An empty throne, p.1
An Empty Throne, page 1
Robert Fabbri read Drama and Theatre at London University and worked in film and TV for twenty-five years. He has a life-long passion for ancient history, which inspired him to write the bestselling Vespasian series and the Alexander’s Legacy series. He lives in London and Berlin.
Also by Robert Fabbri
ALEXANDER’S LEGACY
TO THE STRONGEST
THE THREE PARADISES
ARCHIAS THE EXILE-HUNTER
THE ISSOS INCIDENT
THE VESPASIAN SERIES
TRIBUNE OF ROME
ROME’S EXECUTIONER
FALSE GOD OF ROME
ROME’S FALLEN EAGLE
MASTERS OF ROME
ROME’S LOST SON
THE FURIES OF ROME
ROME’S SACRED FLAME
EMPEROR OF ROME
MAGNUS AND THE CROSSROADS BROTHERHOOD
THE CROSSROADS BROTHERHOOD
THE RACING FACTIONS
THE DREAMS OF MORPHEUS
THE ALEXANDRIAN EMBASSY
THE IMPERIAL TRIUMPH
THE SUCCESSION
Also
ARMINIUS: LIMITS OF EMPIRE
First published in Great Britain in 2022 by Corvus,
an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.
Copyright © Robert Fabbri, 2022
Map and illustrations © Anja Müller
The moral right of Robert Fabbri to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with 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 78649 8045
Trade paperback ISBN: 978 1 78649 8052
E-book ISBN: 978 1 78649 8069
Corvus
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In loving memory of Joyce Imogen Husbands.
‘Joycie’. 1924–2019. A much missed family friend.
A list of characters can be found on page 412.
ANTIGONOS.
THE ONE-EYED.
AMBITION, ANTIGONOS HAD learned late in life, is a motivation that feeds upon itself, growing fatter upon its own achievement; and he was in its thrall.
It had not always been so. Before the death of Alexander, the third so named to be King of Macedon, Antigonos had been content as the satrap of Phrygia, left behind to complete the conquest of central Anatolia by the great man as he rode east to steal an empire. And he had been happy with his lot, for nothing pleased him more than the sound, smell and thrill of battle; his campaign tent was his home, his men were his kin and his weapons his tools. For years he had lived for nothing but the joy of combat to the virtual exclusion of all else; yes, he had taken a wife, Stratonice, and yes, he had found time to father two children upon her, but this excursion into domesticity had been in his late forties and more an afterthought than a considered plan.
But now, fighting for fighting’s sake, despite the deep pleasure he still gained from it, was no longer sufficient for Antigonos; for he had glimpsed an empty throne, and to seize it so that his eldest son, Demetrios, could inherit, thus establishing a dynasty, was now his desire. Granted, there were technically two occupants of that throne – or so he thought at the time – but one was a child and the other a fool. The child, named after his father, was the five-year-old issue from Alexander’s marriage to the eastern wild-cat Roxanna, and was, therefore, tainted with non-Macedonian blood. The fool was Alexander’s elder half-brother, now known as Philip, whose intellect had been damaged by a potion ministered by Alexander’s mother, Olympias, to keep the path to the throne clear for her own progeny; it had failed to kill him but had left him with the mind of an eight year old. Antigonos could bow to neither; indeed, he could bow to no one since Alexander had drawn his last breath with his seven bodyguards around him straining to hear him name a successor. But he had only said, ‘To the strongest,’ as he handed the Great Ring of Macedon to Perdikkas – the most senior of the seven but not the eldest – and had neglected to say who ‘the strongest’ might be.
It had not been long before the empire had descended into civil war; Perdikkas soon fell to the assassin’s blade.
Then there came the death, at eighty-two, of the last man Antigonos truly respected – Antipatros, the regent of Macedon in Alexander’s absence. And Antipatros’ replacement was not his son, Kassandros, but the nonentity Polyperchon, for whom Antigonos had no regard. So the seed of ambition had grown within Antigonos, as he had realised if Macedon was not to lose her empire it must be grasped by one man; and the seed had grown to fruition and was now in full bloom, for Antigonos was certain he could be that man. Indeed, he craved it with all his being.
However, there were many men who stood in his way; not the least of these his one-time friend, Eumenes. A Greek from Kardia whose loyalty to the Argead royal house of Macedon was absolute, Eumenes had recently reneged on an agreement with Antigonos to serve under him. Eumenes had taken his army south from his satrapy of Kappadokia down into Syria to recruit mercenaries and build ships. Antigonos had given furious chase, for he needed to destroy Eumenes – there could never be trust between them again.
And thus it was with a mixture of emotions that Antigonos received his old friend, comrade and contemporary, Philotas, as he slaked his thirst with resinated wine, sitting beneath a canopy overlooking his army’s coastal camp at Issos – the site of Alexander’s stunning victory against Darius of Persia fifteen years previously.
‘I assume, in the absence of Eumenes in chains – or at least his head in a sack – you weren’t successful,’ Antigonos observed, indicating to the pitcher of wine on the table next to him.
‘I did what you asked: I infiltrated his camp with thirty of our lads and tried to persuade Eumenes’ men to turn on him.’ Philotas sat and poured himself a drink.
‘And?’
‘And he’s gone, five days ago; heading east towards Mesopotamia.’
Antigonos grunted and held out his cup to be refilled. ‘With his army or as a fugitive?’
‘With his army. The news from the east is Peithon, satrap of Media, tried to install his brother as the satrap of Parthia, having executed the incumbent. Peucestas and the other eastern satraps formed an alliance and defeated him. I think Eumenes is hoping to unite the eastern alliance’s thirty-thousand-strong army with his.’
‘That would be a match for us.’ Antigonos contemplated the news for a few moments, scratching at his thick, grey beard as if he were trying to remove a small rodent from it. ‘And the Silver Shields weren’t tempted to desert Eumenes?’
‘I tried to persuade them, but no, they wouldn’t. They’ve proved surprisingly loyal to him.’
‘Considering he’s a Greek; and a sly little Greek at that.’ How does the most elite unit in the whole army end up supporting Eumenes? Antigonos mused as he glared out to sea with his one eye; his other, the left, a mass of scar tissue, the victim of a Greek arrow at the battle of Chaeronea, seeped a blood-tinged tear. ‘What reasons did their commanders give you for supporting him?’
‘Antigenes and Teutamus don’t trust you not to execute them if they were to come over to you. They told me that because he’s a Greek, Eumenes has few friends and is therefore more likely to keep the ones he does have alive.’
‘My arse! They trust a Greek over me! My damp, hairy arse! They’re Macedonian officers like me, and they don’t trust me. Wait until I get my hands upon them, I’ll…’ Antigonos calmed himself with a deep draught.
‘That’s exactly their point, old friend; and I had to admit to them they were probably right.’
‘You did what?’
‘You heard.’ Philotas reached over and once again refilled Antigonos’ cup. ‘Don’t act so outraged, Antigonos; you and I have fought shoulder to shoulder in the front rank nigh on seventy times, certainly enough for me to know you. Of course you would have killed them. The Silver Shields are the most experienced and feared unit in the whole army, three thousand men in their sixties or over who have known nothing but war all their adult lives, and because of that they’re the most opinionated and influential. It was they who forced Alexander to turn back from India; it was they who backed the fool, Philip, to be king and put us in this mess of having two kings. They rebelled against Antipatros for not giving them their back-pay, you remember? Antipatros would have been murdered had you and Seleukos not saved him. Need I go on? No, of course not. They’re trouble and, had I managed to persuade them to come over to you, executing their leaders and sending the unit to some out-of-the-way shithole on the fringe of the empire would have been the only sensible thing to do – for the benefit of the whole army’s morale and not just your peace of mind. So no, old friend; don’t act so outraged.’
Antigonos growled and glowered but said nothing for he realise d all Philotas had said had been true. The nub of the issue was Eumenes could not survive without the Silver Shields at the heart of his army, but Antigonos could, and that was understood by all.
‘Ptolemy had also sent representation,’ Philotas carried on, ‘but only to Antigenes and Teutamus, not the men, but with the same request: kill Eumenes and come over to him.’
‘And they didn’t fancy going to Egypt?’
Philotas shook his head. ‘It was the same problem: they knew Ptolemy would have them dead in a trice and the Silver Shields would have been stationed as far down the Nile as possible and then forgotten by all but the crocodiles.’
Oh Ptolemy, you think you’re the canniest of Alexander’s seven bodyguards, safe in your fortress, Egypt; but I’ll have you too, very soon. But even as the thought crossed his mind he knew that, of the surviving five bodyguards, Ptolemy was the most secure. Perdikkas, to whom Alexander had given the Great Ring of Macedon with those fateful words, had been murdered for his high-handed attitude in trying to force himself upon the empire; he had met his match trying to invade Egypt.
Leonnatus, arrogant and vain, had been killed in battle. He had tried to relieve Antipatros, who was besieged within the walls of Lamia by an Athenian army as the Greeks rose against Macedonian rule, soon after Alexander’s death. But can I move against Ptolemy with Eumenes heading east to gather support there? And that was the problem which now presented itself to Antigonos: should Eumenes gain the support of the former bodyguard in the east, Peucestas, satrap of Persis, and the eastern alliance, as well as Seleukos, the new satrap of Babylonia, an ambitious man on the rise – in need of slapping down – then the little Greek would have a formidable force indeed.
Antigonos got to his feet and looked out over the coastal plain at his army. Over fifty thousand strong, of which almost ten thousand were cavalry. Wafts of smoke, blended with the scents of roasting lamb and grilled seafood, rose from the thousands of cooking fires that punctuated the host. He breathed deeply, savouring the smell of an army in camp. Gods, I love this life. He looked north along the plain to where, all those years ago, he had commanded a part of the phalanx – sixteen ranks deep of pikemen, the anvil of the Macedonian army to the cavalry’s hammer – when Alexander had turned his army and beaten the pursuing Persians. Darius, the Great King, had fled the field that day and his rule had been effectively finished. Antigonos closed his eye and relished the memory of a quarter of a million men in mortal combat. Gods below, that was a day; I’ll never see the like of it again. But if Eumenes is successful gaining allies in the east then the battle that ensues could be almost as big.
Smiling at the thought, Antigonos opened his eye and looked at Philotas. ‘So, what about Eumenes’ fleet?’
‘It was stationed in Rhosos, a couple of leagues south along the coast; I persuaded it to come over to you as soon as they saw your fleet fresh from its victory in the north. What’s more, Eumenes had already loaded his treasury aboard to transport it over to Europe. A shame for him really.’
Antigonos rubbed his hands together, chuckling. ‘How unfortunate. How much was it?’
‘Thirty boxes of coinage, bullion and jewellery; we haven’t counted it all yet. It’s all in Rhosos.’
‘At least five hundred talents, I should guess,’ Antigonos said, looking in satisfaction as the treasurer opened the last of the strongboxes lying open on the treasury floor in the palace of the port of Rhosos, three leagues south of Issos. He slapped his nineteen-year-old son, Demetrios, on the shoulder. ‘What do you think of that, my boy?’ Bending forward, he pulled a gold necklace, with sapphires set around it, from the nearest box. ‘That should do nicely for your mother; appease her for leaving her behind in Celaenae. Choose something for Phila; I’m sure she deserves it.’
Demetrios, now taller than his father, with a clean-shaven face that was far more appealing – although dominated by an impressive nose – and a full head of wavy, dark brown hair, looked down at Antigonos with pride in his eyes. ‘She does, Father, most certainly she does; she’s pregnant.’
This provoked a firmer slap and a hearty chuckle. ‘Well, you’ve been trying hard enough, my boy; and there were you worrying because she’s ten years older than you she would be difficult to manage.’
The look of pride turned into injured dignity. ‘I’ve never had a problem with handling women.’ Demetrios twisted away from his father’s hand still clasping his shoulder. ‘And I’ll thank you not to imply it, Father; especially not in public.’ He glared at the treasurer and his attendant slaves.
Antigonos put his hands up. ‘Don’t be so quick to take offence, Demetrios; I had to force you into the marriage, remember? It was a shrewd political move to marry one of Antipatros’ daughters who just also happened to be the widow of Krateros.’ Antigonos held his son’s gaze for a moment and wondered what would have happened if Krateros, the darling of the army and Macedon’s most successful general after Alexander, had not been killed by Eumenes in battle. He was Antipatros’ first choice to succeed him as regent rather than that nobody, Polyperchon; if Krateros were regent I’d still be just the satrap of Phrygia and taking orders from him. Perhaps Eumenes did me a great favour by killing him and I should be grateful to the little Greek after all. ‘Now choose a piece of jewellery for the mother of your forthcoming child and don’t be so prickly.’ He drew closer to his son, gestured to the treasure and lowered his voice. ‘And remember, Demetrios: I’m funding Kassandros’ war in Greece against Polyperchon. Some of this will end up with him; enough to ensure he wins and he’ll be greatly in my debt. Knowing just how poisonous the man is, it’s safe to assume he’ll do away with the kings and try to take the throne of Macedon for himself. Your child will be his nephew and he, as yet, is without an heir. Once we have secured Asia…’ Antigonos gestured for his son to finish the thought.
Demetrios considered for a moment. ‘We would look west and take Macedon from Kassandros.’
‘And in the process kill him.’
Demetrios smiled, cold. ‘And my son will claim the throne and I will be regent.’
‘No, Demetrios, you’ll be king; King of Macedon and her empire; and your son will inherit the title, uniting Antipatros’ family and our own, making the claim incontestable with the Argead heirs dead, and our dynasty will be founded.’
Demetrios’ eyes widened at the sheer scale of his father’s dream. ‘You’re aiming for it all?’
‘Yes, my boy, all of it.’
‘Even Ptolemy in Egypt?’
‘Especially Ptolemy in Egypt, otherwise we’ll be continually fighting him for control of Syria and Cyprus. The question is, do I defeat him before or after I take Eumenes and the east?’
‘And what about Lysimachus in Thrace?’
Antigonos dismissed the name of the cruellest of Alexander’s bodyguards with a gesture. ‘He’ll be content owing us loyalty provided we leave him to his own devices in Thrace; he’s very happy fighting the northern tribes and making a big point about how he keeps us all safe from a barbarian invasion from the north. If we give him money so he can carry on building his fortresses up there, he won’t bother us.’
‘And Olympias?’
‘That’s where the value of good intelligence comes in. Come, let’s walk.’ He led Demetrios out into the palace courtyard, overlooking the port. ‘You’ve heard of Archias the Exile-Hunter, have you not?’
Demetrios nodded. ‘The one-time actor turned assassin, of course.’
‘Well, a couple of months ago, Ptolemy, for an unbelievable price, persuaded the Exile-Hunter to travel to Macedon and reveal to Olympias his part in Alexander’s death.’
Demetrios looked at his father with a mixture of curiosity and surprise. ‘Which was?’
‘When old man Antipatros sent Kassandros to Babylon to request confirmation of Alexander’s wish to replace him with Krateros, Archias travelled with him as far as Tarsus. There, he procured a poison for Kassandros, who then travelled on to Babylon; Alexander died very shortly after his arrival. Iollas, Kassandros’ younger half-brother, was Alexander’s cup-bearer and therefore mixed his drinks for him.’ Antigonos paused to let the implication of that sink in as he watched a sleek and fast lembus – a small undecked vessel – glide through the harbour mouth; his eye squinting in the sun, glittering on a gentle sea.
