Forging kingdoms, p.1
Forging Kingdoms, page 1
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.
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.
Hardback ISBN: 978 1 83895 613 4
E-book ISBN: 978 1 83895 615 8
Corvus
An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd
Ormond House
26–27 Boswell Street
London
WC1N 3JZ
www.atlantic-books.co.uk
To my friend and fellow author, Tim Clayton,
who introduced me to the world of the
Successors 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.’
