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“Congratulations on your victory,” I said as I approached, running my good hand through my sweat-streaked hair. I smelled almost as rank as the corpses that I picked my way over, and likely felt worse with my arm and all the blood I’d lost. Still, it wasn’t anything a good vintage of Lesbos red and a tussle on a military cot wouldn’t remedy.

“A sham of a victory,” Alexander muttered. “Darius eludes me yet again.”

“That’s not the face to show your men.” I gestured toward those very same soldiers who already swarmed over the corpses, searching for survivors and spoils. The movement sent fresh shards of pain streaking through my veins and I winced.

“You’re wounded,” he said, grasping my wrist so he could inspect Sisygambis’ pristine bandages.

I pulled the spear shaft from my belt and handed it to him. “A souvenir. You should have seen it when it was still in me.”

Alexander stared a moment at the weapon, then touched it reverently to his lips before pressing those same lips to my bandaged arm. “I’d hunt each and every Persian to the ends of the earth if this had injured worse than just your arm.”

He kissed me then and I kissed him back, ravenous for him after the heat of battle, neither of us caring that the men would see. And I knew we’d share each other’s bed tonight, for with all the distractions of Athens and the Persian campaign, it had been too long since Alexander and I had enjoyed each other.

After a battle, you bed a woman to forget what has happened. You bed a man because he knows exactly what you’re trying to forget.

From the left came a mighty cheer, likely the discovery of one of Darius’ abandoned wagons. I wondered how the King of Kings felt about financing the army that sought his defeat, for the spoils here would go a long way toward keeping the troops and the kingdoms at home happy. I’d no doubt Alexander would find a use for all the Persian gold. “The enemy fled like frightened gazelles.” I nodded toward the mountain in the distance, the one shaped like a camel’s hump. “Or camels, if your hired poets prefer. The courageous Battle of the Camel’s Hump.”

“That’s a ridiculous name,” Alexander said, but a glint of humor kindled in his eyes in two shades of blue. Not for the first time, I was grateful for the rare gift of being able to turn Alexander’s moods.

“Something more poetic,” I suggested. “And victorious.”

Victory.
Nike.

I thought of Thessalonike then, how she would have clapped and cheered to witness this battle. Still, I was glad I’d left her in Pella, for there was no way I could have kept watch over Alexander’s mischievous sister
and
Darius’ women.

“Nikatorion,” I suggested.

“The Mountain of Victory.” Alexander stroked his chin, leaving streaks in dust there. A horn sounded and we both turned to see soldiers struggling to force one of Darius’ elephants to move. There were fifteen of the gigantic beasts, all standing as if awaiting a belated order to charge, save one. The angry animal snorted and snapped its trunk to and fro, throwing its long tusks from side to side as if intent on goring a man.

“Run it through,” one of the nearby commanders yelled. “Before it kills us.”

Alexander’s men let their spears fly and one of the weapons grazed the wild fiend’s flank, drawing blood on the tough gray skin. The beast trumpeted and reared back, snapping one of its halter ropes. Fortunately, the rest of its anchors held fast and more men stood ready, but a scream to rival the Furies stopped the fight.

“The gorgon flies again,” I said, groaning. My fingers itched to lob a spear at her feet, just close enough to put the fear of death in her.

Yet I doubted whether Drypetis, daughter of Darius, feared anything.

“Leave them alone,” she commanded. Her arm was in a linen sling, likely the same one Sisygambis had tried to use on me, but otherwise she looked like she’d been dragged across the entire field of Gaugamela. Come to think of it, she might have been had I not interceded.

Not my finest decision, that.

“Impressive,” Alexander murmured, watching the scene unfold.

“Far from it,” I said. “Our little Medusa will screech at anyone who will listen.”

Alexander glanced at me. “Not her,” he said. “The elephants. I’d almost forgotten them in the wake of Darius’ departure.”

This, coming from the man who had sacrificed a bull to the gods last night when he’d learned of the ugly Persian beasts. Yet the elephants hadn’t been loosed during the battle and several still stood with abandoned siege towers on their backs.

“Leave the beast alone,” Alexander commanded, his voice carrying to the men. Drypetis glanced our way, her expression turning black as her gaze fell first on Alexander and then on me. “I have plenty of gold,” Alexander continued, “but no animals such as these. They are a fine gift from Darius and shall join the ranks of Macedon for further use in our campaign against the King of Kings. I shall force the cowardly king to his knees to grind the bones of his ancestors in humiliation the next time we meet in battle.”

I almost laughed as Drypetis’ scowl deepened. She may have spared the elephant a grisly murder, but now that very beast might help bring about her father’s defeat.

“You should confine Darius’ daughters to their tent or, better yet, an iron cage,” I said to Alexander, ignoring Drypetis as she shoved her way through the men to the nearest elephant, trailing meek Stateira behind her. “They became the target of a rescue attempt by Bessus today.”

“I’m aware,” Alexander said, his eyes continuing to scan the battlefield before finally settling on the east, the direction of the Royal Road and Darius. “I’ve sent Darius’ little eunuch Bagoas ahead with a message demanding the king’s surrender.”

“Do you think he’ll yield?”

“No. We depart in the morning for Babylon. After I receive the
satrap
’s obeisance there, I shall deposit Darius’ mother and daughters in Susa on our way to track the King of Kings.”

“Susa? Why Susa?”

“Darius has a fortified palace there, but he’ll retreat further into his kingdom, gathering reinforcements on his march to Babylon. The women will be secure in Susa.”

“To hold as ransom.”

Alexander shrugged. “They won’t be informed of their new living arrangements until Babylon falls to us, to keep their spies from sending auxiliaries ahead to Susa. Darius’ women are more precious even than these elephants. After all, one day I’ll have to marry them.”

I recoiled. “Perhaps Stateira, but surely not Drypetis too?”

Alexander’s lip quirked with distaste. “Kingship is a heavy burden. I can trust no man to wed Darius’ daughters, to lay claim to his royal bloodline.” He looked at me askance. “Except perhaps you.”

I looked at him in abject horror. “If you ever loved me, please, no.”

He laughed. “You know I love you well.” He lowered his voice, leaning in so close that I could smell the sweat of battle on him, but also the priceless cloves he liked to chew. “Come to my tent tonight and we shall celebrate as we did in the old days, just you and me, like Patroclus and Achilles.”

Despite my being wounded and bone-weary, my blood raced and I grew hard for him as I always had. Aristotle had once described our friendship as one soul abiding in two bodies, and he was right, for Alexander’s life was as vital to me as my own.

Some claimed that war was nothing more than horror and destruction, but they were fools. War
was
death, but it was also life, the constant reminder that, for now at least, we lived another day to drink and feast, to shit and screw.

Alexander’s generals approached, ready to ply him with questions regarding the captives and spoils. “Will you come?” he asked, linking his fingers through mine.

“Gladly.”

For I intended to enjoy all that this short life had to offer.

CHAPTER 9

Bactria, Persia

Roxana

I lay on Parizad’s moth-eaten rug with my eyes closed in a shaft of weak winter sunshine while my twin strummed his long-necked
tanbur
, singing along with a simple melody that reminded me of the call of a loon. One of the gut strings was dry, but my brother’s masterful voice and fingers masked all but the worst of its sharpness. A deep lethargy settled into my limbs and made my eyelids heavy; life had been idyllic these past months while my father campaigned with Bessus. My brother and I lived like the lord and lady of a great estate: We ordered the cook and the handful of remaining slaves about by morning, slept away the afternoons, and spun midnight stories of golden futures that we pretended might one day belong to us.

Such a paradise couldn’t last forever, but I hadn’t expected it to shatter that morning.

Horses’ hooves clattered into the courtyard below and Parizad’s music stopped midnote. I scrambled to my feet, choking on my heart to see my father dismount, thinner from his time in the west, so he seemed more bent-backed than ever. I ducked away and Parizad took my place at the window.

“Parizad!” our father bellowed. “Roxana!”

My face surely blanched white and I gulped for air, taking a moment to appreciate my body, which was free from fresh, healing, or scabbed lash wounds.

“You should hide,” Parizad whispered, but I shook him off with a strangled laugh. I’d spent these months of my father’s absence contemplating what I would do upon his return, knowing that his humiliation would fester during his time away. I’d already imagined every scenario where I might run away or hide, but there was nowhere in Darius’ kingdom where my father wouldn’t find me.

And I had nowhere else to go.

“I’m coming!” I called down to my father. I’d face him with my head held high, for, after all, pride was the only thing I had left.

“Good,” my father called up. His horsewhip dangled from his hand, twitching eagerly. “I still owe you for your flight of fancy with Bessus.”

And thus, before my father could even change out of his dust-stained travel clothes, I confronted him alone in the courtyard, my skin tingling with the pain I knew was soon to come and as much hatred as I could muster in my expression.

“Kneel,” he commanded.

And I did, enduring yet another whipping in a long line stretching back to my earliest memories. We both played our roles admirably: I refused to scream during the first strokes and he spared my face, snapping the whip until the cries were wrenched from my throat. I ticked off each lash on my fingers, but there were far more than I could count. And for the first time, I felt the lashes cut deep enough to draw blood, tearing into my flesh and leaving no doubt that the scars would forever remind me of my folly with Bessus.

Panting and with sweat dripping down his temples, my father finally left me tied to a hitching post in the courtyard, but Parizad undid the leather thongs at my wrists and carried me bleeding and shivering to my mattress, where he applied wet compresses of lavender and chamomile to ease my pain and prevent the worst of the scarring. Fresh roots of pain dug deep into my back, wrapping tight around my bones. I turned my face to the cool air wafting in through the window, squeezing my eyes against the tears that threatened. My brother sang to me in his sweet voice as he always did after my father had beaten me, the song of a benevolent winged
yazata
that hinted of soft summer sunshine and air that smelled of newly blossomed roses.

“I’m a terrible son,” he whispered after he’d finished his song, as if admitting to murder or treason. “Part of me hoped that Alexander’s spears would dispatch Father to
Duzakh
.”

“Only part of you?” I croaked. I’d prayed for the same every night, not that Ahura Mazda paid any attention to my meager pleadings.

“I’m so sorry, Roxana,” my brother said. He pressed a damp cloth to my forehead. “I should have stopped him—”

“You couldn’t,” I said, grasping his hand. “And you must promise me that you never will. Do you understand me?”

For I would never survive this world without my brother at my side.

He hesitated, then nodded. “I promise.”

I closed my eyes and must have dozed, but a fresh commotion in our courtyard roused me. Parizad hung halfway out the window as he tried to see what was happening.