Rise: Dancing with the Lion Book 2 Read online

  Riptide Publishing

  PO Box 1537

  Burnsville, NC 28714

  www.riptidepublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All person(s) depicted on the cover are model(s) used for illustrative purposes only.

  Dancing with the Lion: Rise

  Copyright © 2019 by Jeanne Reames

  Cover art: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com/design-portfolio.html

  Editor: May Peterson, maypetersonbooks.com

  Layout: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Riptide Publishing at the mailing address above, at Riptidepublishing.com, or at [email protected].

  ISBN: 978-1-62649-900-3

  First edition

  October, 2019

  Also available in paperback:

  ISBN: 978-1-62649-901-0

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  The story of Alexander before he became “the Great.”

  Finished with schooling, Alexandros is appointed regent of Makedon while his father is away on campaign. He thrives with his new authority—this is the role he was born for—yet it creates conflict with his mother and Hephaistion. And when his soldiers, whom he leads with unexpected skill, start to call him “The Little King,” his father is less than delighted.

  Tensions escalate between Alexandros and his father, and between Makedon and the city-states of southern Greece. As the drums of war sound, king and crown prince quarrel during their march to meet the Greeks in combat. Among other things, his father wants to know he can produce heirs, and thinks he should take a mistress, an idea Alexandros resists.

  After the south is pacified, friction remains between Alexandros and the king. Hostilities explode at festivities for his father’s latest wedding, forcing Alexandros to flee in the middle of the night with his mother and Hephaistion. The rigors of exile strain his relationships, but the path to the throne will be his biggest challenge yet: a face-off for power between the talented young cub and the seasoned old lion.

  In memoriam of my father,

  Calvin Edward Reames Sr.,

  the inspiration behind Amyntor.

  He always supported and encouraged me, regardless.

  About Dancing with the Lion: Rise

  A Word on Names

  Chapter 1: Regent

  Chapter 2: In Disgrace

  Chapter 3: Gold Crowns

  Chapter 4: Khaironeia

  Chapter 5: Athenai

  Chapter 6: Oath

  Chapter 7: Secrets

  Chapter 8: Exile

  Chapter 9: The Lion

  Chapter 10: Agriana

  Chapter 11: Kleopatra

  Chapter 12: Reconciliation

  Chapter 13: A View to a Death

  Chapter 14: Pausanias

  Chapter 15: The Bull Is Crowned

  Reader's Guides

  Historical Note

  Family Stemmas

  Dear Reader

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Jeanne Reames

  About the Author

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  Water-curled hair hinted that Alexandros had come straight from a bath, and Philippos shook his head. Would he ever understand his son? Artaxerxes and the entire Persikoi army might be sitting on the palace steps, but Alexandros would probably have a bath before seeing to it. Whatever his personal peculiarities, however, he’d become a good soldier. There’d been no more rash incidents like that night in Thrakē two years ago. The army called him “Philippos’s Lion Cub” now.

  He was also strong. Not tall, but strong: deep chest, broad shoulders, and sinewy thighs showing the hours he spent on horseback. Yet it had come on him slowly, letting him escape the stretched angularity suffered by most adolescents. More, he didn’t slouch. It took a man by surprise to come up beside him only to look down. At a distance, carriage, charisma, and a deep voice made him appear larger.

  “I heard you got in from Thrakē yesterday,” Alexandros said. “How long are you staying?”

  “Not long. I came for reinforcements; two days and we march for the Khersonesos.” He kicked out a chair for his son, who took the seat, slight frown creasing his brow. “This campaign is interminable.” No doubt the boy was planning for the muster, might even be hoping his recent summons from Mieza was to tell him he was being promoted to command a full squadron of two hundred horse. Philippos judged him ready for it, but the men wouldn’t accept him at sixteen. Of course, he was too hot-blooded to see that. Philippos had a better solution in any case, one that would placate and benefit him both. He tossed the boy a ring. “Think you can keep an eye on that while I’m gone again?”

  Alexandros’s eyes widened in recognition. “The Seal?”

  “Last I checked, it was.”

  “Why’re you giving it to me?”

  “Why does a king usually give a man the Seal?”

  “To make him regent, but . . .” Alexandros’s face was a study in contrasting expressions; he would never bluff an enemy. “You’re making me . . . I’m the . . . but Antipatros—”

  “Antipatros is staying behind to advise you, and Eumenes too. You’re a good leader, a decent soldier, but no administrator. Yet. That comes with experience, and I think it’s time you got some.” Picking up a stylus from the table, he turned it in his hands. “Listen to your advisors, learn to figure the treasury, judge a case, and control your mother. Above all, keep my supply lines open. This is no game. You foul up and I’ll be back here before you can spit. Antipatros will have the Seal. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” Alexandros was so far gone in amazement, he’d forgotten to bristle at the backhanded slight to Olympias.

  “Good boy.” Philippos smoothed his beard. “You’re itching for a promotion; don’t think I don’t know it.” Alexandros grinned at that. “Show me you can keep affairs straight here and I’ll trust you with two hundred horse in a battle—maybe even three hundred.” The Royal Squadron. As prince, once he was old enough, it would be his. The king stood. “Anything to say?”

  He hadn’t really expected anything, so it surprised him when Alexandros spoke softly, “Thank you, Pappás.”

  His son rarely called him Pappás, only Pater, Father, and Philippos hadn’t realized he’d missed it until he heard it. Then he laughed at himself. You’re a sentimental old fool. But it didn’t change the depth of his fee
lings any.

  “Don’t get cocky on me, now,” he said, because he didn’t know how to say, I’m proud of you. For once, Alexandros must have recognized the real meaning instead of inventing some bedamned one of his own, and smiled. Philippos grinned back, then gestured for the boy to pull around his chair. “Let me show you my plans. You should know them.” Casually, he set a hand on his son’s shoulder. Alexandros didn’t lean away.

  Alexandros couldn’t help strutting a bit when he left, and his first impulse was to find Hephaistion. Instead, he sought out his mother. She’d resent it if he told Hephaistion first. Her dislike of his friend felt to Alexandros like rejection of himself by proxy, forcing him to conceal things from her, not because he was ashamed, but because she refused to understand and he didn’t want to fight about it.

  She sat in the courtyard, an abacus and wax tablets scattered on the flagstones around her. She made notes on another as he arrived, muttering about lumber from the summer’s cutting and seed for the autumn planting. She held up a finger so he wouldn’t interrupt.

  Kleopatra knelt on the porch behind, hands deep in a dyeing vat. Her long braid had fallen over her shoulder, soaking the tip in dark-red water. Alexandros fished it out for her, tying it in a knot at the back of her neck. “Kleo, you’re a mess,” he said fondly. He loved her with an uncomplicated love, and sat down beside her. She pecked his cheek with a kiss.

  Nearby, two serving women carded and spun, and inside the corner room, others were weaving. From the kitchen came the clatter and rattle of cooks; it blended badly with the tinkle of water in the fountain and the murmur of women’s voices. The westering sun cast long shadows, painting the world in golden greens. After a pause like an indrawn breath, cicadas began their evening music.

  Finishing her sums, his mother set down the tablet and looked over at him. He rose without saying anything and thrust the hand with the Seal right under her nose. Frowning, she batted at it, then stopped, stared, and grabbed the hand to see better. “Aleko!” Leaping to her feet, she threw arms around him.

  His face flamed even whilst he felt absurdly pleased with himself. “Mammá!”

  Kleopatra had left off dyeing, and he rolled his eyes at her as she grinned behind a hand.

  Pushing him away, Myrtalē kissed both his cheeks. “I am so proud of you! You know what this means. From now on, everyone will see you as heir.” She hugged him again and he hugged back. “This is what I worked so long to secure—against Amyntas, Arrhidaios.” She pushed him away once more to see his face. “We’ve done it, Alexandros!”

  We?

  His pleasure cooled instantly. He had killed his boar at only twelve; he had fought in the front line; he had impressed his father enough to become the youngest officer in the Companions. What had she to do with any of that? He’d come to parade his success for her, not to have her steal it from him.

  Yet what could he say? She’d carried him for nine months and never let him forget it hadn’t been an easy pregnancy. She’d also secured him Helanikē for a nurse and Leonidas for a tutor. Neither Arrhidaios nor Amyntas had received a noblewoman nurse nor Molossi prince for a lesson-master.

  “Mammá,” he said, pulling away. “Please.” Her touch bothered him all of a sudden.

  She laughed and tweaked his ear. “Young men! One minute they cuddle up like little boys and the next, they get all prickly like hedgehogs.” She sat down again and hugged herself from excitement. She was planning; he knew that look, blue eyes focused heavenward on something he couldn’t see.

  Kleopatra came to embrace him, careful of her dripping hands. Next to their mother’s display, his sister’s seemed somehow more honest. His mother was wrapped up in herself; Kleopatra was thinking of him. The comparison startled him, as if he’d just seen his mother from a great height, and she looked small and diminished.

  “What is it?” Myrtalē asked him. “You’re making a funny face.”

  He couldn’t explain so he glanced out over the courtyard. “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing; I know you too well. Why are you lying?”

  Gaze flicking back, he found her frowning. Kleopatra had returned to her dye vat, silent, forgotten. He wished he could efface himself so easily, but he’d learned other strategies. Sighing grandly, he told her, “You always say I’m lying when I’m not lying.”

  She looked down and the sun raised a nimbus over her yellow braids. She was lovely, like a pale rock rose. That and his guilt inclined him to make peace, until she said, “You never talk to me anymore.”

  He balled his fists. “I talk. You don’t listen.”

  “I don’t listen? I’ve listened to you all your life! And don’t you dare use that tone of voice with me, child.”

  “Then don’t talk to me like I’m six. I’m a man now.”

  Her eyes widened. “A man? You’re Hephaistion’s boy. You may wear the Seal but I wonder which of you will sit on the throne? You might fit on his lap.”

  “Mother!” Lightness filled his head and humiliation crushed his chest. “Some things are none of your business.”

  “Oh, I think it’s all Makedon’s business when their prince lets another man rule him.”

  Enraged, he stepped forward until he stood over her. “But it’s all right if a woman does? That’s what you want, isn’t it? You snapping Fury—” His fist came up and she shrank back.

  Appalled, he stopped. What was he doing?

  “Go ahead. Hit me.” Although she cringed, she looked not the least afraid. “Call me a Fury, claim fury’s madness.”

  But he wasn’t his father and she wouldn’t win so easily. “Stop trying to turn me against Hephaistion.” Spinning on his heel, he stalked away. Finding a storage room downstairs, he violently pulled the curtain to, then wrapped arms around his chest and dropped his head.

  She bound him to her one moment, pushed him away the next, applauded, then shamed him. It tore his very heart and he didn’t understand her, nor what she wanted him to be. How could he be anything with her always there behind, telling him how much she’d done for him? She’d given him birth, secured him special tutors, even set him above his rivals with a bloodline that made him doubly royal. As if, without her, he was nothing.

  Was it true? Alone, would he achieve nothing? His father on one side, his mother on the other. Was there nothing to which he could put his own name? Bringing a fist to his mouth, he bit down on the index finger until the pain spread and his shaking stopped. Then he took the fist away to examine it curiously, like some odd fish dredged from the depths. Teeth marks tattooed the knuckle and the finger was swelling. Shaking his head absently, he left the closet. Kleopatra was waiting on the other side.

  “What?” her brother asked as soon as he saw her, but she thought the question as much surprise as reproach.

  “Are you and Hephaistion really . . .?” she trailed off, hoping he’d deny it.

  “Lovers?” he snapped. “Yes.”

  Kleopatra looked away to conceal disappointment, but wasn’t surprised. During geometry lessons, she’d gathered something deep lay between them. She’d just chosen to ignore what was obvious. Hephaistion was in love with her brother, not her. Nor had her rational mind ever believed her father would marry her to Amyntor’s son anyway; he wasn’t important enough.

  Unfortunately, crushes weren’t rational, and disillusionment lay heavy in her belly like unleavened dough. She had to struggle to keep her lip from trembling. “You know what they’ll say,” she warned, because she was feeling spiteful even if she didn’t want to, and she was angry with how he’d treated their mother.

  “I’ve heard it all already. But Akhilleus was the beloved of Patroklos.”

  “They don’t care, Aleko. They need to see you rule alone. Show them that and they won’t mark anything else. That’s all Mammá meant.”

  “That’s not all she meant, and you know it.” His jaw ground in rage. “She wants to claim everything, like I’m . . . an extension of her. And she resents Hepha
istion because I love him. She’s not first with me anymore.”

  “You’re still first with her. I’m not and never will be.”

  Alexandros’s expression turned stark. “She loves you, Kleo, and Thessalonikē too.”

  “I know she does. But we don’t secure anything for her.” Kleopatra understood the realities of being a royal wife. One day, she might have a son and daughter of her own, and that son would be first with her, as well, of necessity. She just hoped she could make it less obvious. “I reckon we all depend on you.” Tilting her head, she struggled to see it from his side. “That must be an awful burden.”

  “I was born to it.”

  “Do you ever wish you weren’t?”

  “You’re very philosophical for a girl.”

  Irritated, her brow went up. “Is that a compliment, an insult, or avoiding the question?”

  “Maybe a bit of all three?” He took a few steps backwards, then halted. “You made me think, not just react. So yeah, being philosophical is a compliment. You’re the most level-headed of us all, and it’s not just Mammá who loves you, sister-mine. I do too.” He departed.

  It was still a diversion, but at least a kinder one.

  After a week, Hephaistion was certain Alexandros was avoiding him. Most of the army and all their friends had gone to war with Philippos, yet he’d stayed in Pella for Alexandros’s sake, foolishly supposing he might be wanted, only to find he had nothing to do. The prince was too busy, or pretending to be, to spend time with him, so he spent his days wandering the city with his hounds, or meeting with Kleopatra to discuss mathematics, an elderly serving maid or little Thessalonikē as chaperone. These days, he saw more of Alexandros’s sisters than of Alexandros. Kleopatra was clever company, just not the company he wanted.

  His relationship with Alexandros fluctuated like the moon. Sometimes Alexandros’s affection was a wild animal that had to be coaxed to hand; at others, he was an overeager puppy. Hephaistion had learned to read the emotional weathervane and act accordingly. Yet Alexandros had never before ignored him.