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Since then, my brother had become a shade of his former self, but I coddled him, secure in the knowledge that he loved only me now.

Once I was queen, I would swathe my twin in furs, send a steady stream of girl slaves to pleasure him, and build him an herb garden to rival Nebuchadnezzar’s famed terraces.

But first I had to deal with Stateira and the sprat she now carried in her womb.

I bribed her attendants with a small fortune to brew the mixture for her each night, yet even that failed to cleanse her womb and instead her belly grew like a tumor before all our eyes. I railed against the unfairness of it all, and prayed that she’d catch the same mysterious fever that had felled Hephaestion so we might celebrate a double funeral here in Babylon.

All to no avail.

Instead, the entire population of Babylon had been subjected to weeks of funereal chariot competitions and footraces, including the ridiculous
hoplite
race where grown men ran around in the circles of a stadium dressed in greaves and helmets, carrying their heavy battle shields and often tripping over one another. Now the entire city waited dour-faced under ominous clouds that threatened a sudden spring downpour so we could pay homage to a dead man and the obscene monument erected in his honor, a
pyra
that would never be burned so that future generations would never be able to forget Alexander’s faithful he-bitch. Would that I could have found a motley dog to devour Hephaestion’s bones and save us all the expense.

I might have used the twelve thousand talents spent on Hephaestion’s funeral to build a new palace for myself and my son, or at least a fine estate complete with vineyards and plenty of shepherds I might tax. Even a fraction of its cost could have kept me in a new wardrobe for the coming summer, a more fitting expense considering that Hephaestion couldn’t witness Alexander mooning over him through the maggots in his moldering eyes.

“Two hundred and forty ships with golden prows adorn the base,” Drypetis was droning on to her sister like the dullest of bees. I didn’t think it fair that she should share the royal dais, but Alexander had refused to listen to my concerns, claiming that he didn’t wish to upset Stateira in her delicate state.

“And on the topmost level?” Stateira asked, squinting at the pinnacle and sounding as if she actually cared.

“It’s the sirens,” Drypetis said quietly, sniffing and rubbing the bridge of her bent nose. “Singing their lament.”

I rolled my eyes and feigned slitting my wrists to Parizad, who humored me with a weak smile. He hadn’t wished to attend the funeral, but I’d begged him, hoping that seeing Hephaestion’s
pyra
might allow my brother to forget the man who had turned him into a catamite.

The crowd quieted as Alexander stood and walked solemnly to the funeral
pyra
. My heart stopped for a moment and I almost cried out when he removed his dagger from its sheath and lifted it. I imagined him plunging the blade into his own heart in a fit of mourning, and I sagged with relief when he raised it and cropped off a lock of his already shorn hair. He laid the meager curl reverently on the
pyra
before beginning his address, some inane drivel about this being a monument fit for a hero to equal Patroclus.

“When I die, I want Alexander to spend twice this much on my funeral,” I said to Parizad once Alexander finished and the Macedonians began filing past Hephaestion’s bier. “My
pyra
will touch the sky and drip with gold from top to bottom.”

Parizad’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You’ll outlive all of us, railing against Ahura Mazda for your white hair and hunched back.”

I wrinkled my nose at the revolting idea even as I laid my head on Parizad’s shoulder. “Better to die an early death than grow into a wrinkled old crone.” Hephaestion’s one redeeming quality was that he’d possessed the good sense to die before he accumulated a belly like a sow and lost all his hair.

I tapped my foot in impatience until the last Companion made his obeisance and the entire assemblage bent one knee in Hephaestion’s honor. The soldiers scooped handfuls of earth and rubbed it into the golden suns on their swords and shields, dedicating their arms to the memory of this so-called hero. Then Alexander did the unthinkable. He ordered in a booming voice that the Royal Fire in every temple of the empire be quenched, a sacred act that occurred only when the King of Kings had died. In fact, each fire should remain lit until Alexander’s own death. But what did I care for heroes and eternal fires? My stomach itched and I longed for the jar of goose fat and the army of silent attendants who would slather it over my belly when all this was over.

“Your knee appears stiff, Roxana,” Drypetis said to me, her voice loud enough to carry to Alexander. He turned in our direction. “Do you require assistance so you might honor Alexander’s favored companion?”

I gave her a honeyed smile, although my eyes surely sparked with something less pleasant. “Of course not,” I murmured. “I’m simply overcome with emotion at Hephaestion’s passing.”

I bowed then, deeper than was necessary beneath the weight of Alexander’s gaze. I closed my eyes as if in prayer, then almost jumped out of my skin as the entire Greek army let out a bloodcurdling war cry, pounding on their shields like a violent thundercloud fallen to earth.

“Hephaestion’s final farewell,” Parizad assured me, squeezing my hand. “They’ll spend the rest of the day and night drinking in his honor.”

“Another banquet?”

It seemed all Alexander did these days and nights was plan out his next campaign and then drink himself into oblivion. I frowned, forcing myself not to furrow my brow and etch lines there. I’d thought myself fortunate with Hephaestion’s death in that I now had fewer competitors for my husband’s attentions, but here I was, still fighting for the stale crumbs of his time.

“Fine,” I said. “Then I’ll join them.”

“Women aren’t invited,” my brother said slowly. “Certainly not any wives.”

But I was more than just a wife. I was the Whore of Sogdian Rock, the Bitch of Balkh.

I smiled, tracing the sweep of my neckline. “Remember who I was before I became a wife, dear brother. I still have a few tricks tucked away somewhere.”

In the meantime, I hoped Stateira spent the night retching into a chamber pot with only her bore of a sister to hold her hair back.

•   •   •

I
’d never before seen so much wine in one place, great golden goblets full of it, guzzled by Alexander and his men until their voices boomed and the flagstones of Nebuchadnezzar’s massive hall grew slick with crimson pools. Alexander’s Companions lounged on silver-footed sofas, and slaves armed with terra-cotta
amphorae
and ram-headed drinking horns lined the walls. Alexander’s own griffin-head
rhyton
was three times as large as the others and was kept full by Cassander, Antipater’s thick-browed son, who had been relegated to the position as wine bearer after his outburst in Alexander’s throne room. Antipater ignored his disgraced son and reclined on a far-flung couch, his
chiton
pristine and his white beard freshly combed.

Alexander raised his cup in three traditional Greek toasts, honoring first the gods, then fallen heroes—with a special salute for Hephaestion that made the gorge rise in my throat—and finally Zeus, the king of his gods. I waved away the endless platters of stewed plums and rabbit fetuses, boiled ostrich drizzled with a sweet date sauce, and sea urchins fried in the pungent oil of a tree fungus. Things had gone wrong from the moment I’d entered the hall, so that now I regretted coming.

Alexander had allowed my sweeping entrance and my impromptu placement near his throne, but I could tell that my unexpected appearance nettled him. He ignored me entirely, too engrossed with his talk of fresh conquests toward Arabia with Admiral Nearchus while Cassander dutifully kept his silver goblet from running dry. I consoled myself with the knowledge that Stateira and Parysatis remained in their chambers, out of Alexander’s sight and therefore out of his bed.

Alexander’s face tonight tended toward a florid red that matched the wine Cassander poured and his shorn golden curls were in need of a good washing and oiling. He stood and motioned to one of his Companions, leaving his throne vacant with nary a thought for my comfort while they discussed a bout of recent war games. Men scoffed at women for our gossip and pretty gowns, but then they played at war like boys with bruised fruit and wooden swords.

Bagoas was there and had made one attempt to approach me, but I turned my back on him, refusing to ever speak to the traitor again. When I glanced back in his direction, it was to see that Alexander had flung an arm around my former eunuch’s shoulder and fondled his beautiful curls while still engrossed in conversation with the Companion.

How
dare
Alexander favor that half man over me, his first wife and the mother to his heir.

I fumed in silence until a bent-backed man dressed in an unkempt slave’s tunic emerged from the dining couches with a tray of cups filled with beer and bread. I waved him away—the mere sight of the foul Greek drink was enough to turn my stomach—but the slave continued to mount the dais. Then he did the unthinkable: He dared to sit his unworthy body on my husband’s throne.

“Alexander!” I shrieked, leaping to my feet and backing away from the vermin. The tray wobbled in the slave’s hand and the cups crashed to the ground, splashing beer and bread everywhere.

There was a collective gasp and Alexander turned from his conversation, his face contorting in outrage.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, Bagoas and his curls suddenly forgotten in the face of this insult.

The man only shook his head with a blank stare, his disheveled beard dropping mites with the movement. I gathered my skirts closer to avoid contamination. “This seemed a perfectly good chair,” he said, scratching his head. “So I thought I might rest a while in it.”

Alexander stared so that I thought he might laugh at the madman. “It is treason to sit upon my throne,” he said. “Remove yourself immediately.”

But the foul creature didn’t move.

Antipater cleared his throat from his couch. “There is an ancient festival here in Persia in which a slave would dress as a king and sit upon his throne for a hundred days. Mayhap the man takes his inspiration from there.”

“That festival is in the autumn,” I snapped, “while this is clearly summer. The imbecile must be dumb and mad to get the two confused. And he’s certainly not dressed like any king I’ve ever known.”

All eyes turned to Alexander, yet still the filthy man lounged on the throne.

“Flay the skin from his back,” Alexander ordered. “Let this be a warning to all those who seek to amuse themselves at my expense.”

The man didn’t make a sound as he was dragged away, leaving a trail of nits and bewilderment in his wake. I squelched one of the tiny insects with my thumb, smearing a trace of blood across the gilded wood of Alexander’s throne.

“You should have this scrubbed with vinegar,” I said to Alexander as he threw himself into the chair. “What a foul creature.”

But Antipater sang a different song. “This may be interpreted as an ill omen, especially as everyone has heard by now of Babylon’s sacrifice for you of the ox with the deformed liver. Perhaps you should have allowed the flea-bitten mongrel to rule in your stead during the summer months.”

“Livers without lobes and now this,” Alexander muttered, his face still dark. “I’ve no patience for these ill omens or the whispers they cause.” He raised a hand and snapped his fingers at Cassander. “This night calls for more wine and revelry,” he said, thrusting out his goblet. “Much more.”

The heat from all the bodies and the cup of wine I sipped made my eyelids heavy, but I dared not excuse myself as Alexander commanded everyone’s attention so he might give a recitation. I preened to realize he was playacting Perseus fawning over Andromeda, chained to a rock by her father and waiting to be devoured by a sea monster. I recognized the guise, for I knew a thing about daughters being wronged by fathers, and raised a hand over my breast, making to stand and allow Alexander to adore me, even if it was in the guise of Andromeda.

That is, until Alexander bent his knee to Bagoas, praising
his
beauty above the silvery nymphs of the sea.

In that moment I wanted Bagoas to suffer as I’ve never wanted anything in my life, for a pox to disfigure his pretty face or for him to become a leper so his talented hands, which had taught me so much, would wither into worthless lumps of flesh like his lost prick.

I didn’t hear another word of the performance over the roar in my ears, but at its end Alexander raised his massive
rhyton
and drank a toast to one illustrious guest after another until I ran out of fingers to count them.

Admiral Nearchus attempted to strike up a conversation with me, but I was ready to excuse myself—not that any of these barbarians would notice the departure of their queen—when there was a thud to my left and Alexander’s great goblet clattered to the ground.

I whirled about, expecting to see him passed out drunk and itching to overturn my goblet of wine on his face, but he had fallen to his knees before his throne and clutched his abdomen as if there were a demon gnawing at him from inside. He cried out and curled into himself, but thankfully there was no blood, no weapon. Only a man who had drank too much.

Bagoas moved to help him, but I blocked his path. “Stay back,” I snarled at the eunuch under my breath. “What is it?” I asked Alexander, kneeling at his side.

“It feels as if I’ve been shot in the liver with an arrow,” he gasped. “Like in India.”

My scar-riddled husband certainly knew pain, but surely this episode was only the result of overindulgence. After all, no man was meant to swill wine as he had tonight without being visited by a sour stomach.

A man cleared his throat and Antipater stood behind me, his spine straighter than if a spear had been run through it. “Perhaps my son and I might be of service in removing the king to his chambers,” he said. “We’ve experience with this, especially after Alexander’s recent debauchs since Hephaestion’s death.”