Becoming: Dancing with the Lion Book 1 Page 3

  Hephaistion might have followed, but the barrel-chested boy who’d tamed Kassandros squatted beside him. “There are stage entrances and stage entrances. That would’ve won a crown at the Dionysia. You must be Agathon’s brother.”

  Hephaistion grinned. He’d lived his whole life in the shadow of his brothers’ infamous reputations. Mostly, he didn’t mind. “Hephaistion Amyntoros.” He offered a hand.

  The other gripped it. “I heard you were asking for me earlier. I’m Koinos Polemokratous, Senior Page.” He had the look of both efficiency and humor, the sort who could take a joke—to a point.

  “Pleased to meet you. The king said I should see you about rules and duties.”

  “Well—” Koinos glanced over his shoulder at Kassandros sulking on his couch “—one thing I can tell you straight off. You’ve got a permanent enemy on your squad now.”

  “Should I worry?”

  “He won’t be easy to trick twice. And he’s a bad adversary.”

  “I’m worse.”

  Koinos started to laugh, then seemed to think better of it. “Well. Don’t say you weren’t warned.”

  Then as the other boys settled down from their unexpected entertainment, Koinos related what Hephaistion needed to know about life in Pella as a Royal Page.

  The shops and colonnades of the city agorá, or market, swarmed with a vivid, reeking confusion of human flesh haggling frantically, boasting loudly, arguing politics, or huddling in intense conversation. Alexandros slipped past country farmers goading balking donkeys burdened with produce like improbable hedgehogs. Fishwives called out their husbands’ catches, and vendors spilled into avenues, each bellowing the superiority of his wares.

  Bobbing up on his toes, Alexandros looked about. In the northwest wing, bright colors beckoned, and he elbowed his way through to where an unexpected pair of Persikoi merchants had set up a dazzling display of high-priced rugs and fragrant spices, sharp perfumes and fine cashmere. Alexandros ran some of the cloth through his fingers, marveling at its softness and the brilliant green of the dye. But the cost for three arm-lengths was more money than he saw in a year: high price for a consolation.

  He’d sneaked out of the palace to find his mother a present to make up for last night. He knew she wasn’t angry with him, but he still wanted to appease her. Yet nothing at the Persikoi stand pleased him, and he combed the agorá awhile before spotting a Syrian mirror—not the usual sort of polished bronze, but made of tooled silver with a relief of a woman on the back and a carved, ebony handle. Eagerly, he picked it up, and the merchant—a raisin-wrinkled brown man—all but leapt the stall front to stand at his elbow.

  “How much?” Alexandros asked in trader’s pidgin.

  “Two minai.”

  Alexandros gaped. Rich Pluton! He could buy two cows for that! Haggling was expected, but he doubted his twenty drakhmai were even a place to start. He handed it back with a shake of his head.

  Yet he couldn’t stop thinking about it. In comparison, all else dimmed to petty trinkets. Returning to the Syrian stall, he fingered the mirror once more. He wanted it; he would have it. Settling on a low wall, he pondered how as he surveyed the town.

  The morning was already white and drunk with the summer heat that made men torpid. Pella’s western wall bordered the meandering river that emptied into Loudias Lake. To the north stood Mount Paiko, green with oak, beech, and silver pine, while south around the lake lay a reedy marsh. When he climbed up to the palace roof, he could see all the way to the Thermaikos Gulf, banded with river silt in blues and browns and yellows. It would be dotted now with fishing boats and great merchant galleys. On the far southwest horizon, mighty Olympos rose straight up just a few miles inland from the coast.

  Common sense told him to forget the mirror, but doing so would be a defeat, a giving in. “There’s a way out of every trap,” his father had taught him, “even if it means gnawing off your own foot.” Perhaps he could sell some old gifts stuffed in trunks for the extra coin he’d need?

  Heading back to the palace, he dashed up the steps under the titanic propylon, or gateway, slipping between guards into the anteroom. Eumenes, the secretary, shouted, “Alexandros! Walk!”

  He turned to wave . . . and promptly collided with somebody coming down the corridor. Their combined momentum spun them into a wall.

  “Oimoi!” the boy said, rubbing a shoulder. “Turn an eye to where your feet are taking you!”

  Disentangling himself, Alexandros looked up, saw who he’d collided with, and flushed so hot he thought his blood was boiling.

  Hephaistion.

  Until Hephaistion, no Page ever had succeeded in making a fool of Kassandros. Hands on hips, he was regarding Alexandros coolly. “Is Kerberos after you, or do you always run everywhere you go?” Then his brow rose. “You. You were the one who helped me pick up my shells last night.”

  “Yes,” Alexandros admitted, unsettled by Hephaistion’s perfect facial control. The other boy didn’t show feelings, he selected expressions.

  For the moment, he’d settled on a quirky grin. Crossing his arms, he leaned against the corridor wall, one sandaled foot propped on it for balance. A sultry languor hung about him, like a lazy cat sunning itself during a summer afternoon. “You look familiar—from more than yesterday evening, I mean.”

  The observation took Alexandros aback. He tended to forget that not everyone knew him on sight. “I’m Alexandros Philippou.”

  Hephaistion pushed away from the wall. “The prince. I saw you in your father’s study earlier.”

  The awkward silence of unexpected meetings fell between them then like a gate; Hephaistion broke it. “We’re distant kin. When your ancestor, Perdikkas Alexandrou, took Amphaxitis, he married his niece to my mother’s great-grandfather and gave him the country to rule—as if it were Perdikkas’s to give. Amphaxitis is Paionian. My great-grandfather sided with Perdikkas only to get it back. The Persai, when they came, helped the Argeads steal it from us.”

  Uncertain of the point behind this convoluted commentary, Alexandros scuffed a sole on flagstones. Hephaistion must have mistaken the gesture. “Never mind. I didn’t mean to bore you.” He turned to leave.

  Now you’ve made a mess of it, Alexandros thought, and blurted out the first thing that came to mind: “Eat the daymeal with me.”

  Realizing how fatuous that sounded, he blushed again.

  Turning back, Hephaistion studied him with wordless deliberation and Alexandros’s face grew hotter. The other Pages had made it clear that being prince didn’t entitle him to their attention, especially not before he was a Page himself. “Forget it,” he said. “You’ve better things to do than waste time with me.”

  “I don’t hear anybody calling my name, do you?” Hephaistion’s heavy, straight brows had lifted like dragonfly wings, but his face remained inscrutable, and Alexandros drew into himself. Sometimes his father said one thing but meant another, yet gave no clue how to interpret him. At such times, it was best to say nothing at all.

  Watching the prince’s expression shift from flustered arrogance to careful blankness, Hephaistion felt guilty. Being commanded rather than invited had irritated him, but apparently Alexandros hadn’t meant to be bossy.

  “Oa!” Hephaision said. “I was joking. Don’t take me so seriously; I had to survive three older brothers.” He wasn’t used to explaining himself, but something about Alexandros demanded honesty, like a glamor of truth-telling. “Next time, just ask; I’m not your dog to command. But I’d be happy to eat the daymeal with you.”

  Somehow, he’d managed to say the right thing, and the prince’s expression softened, reminding Hephaistion of the sweet-sweet smile he’d been given so freely the night before. Playfully, he knuckled the boy on the head, and Alexandros slapped at his hands. Then they headed for the kitchen. “I’ll tell Cook to give you something good,” Alexandros said, arrogance back in his voice. He was used to being obeyed, at least by some. The rest probably ignored him, and that would incline h
im to flaunt authority where he had it.

  They took their food to the courtyard near a cherry tree, picking some of the bright-red fruit missed by birds to add to their bread and cheese. “Makedonian cherries are my favorite,” Hephaistion said.

  “Apples are mine,” Alexandros replied, plopping onto flagstones near a square pebble-mosaic depicting doves and pomegranates in browns and tans, whites and greens and a hint of rusty red. Hephaistion ate while the prince prattled. Alexandros had switched masks again, initial reserve replaced by an easy affability that Hephaistion suspected even less real: the careful construct of a childhood spent in the public eye. He had stock conversation like the theatre had stock costumes. Nothing more was required of a listener than a grunt here or there. That wasn’t companionable discourse, it was verbal masturbation.

  “I saw something at market I want to buy for my mother,” Alexandros was saying, jumping topics yet again. “It’s a mirror made of silver, not bronze. It’s perfect for her, but the merchant wants two minai for it, and I don’t have nearly that, so I plan to sell something, then bargain him down; I’ve lots of things in the bottom of my clothes chests that I never use. Selling them ought to bring some money, but the merchant knows I want the mirror, so I don’t know how far he’ll let me barter him down—”

  The prince could string together half a dozen sentences without pausing for breath, as if his mind ran faster than his mouth could go. One had to listen hard to keep up. “Are you sure,” Hephaistion interrupted, “that this fellow isn’t just pulling your hat over your eyes?”

  Alexandros waved a hand dismissively. “This isn’t some silver-gilded earrings; it’s a solid silver mirror.”

  “My question stands.” Hephaistion raised himself on an elbow to squint up at a bird’s-egg blue sky. “Two minai? That’s absurd. We sell yearlings for four. I don’t care if it’s made of solid silver or pure carnelian, two minai is too much.” Bright Helios had climbed towards zenith, and he reminded himself that he should be getting on his armor. He pushed to his feet. “I need to report for duty. But how much money do you have now?”

  “About twenty drakhmai.” Alexandros stood too.

  “Hmm.” Hephaistion dusted off his behind and the backs of his legs. For a wonder, Alexandros didn’t interrupt but waited to see what he’d say. “I’ll be busy all evening, but if this mirror is that expensive, it should be there tomorrow. If you want, I’ll go with you and we can talk down this merchant.”

  Then he wondered if he’d overstepped himself, because the boy’s face showed frank astonishment. “You’d help?”

  “No! I’d tell him to hike the price!”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.” Alexandros’s fair skin turned ruddy with embarrassment, and he kept his face averted. “It’s just . . . the other Pages don’t bother with me.”

  Recalling what Alexandros had said earlier—“You’ve better things to do than waste time with me”—Hephaistion stared at the top of the red-blond head, its part ragged-wild and sunburnt, hair held back by a headband. Blue, to match his eyes. The dye had stained the hair beneath. “Why wouldn’t they want to bother with you?”

  “I’m only thirteen—not even that till two more weeks. I’m not a Page yet.”

  “Don’t you have friends your own age?”

  The prince paused several moments before responding, “Some, yes.”

  Hephaistion suspected him of lying, or at least of stretching the truth. “Well, I’ve time to ‘bother with you,’ as you so elegantly put it. We’ll go for the mirror tomorrow. For now, come and help me into my armor or I’ll be late and land on a flogging post my first day.”

  Alexandros smiled again, smiled for real with those deep dimples, and Hephaistion was glad he’d offered. The boy needed a friend.

  Hephaistion’s afternoon passed with little of interest besides black glares from Kassandros. Once, Hephaistion smiled predatorily in return, then ignored the other boy. Kassandros fumed.

  As part of his traditional duty, Philippos was hearing court cases in the megaron, or great hall. Hephaistion found it tedious: an excuse for citizens to get their king’s undivided attention more than a genuine court of appeal. The bulk of cases could have been solved by simple common sense, something Hephaistion had long ago decided most men lacked. Philippos apparently shared the opinion as he stifled several yawns, and once, dozed off altogether. Refusing to admit he’d not heard the half of it, he fined the defendant fifty drakhmai.

  Stationed around the throne—an Asian conceit Hephaistion found cheeky—the king’s Friends muttered among themselves as the defendant, one Makhaitas of Elimeia, cried out, “I appeal!”

  That woke up Philippos, who shifted forward. “You appeal to whom?”

  Makhaitas stammered a moment, then blurted, “To Philippos awake!”

  The king laughed; so did his courtiers as Parmenion leaned over to whisper in his ear. Philippos gave his old friend a sharp glance, but returned his attention to the man before him. “No retrial, but”—he waved a hand at his secretary—“I’ll pay his fine. Note it.”

  That would have to pass for an apology. Frowning, Hephaistion scratched his chin as the king rose to press both palms against the small of his back and stretch. “Enough. I want a nap before supper; I’ve guests for whom I need all my wits.”

  Pages’ duty included serving Philippos at the evening meal. This night’s was held in a public dining room off the courtyard. Designed for state affairs with triple the usual couches, laurel wreaths adorned each cushion for the guests: dignitaries from Thessaly, whose quadruple oligarchic rule Philippos had recently re-established.

  Being new, Hephaistion had the honor of waiting on the king himself, but wondered how much of that owed to his face. He suffered no false modesty, and Philippos was notorious for his affairs with either sex. What if the king made overtures? Hephaistion’s father had warned him of these things. Every man wanted his son to be noticed by someone worthy, but also worried it might go too far, all the more so if that son was good to look upon. Yet one didn’t turn down the king lightly. When, however, Philippos told him to show the Thessalians to their places, it was brusque and businesslike, and relieved, Hephaistion did as ordered.

  After the libation, slaves served Thasian wine with its sharp taste of apples, baby pigeon in pastry, grilled chestnuts, and an eel casserole. The prepubescent sons of several king’s Companions carried about trays of olives, cheeses, and pickled eggs. Their fathers were owed an honor, and Hephaistion picked out the prince among them. Fair-ruddy hair, pale complexion, and expressive eyes rendered him a bit girlish, and a few guests brushed his chin, flirting. Did they not realize they were importuning their host’s own son? Alexandros tried to discourage interest without being openly rude, but the overtures clearly upset him. While it might be a flattery for most boys, he was too royal. More, he was serious. Perhaps it was his birth, perhaps his nature. Whichever the case, he viewed the world solemnly still. Hephaistion found it quaint.

  When Alexandros passed near, Hephaistion stopped him to scoop a handful of oil-cured olives, whispering, “If one gets too familiar, tell him you’ve got the rot. He’ll back off quick enough.”

  Alexandros burst into giggles, causing the king to turn and look. “Alexandros!” Ducking his head, the prince approached his father. Hephaistion couldn’t hear what was said, but could read Alexandros’s expression clearly enough: sullen forbearance awaiting escape.

  Slaves had returned to clear the remains of First Table, then bring dessert for Second Table: honey-drenched sesame cakes, nuts, pastries, and wine. Meanwhile, the serving boys set aside their trays to take up lyres, playing for the guests. Alexandros placed his own stool near the king to sing for the Thessalian tetrarkhos on the king’s left. Torchlight gilded his hair and poured pink into full cheeks as his voice pattered upward in a piercingly true alto. Music transfigured him, lent him a bright pathos that might have been comical were he less skilled.

  He’d caught the attention of
everyone . . . as he’d intended, Hephaistion thought. At the hymn’s close, guests clapped and banged loudly on crockery, but Philippos leaned forward to snap, “O yes, a fine voice! A fine, sweet voice for the son of a warrior king.”

  Instantly, the room hushed. Hephaistion shuffled his feet, the brassy taste of humiliation sympathetic on his own tongue. Philippos rubbed his dead eye under its patch. “The Muses are honored enough if a prince passes an hour listening to their servants, but my fool son has to sing like one. Are you good for nothing then but a song on the lyre?”

  Alexandros sat wide-eyed as Philippos glared a moment more before returning his attention to the guest seated on his right. The man for whom Alexandros had sung hurried into conversation with someone else. The prince continued to sit, frowning at the instrument in his hands as if it had some imperfection that had brought on the attack. Finally, he rose to slip out. Hephaistion let another minute pass before telling Airopos he needed to take a piss, then followed.

  He found Alexandros in the public courtyard beside the central altar. Before he could call out, Alexandros raised his arm and smashed the lovely, expensive tortoiseshell lyre against the marble. Wincing at the waste, Hephaistion waited whilst Alexandros vented his rage on the instrument. When he’d finished, he let out a little sigh and stared at the piece left in his hand, then bent to pick up the others, stroking each as if to comfort it.

  Shocked by the pitiableness, Hephaistion crossed to snatch away wood and tortoiseshell. “Stop!” He threw the pieces down in a heap. “You play well. Your father’s drunk.”

  “I play too well.” Alexandros’s blue eye was as hard as lapis, the black one a well swallowing light. “You heard what he said.”

  “Hearing isn’t agreeing.” Hephaistion spat in the dirt. “Those who’re gifted, truly gifted—the gods squander on them till it pours out like smoke from incense. Jealous men invent stupid philosophies that claim some talents cheapen the soul.”

  “The philosophers aren’t stupid. It was Platon who said it. Euphraios told me; he was Platon’s student.”