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“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 Hephaestion, 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.

“Hush,” I said, reaching into the basin of water to dampen a rag, dabbing it on his scalding forehead while I pressed a kiss against his temple. “Can’t a woman get any rest these days?”

But his muttering continued, garbled and incoherent. I drew back the coverlet to find his body flushed all over, his abdomen strangely distended and as hard as wood under my hands. The dog roused too and jumped from the bed, a whine building in the back of his throat.

I hushed him and stumbled to the door, throwing it open to the setting sunshine. The open-air corridor was empty, but two figures strolled across the courtyard. “Wait!” I yelled, almost crying out with relief when they stopped and Ptolemy turned, a wide-eyed and tousle-haired attendant draped on his other arm. “Hephaestion requires a physician,” I commanded him. “Find Glaucus and order him here immediately!”

“Glaucus will be at the celebration,” he said, his eyes widening at my bare feet and state of disarray. “He may be at the theater or the games, but there are thousands of spectators. To find one man amongst the crowd would be impossible—”

“Find Alexander!” I yelled. “And find Glaucus or it will be your head that Alexander puts on display while Hephaestion travels across the river Styx!”

The general scuttled away and I ran back to the room, helpless in the face of Hephaestion’s worsening symptoms. I fell to my knees at his bedside and felt for the pulse in his neck, fast and thready. His forehead burned hotter than the furnace of his divine namesake, and I bathed it with a cool towel, ineffective and useless as his breathing came fast and shallow. I knew that sound, for I had heard it before my mother was called to the netherworld.

Hades.

Ahriman.

Call him what you will, but that sound heralded the unmistakable arrival of the god of death.

“Go away,” I muttered under my breath to the dark presence. “Hephaestion’s of no use to you now. Come back for him when we’re old and withered, once we’ve lived our lives.”

My answer was a chill that raised gooseflesh on my arms, and I knew I’d find no help from that quarter.

Hephaestion had bested death countless times on the battlefield, and even in the Mieza cave with Alexander. He could do so again.

“Stay and fight,” I whispered to Hephaestion, clutching his hand. “If you ever loved me, you must conquer this. Because I love you, and I won’t let you leave me.”

I willed him to open his eyes, to tell me that he’d fight and that he loved me.

But I’d never see his brown eyes sparkle or hear his laughing voice again.

Death is a sneaky and cowardly foe. In the end it wasn’t a sword, a mace, or a
sarissa
on a field of battle that caught Hephaestion unawares. Instead, it was an ordinary fever—the death of a common man—that stole my uncommon husband from me.

He gave a great, final exhalation, akin to his heated sighs of frustration when I’d first taunted him at Issus, at Tyre, and at Gaugamela.

And then he was gone.

I stared at his flushed body, still burning hotter than the desert sun, and willed his chest to rise again. I pounded my fists against him and begged him to open his eyes as he lay motionless, his dark hair matted to his scalp and a day’s worth of stubble on his jaw, his massive hand in mine for the final time. Our dog inched toward the bed, pressing his muzzle against Hephaestion’s arm with a questioning whine.

I begged death to claim me then, for without Hephaestion, the brightest star in the sky had gone out, leaving me blind in its absence.

Stunned, I crawled into his arms, sobbing inconsolably as our dog laid his head on Hephaestion’s chest. I refused to accept that my husband would never rise from our bed or tease me again for filling our room with more models than an engineer’s desk, that I would never feel his lips on mine, or sit with him while we watched our children climb the trees in the Hanging Gardens.