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Beautiful boy, that skin and those eyes, and that dancer’s grace. Always a trifle above the Macedonians, always holding his nose like a high-bred woman walking a battle-field. Soft little thing, made for pleasure, and no hurt save the knife that pared him. Some courage too, to not break down under the pages’ treatment of him, and pride, to tell no-one. And a swift skittishness, less shyness than fear, a way of slipping from the room as he enters, of never meeting his eyes. Darius’ boy. Alexander’s for the taking, and afraid of him. Olympias would give him better cause.
***
Think he did it himself?” No.
“Took a knife and sliced? Doesn’t look strong enough.”
“Might have. You never know with these Persians. Easy way to an easy life.” Easy? To be cut to nothing?
“Cut off your balls and become a girl.”
“Do you think he’s cut off, completely?” Sweet Furies, man. Think. How would he function?
“Could be, could be. Looks enough like a girl.” Man for men, are you, now?
“First Darius and now Alexander.”
“What a great life, eh, men?”
“General!”
“Lydias. Alexias.”
“Hephaistion.”
“We were saying…”
“I heard you.”
“Hephaistion.”
“Talk in a softer voice.”
***
We fought about a quiver, when first we met. He climbed trees, like any boy, and tore his clothes and played at war. You had not then drawn breath. He was a man while you were still your mother’s child, King before you were unmanned.
He was ours first, and no robes and no prostration will ever make him Kyros. He is King, but not Great King, not a Persian, not yours. A Macedonian King cannot kill a man for pleasure or rage. Do not tell him so, do not make him a god. He is Alexander, let that suffice.
***
Alexander did not die. He has known this, in the poisoned heat of battle and the grim walk through the blood-soaked street, and the long wait for any news, held it close with a child’s firm grasp on his mother’s hand.
Alexander is alive. Here in this tent, flowers still sticking to Alexander’s hair—such great waxy flowers they have here—he lets himself know it in relief and lack of desperation, and a sudden rush of gratitude. Field dressing to fine embroidery, his work to the boy’s, and he manages to make Alexander rest. How useful the child is.
***
The sand sucks your feet into it, and your legs ache, already, from your few steps, and your horse, fed less and worked more… but you can walk, with the men. You will walk, for the boy must ride. Small pale thing, half-buried in sand. It seems almost kind, to leave him to oblivion, to his rest, in the sand’s soft bed. But Alexander must have what Alexander needs, and Alexander needs the boy. The boy from the hills beyond Pella sheathes his half-drawn dagger and you stumble forward the last few steps and force your parched throat to speak.