Forging Kingdoms E-Book

Robert Fabbri

• Herausgeber: Corvus
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: Alexander's Legacy
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 619

Beschreibung

'This may be the greatest tale of the ancient world. Hugely enjoyable' CONN IGGULDEN 'Excellent . . . scintillating' THE TIMES Forging Kingdoms is the fifth book in a huge, brutal and bloodthirsty series about the fight to regain Alexander the Great's empire after his untimely death. From the shattered empire, five kingdoms are emerging. Seleukos, triumphant in the capture of Babylon, now faces the challenge of holding onto his hard-won prize. One-eyed Antigonos and his son are newly reconciled and both hungry for revenge. But Antigonos has foes of his own. Driven by vengeance, widowed Artonis sides with Ptolemy, planning to thwart the one-eyed brute. The key to their success is Herakles, the sixteen-year-old illegitimate son of Alexander. To see him crowned, they will not only need an army but also to eliminate Kassandros, a powerful rival with his own designs on the throne of Macedon. Meanwhile in the north, Lysimachus broods. As loyalties shift like sand and political ambitions run rife, the stage is set for the greatest war in the ancient world. Who will win the fight for the greatest Kingdom in the ancient world? Let the games begin . . .

Leseprobe

Robert Fabbri read Drama and Theatre at London University and worked in film and TV for twenty-five years. He has a lifelong 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

AN EMPTY THRONE

BABYLON

ARCHIAS THE EXILE-HUNTER

THE ISSOS INCIDENT

THE SIEGE OF TYROS

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 2023 by Corvus,an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

This paperack edition published in 2024 by Corvus.

Copyright © Robert Fabbri, 2023

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.

E-book ISBN: 978 1 83895 615 8

Corvus

An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

Ormond House

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www.atlantic-books.co.uk

To my friend and fellow author, Tim Clayton,who introduced me to the world of theSuccessors forty years ago.

A list of characters can be found on page 456.

ARTONIS.THE WIDOW.

VENGEANCE RULED ARTONIS’ heart; vengeance for the execution of the man she had loved: vengeance for her husband Eumenes. Ever loyal to the Argead royal house of Macedon, Eumenes, a Greek from Kardia, had fought those who would usurp that line after Alexander, the third so named, had died in Babylon following ten glorious years of conquest.

Alexander had given the Great Ring of Macedon to Perdikkas, the chief of his bodyguards, with the words, ‘To the strongest’, but had neglected to say whom that might be. With Eumenes as his ally, Perdikkas had endeavoured to be that man, ruling as regent for the son delivered of Alexander’s wife, the eastern wild-cat Roxanna, three months after his death, and Philip, Alexander’s half-brother, a fool with the mind of a child. Perdikkas’ attempt had ended with the assassin’s blade. Thus, the empire had begun to split asunder as generals and governors of satrapies looked to secure what they already had with an eye to grabbing more.

Antipatros, Alexander’s eighty-year-old regent in Macedon, had attempted to craft a settlement at a conference at The Three Paradises, a favoured hunting lodge of the old Persian Achaemenid dynasty in the wooded hills above Tripolis. But this too had failed for he had not made peace with Eumenes who still upheld the right of the Argead royal house, in the persons of the babe and the fool, to rule the empire; neither had he included Olympias, Alexander’s power-lusting mother, and Antipatros’ greatest enemy. But crucially, the settlement failed to address the fundamental question: was the empire subject to Macedon or was Macedon a constituent part of the empire?

With the loss of his favoured son, Iollas, in battle against Eumenes, Antipatros had returned to Macedon to wither and die, leaving the field clear for a new force to stake a claim: Antigonos, the one-eyed satrap of Phrygia, a man in his sixties who had not shared the adventure in the east; he had been left behind by Alexander to complete the subjugation of Anatolia and now he surged with the ambition to prove himself the strongest. With vigour did Eumenes prosecute the war against Antigonos for he realised that with the ageing cyclops’ one-remaining eye on the ultimate prize there would be no place for the Argead line in his settlement, for he wished to establish his own dynasty and ensure his precocious son, Demetrios, succeeded him.

In the west and then on into the east did the campaign roll, devastating the lands it swept through, to culminate in two great battles, each involving just shy of a hundred thousand men, on the far side of the Zagros Mountains in Media. But only one general could return to the sea from such a tumultuous struggle and that man was Antigonos, for Eumenes had been betrayed by Peucestas, satrap of Persis, and handed over to his foe. Antigonos offered to spare the Greek’s life should he accede to his demands: that he should join with him and, as the champion of the Argead royal house, support the claim of Kassandros, the eldest son of Antipatros, and his new bride, Thessalonike, the half-sister of Alexander, who now ruled as regents for the boy-king in Macedon – the fool Philip having been murdered by Olympias.

Eumenes had refused.

Garrotting had been her husband’s fate and Artonis wept to recall the memory. But Eumenes had left hope in that, before he died, he had worked out the implication of what was demanded of him for Antigonos’ rivals vying for empire and the young Alexander: it was death, including those of Kassandros and Thessalonike.

Thus, from beyond the grave, with her help, her husband would engineer an alliance that would bring the cyclops down. To that end she had, with the aid of Seleukos, then satrap of Babylonia, escaped from the east and sought refuge with Ptolemy, the putative bastard half-brother of Alexander, who had taken Egypt. Ptolemy had enabled her to visit firstly Asander, the satrap of Caria, and then Kassandros and Thessalonike, and on to Lysimachus, satrap of Thrace, high in the north.

With her husband’s warnings of Antigonos’ plans delivered, Artonis had come to Pergamum to visit her elder half-sister, Barsine, the former mistress of Alexander and the mother of his illegitimate son, Herakles; and it was here her single-minded desire for vengeance had been diluted, for the boy was approaching his majority and yearned to emulate his father in his deeds – as he already did in his looks – and in this endeavour Artonis now wished to share.

And so a new scheme had entered Artonis’ head, one which would further her quest for revenge and aid the cause of her nephew; for Artonis realised the surest way of preventing Antigonos from stealing the empire was to promote one who had a natural right to claim it: a youth who looked so like his father that no Macedonian would refuse him his birth-right; a youth who had been underestimated, then overlooked and then forgotten; a youth who could shake the Macedonian world and command allegiance from almost all. A youth whose success would spell Antigonos’ death.

‘If Herakles’ claim to the throne of Macedon is accepted, all of the empire’s satraps would have to swear loyalty to him, thus recognising they are subject to Macedon,’ Artonis said, looking out west from a high terrace of Pergamum’s royal palace. Perching on a hill thrusting precipitously up from the plain, to the height of two hundred men, the town dominated its environment for leagues around; with sheer drops on the northern, eastern and western sides, it possessed a virtually impregnable position as it could only be approached from the southern slope rising in three natural terraces, each one a line of defence. ‘If they refuse, they expose themselves as rebels to what Alexander built.’ She turned her dark eyes to Barsine, standing next to her. ‘And from what I know of the Macedonian mind, that would be the equivalent of renouncing your identity.’

Barsine, once a lithe beauty unsurpassed who had captivated Alexander, but now, in her fiftieth year, running to homely fat in her isolation in Pergamum, looked down at her half-sister, half her age and half a head shorter than her. ‘And you think Antigonos will be unable to swear that oath to my son?’

‘I do; if he does, he’ll be laying himself open to the charge of treason for defeating and executing my husband as he fought to defend the right of the Argead royal house.’

‘Thus, leaving him no choice to refuse to pledge allegiance and be seen as a rebel?’ Barsine paused for a few moments’ thought. ‘What about Ptolemy and Lysimachus? They will surely want to keep their independence.’

Artonis smiled. ‘Sister, as satrap of Hellespontine Phrygia our father Artabazos was forced by the Great King Artaxerxes to flee to the court of Philip of Macedon when you were a young girl; I was born there and our late sister, Artakama, was conceived in exile. But when Darius succeeded Artaxerxes he restored our father to his satrapy, as a favour to your mother’s brothers. He was thereafter loyal to Darius and fought for him against Alexander, sharing his exile after the battle of Gaugamela. Alexander then rewarded him for his loyalty to Darius by appointing him the satrap of Bactria, a post he kept until his death.’

‘And what’s that meant to tell me?’

Artonis gestured to the brown lands far below, flecked with the last of the winter snow. ‘This was his domain, a king in all but name, subject only to the King of Kings; he was only forced to flee when Artaxerxes became too highhanded and offended our father’s dignity; Darius, however, was forgiving and our father served him loyally until his murder. All he wanted was to be left to rule his satrapy with little or no interference, paying annual tribute to the Great King, providing men for his armies and doing him honour as was due to his rank. That is what Ptolemy and Lysimachus will settle for should a true Argead come to the throne.’

‘My son, my Herakles, ruling the empire as his father’s heir; a true Argead.’ The glint of ambition flashed in Barsine’s eyes; but then doubt clouded them. ‘Will Herakles be accepted as a true Argead? Alexander never took me as a wife whereas there’s no doubt he married Roxanna; her child, the namesake of his father, is legitimate.’

‘And twelve years old and a prisoner of Kassandros and Thessalonike in Amphipolis as they strut around posing as the rightful regents. No one has seen him in four years. And besides, his mother is Bactrian; you are at least half-Greek. Who would the Macedonians rather have on the throne: the whelp of an eastern wild-cat in four years’ time – if, on the off-chance, Kassandros foolishly allows him to live – or Herakles now he’s turning sixteen and can rule without a regent immediately?’

‘I know what most would say but Kassandros and Thessalonike would opt for neither of those options. They’re secure in Macedon and have Thessaly, Athens and much of Boeotia under their control; they won’t give all that up without a fight.’

‘Which is why I need an army, Mother.’

Artonis and Barsine turned to Herakles as he walked out onto the terrace; fair of skin and hair – worn long over his ears and down his neck – he looked at them with Alexander’s eyes, one blue and one brown, mesmerising to those seeing them for the first time. He smiled, his face lighting up and radiating warmth. ‘Two sisters plotting together are what I’ve discovered out on the terrace. Plotting, yet the subject of their machinations is excluded from their whisperings.’

Barsine held out her hand to her son. ‘Then tell us what you think?’

‘I think we should dine and I shall tell you the news that has just reached me from the south.’

‘From whom?’

‘Kleopatra.’

Barsine frowned. ‘She wrote directly to you?’

Herakles did not share his mother’s incredulity. ‘Why not? She’s my father’s sister and, as her nephew, I’m her eldest male relative; in a few days’ time, when I become sixteen, she will be my responsibility.’

‘Two whole moons ago?’ Artonis said, having been apprised of the contents of the despatch from Kleopatra, currently residing just twenty-five leagues to the south in Sardis.

‘Yes, the message from Ptolemy came overland to Sardis as the midwinter seas were so treacherous this year, but two moons ago he defeated Demetrios at Gaza on Egypt’s border, capturing eight thousand infantry and a couple of thousand cavalry plus all his elephants; since then he’s been moving north, retaking all the towns Antigonos took from him last year and, at the time of his writing to Kleopatra, he was negotiating the surrender of Tyros whilst his general, Cilles, harried Demetrios as he withdrew north.’ Herakles raised his cup. ‘To Ptolemy’s endeavour; may it keep Antigonos’ gaze drawn south.’

Artonis was less enthusiastic than Barsine in drinking the toast. I’ll not drink to the man who sent my sister to her death.

Barsine caught the shadow pass across Artonis’ face. ‘Whatever you think of Ptolemy’s treatment of Artakama, you must not let it get in the way of pragmatic politics: Ptolemy needs to be an ally.’

Artonis’ smile was wry. ‘That doesn’t mean I have to drink to him.’

‘No; but it does mean you should forget your hatred of him when we consider his usefulness. Artakama was your full sister but she was of my blood as well; yes, she shall be avenged but not until we no longer need Ptolemy.’

Artonis breathed deeply through her nose, her eyes closed, and nodded. She’s right. I need to be more mature and focus on what needs to be done now.

‘But it’s not just Ptolemy who might be of use to us,’ Herakles said, holding out his cup for a slave to refill. ‘He gave Seleukos a thousand men and he set off across the desert with the object of retaking Babylon and reinstalling himself as the satrap.’

Artonis was incredulous. ‘Taking Babylon with a thousand men?’

Herakles shrugged. ‘He did it before with fewer; and besides, Pythan, Antigonos’ satrap of Babylonia, was killed by Seleukos’ in hand-to-hand combat at Gaza. But if he’s successful…’ Herakles let the thought ride.

Artonis saw the implications immediately. ‘Antigonos will have to deal with Seleukos after he has dealt with Ptolemy.’

Barsine smiled. ‘He’s going to be very busy looking south and east for the next couple of campaigning seasons.’

Herakles lifted his cup in another toast. ‘Which is why I need an army to take the west.’

Artonis raised her cup and sipped. ‘I think it’s time I visited Kleopatra.’

‘There’s no need. The other news this letter conveyed is that my aunt is on her way here to celebrate my coming of age.’

It was disguised as the wife of a merchant that Kleopatra passed the guards on the city’s lower gate, down on the plain, and then made her way up the three rising levels of the south-facing hill, to the palace in the upper town, with one female slave accompanying her. ‘It took all my power to convince the officer on the palace gate to call you down to identify me,’ Kleopatra said, laughing at the memory. ‘I think he’s still shaking at the choice between what you would do to his testicles if you were brought down to the gate unnecessarily and what I would do to his testicles if I was kept waiting a moment longer.’

‘I knew it was you because of your letter to Herakles,’ Barsine said, coming forward to greet her guest as Artonis held back. ‘We came down immediately; the officer was very pale when we arrived. But why the secrecy?’ Barsine held Kleopatra’s by the hands and stepped back to admire her disguise. ‘You look as if you haven’t had a change of clothes in a moon and a bath in two.’

‘Both of which I would be grateful to remedy as soon as I may. But it was imperative that word of our meeting does not reach Antigonos’ ears. I’ve left my women, except my body-slave, Thetima,’ she indicated to her slave, a cheerful-looking buxom creature, ‘back in Sardis carrying on their routine as if I were still in residence; one of them, Daphne, who can pass for me at a distance, will even dress in my clothes and walk in the gardens where Antigonos’ men will see her and believe I’m still there. Here we don’t have that worry as it’s Lysimachus’ men who still hold the town.’

Barsine grimaced. ‘Yes, but for how much longer I can’t say. Antigonos has appointed his own satrap of Hellespontine Phrygia, a friend of his nephew Ptolemaios by the name of Phoinix. So far, he’s left us alone.’

‘What happened to Lysimachus’ satrap?’

‘He never appointed one. Lysimachus doesn’t believe in delegation; he rules by brooding threats. Now that Antigonos is going to be busy in the south and east he may venture back over the Hellespont and remove Phoinix, but it’s hardly worth his while. I think he prefers to keep the ownership of Hellespontine Phrygia opaque, a buffer between him and the cyclops.’

‘If the cyclops were gone, he wouldn’t need a buffer.’ Kleopatra kissed Barsine on the cheek and then looked at Artonis with a frown.

‘My half-sister, Artonis,’ Barsine said.

‘Eumenes’ widow?’ Kleopatra conjectured, taking Artonis’ hand. ‘I hoped you’d be here, but I couldn’t know for sure. I want to thank you for all your husband tried to do for my family, to the extent of giving his life for our cause. My deep condolences on his death, my dear.’

Artonis bowed her head, remembering Kleopatra was technically a queen, albeit of Epirus, far to the west. ‘You are most gracious, lady.’

‘Please, let’s have no formality between us seeing as we have the same objective. We shall speak after I’ve had that bath you promised me, Barsine. And I want my nephew to be present.’

‘You’ll find it impossible to keep him away; he’s becoming most assertive now he’s reaching his majority.’

‘That is to be expected of Alexander’s blood.’

It was Artonis’ favourite time of the day, the two hours after noon, when those who could afford to do so retired to their beds, as those who could not toiled out in the fields or at whatever work supported them and their families in their meagre lives. But it was not for the peace and rest she enjoyed the time, it was for the memory of this part of the day spent in the arms of her husband once he had returned to her in Susa, after almost a five-year absence fighting for the family that had raised him from obscurity. A Greek from Kardia, Eumenes had been forced to flee after the Tyrant, Hecataeus, executed many of his family. He had ended up in the court of Philip in Pella. Although diminutive in height, the little Greek had come to the king’s attention through his analytical mind and ability to distil a problem to its very essence; it was not long before Philip made Eumenes his personal secretary, a post Alexander renewed when he came to the throne after his father’s assassination.

His reputation for cunning had earned him the sobriquet ‘sly’; it had been well deserved, and Alexander had valued his services. So much, indeed, that Alexander had thought to give him Artonis as a bride when he had forced his officers to take Persian wives in the mass wedding at Susa. Artonis had been fifteen at the time. Most eastern women would tower over the sly little Greek, but not Artonis; she forever thanked her god Ahura Mazda for her short stature for it had caused her to be given to the best of men. Her sister, Artakama, two years her junior, had been less fortunate and had become Ptolemy’s wife only to be abandoned, like most of the eastern brides, on the death of Alexander. But Eumenes had kept Artonis and thus she would always cherish his memory, especially in the heat of the afternoon.

And it was with that warm thrill of sexual recollection, despite the chill of an Anatolian winter compared to a summer in Susa and Babylon, that she sat in Barsine’s private apartment, plush with rugs strewn on wooden floors and deep cushions on luxuriously upholstered couches, sipping warmed wine and listening to the woman whose views on what needed to be done were so in tune with her own it was as if they had been conferring for some time.

And it was as Kleopatra finished outlining her plans that Artonis felt at last there was the real chance of bringing down the man who executed her husband, and his son.

DEMETRIOS.THE BESIEGER.

BEING TAKEN FOR a fool was an affront; being taken for a fool with no military experience was intolerable; Demetrios vowed to set the record straight. Yes, he had been soundly beaten by Ptolemy at the battle of Gaza, losing almost eight thousand infantry, two thousand cavalry and his entire elephant herd to the satrap of Egypt, as well as all his personal baggage. And his shame at his reversal burned within him so that he found it hard to meet the eyes of his officers as they came in, in ones and twos, with stragglers from the defeated army, to his new camp at the Three Paradises hunting lodge, in the hills above Tripolis on the northern Phoenician coast. And yes, he had barely managed to rescue his wife and children from the path of the victorious army, and so he now felt diminished in front of Phila, his spouse of ten years, for he had failed her as a husband and had put their children in jeopardy. Thus he was convinced he was less of a man in her eyes, a feeling compounded by the fact Phila was ten years his senior. He now felt as if he were a small boy in her presence; a small boy who, no matter how hard he tried, failed to give satisfaction.

This could not continue.

But it was one loss, one mistake, one piece of bad luck, which had brought him to this humiliating position and he would reverse it soon – indeed, it had to be soon as, not only did he need to shine in Phila’s eyes but also he would not be able to face his father, Antigonos, when he came south from Phrygia after the snows had melted in the spring, if he had not made up for his mistake.

In the meantime, the manner of Ptolemy’s general Cilles’ advance north with the bulk of the Ptolemaic army’s mercenaries was too provoking to be borne. With little discipline and even less scouting, Cilles was leading more of a victory procession than a military advance to scour the country for a defeated foe. And it was this casual approach that so offended Demetrios: Cilles advancing towards him as if he were a fool of no consequence; a blunderer to be laughed at and not the son of Antigonos, the greatest general of the age who had defeated Eumenes to become the one man able to hold the entire empire. And even more hurt and humiliation did he feel at the memory of Ptolemy’s returning of his personal baggage and slaves, all captured along with his tent, together with lavish gifts, each of which rubbed yet more salt into a very raw wound.

And so Demetrios had sent to all the towns holding a garrison loyal to his father, ordering their commanders to leave their posts and report to him with their men at The Three Paradises immediately, for he intended to crush Cilles, capture his troops and push back south to retake all he had lost. Only then would he be able to look his father in the eye and ask forgiveness for the disaster he had presided over at Gaza. Only then would he be able to do justice to himself in his wife’s bed.

Demetrios looked sidelong at Phila, yearning to unpin her high-piled auburn hair and see it fall against the pale skin of her cheeks as her green eyes fixed him with desire, but she kept her gaze firmly forward. He returned his attention to his growing army parading, for Phila’s benefit, under his general Philippos’ command, on manicured parkland, part of the vast area of hunting grounds making up The Three Paradises – each paradise centred around a hunting lodge of palatial proportions – hoping she would be impressed by the force he had gathered together in such a short time.

‘Surely there are still too few, Husband,’ Phila commented, her tone matter-of-fact. ‘I’m no expert but I would say there are no more than three thousand infantry and around three or four hundred cavalry.’

Demetrios took off his helmet and rubbed a hand through his mane of raven curls; the jaw muscles on either side of his beardless face pulsed as his dark eyes hardened and he glanced back down at his wife and then, again, looked away. ‘I will have to make do with what I have, Phila; pointing out the obvious is neither helpful nor pertinent. The army is what it is and with luck it will continue to grow as more men come in from the more distant garrisons.’

Phila returned her husband’s hard look as barked orders brought the parade crashing to attention; but he would not meet her eye. ‘Swallow your pride and send to your father for reinforcements; don’t compound your mistake by trying to rectify it with inadequate resources.’

The gods protect me from women with opinions; Antipatros should have taught his daughters their place. ‘My father will come south as soon as the passes are open with his army next month.’

‘Then wait for him.’

Demetrios was finding it increasingly difficult to keep his temper with his wife who had, since they had been forced to flee north from Gaza, made free with her views as to what he should do, as if he knew nothing. ‘Woman, I know Antipatros consulted you and valued your advice from a very young age and I’m aware your first husband, Krateros, was equally receptive to your opinions and so am I – but not in military matters.’

Phila shook her head, lowering it to hide her exasperation; she hardened her tone. ‘Demetrios, this isn’t a military issue, it’s a pride issue. If we were discussing a military campaign, we would both agree that to launch a counterattack with three thousand men against an army which has already defeated you once is foolhardy to say the least. The only reason you’re considering it is because you dread facing your father without at least something to mitigate what happened at Gaza.’

And I need to prove myself to you. ‘He’ll take away my independent command.’

‘You never had an independent command! He left you with Nearchos, Pythan, Philippos and Andronicus to advise you and to curb your impetuosity. But when they counselled you to fall back in the face of Ptolemy’s advance, as he would never be able to prosecute a winter campaign, you overruled them. Now Pythan’s dead, Andronicus is besieged in Tyros, Nearchos is scrabbling around Syria trying to find troops for you to make the same mistake with again, whilst Philippos drills an army so small I barely noticed it.’

As you barely noticed me last night. ‘Perhaps, but all the while Cilles is mocking me by parading through the country as if I were not in control of it.’

‘But you’re not, Demetrios. You lost control of Palestine and most of Coele-Syria, with your defeat at Gaza.’

‘And I will not lose Phoenicia as well,’ Demetrios growled through gritted teeth.

‘Then pull back, wait for your father’s reinforcements and attack Cilles’ parade in the spring.’

‘Enough, woman! Don’t push the respect I hold for you any further!’ Demetrios regretted his explosion in an instant; he took a breath to calm himself and tried a more reasoned approach. ‘I’ll not wait until I outnumber Cilles; if I were to do that, people would say I can only win if I have more men than my opponent. I want a better reputation than that so no one will remember Gaza and I’m going to start gaining it now.’ He pointed to the lines of men, their bronze helmets shining dull in winter sun, as they were subjected to the inspection of their officers. ‘With these lads I’m going to defeat Cilles, capture his troops and enrol them into my army within three days.’

Phila looked at her husband as if he were an errant child caught making yet another promise he could not keep; he did not enjoy it. ‘Demetrios, I’ve already lost one husband in battle; don’t make me a widow again and deprive young Antigonos and Stratonice of a father just to satisfy your pride and vanity.’ With a curt nod, Phila walked back to the sumptuous hunting lodge which had been their home since her husband’s humiliation.

Demetrios turned but refrained from shouting another boastful remark after her and then cursed himself. He had been forced to marry Phila when he was sixteen, shortly after Eumenes had made her a widow with Krateros’ death in battle against him. Antigonos and Antipatros had made a pact and sealed it with the marriage of their oldest children. Demetrios still burned with shame as he recalled his father laughing at him, joking that he would not be able to manage a woman so far his senior; but he had, in the main, and she had given him a son and a daughter. Physically it had been good between them. Phila, however, read widely and used her mind, enjoying discussions that were, in general, beyond her young husband’s interest or intellect, for Demetrios was enamoured of war; if he had any interest other than its pursuit it was hunting – indeed he had won the right to recline at the dinner table as a man by killing a wild boar at the age of fourteen – and so his conversation with his wife was limited. But he had always harboured the urge to impress her with what he thought, until Gaza, he excelled in; thus the defeat had been a double calamity for their relationship, as not only in his mind had he failed deeply as a man but also what conversation there had been between them had now dried up. For how could he talk strategy and tactics with her, or boast of his achievements and prowess, when all the while the spectre of his flight as a defeated general hung over them?

But you’ll think differently of me when I come back with Cilles and his army. And this was something he was confident he would be able to do since hearing an intelligence report that morning concerning how the general had made camp two nights previously at Byblus, just ten leagues to the south. He looked at his small army still being subjected to the torment of a rigorous inspection. If Cilles really is camping so carelessly then three thousand plus the cavalry will be enough; and there’s still a chance that Nearchos may bring in more before we leave. He felt confidence grow within him as he saw the path to redemption open and turned his attention to what was to come in the next couple of days, for this parade was more than just a mere inspection; it was a muster in preparation for a night attack.

The advance south had been swift as Demetrios had no baggage to slow his column down and the path his scouts had chosen through the low hills, partially cultivated with olive groves and vineyards between resin-scented coniferous woods with little undergrowth, inland from the coast, had been none too arduous. Thus it was with pleasant relief that, as the sun sank into the west to his right, Demetrios watched a two hundred and forty-strong unit of cavalry ride towards him, splashing through a slow-running stream, for he had expected to make a rendezvous with them halfway between Tripolis and Byblus – indeed, the plan depended upon it for they had been sent in advance to bait the trap which would reverse his fortunes.

‘Is it all set, Philippos?’ Demetrios asked his general as he brought his mount to a skidding halt, saluting at the same time.

Greying, experienced and completely loyal to Antigonos and his family, Philippos gave a jagged-tooth-baring grin, his eyes remaining cold. ‘Yes, sir. Two leagues to the south, next to a small town called Myous. We set up our camp to the north of the place and then withdrew as soon as our forward patrols sighted Cilles’ column – in his arrogance he’d set no scouts. We made as if we were too panicked to retrieve the supply train from our camp and pulled back as quickly as possible. His men, mostly Greek hoplites, peltasts and light cavalry, with a small core of Macedonians to stiffen them, are so ill-disciplined that as soon as they saw we’d left four dozen wagons’ worth of provisions, mostly wine, they went on the rampage; it was chaos. As you predicted, they’ll move no further today and with the amount of wine we left them and also with what’s in the town, I doubt they’ll be going far tomorrow.’

Demetrios smiled. ‘We make a temporary camp here; let the lads have their evening meal and a bit of sleep and then move out at midnight.’

Dawn was breaking as Demetrios and Philippos peered down from the crest of the hill sloping down to what could in no way, even in the gloom, be called a military camp; and yet more than ten thousand men lay asleep – or comatose – around hundreds of fires glowing dim having burned low. ‘Well?’ Demetrios asked the leader of the scouting party as he came to lie down next to him.

‘I never seen the like of it, sir,’ the man replied, his breath pungent with the raw onion he was munching on. ‘And I went all the way to India and back with Alexander.’

‘Yes, yes, get on with it, man.’ Demetrios was not in the mood to be reminded of the greater experience of others.

‘Well, they ain’t set no outlying pickets and the ones on the edge of the camp, if they are meant to be pickets at all, are all asleep with wineskins or vomit in their laps – or both.’

‘And what’s happening in the camp? Any movement?’

‘I walked through, by myself, and no one challenged me. The only movement I saw was the occasional hairy-arsed veteran lifting a buttock to fart in his sleep. Hardly anyone has bothered to pitch a tent, despite it being as cold as a Scythian’s quim, and those that were set up have been fallen into by staggering drunks. Only the command tent at what passes for the centre is in a respectable condition, although there’re no guards outside it as you’d expect. No, it’s a shambles, sir.’

‘Get yourself and your lads something to eat; you’ve done well.’ Demetrios, his mood buoyed, turned to Philippos next to him. ‘If not now, then when?’

‘I quite agree. As planned then?’

‘Yes, as planned. I’ll wait for you and your boys to be in position. And make the signal loud – I want them to think the gates of Hades have opened.’

And loud it was and shrill. High-pitched horn after horn rang out from the other side of the camp to be amplified by the signallers on Demetrios’ side, filling their lungs and giving their all as the first glow of the rising sun hit ragged clouds above. And with this burst of cacophonic noise, three thousand troops raised their voices in jubilant battle-cries as they got to their feet and sprinted forward to wreak havoc amongst wine-sodden men thrice their number.

It was with joy that Demetrios ran forward, sword in one hand, shield in the other, both outstretched to help him balance as he tore over the rough ground. In less than a dozen heartbeats he reached the first of the sleeping foe, stirring on the ground but showing no sign of waking. On he went, leading his men further into the camp but striking no blows as yet for he had come to capture not slaughter and had given orders that none should be harmed in their sleep; only those who showed signs of resistance should be dealt with severity. It was a young man, barely out of his teens, who made that mistake and it was with pleasure Demetrios wedged his blade into his solar plexus, punching the wind and then the life from him, as around him many of his men administered similar fates to those who reacted on instinct. Kicking the rigid body and pulling his sword free, Demetrios held it and his shield in the air and, bending back, gave an animalistic cry of relief as he and his men swept through the camp incurring lessening resistance the deeper into its heart they ventured. The relief that coursed through him as the camp fell with but a whimper was almost physical, for the enemy, now surrendering in droves, kneeling on the ground with hands on sore heads, were mainly soldiers of fortune, men who cared not for whom they fought so long as their purses and bellies were full; men who would change sides rather than make the journey across the Styx. The Macedonians in Ptolemy’s pay were, however, of a different nature having been settled in Egypt for more than a decade now; they had families and other ties back there and would not make reliable additions to his army. He knew that he could not keep them, but he did not care to for he had a far better use for them.

Feeling more confidence than he had since Ptolemy sprang the trap that routed his elephants as they went forward at Gaza, thus precipitating the collapse of his line of battle, Demetrios entered Cilles’ command tent.

‘You catch me at a disadvantage, Demetrios,’ the mercenary general said as he tore a chunk off a loaf of bread and commenced to break his fast as if nothing were amiss. ‘I’m just about to eat; will you join me?’

Demetrios stood, dumbfounded, unsure whether to believe his eyes and ears.

‘Please, sit down,’ Cilles insisted. ‘I have some excellent cheese, as I’m sure you’re aware; after all, it was a part of your supply train we captured.’

‘You didn’t capture it, Cilles; I let you have it.’

Cilles, in his fifties with a thickening waistline and sagging jowls beneath his beard, showed no emotion at this statement. ‘Very clever; it’s apparent that I underestimated you in more ways than one. Do sit down; I’m getting a crick in my neck looking up at you.’

‘You, Cilles, will stand up! I think you’ll find that’ll solve the problem.’ Demetrios drew his sword. ‘Now!’

The elder man looked at the blade in surprise and then placed his hunk of bread down on his trencher and, pushing his chair back, stood. ‘Is that better?’

Demetrios shook his head in disgust and then beckoned to the guards behind him. ‘Take him away. I’ll decide your fate later, Cilles.’

‘Send him back to Ptolemy,’ Phila said, passing her hand over her husband’s chest, feeling the contours of his muscles, ‘with his tent, baggage and all his officers. Return the favour he did you.’

Demetrios looked down at the hair on the crown of Phila’s head, glowing in the soft lamplight of his tent, as she lay in his arms; the relief of being revitalised had calmed him and he kissed her as he breathed a satisfied sigh, confident he had performed his conjugal duties well now his confidence in his abilities had been bolstered by the previous night’s events. All of the Greek mercenaries, more than eight thousand of them, had signed on with his army and his men had cheered him for the first time since the day he was now going to attempt to erase from his mind. ‘I was planning on sending him to my father.’

‘Why? What good would that do?’

‘If I were to execute him, it could be said that I was acting above my station as I have no official position other than being my father’s son. I have no satrapy, I’m just my father’s commander in the south.’

Phila looked up at him. ‘Why would you want to execute someone who was only doing his job?’

‘Cilles and the thousand Macedonians would make a good example of what happens when we are opposed.’

‘And did Ptolemy go around executing all his prisoners he captured from you? No, of course he didn’t; he knows to do so would start making business personal, which would lead to far more blood-letting than is necessary. No, return them all to Ptolemy, that’ll show even more magnanimity than he showed you. He just gave you back your possessions and a few officers but kept all your men, sending your Macedonians back to Egypt to settle them there as colonists. You, on the other hand, will give him a general, his officers and a thousand men with all their baggage.’ She stroked his cheek; their eyes met and held. ‘That would show class and flare worthy of my husband. Don’t hide behind your father’s justice; everyone will know that, if he were to execute them, it was you who sent them to him; it would be as if you ordered the sentence yourself. Write to your father and tell him what you mean to do so he can’t accuse you of acting without his authority.’

‘But the letter will take a while to get to him at this time of year and his reply won’t arrive much before he does.’

‘Exactly, and by then you would have sent them all back already.’

‘Of course.’ Demetrios smiled to himself. ‘Knowing my father, he’ll claim when I consulted him he readily gave the plan his blessing.’

‘Let him; but who would care, as that would be admitting it was your idea he blessed. No, you use this opportunity, this well-deserved victory, to create yourself a reputation for the big gesture. Turn yourself into a soldier’s soldier; one who fights hard, who is as implacable in defeat as he is generous in triumph. Do that and the wound of Gaza, which was deep, I know, Husband, for I could see your suffering under the torment of self-doubt both in your eyes, which would not meet mine, and in your absence from my bed, will start to heal. In time the memory will fade but you won’t erase it by soaking your reputation with needless blood. Boost it instead with a flamboyant act: show yourself better than even Ptolemy by allowing his Macedonians to go home. It’s a luxury he denied your Macedonians, and it would make news all over the empire which will be talked about far more than a minor skirmish in the desert.’

‘Minor?’

‘Well, where is Gaza anyway? I’d never heard of it before last year.’

Demetrios smiled and pulled Phila close to kiss her once more. ‘And you’ll be seeing it again this year; that I promise. My father will be here within two moons and then we’ll drive south together and take back all Ptolemy has seized and then more.’

PTOLEMY.THE BASTARD.

‘IF WHAT WE hear from inside Tyros is true, Andronicus has very few followers left prepared to back his policy of resistance and refusing our bribes,’ Lycortas, Ptolemy’s steward and master of information, informed him as he reclined in a steaming copper bath set in the middle of his tent. Thais, his mistress of many years, scrubbed the ingrained dust from his broad shoulders and massaged them with experienced fingers.

Ptolemy paused for a couple of grunts of satisfaction and then ground his head in a circle so his neck clicked, before returning his concentration to his steward, giving him a questioning look.

Lycortas, bald and rotund, standing before his master in a floor-length white robe with his arms folded and hands disappearing into flared sleeves, shrugged. ‘Two days at the most, I should guess.’

Ptolemy transformed his countenance into one of shocked surprise. ‘Guess, Lycortas? That is so unlike you; I can’t remember the last time I witnessed one of your guesses.’ He turned to Thais. ‘Can you recall a Lycortas guess, my love? Do you think we made a note of it? I hope so; I’ll have a look when we get back to Alexandria. It must be in a very small book somewhere called “Things that rarely happen twice”. Yes, we must look that out. Do you happen to know where it might be, Lycortas?’

‘In your library next to your copy of “Things that rarely happen thrice”, I would guess.’

Ptolemy laughed and held out his cup for a very attractive and sparsely clad slave-girl to refill. ‘Very good, my friend, very good.’ Again, he turned to Thais. ‘Did you notice that? Lycortas made a rare foray into humour on the same day as he had a guess. We really must make a note of the date.’ He toasted Lycortas and then took a healthy sip of wine. ‘And how else are you going to amaze us today?’

Lycortas kept his expression neutral. ‘An agent in Corinth has reported there’s been some contact between Kleopatra and Polyperchon, although what has been discussed I’m afraid he didn’t know.’

‘Polyperchon? That’s a name that hasn’t troubled my ears for a while,’ Ptolemy mused as he contemplated the re-emergence of the nonentity whom Antipatros, on his deathbed, had named as his successor as regent of Macedon, overlooking his own son, Kassandros. Forever a follower and never a leader, Polyperchon’s tenure had been a dismal failure and he had soon passed the Great Ring of Macedon on to Olympias. Kassandros’ execution of Alexander’s mother, his sworn enemy, had meant the injustice, as he saw it, of his father’s actions had been redressed for he now held the ring. ‘Is he still skulking around the isthmus clutching at the skirts of his widowed daughter-in-law?’

‘The redoubtable Cratesipolis, as formidable Penelope is affectionately known by her people, still manages to retain her independence despite Kassandros’ control of Athens and Ptolemaios’ control of Euboea and the mainland south of Thessaly and east of Aetolia for Antigonos. With Sparta remaining neutral to her south, the isthmus is a strong defensive position.’

‘Defensive, yes; but she and Polyperchon are in no position to attack whether or not her people refer to her as the Conqueror of Cities. So, what does Kleopatra want with the nonentity?’

‘It is rumoured, although there has been no proof, Kleopatra travelled to Pergamum last month.’ Lycortas let the statement stand for his master to work out the implications. He was not disappointed.

‘Did she now? I don’t suppose it was just for a nice ladylike gossip with Barsine and Artonis that she went to the effort of avoiding Antigonos’ guards. I assume Artonis is still there.’

‘She is.’

‘Remind me, how old is Herakles?’

‘He was sixteen last month.’

‘How very convenient; and I suppose Kleopatra just happened to decide that she wished to attend her nephew’s birthday celebrations. I don’t suppose his potential was discussed at all whilst she was there.’

‘Nor did they discuss the fact that, should he attempt to achieve his potential, he would need an army,’ Thais added, as she worked on Ptolemy’s right shoulder.

‘Ah.’ Ptolemy removed his mistress’s hands, turning to her. ‘Do you think that was what the mission was for?’

‘What other reason could there be? Think about it. You’ve done a great job in baiting Antigonos; with Cilles still pressing Demetrios north and occupying towns as he advances, Antigonos has to come south as soon as the passes are clear, which they will be very soon. Cilles will pull back, leading Antigonos and his puppy ever further south until he rejoins us here and we withdraw to Pelusium together, concentrating Antigonos’ mind on us, thus buying Seleukos time to secure Babylon. Antigonos will then have to decide whether to attempt an invasion of Egypt or just look silly sitting in Gaza.’

‘With my new friends the Nabatean Arabs picking at his very long supply lines whichever option he chooses.’

‘Money very well spent, my love.’

‘Indeed,’ Lycortas agreed.

‘Yes, I thought so,’ Ptolemy concurred. ‘It will come as a nasty surprise for our resinated cyclops when those demons come ululating out of the desert to bite him in that arse he’s forever going on about.’

Thais smiled. ‘And soon we should all be getting news of Seleukos’ progress in the east, which, if it’s good for us and bad for Antigonos, will cause him to head east skirting around the desert – again with your new Nabatean friends making a nuisance of themselves – to try to remove what would become a very severe headache for him if not dealt with immediately.’

‘Busy for two years, all in all,’ Ptolemy mused.

‘At least.’

‘Plenty of time for someone to put Herakles on the throne of Macedon.’

‘If they have an army.’

‘But even with an army they would have to defeat and kill Kassandros; Polyperchon and Cratesipolis don’t have more than ten thousand men.’

Thais resumed her massage. ‘No, they don’t. However, Polyperchon has always had very good relations with the Aetolians and could take his army through their territory, reinforcing it as he goes, up to his clan-lands on the Macedonian–Eperiot border where he would garner further support, and invade Macedon from the west.’

Ptolemy did some mental arithmetic. ‘Twenty thousand men at the most. That still wouldn’t be enough to defeat Kassandros.’ And then it hit him. ‘Unless Lysimachus comes in from the east at the same time.’

‘Yes, or Ptolemaios invades from the south.’

‘Ptolemaios? But if Herakles takes the throne, his uncle’s position becomes untenable. He would either have to submit or be seen for what he really is: an attempted usurper.’

Lycortas cleared his throat.

‘What is it?’ Ptolemy asked.

‘I’ve heard it said that Ptolemaios is very displeased that Demetrios has taken his place as Antigonos’ second-in-command after all the service that he has rendered him.’

‘Have you now? How interesting.’

‘Especially after Gaza.’

‘Yes, I imagine especially after Gaza. It must be very galling for the talented older nephew to be overtaken by the impetuous young son.’

‘Very galling, indeed.’

‘Do you know if Kleopatra has sent a mission to Ptolemaios, Lycortas?’

‘That was my first thought when I heard of her contact with Polyperchon. I’m endeavouring to find out.’

Ptolemy stood, splashing water over his steward’s robe, and held out his arms for slaves to rub him dry with linen towels. ‘Lysimachus, however, is busy with his Scythians at the moment; they’ve made another foray across the Istros.’

‘A large bribe will make them go away for a season or two,’ Thais said.

‘Yes, I might even help raise the money myself.’

Thais shooed the girls away and took over their work. ‘That would be even more money very well spent, my love.’

Ptolemy closed his eyes as Thais worked the linen towels over his body with unhurried and pleasing thoroughness. ‘Was there anything else, Lycortas?’

‘I’ve already gone, lord, and shall tell the guards you shouldn’t be disturbed for a good while.’

But Ptolemy did not hear as he gave himself up, once again, to the talents of the highest-paid courtesan in the world, albeit one with but a single client.

‘It proved to be a very good guess, Lycortas,’ Ptolemy observed as the gates of Tyros opened to the sound of massed horns, and a group of soldiers began to make their way along the eight hundred paces of the mole Alexander had constructed during his siege of the city twenty-one years previously. ‘Perhaps you ought to try guessing more often.’

‘My nerves couldn’t take it, lord; they require certainty and all the joys it brings.’

‘Certainty you now have, Lycortas; our work here is done.’

‘One thing still intrigues me, lord: why did Andronicus, who only transferred his allegiance to Antigonos after Antipatros’ death, prove so loyal to the cyclops? He could be a very wealthy man by now.’

‘It will be the first thing I ask him,’ Ptolemy said as it became clear the man in question was being led in manacles in the midst of the soldiers.

Andronicus had no doubt as to the answer to Ptolemy’s question. ‘Because, unlike some men whom I could mention,’ he replied, looking around at his escort, ‘I believe when you give your loyalty to someone it should be death and not gold which severs the tie. I served Alexander all through his conquest and on his death I went north to find Krateros whom I considered to be the right man to hold the Great Ring of Macedon until the king came of age. After his death in battle against Eumenes I transferred my allegiance to the Greek as he fought for the Argead royal house. But when he too was defeated and then executed, I made my way west to Antipatros as he was the legitimate regent and therefore had the right to wear the ring. But when he died and passed it on to the nonentity, Polyperchon, I couldn’t give him my loyalty, so I went to Antigonos as I considered him to be the man with the strength to hold the empire together.’

‘And now you fall into my hands a far poorer man than you would be if you didn’t have such high principles.’

Andronicus, tall, muscular and black-bearded with eyes equally dark, gestured to the men around him. ‘Rich like these traitors?’

‘You’re lucky we let you live,’ one of the group hissed.

‘You left me alive because you know Ptolemy is a man of honour and doesn’t take kindly to men murdering their superiors.’

A man of honour? That’s a reputation I didn’t know I had. I should capitalise on it. ‘Very true.’ Ptolemy looked at the mutineers, almost four dozen of them, filthy from three months of siege. ‘You would have been dead had you killed him but instead you will be well paid for handing him over to me.’

There were murmurings of relief and approval at this news.

‘I will also take you all into my service and send you back to Egypt as colonists who owe me military service.’

Again this met with approval.

Ptolemy turned back to Andronicus. ‘And so, you are my prisoner, but you need not be. If I guarantee you’ll not face Antigonos or Demetrios across the battlefield, would that satisfy your honour enough to join with me?’

Andronicus had no hesitation. ‘It would, lord.’

‘Excellent.’ Ptolemy smiled benignly at the mutineers. ‘You’ll be pleased to know that I’m giving you your old commander back, gentlemen. Andronicus will be in charge of taking you back to Egypt. I’m sure you’ll have a very pleasant journey.’

The look of horror passing across the men’s faces caused Ptolemy’s smile to widen. ‘Whilst I’m grateful for your treachery I can in no way condone it. Macedonians should be better than that; don’t you agree, Andronicus?’

‘I do, lord; and I shall have ample opportunity to remind these gentlemen just how a Macedonian soldier is expected to behave on the march south; a march I think we might make in record time.’

‘Then the sooner you get started the better.’

It was as Andronicus led the bedraggled garrison of Tyros south and Ptolemy replaced it with his own men and gave Lagus, his seventeen-year-old son with Thais, command of the twenty triremes berthed in the harbour, that another bedraggled column appeared in the north. As Ptolemy, with Thais and Lagus at his side, watched its approach from high on a tall tower above the citadel of Tyros he cursed himself for having made a stupid decision.

‘Who are they, Father?’ Lagus asked as Ptolemy swore under his breath.

‘Cilles and what’s left of his army. I should have brought my brother, Menelaus, over from Cyprus rather than give the job to a mercenary,’ he said as he turned and made his way down the spiral steps. ‘The situation in Cyprus was settled after Gaza, as the various kings of the island could see who was the dominant force on the mainland. Menelaus could have been spared to press my advantage and harry Demetrios north and then this setback would not have happened. Now, though…’ He let the thought fade.

But Thais knew his mind well enough. ‘Now any one of the twelve kings will look at this evident defeat and think, when you withdraw back to Egypt in the face of Antigonos’ advance, it’s through weakness, having lost a battle, and not as a strategy for buying time for Seleukos.’

‘And Antigonos will send men and gold to encourage those thoughts and I’ll be forced to send more troops to Cyprus which I would rather have securing Egypt’s border. And all because I entrusted a mercenary general with a job I should have given to my brother. I wonder what his excuse will be.’

‘They came out of the night, infiltrating the camp before we could do anything,’ Cilles said as he stood before Ptolemy in the audience chamber overlooking the port. ‘We had no choice but to surrender.’ Cilles rubbed the small of his back and looked at Thais and Lycortas seated on either side of Ptolemy and then glanced around the chamber.

‘You won’t find any other chairs here, Cilles,’ Ptolemy snapped, ‘and even if there were I wouldn’t be inviting you to sit. Look at me!’

Cilles raised reluctant, bloodshot eyes to Ptolemy but failed to hold the gaze.

‘They infiltrated the camp before you could do anything? Where were the outlying pickets and the perimeter guards whilst this infiltration was going on? Had you not set any?’

‘Well, yes, I had, of course.’

‘Then why wasn’t the alarm raised?’

‘Well, because…’

‘Because what?’

‘Well, because it was just before dawn and they were, well…’

‘Asleep?’

‘Yes.’

‘All of them? You had a force of nigh on ten thousand so at least three hundred would have been on guard or picket duty and you’re telling me that all three hundred were asleep?’

‘Well, not exactly asleep; they were…’

‘If they weren’t exactly asleep and yet they missed this infiltration of the entire camp, what were they, Cilles? And I warn you, I’m a very forgiving person, but my benevolence will not stretch to someone who has lied to me. The truth, Cilles!’

It was with great difficulty that the mercenary finally managed to mutter: ‘They were drunk.’

Ptolemy leaned forward in his chair. ‘They were what? I’m sorry, Cilles, I didn’t quite catch that.’

‘Drunk, lord; they were drunk.’

‘Drunk? What do you mean, they were drunk?’

‘I mean they had all drunk far more wine than was good for them.’

‘I know what the definition of being drunk is, you idiot. What I want to know is how ten thousand men got hold of enough wine to drink themselves insensible.’

Cilles hung his head, shaking it slowly.

‘Cilles, at the moment your life is worth next to nothing. Where did the wine come from?’

‘We captured Demetrios’ supply train.’

‘Captured, as in fought a battle and beat off the guards?’

Cilles was crumbling, his breath becoming ragged. ‘No, the guards rode off before we reached it.’