Babylon, page 5
‘In the three years since the Three Paradises conference when Antipatros sent Antigenes, Teutamus and their Silver Shields to bring the contents of the Susa treasury west in order to settle the back-pay owed to the army, it has been replenished to the tune of twenty thousand talents,’ Antigonos said as he and Demetrios pored over the inventory that Xenophilus had furnished them with, now spread over the study desk. ‘Fifteen in treasure and five in coin. Add that to the five thousand that we took from Ecbatana and we’ve more than enough to afford an army this size for a couple of years without any worry.’
Demetrios let out a soft whistle, shaking his head as he ran his finger down a column listing sacks of gold coinage. ‘How accurate do you think this is?’
Antigonos shrugged. ‘Well, judging by the tour that Xenophilus has just taken me on, I would say that it’s a reasonably good estimation. And even allowing for the fact that he and Seleukos more than likely helped themselves to a goodly amount each, it still represents an impressive return in less than four years.’
‘How much do you think they both took?’
‘Between three and five hundred talents apiece, I should think.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because it’s what I would have taken in their place: it’s enough to make a difference to their finances but not enough to really be noticed as missing from such a huge amount.’
‘Still, it would be nice to get it back.’
‘Oh, we will, Demetrios; you can be sure of that. Especially from Seleukos; Xenophilus is a good functionary but our Titanesque friend has ambitions beyond his station and needs bringing down.’ He got to his feet, once more rubbing his hands together. ‘But one thing at a time, eh, Son; let’s deal with the man who would have taken the lot if he could.’
The satrap of Media’s dark eyes, lifeless at the best of times, remained expressionless as they bored into Xenophilus, holding the letter that he, Peithon, was purported to have sent. A man of few words and most of those of minimal syllables, he confined himself to: ‘This man lies.’
Antigonos was not surprised by the statement. ‘So you deny writing to Xenophilus asking him to join your planned rebellion and to bring the Susa treasury with him.’
The dead eyes now turned on Antigonos. ‘I never wrote to him.’
‘Ah, so you do not deny that you planned rebellion.’
‘Clever talk proves naught, cyclops.’
Antigonos sat back in his chair, raised on a dais in the royal garden chamber, drumming his fingers on the arm and looking down at the serial rebel standing before him, surrounded by four guards; ringed behind him were Demetrios and all the senior officers from the army here to bear witness to Antigonos’ sense of justice. I had better remind them all of his previous history in that respect. ‘First you tried to incorporate nearly twenty-five thousand Greek deserters into your army only to be thwarted when your men were reminded of their duty to kill them all for abandoning their posts.’ No point in mentioning that it was Seleukos who brought the men to their senses; I don’t want to complicate things in Babylon by portraying him as a sympathetic character. It’s bad enough that I’ve got to use his supposed loyalty to me against Peithon. ‘Then, two years ago, you deposed the satrap of Parthia and installed your late brother there as you tried, once again, to make a grab for the east. And now, after I reward you for having fought for me against Eumenes by confirming you as satrap of Media, you repay me with rebellion.’
‘There was no rebellion.’
‘So you keep on insisting and yet Seleukos also reported to me that you had offered him troops to help take Susa.’
‘More lies. Why would I do that?’
‘As another way of getting hold of the Susa treasury should Xenophilus reject your offer.’
‘Idiot!’
‘Calling me names is not going to help your cause.’
‘My cause is lost; and you talking rubbish like that proves it: why would I give Seleukos troops to take Susa when anyone with sense would see that the first thing he would do with the captured treasury is go straight back to Babylon and hire as many mercenaries as he can, and not come and join me in a rebellion in the east?’
‘Ah, so you admit there was a rebellion now, do you?’
The dead eyes closed and the jaw muscles tensed; Peithon took a deep breath, clenching his fists as if restraining himself from violent conduct. ‘Get on with it, Antigonos. I’ve killed enough men in my time to know how easy it is, so I was puzzled why you are having such difficulty killing me; but I think I understand now.’
‘You are on trial to ascertain whether you are innocent or guilty.’ This is just making me look stupid in front of the army.
‘No, I’m on trial to ascer- ascer- to see if you can find a good excuse to execute me as I was one of Alexander’s bodyguards and am therefore harder to kill than a sly little Greek or an old man like Antigenes. I know what you are up to: I heard how you have removed Peucestas and yet you still keep him alive because he too was also one of the Bodyguard. We are hard to kill because we were Alexander’s chosen.’ He turned to face the officers. ‘We fought at Alexander’s side whilst this soaked old cyclops rattled around in Phrygia trying to mop up a few backward mountain tribes. Now he wants to execute me; accusing me of rebellion with lies and forged letters as he has no real evidence. I say, kill me or kill him!’
There was a stir amongst the assembled officers that sent a chill through Antigonos; he glanced at Demetrios, standing within the crowd, and indicated that he should come and speak to him.
‘What if those letters are forged?’ he whispered in his son’s ear.
‘What difference would it make?’
Antigonos frowned. ‘All the difference; he wouldn’t be guilty.’
‘Father, Peithon’s right in what he said: his guilt is irrelevant; this trial is about having a good reason to execute him because of what he was and still is. You want him to be guilty so guilty he is; now take his head and get it over with because he’s rapidly gaining sympathy.’
And then I’ll need to take their minds off the matter. Coming to a decision, Antigonos stood, holding his arms out for silence. ‘No man, whatever their rank or former position, has the right to rebel; this man has done just that. I am satisfied of his guilt: the letter to Xenophilus, which we have all heard, proves it, and the second letter to Seleukos plus Peithon’s previous conduct since Alexander’s death freed him from the constraints of loyalty both support that conclusion. Guards, seize him.’
Peithon was restrained, but he made no effort to run. The fur-covered muscles in his arms bulged as they were pulled behind his back and a manacle was clamped to his wrists. Down onto his knees he was forced, his struggles frenetic, his guards resolute.
Antigonos stood over him, imperious, determined to wrest the situation back into his favour. ‘For this and the other treasonous actions against the memory and legacy of Alexander, I, Antigonos, the guardian of his memory and general commanding the east, sentence you to death. The sentence is to be carried out immediately. Do you have anything to say?’
Peithon looked up from his enforced kneeling position, his eyes as dead as if the sentence had already been carried out; he spat at the dais. ‘You wish to take it all, Antigonos? Well, I will tell you this: I may not be the brightest of men and I am well aware that people tell jokes behind my back about how easy it is to outwit me, but I have always been loyal to Alexander and his memory. When I tried to sign up the Greek mercenaries it was because I thought someone needed to show Perdikkas that he could not just have it all his way; Alexander gave his ring “to the strongest” and I thought: “Why shouldn’t that be me?” And then when, after Perdikkas’ death and then that of Antipatros, I saw that the strongest two leaders emerging were a Greek and a man we had all forgotten about, of course I tried to form a powerbase here in the east so that I could be the strongest. Me, one of Alexander’s chosen; not a forgotten old man or a foreigner. So take me, Antigonos, but I promise you that Macedon will never accept you as king, or whatever you want to call yourself, because the lads all know that you never shared our time with Alexander.’
It was with heart racing and eyes smouldering with hatred that Antigonos stepped down from the dais without reply. His sword was out and in his hand without him even noticing. He strode over to Peithon, who looked at him, his mouth a rictus grin, but he did not struggle.
‘You’ll never be one of us, Antigonos; and nor will your whelp.’ Once more he spat, the globule splattering Antigonos’ sandal, before stretching out his neck. ‘Make it clean before all these witnesses, old man.’
And there was nothing that Antigonos could say or do that would show him in a better light other than strike the head cleanly from Peithon’s shoulders; and strike it off he did. But he could find no pleasure in the deed, for he had been wounded at the last: all present would know that Peithon’s parting shots were aimed true.
He looked down at the dead eyes still staring at him as they had done in life and then raised his one eye to his officers. ‘Get back to your men,’ he growled. ‘We march at dawn.’
Passing the site of his defeat by Eumenes at the Coprates River did nothing to improve Antigonos’ mood, which had grown ever grimmer in the twenty days since the army had left Persepolis, traversing the Cissia pass and coming down onto the western foothills of the Zagros Mountains. The memory of the aftermath of that failed river crossing caused him great grief: his life-long friend and brother-in-arms, Philotas, had been captured and sentenced to death by Eumenes; Antigonos had insisted that he wield the blade to sever his comrade’s head himself, for it was unconscionable that Eumenes, a Greek, should execute Philotas. The image still haunted him and, despite ordering Eumenes’ execution by garrotte – a far worse demise – he still grieved for his friend of over fifty years. Indeed, he had not the heart to fight in the front rank of the phalanx any more for he would miss Philotas’ shoulder next to his.
With the Coprates behind them and then the Pasitigris crossed a few days later, the army came to Susa. Still Antigonos brooded for he was not unaware of the respect he had lost from some of his officers and many of his men with the execution of Peithon.
‘Many of the lads who were in Alexander’s army feel that what Peithon said at the last had merit,’ Demetrios told him in one of the rare conversations Antigonos had held with his son, as he stood in a high window of Darius’ palace looking out over the huge army encamped across the Cheaspes River, smoke rising from the fires of the evening meals. ‘In the last few months you’ve executed Eumenes, Antigenes, Eudamos and Peithon, all of whom were a major part of the conquest. They’re starting to wonder if being a part of that army now counts for nothing. They’re not stupid, after all; they heard about you helping Kassandros – another who did not take part in the adventure – to defeat Polyperchon and Aristonous, who both did. Also, they haven’t failed to notice the Silver Shields have been split up and posted to the arse-end of the empire seemingly to rot. Look at it from their point of view, Father: if the most elite unit in the whole army, a unit that has never been defeated, can be treated so, then where do the rest of the lads stand?’
‘They stand with me.’ Another cup of wine disappeared down Antigonos’ gullet. ‘I’ve fought for Macedon all my life. Just because I wasn’t at Gaugamela or the battle of the Hydaspes doesn’t make me a lesser man. My arse! I spent ten years subduing the interior of Anatolia.’
‘That doesn’t count in their eyes compared to taking places like the Sogdian Rock or the march back west through the Gedrosian Desert.’
‘So what do they want?’
‘Respect.’
‘They’ve got my respect.’
‘And yet you help a man who everyone else hates to power in Macedon against men they once fought under; you then execute their generals and exile their most senior comrades.’
‘Not all of them: what about Teutamus and Pythan? They were with Alexander and yet I didn’t execute them when I defeated Eumenes; they’re on my staff now.’
‘And what about Antigenes, Eudamos, Peithon and Eumenes himself?’
‘They all deserved it.’
‘You might think so, but they are used to those kind of decisions being made by the army assembly, not in a high-handed manner by a man they haven’t heard of, let alone seen, for ages.’
‘My lads have been with me all the way through.’
‘It’s not your lads who are doing the whispering; it’s Alexander’s veterans.’
‘Then bring me the ringleaders and I’ll soon see to it that they won’t whisper again.’
‘And that is just the kind of thing that will make matters worse. Even Eumenes didn’t condemn Philotas out of hand; he had his army assembly do it – you should know, you were there.’
Why do I get the feeling that he may well be right? It’s never occurred to me that I was considered irrelevant just because I was busy fighting somewhere else. He reached for the jug on the table; another cupful of wine disappeared. Antigonos looked at his son, grunted and then hurled his cup to smash against the wall. ‘So what do you suggest I do?’
‘I don’t know; but I know what I would suggest you didn’t do.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t execute any more officers or men who served with Alexander. Otherwise, it will be deemed that you have a jealous vendetta against them or a sense of inadequacy.’
‘I am not inadequate! My arse, I’m not.’
‘I didn’t say you were; I just said that’s how it might look.’
‘So don’t execute anyone?’
‘Yes; at least not for a while.’
‘Not even Seleukos?’
‘Not even Seleukos.
‘What about Ptolemy?’
‘Especially not Ptolemy.’
‘Kassandros, then?’
‘He never served.’
KASSANDROS.
THE JEALOUS.
ANCIENT AND GRIMED were the walls of Amphipolis, the stronghold of Aristonous, the last of the Argead royal house supporters still holding out in Macedon after Olympias’ death; but despite their age the walls were still formidable, well founded and towering. Kassandros pulled up his horse, safely out of arrow-range, and surveyed the chaos and filth that was a siege in progress. Trenches and stockades surrounded the town and a pall of smoke had settled over it in the absence of a breeze. Yet for all the scale of the endeavour very little seemed to be occurring: a few soldiers sat around talking in a listless manner as they drank from wineskins as the artillery pieces, all set up and ranged, stood silent.
Having just completed his first successful siege, at Pydna, and despite his relative lack of other military experience, Kassandros’ temper was quickly rising. ‘Where is Crateuas?’ He turned around to the escort of cavalry that had accompanied him in the twenty-league ride from the port of Therma, and indicated to his younger twin brothers, Philip and Pleistarchos. ‘Find him!’
As the twins rode away Kassandros gazed around, incredulous, at the lack of purpose or action, his pockmarked, avianesque face with its beak of a nose turning as red as his hair; even his presence had not roused any of the men to a significant level of activity. I’ll have heads for this. Drawing his sword, he kicked his mount forward and slapped the nearest man on the back of the head with the flat of the blade. ‘What do you think you’re doing, taking a holiday?’
Now unconscious, stretched out on the ground, the soldier was unable to answer; his mates, however, jumped up and stepped away from the man they now recognised as their general.
‘Why aren’t you attacking?’ Kassandros bellowed. ‘Where are your officers?’
The men turned and ran.
‘Round them up!’ Kassandros ordered his remaining escort.
As his men gave chase, he shook his head in disbelief. That the situation was bad in Amphipolis he was already aware, but this bad? No, he could not credit it. Crateuas, who, along with Atarrhias, was one of the two generals commanding the troops and fleet that Antigonos had lent Kassandros to take Greece and Macedon, had originally proved his worth and yet, entrusted with the siege of Amphipolis, he had been a failure.
Kassandros had sent his twin brothers to investigate reports that the siege was not being pressed as vigorously as could be expected, only for them to find Crateuas’ men shut in Eion, Amphipolis’ coastal port a league to the south, and himself a prisoner after Aristonous had soundly defeated him. With no fleet of his own, Aristonous could not prevent the coming evacuation by sea with the ships that Philip and Pleistarchos requested from Kassandros, and therefore withdrew back to Amphipolis with his captive before the rescue arrived.
After that, Kassandros had no further information as he had travelled directly by sea from Pydna to Therma, across the bay, and thence by horse overland; but that things had grown this slack surprised and infuriated him in equal measure. And now that he came to look at the situation more closely he realised that the reason for the inactivity was that there were in actuality very few men manning the siege lines; indeed, those he had assaulted were some of the only soldiers around, their absence being covered by the smoke. ‘Where is everyone?’ he yelled, his temper tight within him making his head pound.
It was not long before his men dragged in a couple of the fugitives, throwing them to the ground before his mount.
‘Well?’ he asked in a voice taut with anger. ‘Where is everyone?’
The men shared a look of fear before turning back to Kassandros. ‘Gone, sir,’ they said in unison.
‘Gone? Gone where?’
The elder of the two, greying around the temples and beard, swallowed before answering. ‘Back west. They left yesterday morning; a few of us were left behind to make sure that Aristonous keeps to his oath.’
‘Keeps to his oath? What oath?’
