“Then starve you shall, husband,” I said, kicking off my slippers and sidling into bed next to him. I’d sleep on one of the couches tonight to avoid the great oaf’s fevered tossing all night, but for now, being next to him was the warmest place to ward off autumn’s encroaching chill.
I retrieved a book from an inlaid walnut chest. Our belongings were beginning to merge, but it was a simple matter to locate the right one, as Hephaestion kept his books ordered by subject in a more stringent manner than Glaucus’ medical box. “And while you starve,” I said, “I shall read you to sleep.”
He closed his eyes. “So long as it’s not more drivel from Aristophanes.”
“Even better,” I said, dropping my head scarf to the ground and snuggling in closer to him. “Aristotle’s Metaphysics. I’m particularly interested in his treatise on the Pythagorean theorem and how it can be applied to laying the corners of a rectangular building.”
Hephaestion groaned as if he were truly dying. “Where’s my sword?” he asked. “You may as well kill me now.”
I thumped his chest with the book. “Cease your prattle,” I said. “Or I’ll shove Glaucus’ chickpeas down your throat.”
“Fine,” he harrumphed. “But only because you have a lovely voice, when you’re not droning at me, that is.”
I read from Sappho instead of Aristotle that night, continuing until I was sure Hephaestion had drifted off to sleep. Yet as soon as I shifted, his fingers threaded through mine.
“My heart is tight, Drypetis.”
He spoke not in Greek, but in flawless Aramaic. I stared hard at his profile in the dark, wondering if he knew what those words meant in my language.
Surely not . . .
“I’ll send for the physician,” I said, but his fingers didn’t release mine.
“Not from the illness,” he said. “From you.”
“I don’t think you understand what you’re saying, at least not here in Persia.”
“You still think I’m just a thick-skulled soldier, don’t you?” He sighed, but squeezed my hand. “It means that I love you. And I do, much against my better judgment.”
“That’s the fever speaking,” I protested weakly, but Hephaestion released my hand to retrieve something through the folds of his discarded chiton.
“This is for you,” he said, revealing a thick gold chain that ended in a heavy pendant. “Icarus on one side of the bulla and his father, Daedalus, on the other. They were engineers, just like you.”
“I know who they were,” I said, my throat tight as I let him press the gift into my hand. I pushed the clasp and exclaimed as the pendant opened to reveal a hollow compartment.
Hephaestion chuckled, then winced. “I think most women would hide perfume in there. You could probably use it for a spot of axle grease or a spare nail or two.”
I didn’t know what to say. Thank you seemed so inadequate, yet I could scarcely form the words.
“I hate to disappoint you,” I finally said, “for unlike Daedalus and Icarus, I have no intention of flying into the sun.”
But Hephaestion only turned toward me and pulled me so my back fit against his chest.
“Don’t argue with a sick man,” he said, wrapping his arms loosely around me. “Wear your new bauble and go to sleep, wife.”
His bold declaration of love had paralyzed me just as surely as a phalanx of soldiers bearing down on me with deadly sarissas. Still, I smiled at Hephaestion’s warm breath on my neck and snuggled closer, for his love was an idea I could become accustomed to.
And so I fell asleep, the Icarus pendant around my neck, Hephaestion’s arms around me, and his words of love in my mind.
• • •
Hephaestion was a man accustomed to being obeyed, and as such, he expected this inconvenient illness to follow his orders and depart immediately. Instead, he remained unable to rise from his bed for seven days, his limbs heavy with malaise and a strange spotted rash upon his chest that no compress of lavender or chamomile could chase away. There were no further words of love as his temper grew blacker until it would have been easier to please a bear dragged from its den in the height of winter than to please my ailing husband.
Alexander came to visit Hephaestion every day, often bringing gifts of new books. I remained in the shadows with a book or sketch to keep me busy, for although Alexander offered me the most polished of manners, he skirted me like the sea demon Charybdis, believing me to be unimportant but dangerous if provoked. However, as I cared little for the golden-haired conqueror, it suited me to remain in the periphery while he discussed the latest wrestling tournament or javelin contest with Hephaestion.
“Glaucus says you’re improving,” Alexander said on the seventh day, propping his heels up on a crate of freshly delivered Thessalian wine. “If you can rouse yourself, there will be a chariot race between Ptolemy and Seleucus tonight. I’d like you to award the olive wreath to the winner.”
I frowned at Alexander’s attempts to cajole Hephaestion from bed. Of course he didn’t realize that Hephaestion hadn’t even been able to dress himself today, despite Glaucus’ optimism that he would soon rally. My husband’s cheeks were sunken like those of a man twice his age and he’d lost at least a stone in weight over the past days, making me wonder whether Glaucus’ promises were aimed only to save both Alexander and Hephaestion from browbeating him.
“I shall do my best to please you,” Hephaestion said, struggling to sit, but Alexander waved away the attempt. I watched from the corner of my vision, ignoring the schematics in my lap and instead imagining the two men when they first marched out of Macedon, young and unscarred. The potent stab of jealousy made me feel petty and small. “By the way, congratulations about Roxana,” Hephaestion fairly croaked.
I looked up sharply at that. I’d been so immersed in alternating between Hephaestion’s sickbed and Stateira’s during her recent bout of illness that I’d heard almost no news about anyone else. The entirety of the Persian Empire might have succumbed to an army of India’s giant ants and I wouldn’t have noticed.
“You heard?” Alexander asked, a grin breaking out upon his face even as my heart fell. There was only one type of news regarding the Bactrian harlot that could make him glow hotter than the sun.
Hephaestion gave a weak nod. “I have my sources.”
Most likely he’d wrangled it from Glaucus when I was visiting Stateira. Hephaestion could persuade a rock to tell its secrets.
Alexander laughed. “I seem to recall a time when we did everything from your bed.”
I glanced at the cypress rafters, wondering if Alexander even remembered I was here.
“Those were the days,” Hephaestion said, glancing at me and wincing as he shifted in bed. “Still, it’s about time you had your heir.”
So the foulmouthed Bitch of Balkh—my nickname for Roxana, which never failed to tease a smile from Hephaestion—had finally conceived. If there were any justice in this world, she’d whelp a spotted desert jackal.
“With the blessings of the gods, by this time next year we might both have our heirs.” Alexander’s gaze strayed to me, but I became suddenly entranced with a sketch for a new type of battering ram. My monthly bloods had just ceased and Hephaestion had been too ill to attempt any seduction. “Did your spies tell you that Antipater is due to arrive any day?”
“I feel a headache coming on at the very thought,” Hephaestion grumbled.
“He brings guests,” Alexander said. “Arrhidaeus, Cynnane, and Thessalonike.”
“Your brother and sisters,” Hephaestion said. So the onslaught of unfamiliar Greek names heralded the advance of more of Alexander’s ilk. Suddenly Roxana of Balkh seemed tame in comparison.
“You’ll like Thessalonike,” Hephaestion said to me, prompting Alexander to purse his lips as if he were suddenly being ignored. “I suspect that the Fates spun you both from
the same thread.”
“I haven’t seen Thessalonike since she was ten and falling out of oak trees,” Alexander mused, shifting to block Hephaestion’s vision of me. “She’ll be a grown woman now.”
I could scarcely reconcile the image of this mercurial conqueror laughing and shouting with his siblings, climbing trees or playing tag down palace corridors.
“It will be good to see them again,” Hephaestion said, closing his eyes with a faint smile as if imagining just such a scene. “Like old times.”
“Perhaps I’ll skip the races so we can dine together like those days back in Aigai,” Alexander said. “It’s been too long since I’ve spent a night in your tent. There’s roasted duck from my hunt this morning and plenty of wine.”
I supposed I might sleep curled up at the foot of their bed, like a faithful dog. Despite his declarations of love, would Hephaestion accept Alexander’s proposition? And what would I do if he did?
“A generous offer,” Hephaestion said. “But unless I’m mistaken, tonight is the debut of your prologue for Python the Fat’s new comedy.”
“It is indeed.” Alexander stood, his face lit with excitement as he gestured in the air as if outlining a battle map. “The stage is a marvel; there’s a mausoleum to one side of the entrance to the underworld, hewn entirely from wood and paint, but to the faraway eye it appears as if chiseled from marble.”
I doubted that very much, but thought to humor him. “What is the play about?”
Alexander smiled, his turn to indulge me. It was a delicate dance we played. “The chorus is made of magi from the East who summon the spirit of Harpalus’ mistress from the underworld.”
“So this comedy takes place in a tomb?” I asked, ignoring Hephaestion’s look of warning. “It sounds more like a tragedy.”
“The chorus japes at Athens throughout the play,” Alexander said, his tone growing cold even as Hephaestion mimicked drawing a blade across his throat at me. “I assure you it’s quite humorous.”
I remained skeptical. Humor had never been one of Alexander’s strongest traits.
“Athens is surely what I’d discuss if my mistress returned from the dead,” Hephaestion said, flinching as he reached for his wine cup. I passed it to him and Alexander watched us both with eyes that missed nothing.
“It’s no good, Hephaestion,” he said, his tone bordering on a warning. “I’ve made up my mind to stay with you tonight and order Python the Fat to play tomorrow instead.”
Hephaestion frowned. “I fear I’ll be poor company.”
“He threw a bowl of ptisan at me this morning,” I said.
“I didn’t throw it at you,” he muttered. “Although I’m sure you’d have deserved it if I had.”
I rolled my eyes. Only Ahura Mazda knew where he’d found the energy to hurl the bowl in the first place. His aim hadn’t suffered during his illness, spattering me with ptisan while obliterating a treatise on Pythagorean hammers. I’d smacked him on the nose in retaliation.
“You won’t come with me and you don’t want me here,” Alexander said, rising in a huff. “I know not how to make you happy, Hephaestion.”
“Imagine me at your side in the theater as the actors speak your prologue. I’ll hear the crowd roaring your name and will flush with pride from my sickbed,” Hephaestion said, but he looked grayer than he had before Alexander had arrived, as if every word had sapped his remaining strength. Still, his praise worked its intended magic, for even I could see that Alexander yearned to sit upon his great marble platform alongside the stage and allow the theatergoers to chant his name in honor of the prologue he had written. And there was no doubt everyone would swoon with delight, even if the words stank worse than horse manure.
“I shall do as you ask, then,” Alexander said, using the tip of his purple chlamys to polish the snarling lion pendant pinned at his shoulder, one in a vast collection that included the fearsome beasts in all manner of repose. “Is there anything else I can do?”
“Send real food, maybe even one of your roasted ducks. One more night abed and then I swear I’ll join you tomorrow for the discus throwers, lest I go mad in here.”
“It shall be done,” Alexander said. He bent over Hephaestion and kissed him full on the mouth, a lingering kiss deeper than any proskynesis. A stew of uncomfortable emotions made me avert my eyes, so I saw only the hem of Alexander’s purple robe when he finally strode from the tent.
“You should go to the theater,” came Hephaestion’s voice from bed. “There’s no need for you to stay and risk me throwing more food at you. And you won’t want to miss the announcement about Roxana.”
“That would be worth missing,” I said. “I’ll stay, but I swear I’ll hurl Alexander’s entire goose at you if you throw anything else in my direction.”
Or if he mentioned Alexander. It was easy to name the foul emotion squeezing my heart then, despite my rare acquaintance with jealousy.
“I’ll replace the treatise on Pythagorean hammers.” He chuckled and then squeezed his eyes hard, as if the light from the oil lamps was too bright. “I’ll eat Alexander’s duck and some wine too. I’ll never regain my strength on Glaucus’ foul gruel and water.”
“Good,” I said. “I want you chasing me around this bed on the morrow, not wasting away in it with fever.”
He kissed me, his lips dry and still too warm. “I’m happy to oblige.”
I helped Hephaestion sit, then arranged myself behind him so his head lay on my breast, massaging his temples in a vain attempt to ward off the constant ache in his skull. My stomach rumbled when the servants finally entered with Alexander’s trays: baskets of pomegranates and persimmons, a mallard dressed in its own emerald feathers and stuffed with brown bread and onions, lamb stew with saffron and yogurt, and a full amphora of a rich, dark wine. My yellow dog had slipped in with the attendants and sat expectantly at my feet, his tail thumping in anticipation of the feast to come.
“Bring the platters here,” Hephaestion said. “We shall feast from bed.”
And so we did, although I forced Hephaestion to swallow down his medicinal ptisan first before we fed each other tiny bits of moist duck and spoonfuls of steaming stew until we could eat no more. I ate my fill of the season’s first persimmons, known to the Greeks as the Wheat of Zeus, licking the juice from my fingers. Hephaestion ate slowly but steadily, as if each bite were a medicinal draft prescribed by his bevy of physicians. We washed it all down with wine, leaving the empty plates discarded on the ground for the dog to enjoy.
“Come closer, wife,” Hephaestion said, letting me settle farther into the crook of his arm. “Thank you for your patience these past days.”
I smiled as he dropped a kiss on the crown of my head. Hephaestion might bluster outside our rooms and I knew his hands were stained with the blood of countless men, but at his core he was a good man.
A man who loved me.
And so I gathered the courage to speak the words that I’d never thought to say, words that a few months ago might have marked me as a madwoman.
“I love you, Hephaestion.”
“I know,” he said, his eyes closed. “Loving me is a common enough malady.”
“Are you sure your name isn’t Narcissus?” I asked, hitting his chest so hard that he grunted.
“Don’t abuse a convalescent. Asclepius might smite you with his snake staff.”
“I’d smite him back,” I growled, but calmed as I felt the rumble of laughter in his chest.
“I love you too, Drypetis,” he said. “I suspect I always will.”
I stayed with him a while longer, then moved and lit an oil lamp so I might read a collection of poems while he napped. My dog—our dog now, I supposed—glanced at me before availing himself of the empty foot of the bed, yawning once and then laying his head on his paws. Sometimes it was difficult to tell who snored louder, the dog or Heph
aestion, but now both were silent. I reveled in the rare peace, my feet tucked under me with a book in one hand and a cup of wine in the other.
There was a rap at the door and I held my breath, hoping it hadn’t roused Hephaestion, but he still slept. I opened the door to see Parizad standing in the open corridor, the palace’s sprawling tiled courtyard behind him. He grimaced to see me, then dropped his eyes as he clutched a worn leather bag to his chest.
“What is it, Parizad?” I asked, trying to keep the exasperation from my voice. Roxana’s twin had taken to lurking in the shadow of our traveling tent on our way to Ecbatana, and had tried to attach himself to my husband at every opportunity. I understood the pull that Hephaestion exerted on people, but Parizad’s doggedness was vexing to witness. And I didn’t trust him, especially considering that he’d shared a womb with the Bitch of Balkh.
“I brought herbs for Hephaestion’s illness,” he said, swallowing hard so the apple of his throat bobbed. “He should drink them brewed into a tincture tonight. I’d be happy to brew it myself—”
But I wasn’t going to let Parizad wake Hephaestion, knowing that we’d never be rid of him. Instead, I took the bag from him, startling him so his head jerked up.
“That’s very sweet,” I said. “But I can manage boiling water.”
He opened his mouth to protest, but I silenced him with a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Parizad,” I said. “You’re very kind.”
“You’ll be sure to tell him I sent the herbs, won’t you?” he called after me, but I only shut the door, dropping the bag onto a table. Hephaestion could drink them when he woke.
I curled on the couch again with Sappho’s poetry in my lap, but my eyes grew heavy and soon I nodded off. When I woke, the setting sun cast the chamber in a muted orange haze and it took me a moment to recognize that Hephaestion was muttering to himself, as if trapped in some sort of nightmare. His head jerked from side to side and his fingers plucked the fleece blanket as if it were a lyre.
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