I want to know if it’s reliable.’