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We woke to a hue and cry at dawn one morning still several days outside Tyre, to discover Alexander’s gaudy funeral carriage missing. Taken with it were my brother’s body and his armor; left behind were only the lifelike paintings of him.

“What is the meaning of this?” I demanded, hands balled into fists on my hips as I stood in the exact place where the carriage had rested the night before, its wheel tracks now leading to the west. Drypetis stumbled from her tent, her hair in such disarray that for a moment I was reminded of Cynnane.

I pushed the thought away.

“Ptolemy has stolen Alexander’s body,” Antipater proclaimed, his polished facade ruined by the black curse he muttered under his breath. Cassander stood next to his father, scowling as he searched the horizon.

Ptolemy, the newly proclaimed
satrap
of Egypt, who dressed like a Greek, smelled like an Egyptian, and schemed like a Persian.

“And I assume you’ve already ordered men to recover Alexander’s carriage?” I said.

Antipater straightened, the morning sun gleaming on his balding pate. “I have not.”

I blinked. “Which would you prefer, to fall on your sword or enjoy a cup of chilled hemlock when you inform Olympias that you allowed a sneaky Egyptian
satrap
to steal her son’s body, presumably to abandon him in some barren desert for the vultures to pick apart?”

“I assume Ptolemy will take the utmost care of Alexander’s body and its raiment. At least in Egypt, Alexander’s remains will be protected from the storm to come.”

“What storm?” I demanded, my hand tightening on the hilt of my sword.

“You may soon have need of that blade,” Cassander said. “But not against us.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

At a nod from his father, Cassander plucked a scroll from Antipater’s saddlebag and handed it to me. “A message from Olympias. She has given Roxana refuge.”

I heard Drypetis’ sharp inhalation, felt the hatred roiling off her even with my back turned. “And her child?”

“A son.”

If there were any justice in this world, Roxana would have died birthing the child.

“Olympias has raised thousands of men and even her own array of war elephants in Macedon,” Antipater said. “In support of the sole claim of her grandson, Alexander the Fourth.”

I scanned the remainder of the letter, written in Olympias’ slanting hand. “She has denounced us,” I said.

“She condemns Arrhidaeus and his family,” Cassander said. “And the regent of Greece.”

With one fell swoop of her pen, Olympias had plunged us all into civil war.

Suddenly, I understood Antipater’s decision to allow Alexander to lie at rest in Egypt rather than to drag his remains across the world into what promised to be a bloody and prolonged conflict. I’d have preferred to have my brother forever in Macedon where I might one day visit his tomb with my children and grandchildren, but I also didn’t wish to see him lost or, worse, destroyed in the fight to come.

“What do we do?” I asked.

“Roxana’s infant cannot rule,” Antipater said. “Macedon supports Olympias and Alexander’s bloodline, but the rest of the army has declared for the established regency. There are revolts for independence already in Aetolia, Athens, and Thessaly.”

My brother’s empire was fracturing before us, and we were powerless to stop it.

Drypetis cleared her throat. “Perhaps Olympias might be persuaded to release Roxana. Surely she wouldn’t harbor her if she knew of Roxana’s crimes?”

But I only shook my head. “You don’t know Olympias.”

“There is an empire at stake,” Cassander said. “Everyone plays only for themselves now, Olympias most of all.”

“Not me,” I said quietly, my voice almost a growl. “I play for Arrhidaeus. And for peace.”

“We must put down the revolts first,” Cassander said, as if I hadn’t spoken. “And then deal with Olympias.”

“And Arrhidaeus and Adea?” I asked.

“It is a regent’s place to remain at the side of his king,” Antipater answered. “Thus, Arrhidaeus and his queen shall enjoy my protection.”

He turned then, barking out orders to speed our departure and hasten us to the brewing war. I could well imagine Ares and the other gods of Mount Olympus pricking their ears in our direction, for this fight promised to rival Homer’s sagas of Paris and Helen, Achilles and Hector.

“If any harm comes to Arrhidaeus, I swear I’ll gut you like a fish,” I said to Cassander, low enough that only he could hear. “And I’ll do it slowly, so you have the pleasure of watching me carve out your innards before I set them on fire.”

Cassander exhaled with great control and looked toward the ripening skies, as if dealing with a petulant child. “Of course you will, Thessalonike.”

I hesitated for a moment before facing southwest, toward Egypt and Alexander’s resting place for all eternity.

“Good-bye, brother,” I said for the final time. “Rest well.”

The gods only knew if and when I’d see him again.

CHAPTER 27

Macedon

Drypetis

Mithra’s eyes, what a terrible year that was. A gray and red year, the grayness of my unending misery and the red of blood that would never cease flowing. Blood as Antipater chased Olympias’ men, blood as regiments of Epirean soldiers allied with Macedon to drive out Antipater, blood on my thumb where I cut myself on the Damascus edge of Hephaestion’s ax while sharpening it, and wept all over again with the agony of losing him.

Blood on the edge of Thessalonike’s sword as she came striding back grim-faced and lion-maned from yet another fight. Her sword was rarely sheathed that year, nor was she ever longer than a sword’s length from the sides of Arrhidaeus and Adea. Their Amazon protector prowled light-footed and stony-eyed in their wake, more like Cynnane than even Cynnane had ever been, or so it seemed to me.

Yet I could still tempt a smile from Nike in the evenings when she walked with me, the only bright spot in my days as I taught myself to live again. No one would ever replace all those I had lost, but I knew that Stateira would have smiled to know that I’d found another sister to keep me from being utterly and hopelessly alone in this cruel world.

Gods, but I missed my sister too, her sweet smile and calming disposition. She might have brought some semblance of peace to all of us, but now I had to content myself with her dog-eared copy of Plato and an old sketch she’d once made of the two of us. I ignored the simple charcoal lines that made my profile and the bend in my nose, my finger hovering instead over the gentle curve of Stateira’s cheekbones and the sweep of her arched brows. I dared not touch the paper and smudge the charcoal as I had the first time I’d seen the picture after ushering Stateira to the Tower of Silence.

I’d sobbed then, curled around the sketch while unable even to touch it.

The scrap of paper was as precious to me as the Icarus pendant that Hephaestion had given me. Small trinkets of another life irrevocably lost and yet revived each night in the hours before I slept; small trinkets that beckoned my loved ones to join me in my dreams. Sometimes my father was there too, his smile blossoming from beneath his beard as he hugged my mother and siblings, Hephaestion at my side.

Ahriman had stolen my mother and father, and Hephaestion too. But it was Roxana who had killed Stateira. And each evening as I put away the pendant and the portrait, Stateira’s copy of Plato and Hephaestion’s beloved volume of Pindar, I swore that I would live to see Roxana die.

One night Cassander ordered that we camp outside Mieza, for although Antipater was the official regent, it was his son who now directed the army while his father grew more and more infirm. Thessalonike and I walked in silence to the Shrine of the Nymphs, the forest where Aristotle had once taught Hephaestion and Alexander. There I sat in the cave where Hephaestion had escaped Alexander’s fire, as I’d sought out so many of the places where my husband might have walked since we’d arrived in Macedon. The walls were dark in the falling twilight, so it was difficult to tell if the fire had left its mark, but I knelt on the ground, feeling the cold earth and imagining a younger Hephaestion asleep on his side there, an image so vivid I almost reached out to touch his dark curls.

“You really loved him, didn’t you?”

I startled at Nike’s voice, torn between a wish for privacy and thankfulness for her solid presence. She’d waited outside when I’d told her that Hephaestion had once camped here, but as always, Alexander’s sister had a difficult time staying in one place for long.

“So very much,” I murmured, straightening. “I hope you’ll find happiness like ours one day.”

“I’d have to marry for that,” she said. She’d been using her knife to whittle a stick and tossed the wood to the ground, sheathing her blade. “I always thought I might marry one day, like Cynnane. . . .”

Her face crumpled and I reached out to squeeze her hand, giving her a moment to compose herself.

“You’ll avenge her death,” I said, a reassurance I’d repeated more times than I could count. This time Thessalonike’s lips twisted, as if she’d just swallowed broken glass.

“Like you plan to do with Roxana?”

“I don’t know what you mean—”

She snorted. “Anyone with eyes can guess that you fall asleep each night dreaming of new ways to kill the Bitch of Balkh. Sadly, I can’t even do that much for Cynnane.” She glanced at me through slitted eyes, but I tried not to let show my shock that my desires had been so transparent. “Cassander brought word today that Alcetas is dead, fallen on his own sword. I’d envisioned cutting his throat as he did to Cynnane. . . .” She sniffed and ran a ragged sleeve under her nose. “Most girls my age spend their days soothing their babes still at the breast and their nights pleasing their husbands. I spend my days dreaming of blood and iron. Broken, aren’t I?” she asked with a shaky laugh.

I linked my arm through hers. “Perhaps,” I said. “But I still like you.”

But then, I supposed I was broken as well.

Nike chuckled and we stood that way for a moment, the darkened leaves of larch and mulberry rustling in the breeze as if the shrine’s namesake nymphs flitted from behind the gnarled trunks in a child’s game of hide-and-find. I could easily imagine Alexander and Hephaestion playing here as boys, and the image curdled my gut with fresh jealousy and grief.

“It’s peaceful here,” Thessalonike said, with a wry twist of her lips. “I’d forgotten how much I miss the calm.”

But I knew the quiet to be an illusion, the stillness before the final storm.

“We’re closer to Roxana,” I said, broaching the earlier subject. Alcetas might be dead, but Roxana still breathed. For now. “And justice.”

“But Olympias protects Roxana,” Thessalonike said, glancing up to where the first stars of the night were beginning to spark to life. “We may as well be throwing pebbles at Scylla and Charybdis for all the impact we’ve had thus far.”

But if perhaps the two women could be turned against each other . . .

“Surely there is someone who might be able to carry witness of what happened to my sister.” The foul bastard Parizad might be dead, but I wouldn’t rest until the Bitch of Balkh was rotting too for all she’d done. I’d thought to take out my revenge alone, but Thessalonike was a natural ally. “If Roxana’s reputation could be shredded so thoroughly that no one could support her, not even Olympias . . .”

Then we could get to her. And then we could kill her.

Nike and even Cassander believed I had joined them here in Macedon to see Hephaestion’s bones to his tomb. While that was true, my desire for revenge burned even hotter than my need to see my husband laid to rest.

“You shred the bitch’s reputation.” Thessalonike stretched like a panther, frowning at yet another half-healed sword cut on her forearm before she linked arms with me again. “I’ll chase her down and shred her foul throat.”

It was then that I told her of the babe Stateira had carried, of the precious niece or nephew I had lost to Roxana’s ruthlessness. And she hugged me as I shed fresh tears, and shed a few of her own, for the child would have shared her blood too.

“We’d have been aunts together,” she said. “And ruined the child thoroughly when we taught her to wield a sword and build battering rams.”