Author: Edward Brawer

Welcome to Imperial History, the podcast where we explore the epic stories of empires that shaped the world, from their triumphant rises to their dramatic falls. I’m your host, Eric Alexander.

In our last episode, Neo lay dead in a villa outside Rome. And from the smoldering remains of rebellion, a new figure emerged: Galba. But who was Galba? It is not a name that leaps to the forefront of our collective memory when we think of Rome’s most famous emperors.

He was a man of already advanced in years when he seized the throne. He was not born of the Julio-Claudian bloodline either. No, Galba hailed from a family of old, and aristocratic lineage. His forebears had on a number of occasions held the consulship—the very pinnacle of Roman civic authority.

Yet, Galba’s narrative extends far beyond the dry recitations of ancestry and political maneuvering. According to Suetonius, the great chronicler of Rome, Galba interlaced his own lineage with the divine. In an act of unbridled audacity, he claimed that his father was none other than Jupiter, the king of gods, and that his mother traced her roots to Pasiphaë, the fabled wife of Minos. Imagine the implications: a man weaving his mortal existence with the threads of myth, suggesting that his very blood was touched by divine favor. Though this may seem odd to people of the modern era, such claims were not uncommon among those who wished to rule. This is particularly true of a usurper who technically had just as much claim to the throne as anybody else. 

But while Galba reached for the divine, the ruthless, cold mechanics of Roman politics were never far behind. It was said that he was distantly connected to Livia, the formidable and enigmatic wife of Augustus—a link that resonated powerfully within the intricate web of Rome’s aristocratic networks. Livia, a woman whose very presence had helped shape the empire, had reportedly intended to bequeath to him a fortune of fifty million sesterces. This sum, immense by any standard, had the potential to completely upend the power dynamics of the time, a true game-changer in the brutal arithmetic of imperial ambition.

Yet, in the unforgiving world of Roman politics, where fortunes could be diminished with a mere stroke of a pen or an imperial decree, Emperor Tiberius stepped in. With a cold, calculating efficiency, he reduced Galba’s anticipated windfall to a mere five hundred thousand sesterces. A pittance compared to what Livia had planned—a deliberate act that underscored the capricious and often arbitrary nature of power in Rome. 

By the time he reached 30, Galba had already begun to carve out his destiny on the tumultuous stage of Roman politics. He had earned the rank of praetor—a vital stepping stone in a system where every promotion was a battle against fate—and soon found himself entrusted with the governorship of Aquitania. For about a year, in that rugged and distant province, he honed his skills, preparing for the relentless struggles that lay ahead. Then, in the year 33, he ascended to the pinnacle of Roman political life by becoming consul—a title that few ever achieved and one that set him apart in an empire driven by ambition and bloodshed.

His meteoric rise, however, did not occur in a vacuum. It was forged in the crucible of one of Rome’s most infamous eras—the chaotic reign of Caligula. In the year 39, as whispers of treachery swirled around the mad emperor, Caligula, desperate to secure his position, acted with brutal decisiveness. In a move designed to instill order amid the madness, he installed Galba as the commander of the legions in Germania Superior. In that role, Galba’s reputation for uncompromising discipline grew, and his methods became the stuff of legend—a stern reminder that in the Roman military, there was no room for weakness or hesitation.

Now, let’s pause for a moment and consider the term “decimation.” Today, we might use it loosely to describe any severe defeat, but its roots plunge into the very heart of ancient Rome. The word originates from the Latin for ten—a grim nod to a practice so brutal it still sends shivers down the spine of military historians. When a Roman army showed cowardice, perhaps by retreating in the face of overwhelming danger, the punishment was both symbolic and savage: one in every ten soldiers was selected at random, and the remaining nine were ordered to execute their comrade—beating him to death. This wasn’t an arbitrary act of cruelty; it was a calculated measure meant to instill terror and reinforce the sacred code of honor. By the imperial era, few generals dared to use such a barbaric tool, regarding it as wasteful and excessively harsh. Yet, Galba was said to have employed decimation on at least one occasion—a testament to his relentless commitment to discipline. Imagine the terror that must have gripped a unit of battle-hardened soldiers, knowing that any sign of faltering could lead to the ultimate, and very public, punishment delivered by their own brothers-in-arms.

But Galba’s severity on the battlefield was matched by his adherence to the ancient customs of Rome. Even before he reached the height of middle age, he clung to traditions that had long since faded from the public eye. Twice daily, without fail, his freedmen and slaves would appear before him. In the stark light of dawn, as the first rays of the sun cut through the chill of early morning, they gathered one by one to offer their respectful greetings. Come evening, under the weight of the setting sun and the quiet of the day’s end, they returned to bid him farewell. This ritual was no mere formality; it was a living link to an older, more disciplined Rome—a Rome where every man, regardless of his station, played his part in a grand, time-honored ritual of loyalty and order.

Despite the chaos that defined this era, Galba managed to navigate the treacherous waters of power with a keen sense of survival. When Caligula’s successor, Claudius, ascended to the throne in the year 41, Galba remained largely loyal—a pragmatic decision in a time when shifting allegiances were as common as betrayal. Yet, the whispers of history tell us something even more provocative. Suetonius hints that, in the aftermath of Caligula’s shocking assassination, there were those who advised Galba to seize the throne for himself. Was it a genuine glimpse of ambition, or merely a crafted legend meant to magnify his latent hunger for power? Either way, it casts a long shadow over our understanding of his character—a man who might have been ready to grasp destiny by the reins even then.

In the years that followed, around the year 44 or 45, Galba was appointed governor of Africa—a post that was nothing short of prestigious. Imagine the vast, sun-baked provinces of North Africa, a linchpin in Rome’s economic and military machine, entrusted to a man whose reputation was built on discipline and hard-edged pragmatism. He held this esteemed role until what was called his retirement, likely around the year 49. Yet, in Rome, retirement was never a true escape from the relentless pull of power.

In year 59 or 60, Emperor Nero, sensing the need for a steady hand in troubled lands, recalled Galba and sent him to govern Hispania—a land of rugged frontiers and simmering unrest. This appointment underscored Galba’s enduring value to the empire, even as the old order creaked under the weight of its own contradictions.

Then, in the year 68, the empire reached a boiling point. In Gaul, under the leadership of Gaius Julius Vindex, a rebellion erupted—a spark that threatened to set the entire Roman world ablaze. At this critical juncture, Galba made a decision that would mark his place in history. Refusing to further endorse Nero’s faltering rule, he boldly rejected the title “General of Caesar.” Instead, he proclaimed himself “General of The Senate and People of Rome.” In doing so, he wasn’t just changing a title—he was signaling a profound break with the old order, a declaration that true power resided not in the whims of a single ruler but in the collective will of the people and their governing institutions.

The atmosphere was charged with uncertainty, and the situation grew even more volatile when Nymphidius Sabinus, an imperial official with his own hidden agenda, spread a false rumor among the praetorian guard that Nero had fled to Egypt. This lie, echoing through the corridors of power, fanned the flames of rebellion. At midnight on June 8th, in the year 68, swept up by these rumors and the unstoppable momentum of change, the Senate declared Galba emperor. In that moment, as Nero’s crumbling regime collapsed into chaos, the tormented emperor chose to end his own life.

As Galba marched from Hispania toward Rome, he was flanked by Marcus Salvius Otho, the governor of Lusitania. In the eyes of history, Galba assumed the mantle of emperor with a stark, uncompromising vision. Picture, for a moment, a leader who, much like the unyielding figures of modern epic tales—think Stannis Baratheon—believed that loyalty was not a currency to be rewarded with lavish gifts, but an obligation born of duty. His allies, mere functionaries fulfilling their sworn oaths, were not entitled to accolades beyond their service, while his enemies were to be crushed without mercy, their past transgressions met with a punitive force that left no room for leniency.

Galba’s reputation was as formidable as it was feared—a double-edged sword that cut both ways. The annals of the Spanish and Gallic provinces are replete with tales of his ruthless retribution. When cities wavered in their allegiance, he unleashed a relentless fury: crushing taxes that bled them dry, and tore down walls that once stood as bulwarks of civic pride.

But the iron fist of Galba did not stop at meting out brutal punishments. He was a man who believed that the state’s needs justified even the most draconian measures. Properties belonging to Roman citizens were seized under the guise of serving the common good. Even the Praetorian Guard, the personal legionaries of the emperor, were denied the customary donatives. This bribe, a one-time payment traditionally bestowed upon an emperor’s ascent, was meant to secure the loyalty of these elite soldiers. Yet Galba saw it as an affront to the very honor of their service. To him, their duty was not a commodity to be bought with gold, but a sacred commitment owed solely to the emperor. To pay such a bribe would reduce their valor to mere transaction, undermining the very principles of military discipline and loyalty that he held dear.

Even as modern historians might find a certain grim logic in Galba’s disdain for the donative—given the Praetorians’ later infamy for corruption—the stories that survive of his reign are saturated with accounts of boundless greed. It is a paradox, isn’t it? A man who castigated the use of bribes to secure loyalty, yet whose own hunger for wealth and power was whispered about in every darkened corner of the empire. 

On January 1, in the year 69, the Fourth and Twenty-Second Legions of Germania Superior erupted in defiance—a moment of raw, unbridled fury that still resonates in the annals of history. These battle-hardened soldiers, long accustomed to the brutal rigors of frontier warfare, refused to swear loyalty to Galba. With a visceral act of rebellion, they toppled his statues—symbols of authority forged in the traditions of Rome—and demanded that a new emperor be chosen. This was no mere mutiny; it was a dramatic renunciation of a regime that had lost its moral and martial legitimacy.

The very next day, the contagion of dissent spread further. In Germania Inferior, soldiers—driven by similar discontent and wearied by years of harsh discipline and unfulfilled promises—proclaimed their governor, Aulus Vitellius, as emperor. This act, echoing through the legions of a restless empire, signaled that loyalty to a single ruler was no longer a given. Instead, it was a prize fiercely contested by men who had seen too many broken promises and too much betrayal.

In a desperate bid to salvage his crumbling authority, Galba resorted to a calculated maneuver: he adopted the nobleman Lucius Calpurnius Piso Licinianus as his successor. This was not a mere family arrangement but a strategic ploy designed to lend legitimacy to his rule at a time when every political move was under scrutiny. The adoption was meant to project stability, a tether to the old Roman values and traditions, even as chaos roiled around him. But the treacherous arena of Roman politics was not so easily placated.

Remember Otho? He was the governor of Lusethania who accompanied Galba to Rome at the start of the rebellion. Resentful of being bypassed in the succession, Otho conspired with a cadre of disaffected Praetorian Guards, the very men who were supposed to be the embodiment of imperial loyalty. Their simmering resentment was a potent mix, fueled not only by personal ambition but also by the harsh realities of a regime that had forgotten the sacred duty of rewarding its soldiers. For these men, the customary donative had been callously withheld, a slight that deepened the fissures within the military establishment.

The capital itself, Rome, soon transformed into a powder keg of dissatisfaction. Discontent spread far beyond the Praetorian Guard; it infiltrated Galba’s legion from Hispania and reached detachments from the fleets of Illyria, Britannia, and even Germania. In each corner of the empire, soldiers who had been denied their due rewards and subjected to ruthless purges saw their honor and loyalty being systematically eroded. 

As tensions reached a fever pitch, the stage was set for a final, harrowing act of betrayal. In the swirling chaos of the Forum—the ancient heart of Roman civic life—a soldier, emboldened by the anarchy, boldly claimed to have slain Otho. In that charged moment, Galba’s voice rang out across the tumult, defiant yet desperate: “On what authority?” His words were not merely a question but a challenge to the very legitimacy that had crumbled around him. Lured from the false security of his inner sanctum by conspirators weaving a web of deceit, Galba was drawn out into the open air of the Forum—a place that had witnessed the rise and fall of countless titans of Rome. There, amid the clamor and the clashing of ambitions, he met his ultimate demise.

In an almost surreal and macabre postscript to his tragic downfall, Galba’s severed head was carried—like a grim trophy of conquest—into Otho’s camp. This act was a stark, brutal symbol of the complete disintegration of authority; it sent a clear message that in the relentless, bloody struggle for power, there was no room for mercy or the old rules of loyalty.

Galba’s reign, which had lasted a mere seven tumultuous months, was over. Yet his death was not the end of the chaos. With Galba gone, Otho seized power in Rome, his claim swiftly affirmed by the Senate. But the struggle was far from settled. In Gaul, Vitellius had already been proclaimed emperor by his legions, and he was marching towards Rome. In this fevered, anarchic moment, the declaration of one man as emperor was an irrevocable act—it was a stark choice: attack Otho or be killed.

Welcome to Imperial History, the podcast where we explore the epic stories of empires that shaped the world, from their triumphant rises to their dramatic falls. I’m your host, Eric Alexander.

Emperor Nero is remembered by many as one of the most evil rulers of the ancient world—a tyrant whose notorious deeds were immortalized by the very enemies who sought to tarnish his legacy. The accounts of his reign come largely from hostile sources, leaving us to wonder if he was truly a monster of unmatched cruelty or simply a man unfairly maligned by history’s victors. These sources detail a ruler who blurred the lines between sovereign and performer, transforming his role into an elaborate stage show that scandalized the Roman elite and captivated the common people alike.

Nero’s rule was marked by relentless suspicion and brutal purges. He saw conspiracies in every shadow, and his response was swift and unforgiving—targeting both genuine plotters and innocent bystanders. Obsessed with opulence, he commissioned the magnificent Domus Aurea, his Golden House, a palace of dazzling luxury that stood in stark contrast to the suffering of a people who watched their beloved city burn. During the Great Fire of Rome, as the flames devoured entire neighborhoods, Nero is said to have remained idle, his inaction overshadowed only by the subsequent decision to lay the blame on the burgeoning Christian sect. This accusation sparked a persecution whose grim legacy echoes through the ages.

The grisly tales do not end there. Legends assert that Nero was responsible for the death of his own mother, Agrippina—a deed that shocked even the hardened denizens of Rome. His cruelty extended into his personal relationships as well; he is alleged to have murdered his first two wives, one of whom was pregnant with his child. In an act that defies all convention, he is even said to have castrated a slave boy and taken him as a husband, choosing the youth for his uncanny resemblance to the wife he had slain. Such stories, whether fully true or the product of politically motivated exaggeration, have long cemented Nero’s reputation as a figure of unbridled savagery.

Yet Nero’s reign was not solely defined by acts of personal brutality. On the military and diplomatic fronts, he demonstrated a keen, if ruthless, acumen. He oversaw the war against Parthia by sending his capable general, Corbulo, into battle—a campaign that eventually secured a lasting peace and culminated in a treaty outlining the method by which the ruler of Armenia would be determined. On the distant frontiers of the empire, Nero’s strategic decisions left their mark as well. The rebellion led by Boudicca in Britain was decisively quashed by General Paulinus, reaffirming Rome’s grip on its territories. Simultaneously, the Judean revolt was met with the formidable resolve of General Vespasian, whose actions ensured that unrest in the region would not spiral out of control.

The political landscape within Rome itself was no less turbulent. The infamous Piso conspiracy—a vast network of plots and counterplots—implicated many, including members of Corbulo’s family, thereby deepening the climate of mistrust and prompting further purges. Amid this relentless storm of intrigue and violence, Nero managed to maintain a significant degree of popularity among the population of the city of Rome, who found themselves both enthralled by his dramatic displays of power and reassured by his effective, if harsh, methods in securing Rome’s borders and keeping dissent at bay.

In the provinces, things were different. A rebellion erupted in Gaul and Hispania that would ultimately unravel Nero’s reign. It began when Vindex, the governor of Gallia Lugdunensis, rose up against the oppressive fiscal policies and autocratic excesses that had come to define Nero’s rule. His revolt, fueled by longstanding grievances over heavy taxation and mismanagement, quickly ignited a wider crisis. Seizing the moment, Galba, the governor of Hispania Tarraconensis, declared himself emperor and rallied the loyalty of legions disillusioned by Nero’s erratic governance.

The Senate, alarmed by the cascading dissent and emboldened by the promise of change, swiftly declared Nero an enemy of the people. Even the Praetorian Guard—the protectors of the emperor—turned away from their sovereign, aligning instead with the Senate’s repudiation of Nero. Isolated and abandoned by both the political elite and the military, Nero’s position became untenable.

Aware that capture would lead to a fate far worse than death—an ignominious public humiliation that would forever tarnish his legacy—the emperor resolved to end his own life. On June 9, 68 AD, with his back firmly against the wall, Nero chose suicide as his final act, a desperate bid to reclaim a semblance of control over a destiny that had spiraled irrevocably out of his grasp.

The death of Nero marked not merely the end of an emperor’s life, but the collapse of the Julio-Claudian Dynasty—the very family that had produced both Caesar and Augustus. With Nero’s passing, a monumental chapter in Roman history was abruptly closed. Every Roman had lived under the rule of a member of this venerable lineage, and now the future of the empire hung in a delicate balance. Would Rome be plunged into a perpetual cycle of civil war reminiscent of the turbulent times before Augustus, or could it somehow return to the old republican ideals, even though no formal constitution ever existed? The principate, after all, maintained only the illusion of a republic while concentrating power in the hands of a single ruler.

In the power vacuum that ensued, a dramatic struggle unfolded. Within the span of a single year, four men would be declared emperor by the Senate, each seizing the mantle of leadership amid intense political turmoil. Three of these claimants would soon fall victim to the brutal realities of their ambition, while one man would emerge from the chaos to lay the foundation for Rome’s second dynasty.

Before the storm of civil war and bloodshed could fully erupt, it is essential to understand the men whose ambitions would reshape the destiny of an empire. Let us journey back in time to explore the lives of Galba, Otho, Vitellius, and Vespasian—a quartet of men whose careers, personalities, and motivations were as distinct as they were complex.

Let’s begin with Galba. Born into one of Rome’s most ancient and venerable families, Galba was not a man molded by the glitter of court life but by the austere rigor of military and provincial command. His early career saw him proving his mettle on the distant frontiers of the empire—an environment that honed his discipline and instilled in him a deep respect for the old Roman virtues. Galba was a traditionalist, a man who believed that Rome’s greatness was built on simplicity, order, and honor. In his extensive service in the provinces, he developed a reputation for fairness, severity, and an unyielding commitment to duty. His ambition was driven not by a lust for personal luxury, but by a profound conviction that Rome needed a leader who could restore the dignity and discipline of a bygone era. Galba’s motivations were as much philosophical as they were political; he saw the corruption and excess of imperial decadence as a betrayal of the Republic’s storied past, and he longed to reclaim a purer, more virtuous Rome.

Now, consider Otho. In stark contrast to Galba’s rigid austerity, Otho was born into a world of privilege and cultivated refinement. His early life was steeped in the opulent circles of Rome’s elite, where education, art, and rhetoric were as vital as military prowess. Otho’s personal charm and innate political acumen allowed him to navigate the intricate labyrinth of court intrigue with ease. Unlike Galba, who was the embodiment of conservative discipline, Otho exuded an air of suave elegance and calculated ambition. His career before the tumult of civil war was marked by a series of high-profile political appointments and a reputation for decisive, sometimes daring, maneuvers behind the scenes. Beneath his polished exterior, however, lay a burning desire to prove that his refined sensibilities could translate into the kind of leadership that not only commanded respect but also transformed the fabric of Roman society. Otho wasn’t content to simply inherit the glories of the past; he sought to redefine what it meant to rule, to infuse the imperial office with a blend of cultured sophistication and unyielding authority.

Then there is Vitellius—a man whose very name evokes images of both martial vigor and unrestrained indulgence. Vitellius’ career was a study in contrasts. He cut his teeth on the battlefield, earning a reputation as a formidable military commander in campaigns that tested his resolve and strategic acumen. Yet, equally notable was his penchant for excess, a trait that set him apart from the more stoic figures of his time. Vitellius was a man of raw, unfiltered impulses. His experiences in the heat of combat were matched by his equally passionate approach to the pleasures of power—whether it was the lavish banquets, the exuberant displays of wealth, or the indulgence in the finer tastes of life that his position promised. This duality made Vitellius an unpredictable figure. On one hand, he was celebrated for his battlefield exploits and his capacity to rally troops with a charismatic intensity; on the other, his personal life was a whirlwind of extravagance that bordered on debauchery. His ambition was not tempered by a desire for moral rectitude but was fueled by the intoxicating allure of both conquest and excess—a dangerous combination in the volatile political arena of Rome.

Finally, we turn to Vespasian—a figure whose ascent to power was defined by grit, pragmatism, and a deep-rooted sense of responsibility. Unlike the others, Vespasian’s origins were more humble, and his rise was not guaranteed by the silver spoon of noble birth. Instead, he earned his stripes through years of hard-fought military campaigns and unrelenting determination in the face of adversity. Vespasian’s service in the legions took him to the far reaches of the empire, where his keen insight and tactical brilliance earned him the loyalty of his soldiers and the respect of local populations. His approach to leadership was practical and unsentimental; he saw the role of an emperor not as an opportunity for personal aggrandizement, but as a duty to restore order and stability to a realm that had long been plagued by internal strife. Vespasian’s ambition was rooted in a vision of a reformed Rome—a Rome that could harness the strength of its military and the resilience of its people to overcome chaos and rebuild a more equitable society. His career, marked by hard-won victories and a deep connection with the common soldier, spoke to a man who understood that true power lay in the ability to lead with both courage and compassion.

Welcome to Imperial History, the podcast where we explore the epic stories of empires that shaped the world, from their triumphant rises to their dramatic falls. I’m your host, Eric Alexander.

When we left off, the tide of the Umayyad invasion had, for the first time, been halted. Duke Odo of Aquitaine had struck the first meaningful blow against an army that had, until that moment, seemed unstoppable. And in the rugged northern reaches of the Iberian Peninsula, a man named Pelagius—perhaps an unlikely hero—had done something few would have dared to imagine: he had defied the greatest power in the known world and won.

The battle at Covadonga in 718 was not a decisive engagement in the traditional sense—there was no cataclysmic clash between two massive armies, no open-field slaughter that saw tens of thousands cut down in a single day. Instead, it was something much more insidious, something that the Umayyad commanders would have immediately recognized as deeply problematic. It was a successful rebellion, a defiant flicker in the darkness, one that—unlike so many others—would not be snuffed out.

The Kingdom of Asturias, under Pelagius, had broken free from the Umayyad grip, and the first phase of what would later be called the Reconquista had begun. And yet, despite this defiance, the Umayyads made no real effort to retake Asturias. Why? Because, quite simply, it wasn’t worth it. The economic rewards were minimal, the mountains were treacherous, and the logistical challenge of subduing this tiny corner of Iberia was simply too costly.

But the Umayyads had bigger ambitions. They had set their eyes on a prize far more tantalizing, far more lucrative.

The Kingdom of the Franks.

The Umayyads were not content with merely holding what the Umayyads had already taken. He wanted more. He wanted to expand the reach of the Caliphate deep into the heart of Europe. And so, the Caliphate turned its attention to Septimania—the last vestige of Visigothic rule north of the Pyrenees, a crumbling province clinging to its independence but standing as a tempting target for the forces of Islam. By 725, the mulsims had swept through Septimania, capturing city after city. The great walled fortress of Carcassonne fell. Nîmes, too, yielded to the invaders. The power of the Umayyads now stretched deep into southern Gaul, an empire growing not just in territory, but in confidence.

And yet, they didn’t stop there.

The campaign pressed forward, pushing into the kingdom of Burgundy. The great Frankish heartland was now under threat. By 725, Umayyad forces reached as far as Autun—a city deep in the east, far beyond what most Franks could have ever imagined. For a moment, it seemed as though the Muslims might continue northward, marching ever closer to the core of Frankish power. And if that had happened, if the Franks had fallen as the Visigoths had before them—well, history, as we know it, might have looked very different indeed.

But then, almost as quickly as they had arrived, the Umayyads pulled back. The siege of Autun was brief, the occupation fleeting. They withdrew south, retreating from Burgundy, and the great march northward ground to a halt.

Why?

There are theories. Some say logistical challenges, that they had stretched their supply lines too thin, too quickly. Others argue that the resistance in Burgundy had been stronger than expected. Perhaps Anbasa simply calculated that holding this far-flung territory wasn’t feasible, at least not yet. Whatever the case, the Umayyads abandoned Autun, consolidating their rule over Septimania.

Pushing so far into Gaul, one must wonder; where are the Franks. Where is the great Frankish counter attack? Imagine a realm—one that was meant to be mighty, meant to be powerful. A land that was the very beating heart of Europe. It was meant to be a kingdom of emperors, of warlords, of unbreakable rulers… and yet, it wasn’t.

This is the early medieval kingdom of the Franks. A land that, at least on parchment, was a single realm. But in reality? It was anything but unified. It was fractured, a collection of warring lords and rebellious dukes, each of them more interested in their own power than in the survival of the so-called kingdom. A kingdom that—on paper—should have been an indomitable force, but in practice, was a tempting target. A target for enemies both within and without.

And in the middle of all this? A man. A man who would not be king, but who would be more powerful than any king before him. A man whose descendants would forge an empire out of the wreckage of chaos.

Charles Martel.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Let’s start with why the Frankish kingdom was in such a state to begin with. The Franks had been a dominant force in Europe since the fall of Rome. Under Clovis, their first great king, they had united much of Gaul under their rule. But Clovis had a problem, one that would haunt his kingdom for centuries. Frankish inheritance laws. You see, the Franks didn’t follow primogeniture, the system where the eldest son gets everything. No, in Frankish law, every son of the ruler got a piece of the kingdom. And that might sound fair—except that it meant every generation saw the kingdom shattered into ever-smaller pieces, ruled by rival brothers, cousins, and uncles, all clawing for dominance. And when one of them died? Well, his sons divided his portion even further.

What this meant was that while the Frankish kingdom had the potential to be a European superpower, it spent most of its time at war with itself. Kings weren’t all-powerful rulers; they were, at best, the most dominant warlord in a realm full of warlords. And sometimes, not even that.

Take Duke Odo of Aquitaine. Aquitaine was technically part of the Frankish kingdom, but in reality? Odo ruled it like an independent state. He had his own armies. He made his own decisions. He even fought against the Frankish king when it suited him. France—or, more accurately, what would become France—wasn’t a nation in any real sense. It was a battlefield, a land of noble factions locked in a struggle for power, a place where the title of ‘King’ often meant very little.

And if you’re a foreign power, looking at this mess? Well, you might be thinking, ‘This looks easy.’

But just when it seemed like the kingdom might fall apart completely, a new power began to rise. And that power didn’t come from the throne. It came from the man who held real power: the Mayor of the Palace.

Now, let’s talk about the Merovingians. This was the ruling dynasty of the Franks, going all the way back to Clovis. But by the time—the early 700s—they were barely ruling at all. They had kings, sure, but these kings were more like ceremonial figureheads, puppets on a throne while the real power lay elsewhere. And the person who really held power? That was the Mayor of the Palace.

It’s an interesting title. It sounds almost like a glorified butler, right? Like someone who organizes the king’s household, makes sure the royal court runs smoothly. But in reality? The Mayor of the Palace was the true ruler of the Frankish lands. And by the time we get to Charles Martel, that position had transformed into something akin to a warlord—a ruler in all but name.

And Charles? He wasn’t just any warlord. He was a military genius, a hardened commander, and—maybe most importantly—a man who understood the game of power in a way few others did.

Before Charles could even think about ruling, he had to win his kingdom. And that meant dealing with his rivals, both within and outside the realm. In 718, he faced off against the Neustrians and the Aquitanians, powerful factions within the Frankish world. The Neustrians weren’t just some rebellious noble house—they were a serious rival, a faction that had its own power, its own ambitions, and its own dreams of ruling the Frankish lands.

The two sides met at the Battle of Soissons, a clash that would decide who truly held the reins of power in the Frankish kingdom. Charles crushed the Neustrians and Duke Odo took what remained of his forces and Fled back to Aquitaine, And in doing so, Charles cemented himself as the de facto ruler of the Franks. He wasn’t king—officially, that title still belonged to the Merovingians. But in practice? He was the one calling the shots.

And now that he had control, Charles began his true work: shaping a realm that was actually capable of defending itself. He spent the next decade bringing rebellious nobles to heel, waging campaigns to centralize power, and—most importantly—preparing for the storm he knew was coming.

In 730, the Umayyads returned to Aquitaine. The duchy was still ruled by Duke Odo, a man of pride and ambition. Confident in his past victories, he chose to face the Muslim forces alone. To his credit, he had done it before—crushing the Umayyads at Toulouse in 721. He was, in fact, the first to ever defeat them in open battle.

But this time was different.

From the south came Abd al-Rahman al-Ghafiqi—a warrior, a governor, a strategist. He was not merely leading a raid; he was leading a conquest. His eyes were set on Aquitaine. At his command was an army 20,000 strong. In the days of Rome and Persia, such a force might have been unremarkable, but in this age, it was a juggernaut.

In 732, the two forces met at the River Garonne. The battle was a massacre.

The Umayyad cavalry, swift and ruthless, tore through the Aquitanian lines like a hot blade through wax. The battlefield became a graveyard. Thousands fell, their cries swallowed by the chaos. The Garonne ran red with blood. Duke Odo, once the proud defender of his land, watched in horror as his army was cut to pieces.

He fled.

Only then did he grasp the truth: this was not a war he could win alone.

Fortune, however, offered him a reprieve. Al-Ghafiqi’s men, undisciplined in victory, lost precious time looting monasteries and ransacking the countryside. Seizing the moment, Odo did what had once been unthinkable—he turned to his old rival, Charles.

For years, Odo had defied Charles’ authority, asserting Aquitaine’s independence. But politics, like war, is about survival. And Odo understood this: if he could not convince Charles to stand with him, there would soon be no Aquitaine left to rule.

Charles agreed to assist Odo in return for Odo formally recognizing him as his overlord. After reorganizing his remaining forces, Odo joined Charles, and together they set out for battle.

It was October 10th, 732. Two armies stood poised on a battlefield near the city of Tours, On one side, a battle-hardened Frankish force and on the other, the Umayyad Caliphate’s elite, an army forged in the fires of conquest.

Before a single sword was drawn in earnest, Charles played the long game. He knew his enemy. He understood the power of the Umayyad cavalry, warriors who had ridden through the Iberian Peninsula like a scythe through wheat. A head-on clash in open terrain? That would have been suicide. Charles, ever the tactician, needed an edge. He chose his battlefield carefully, positioning his forces on high ground, among thick forests and uneven terrain—places where cavalry charges would lose momentum, where the Franks’ steadfast infantry, trained and hardened by years of warfare, could stand firm against the storm.

For an entire week, both sides stared each other down, an eerie calm before the inevitable clash. Abdul Rahman, ever the strategist himself, held back, waiting for reinforcements, watching, calculating. But Martel had patience—an iron will forged through years of conflict. His forces stayed disciplined, their numbers obscured by the landscape. He was drawing the Umayyads into his web, and when the moment came, he would spring the trap.

And then, after seven days, the dam burst. Abdul Rahman, sensing that time was slipping through his fingers, unleashed his cavalry. The first wave hit like thunder—horses and men slammed into the Frankish lines, expecting the usual result: panic, collapse, victory. But Martel’s men… held.

The chaos was unimaginable. The sounds—the clash of iron, the desperate screams of men being trampled under hooves, the battle cries echoing across the hills—filled the air. Again and again, the Umayyad cavalry charged, their lances piercing flesh, their swords hacking at the Frankish shield wall. And yet, time and time again, the Franks, like a living fortress, absorbed the impact and refused to break.

And then came the turning point—the moment where history pivoted on a knife’s edge.

Somewhere on that battlefield, a rumor took root among the Umayyad forces. It spread like wildfire. Their camp, the place where they had stored their plunder, their wealth, their very livelihood, was under attack. Maybe it was a group of Frankish raiders. Maybe it was just battlefield paranoia. We will never know for sure.

But we do know what happened next.

A portion of the Umayyad army peeled away from the fight, rushing to defend what they believed was under siege. The discipline that had held them together—gone in an instant. And Martel, ever the opportunist, saw his opening. He ordered a counteroffensive. His men surged forward, pressing into the now-weakened Umayyad ranks. And somewhere in that swirling maelstrom of steel and death, Abdul Rahman Al Ghafiqi fell.

Leaderless, bleeding, and suddenly very aware that they were in a fight they could no longer win, the Umayyads began to retreat. Under the cover of darkness, they abandoned their camp, their supplies, their wounded. 

By dawn, the battlefield belonged to the Franks. The battle resulted in the deaths of 12,000 Umayyads, while only 1000 Franks perished.

The morning after was eerie. The Frankish forces, expecting another attack, found only silence. The Umayyads were gone, slipping south, back across the Pyrenees, back to the lands they had conquered so effortlessly before. But their advance into the heart of Europe? Stopped cold. 

In the years that followed, Martel became a legend. The man who had held the line, the man who had turned back the tide. They called him “The Hammer,” a name as fitting as any in military history.

Would the Umayyads have eventually pushed further into Europe if they had won that day? Would the world we know today be entirely different?

Historians still debate the importance of the Battle of Tours. Was it truly the battle that saved Christendom? Or was it merely one clash in a much longer struggle? The answer may depend on perspective. But one thing is certain: After Tours, the Umayyads would never again push so deeply into Western Europe. And on that October day in 732, in a battle that could have tipped the balance of civilization, Charles Martel and his Franks stood their ground.

Welcome to Imperial History, the podcast where we explore the epic stories of empires that shaped the world, from their triumphant rises to their dramatic falls. I’m your host, Eric Alexander.

In our last episode, we left on a rather dramatic note—the Battle of Guadalete, where King Roderic, the last king of the Visigoths, was cut down as 7,000 determined and battle-hardened Muslim soldiers swept north from Gibraltar into the heart of Hispania. What followed would change the fate of the Iberian Peninsula forever. But before we move forward into the chaos of invasion and rebellion, let’s rewind a bit and dig into the story of a man who would unexpectedly become one of the most pivotal figures of this time—Pelagius, or as the Spanish call him, Don Pelayo.

Who was he? That’s a mystery wrapped in centuries of myth and legend. Even the chroniclers of his time couldn’t agree on his origins. Some say he was a Visigothic nobleman, a descendant of the old warrior aristocracy that had ruled Hispania since the fall of the Roman Empire. Others claim he was of Roman lineage, a symbol of the old imperial bloodlines lingering in the shadows of a crumbling post-Roman world.

What most sources do agree on is this: Pelagius and his family had been victims of the brutal political power struggles that consumed the Visigothic court. One name stands out in this story—Wittiza, a king remembered by later historians as corrupt, cruel, and dangerously unpredictable. It’s said that Wittiza had Pelagius exiled from the royal city of Toledo, banishing him to the far northern reaches of Hispania, beyond the mountains and into the wild and remote territory of Asturias.

Now, at the time, this probably felt like the worst possible fate for Pelagius—a death sentence for his family’s ambitions, cutting them off from the power and influence of the Visigothic court. Imagine it: You’ve grown up in a world where wealth and status are everything, where alliances are built on who you know at court. And suddenly, you’re cast out into the wilderness, watching from the sidelines as the political drama unfolds in Toledo, powerless to change your fate.

But here’s where the story takes a wild turn.

That exile may have saved his life.

When the Muslim armies under Tariq ibn Ziyad landed on the southern shores of Hispania in 711, Toledo—the city where Pelagius might have once lived—was directly in their path. King Roderic, already weakened by internal divisions and struggling to hold his kingdom together, was overwhelmed. The Visigothic forces were shattered at Guadalete, and within months, much of the peninsula was under Muslim control.

Had Pelagius remained in Toledo, he would likely have shared the same fate as so many Visigothic nobles—dead, enslaved, or forced to submit to the new rulers of Hispania. Instead, he was far away in the rugged, unforgiving north, a place the Muslim invaders initially had little interest in. It was a region known for its isolation and fierce independence, where the people had never fully embraced the rule of distant kings—whether Roman, Visigothic, or otherwise.

And here’s where we begin to see the outlines of the legend.

So here we are. It’s 718, and by this point, Hispania—or what’s left of it—is almost unrecognizable. The Muslim armies, initially just 7,000 men under the command of Tariq ibn Ziyad, had grown into a tide of reinforcements under Musa ibn Nusayr, the formidable governor of Ifriqiya. With every passing year, they pushed further and further into the peninsula, tightening their grip. 

The Visigothic kingdom had been obliterated. Its last remnants, once clinging to life in the northeastern region we now call Catalonia, were led by Ardo, a shadow of what the Visigothic kings once were. Some say Ardo fought until his death, desperately trying to hold back the inevitable. Others claim he made a deal with the new Muslim rulers, securing a place for himself as a representative of Christian interests in the Islamic court. Either way, it didn’t matter in the long run. When the Muslims finally captured Narbonensis, the last Visigothic stronghold, the conquest was complete.

The Visigoths were gone. Their kingdom had fallen into history like so many before it, another casualty in the endless churn of empires. And as often happens in history, some adapted and survived, bending the knee to the new rulers. The nobility began swearing oaths of loyalty to the Umayyad Caliphate. Even the family of the former king Wittiza, whose rule had been so disastrous, now found themselves negotiating favorable terms with the new masters of Hispania. They chose survival over honor, submitting to Muslim rule in exchange for land, wealth, or simply the chance to keep breathing.

But there was one man who refused to kneel. In 718, Pelagius—this once exiled noble – was elected as the leader of Asturias, the rugged mountainous region in the far north. Now, if you’re imagining Asturias as a safe, peaceful haven in these chaotic times, think again. The north of Hispania was a wild, harsh place, filled with steep mountains, deep valleys, and people who had always lived on the edge of the world. They weren’t city dwellers or courtly aristocrats; they were herders and warriors, fiercely independent and deeply suspicious of any authority beyond their local chieftains.

Pelagius started by rallying the local population, building a small but determined force from the rugged highlands of Asturias. At first, it might have seemed like a fool’s errand. What chance did a handful of mountain warriors have against the most powerful empire in the world? The Umayyad Caliphate stretched from the Atlantic to the Indus. They had crushed the Visigoths, who were a professional military force, and yet here was Pelagius—leading what was essentially a guerrilla uprising in the backwoods of Hispania.

When the Muslims swept across the peninsula, they brought with them a highly organized system of governance. Taxation was key to maintaining control, and non-Muslims—dhimmis—were required to pay the jizya, a tax that symbolized submission to Islamic rule. Most of the surviving Visigothic elite accepted it. After all, if you could keep your land, your title, and avoid execution by paying a tax, it wasn’t the worst deal in history.

But Pelagius refused. Refusing to pay the jizya was a declaration of rebellion. The refugees who had fled north to escape Muslim rule were ripe for recruitment. Many were former soldiers, aristocrats, or dispossessed farmers who had lost everything when the Visigothic kingdom fell. These people had nothing left to lose, and in the wild mountains of Asturias, they found something they hadn’t had in years: a leader, and a cause worth fighting for.

Pelagius’s first moves were hit-and-run attacks—the kind of guerrilla tactics that work best in rough terrain. They struck at small Muslim garrisons, then melted back into the mountains before reinforcements could arrive. And in one of his boldest early moves, Pelagius drove out the provincial governor, Munuza, and took control of large parts of Asturias.

At first, Córdoba barely noticed. The Umayyad Caliphate had bigger fish to fry. Their eyes were on Narbonne and Gaul, where Muslim forces were raiding deep into Frankish territory, eyeing the heart of Europe. In comparison, the rebellion in Asturias seemed like a minor nuisance—a mosquito bite in the grand scheme of an empire that stretched from the Atlantic to the Indus.

For years, the response was half-hearted at best. Occasional expeditions were sent into the mountains to deal with Pelagius, but the Muslim commanders found the terrain difficult and the enemy elusive. They would temporarily establish control, only to have Pelagius reappear as soon as they left. This wasn’t a conventional war. It was something older, something tribal, fought in the hills and forests where armies couldn’t maneuver, where supply lines were impossible to maintain.

The Umayyads didn’t see Pelagius as a true threat, and perhaps at the time, he wasn’t. He had no grand army, no organized state—just a growing network of mountain warriors who refused to be conquered. What kept him alive wasn’t sheer strength; it was the fact that the Umayyads didn’t have the manpower or the interest to fully crush his insurrection.

But the rebellion refused to die.

Then, something happened that changed everything. In the early 720s, the Umayyads suffered a major defeat—not in Asturias, but far away in Gaul, at the hands of the Franks. 

The governor of Al-Andalus, formerly Hispania, set his sights on the city of Toulouse. Toulouse was a prize worth taking, and the man leading the Umayyad force—Al-Samh ibn Malik al-Khawlani, the governor of Al-Andalus—intended to seize it. Al-Samh had reason to feel confident. After all, no one had successfully stopped the Umayyads since they first set foot in Iberia. City after city had fallen, and local rulers either submitted or perished.

This campaign was supposed to be no different.

But it didn’t quite go as planned.

Duke Odo wasn’t in Toulouse when the siege began. His absence seemed like a stroke of good luck for the besieging force. With their leader gone, the city’s defenders were isolated, outnumbered, and doomed to fall. Odo, however, wasn’t running away; he was searching for reinforcements, trying to muster whatever help he could from his allies to the north. He gathered what he could—Aquitanian, Gascon, and even some Frankish troops—and marched back to Toulouse.

By this point, the city was on the brink of collapse. Al-Samh and his forces had been hammering its walls for months. Supplies were running out, and surrender seemed inevitable. But here’s where the overconfidence of the Umayyad army became their downfall. Convinced that victory was only days away, they had grown careless. They didn’t bother maintaining outer defenses around their camp. They stopped sending out regular patrols to scout for threats. Why would they? The city was theirs for the taking—or so they thought.

Then, on June 9, 721, Odo returned.

It was an attack straight out of a military manual on how not to let your guard down during a siege. Odo’s forces struck hard, hitting the Umayyads from two directions—from within the city walls and from behind with his newly assembled army. The Umayyads were caught completely off guard. They had been expecting surrender, not a counterattack, and when the assault came, it came with terrifying speed and precision.

Chaos erupted in the siege camp. The Umayyad soldiers—many of them resting, unarmed, or scattered—had no time to organize a defense. Odo’s forces cut them down where they stood. Some tried to fight back; most ran for their lives. The result was a massacre. Those who fled were cut down in the surrounding countryside, hunted by Odo’s men in brutal pursuit. The siege had turned into a slaughter.

Al-Samh ibn Malik al-Khawlani, the once-proud governor of Al-Andalus, managed to escape, but with only a fraction of his army. He would later die of injuries from the battle.

Suddenly, the expansion of the Caliphate into Europe ground to a halt. The strategic focus shifted, resources were redirected, and the rebellion in Asturias—this seemingly insignificant thorn in their side—was no longer just a local problem. The stage was now set for something legendary.

History can be tricky. Sometimes we look back and see what appears to be a grand, defining moment—a heroic stand that changes everything. But often, when we dig a little deeper, we find that these events weren’t so clear-cut at the time. The Battle of Covadonga is one of those moments.

Depending on which account you read, Covadonga was either a turning point in history, the first real victory of the native peoples of Hispania over the Muslim invaders… or just an insignificant skirmish, barely worth mentioning in contemporary records.

The truth, as always, lies somewhere in between.

By 722, Pelagius and his followers had become a thorn in the side of the Umayyad authorities in the region. Some sources claim that the Muslim forces sent to confront him were battle-hardened troops retreating from Gaul, who were looking for an easy victory after their losses in the north. Others say it was just a large patrol, sent to crush this lingering nuisance in the mountains once and for all.

Regardless of the reason, something happened at Covadonga—something that would echo through the centuries.

According to Christian sources, this was the first significant victory over the Muslims in open battle. This wasn’t just another raid or skirmish; this was a real fight, and it ended with a massive Muslim defeat. But how accurate are those accounts? That’s where things get murky. The Mozarabic Chronicle of 754, one of the few Christian sources that provides a near-contemporary account of the major events in Hispania, doesn’t even mention Covadonga. Meanwhile, Arabic sources either downplay it as a minor skirmish or ignore it altogether.

So what really happened?

Here’s what we know—or at least what the later chronicles claim.

Pelagius may have had as few as 300 men. Not exactly an army, even by the standards of the time. But if there’s one thing history has shown us, it’s that terrain matters. And the Asturian mountains were perfect for guerrilla warfare. Narrow passes, steep cliffs, thick forests—this was Pelagius’s domain. He knew every trail, every cave, every hidden path.

When the Umayyad general Alqama arrived at Covadonga, he brought a significant force—large enough that he felt confident enough to end this rebellion once and for all. Before launching an attack, Alqama sent an envoy to offer terms of surrender to Pelagius.

Pelagius refused.

Alqama ordered his best troops into a valley. It was a classic tactical error—one that commanders have been making for thousands of years. His soldiers were advancing into terrain that was perfectly suited for an ambush, surrounded by high cliffs and dense woods.

As Alqama’s men moved into the valley, arrows and stones rained down from above. The Asturians had positioned themselves on the slopes of the surrounding mountains, using the natural landscape to their advantage. Then, at the climactic moment, Pelagius led a surprise charge from a cave where he and his men had been hiding. The Muslim forces were caught in a trap, surrounded and unable to maneuver in the narrow space.

The Christian sources describe it as an overwhelming victory—a massacre. Alqama himself fell in the fighting, and with their commander dead, the remaining Umayyad forces broke and fled. What followed was pure chaos. As they retreated through the mountain passes, the local villagers—armed and emboldened by Pelagius’s victory—emerged from their homes and attacked the fleeing soldiers. Hundreds of Umayyad troops were killed in the aftermath, cut down as they tried to escape.

But it didn’t end there.

Munuza, the same provincial governor Pelagius had driven out before, tried to rally the survivors and organize another attack. Gathering what was left of his forces, he confronted Pelagius near the modern town of Proaza. This time, however, the balance of power had shifted. Pelagius’s victory at Covadonga had drawn more men to his cause, swelling his ranks. What had once been a small band of rebels was now a formidable force.

The two sides clashed again, and once again, Pelagius emerged victorious. Munuza was killed in the fighting, and with his death, the Umayyads abandoned their efforts to control Asturias—at least for the time being.

In the aftermath of these battles, Pelagius’s rebellion transformed into something much bigger. No longer a ragtag insurgency, it became the foundation of the Kingdom of Asturias, a Christian stronghold that would stand for centuries as a bulwark against Muslim expansion. Later generations would look back at Covadonga as the moment it all began—the first victory of the Reconquista, a centuries-long struggle to reclaim Hispania.

Welcome to Imperial History, the podcast where we explore the epic stories of empires that shaped the world, from their triumphant rises to their dramatic falls. I’m your host, Eric Alexander.

Imagine a war that lasts not for years, not for decades… but for centuries. A war that spans generations—so long that the people who started it would be remembered only as legends by those who finally ended it.

This is the story of the Reconquista.

It wasn’t one war, not really. It was something messier… something more complicated. It was a long, grinding struggle—part holy war, part political chess match, part personal vendetta—that played out on the rugged, sun-scorched landscapes of the Iberian Peninsula. It wasn’t fought by a single army or a single king. It was a patchwork conflict waged by dozens of kingdoms, warlords, and dynasties, sometimes united by faith, other times torn apart by greed and ambition.

It began in 711 AD, when the Islamic armies of the Umayyad Caliphate swept across Iberia, toppling the Visigothic Kingdom in a matter of months. And from the highlands of Asturias to the plains of Castile, the christians bided their time, waiting for the chance to take it all back.

Over the next seven centuries, the Reconquista would become something far bigger than a military campaign. It would evolve into a clash of civilizations, a battle between Christian and Muslim powers—not just for territory, but for the soul of Iberia.

But how did the Visigoths—a people once powerful enough to challenge the mighty Roman Empire—fall so quickly and decisively? To understand their downfall, we must first examine the state of their kingdom before the storm of external invasions swept across Iberia.

Witiza isn’t exactly a household name. He doesn’t get the attention of, say, Alaric—who sacked Rome in 410 AD—or Theodoric the Great, who ruled over the Ostrogoths like some sort of barbarian emperor. No, Witiza is different. He’s one of those rulers you only hear about when you start peeling back the layers of history, and by the time you’re done, you realize his story is one of missed opportunities, betrayals, and the kind of political intrigue that would make Game of Thrones look like child’s play.

Now, let’s back up a bit. The Visigoths had been ruling Hispania for centuries. They were originally Germanic outsiders, but over time, they built a powerful kingdom on the ruins of the Western Roman Empire. And yet, by the time Witiza takes the throne, things are looking… rough. Internal factions are at each other’s throats. The church and the nobility are engaged in a cold war of influence, and the system of government—once a balance of military strength and political maneuvering—has turned into an unstable mess. The kind of mess that collapses the moment a real threat appears.

Witiza comes to power in 698 AD, following in the footsteps of his father, Egica. And let’s just say he doesn’t inherit the throne of a stable empire. His father had already spent much of his reign cracking down on rivals, persecuting Jewish communities in an attempt to shore up his own power, and dealing with economic crises that had left the kingdom vulnerable. By the time Witiza steps in, he’s not taking over a well-oiled machine—he’s inheriting a kingdom that’s slowly being pulled apart at the seams.

Now, depending on who you ask, Witiza is either a reformer or a tyrant. Some sources claim he tried to limit the power of the church—repealing laws that enforced clerical celibacy, for example. Others argue that he was consolidating power in his own hands, placing family members in key positions to ensure total control. Either way, one thing is clear: he made enemies. A lot of them.

Limiting the power of the Church during this time was no easy task. When the Germanic warlords took over the remnants of the Western Roman Empire, they established a warrior aristocracy. But while they knew how to fight, they had little experience in governing. They didn’t understand how to manage a complex civilization like Rome, with its sophisticated institutions and administrative systems.

To compensate for this gap, they delegated much of that responsibility to the Church. The Church held the institutional knowledge necessary to run a state. Its members were the most highly educated people of the time, and they controlled vast resources, making it an indispensable pillar of governance and power.

Now, here’s where things get interesting. Because when Witiza dies—whether by natural causes or something more sinister—there’s no smooth transition of power. His supporters want his son on the throne. His enemies want him gone. And in the middle of all this chaos, a new king emerges: Roderic.

Let’s set the stage.

Roderic—sometimes called Rodrigo—is a powerful warlord. Some say he was the Duke of Baetica, a veteran commander who seized the throne through force. Whatever his origin, not everyone agreed that Roderic should be king. Spain’s noble class was split. Some supported Witiza’s heirs, believing they had the rightful claim. Others—likely seeing an opportunity—threw their support behind Roderic. The result? A kingdom divided, and a distracted ruler

Achila II was a rival king who controlled parts of northeastern Hispania, including Tarraconensis (around present-day Catalonia) and possibly parts of Narbonensis in southern Gaul. Achila’s reign is believed to have begun around 710 AD, overlapping with Roderic’s. Another supposed claimant to the throne was Oppas was a Visigothic noble and possibly a bishop. Some sources suggest he might have had ambitions for the throne or at least played a major political role in the power struggle. According to later chronicles, Oppas is accused of siding with the Muslim invaders, helping facilitate Roderic’s downfall, though his exact role is debated and may have been exaggerated in later Christian sources.

Now, when a kingdom is fractured like this, you expect backstabbing. You expect betrayals. But what you don’t expect… is someone to invite the enemy in.

Enter Count Julian.

Now, who was Julian? That’s a great question. Depending on which source you read, he’s either a loyal general betrayed by his king, or one of history’s greatest villains. He was the governor of Ceuta, a Visigothic stronghold in North Africa, right across from Spain. Basically, he was the guy responsible for defending the kingdom’s southern flank. 

And here’s where things get interesting.

There’s a story—one that medieval chroniclers loved to tell—that Julian had a daughter, Florinda la Cava. She had supposedly been sent to the royal court in Toledo, as many noble daughters were, to receive an elite education or serve in the royal household. And while she was there, according to legend, Roderick raped her.

Let’s stop right there.

This part of the story is controversial. We don’t know if it actually happened, or if it was a later addition by medieval writers looking to dramatize the downfall of a kingdom. But the idea that a king’s lust led to his empire’s downfall? It’s the kind of narrative that historians in the Middle Ages ate up. It turns a geopolitical disaster into a moral tale

True or not, the legend says Julian wanted revenge. And revenge, in this case, meant betrayal on a massive scale.

And so, in the early months of 711 AD, Count Julian reaches out to an unexpected ally—Tariq ibn Ziyad, a general in the service of the Umayyad governor of North Africa, Musa ibn Nusayr.

The Umayyads were the heirs to an Islamic explosion that, within a single lifetime, spread from the Arabian Peninsula to the Indus River, from the heart of Persia to the fortress cities of North Africa. By 705 AD, the Umayyads had conquered North Africa. They solidified their control, integrated local tribes, and converted thousands of Berbers to Islam. But this wasn’t just about religion—it was about recruitment. The Berbers didn’t just become Muslims they became warriors. Warriors who would soon march north, across the sea, into the heart of a divided, crumbling Visigothic kingdom.

And in 711 AD, under Tariq ibn Ziyad, those Berber and Arab warriors, battle-hardened from decades of conflict in North Africa, would cross into Spain. And what began as an expedition would turn into a cataclysm.

Now, Tariq is a fascinating character. He’s a Berber, not an Arab. A warrior with a reputation for fierce, unconventional tactics. And when Julian whispers in his ear that Spain is ripe for the taking, Tariq listens.

Sometime in April of 711 AD, Tariq gathers a small force—about 7,000 men, mostly Berbers, not Arabs. This isn’t a full-scale invasion yet—it’s a test. A scouting mission. But because Julian controls Ceuta, he helps them cross the Strait of Gibraltar without resistance. He gives them intelligence, supplies, and a safe landing. Without Julian? This whole invasion probably doesn’t happen—at least not this easily.

Tariq’s men land near a rocky outcrop that will one day bear his name—Jabal Tariq… or as we call it today: Gibraltar.

At first, it’s just raids. Small, fast-moving attacks on Visigothic settlements. But then, something unexpected happens. There’s no serious resistance. No great Visigothic army rushing to push them back into the sea.

Tariq realizes something shocking: the gates of Spain are open.

Roderick, meanwhile, doesn’t even know this is happening. He’s off in the north, putting down a rebellion, because, again—his kingdom is already falling apart. By the time he hears that Muslim forces have landed, it’s already too late. He scrambles together an army, supposedly twice the size of Tariq’s force—maybe 25,000 to 30,000 men.

By July of 711 AD, the two armies meet near the Guadalete River, somewhere in southern Spain.

And what happens next… changes history.

Roderic’s men are mostly heavy cavalry, Visigothic nobles in armor, ready to ride down their enemies. Tariq, on the other hand, commands an army built for speed and agility. His men are used to desert warfare, ambush tactics. They’re fast, relentless, and smart.

The battle rages for days. And then, at a critical moment, Visigothic loyalty shatters. Some of Roderic’s own commanders switch sides. They pull their forces back, leaving gaps in the line, allowing the muslim cavalry the ability to encircle Roderick’s forces. The army routed. The casualties were massive.

And Roderick?

Well, no one really knows what happened to him.

Some accounts say he died in battle, his body lost in the chaos. Others claim he tried to flee, only to drown in the Guadalete River. His body is never found. The last Visigothic king just disappears—swallowed by history.

What matters is this: the Visigothic army ceases to exist.

And when that army falls… so does the kingdom.

After Guadalete, everything unravels shockingly fast.

The Muslim forces, now emboldened, push forward. Cities surrender one after another—some by force, others because their rulers would rather negotiate than die. The capital of Toledo as well as major cities like Seville and Cordoba fell with little resistance.

By the time Musa ibn Nusayr, Tariq’s superior, arrives in 712 AD with fresh reinforcements, Spain was practically conquered.

But every great conquest breeds its own resistance. As unstoppable as the Muslim forces seemed, history rarely moves in straight lines. No empire—no matter how fast its rise—ever truly has an open road.

And in the chaos that followed the Muslim conquest of Spain, whispers of resistance began to spread through the crumbling ruins of the Visigothic kingdom. Imagine the scene: small bands of survivors—refugees, local nobles, and warriors—fleeing north into the rugged mountains of Asturias, where the land itself becomes a fortress. It’s wild, inhospitable country where few armies dare to venture, and it’s here, in this isolated northern corner, that one man will emerge—a figure who will stand against the tide and refuse to submit.

But resistance in Spain isn’t the only force brewing against this unstoppable wave. To the north, beyond the Pyrenees, a new kind of warrior-king is preparing to meet the challenge head-on.

A king? No. Not yet. He’s a mayor of the palace, technically a servant of the Frankish kingdom, but in reality, the power behind the throne. Think of him like a king who hasn’t bothered to take the title yet. He’s not interested in politics or fancy titles. He’s a warrior—brutal, relentless, and forged in the fires of battle.

Heroes are about to be forged in the fires of these battles. One man will light a spark of rebellion in the north of Spain. Another man will bring the hammer down on an unstoppable advance and prevent the Muslim expansion into the heart of Europe.

Their names will become legendary. Their battles, the stuff of myth. And their victories will set the stage for a conflict that will burn across the next seven centuries.

Welcome to Imperial History, the podcast where we explore the epic stories of empires that shaped the world, from their triumphant rises to their dramatic falls. I’m your host, Eric Alexander.

So here we are again… just two years after the last great war between the successors of Alexander the Great, another one breaks out. The ink is barely dry on the settlements from the last bloodbath, and already, the same men—who have spent decades fighting, scheming, betraying—are at it again. Because for these men, power is never enough.

See, when Alexander died in 323 BC, he left behind the greatest empire the world had ever seen… and no clear successor. It was an empire that stretched from the shores of Greece to the mountains of India. But an empire is only as strong as the hands that hold it, and with Alexander gone, his generals—his most trusted men—weren’t about to just sit back and let someone else rule over what they thought should be theirs. So they fought, and they kept fighting, through war after war, tearing apart what Alexander had built in a brutal contest of ambition.

And in 307 BC, the contest was far from over.

Ptolemy, down in Egypt, had been quietly—but aggressively—expanding his influence. He was reaching into the Aegean, securing Cyprus, fortifying his naval power. He had carved out a kingdom that was, at least for now, stable. Meanwhile, Seleucus, out in the east, was consolidating his hold over the vast lands stretching from Syria to the farthest reaches of Alexander’s conquests. But Antigonus? Antigonus wasn’t going to wait. He had always been the most dangerous of Alexander’s successors, and he had spent years preparing for another shot at dominance.

And so the war began again.

This time, Antigonus sent his son—Demetrius, the man history would remember as Poliorketes, the “besieger”—to retake Greece. And what a figure Demetrius was. If history had action heroes, Demetrius would be one of them. He was charismatic, bold, and most importantly, he was good at war.

In 307 BC, Demetrius arrived in Athens, a city that had been under the control of Cassander’s governor, Demetrius of Phaleron. Now, the Athenians? They had not forgotten what it meant to be free, and when Demetrius stormed in, they didn’t resist. In fact, they welcomed him. He kicked out Cassander’s governor and, in an act of political theater, proclaimed Athens free once again. And that was a big deal. Because Athens was still Athens—it had a name, a history, a legacy. If Demetrius was in control of Athens, he wasn’t just some warlord—he was a liberator, a champion of Greek freedom. At least, that’s how he wanted to be seen.

But Athens was just the beginning.

Demetrius set his sights on an even bigger target: Ptolemy. He turned his war machine toward Cyprus, the strategic island that Ptolemy had been using as a naval base. If Demetrius could take Cyprus, he could deal a serious blow to Ptolemy’s ambitions.

And that’s when things got really intense.

In 306 BC, the two sides met in what would be one of the greatest naval battles of the era: The Battle of Salamis—not that Salamis, the famous one from the Persian Wars a century and a half earlier, but another Salamis, a battle just as dramatic in its own way.

Imagine the scene: hundreds of warships lining up in formation, the sun gleaming off their bronze rams, the sound of drums and oars splashing in unison. This was naval warfare in the ancient world—massive ships packed with marines, built not just for sailing, but for boarding, for ramming, for brutal hand-to-hand combat on the decks.

When the dust settled, Demetrius had won a stunning victory. Ptolemy’s fleet was shattered. Not only did Demetrius win—he captured 40 of Ptolemy’s warships intact, crews and all. That was huge. Capturing a ship meant adding it to your own navy, strengthening your fleet while weakening your enemy’s. But the real prize? Over a hundred of Ptolemy’s transport ships, loaded with some 8,000 troops, were taken. Just imagine that—8,000 trained soldiers, ready to fight for Ptolemy, now in the hands of Demetrius. It was a crushing defeat.

Fresh from his son’s stunning naval victory at Salamis, Antigonus saw an opportunity. He declared himself king. No more regencies, no more mere claims to legitimacy in Alexander’s shadow—he crowns himself, and he places his son Demetrius at his side as co-king.

It’s a move that will send shockwaves through the ancient world.

Now, to understand the audacity of this moment, we have to step back. Because the Macedonian throne? It had been in a state of chaos since Alexander’s death in 323 BC. His legitimate heir, Alexander IV, had been murdered by Cassander in 309 BC, and since then, the Diadochi—the successors—had danced a delicate and brutal waltz of power.

For years, these men had paid lip service to the idea that they were guardians of Alexander’s empire, stewards of his legacy, pretending as if they were merely waiting for a legitimate heir to emerge. But by 306? That pretense was dead. And when Antigonus took the title of Basileus, or king, it was an open challenge to all the others. And the others? They weren’t about to let him get away with that.

Upon hearing of Antigonus’ self-crowning, his rivals acted swiftly. Ptolemy in Egypt, Seleucus in Babylon, Lysimachus in Thrace, and finally, even Cassander in Macedon—they all followed suit, crowning themselves kings. The illusion of unity, of a single Macedonian empire, shattered once and for all. Each now ruled as sovereign, each now laid claim to their own piece of Alexander’s shattered dream.

And in the midst of this chaos stood Demetrius, the son of Antigonus, the man history would come to know as Demetrius Poliorketes, the Besieger. With his father’s blessing, Demetrius launched a campaign across Greece, sweeping through central territories, expelling Cassander’s forces from key strongholds. By the spring of 303, he had entered the Peloponnese, taking Sicyon and Corinth, expanding his father’s influence further. He moved like a storm through Argolis, Achaea, Arcadia—bringing the northern and central Peloponnese under Antigonid control.

Demetrius formed a new Hellenic League, the League of Corinth, reviving the very institution Alexander had used decades earlier to rally the Greeks under his banner. But this was not a league for the sake of Greek freedom. No, this was a league with himself and his father at the top, a tool to solidify control over the Greek world and position themselves as its protectors.

Cassander saw what was happening and knew he had to act. He sued for peace. But Antigonus? He was not a man for compromise. He rejected Cassander’s offer outright. And so Demetrius marched north, into Thessaly, clashing with Cassander’s forces in battle after battle, though neither side could claim victory outright.

But here’s where history throws a curveball. Because while Demetrius was fighting in Greece, his father’s position in Asia was being threatened. Lysimachus, one of the kings who had declared himself sovereign in response to Antigonus’ move, saw an opening. With Demetrius occupied in Thessaly, Lysimachus launched an invasion of Anatolia, forcing Antigonus to call his son back from Greece. Just like that, the stage was set for a final confrontation, a showdown that would determine the fate of the Antigonid dynasty.

For Antigonus, it must have felt like the climax of a long life of struggle. In his eighties now—an age practically unheard of for a battlefield commander—he had spent the past twenty years fighting, scheming, and warring to reclaim the empire that Alexander had left behind. And now, here he was—leading an army of 70,000 infantry, 10,000 cavalry, and 75 war elephants. Because, just as Antigonus thought he had positioned himself well, the balance shifted. From the east, Seleucus I Nicator arrived to reinforce Lysimachus and Cassander, bringing an army that was smaller in infantry but contained a trump card Antigonus could never have predicted—400 war elephants. Now, this was a staggering number. War elephants were the superweapons of their day, massive beasts capable of crushing infantry underfoot, terrifying cavalry into flight, and sowing sheer chaos on the battlefield. Seleucus had acquired them during his eastern campaigns in India, and now they were here, on the plains of Ipsus, poised to change the fate of the Hellenistic world.

And so, the battle began

Demetrius, eager to make his mark, led the cavalry charge against Seleucus’s right flank. And for a moment—just a moment—it looked like he might break through. His elite Companion cavalry smashed into Seleucus’s forces, and they started to push them back. But Demetrius—so very much like his father in his boldness—made a crucial mistake. He pushed too far. He drove his cavalry deep into enemy lines, so deep that he lost contact with the main battle.

And that’s when Seleucus made his move. With terrifying precision, he deployed his elephants to cut off Demetrius’s retreat. Suddenly, Antigonus’s son and his cavalry are trapped outside the battlefield, unable to return to help their embattled phalanx. And the moment Demetrius is isolated, the tide turns.

Antigonus looked around—his massive phalanx of 70,000 men suddenly finds itself leaderless, surrounded. What does he do? He calls for reinforcements, he calls for help from his son —but the battlefield had already turned against him. His men, seeing their doom, began to surrender, to flee, to defect.

What does it feel like to stand on a battlefield at that moment, watching everything slip away? Antigonus did not run. He was old. He was proud. He stood his ground. And in that moment, the last great dream of Alexander’s empire died with him. The javelins fly, the spears thrust forward, and the One-Eyed King—the last man who could have truly put the empire back together—was cut down.

Seleucus and Lysimachus divided the spoils. Seleucus took Syria, Mesopotamia, and the vast eastern satrapies. Lysimachus strengthened his grip on western Anatolia and Thrace. 

Demetrius, realizing the battle was lost, fled the field with what remained of his cavalry. Thanks to his formidable navy, he was able to regroup and escape to Greece, but his influence was permanently crippled.

The Battle of Ipsus marked the final great war of the Diadochi, as it was the last conflict in which all the major successors of Alexander the Great fought against each other. From this point forward, wars would continue but in smaller, more localized struggles between individual rulers.

And that’s the tragedy of the Diadochi, isn’t it? These men, these brilliant, brutal warriors who once fought under Alexander, couldn’t stop fighting. They couldn’t stop killing each other over the empire they had all helped to build. In the end, nearly every one of them met a violent end. Lysimachus? Killed in battle against Seleucus. Seleucus himself? Assassinated by Ptolemy Ceraunus, the son of Ptolemy I. 

Ptolemy Ceraunus would go on to rule Macedon, but not for very long. The death of Lysimachus had left the Danube border of the Macedonian kingdom open to barbarian invasions, and soon tribes of Gauls were rampaging through Macedon and Greece, and invading Asia Minor. Ptolemy Ceraunus was killed by the invaders, and after several years of chaos, Demetrius emerged as ruler after defeating Cassander’s heirs, but eventually lost everything and died a prisoner. In Asia, Seleucus’s son, Antiochus I, also managed to defeat the Celtic invaders, who settled down in central Anatolia in the part of eastern Phrygia that would henceforward be known as Galatia after them.

The Partition of Babylon, the first great division of Alexander’s empire, had been drawn in ink. But the true borders of the Hellenistic world would be written in blood. And yet, for all their ambition, for all their relentless struggle, none of them would ever achieve what Alexander had.

For nearly fifty years, the greatest military minds of their age tore each other apart in a series of brutal, relentless conflicts we call the Wars of the Diadochi. These wars weren’t just about winning battles. They were about assassination, betrayal, backstabbing, and the kind of power plays that would make Game of Thrones look tame. Alliances were made and broken, rulers were poisoned, heirs were strangled in their beds, whole cities were wiped off the map. It was like the apocalypse had come for the Greek world.

The thing is, if you were watching this happen in real-time, you wouldn’t be thinking about Rome. Rome was still just some growing republic in Italy, fighting its neighbors and figuring out how to run itself. But what nobody realized at the time—what’s only obvious in hindsight—is that these wars were laying the groundwork for Rome to take over the entire Eastern Mediterranean.

If Alexander had lived another twenty years, imagine what he could have built. Maybe Rome never rises the way it did. Maybe the legions never even make it to Greece. But he didn’t live, and because of that, his empire fell apart, leaving behind something Rome could exploit centuries later.

The Greek world after Alexander wasn’t just divided—it was perpetually at war. Every kingdom was locked in a struggle for dominance, and that meant endless battles, shifting alliances, and economic exhaustion.

This did two things.

First, it weakened the Hellenistic world. The manpower and resources of Greece, Egypt, and Persia were poured into wars that solved nothing. Entire generations were wiped out in these conflicts. The grand armies of the Diadochi—huge phalanxes, war elephants, elite cavalry—were incredibly expensive to maintain. And after decades of fighting, these kingdoms were running out of money and soldiers.

Second, it made it easy for Rome to step in as the “deciding factor.”

Think about it. If the Greek world had been united, Rome would have had to face a single, powerful enemy. Instead, every Greek kingdom saw Rome as a potential ally against its rivals. So when Rome started flexing its muscles in the Eastern Mediterranean, they didn’t meet unified resistance. They met a fractured, squabbling mess—one that they could manipulate.

From that moment on, the writing was on the wall. Rome was the new dominant power.

Now, here’s the big question: what if the Wars of the Diadochi hadn’t happened? What if Alexander’s empire had stayed together?

Well, for starters, Rome would have had way more trouble expanding east. Instead of fighting fractured Greek states, they would have faced a powerful, unified empire—an empire built on the best military traditions of Greece and Persia, an empire with the resources of Egypt and Mesopotamia behind it.

Would Rome have ever made it past the Adriatic? Would they have even bothered trying? Maybe not.

But that’s not what happened. The Wars of the Diadochi shattered Alexander’s empire, leaving behind weak, divided kingdoms. And when Rome came knocking, they didn’t find an unstoppable force—they found a collection of states too busy fighting each other to put up a real resistance.

This is one of those moments in history where everything could have turned out differently. If Alexander had lived… if his empire had held together… if the Diadochi hadn’t torn it apart…

But they did. And that’s why, a few centuries later, it wasn’t a Greek-speaking empire ruling the Mediterranean. It was Rome.

Welcome to Imperial History, the podcast where we explore the epic stories of empires that shaped the world, from their triumphant rises to their dramatic falls. I’m your host, Eric Alexander.

Have you ever hear that old saying—”To the victor go the spoils”? Well, imagine if the victors weren’t willing to share. Imagine if they spent years hacking each other to pieces, playing a game of alliances and betrayals so intricate that even the best political strategist today would look at it and say, “Yeah, that’s a bit much.”

That was the world of the Diadochi, the successors of Alexander the Great. Alexander—the man who had stormed across the known world like a force of nature, smashing empires and building his own. But what he left behind wasn’t a stable empire. It was a vacuum. And nature, as they say, abhors a vacuum.

By the year 315 BC, a group of men—once his generals, his friends, his brothers-in-arms—had settled into their new roles as rulers. Antigonus controlled Anatolia and the vast eastern provinces. Cassander had locked down Macedon and much of Greece. Lysimachus had Thrace. And Ptolemy had built his own empire in Egypt, holding Cyrene, Cyprus, and parts of Syria. The world belonged to them now… at least, for the moment.

But power… power is never secure.

Seleucus, one of Antigonus’ officers, had learned this the hard way. He had been governing Babylon—one of the most crucial provinces in the old Persian Empire. Maybe he got a little ahead of himself, maybe he thought he had more freedom than he really did. Because one day, he punished one of Antigonus’ officers without asking permission.

Think about that. Imagine you’re running a region, and you punish one of your subordinates. Sounds reasonable, right? But in this world, in this time, authority wasn’t just about governing. It was about dominance. And by taking action without running it past Antigonus, Seleucus was making a statement—intentional or not.

Antigonus noticed. And he was angry. He sent a message—one that couldn’t have been clearer. If Seleucus thought he could act independently, maybe he’d like to pay for that privilege. Antigonus demanded that Seleucus hand over the province’s income.

Now, what do you do if you’re Seleucus? You’ve got a province, but the most powerful man in the Greek world is staring down at you, demanding your loyalty, your obedience… and now, your money. Seleucus made his choice. He refused.

But refusing Antigonus? That was about as safe as juggling lit torches in an oil-soaked robe. Seleucus wasn’t a fool—he knew what was coming next. So before Antigonus could react, he gathered up fifty horsemen and bolted. His destination? Egypt.

Now, let’s pause here for a second. Because Egypt… Egypt was ruled by Ptolemy. And Ptolemy wasn’t just another one of Alexander’s old generals—he was a player. He had been carving out his own kingdom while the rest of the Diadochi fought among themselves. He had spent the last few years making sure his grip on the Nile was firm, keeping his enemies at bay.

And then, out of nowhere, Seleucus shows up at his doorstep. And this wasn’t just some runaway noble. This was the former ruler of Babylon. A man who had insider knowledge of Antigonus’ power, his army, his ambitions.

That’s when things got interesting. Seleucus wasted no time. He started reaching out—to Cassander in Macedon, to Lysimachus in Thrace. The message was simple:

“Antigonus is too powerful. We either stop him now, or we wait until he comes for us… and he will come for us.”

And maybe they didn’t want to believe it. Maybe they wanted to think Antigonus would be satisfied with his new empire. But deep down, they knew. Power doesn’t rest. Ambition doesn’t stop. So they formed a coalition. On paper, Antigonus had already won. He had the richest land, the biggest army, the most influence. If the Diadochi had just kept to their own domains, kept the peace, he might have consolidated his rule. But that wasn’t going to happen.

Ptolemy, Cassander, Lysimachus—they sent Antigonus a proposition. Call it an ultimatum if you want. They wanted their share.

Phoenicia and Syria? That should go to Ptolemy.
Cappadocia and Lycia? Those should be Cassander’s.
Hellespontine Phrygia? Lysimachus claimed it.
And Babylon—where this whole thing started? Seleucus wanted it back.

It was a bold demand. Effectively half of Antigonus’ territory. Maybe they thought Antigonus would cut his losses and compromise. But they should have known better.

Antigonus wasn’t that kind of man. He refused. And just like that, the uneasy balance between the Diadochi was shattered. In the spring of 314 BC, Antigonus gathered his forces. His army—hardened from years of conquest—was ready to march. His target? The lands of Ptolemy. He set his sights on Syria. And so began the third war of the Diadochi.

Antigonus was no fool. He knew he needed allies. So what does he do? He sends a man named Aristodemus to the Peloponnese—not armed with swords or spears, but with gold. His mission? Buy an army.

But that wasn’t all. Antigonus also made a shrewd political move: he allied with Polyperchon, his former rival during the Second War of the Diadochi, who still held influence in parts of Greece. And in a stroke of propaganda genius, he promised political freedom to the once-independent Greek city-states. That was enough to turn public opinion in his favor—and give Cassander a serious headache.

After securing Syria, Antigonus marched west against Asander, a satrap in Anatolia who had been forced into opposition by Ptolemy. He left his son, Demetrius, behind to hold Syria and Phoenicia, tasking him with challenging Ptolemy and his ambitious general, Seleucus.

Ptolemy saw an opportunity. Syria was now in the hands of Antigonus’ young and untested son. Without hesitation, he struck. Alongside Seleucus, he marched into the Levant with a formidable force: 18,000 infantry and 4,000 cavalry.

Demetrius… Well, Demetrius had confidence. Maybe too much of it. His advisors warned him: “You’re young. They’re veterans. Avoid an all-out battle.” But Demetrius didn’t listen. He wanted glory. He wanted victory.

The armies clashed at Gaza. On paper, Demetrius had a comparable force—but he believed he had an edge: 60 war elephants. His hammer. Massive, unstoppable beasts, bred to smash through enemy lines.

Ptolemy and Seleucus quickly adapted. They placed 3,000 heavy cavalry under their personal command and positioned a specialized anti-elephant corps in front of them. These soldiers had one job: stop the elephants. They carried bows, slings, and, most importantly, anti-elephant devices—spikes linked by chains, designed to trip up the giant beasts and render them useless.

Then, chaos.

The anti-elephant corps did its job. Most of Demetrius’ prized elephants were either captured or killed, throwing his cavalry into disarray. Panic spread. His elite cavalry—his pride and joy—began to fall back. Demetrius tried to hold the line, but it was too late. The Ptolemaic phalanx advanced, and the Antigonid formation crumbled.

Men threw down their weapons. They ran.

It was a disaster.

The losses were staggering: 8,500 men gone—500 dead, 8,000 captured. His elephants? Gone. His reputation? In shambles.

Barely escaping to Tripolis in Phoenicia, Demetrius licked his wounds. But he wasn’t done. Even in defeat, he was already planning his next move. He sent an urgent message to his father, who had just finished crushing Asander’s rebellion.

He needed reinforcements. Fast.

Seleucus wasn’t going to wait for Antigonus. He had played this game before—once ruling Babylonia before being driven out by Antigonus. But now? Antigonus was marching from the far west, his eastern territories exposed. Seleucus saw his opening.

He convinced Ptolemy to let him go, and Ptolemy even gave him a small force—just 1,000 men. Not much, but enough. When Seleucus reached Babylon in May 311 BC, he found a city ready for his return. The people remembered him. The old Macedonian veterans from Carrhae rallied to his side. He walked in, and just like that, he was recognized as ruler.

It was almost too easy.

But there was one problem—Antigonus’ loyalists still held the fortress.

And this is where Seleucus did something… remarkable. He didn’t storm the walls. He didn’t throw his men at the defenses. Instead, he played the long game. He diverted the Euphrates, building a dam, creating an artificial lake. The defenders inside the fortress must have watched in confusion. What’s he doing? What’s the point?

Then, in August, he broke the dam.

A flood wave crashed into the fortress walls, toppling them, sweeping away the defenses. The stronghold was gone. Babylon was his.

But he wasn’t done.

Because Antigonus wasn’t the type to let this slide. His satraps in Media and Aria—Nicanor and Euagoras—were already moving. They brought with them a real army: 10,000 infantry and 7,000 cavalry. A force that could crush Seleucus with sheer numbers alone.

Seleucus? He had just 3,000 infantry and 400 cavalry. That’s it.

And yet, he didn’t run. He didn’t brace for a head-on battle. He waited. He hid his men in the marshes near the Tigris. And when night fell, he attacked.

The Macedonian soldiers in the enemy ranks? They broke. The Iranian troops? They saw which way the wind was blowing and switched sides.

In a single brilliant stroke, Seleucus didn’t just survive—he gained an army.

By November, he was on the move. He marched through the Zagros Mountains, seized Ecbatana—the jewel of Media—then took Susa, the capital of Elam.

He now controlled not just Babylon, but all of southern Iraq and most of Iran.

In just a few months, he had gone from an exiled nobody to a king in all but name.

By the winter of 311 BC, Antigonus had secured a peace agreement with three of his rivals: Cassander in Macedonia, Ptolemy in Egypt, and Lysimachus in Thrace. 

As Antigonus concluded this treaty, urgent news reached him from the east. Seleucus had not only reclaimed Babylon but had surged through the eastern satrapies, subduing vast territories that had once belonged to Antigonus. The lands of Persia, Media, and beyond had fallen to him. Seleucus had moved with stunning speed, and his control over the east was now a reality.

Antigonus had little choice but to respond. He could not afford to lose the eastern half of Alexander’s empire. However, instead of marching himself, he dispatched his son, Demetrius to reassert Antigonid rule over Babylon.

Demetrius arrived in the spring of 310 BC. Perhaps he believed that the mere sight of his army would be enough to bring the city back under Antigonid control. He entered Babylon and, for a brief moment, must have thought the campaign was won. The city had been taken, its gates open to him.

But war is rarely so simple.

Seleucus’ forces were still active, and they were well-prepared. They counterattacked swiftly, and Demetrius found himself outmaneuvered. He lacked the manpower and resources to sustain a prolonged engagement, and within a short time, he was forced to withdraw from the city entirely, retreating back to Syria.

This was not the end of the struggle. Antigonus himself, unwilling to accept such a loss, personally led a second campaign later that year. By the autumn of 310 BC, he had marched east and once again entered Babylon. He had succeeded where his son had failed.

Yet, as Demetrius had learned, taking Babylon was one thing—keeping it was another.

Seleucus had mastered the art of asymmetric warfare. He allowed Antigonus to occupy the city but kept up a relentless pressure through guerrilla-style engagements and strategic counterattacks. Antigonus found himself facing an elusive enemy, one that would not be drawn into a conventional battle on his terms. By March of 309 BC, he could no longer sustain his position in the region. He was forced to abandon Babylon, just as Demetrius had.

The final confrontation came later that year, at the Battle of the 25th of Abu (a Babylonian month corresponding to late summer). This time, Seleucus decisively defeated Antigonus’ forces. The war in the east was over. Antigonus had no choice but to acknowledge Seleucus as the rightful ruler of Babylon and the eastern provinces.

With this, the Third War of the Diadochi had effectively concluded. But in the west, an event of even greater significance was about to take place—one that should have reshaped the entire power structure of the empire. And yet, it barely caused a ripple among the men who were effectively kings in all but name. 

By 309 BC, Alexander IV, the only legitimate son of Alexander the Great, had reached the age of fourteen. In Macedonian tradition, this was a moment of profound significance. Fourteen was the recognized age of manhood, the point at which a young prince could be declared ruler in his own right. The long period of regency was supposed to end.

In theory, Alexander IV should have stepped forward as the true king of Macedonia and the heir to the entire empire. The peace agreements signed by the Diadochi had explicitly recognized his rights. Cassander, who had served as the regent in Macedonia, was supposed to hand power over when the boy came of age.

But power, once seized, is rarely relinquished voluntarily.

Cassander had no intention of stepping aside. He had spent too many years consolidating his position in Greece and Macedonia, and Alexander IV—son of the legendary conqueror—was a threat he could not allow to exist.

And so, with quiet efficiency, Cassander had the young king and his mother, Roxana, poisoned. The last legitimate blood heir of Alexander the Great was dead.

With the murder of Alexander IV, the Argead dynasty—the ruling house of Macedonia for centuries—came to an end. The dynasty that had produced Philip II, the unifier of Greece, and Alexander the Great, the conqueror of Persia, was extinguished in an act of political expediency.

The reaction from the other Diadochi was telling. There was no great outcry. No war of retribution. No attempt to avenge the young king’s death. The men who had once sworn allegiance to Alexander seemed indifferent.

Why? Because Alexander IV was an obstacle. His continued existence threatened the new reality that these men had built. Ptolemy in Egypt, Seleucus in the east, Lysimachus in Thrace, Antigonus in Asia—all of them had taken steps toward making themselves kings in their own right. If Alexander’s legitimate heir had lived, it would have undermined the very foundations of their power.

Even Polyperchon, one of the few remaining old guard loyal to the Argeads, recognized the shifting tides. He attempted to rally support around another potential heir—Heracles, the illegitimate son of Alexander the Great by a Persian noblewoman. But Cassander, ever pragmatic, simply bribed Polyperchon. The old general accepted Cassander’s offer, murdered Heracles, and was rewarded with an alliance and the restoration of his Macedonian estates.

And that was that.

The Argead dynasty was gone.

The Diadochi no longer needed the pretense of ruling in Alexander’s name. The dream of a unified empire had died with his son.

Welcome to Imperial History, the podcast where we explore the epic stories of empires that shaped the world, from their triumphant rises to their dramatic falls. I’m your host, Eric Alexander.

In our last episode, we witnessed the fall of Perdiccas, the empire’s first great regent. His end didn’t come on the battlefield, but through betrayal—his senior commanders, Antigenes, Peithon, and Seleucus, turned against him, sealing his fate. With Perdiccas gone, the generals convened once more to divide Alexander’s vast empire, like vultures feasting on the remains of a dying beast.

The result? The infamous Partition of Triparadisus. Antipater, the shrewd elder statesman, emerged as regent and the de facto ruler of Europe. Across the Aegean, Antigonus—one of Alexander’s most brilliant generals—claimed a large share of Asia. Meanwhile, the conspirators who brought down Perdiccas were handsomely rewarded: Antigenes gained southern Persia, Peithon took Media, and Seleucus secured Babylon.

Yet, not everyone was willing to play by these new rules. Enter Eumenes of Cardia—Alexander’s secretary and most trusted scribe. To many of the empire’s hardened commanders, he was little more than a bureaucrat. But with Perdiccas dead, Eumenes stepped into the spotlight as the last true defender of a unified Macedonian empire under the Argead dynasty. He wasn’t fighting for personal gain; he was fighting for the legitimacy of Alexander’s heirs. Or so he wanted others to believe.

To the new power structure, Eumenes was nothing less than a traitor. Antipater made his intentions clear: Eumenes had to be destroyed. The task fell to Antigonus, who was handed an army vast enough to crush any resistance. Overnight, Eumenes became an outlaw—a man with no country, no official authority, and enemies on every side. But he wasn’t alone. He still commanded a veteran army, and Eumenes was no ordinary leader. He was cunning—cunning enough to outwit even the most seasoned generals.

To his soldiers, Eumenes framed his cause not as rebellion but as loyalty. He declared the so-called “new order” a betrayal of Alexander’s legacy. The kings Philip III and Alexander had been seized by traitors, he argued. By fighting under his banner, his men weren’t rebels; they were the true defenders of the Argead house.

Was this propaganda? Of course. But for these battle-hardened soldiers, men who had marched with Alexander to the ends of the earth, it worked. Eumenes didn’t just preach loyalty—he embodied it. Take his journey to Mount Ida, for example. This wasn’t a random detour; it was a calculated move. Mount Ida housed a royal stable filled with warhorses—an invaluable resource for rebuilding his cavalry. Eumenes raided the stable, but here’s the fascinating part: even as an outlaw, he filed a formal account of the raid with the overseers. He kept meticulous records, following official procedure as if he were still serving the Argead kings.

When Antipater heard about this, he reportedly laughed, amused by the absurdity of an outlaw playing by the rules. But was it absurd? Or was it a stroke of genius? Eumenes wasn’t just taking horses—he was sending a message. To his enemies, his soldiers, and even to history, he was declaring: I’m not the traitor here. I’m the one upholding the law. The so-called rulers are the true rebels.

As Antigonus prepared to march with his overwhelming army, Eumenes readied himself for the fight of his life. He had no illusions about the odds.. But Eumenes, ever the strategist, wasn’t just fighting to survive. He was fighting for an idea—a vision of a united Macedonian empire—and he would stop at nothing to defend it.

It’s 319 BC, and Eumenes, commanding a cavalry-heavy force, prepared to make a stand against an enemy superior in infantry. The battlefield was no accident—he had chosen the flat terrain carefully, knowing it would favor his cavalry. But Eumenes wasn’t only fighting with soldiers and strategy; he was battling politics as well.

In Sardis, Cleopatra of Macedon—Alexander the Great’s sister and an old friend of Eumenes—resided. She was a powerful symbol of legitimacy in the fractured Macedonian empire. Eumenes hoped to gain her support, but Cleopatra, ever pragmatic, warned him against it. Supporting him would invite the wrath of Antipater, the regent of Macedonia, and she knew all too well the high cost of backing a losing cause.

Reluctantly, Eumenes heeded her advice. He retreated north into Phrygia for the winter, but winter brought no relief. His army began to unravel—3,500 soldiers defected. To maintain discipline, Eumenes executed the ringleaders of the defection but pardoned the rank-and-file soldiers. It was harsh but necessary, a reminder that leadership in such turbulent times was a tightrope walk between fear and loyalty.

When spring arrived, so did the resumption of war. Antigonus, one of Alexander’s most formidable successors, marched into Cappadocia, forcing Eumenes into battle at Orkynia. Once again, Eumenes sought to leverage favorable terrain for his cavalry. But betrayal struck at the worst moment—a mercenary cavalry unit, bribed by Antigonus, defected mid-battle. Chaos erupted. Lines broke, trust dissolved, and what had begun as a calculated encounter became a disastrous rout.

Eumenes lost 8,000 men and was forced to retreat. Yet defeat did not break him. Instead, he acted swiftly, hunting down the leader of the treacherous cavalry and executing him. This act, though symbolic, was critical in restoring trust and morale among his remaining troops.

As Eumenes fled north, pursued relentlessly by Antigonus, he made a surprising decision. Returning to the battlefield—not to fight but to bury the dead—he upheld an ancient tradition of honoring the fallen. Antigonus, in his haste to continue the chase, had neglected this duty. Plutarch notes that this act impressed even Antigonus, who paused in admiration. In a brutal era where survival often outweighed humanity, Eumenes’ choice to honor the dead stood out as a rare moment of decency.

By winter, Eumenes’ position had grown even more precarious. Desertions had reduced his army to a loyal core of just 600 men. Retreating to Nora, a well-supplied and nearly impregnable fortress on the border between Cappadocia and Lycaonia, Eumenes employed guerrilla tactics to fend off Antigonus. Quick strikes and strategic retreats kept the enemy at bay.

Antigonus, unwilling to risk the cost of a full siege, turned to negotiation. Eumenes, ever the strategist, demanded hostages as a guarantee of good faith before agreeing to any talks. When Antigonus insisted that Eumenes address him as a superior officer, Eumenes famously replied: “While I am able to wield a sword, I shall think no man greater than myself.”

That defiant statement encapsulated Eumenes’ character. Though not a king or prince, his unwavering belief in his own worth set him apart.

Eumenes and Antigonus were no strangers. Before the Successor Wars, they had been friends. Now, they stood on opposite sides of history. During their negotiations, Eumenes demanded the restoration of his satrapy in Cappadocia and the lifting of his status as an outlaw—reasonable terms for a man who had proven his loyalty and skill. Antigonus promised to send these demands to the regent, Antipater, in Macedonia.

But history had other plans. In 319 BC, Antipater, the regent who held the fragile empire together, died. With his death, the political landscape shifted once again, and the war for Alexander’s empire intensified.

Antipater’s death was like throwing a lit torch into a barrel of oil. His empire, already fragile, shattered completely. In a move that surprised many, Antipater chose Polyperchon, his most senior commander, as his successor. This decision enraged Antipater’s son, Cassander, a man consumed by ambition. Antipater reportedly claimed that Cassander, at 36, was too young for the role—a questionable excuse given that Alexander the Great had conquered the known world by the age of 32. Perhaps the real reason lay in Cassander’s perceived shortcomings, but Cassander was not a man to accept being sidelined.

Unwilling to let his father’s decision stand, Cassander sought out Antigonus to propose an alliance. Together, they set out to challenge Polyperchon for control, plunging the empire into civil war. Once again, Alexander’s legacy became the battlefield for endless conflict.

But what of Eumenes during this upheaval? Polyperchon, desperate for allies, reached out to Eumenes with an extraordinary offer: not just a pardon but authority—authority over every general in the empire. This transformed Eumenes from a fugitive and minor player into a force to be reckoned with.

Freed from his confinement at Nora, Eumenes seized the opportunity. He raised an army and began his march south into Cilicia. Meanwhile, Antigonus, now allied with Cassander, had his own battles to fight. In Asia Minor, he confronted Cleitus the satrap of Lydia and a staunch Polyperchon ally. Cleitus had assembled a fleet in support of Polyperchon, but Antigonus, ever the strategist, caught him by surprise. At the Battle of Byzantium, Antigonus decisively destroyed Cleitus’s forces on both land and sea. Having crushed Cleitus, Antigonus turned his attention eastward. Determined to eliminate this rival, Antigonus marched into Cilicia, intent on putting an end to Eumenes’ rebellion once and for all.

While Antigonus was clearing the board in Asia Minor, Eumenes was making bold moves of his own. He seized control of Cilicia, Syria, and Phoenicia, forging a crucial alliance with Antigese who commanded the Silver Shields—the elite veterans of Alexander’s campaigns. These soldiers, unmatched in skill and experience, were the most formidable force of their time. Their allegiance was a prize beyond measure, and now they marched under Eumenes’ banner.

Eumenes was always one step ahead. Whether it was through spies or sheer intuition, he seemed to know Antigonus’ every move. Anticipating what was to come, he abandoned his stronghold in Phoenicia and set out on a bold march through Syria and Mesopotamia. His objective? To rally support from the eastern satrapies—territories far beyond Antigonus’ immediate grasp.

His first success came in Mesopotamia, where he secured the backing of Amphimachos, the satrap of the region. This alliance was a pivotal win, granting Eumenes safe passage to Babylonian territory. There, he placed his army in winter quarters—a much-needed pause in the hostilities, offering his forces time to recover and strengthen.

However, not all satraps welcomed Eumenes. Seleucus, the powerful satrap of Babylonia, and Peithon, the satrap of Media, withheld their support. Yet, Eumenes managed to rally most of the satraps from territories east of the Zagros Mountains, consolidating his position in the region.

Meanwhile, Antigonus was on the move. After securing his hold over northern Syria and Cilicia, he advanced into Mesopotamia, determined to close the gap between himself and Eumenes. By the time Antigonus reached Susa, he delegated Seleucus to besiege the city and pressed on in pursuit of his elusive rival. The confrontation was inevitable.

The clash came at the River Kopratas, in what is now modern-day Iran. It was here that Eumenes demonstrated the brilliance that made him one of history’s most formidable tacticians. Antigonus, caught mid-crossing with his forces exposed, suffered a devastating blow. Eumenes’ army struck with precision, killing or capturing 4,000 of Antigonus’ men. For Antigonus, it was nothing short of a catastrophe, forcing him to retreat north into Media. While regrouping, Antigonus continued to pose a threat to the upper satrapies, keeping the pressure on Eumenes.

At this critical juncture, Eumenes faced a harrowing choice. His instincts urged him to march westward, to sever Antigonus’ supply lines and leave him vulnerable. But the coalition Eumenes had painstakingly built now worked against him. The satraps, focused on defending their own territories, refused to support such a bold maneuver. Bound by the fractured priorities of his allies, Eumenes was forced to remain in the east—a strategic misstep, not born of his own failings, but of the fragile nature of his alliance.

By late summer of 316 BC, Antigonus was ready to strike once more. He moved south, determined to force Eumenes into a decisive confrontation. The stage was set for the Battle of Paraitakene—a bloody, chaotic clash that ended in frustrating inconclusiveness. Eumenes inflicted heavier casualties on Antigonus’ forces, but under the cover of darkness, Antigonus managed to withdraw his army, narrowly avoiding total disaster.

The war dragged into the winter of 316 to 315 BC, with no resolution in sight. Antigonus, ever the cunning strategist, attempted a daring gamble: a grueling march across the desert to catch Eumenes off guard in Persia. But his plan was foiled when local informants spotted his army and alerted Eumenes. Once again, the two rivals prepared for battle, this time at Gabiene.

The Battle of Gabiene was a turning point, though not because of Eumenes’ battlefield tactics—ironically, he had the upper hand. Instead, it was betrayal that undid him. During the fighting, Antigonus captured Eumenes’ baggage camp, which contained the soldiers’ most prized possessions: their loot, families, and hard-won comforts. For the Silver Shields, Eumenes’ elite veterans and the backbone of his army, this loss was devastating.

Antigonus exploited the moment brilliantly. He offered the Silver Shields a cruel bargain: their precious baggage in exchange for their commander. These men, undefeated for decades and famed for their loyalty to Alexander the Great, made a fateful decision. They turned on Eumenes, handing him over to Antigonus to reclaim what they had lost.

With Eumenes now a prisoner, Antigonus held all the power. What to do with such a formidable rival? Antigonus reportedly debated sparing him—perhaps out of respect for Eumenes’ strategic genius or a desire to preserve his own reputation for clemency. But his council had no such reservations. Eumenes, the man who had defied Antigonus and led armies against him, was sentenced to death.

With his execution, the curtain fell on one of the most compelling figures of the Successor Wars—a reminder that in the violent and treacherous world of Alexander’s heirs, even the greatest commanders could be undone by betrayal.

While Antigonus pursued Eumenes in the east, Cassander was waging his own campaign against Polyperchon in the west. By 317 BC, Cassander had gained the upper hand. The year before, Polyperchon’s fleet had been utterly destroyed—a devastating blow to his ambitions. Cassander seized the opportunity created by the chaos, moving swiftly to secure Athens. With the city firmly under his control, he turned his sights northward. Macedon itself was vulnerable, and Cassander had little trouble forcing Polyperchon out.

It was then that Philip III, at the urging of his ambitious wife, Eurydice, named Cassander regent. At first glance, this might have seemed like the end of Polyperchon’s story, but the man was far from finished. Exiled from Macedon, he fled west to Epirus, where he found an unlikely and powerful ally: Olympias, the mother of Alexander the Great. Alongside her were Alexander’s widow, Roxana, and their young son, Alexander IV. For those still loyal to the bloodline of the legendary conqueror, this trio represented a glimmer of hope. Olympias understood this—and she was determined not to let Cassander extinguish that hope without a fight.

In Epirus, Olympias and Polyperchon forged an alliance with King Aeacides. Together, they prepared for a bold counterattack. Olympias herself led an army into Macedon while Cassander was occupied in southern Greece, suppressing pockets of resistance.

Olympias’s forces met those of Philip III, but the battle was over before it truly began. Most of Philip’s soldiers refused to fight against the mother of Alexander the Great. The result was a crushing defeat for Philip. He was captured, and Olympias acted decisively: she had him executed. Eurydice, his wife, was forced to take her own life. For Olympias, leaving Philip alive was too great a risk—he could always be used as a pawn by her enemies. With Philip gone, only her grandson, Alexander IV, held a legitimate claim to the Macedonian throne.

But Olympias’s triumph was short-lived. Cassander, a master of cold, calculated strategy, regrouped and marched north from the Peloponnesus with a vengeance. As his forces advanced, Olympias’s support began to falter. Many who had initially rallied to her cause now saw defeat as inevitable. By 316 BC, Cassander had cornered Olympias.

Her capture marked the end of an era. Ruthless to the end, Cassander ordered her execution, silencing one of the last towering figures directly connected to Alexander’s legacy. With Olympias gone, Cassander took Roxana and the boy-king Alexander IV into custody, effectively ending any immediate threats to his rule.

As for Polyperchon, he retreated to the Peloponnesus, clinging to a few fortified strongholds. Though he survived the Second War of the Diadochi, his influence dwindled, and he would play only a minor role in the wars that followed.

By the end of the war, the map of Alexander’s empire had been redrawn. Antigonus now held sway over Asia Minor and the vast eastern provinces, while Cassander ruled over Macedon and much of Greece.

But, as history has shown us time and again, stability is nothing more than a fleeting illusion. With Antigonus towering over his fellow Diadochi in both power and territory, paranoia began to fester among the other successors. Alliances shifted, conspiracies brewed, and the seeds of yet another conflict were quietly taking root.

In this relentless world, there was no such thing as “enough.” Ambition knew no bounds, bloodshed had no limits, and the cycle of war was unending. For the Diadochi, peace was never the destination—it was merely a pause.

Welcome to Imperial History, the podcast where we explore the epic stories of empires that shaped the world, from their triumphant rises to their dramatic falls. I’m your host, Eric Alexander.

Picture the scene: It’s 323 BC, and the heart of the ancient world—Babylon—is brimming with tension. Alexander the Great, the man who had conquered everything from Greece to the Indus, is dead. His body isn’t even cold yet, and already the world he built—that sprawling Macedonian empire—is on the brink of chaos. There is no clear successor, no unifying force to step into his oversized sandals. All that’s left is a power vacuum, and the predators are circling.

The generals of Alexander’s army, men who had marched beside him, fought beside him, and carried his ambitions across continents, now gathered in Babylon. They were not here to mourn. They were here to divide. This moment—this meeting—would later be known as the Partition of Babylon.

Now, when you hear the word “partition,” you might imagine something orderly, like drawing borders on a map. But this? This was anything but orderly. The stakes were colossal. This was about dividing the greatest empire the world had ever seen, and the room was filled with men who had spent their lives clawing their way to the top through blood and steel. You could cut the tension with a xiphos.

On one side of the room stood Perdiccas. He had been Alexander’s second-in-command, a man entrusted with leading the cavalry, the elite strike force of the Macedonian army. Perdiccas wasn’t just another general; he had been Alexander’s right hand. And he had a plan. Perdiccas argued for the elevation of Alexander’s unborn child—a child who, as of this moment, still resided in the womb of Roxana, Alexander’s wife. In Perdiccas’ view, this child was the legitimate heir to Alexander’s empire. Perdiccas wasn’t just fighting for power; he was fighting for the continuation of Alexander’s legacy.

But across the room, there was another camp—and another plan. Meleager, the commander of the infantry, was not a man to be easily swayed. Meleager’s argument? Forget the unborn child. The rightful ruler of the empire was already here: Arrhidaeus, Alexander’s half-brother. Arrhidaeus, however, was not the most obvious candidate for leadership. He was, by all accounts, mentally impaired, a man who lacked the sharpness and cunning that had defined his half-brother. But Meleager didn’t care. Arrhidaeus was a known quantity—someone who could be controlled. And control, for men like Meleager, was the name of the game.

The debate between these two camps was fierce. Voices were raised, accusations hurled. And then? The meeting broke down. Meleager’s side, dissatisfied with the direction of the talks, staged a mutiny. The infantry rebelled, a dramatic and dangerous move in a city already teetering on the edge of chaos. Babylon itself must have felt like a powder keg. Imagine the streets filled with soldiers loyal to different factions, the tension simmering just below the surface, and everyone wondering who would make the first move.

But here’s the thing about mutinies: they’re risky. Meleager had his moment, but Perdiccas was not a man to be trifled with. The two sides reconciled—or so it seemed. A compromise was reached. Royal authority would be divided between Alexander’s unborn son and Arrhidaeus, now styled as Philip III. It was a solution that, on paper, might have seemed elegant. But in reality? It was a time bomb, ticking away.

And then came the reckoning. Not long after this so-called reconciliation, Perdiccas moved decisively. Meleager was eliminated. And by “eliminated,” I mean he was killed. Along with him went others who had been identified as leaders of the mutiny. Perdiccas, it seems, had no patience for dissent.

In a way, this entire episode is emblematic of what would follow in the years after Alexander’s death. The Partition of Babylon was less of a settlement and more of a prelude to the Wars of the Diadochi—a bloody and protracted struggle for control over the fragments of Alexander’s empire. The seeds of that conflict were sown here, in this room, in this moment. Perdiccas and Meleager, the unborn heir and the impaired half-brother—they were just the opening moves in a game that would span decades and reshape the ancient world.

Let’s take a step back and look at who’s missing from this drama. Antipater, Alexander’s man in Macedonia, is sitting in Pella, the old capital. Alexander had summoned him to Babylon months earlier. Now, why would Alexander call him? Maybe it was a routine request… or maybe it was something more sinister. Antipater thought the latter. He didn’t go. Instead, he sent his son, Cassander. A smart move—except Cassander doesn’t exactly fit in. This is the son of a man who had kept the Macedonian homeland secure while Alexander was out conquering Persia, and he’s now surrounded by hardened veterans of Alexander’s campaigns. Cassander was probably feeling pretty out of his depth.

And then there’s Craterus. Alexander had named him to replace Antipater as the regent of Macedonia. Craterus is on his way to Europe with ten thousand veterans. These aren’t just soldiers—these are the guys who had marched through deserts, crossed mountains, and bled for Alexander in places most Macedonians couldn’t even imagine. But Craterus doesn’t make it back to Macedonia in time. He gets as far as Cilicia when word of Alexander’s death reaches him. And what does he do? He stops. He’s waiting for more news, maybe more clarity, maybe just a better opportunity. 

Finally, there’s Antigonus One-Eye. He’s in central Phrygia in Anatolia. His job? Keep the route to Europe open. Now, Antigonus isn’t a man you ignore. He’s been in the game for a while. He’s a survivor.

So, who’s left? The big players in Babylon are gathered around Perdicas. These are men who had been friends, rivals, and comrades-in-arms for years. And now, they’re trying to decide how to carve up an empire. The partition happens quickly, almost casually. It’s ad hoc, negotiated on the spot. Ptolemy, for example, asks for Egypt and gets it. Egypt—a rich, defensible prize. And Ptolemy isn’t greedy. He’s one of the few to realize that limiting his ambitions in the short term might get him farther in the long run. It’s a lesson not all of the Successors will learn.

But there’s another piece of business to handle: Alexander’s body. For seven days, it had lain unburied. Can you imagine that? The greatest conqueror of the age, the man who’d thought himself divine, lying there as the world he’d built began to unravel. The council has to decide what to do with the body, and that decision—like everything else—is political. Where Alexander is buried will matter. It’s not just about honoring the dead; it’s about claiming his legacy. It was decided that Alexander’s body would be sent back to Pella for Burial. 

Earlier, when his authority was weak and his position precarious, Perdicas had agreed to marry Nicaea, the daughter of Antipater, the powerful regent of Macedon. This engagement had been a shrewd political move, a concession to a man whose influence could make or break Perdiccas’ hold on power. But circumstances had changed. The chaos that followed Alexander’s death had settled just enough for Perdiccas to tighten his grip on the empire. He controlled Philip III, the imperial treasury,  and the army. With these levers of power firmly in hand, he began to reevaluate the alliances that had once seemed necessary.

And then came the wildcard: Olympias. The mother of Alexander the Great was not just a grieving widow or a doting grandmother to the young Alexander IV; she was a force of nature, a woman whose ambition matched that of any man in Alexander’s circle. Olympias proposed that Perdiccas marry Cleopatra of Macedon, her daughter and Alexander’s full sister. The implications of such a union were seismic. Cleopatra’s bloodline would give Perdiccas a direct connection to the Argead dynasty, the ruling house of Macedon. Another factor many would consider was the fact that Alexander IV’s mother was Persian. In the eyes of many, all this would make Perdicas more than just a regent; it would make him a legitimate heir to Alexander’s throne.

But this was no simple decision. Within Perdiccas’ inner circle, the debate raged. On one side stood Eumenes of Cardia, the brilliant secretary-turned-general who had long been one of Perdiccas’ most trusted allies. Eumenes urged Perdiccas to seize the opportunity and marry Cleopatra. To Eumenes, the dual kingship of Philip III and the young Alexander IV was a farce, a temporary arrangement masking the empire’s lack of true leadership. Marrying Cleopatra, Eumenes argued, would not only solidify Perdiccas’ claim to the throne but also send a clear message to the fractious generals and satraps who were already carving out their own spheres of influence.

On the other side of the debate was Alcetas, Perdiccas’ brother. Alcetas’ position was more cautious, even pragmatic. He reminded Perdiccas that Antipater, Nicaea’s father, was still a force to be reckoned with. The old regent’s health might be failing, but his influence was undiminished. Antipater had been Alexander’s trusted lieutenant for decades, and his support in Macedon was indispensable. Why, Alcetas argued, risk alienating Antipater when time itself might solve the problem? Antipater would not live forever, and once he was gone, Perdiccas could assert his dominance without the baggage of a confrontation.

But Perdiccas was not a man content to wait. His choice was as bold as it was dangerous. He broke off his betrothal to Nicaea and chose Cleopatra. In doing so, he openly defied Antipater and cast aside the alliance that had once bolstered his position. This was no mere slight; it was a declaration of intent. To the other generals and satraps, it was a signal that Perdiccas was no longer just a caretaker of Alexander’s empire. He was aiming to rule it.

As the same time that Perdiccas chose this course of action, he also summoned Antigonus, the sattrap of Phrygia to stand trial for insubordination—ostensibly for failing to support another general, Eumenes, in a campaign in Cappadocia—Antigonus sees this not as a summons to justice but as a direct challenge to his authority.

And how does Antigonus respond? He does what any shrewd, power-hungry player in this game might do: he refuses. But refusal alone isn’t enough. Antigonus flees—to Macedon, to the court of Antipater. Antigonus doesn’t just show up empty-handed. He brings with him explosive news, information that he knows will infuriate and galvanize Antipater and his allies. First, there’s the little matter of Cynane. Cynane, a half-sister of Alexander, had been murdered on Perdiccas’ orders to prevent another general from entering the royal family and endangering a future claim by Perdiccas. This was no minor crime; Cynane’s death sent shockwaves through the royal family, shaking the fragile foundation of what was left of Macedonian unity.

But that’s not all. Antigonus also reveals that Perdiccas—this man supposedly holding the empire together—has been plotting to elevate himself to a position that smacks of kingship. The proof? His audacious plan to marry Cleopatra, Alexander’s sister. A marriage like that wouldn’t just cement Perdiccas’ position; it would practically crown him as the next Alexander. And all of this, mind you, at the expense of Nicaea, who was already betrothed to Perdiccas as part of a political alliance.

The reactions in Antipater’s court are exactly what you’d expect. Fury. Outrage. Perdiccas wasn’t just overstepping; he was threatening the balance of power that men like Antipater and Craterus had spent years trying to maintain. These were men who had just subdued Greece in the brutal Lamian War. Men who had fought to hold the empire together while carving out power for themselves. And now, Perdiccas was threatening to undo it all.

The news is a turning point. Antipater and Craterus shelve their plans for further campaigns in Greece. That war, for now, can wait. They turn their eyes eastward, toward Asia. In 322 BC, an anti-Perdicas alliance was formed between Antipater, Antigonus and Craterus, but the start of the first war of the Diadochi began not with a battle, but with a corpse. The corpse of Alexander the Great.

Let’s pause here and think about this for a moment. Imagine a world where political power isn’t conferred by elections or constitutions, but by something far more visceral. In our modern times, legitimacy—the right to rule—might come from winning a democratic election or inheriting a position within a constitutional monarchy. But in the ancient world, legitimacy was often something you seized, something you justified through blood, conquest, or symbolism.

In 322 BC, these generals had no elections, no referenda, and no neatly drawn laws to legitimize their claims. What they had was a desperate scramble for power in a world where perception was everything. Alexander’s empire was too massive and too fragile to govern by brute force alone. To rule, you needed something more: you needed the recognition of the men who mattered—the soldiers and commanders who had fought for Alexander. You needed symbols. And symbols don’t come more potent than Alexander himself.

This brings us to Perdiccas. As Alexander lay dying in Babylon, it is claimed that he handed his signet ring to Perdiccas. For those who witnessed this moment, it was a tacit endorsement, a passing of the torch. Perdiccas didn’t claim to be king—he couldn’t. But as the regent of Alexander’s half-brother, Arrhidaeus, Perdiccas wielded power as close to kingly as one could get without wearing the diadem.

Antipater, on the other hand, anchored his legitimacy in a different way. Back in Macedon, he controlled the heartland. He had Alexander’s wife, Roxana, and the infant son she bore after Alexander’s death. Holding the family of the great conqueror gave Antipater a kind of leverage that Perdiccas couldn’t ignore.

And then there’s Ptolemy. Alexander’s trusted general. Ptolemy claimed a personal connection to Alexander, a dubious claim of kinship that might have sounded good in propaganda but didn’t hold much weight among his peers. What Ptolemy lacked in familial ties, he more than made up for in audacity and cunning.

This is where things get interesting. Perdiccas ordered Alexander’s body to be buried in the Macedonian homeland, but as the funeral cortege made its way westward, something happened. Alexander’s body was intercepted and diverted to Egypt, into Ptolemy’s hands. Think about that. Alexander’s body was not just a corpse; it was a relic, a trophy, a physical manifestation of legitimacy. To control the body was to control the myth, the narrative.

Why did Ptolemy do it? Because in a world where symbols mattered as much as swords, what better claim to power than the possession of Alexander himself? It’s a bit like the legends of King Arthur and Excalibur. If you have Excalibur, you’re the rightful king. If you have Alexander’s body, you’re the rightful heir to his empire. Or at least, that’s what Ptolemy wanted people to believe.

The hijacking of Alexander’s body was an audacious move, and it infuriated Perdiccas. Here was Ptolemy, carving out his own power base in Egypt and defying the authority of the regent. This act wasn’t just a slight; it was a direct challenge. And it set the stage for the first armed conflict of the Wars of the Diadochi. Perdiccas would lead an army into Egypt to confront Ptolemy, and the war—the first of many—would begin.

At this point, Perdiccas knows the empire cannot survive compromise. Not with men like Antipater and Ptolemy waiting in the wings, each with their own armies, ambitions, and claims to power. These are men who fought alongside Alexander, men who conquered Persia and stood shoulder to shoulder with the greatest military mind of the ancient world. But in Perdiccas’s eyes, their loyalty to Alexander died with him. These men, brilliant though they are, are threats. And Perdiccas knows that if he is to preserve the unity of Alexander’s empire, these threats must be eliminated—completely and utterly.

So, Perdiccas develops a plan. The first step is to hold Asia Minor. He needs to prevent Antipater and Craterus from crossing into Asia. If they breach the Hellespont, the game is over. To secure this vital choke point, Perdiccas entrusts it to Eumenes, one of his most loyal and capable allies. Eumenes is tasked with defending the Hellespont at all costs. If successful, Perdiccas will not only block Antipater and Craterus but also gain the breathing room needed to deal with another thorn in his side: Ptolemy.

But here’s where it gets interesting. Perdiccas isn’t just fighting a war against Ptolemy or Antipater. He’s fighting a war against time. Every moment he spends dealing with one threat gives the others more time to consolidate power, recruit soldiers, and form alliances. Perdiccas knows this. He knows that his only chance is to act decisively and ruthlessly. And so, while he prepares for his campaign against Ptolemy, he starts eliminating potential threats within the empire itself.

Take Archon, the satrap of Babylon. Perdiccas hears whispers of collusion between Archon and Ptolemy. That’s enough for Perdiccas. He sends an army to Babylon with one goal: remove Archon. No trial, no negotiation. Just removal. The same fate awaits Laomedon, the satrap of Syria. Laomedon, too, is suspected of being in league with Ptolemy. When Perdiccas arrives in Damascus, he deposes Laomedon on the spot. And then there’s Cyprus. The Cypriot kings have declared for Ptolemy. Perdiccas’s response? Prepare a fleet to bring Cyprus to heel. No stone is left unturned. No potential rival is spared.

What’s striking here isn’t just the brutality—it’s the logic behind it. Perdiccas understands something fundamental about power: it doesn’t tolerate equals. The empire, in his mind, can’t be governed by a coalition of Alexander’s officers. These are men who spent a decade conquering the known world. They are ambitious, brilliant, and utterly dangerous. Perdiccas knows he can’t trust them. So he doesn’t. Instead, he systematically replaces them with handpicked loyalists, men whose loyalty is to him, not to the memory of Alexander or to their own ambitions.

As Perdiccas marched his army towards Egypt, Eumenes was on a collision course with Craterus. Each army was composed of roughly 20,000 men. Eumenes knew he couldn’t match Craterus’ phalanx in a straight-up fight. The Macedonian infantry was simply too strong, too seasoned. So what did he do? He turned to the one advantage he had: his cavalry. It was a gamble, the kind of high-stakes play that defines the careers of great generals. Eumenes’ cavalry overwhelmed Craterus’ forces, striking with a precision that shattered the cohesion of the Macedonian veterans. In the chaos, Craterus himself was killed, his body trampled in the melee.

This wasn’t just a military victory; it was a masterstroke of strategy. By defeating Craterus, Eumenes not only eliminated one of the most formidable commanders of the anti-Perdiccas alliance but also ensured that no reinforcements could march to Egypt to aid Ptolemy. This brings us to the other side of the story: Egypt, where Ptolemy was fortifying his satrapy in anticipation of war. For two years, Ptolemy had been preparing, building defenses, stockpiling supplies, and likely cultivating loyalty among his officers and soldiers. He knew Perdiccas would come. It was only a matter of time.

When Perdiccas finally arrived, he found himself facing the Nile—not just the river, but a natural barrier turned fortress. The eastern tributary was garrisoned, its banks bristling with defenders. Perdiccas, undeterred, ordered his men to construct a dam, perhaps to lower the water levels for an easier crossing. It’s hard to overstate the audacity of this move. Think about it: this wasn’t just an engineering project; it was a statement of intent, a declaration that the Nile—the lifeblood of Egypt—would not stand in his way.

But nature has a way of humbling even the most ambitious plans. The Nile, swollen with seasonal floods, unleashed its fury. The dam was swept away, and with it, Perdiccas’ hopes of a swift invasion. The river didn’t just break the dam; it broke the morale of Perdiccas’ army. Some of his officers defected, their faith in their leader’s vision shaken by the sheer force of the river’s resistance. Perdiccas, however, wasn’t finished. He turned to an age-old method of securing loyalty: rewards. Gifts and titles flowed like water, reigniting the resolve of his troops and binding them to his cause—at least for the moment.

Perdiccas, true to his character, moved swiftly. His scouts had identified a ford upstream where the river could be crossed. But here was the catch: a Ptolemaic fort, bristling with defenses, loomed over the crossing point. The fort was a problem—a big one. If Perdiccas wanted to get his army across, he had to take it. And for a general like him, known for his boldness, the solution was obvious: attack. At dawn, no less. Because if you were going to throw yourself into the jaws of danger, you might as well do it dramatically.

So, the assault began. The soldiers charged the walls, and the elephants—those hulking symbols of Macedonian dominance—smashed into the fortifications. For hours, chaos reigned. Perdiccas’s men tried to scale the walls while the defenders pushed them back. The fortress, though, wasn’t going down without a fight. And then, to make matters worse, Ptolemy’s reinforcements arrived—a whole army.

Now, imagine being one of Perdiccas’s men. The dawn assault had turned into a bloody stalemate. The fort’s defenders were emboldened by the sight of their comrades arriving. And the elephants—those symbols of strength? They were starting to falter under the relentless pressure. Perdiccas, though, was undeterred. He ordered the assault to continue. Boldness—or stubbornness? It was a fine line, wasn’t it?

The fighting dragged on, and the losses mounted. This wasn’t a victory; it was a bloodbath. Perdiccas finally called it off, retreating back to camp. His soldiers must have been exhausted, demoralized. But they didn’t have long to rest, because Perdiccas wasn’t done.

And here’s where things started to unravel. Perdiccas, still determined to cross the river, found another ford. This one was less guarded. It was risky, but Perdiccas thrived on risk. He sent a contingent of his army forward, leading them himself. They made it to the middle of the river, an island surrounded by rushing water. For a moment, it seemed like the gamble might pay off.

But then, disaster struck. The river rose. The elephants, so effective on solid ground, sank into the mud. Soldiers, weighed down by their armor, were swept away by the current. The river became a death trap. Crocodiles—yes, crocodiles—began to take their share of the feast. By the time Perdiccas ordered a retreat, it was already too late. Most of his men on the island drowned trying to get back. The losses were staggering: 2,000 dead, including some of his most trusted officers.

This wasn’t just a tactical failure—it was a catastrophe. And the army knew it. The men were tired, angry, and losing faith in their commander. Perdiccas, the regent of Alexander’s empire, was starting to look less like a leader and more like a liability.

And here’s where the human element kicks in—the whispers, the muttered complaints, the side glances among the officers. Soldiers are loyal, sure, but only to a point. Perdiccas had led them into Egypt on a campaign that seemed doomed from the start. He’d failed to secure a single decisive victory, failed to deliver the glory—or the loot—that Macedonian soldiers expected.

In the end, it wasn’t an external enemy that brought Perdiccas down. It was his own men. His officers—Peithon, Antigenes, and Seleucus—saw the writing on the wall. Maybe they were disillusioned with his leadership. Maybe they were working with Ptolemy all along. Either way, Perdiccas was murdered, probably in the summer of 320 BC, a mere three years after Alexander’s death.

And here’s the kicker: one day after Perdiccas’s assassination, news arrived of Eumenes’ stunning victory at the Battle of the Hellespont. Eumenes had defeated Craterus, one of the most powerful generals in the empire. If that news had arrived just a day earlier, Perdiccas’s authority might have been restored. Imagine what could have been. With the empire’s most dangerous rival defeated, Perdiccas might have consolidated his power, emerged as Alexander’s true successor, and founded a new dynasty.

The First War of the Diadochi may have ended with the death of Perdiccas, but many more are soon to follow.

Welcome to Imperial History, the podcast where we explore the epic stories of empires that shaped the world, from their triumphant rises to their dramatic falls. I’m your host, Eric Alexander.

History loves its heroes and villains. We’re fascinated by the towering figures who reshape the world with their ambition, cunning, and charisma—the so-called Great Men of history. But what happens when the anchor of an empire, the pillar of a system, dies suddenly? What happens when the lynchpin of an entire age is gone, leaving a power vacuum so vast it threatens to consume everything in its wake?

It’s one thing for a general to plan for the next campaign, for a king to envision the next conquest. But who plans for the king’s demise? Who prepares for the moment when the guiding hand is stilled, and the weight of an empire must somehow be carried forward by those left behind?

Few eras in history demonstrate the fallout of such moments better than the collapse of Alexander the Great’s empire—a system so tightly bound to one extraordinary man that his death sent shockwaves through the ancient world. But this isn’t just Alexander’s story, nor even that of the Macedonian juggernaut he inherited. It’s the story of what happens when the extraordinary collides with the inevitable: mortality.

So today, we step into the crossroads of history. When the Great King of Kings dies unexpectedly, what happens to the dream he built? Who steps up—or tears it apart? And what lessons do we learn about power, ambition, and the fragility of even the most awe-inspiring empires?

Now, when we think of empires, our minds often leap to Rome, but long before the eagle soared there was Achaemenid Persia—an empire so vast, so organized, it seemed almost impossible to comprehend. By the time of Cyrus’ death, the Achaemenid dynasty had laid the foundations for what would become the largest empire the world had ever seen. Stretching from the Indus River in the east to the shores of the Aegean in the west, it spanned three continents: Asia, Africa, and Europe. Imagine that for a moment. This was an empire that controlled lands as diverse as the fertile valleys of Mesopotamia, the rugged highlands of Anatolia, and the bustling trade ports of Egypt. The sheer scale of it boggles the mind.

But how do you manage such an expanse? Empires rise and fall on the strength of their systems, and the Persians were masters of administration. They divided their territory into satrapies, essentially provinces, each governed by a satrap. These satraps acted as the eyes and ears of the king, reporting directly to the center of power. Think of it as a proto-bureaucracy—efficient, adaptable, and surprisingly modern.

And then there was the infrastructure. Ah, the Royal Road! This marvel of engineering stretched over 1,500 miles, connecting the empire’s farthest reaches. Messengers could travel its length in just seven days. Seven days! In an era when most people never ventured beyond their own village. This wasn’t just a road; it was a lifeline, a nerve system allowing the empire to communicate, trade, and mobilize its military with unprecedented speed.

Speaking of the military, let’s talk about the army that backed this behemoth. The Persian military wasn’t just vast; it was diverse. It drew upon the peoples of the empire, creating a force as varied as the lands it controlled. There were the elite Immortals, a ten-thousand-strong unit so named because their numbers were always replenished. There were cavalry units from Central Asia, archers from Mesopotamia, and seafarers from Phoenicia. Together, they formed a juggernaut capable of both conquest and defense.

But this wasn’t just an empire of swords and shields. Economically, Persia was a powerhouse. It controlled some of the world’s most fertile lands: the Nile Delta, Mesopotamia, and the Indus Valley. These regions weren’t just breadbaskets; they were the beating hearts of trade and agriculture. And the Persians knew how to harness this wealth. They standardized coinage, facilitating commerce across their vast domain. Trade routes crisscrossed the empire, linking markets from India to the Mediterranean.

Yet, what truly set Persia apart was its tolerance. Conquered peoples weren’t crushed under the boot of oppression. Instead, they were allowed to keep their customs, their religions, even their local leaders, as long as they paid tribute and recognized the authority of the Great King. This policy of inclusion fostered stability, ensuring that the empire’s vast diversity became a strength rather than a liability.

Of course, no empire lasts forever. At the periphery of the Persian realm, a collection of city-states—fractious, contentious, endlessly quarrelsome—managed to do something extraordinary. Greece, a civilization teetering on the edges of Persian hegemony, stared down the Achaemenid Empire and lived to tell the tale. The Greeks, against all odds, banded together—at least for a time. At battles like Marathon and Salamis, the Greeks did the unthinkable: they pushed back the Persian tide. It was not so much an annihilation of Persian ambitions as it was a stalemate. Persia decided that Greece was too far, too costly, and—perhaps most damningly—too much trouble to conquer outright. But make no mistake: the Persians did not simply pack up and go home. Instead, they opted for a subtler approach—political influence, meddling, and ensuring that Greece’s fractious nature remained its Achilles’ heel. The Greeks, content with their survival, descended back into their internecine squabbles, leaving the broader geopolitical chessboard in Persian hands.

Enter Philip II of Macedon. By the time Philip ascended to the throne, Greece was a mess of competing interests, its city-states more divided than ever. But Philip was no ordinary king. With a mix of diplomacy, military reform, and sheer audacity, he did what no one else had managed to do: he unified nearly all of Greece under Macedonian hegemony. Not Sparta, of course. The fiercely independent Spartans were, as always, a law unto themselves. But for the rest of Greece, Philip’s leadership represented a seismic shift.

Then came the assassination. Philip was cut down before he could realize his grandest ambitions. In his place rose his son, a 20-year-old with fire in his veins: Alexander. From the moment Alexander took power, the world would never be the same. Where Philip had been pragmatic, Alexander was ruthless. He crushed rebellions with an iron fist, leaving no doubt about who held the reins of power. And once Greece was firmly under his control, Alexander turned his gaze eastward—to Persia.

Darius III, the Persian king, was no Cyrus the Great. Against this backdrop, Alexander launched his invasion.

What followed was a masterclass in strategy and audacity. Alexander didn’t just invade Persia—he dismantled it. At battles like Issus and Gaugamela, Alexander’s tactical genius came to the fore. He used terrain, speed, and psychological warfare to devastating effect. The Persian forces, often larger and seemingly insurmountable, were outmaneuvered and outclassed. And when Alexander entered the heart of Persia, he burned Persepolis, the capital of the empire —marking the end of the Achaemenid Empire.

In the span of a decade, Alexander transformed the geopolitical landscape of the ancient world. Persia, the once-mighty juggernaut, was no more. And in its place, a new empire—Alexander’s empire—emerged, bridging East and West in a way that had never been seen before. 

The core of Alexander’s success lay in the reformation of the Macedonian army by his father Philip. Before Philip, Macedonian soldiers were a motley collection of part-time fighters, poorly trained and poorly equipped. Philip transformed them into a professional, standing force. He drilled his men relentlessly, instilling discipline and cohesion, and equipped them with a game-changing weapon: the sarissa.

The sarissa wasn’t just a spear. It was a monster of a weapon, 18 to 22 feet long, essentially a tree trunk turned into a killing machine. Imagine facing a wall of these, advancing steadily, their sharp tips an impenetrable barrier. The Macedonian phalanx, the formation that wielded these spears, was designed to be both offensive and defensive, a human fortress that could move as one.

But Philip didn’t stop there. He understood that war wasn’t just about holding the line. It was about breaking it. And for that, he needed more than just infantry. Enter the Companion Cavalry, or hetairoi—elite horsemen trained to fight with precision and ferocity. These were the shock troops, the hammer to the phalanx’s anvil, capable of delivering devastating charges. And let’s not forget who often led these charges: the king himself.

By the time Alexander inherited this machine, it was already formidable. But Alexander wasn’t content to merely wield the tools his father had forged. He refined them, pushed them to their limits, and added his own innovations. Where Philip had emphasized discipline and organization, Alexander brought flexibility and creativity. He turned the Macedonian army into a combined-arms force, integrating infantry, cavalry, and even siege engines into a cohesive whole.

Take his use of oblique battle lines, for instance. This wasn’t just clever—it was revolutionary. Imagine a battlefield where one wing of your army advances faster than the other, catching the enemy off guard, creating openings, and exploiting weaknesses. This was how Alexander fought, using his phalanx to pin down enemies while his cavalry swooped in for the kill. It was chess played on a battlefield, with lives hanging in the balance.

And the results? Devastating. At Granicus, Alexander’s first major battle against the Persian Empire, he showed the world what this new Macedonian army could do. Outnumbered and facing an entrenched enemy, Alexander used his cavalry to punch through Persian lines while his infantry held firm. At Issus, he turned a narrow pass into a killing ground, using the terrain to neutralize Persian numbers. And at Gaugamela—the pinnacle of his military genius—Alexander’s tactics shattered an army that dwarfed his own, a force led by Darius III, the King of Kings.

What made these victories possible wasn’t just the size or strength of the Macedonian army. It was its adaptability, its cohesion, its discipline. Philip had given Alexander the tools, but Alexander wielded them like an artist, painting his vision of conquest across the ancient world.

But Alexander did not have long to enjoy his success. Let’s imagine it’s June, 323 BC. We’re in the heart of Babylon, in the grand palace of Nebuchadnezzar II. The air is thick with the scents of spices and incense, mingling with an undercurrent of tension so sharp you can almost taste it. Alexander the Great—a man who had reshaped the known world—is lying on his deathbed. His once indomitable presence reduced to frailty, his body wracked with fever. At just 32 years old, this titan of history is dying.

Think about it. This is the man who crushed the might of the Persian Empire. He marched his armies thousands of miles, forging an empire that stretched from Greece to the edges of India. And now? He’s motionless, silent, while his generals—the men who’d followed him through deserts, mountains, and blood-soaked battlefields—gather around him, desperate for answers. What happens next?

Theories abound about the cause of Alexander’s death. Was it a fever brought on by malaria or typhoid? Was it the cumulative toll of wounds sustained in battle? Or, as some ancient sources whisper, was he poisoned? Poisoning seems tempting as an explanation, doesn’t it? It adds drama, a whiff of conspiracy. But here’s the thing: poisoning would’ve needed to be slow-acting, given the progression of Alexander’s symptoms. And in an age where knowledge of toxins was rudimentary at best, it’s… unlikely. Fascinating, sure, but unlikely.

Yet, if the mystery of his death lingers, the enigma of his last words is equally captivating. Picture the scene: his generals leaning in, desperate to hear their dying king. “Who should succeed you?” they ask. And depending on which source you believe, Alexander either mutters “To the strongest” or hands his signet ring to Perdiccas, one of his most loyal commanders.

“To the strongest.” Three words that, if true, unleashed chaos. The Wars of the Diadochi—wars of the successors—erupted almost immediately after Alexander’s death, as his generals tore each other apart for control of the empire. It’s a tragic irony, isn’t it? This man, who unified such a vast swath of the world, inadvertently set the stage for its fracturing.

But let’s pause for a moment. What if Plutarch’s version is correct? What if Alexander’s act of handing his ring to Perdiccas was an attempt to designate a clear line of authority? If that’s the case, then the wars that followed weren’t sparked by his words—they were inevitable. Why? Because Alexander’s empire wasn’t just vast; it was impossibly diverse. Greek city-states, Persian satrapies, and Indian territories—all held together by one man’s charisma and military genius. With Alexander gone, the glue dissolves.

And here’s a crucial point: Alexander didn’t conquer the world alone. Behind his legend was the military machine his father, Philip II of Macedon, had built. The disciplined phalanxes, the cavalry tactics, the infrastructure of conquest—all of it was Philip’s gift to his son. And now, with Alexander’s death, this machine belonged to whoever could seize it. Whoever could prove themselves… the strongest.

Imagine this: a nation collapses. Not just any nation—the most powerful one in the known world. Picture the United States government being instantly obliterated. Every congressman, every senator, the president, his cabinet—all gone in a flash. The entire structure of governance shattered. And as the final act of this disappearing government, the president sends out a chilling message to every one of its generals across the globe: “The position is up for grabs.” That’s chaos, isn’t it? Raw, untamed chaos. 

Nearly Everybody in the western world has at least heard about Alexander. He’s got movies, books, documentaries, even an Oliver Stone epic with Colin Farrell in a questionable wig. His conquests, his tactics, his charisma—they’re the stuff of legend. But what happens when legends leave a vacuum? That’s the part history books often skim over. The part where the empire fractures into a blood-soaked free-for-all.

The reason this period isn’t as well-documented or celebrated is simple: it’s messy. Really messy. There’s no clear narrative, no singular hero to root for, no villain to jeer. Instead, it’s a story of morally gray figures, each vying for a piece of the shattered empire. It’s a chessboard where the pieces are constantly changing—alliances formed and broken, betrayals and backstabbing so frequent that it makes the Game of Thrones series look tame by comparison.

Speaking of Game of Thrones, imagine a TV adaptation of this period. The kind of show where characters who seem unimportant in the early seasons suddenly rise to prominence later on. An old general, barely mentioned in season one, becomes a pivotal figure in season three. A court advisor, lurking in the background of one episode, emerges as a kingmaker. That’s the War of the Diadochi for you—an ensemble cast of ambitious aristocrats, ruthless generals, and scheming courtiers. Each playing their own version of the game of thrones.

With Alexander gone, the immediate question was one of succession. Alexander’s wife, Roxana, was pregnant at the time of his death. But an unborn child wasn’t exactly a strong contender for the throne. Then there was Philip III, Alexander’s half-brother—alive, but reportedly mentally impaired. The generals, therefore, saw an opportunity. They convened to decide the future of the empire. What followed was less a discussion and more a thinly veiled battle of egos.

Perdiccas, one of Alexander’s senior officers, was appointed as regent, ostensibly to govern on behalf of the infant and Philip III. 

Here’s where the chaos really kicks in. Picture the empire as a giant jigsaw puzzle. Each general grabbed a piece. At first, these territories were supposed to be governed in Alexander’s name, but it didn’t take long for the governors to decide, “You know what? I think I’ll keep this for myself.”

What followed was a series of wars that lasted for decades. Alliances were made and broken in the blink of an eye. Cities were besieged, kingdoms carved up.

It’s easy to lose track of the players in this saga because there are so many of them, each with their own ambitions and rivalries. But perhaps that’s the point. The story of the Diadochi isn’t about a singular hero or villain. It’s about a system in collapse. An empire too vast, too diverse, to hold itself together once its glue—Alexander—was gone.

Perdiccas, Alexander’s second-in-command, was no ordinary soldier. At the time of Alexander’s death, Perdiccas commanded the elite Companion Cavalry, arguably the most prestigious position in the Macedonian military. With this authority and a reputation forged under Alexander’s watchful eye, Perdiccas emerged as regent of the empire. Whether Alexander had explicitly named him as such or he simply seized the role in the chaos of Babylon, Perdiccas now held the reins of a crumbling empire.

But power breeds jealousy. Perdiccas quickly became a target for other generals, each with their own ambitions. He wasn’t trying to divide the empire. Quite the opposite—he aimed to hold it together under a central authority. But not everyone shared his vision. Some saw him as a tyrant in the making, a threat to their own claims.

While Perdiccas wrestled with chaos in Asia, Antipater remained a steady hand in Europe. An old, battle-hardened general, Antipater had been left behind in Macedon when Alexander began his campaigns. While the young king conquered the world, Antipater dealt with rebellions closer to home. He defeated the Spartans at Megalopolis in 331 BC and crushed the Greeks again after Alexander’s death in the Lamian War.

Antipater wasn’t flashy. He didn’t seek glory like some of his younger peers. But his pragmatism and loyalty to Macedonian stability made him a formidable figure. 

If Antipater was the old lion, Ptolemy was the fox. A trusted general during Alexander’s campaigns, Ptolemy was pragmatic, charming, and ruthlessly ambitious. He had been given Egypt to govern—a province rich in resources, but isolated from the empire’s heartlands. And that’s exactly how Ptolemy wanted it. Ptolemy understood something others didn’t: central authority was doomed. Rather than fight for control of the entire empire, he focused on carving out his own piece of it.

While Ptolemy schemed and Perdiccas governed, Craterus commanded the respect of Alexander’s veterans. Known for his ability to connect with the rank-and-file soldiers, Craterus was tasked with escorting Macedonian troops back home after years in the east. But don’t mistake this for a retirement job. Craterus wasn’t just a caretaker—he was a key player in the struggle for power. His popularity among the troops made him a potential kingmaker—or king.

Eumenes was a paradox. A Greek among Macedonians, a scribe turned general, Eumenes had risen to prominence through sheer brilliance. Despite not being Macedonian by birth, Alexander had trusted him with key administrative and military responsibilities. But that trust made Eumenes a target. Many of the Macedonian elite resented him, viewing him as an outsider. Yet Eumenes would prove them wrong. His military acumen and political savvy allowed him to punch far above his weight in the coming conflicts. He wasn’t fighting for personal ambition but for the vision of a united empire. And in doing so, Eumenes became one of the most fascinating figures in the Diadochi wars.

While the spotlight initially fell on Perdiccas, Craterus, Ptolemy, Antipater, and Eumenes, other figures quietly waited in the wings. Seleucus, a relatively minor commander at the time, and Lysimachus, another of Alexander’s generals, governed Thrace and bided his time. These men were not central to the early conflicts but would play critical roles in later chapters of the Diadochi saga. The pieces are on the chess board are set, and in our next episode, we will see where they move.