V
Annabeth's first time. Alexander's Empire is partitioned. Perdikkas gets paranoid. Krateros plays a game.
THE DAUGHTER OF ATHENS
Her husband burst into their room, smiling dumbly. He was drunk, no doubt, and a happy drunk at that. "Are you not happy? Today — today has been the greatest day!"
"Why?" Annabeth did not feel her husband's excitement. She hadn't felt excitement at all day, and she felt less knowing what was about to come. She felt as dead inside as her tone sounded.
"Because Alexandros the despot is dead! Athens is free, finally free, from his oppressive yoke. Democracy can finally return to Athens! This city can once again thrive!"
Annabeth said nothing, choosing to stare blankly at her hands.
"Do you not care about any of that?" Her husband said it as if she could do no worse thing.
"Alexandros never did anything to me," she replied. "I was born after he conquered Athens. His rule is all I've ever known."
"Well, you're about to experience something amazing, something liberating. I promise you, my dear new wife, that this new world will be much better than the shit one you've known."
Annabeth reluctantly gave a small smile. A part of her, a small, stupid, girlish part of her, was upset with her new husband; upset that he did not seem to care at all that they were now married. Now, Annabeth did not need love poems or whispered confessions of affection late in the night – she barely even desired those things. But there was something sad in the fact that her husband's newfound happiness would have occurred with or without her. It was all about politics again, maybe about her appearance – but not about her and those little things that made her her. Annabeth felt like nothing had changed. She still was not appreciated, still not wanted.
That was to say nothing of his declaration, his idea that the new, "liberating" world would be better than her current one. His liberating world had been oppressing her world from the beginning. The despotic one had not changed a thing, she was sure. Men ruled without concern for women — democracy, oligarchy, monarchy, it made no difference. A new ruler, a new ruling system – it would change nothing. Nothing had changed, nothing would change.
Her husband did not seem to believe what she believed, obviously. He was stupidly optimistic even without a drop of wine in him. He was excitedly and stupidly optimistic with wine. His inebriated state was only an elevated state of his sober state. He had not stopped pacing once since entering their bedroom.
Their bedroom… Annabeth looked down at her dress again, then at her clasped hands. The fingers fidgeted with each other in a desperate fight where there was no clear reason to win.
Her husband turned to her, a bright smile stretching across his face. "My lovely wife!" He grabbed her hands. His fingers felt large, and too soft. It felt like she was holding her mother's hands, or her younger brother's hands. A man's hands should not feel like they had held a pen instead of a sword. "Tonight has been the best night of my life. Would you do the honor of making it even better?"
Annabeth could do nothing but give a slight, compulsory nod. It was barely enough for her to register that she had nodded, but Antiphalos took it as a full-throated endorsement of his quest. He kissed her hands after bringing them to his mouth. He looked down at her dress. His hands dropped her own and began running down to her hips. "You're going to love this," he told her as his lips fell down to hers.
Π
She was stoic until he entered her. As much as her step-mother's advice rang in her head throughout the wedding feast, once Annabeth had left the only home she had ever known, it all went out the window. It was replaced instead with an ever-growing mix of fear and nerves. Once his hands were on her, all Annabeth could do to keep from running – which every part of her was very much inclined to do – was focus on breathing. Once he was inside of her, the pain and fear became too much.
Annabeth was not truly terrified of him. He was nearly incompetent, too happy, and too self-centered to worry her. But when he had her pinned to the bed, she realized how weak she was compared to her husband – to any man really. The lack of any physical training had never frustrated her more than it had in that moment. If he had wanted to hurt her, he could have. If he had wanted to kill her, he could have. It was the "could" that terrified her most. It was the lack of control over her own life.
So even though she felt sick to her stomach when he finished inside of her, Annabeth could not help but feel a sense of relief and gratitude as he rolled off of her, sliding into the edge of bed, spent and finished. He had not lasted long and the night was not something she loved. But it was over and he was off of her.
Finally, her step-mother's advice came back to her. Annabeth slid out of bed quietly, so as not to wake her new husband. Her feet found their footing. Her hands found her dress. Hurriedly, her hands ran the dress up her body, with no less eagerness and vigor than her husband had run it down her body. She ran out to the latrine.
After relieving herself – hopefully of her husband's seed as well – Annabeth tried gathering herself. There was a sickness building in her stomach. It was not the food or the wine. It combined with the feeling of him inside of her to create an eternally nauseous ruckus in her stomach. Worms, she felt like worms were crawling under of her skin. She sat back down on the latrine to try and compose herself.
The smell of the latrine helped little. Annabeth found herself emptying her stomach this time. Her hair fell into her face. Vomit weaved into her hair, dirtying herself even further. As she leaned her head down the latrine one more time, her eyes welled up and a dam burst. Her tears mixed with the vomit and her piss in the toilet. Her hands ran through her vomit-laden hair, tugging at every knot left by her unwinding braids. If she had had any dignity left before tonight, it was gone by midnight.
THE BODYGUARD
Perseus was not expecting Perdikkas' outburst, which was an understatement. His morning had been fairly normal up until the ambush. He had woken up to bread, water, an egg, and he had gone for his normal morning run along the Double Walls. By the time he finished, Ethandros was awake. The boy prepared a cool bath for him and had gotten his master dressed in casual clothes, not thinking about armor. Still, it was so early that Apollo himself was only just waking. He had seen very few other soldiers, perhaps only a dozen who would run along the walls with him. He rarely kept pace with them, but when he would pass them again both sides would give sympathetic waves.
Perseus did not like to wake so early. In fact, Perseus believed for much of his life that Hypnos' realm was where he was happiest. Lately, that had not been as true. His nights were plagued by nightmares, years of campaigns haunting him. But for some time it had been his happy place, stopping him from getting out of bed in the morning.
Dreams were where he could relive his youth, utterly unconcerned with politics. There he could stand side-by-side with his King, or get tangled up with him in the King's tent before battle. Alexandros was unlike most of his other lovers. True, most of them were female. But even the men he laid with, men like Hephaistion, Perseus could dominate easily. The King was a proud man, however, and would not go down so easily. Their coupling would be rough, often drawing blood. Neither man would back down.
Or instead, he could ride through the woods of the environs outside Pella. With Eurydike. They could be children forever in his dreams. They would ride through shrublands, those forests that the gods had stepped on, and through the thick trees that existed only leagues outside of the capital. There they would hunt — deer, boar, each other. Their couplings were as passionate as his ones with the King, but of a different nature. Eurydike loved to lose all inhibition, especially in the woods. There was absolutely nothing she loved more than a rough fucking. Aphrodite knew how much his cock missed the way she said that word, 'fucking,' or how she screamed his name like a Bacchant prayer. She, like most of his other lovers, let him take her. Unlike most of them, however, she could take it as rough as he could give it.
Perseus groaned as he began to make his way into the halls of the Palace, into his day. He was far too aroused. It had been, what, three days since the King had died? Perseus had been in mourning even before that, so by this point he had not fucked for almost two weeks. He supposed he could fix his issue quickly, but the whores in Babylon could not do it for him. They were too submissive. It was like fucking a log. He missed the fight of his King, the endurance of Eurydike. Perhaps he should have taken up the King's offer of being wed to a Persian bride. Perseus could have taken up Amastris. Krateros' wife had lingered around the palace after the Silver General left; she had held no purpose to her husband even before he was ordered back to Hellas.
It was a waste of a marriage, really. Amastris was as great a beauty as the world had to offer. Krateros was a man of far less beauty in both face and body. Yet to Perseus' knowledge — which was admittedly limited, for courtly gossip never truly interested him — they had bedded on their marriage night and that was it. For everything in him that was honorable and good, Perseus knew any more denial of his cock would lead to him taking another man's wife. A more Spartan way of doing things, Perseus joked to himself.
Perseus raised a hand to the bridge of his nose and groaned. He needed to stop thinking about girls and his cock, and his cock in girls. It seemed that the gods listened to his thoughts and had sent him a cure, a surefire way to get out of his cock-obsessed thoughts.
"Boy!"
Perseus looked up from his musings on women to face a very angry Perdikkas. The taller man looked absolutely furious. Though the sight of Perdikkas was enough to soften his cock, the angry look set his heart beating like a racehorse. Perseus struggled to rack his mind for anything he might have done after lunch yesterday.
As far as Perseus remembered he had simply taken a nap then dined with Ptolemaios. Neither thing could have set the ill-tempered warlord off in this manner. Though he was getting snippy with Ptolemaios. The two men were at each other's' throats lately more often than not, so perhaps he's upset with me for taking Ptolemaios' side? Perseus thought. Would any of it have been enough to tick off Perdikkas in this way?
"What?" Perseus asked.
"What were you doing yesterday?!"
"That's what I'm trying to understand as well. What's so important that it was your balls in such a twist?" Perseus did not hate Perdikkas in the way Ptolemaios did, but the older man could grate on his nerves. Too officious, too self-certain. Perseus liked teasing him.
Perdikkas, the curmudgeon he was, growled. "None of your bullshit, Perseus. I'm talking about Meleagros. His men. Your unauthorized executions."
"You didn't seem too worried about this at all yesterday. There's been a lot of time between that execution and now. Why not say something earlier?"
His hand had unconsciously slipped to his sword hilt. It was something he did whenever he felt threatened. He was always certain that he could kill a problem faster than it could blink.
"Stay your blade, boy." Perseus looked down in subtle shock at the action. Was he that paranoid? He knew even so much pulling his blade out on Perdikkas would set off a war. But apparently he was not thinking straight — or at all. "Not every issue you face can be solved with violence."
Perseus flinched, remembering the way his spear went through Meleagros' skull. Perdikkas continued.
"Meleagros. Explain. Now."
"Sentences too much for you now?" Perseus peered up at the older somatophylax, determined not to lose this battle of wills. Fuck his budding regret of his actions. Perseus was not going to lose this argument.
"I said cut the bullshit. You defied an order to go—"
"I defied no fucking order, I just remedied your shit one! Honestly, fucking Meleagros, out of everyone? Why him? I outrank him, so why not me? Don't get me started on orders, Perdikkas. This whole fucking situation — the whole situation we're in is a complete shit show!"
Perdikkas fumed from only an arms' reach away. His long face felt longer from the curly beard that adorned its base. The proud man was as unlikely to back down in this situation as Perseus. "And it would be less of a shit show if you started to listen and obey."
"I disobeyed a bad order, my apologies. Next time I'll let Meleagros continue going about his coup."
"Next time you should inform me of your plans so we can—"
"We can what? Present a more organized plan? My plan was plenty organized, in case you don't know."
"Ah, yes, your little hit squad. You think that your band of worshippers—"
"They don't worship me."
"—is an organized plan? No, it was efficient. It wasn't organized. Organized would be me taking your men and trampling them underfoot with my elephants, then claiming it as an accident."
"Don't you dare," Perseus growled as he got closer to the Regent, "threaten my men again. If you do, Meleagros will be the least of your worries."
Perdikkas just stared calmly back. "Do not disobey me again Perseus. Or there will be war. Do I make myself clear?"
Perseus refused to back down, to lose. "War? Why? Because your panties were in a twist?"
"You were a good soldier, what happened?" Perdikkas stepped away. He turned to the side, as if examining the artistry of the walls. "You are still a soldier. And I am regent." Perdikkas walked in front of Perseus, a head taller, breathing down with hot breath. "Remember that. You are respected by many here, even by me. But do not mistake that respect for a long leash. Do not defy me again, do I make myself clear, soldier?"
Perseus breathed in and out, unclenching his fists. "My men," he began, but Perdikkas waved his hand.
"Are safe, as long as their leader makes the smart move."
Perseus gave a terse nod. He was not happy with the current state of affairs, but Perdikkas was right, not that Perseus would ever admit it. He had made a mistake with Meleagros. If his was King was still alive, the move would have only been slightly less stupid. Granted, his King never would have let the whole situation happen in the first place. But Alexandros was dead, and the balance of power had clearly shifted. Perdikkas had the power to harm Perseus' men, whether or not Perseus' liked it. Perdikkas was in charge. Perseus was a soldier. And good soldiers follow orders. "I understand."
"Good." Perdikkas handed Perseus an arm. Taking a breath to calm himself, Perseus locked forearms with the general. "Just listen and we'll get through this."
Π
"I heard that you were ambushed."
"It seems to be a common occurrence today."
Ptolemaios chuckled. "You leave yourself open."
"I'm walking through the fucking halls. Can't a man have some peace?"
"Not in Babylon. What happened?"
"I'm not in a talking mood."
Silence prevailed. Ptolemaios had ambushed him while Perseus was walking to the arena. The two men had planned, earlier, before Perdikkas, to meet and pay their respects at the King's bedside. With all of the chaos of the past few days, no one had time to properly grieve for their King. Once or twice Perseus had broken down, unable to control his emotions. He was struggling in public to keep those fits of grief private. He needed to properly mourn before he broke down in public.
Now, however, Perseus was angered and upset. He did not like to lose, and his fight with Perdikkas had been a loss in many ways. He needed to go to the arena, let off some steam. Talking with Ptolemaios, who was notoriously intrusive with his life, was not high on Perseus' lists of things to do today. But he was curious about one thing.
"How did you find out?"
"Neither of you were that quiet. And I have people who keep me informed."
"Who else knows?"
"I don't know."
"I'm assuming more than I want."
"Possibly. But then again your stunt at the council meeting yesterday morning was not exactly a quiet affair. Your fight won't give anyone any new knowledge."
"It makes me look weak." Perseus paused walking, thinking about the implications of the disagreement. "It makes us look weak."
Ptolemaios stopped with and turned to his protege. "That was smart of you."
Perseus replied with a side-eyed look.
"You're realizing that you fucked up, aren't you?"
"Did I fuck up?"
"Perhaps. Killing Meleagros and his supporters is a start, depriving them of leadership, but you didn't entirely kill the sentiment. Plus, the way you killed him…"
"It was a dishonorable way of killing a man."
"Indeed. You should have at least let him fight you. You would have achieved the same result."
"I was angry."
"But it's not terrible." Ptolemaios continued, ran a hand through his hair. "The way you did it, yes it was bad. You also quelled a coup before it was possible and you knew that only you could do it. You're learning. You did well and I'm proud."
Perseus smiled at the ground. Ptolemaios put his hand on Perseus' shoulder. "Now if you feel polluted," the older man continued, "then go wash it off in the river. I'll send a priest with you if you really need it."
"I…" Perseus paused for a moment, considering it. "Yes, that would be nice."
"Good. Then it will be done. Now, on to more politics."
Perseus groaned good naturedly. Ptolemaios laughed and placed his arm around the younger man's shoulders. "Can we not?"
"We will. And we need to. We're going to be split soon. That means that neither myself nor Alexandros will have your back anymore. Those enemies that you've built up—"
"I can handle myself!"
"I'm sure you can. But only if you know what's coming. You need informants. Spies loyal to you."
"I do not."
"You do."
"Did the King have spies everywhere? No, yet he was able to create the world's greatest empire."
"But he had people who had spies."
"We rarely used their information."
"In India, yes, but you were not there for Persia. You do not remember how much we relied on their words."
"I can handle myself fine without spies," Pereseus responded with a bite in his voice.
Ptolemaios gave an exasperated sigh. "Then do you know what the men are saying in the camps now?"
"No. Should I?"
"There are many murmurs. To many you are far more preferable than Perdikkas, to some even more preferable than whatever unfortunate child child may come out of Rhoxana's womb."
"I've heard that," Perseus replied, troubled. "And dismissed that. If they think that for one moment that I am going to go against the Queen and her son and try and stake claim to a Throne that I have no claim to, they're an idiot."
"You have a claim through Eurydike." Perseus froze upon hearing the name.
"What do you mean?"
"She's still unmarried."
"I…" Perseus trailed off into thought. But he did not wish to stay there. He changed topics. "I thought you said there were whispers of dissent against me?"
"I did."
"So what is it? Are they crowning me King? Or do they lead a rebellion against me?"
"Perhaps both are true, all at once. I doubt Meleagros' remaining supporters are too happy, but there are countless soldiers and officers who'd die for you. Beware of false dichotomies."
"What is that supposed to mean?" It had been a rough morning, and Perseus' tone had declined with it.
"Many things can be true at once, even things that seem exclusionary."
"You speak in twisted riddles too often for my liking."
"Yet you keep coming back," Ptolemaios offered with a small smile.
"It seems as though I'm a masochist."
"Far better than a sadist."
"Speak of the devil," Perseus mumbled, his mood dropping as quickly as their witty retorts had brought it back up, "and he shall appear."
Marching up to the chatting pair was the Antipatrid Kassandros. The golden boy of his family, who was in fact a dark rogue. Perseus had heard far too many comparisons between him and Kassandros. Many of them revolved around their looks alone, but he had heard more than once about their comparable personalities. He still remembers the first time he had heard the comparison. He was in Makedonia, fucking some whore with Eurydike.
After he took over, as he was wont to do once his cock was hard enough, and was thoroughly dominating the whore, the black-haired woman spoke.
"Once you lose a little bit of inhibition, do you know who you remind me of?"
The whore lay underneath him, her cunt a vice grip on his cock. One of his hands was around her throat, besieging it. Eurydike was lying to the side of the older woman. She was not a jealous lover, fortunately, but a competitive one. The stunning brunette teen, already better looking than most women in the world, enjoyed watching as Perseus would pound other girls. She liked to gloat that she could last longer, which she usually did. Plus, she was not against the female body. She was accordingly playing with the ready tits of the buxom whore. Eurydike's other hand was probably playing with her own breasts or buried somewhere deep within her core.
"Who?" He asked, voice deep and guttural.
"Kassandros."
The room, hot with passion, chilled considerably. Eurydike's roaming hand ceased roaming. Perseus growled at the older woman.
"Don't you dare compare me to that cunt."
To emphasize his point, Perseus slapped the older woman's cheek. It left a red mark, but the whore took it erotically. She smiled back seductively.
It was a well-known secret that Perseus and Kassandros, nearly a decade older, hated each other. Perseus thought Kassandros an arrogant shit who could not back up half of his talk. Kassandros, for his part, thought Perseus an equally pampered, favored "boy-slave" of Olympias and Kynane. Neither even wished for the animosity to disappear.
Still, the buxom woman continued. The way she smiled, her crooked teeth coming out, meant that she was as aware of the secret enmity as everyone else in the capital.
"You two are more similar than you realize."
"I would shut up if I were you," Eurydike warned, but the older woman paid her no heed. Perseus gave a sympathetic smile to his lover.
"You are both confident, ambitious killers. You hide it better than he does, you've hidden it so well that you don't even know it, but at the end of the day you two are the same person."
"And how did a whore get so wise?" Perseus asked, slowly gyrating his cock into her hot cunt.
"Men reveal themselves when they're drunk and when they're fucking."
Perseus might have been disgusted that he was sharing the same girl as Kassandros, but he honestly did not care that much. He was sure he had before. Still, he was tired of thinking about Antipatros' cunt of son when he had two beautiful women to please.
Perseus choked the whore a bit. Her eyes lidded over as he slowly picked up speed in his hips. "Compare us again…" He left the threat hanging. Then he began to give her hard, dominating thrusts. He would pound into her mercilessly the rest of the night until her eyes rolled into the back of her head and her tongue rolled aimlessly out of her mouth.
Eurydike won again that night.
Gods… Perseus smiled at the memory. They had been so young. What age were they at that point? Fifteen? Sixteen? Even then he was carving a warpath through whorehouses and cute serving girls with his lover.
Evidently, however, he had been caught up in memories for far too long.
"Are you still with us, Perseus?"
Kassandros' voice was as grating to Perseus' nerves at it ever was.
"Memories, I apologize."
"It is a time for reflection," Ptolemaios replied.
"Especially good ones," Perseus said.
"No, no," Kassandros countered. "It is most definitely a time to think ahead. Not to get lost in the past."
"I imagine you've done a fair bit of that," Perseus spat. His mentor eyed him warily, trying to get him to back down. Perseus would not. His temper had been raging for days now. Kassandros was just more fuel for the fire.
And Ptolemaios had angered him on the subject of Kassandros lately. No longer was his ally as steadfastly convinced that Kassandros was the one who killed the King, like the rest of the somatophylakes believed. Over the three days after Kassandros became the prime suspect, Ptolemaios had gotten it in his head that he was not. Thus Perseus ignored his mentor.
"Oh I have. Haven't you?"
"I'm still in mourning. Our King's death has come as quite the shock to us all. I am doing what I can to aid my Queen, as well. There is not much time for foresight."
Something terrible sparkled in Kassandros' eyes once Perseus mentioned Rhoxana. "You always did like Argead women."
Perseus' nostrils flared and his hand went to his sword hilt. "Shut your fucking mouth before I rip your tongue out of it!"
"And your tempered hasn't changed either. What happens again when your temper gets too hot? I've only heard the stories."
Perseuse lunged at the smirking man, but Ptolemaios held him back.
"Careful, my little Perseus. Eurydike isn't here to guide you out of harm's way by your cock, or hide your insolence from my father with a flash of her tits."
Perseus made again at Kassandros, but Ptolemaios again held him back. "Don't be a fool, boy," he whispered.
"She looks lovely by the way. Undying Aphrodite, her nude form is as perfect as when you left her. Better even." With that, Kassandros gloated with cruel intention at Perseus, then nodded at Ptolemaios. "Have a good day." He turned around and walked from where he came, as if his only purpose was to goad Perseus.
"And you still don't believe he did it?" Perseus asked Ptolemaios as soon as he got out of the older man's grip.
"He's an arrogant ass, yes, but that does not mean he's a fool. The way he played you is evidence enough to that."
"But not evidence that he didn't do it."
"He knows he's the obvious choice as the perpetrator. Thus he would never do it."
"I still don't believe you."
"Come on," Ptolemaios sighed. "You wanted to pay your respects again?"
"I was going to, but not now." Perseus glared at the direction Kassandros came from, as if he was trying to remove Kassandros' footsteps from the hall.
Ptolemaios hummed. "No, best you don't. Go to the arena, find a few men to beat."
"I'm going to need a lot of men."
"Well, you're lucky." Ptolemaios patted Perseus' back. "There are a lot of men willing to fight you."
Fighting in the arena was hard, much harder than normal combat. Arena fighting was about endurance. None of the men were actively trying to kill each other. Fighting men while trying to keep them alive was far more difficult than killing. Perseus had learned that lesson a while ago. Killing was easy. Two moves and someone was dead. Sparring took ages and a lot more out of him. In that way, at least, it was what tired him out the most. But right now, he wanted blood. Kassandros' blood.
"I might kill someone if I spar."
Ptolemaios snorted and shook his head. Perseus could feel the exasperation coming from him. "Go run."
"I already did."
"Run again. Seriously, run the rest of the day. There's nothing planned for a while."
"Something will come up."
"Just run." Ptolemaios was starting to sound exasperated. "Please, do something other than steam."
If anyone else had been so demanding, Perseus would have bucked their advice and killed Kassandros then and there. But Perseus, for as much as everyone called him an impulse idiot, knew when other people cared about him. It was why he was so fiercely loyal. When he knew people cared, he was more willing to listen. Plus, if he killed Kassandros now, Perdikkas would be the least of his worries. So he nodded and took a deep breath to calm himself.
"Okay, I'll go run."
"Good. Try not to kill anyone?" Ptolemaios jested.
Perseus gave him a half smile and the older man moved off of him. The two said their goodbyes. Perseus watched Ptolemaios walk off in the direction Kassandros came. He felt alone. Hephaistion and Alexandros were gone from the world. Krateros had been sequestered in Kilikia. Ptolemaios remained but was always a bit aloof. He was close by proxy with Lysimakhos, and while the two could get along, Perseus felt a distance between them. Of course, there was the Queen but going to her now felt selfish. She had far more worries and problems than any of the somatophylakes.
Perseus wiped the sweat off his brow. The overwhelming feeling of loneliness was drowning him. His anger was dragging him down deeper still. He needed to run. Or fight. Or something.
Π
A week later, Perseus had been the last to enter the map room. The rest of the somatophylakes were gathered around the table, discussing the various satrapies awarded to which general, which acolyte of the King, which ass-kisser. Calling it a discussion ignored the fact that it was mainly Perdikkas talking, with a few interjections from Ptolemaios.
Or so Perseus learned later. He had spent the morning and majority of the afternoon performing various tasks for Perdikkas. Most of Perseus' week had been spent performing these little tasks. They would be anything from bringing the men to muster in the morning to dealing with the quartermaster's needs to overseeing the cleaning of the stables. Perseus had nearly scoffed at that order. Perdikkas was so obviously testing him. He did the task anyways. Yes, they were quiet admissions of Perseus' submission. Yes, it grated on him. If it protected his men, that was good enough for him.
It meant, though, that Perseus wound up late for this meeting of grand importance. So important and powerful a meeting it was taht it was wrapping up within an hour.
"And in Lydia, Menandros that will remain to you," Perdikkas said to the hetairos, who had arrived in Babylon with reinforcements a month before the King fell ill. Menandros was standing, along witht the rest of the high command, around a large, circular table with a map of the world painted on it. Upon seeing Perseus enter, flustered, the older general smiled. It was an unsettling smile. "Ah, Perseus. Excellent. You've arrived."
"Sorry I was late." The apology was forced, grunted.
"We've discussed your position."
Perseus glanced around the room warily, trying to make eye contact with Ptolemaios. Eventually, he found his mentor. The older man stood across from Perdikkas, his gaze firmly on the map of Alexandros' empire. As if he could feel Perseus' green eyes on him, Ptolemaios lifted his brown ones to meet. His expression was empathetic, pitying.
"And?" Perseus' tone was more confrontational than he thought Perdikkas might like. The older general narrowed his eyes.
"You're the youngest of us, by far. We agreed —" queue a slight cough from Lysimakhos — "that you would be better off without a satrapy to run at such a young, inexperienced age."
Perseus' jaw dropped. Yes, he understood that he was young. But Alexandros was only two or so years his elder when he took command of a kingdom. Not even a satrapy? Perseus was pissed. It wasn't so much that Perseus greatly desired a satrapy. Still, he had never expected not to run one in the weeks since the King died. But it was about more than that. It was about the respect he, as a somatophylax, as one of the King's most trusted advisors – his closest friend – was owed. This was downright fucking unblelievable.
Perseus was about to open his mouth to voice his complaints when Ptolemaios interjected. The older man lifted his head from the board, staring down Perseus with an implicit warning. "The regent thinks it prudent to use your skills elsewhere. He knows of your prowess on the battlefield and would rather reassign you to aid Antipatros."
"Yes," Perdikkas sounded like someone had stolen the final piece of bread at dinner, the piece of bread he wanted. "Yes, that is indeed the case. You are going to assist Antipatros."
"Assist him how?"
"There are likely to be multiple opportunists who see the power vacuum as a means of sowing discord and rebellion against the King's legacy."
"And…?"
Perdikkas glared at the insolent response. "And, you will lead your troops to Hellas in order to be of service to Antipatros however he needs you."
Perseus wanted to say, like an errand boy? but held his tongue. Instead, he simply nodded. It was all he could do at the moment. If he opened his mouth, something stupid was coming out.
Perdikkas nodded as well, turning back to the partition. The men around the table shifted, obviously discomforted by the division. "Asandros," Perdikkas cleared his throat before continuing, "will keep Karia, Menandros be sure to alert him to that…"
Π
In the following week, Perseus's life took a turn for the worse. He spent his days preparing his men for departure, or "assisting" Perdikkas in running cleanup. During the part of the partition Perseus was absent for, Perdikkas had shifted the entire structure of Alexandros' conquerings. Perseus was having trouble understanding it himself, and yet he was being forced to explain it to soldiers.
What he told them went something along the lines of this — Perdikkas was parabasileus with Krateros and Antipatros and Leonnatos. They ruled in the name of the King's unborn son. Various generals and officials of Alexandros' campaigns were made satraps, but most of the satraps the King had established as he conquered Persia, Egypt, and India were left in place. And, of course, Perseus was being assigned to… whatever role he was being assigned to. Perseus usually just told his men that they were putting down rebellions. He assumed that by the time they neared Hellas, there would be a rebellion or two to put down.
Perseus thought that he was the one most upset from the partition. After all, Lysimakhos got Thrace and the all-important crossing at the Hellenespont, Leonnatos got the other side and his little pseudo-King role, Ptolemaios got Egypt, and even though Peithon had to rid himself of part of Media, he got most of the large, wealthy, populous area. Perseus was left with a mission. Not a satrapy, not a power-base. A mission.
But apparently the troops were far more upset than Perseus was. Which, considering how upset Perseus was, was an issue. A big one.
They were angry on multiple fronts, but the main issue Perseus gleaned from his conversations was about Alexandros' child. The army was traditionally called upon to choose the new King, but in this circumstance, with no clear heir, none of the elite felt ready to have the army choose someone potentially outside of the royal family. Or worse, choose Arrhidaios.
But that's who they were clamoring for. Perseus had put the spear through Meleagros' head, a vision that still haunted him, yet the cries for the half-wit to become King only grew with the partition. If Perseus wasn't preparing his men to leave, he was confronting protestors, trying to calm tensions. It didn't help that Perseus himself was furious with Perdikkas. There were times when he felt like it might be best to side with the protestors.
But Alexandros was his King, and his son would also be his King. No illegitimate bastard King, no half-wit King. Pure and simple, Alexandros' son would be the King. Rhoxana was coming along well. Her mood had improved after reports came in from Susa that Stateira and Polysatis were dead. Freak accident, the letters had claimed. One fainted in her balcony, heat-stroke. The other died after a particularly nasty meal. Perdikkas had used it to claim that the gods had spoken in favor of Rhoxana. Nasty rumors circulated among the men that the Queen had had her rivals killed. Perseus was particularly disinclined to believe those.
And, among all of this shit-show, Ptolemaios only made it worse. With his near-constant meetings and dinners, Perseus had stopped asking Ethandros to prepare dinner in his room. Yes, some were fun — Ptolemaios and Thais had held an orgy the night of the partition which Perseus used to get his anger out, productively — but mostly they were infuriating. Either they were too boring, going over administrative details about Egypt that Perseus wasn't sure he needed to attend, or they were discussing strategy to counter Perdikkas. Perseus felt left out as Lysimakhos and Ptolemaios discussed their holdings, as Nearkhos came and went, fretting about what he wanted to do with his life. All of it made Perseus want to rip his hair out.
Perseus had been forced into one of the worst positions of his life. His King — his friend, his mentor, his lover — was gone, and with it all of Perseus' political ambitions and dreams. He was forced onto an assignment where he was to be subservient to a man that did not like him and left without any agency. And he was forced to be a mediator between an army and an officious regent. Perseus had no time for schemes or ambition. He barely had time to breathe.
But for the rest of them, their King's death had given them all the space in the world for their ambition and schemes to grow. It was sickening.
THE SIGNET-BEARER
There were things that sent Perdikkas into spirals, even when he didn't have to deal with the weight of the world. Some of those things included little disturbances – his meal was overcooked, his wine was spilled, he made a stupid mistake in a spar. However, those were all things that could destroy the flow of a single day, perhaps two at most. None of those things could match the intense, burning hatred that coursed through him whenever Alexandros would pass him over. Whenever one of the other somatophylakes beat him in a sparring match in front of the King. Whenever he would overhear hints of discontent sent his way. Those were things Perdikkas could not handle.
And so these rumors, carried with swift evil across the camp, spreading through the city, enraged the general. No, he might not have been the most athletic of the somatophylakes, that honor belonged to Perseus or Leonnatos. But great feats of athleticism mattered little in a new world ruled by men of wisdom and intelligence. This was a world ruled not by strength of body but strength of the mind. Aye, armies mattered, but only insofar as to how they might be used by a smart mind.
That was his advantage. Perdikkas knew that he was the smartest man in any room in Babylon – at this point, any room in the world. He had the most experience, the most cunning, the most drive, the best teaching. He had the best pedigree out of every man remaining – Ptolemy was the son of a whore. Perseus was the son of… what exactly no one knew. He was an orphan. Whether his parents were vagabond minstrels or eloping nobles, it mattered little. He had no claim to the throne.
True, besides the ring in his hands, Perdikkas had no familial claim either. Perdikkas did not need the throne, unlike his friends. Perdikkas had the ring, and for the next decade he would be the keeper of the Throne, the King Without A Name. Not that he needed a name. He just needed the power. The power to keep himself safe, his head on his shoulders. Perdikkas could feel the others bearing down on him, desperately looking for weakness. Even Perseus now, with these rumors, must have been smelling blood. The sharks were in the water.
If there was one person Perdikkas might have hated more than Ptolemaios, it would be Perseus. Not that he did, for Perdikkas' hatred for the meek general was insurmountable. But Perseus came close to scaling that peak. The young warrior was too brash, too unpredictable, too uncontrollable. Ironic, for a man trained to be the King's attack dog. Perhaps the King took his leash to the grave.
After the Meleagros incident, Perseus had mellowed out a bit. Not considerably, simply a bit. He no longer barked back at the hand that fed him, instead opting to simply distrust it. Perdikkas had gone out of his way to show Perseus who was in charge and the younger man finally accepted his place. With the King gone, the pretty boy was without any backers. Ptolemaios would gut his young mentor on the altar if it meant favorable winds. The Queen Mother and Grandmother would grumble, but neither had any protection of their own. The rest of the generals would be as glad to see Perseus gone as much as he would.
For now, however, he would keep Perseus in line. If the boy died quashing rebellions in Hellas, Perdikkas was without another rival. If he succeeded, he would help Perdikkas maintain stability. There was a part of Perdikkas that was quite excited to hear about Perseus' attempts at keeping control of the most annoying of cities. He wouldn't be surprised if the boy razed a city out of anger. It was a trait he shared with the King.
Yes, sending the boy to Hellas was a win-win for Perdikkas. The boy was too loyal to the throne – and to Rhoxanna for that matter – to attempt any undermining of Perdikkas now that he had sided firmly with the soon-to-be Queen Mother.
Giving Ptolemaios Aegyptos was a whole other story. It was a lose-lose, really. Perdikkas had tried to think of ways to get the other general out of the way, but there was no use. Too much discontent, too many power grabs, and the troops would walk away. Perdikkas knew he was only a tentative regent for now. He held power because the King's body was still warm. The colder it got, the colder the flame of his memory got, the less respect he would command from the infantry. So he needed to seem like a unifying force, not a power-hungry monster.
And Ptolemaios was not alone in Aegyptos. Kleomenes was still there. The brute wanted the riches of the ancient Pharaohs more, maybe, than Ptolemaios. He would fight tooth and claw to keep his seat of power. And for that, Kleomenes would beg for Perdikkas' backing. If Kleomenes lost popularity for hurting a somatophylax, then it would be easy for Ptolemaios to pull back his approval and give Aegyptos over to someone else – his aide Seleukos, perhaps.
As for Lysimakhos, the last possible thorn in his side still in Babylon, Perdikkas had felt he had relegated him to an equally rough and contentious assignment in Thrakia. The Thrakians were notoriously difficult to govern, and lacked any cities to govern from. Control of the Hellenespont, however, would be enough of a prize, plus the gold mines in Thrakia, that Lysimakhos should be content for now.
His allies Perdikkas felt a lot better about. Peithon was absolutely giddy about Media. Leonnatos was upset that he didn't get to be co-regent, but the younger man seemed to understand the reasoning behind Perdikkas decision. The regent was sure he could count on his support come any dispute between him and Ptolemaios. Or Antipatros.
Antipatros and Krateros were wild-cards. Both men were of the old-guard. Both men greatly respected the dynasty. Both men commanded more respect from rank-and-file troops than any man in Babylon. Both men were very proud and would not be happy with a meager allotment of the spoils of Alexandros' victories. But both men would have to come to respect Perdikkas' new place atop the world. Aye, he would give them the title of power. They would not, however, be allowed to march in Asia with any substantial number of troops at their back. They did not even want to be in Asia anyways.
Perdikkas was far more paranoid about Ptolemaios than he was Antipatros or Krateros, though they were much bigger threats. If Ptolemaios tried to overthrow him, he could gain Antigonos or Krateros – or both – as allies. Since Antipatros and Kraters were so much part of the old guard, he knew everyone in Babylon would close ranks to keep Antipatros or the Silver General out. From gaining control of the empire they had worked so hard to build. They all shared a vision for the future, a vision given to them by the King. Those two men did not share that vision. He was counting on that.
A SILVER GENERAL
His opponent considered his next move. Meliton was a shrewd planner. His move would not come unless Meliton believed it was the absolute best move.
Which could take him a long time to figure out, and Krateros was running out of patience.
"The King will have conquered another continent by the time you make your move."
"He might." Meliton gave the older man little attention. Krateros groaned and stroked his sword hilt. He loved the younger man, truly he did. Meliton was as smart as they came and as humble as Krateros could ask for. The man had little ambition. At best he wanted more gold. Krateros could provide him with more gold more easily than a promotion.
Meliton was a boy in his camp, truly. Most of the men Krateros had with him were of an age maybe ten years younger than he — that is to say not that young. The youngest were probably closer to the King's age and the oldest his own age of forty. All were seasoned veterans of war, having marched originally with Philip against the rest of Hellas. So Meliton's young age of seven-and-twenty was truly infantile. Giving him a promotion, especially when he had not handed out one since the march began, would cause an uproar.
Not that the boy looked as much. His face was as boring as his ambition, but not unkind to look upon. He had gained a crooked nose from a mother, Krateros assumed. Green eyes came from his father, Meliton claimed. There was a thick beard resting upon his neck and chin, giving him another ten years of age. A deep scar ran down his cheek. It was a dagger cut, sustained in a desperate fight against a tribal warlord near Kilikia. The barbarian had, Meliton said, cut through his cheek. The wound had apparently taken over a month to heal. Meliton had been confined to eating only soft foods; the well-known gourmet barely hid his displeasure at the punishment.
That was when Krateros had first met the strategist. The groaning and complaining about his lack of chewable food nearly led to his dismissal, but the two men had formed a fortunate bond over board games. Meliton was the first person since Ptolemaios who had a chance of beating him. It was a refreshing change of pace.
The boy finally made his move. And for all of that waiting, the move was ridiculously simple. It set up nothing in the future and achieved nothing in the immediate. "I'm ashamed," Krateros joked. "Seriously ashamed to call you my pupil."
"I'm simply waiting for you, dear mentor." The kid looked up from the board. His face betrayed the joy he got from playing this game. There was a treacherous smile stretching across his lips. His pink lips twitched with enjoyment.
"Never wait," Krateros replied, as the older man took a beneficial move. "If you wait in battle, you get cut down."
"In a spar, sure." Meliton surveiled the field, then made a quick move that knocked back most of Krateros' gains. "But on a battlefield it's better to let your opponent make a mistake, no?"
Krateros chuckled. "At what cost? Your men's lives?"
"Not all of their lives. Not even most of their lives. Most of their lives would be a defeat. A victory means saving lives."
"And what about those victories that are not victories?"
"What do you mean?"
"When you win the battle but have lost too many men to justify continuing?"
"Then we have stopped the enemy from reaching their goal. Isn't that enough?"
"Depends on the goals."
Meliton raised an understanding eyebrow, before getting back to the game. "Out of all the moves you can make," the younger man, wiser than his age suggested, "won't the one you chose always be the wrong one?"
"How so?"
"Because it's the one that exists, it's the one with the problems and the one you have to deal with."
"That's the burden of a leader." The two men took a break from their game to analyze one another. For all that Krateros' enjoyed the younger man's company, he was still unsure as to what the Khalkidian wanted from him. As far as Krateros could tell, Meliton was not from a royal family, nor was he from any sort of family. He was just Meliton, son of some nameless fuck from Stageira.
It seemed to Krateros that Meliton wanted glory. If the general was forced to choose a reasoning for why Meliton was in Asia, that would be it. He wanted the singers and poets and playwrights to remember his name, like they were sure to remember the King's. There was something unsettling about the lengths to which Meliton seemed to be willing to go to achieve his glory. That unsettling factor kept Krateros' watching over the young Khalkidian's shoulder. Keep your friends close, your enemies closer, and potential enemies as friends.
"And here I was, thinking that the best part of being a leader was burdening others."
"Even if you hand off responsibilities to others, it is still your decision to hand those responsibilities over, and you are still accountable for that decision."
The man made a quick defensive move, hovering over the table for a moment before leaning back in the chair. "And all you have to do is hold others accountable."
"Easier than it seems, trust me."
Meliton smirked, reaching for the cup of wine. "I guess. I'm more than happy to sit here and make up battle strategies while you take all the responsibility."
Krateros snorted. "Well yes of course you are."
The two men shared a chuckle. They reached out to continue their game when the tent flap burst open. A messenger, even younger than Meliton, stumbled in, completely out of breath.
"What is the meaning of this?" Krateros growled, upset by the completely out-of-order way the angelos had burst in.
"I…" the messenger looked down at his hands, at the missive he held in them. He looked afraid, but Krateros chalked that up to being in front of an imposing, angry general. "I have a message from Babylon. It's urgent."
"Then leave it urgently," Meliton said. His voice was as annoyed as Krateros' felt.
"I can't… I can't say the words out loud."
"If you barged into my tent without warning you better be brave enough to —"
The messenger shook his head, unwilling. With shaky hands, he reached out the scroll. Krateros eyed the angelos warily, but snatched it up. He unwrapped the scroll, the rough parchment rolling beneath his fingers. But even as he eyed the first words of the scroll, his heart dropped. Not only to the bottom of his chest, but it felt like it left his very body. He felt sick. Krateros lurched away from the table, throwing the scroll across the room.
"You l…" the final word, the accusation of treason fell from Krateros' lips. He could see it in the messenger's eyes. There was no lie. There was no falsehood. This was the brutal truth, cursed by Apollo.
Krateros barely registered Meliton's look of discontent at reading the scroll.
γράφω φρανοῖν, ὦ Κρατερὲ, τὸν Ἀλέχανδρον τὸν Βασιλεὶν τῆς Μακεδονίας τὸν στρατηγὸν αὐτοκράτορα τῆς Ἐλλάδος τὸν φέρωνα τῆς Αἴγυπτου τὸν Κύριον τῆς Ἀσίας τεθνήκεναι.
It was longer than it seemed. A list of superfluous titles obscured the words that really mattered. Alexandron tethnekenai. Alexander had died. Alexander, king of Macedon and of the rest of the known world, was dead.
It was a blow that he had not expected and was not expected for quite some time. As much as Krateros, of all people, knew that Alexandros was fallible and more than human. But still, the King had an undeniable sense of immortality surrounding him. The King couldn't just… die.
But he was. And for everything that Krateros knew, he couldn't fathom it.
"Sir, I –" Meliton tried to interrupt Krateros' thoughts, but the older general wouldn't have it.
"Leave. Both of you."
"I apolog–"
"OUT!"
Krateros slammed his fist against the table, kneeling down. His body slumped against the table and his head fell to the surface.
Π
Well, hello there.
Hope y'all enjoyed.
Striving to provide Southern hospitality the world over,
LoverBoi (yes, I'm a guy)