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I pressed my sister’s cool hand to my cheek, then stifled a sob as I closed her eyes and folded her arms across her belly, feeling my heart shatter into a million irreparable pieces as I remembered the unborn babe inside her womb. I choked to think of all I’d lost this day—this life—and sent an errant prayer to Hephaestion’s shade to welcome them into the afterlife.

“Roxana will suffer for this,” I whispered through my tears, making the promise to my sister, still beautiful even in death, and to poor, disfigured Parysatis. “I’ll hunt her to the ends of the earth, until the day I watch her drown in her own blood.”

Only then could I join my family and finally rest.

CHAPTER 26

Babylon, Persia

Thessalonike

The gold-plated laurel diadem placed upon Arrhidaeus’ head was several sizes too small, akin to a child’s plaything as my older brother grinned broadly at the assembled
satraps
and generals. My heart nearly broke then, for all my life I’d tried to shield Arrhidaeus from the horrors of politics and war, and now he’d been plunged into the midst of them. I wondered what Alexander would think to know that our bighearted, slow-witted brother was now king of his entire empire, a territory that Arrhidaeus could scarcely locate on a map much less govern.

Within hours of Alexander’s last breath, arguments had erupted over who would become the new
basileus
. Some argued in favor of crowning Roxana’s unborn son even as Barsine’s bastard son, Heracles, was passed over, leaving me to wonder whether his mother would thank or curse the gods for his tender age and muddy lineage. Drypetis and I had informed the generals of Roxana’s crimes, but Alexander’s first wife had fled, whisking away her precious unborn son and any chance of immediate justice. There were whispers that she was heading to her father in Paropamisadae, but surely there was no shortage of
satraps
and petty rulers who would happily harbor the mother of Alexander’s heir.

She would be found, and her son too, but right now the world cared only for who would rule in Alexander’s place.

It had taken until Apollo roused himself the next dawn and drove his sun chariot across the sky for the generals to broach a fragile compromise. As our father’s last surviving son and despite my many protests, Arrhidaeus was proclaimed king with the military’s backing, to rule alongside Roxana’s possible son. Still, no one expected either to be an active ruler; they were mere placeholders until the situation could be fully resolved. My hand on the hilt of my sword, I’d made the generals swear that Arrhidaeus would never come to harm, that when the time came, he would be gently set aside, not murdered. Until then, Antipater would serve as their regent.

Alexander had died, but his men and his empire still lived.

At least for now.

Rumors abounded regarding Alexander’s final wishes, that he had ordered the siege in Arabia to continue, for the harbor in Babylon to be expanded to hold a thousand ships; that he’d whispered only the strongest should succeed him.

Worse still were the rumors about what had killed him, that Antipater and Cassander had poisoned his wine at the ill-fated banquet where a slave had sought to supplant him. It wasn’t difficult to imagine the two men murdering my brother in retribution for their removal from power and Cassander’s humiliation in Alexander’s throne room.

And across the chamber from me, Cassander watched as Arrhidaeus fingered the diadem at his brow. Antipater stood behind him, whispering in his son’s ear as they bent their knees to their new
basileus
.

Cassander’s gaze caught mine for a moment, and I gave him a stony glare, wishing I could see into his heart.

“We must protect Arrhidaeus,” Cynnane said, dispelling my dark thoughts as
satraps
and generals filed from the throne room after our brother’s hasty coronation. “He’s an easy target for anyone seeking a taste of power: Antipater, Olympias, even Ptolemy.”

Our brother’s empire would be better ruled by a pack of wolves than by a suspected poisoner, a cold-blooded murderer, or an ambitious and oiled courtier.

“They swore an oath—,” I protested, but Cynnane waved her hand.

“Oaths are meaningless in times like these.”

I rubbed my temples, willing away the ache gathering there. “What do you propose?”

“A wedding,” she answered, and I almost laughed until I realized she was serious. “Arrhidaeus will marry Adea. And then you and I shall help them rule.”

I scoffed. “Have you been inhaling Apollo’s vapors?”

“Arrhidaeus is too vulnerable without us to help him. Surely you must see that.”

I did, as I’d seen every threat to my sweet brother stretching back to the noblemen’s sons who’d pelted him with insults and rocks. And I’d been my brother’s protector since I was old enough to wield a slingshot.

I shook my head. “It’s too dangerous, especially for Arrhidaeus and Adea. Antipater thinks to seize power for himself, not hand it over to the likes of two women.”

“Antipater can dine on dirt for all I care. He may have been Alexander’s regent, but he’s no king. The military supports Arrhidaeus and thus, he and Adea will wed with every one of Alexander’s soldiers at his side.”

I frowned, feeling as if I were staring at a fresco with a gaping hole chiseled out of the center, unable to discern the final image. “And why would the military support such a match?”

“Because the Macedonian veterans here have longed to return home since before Alexander marched to India, and Arrhidaeus will happily grant their request when we leave to accompany Alexander’s body to Macedon. The rest of our troops are Macedonians and Illyrians bred on tales of despotic Persian
barbaroi
who let long-legged vultures eat their dead. Any child born to Adea and Arrhidaeus will be fully Greek, not a half-blooded Persian, a heritage not even Roxana’s sprat can boast.”

I marveled to see my sister’s fighting instincts transferred to politics. “I assume Antipater won’t be invited to the wedding?”

She snorted. “Not if I can help it.”

I grinned. “Have I ever told you what a genius you are?”

My gruff Amazon of a sister reached out to ruffle my hair as if I were six years old again, the way I’d wanted her to do a thousand times when I was a child. “Thanks, little sister,” she said, making me beam still more at her. “I couldn’t ask for a better partner at my side.”

And so it was that we left the palace with Arrhidaeus and Adea later that afternoon, bound for the main encampment of soldiers along the Euphrates’ banks. I’d invited Drypetis to join us, thinking she might benefit from time outside the palace, but she’d demurred, retreating into Babylon’s Tower of Silence to lay her sister and her cousin to rest. The entire city mourned for my brother and his slain queens; women had shorn their hair and men smeared their foreheads with ashes, and courtiers and slaves alike scratched their cheeks so they might cry tears of blood for Alexander, conqueror of the greatest empire on earth.

For the first time in his life, Arrhidaeus was outfitted as a Macedonian soldier, a heroic cuirass depicting Macedon’s eight-pointed sun creating well-defined muscles over his soft belly, a too-tight helmet set in place of his laurel crown, and Alexander’s sun shield strapped to his forearm.

“It pinches, Nike,” he whimpered to me, trying to shove his fingers beneath the brow of his helmet, but I only stood on tiptoes to kiss his nose, almost missing as our chariot lurched over a rock.

“You can hold it instead of wearing it if you promise to stand still during the ceremony,” I said, patting his cheek. “Pretend that you’re a tall tree waiting for a bird to land on your head while all the soldiers march past you.”

Arrhidaeus wrenched the helm from his head and grinned, his hair sticking out in all directions. “I like birds.”

“And I, brother,” I said, smoothing his hair, “like you.”

I recognized the cunning of Cynnane’s plan as soon as I espied the army, and easily identified the Illyrian helmets from her mother’s homeland at the forefront of the Macedonians. These were the troops freshly sent from Greece that would soon join the veterans of Alexander’s remaining army from the Indian campaign. Their commanders stood at attention before the sea of men, and my hand tightened into a fist to see Cassander positioned next to Alcetas, one of the Macedonian commanders.

I trusted none of them.

Arrhidaeus fidgeted while the men newly placed under his command made the customary march between two halves of a disemboweled dog, its stomach now twin caverns gaping with white rib bones and bloody sinews. I’d seen the same scene of purification played out after my father’s death before the army bent its knees to Alexander, and prayed to the four goddesses that this would be the last time I witnessed such a grim processional in my lifetime.

“Men of Macedon and Greece,” Cynnane’s voice rang out. She too was dressed in full battle armor, her unadorned Illyrian helm and menacing silver-studded Macedonian boots marking her as an equal to all the men present. “Today you dedicate yourself to Arrhidaeus, son of Philip and brother of your beloved
basileus
, Alexander of Macedon.”

At this, the Macedonians banged fists upon their shields in a gesture of respect and mourning. Even in death, Alexander demanded their love and affection.

Cynnane gestured for young Adea to join her, and I hoped no one else could see the way her daughter’s hands trembled. Thirteen-year-old Adea too wore a leather cuirass and greaves, but being so slight, she looked like a child playing dress-up in her mother’s armor. “With your support, Arrhidaeus shall rule for many years,” Cynnane continued. “To that end, you are also here to see your new
basileus
wed his fair niece Adea, Philip’s granddaughter and Alexander’s niece, ensuring the peaceful continuation of Alexander’s empire for generations to come.”

There was a moment of stunned silence, broken by Illyrian stomping that shook the earth as if a thousand giants strode across the plains. Of course Cynnane’s countrymen would approve of such a match, setting a queen of their blood at Arrhidaeus’ side.

I shrugged away my shock to see that the first officer to step forward and bend a knee was Cassander, prompting the rest of the men to fall into line behind him. Arrhidaeus began to mimic Cassander’s bow until I touched his elbow. “They bow to you,” I whispered as Cassander backed away and Alcetas, a second-rate general from Alexander’s Indian campaign, filed past Cynnane. “You can nod to them, but a
basileus
never bows.”

I resumed my position as Alcetas stepped forward, his eyes downcast as befitted a general paying homage to his ruler. His sword remained sheathed at his hip as he genuflected to my brother.

But he bowed too low, his hand darting for his boot and the weapon secreted there.

Acting on instinct, I shoved Arrhidaeus behind me, drawing my sword to protect him with the same fluid motion. But I misjudged Alcetas, for he sought a different target from my brother.

And in the days and years to come, I would never cease blaming myself for not guessing his murderous intent.

Alcetas’ hidden dagger thrust up and to the right. The world slowed as I realized helplessly that the pale flesh of Cynnane’s throat was completely exposed.

A warm spray of blood spattered my face and Adea screamed, one long ululating cry as her mother crumpled to the ground beside her in a burnished halo of wild hair and a heap of worthless armor. Alcetas lunged as if to slay Adea too, but this time I blocked his attack with a cry of rage and a wild parry that would have felled a smaller man.

“Run!” I yelled to Adea, but she clung to Cynnane and continued screaming even as my panic-stricken brother tried to pull her away.

Alcetas drew his sword and came at me hard then, but my fury was equal to his forceful assault and I deflected his every blow until our blades were clenched. My eyes bulged and the muscles of my arm screamed in protest as I tried to advance, intent on disarming him. I could see his death in my mind, how I would plunge my blade deep into his bowels, how he would drop his sword in horror just before my sword arched up to behead him.