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“Hephaestion’s ship set sail before sunrise.”

I whirled on her. “What?”

“He asked me to deliver this to you,” one of the twins said, offering a rolled parchment bound with a leather thong.

I gestured for them to leave, then tore open Hephaestion’s letter. I recognized the lazy slant of his handwriting, the inky whispers of the stylus where he couldn’t be bothered to lift it fully from the paper from one letter to the next. The parchment quivered as I clenched its edges between my trembling hands.

Dearest Little Nike,

I expect that you’re still cursing my name and inventing creative ways to ensure my death. (All I ask is that you make it quick, no lingering and painful ends where I humiliate myself by blubbering for Hades to claim me.)

Have no doubt, Little Victory, that you shall not be locked in Pella forever. My conscience is heavy with many things in this life—we both know I’ve a terrible fondness for drinking fine wine, indulging in mawkish poetry, and I am easily distracted by the curve of a beautiful woman’s back or the breadth of a man’s shoulders—but I shall sleep easy knowing you are far from the battlefield. I have no surviving siblings of my own blood, but you and Alexander are my sister and brother, and I could never forgive myself if anything happened to you. Instead of cursing me to Hades and back (which I know you will anyway), I suggest you seek out Cynnane to help you pass the time. Your half sister will likely bore you beyond tears with her claim of killing the Illyrian queen and will undoubtedly gloat that she once managed to disarm me. (She first got me drunk with a krater of wine, and thus, her claim is an idle boast.) Between sparring with a would-be Amazon and your communes with Dionysus, you’ll find some small measure of entertainment, I expect.

I have no doubt that you will continue scheming, and in fact, I welcome word of your future exploits. Just know that I adore you too much to be the instrument of your death.

Your brother,

Hephaestion, son of Amyntor

I’m quite proud to say that I didn’t scream then or dissolve into tears. Instead, I carried Hephaestion’s letter and walked calmly to my balcony, rimmed by cypress trees that allowed me to glimpse slivers of tantalizing sea waves through their swaying branches. Zephyr’s west wind tugged at the hem of my rumpled
peplos
and teased my tangled hair about my face.

Then I tore the paper into tiny pieces and sent Hephaestion’s words flying on a gust of wind. A few scraps fell to the garden below, the same one where Olympias had begun my initiation only two nights ago, but others spun in the air, lifted up, and were carried toward the sea.

“You’re right, Hephaestion,” I whispered. “I will continue scheming. And I’ll find a way to join Alexander, if it’s the last thing I do.”

CHAPTER 7

331 BCE

Gaugamela, Persia

Drypetis

The ground outside our pavilion trembled as if it were being pummeled by Mithra’s mace. I shielded my eyes in a vain attempt to make out my father’s war elephants stomping their mighty feet across the plain choked with Greek and Persian soldiers, the beasts tossing their tusks and trumpeting louder than any herald’s horn. The wooden siege towers balanced on their backs could hold three Persians armed with pikes, the perfect vantage point from which to strike down these invading Greeks. So great was Alexander’s fear of the massive elephants that last night beneath a sweep of watchful stars he’d made a blood sacrifice to the gods, cutting the throat of a young bull and pouring its lifeblood into the ground. Alexander’s distress lightened my heart as the sound of Persian hammer blows reverberated into the dark sky, the sweet sound of sharpened wooden stakes being beaten into the ground to reinforce my father’s front lines.

The sound had almost been drowned out by Hephaestion’s shouts. Freshly returned from the peace he’d brokered with Athens, the dark-haired beast was now the commander of Alexander’s personal guard, who fought at his side. With the blessing of full sails, Hephaestion’s oared trireme had reached the Euphrates well ahead of the plodding infantry and baggage train, giving him time to build a bridge across the entire river. I wished that Hephaestion’s bridge might crack with a mighty roar and pour Greeks into the waters to drown in their heavy armor, sweeping away Alexander’s army until the surface of the Euphrates was blighted with bloated bodies. Yet even Anahita, our fickle maiden goddess of the river, seemed smitten with Alexander’s warrior-lover and allowed Hephaestion to stride from one bank to the other unmolested. I should have known better, for Anahita had forsaken my family since the day my brother drowned.

But there was still hope even without the goddess, for Alexander’s contingent of Greeks was vastly outnumbered by the full might of the Persian army.

The site chosen for the battle was Gaugamela, a village situated at the base of a hill shaped like a camel’s hump. The men on both sides stared at one another across the open plain, and the autumn sun glowered down at us from a sky marbled with clouds, yet Alexander remained abed.

My family and I stood outside our pavilion shaded by a silken awning, across from Alexander’s campaign tent and flanked by guards as we awaited the Macedonian to show his face. So sure was my grandmother of Alexander’s impending defeat that she’d ordered us dressed in our finest silks, embroidered with golden thread and studded with jewels. Inside our pavilion sat ready three cedar palanquins for our victorious procession out of Gaugamela. The great Dowager Queen Sisygambis had also commanded our servingwomen to sew scented sachets of dried rose petals to hold to our noses after the battle, to keep the smell of the rotting Macedonian corpses at bay.

I knew from Barsine that Alexander’s generals had urged him to make a surprise night attack to hide his inferior numbers, but he’d refused, claiming that he wouldn’t steal his victories. Now the sun climbed higher and higher.

I shifted closer to Stateira. “Maybe he’s plotting the best way to surrender in the face of his impending defeat,” I whispered, but she ignored me.

“No amount of prayers to Zeus should take this long,” Hephaestion finally said to the gathered generals, rubbing a hand over his freshly shaved jaw. “I’ll see what’s keeping him.”

I smiled to myself, sure that the mighty Macedonian was trembling with fear in the dark of his tent while beseeching his many divine fathers for a painless death.

We waited in silence and I marveled at how straight my grandmother and sister could stand, gazing ahead with their hands clasped before them. It required all my willpower not to fidget, until I occupied myself with thinking of the scale model of Tyre I’d been working on in our tent, planning the wood pieces and plaster needed to construct Alexander’s causeway and siege towers. With any luck, by the end of the day I might be showing it to my father.

It was another quarter hour before Alexander finally emerged, still buckling the shoulder guards on his cuirass, lines from his pillows plain on his cheeks as he rubbed his eyes. “You might have let me sleep until noon,” Alexander grumbled to his generals, running a hand through his uncombed hair. “For the battle is already won in our favor.”

My lip curled into a snarl like a feral dog’s. Today would be a good day, for I would relish watching my father defeat this strutting peacock who could rival Narcissus with his conceit.

The Macedonians saluted Alexander as he passed with his lion helmet held in the crook of his arm, the gleam of its polished iron contrasting with the sunlight on his hair, while his neckpiece glittered with emeralds and rubies. The cloak that Hephaestion fastened around his neck was purple and embroidered in a dizzyingly intricate pattern of gold thread, as if stitched by a flock of haughty hummingbirds.

He offered us no words, only a terse nod as he nudged his new white stallion forward. Bucephalus came behind, led by a groom and dressed in a bronze equine frontlet depicting feline heads and frolicking nymphs. Alexander’s favorite horse would wait until the battle’s end to carry his conqueror to victory or ignominious defeat.

Alexander’s men shouted their praises of him to the skies, begging him to lead them to triumph. And Alexander, the man who already claimed an Egyptian god as his rightful father, lifted his spear and shouted into the wind. “If Zeus truly sired me, then all the gods will strengthen us, and we will have our victory against the Persians!”

To add to the spectacle, one of Alexander’s many seers was toted out, a crooked old man swathed in a white
himation
like a burial shroud, the hem of the fine cloth stained with red dust. I scoffed and resisted the urge to roll my eyes, for a trained monkey could have recited Alexander’s convenient prophecies that all foretold his impending triumphs.

“There,” the seer said, lifting an aged hand toward the cloud-strewn sky. All heads craned toward a black speck soaring above. “Zeus’ mighty eagle gives his blessing to our cause, and this battle.”

“An eagle, hawk, or more likely . . . a speckled pigeon,” I muttered, earning Stateira’s elbow in my ribs.

“You shouldn’t mock the gods,” she hissed.

“Zeus is god of the Greeks, but he is not ours,” I reminded her. “Nor is he our father’s god.”

“Yet Zeus must be powerful to favor Alexander so.”

I wrinkled my nose at that as the bent old prophet pointed to the sky again. “Zeus’ messenger dives toward the enemy,” he proclaimed. “Just as our spears and swords shall find their home in the hearts and ribs of the foul Persian invaders.”

“We’re not the invaders,” I grumbled, not that anyone save Stateira could hear me. “And the bird is soaring in circles, not swooping toward anyone.”

But the generals marched to take their places before their troops, Alexander at their lead, riding into battle at the front wearing his foolhardy white-plumed helmet, which every Persian archer would surely aim at.

At least he was making it easy for my father to slay him.

As Alexander, Hephaestion, and all the other soldiers marched away in a choking cloud of dust, a woman clad in a sapphire
chiton
followed us inside our tent. Barsine was a frequent visitor to our pavilion and I found I enjoyed her honest company, despite her position as Alexander’s bed warmer.

“I see you’re prepared for a Persian victory,” Barsine said, glancing at the palanquins laid out for our triumphal procession.

“Of course,” my grandmother said. “Much as I admire Alexander, he cannot possibly defeat my son and his Immortals.”

“Even though he’s done so twice before?” Barsine picked up an alabaster jar shaped like a hippo and filled with perfumed resin, an Egyptian gift from Alexander to Stateira.

“My father has had time to prepare,” I said, hearing the defensiveness in my voice as I sat before my model of Tyre, frowning as I righted the miniature fireship that had fallen over. I’d snipped tiny bells from the bottom of one of my hems and filled them with black pitch in imitation of the cauldrons of oil before they were lit. “He’s entrenched and reinforced with elephants and scythed chariots.”

“Which Alexander is ready for,” Barsine said. “He was up half the night with his schematics.”

“I suppose that excuses him for sleeping half the day away,” I scoffed, turning away from the model.

But Barsine continued, unperturbed. “He plans to thrust the men onto the right, away from the Persian traps and elephants so he might encircle the Persian left. And there will be almost a thousand
sarissa
bearers guarding this very tent to keep his favorite Persian trophies safe and sound.”

“All of which might be important factors,” I said, “if the Greeks weren’t outnumbered six to one.”

My grandmother held up her hands for quiet. “There’s no need to fill our ears with idle chatter while we wait. My son shall be victorious, but in the meantime we will pray to Ahura Mazda. Starting now.”

We wore veils to cover our lips so as not to pollute the fire, and bent our knees before the ritual flames dedicated to the sacred triad of Ahura Mazda, Mithra, and Anahita, begging for their light and wisdom to shine down upon my father, to push back the Macedonian scourge and finally free us. Slaves brought meat from a freshly slaughtered sheep, although it was apparent the beast had been far from fresh itself, likely an old ewe past bearing age. We placed the meat atop dried myrtle leaves, allowing the smoke to envelop our offering to the gods while at the same time drawing the pure scent of fire deep into our lungs.