Cassander’s praise made it impossible to swallow over the lump in my throat. “Then they shall marry as soon as can be arranged,” I said, turning my attention to Alexander’s battle paintings so I might regain my composure. I’d always dismissed Cassander as a droning bore, but today, unasked and unbidden, he’d assumed Cynnane’s responsibilities in protecting Adea and Arrhidaeus, perhaps even in protecting me. The realization left me both bewildered and grateful. Now it remained for me to help Adea and to honor Cynnane by seeing her plans to fruition.
“I’m sorry, Thessalonike,” Cassander said. “I truly am.” Then he looked at me with a grim twist to his mouth. “Olympias kept you locked away and Alexander allowed you to do as you pleased, but many in the coming days will view you as a priceless link to Alexander and his empire.”
My skin went cold and I shivered.
“There’s nothing I can do about that,” I said.
“You can marry me.”
I gaped at him, his face shrouded in shadows so I couldn’t read his expression. “I’d have thought that you’d have waited at least until my brother and sister were in their tombs before launching another vile marriage proposal. I can see I was wrong.”
He stood and kicked the base of the granite bench, hard enough I was surprised it didn’t break his toes. “The battle for your brother’s throne has only just begun, Thessalonike,” he said, each word carefully uttered. “You’d sleep better knowing you didn’t face the fight alone.”
“I’m not alone,” I said. “I have Arrhidaeus and Adea. And Drypetis.”
Cassander stared at me a long moment, then spread his arms wide. “Then you have no need of me.”
He stood and backed from my presence, leaving me alone in the courtyard surrounded by the sarcophagi of two dead warriors and the empty vault of sky overhead.
I’d grown weary of death as my constant companion, but it would be still longer before I could shake Hades from my side.
• • •
We purified Cynnane with olive oil and dressed her in her armor before placing her in a third sarcophagus to travel home to Macedon, then witnessed her daughter being wed to Arrhidaeus in a simple ceremony in full view of the army. Adea helped guide Arrhidaeus’ hand as he cut the traditional loaf of rye bread and she blushed to offer him a fragrant yellow quince in the manner of Greek brides stretching back to the birth of the gods, while the soldier-spectators threw nuts and dried figs at the solemn couple. I prayed that Cynnane’s shade saw her daughter’s meager smile as Arrhidaeus fed her the sweet fruit, even as I swore I would do everything in my power to see them both safely delivered to their thrones in Macedon.
We were to travel with Ptolemy and his contingent of Egypt-bound troops overland to Tyre and there board ships for a sea journey that I looked forward to as much as I did having a rotten tooth pulled. A good portion of the army had been dispatched to quell a revolt in Cappadocia, the sole area of the Levant not conquered by my brother, leaving only a small contingent to guard Arrhidaeus, Adea, and the rest of the funeral cortege. Drypetis had decided to accompany Hephaestion’s bones to his final resting place in Macedon, but we were still at a disadvantage when another of Alexander’s generals sought to benefit from his death almost two months after our departure from Babylon.
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 sl
owly, 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.”
I laughed through my tears then, which felt good, for I was heartily sick of crying.
Nike might smile f
or me on those soft evenings, but otherwise she had a mind for nothing but sword-clang and vengeance. I saw her the next morning sparring in a circle of guards, spitting at them to come at her two, three, four at a time, and she looked so like Alexander that for a moment I saw him as he had been at Issus and Tyre and Gaugamela. Cassander watched Thessalonike too, his blunt face stony as she surged and clashed and spat curses against the guards.
I set down the rag I’d been using to polish a set of training swords and brushed the sand from my hands as I stood beside Cassander. “Do you really think you and your father can win against Olympias?” I asked.
Cassander glanced at me from the corners of his dark eyes. His heavy features rendered him far from handsome, but I liked to think my own brother might have grown up to resemble him: strong, intelligent, and steadfast.
Such simple traits to make a good man, yet so rare.
Cassander nodded toward Nike as her sword crashed against another soldier’s, neatly disarming him before she whirled on the next unfortunate guard. “We’d win in a week if all our men fought like her.”
Yet Thessalonike alone couldn’t win the war. And Cassander knew it.
He rubbed his jaw, his face haggard. “Our best hope is to entice Olympias’ Macedonian troops and Thracian mercenaries to turn against her. If they come to our side, we might win the war by the time the year is out.”
But it was a terrible year, with the worst yet to come—news that turned Cassander’s face gray, followed by even darker tidings.
Oh, my poor Nike. I rested my cheek against my Damascus ax and wept.
CHAPTER 28
Amphipolis, Macedon
Roxana
Olympias’ womb had never carried me, but I knew we were meant to be together as mother and daughter from the moment I was ushered into her solar in Amphipolis, begging for refuge from those who sought to kill me.
It was a refuge that she happily granted even as she lifted little Alexander Aegus from my arms like the most precious treasure, my son so freshly fallen from my womb that the black nub of his cord had yet to come away from his belly.
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