Babylon. 323 BCE.
Before the war, there was a funeral.
Not a quiet one. Not a sacred rite. But the beginning of something far more violent—something that would echo for generations. Alexander, conqueror of the known world, had died without naming an heir. No declaration, no final command. Only silence—and a body too sacred, too dangerous, too charged with prophecy to be laid to rest.
And so the question became not who would rule next, but who would carry the corpse.
Perdiccas, closest to the throne, stepped forward first. With Roxana, the widow-queen, at his side, and Eumenes—Alexander’s loyal secretary—he claimed the regency. He spoke of stability. Of holding the empire together. But Babylon was already fracturing. The air thick with incense and ambition. The palace halls crowded with men who had once called each other brothers, now speaking in whispers and drawing up lists.
Ptolemy, ever smiling, offered his support for the funeral procession. His allegiance was spoken plainly. His intentions were not. He moved gold into the hands of bodyguards, shifted the route westward, and waited.
Olympias, far away in Epiros, lit candles in the temples and sent killers in the guise of priests. She called it purification. Others called it madness. Either way, blood was spilled.
And then there was Cassander—watchful, silent, calculating. Not a general, but the son of one. Raised in the shadows of power, he poisoned slowly. Not just men, but memory itself. He erased loyalists, rewrote decrees, and prepared to outlive them all.
The body moved.
Not toward peace, but toward Egypt. The procession, meant to honor the dead, became a campaign of its own. What should have been sacred turned brutal. Perdiccas marched south, toward the Nile, determined to take back what had been stolen. But even there, betrayal waited beneath the surface. He would not return.
By the time the fires died down and the dust settled, Alexander’s body had vanished from the world stage. Not buried. Not burned. Installed—half-relic, half-threat—in a new kingdom built on lies.
And still, Roxana watched and waited, her son yet unborn. She had already removed her rival. Already whispered stories of divinity into the ears of those who would listen.
The war would go on. It would wear many masks—honor, vengeance, legacy. But it began here. With a corpse no one could bury. With generals who would not grieve. With a widow who would not break.
The first betrayal was the funeral.And the body became the crown.
