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Chapter Text

It was spring the day they met.

She was in Mieza to kill a man. The Makedonian ruling clan, the Argeads, were fractuous to a fault and Phillip held onto his rule with ruthless zeal. She’d thought little of taking the job from him, and even less about tracking down Hippias to the town on the edge of Malis.

She’d spent the day hunting – her hundredth birthday, no less, although no one who saw her would have believed it of the tall woman with the thick brown hair in a side braid, her dark brown eyes scintillant with purpose. She wore a red shawl around her shoulders and her armor was antiquated, dating back to the Peloponnesian War, but still serviceable. This had led her to a small temple atop a hill overlooking the town.

Hippias had three guards with him when she found him. In days past, she might have waited for nightfall and snuck up the hillside to strike from the dark and vanish until she had Hippias alone. But she simply didn’t fear or respect her target enough to be cautious. It had been quite a while since she’d needed to be cautious, although often she was simply out of habit. But Phillip had made it clear how he wanted Hippias to meet his death.

He has to pay for daring to take their money.

She agreed with this sentiment. Seeing the particular armor with the full-face mask and the long leather coif that marked the Order’s Immortals, she made her choice and stepped out of the trees bordering the path winding up the hill and started walking. Hippias saw her first, his paranoia honed by the knowledge that Phillip had discovered his true paymasters.

“It’s her!” He shrieked it, and she smiled. Oh yes, Hippias. It’s me. The first of his guards, a big man with a spear and shield of Persian make, leapt forward and she sidestepped and lashed out with the kopis in her hand, taking his right arm at the elbow. The weapon in her left hand looked like a spear head attached to a short handle, a form it often took for her. It glowed as if she’d just pulled it out of a fire, slashing across his throat and leaving a wicked wound from the place where his throat met his jaw all the way down to his collarbone. He fell dead at her feet.

The second guard had a bow and fired, and she had to admit it was a good shot. If not for the sudden cross of the kopis and spear-head it would have struck her. She ran in on him, parrying a sword thrust from the last guard with the spear and slashing out with both weapons. Both men dropped with split skulls and she stood, pulling her blades from their ruined faces.

“Hippias.” She looked at the man, taking in his wide staring eyes, the trembling of his hand on an old xiphos he held. It looked like it might have been older than she was. “Where’d you get that?”

“What?”

“The sword in your hand.” She flicked blood off of her weapons. “It’s nice. I haven’t seen one like it in a while.”

“The sword? Is that why you’re here? I thought…”

“Oh, no. I’m exactly who you think I am. Phillip wanted me to make sure you knew he found out about your dealings with Artabazos.” She took another step, watching him very carefully. He held the sword in hands that wanted nothing to do with it, and she waited for the strike she knew he was about to make. “I can make it quick, or I can…”

He lashed out and she knocked the xiphos to the side, then cut his hand off at the wrist for the impertinence. A full-throated shriek came from Hippias as he staggered back, but she stepped in and used her foot to catch the back of his leg, sending him sprawling onto his back.

“Not quick it is, then.” She pinned him to the ground by his throat, her greaves glittering as his remaining hand tried to claw her leg, the blood loss from his severed hand rendering his struggles feeble after a minute. She waited until he stopped moving entirely to lift the sword out of his severed hand and drive it into his heart, just to make sure.

She wondered how much longer she was going to be able to continue living like this. Oh, she knew how long she would live – had seen it, in a way, between the artifact underneath the Temple of Gaia in Phokis and the things Alethia had shown her. She would endure for so many years it was pointless to count them. But the wandering life of a misthios held very little appeal – she hardly needed the drachmae and all of the people she’d once known were long gone. She was on her third generation of acquaintances.

She looked again at the xiphos in Hippias’ chest. It might have belonged to a Spartan at Thermopylae, perhaps stolen by a Malisian or even a Persian and brought to Makedonia later. Or perhaps not. Either way, it had been a better sword than Hippias had deserved. She decided to keep it, pulled it out and flicked the blood away before stowing it.

The party had four horses between them. Kassandra untied them and sent them down the hill towards Mieza, where someone would recognize quality horseflesh and scoop them up for the bargain price of nothing. She kept the largest one, riding it down the hill herself. She’d gotten out of the habit of keeping her own horse after the fourth one died.

Mieza was a small town, dominated by several temples. The one she rode to was called the Temple of the Nymphs, carved with several images of cavorting women in robes. It made her smile, and remember younger days when she’d sailed the Aegean looking for adventure, wealth, and vengeance… and she’d managed a little cavorting as well. Memories of Kyra on the beach of Mykonos, of the last night with Daphnae on a Chios hillside.

This particular Temple was no longer used for prayers. Inside, as she dismounted and handed her horse off to one of Phillip of Makedonia’s servants, the future of the kingdom had their heads bowed to an old greybeard tutor from Stagira. She took a moment to simply breathe, looking at the sun as it lit the world in hues of gold and green, the town a small place. Not where you might have expected to find the oh-so important students or their snappish instructor.

“..a friend and protector. For all of us, all Hellenes are one people.” He was leaner than Plato had been. More like Xenophon, although to her knowledge they’d never met. His accent was slightly Makedonian, but overlaid with the clipped manner of speech Plato taught, that oh-so-Athenian diction. Even after decades she still found it slightly prissy. “But to the Barbaroi you must be a brute, for brutality is all they understand. Whether it’s Thrakians or Persians…”

“Or Egyptians?” One of the boys spoke up.

“No, Cassander. Egyptians are old, far older than we are, but we share much. The gods of Egypt are older names for our own gods, and Athena, Zeus, Hera and Heracles are all worshipped there as well. We are an offshoot. When Solon went to Egypt, they told him that in the distant past we were founded by the same ancestors, but we have since forgotten.”

“How do they know, then?” Another of the boys, and Kassandra was fairly sure of which one he was. Not because he looked much like his father – he didn’t – but because he’d inherited the man’s overly blunt manner.

“Yes, Aristotle.” She spoke, walking down the stairs to the place where the lesson was held, in what had once been the altar. “How do they know?”

“Diotima.” He nodded, a hint of a smile on his face. “This is a surprise. The last I saw you was in Athens.”

“Yes.” Kassandra had often visited Aristotle’s teacher, Plato, before the man’s death. Plato had never called her anything other than Diotima, a name that Sokrates had given her, and had often engaged her in conversations about Pythagoras. She’d always felt sad that she had so little to impart, but still he’d seemed grateful for her insights. “How have you been?”

“I continue.” He gestured. “Come, meet my unruly brood. Perhaps they can benefit from you as I did in my youth.”

“Were you ever this young?” She laughed. “You were born with a beard, I think.”

“Sadly, no. For years my face was exposed and all had to bear it.”

“It’s not a bad face. I’ve certainly seen worse.”

“You flatter me.” He gestured at the seated boys. “Each of you, introduce yourselves to the Diotima.”

“I am Cassander.” The boy clearly had no idea why Aristotle was so deferential to her, but seemed to decide to err on the side of caution, inclining his head.

“Ptolemy, my lady.” This one had a shrewdness to him, and Kassandra noted it. Also, he had a touch of Phillip in his eyes, but she knew he wasn’t acknowledged as the man’s son.

“My mother named me Hephaestion, and my father agreed.” This boy had a bit of a laugh in his eyes and he dropped his head lower than Cassander had. “It’s an honor, Diotima.”

“You know me?”

“I know of you.” He turned his head towards Aristotle. “Teacher told us that his own teacher called you The Incarnated Wisdom.”

“Did he.” She turned slightly to Aristotle. “Did he also tell you my response?”

“That a blade in the hand is wiser than any speech.” This from the last boy, the one with the curly hair and pouty lips who wore Phillip’s arrogance on his face. “I am Alexandros.”

“Your father sends you well wishes.” She reached into a pouch at her side and produced a scroll. “And this. It’s for your eyes alone.” It was clear that he was surprised that she spoke for Phillip. His hands closed around the scroll and he nodded to her. “Now, if you please, Aristotle and I have matters o discuss that don’t involve you all.”

“No grumbling. Instead, count yourselves lucky to have escaped me.” Aristotle gestured and they all left, although Alexandros was clearly studying her as he departed. She noted that, but turned to face his tutor. “What can I do for you, Diotima?”

“I just wondered how you were settling in.”

“A personal inquiry. Interesting.” He gestured and she followed him out of the altar and into a sparse room filled with scrolls, a small table, several chairs and an amphora. “Do you still take it unwatered?”

“Since before you were born.” He filled a kylix with the rich red of a Makedonian vintage and mixed honey and water from a small shelf into another for himself, then handed hers over and leaned against the table.

“You didn’t come all this way north just to check up on me.”

“No, but while I was here, I thought I might.” She took a sip. It was good, if stronger than she’d expected, with a hint of Juniper in it. “Plus, there aren’t many left I know, and you’re young yet.”

“I’m over forty, Kassandra.”

“See? A child.” She smiled up at him. Aristotle was much unlike his teacher – tall, lean, and in her opinion well formed. “How’s your wife?”

“Pythias is fine. I’m fine. To answer your first question. If you were up here anyway, should I ask why? Just to deliver a note from Phillip?”

“Two notes, really. Do you remember Hippias?”

“Not very well. A minor presence at court.”

“Well, they’ll find him dead eventually.” She took more of a drink. “Phillip found out he was taking Artabazos’ money to spy on Alexandros. Probably because the boy makes cow eyes at Barsine. I assume the note from Phillip spells this out for the boy.”

“It seems beneath you.”

“Artabazos is one of them.”

“Ah, now I see why you would bother with it.” He took a sip of his own wine. “Still hoping?”

“Phillip’s ambition is bigger than Greece. Being ruler of all Hellas won’t be enough for him. And I can wait.” She grimaced despite her words and knew that Aristotle could see it.

“Can you?”

“I have to.” She finished her wine. “Do we have to talk about this?”

“I worry about you.”

“I’ll outlive you, boy.” She laughed at the expression on his face. “And you have plenty of your own to worry about without adding me to the list.”

“They’re an unruly lot, it’s true.”

“They’ll be the ones doing the ruling.”

“So speaks the grandchild of Leonidas.”

“I’ve done precious little ruling in my life.” She flicked her eyes up at him. “Do you have a place I can sleep? If sleeping is all that’s available to me, at least?”

“Of course.” He finished his wine.

*

The morning came and she rose early, donning her armor. Aristotle was still asleep, and she looked over him. When she’d met him he’d been nineteen, just barely a man, and now he was in his forties, about as old as Sokrates had been when she’d met him. Not that she’d ever been as familiar with Sokrates as she was with Aristotle.

Once dressed, she made her way out of the old temple and up to the stables. Sure enough, her stolen horse had been fed and watered and was waiting for her. That much she’d expected. What she hadn’t expected was the boy who stood in the stables, cooing to another horse and brushing its mane.

“Ho, Alexandros.”

“Diotima.” He nodded, turned to look at her. “I first read Xenophon to learn how to care for Boukephale. Everyone said he was too wild to tame.” She looked over the horse, calmly submitting to Alexandros’ brushing.

“He seems tame enough.”

“He was just afraid of his shadow. Xenophon had written about that. I just had to turn him to face the sun and he couldn’t see his shadow anymore.”

“Clever.” She leaned against the wall, waited. The boy clearly wanted to speak to her – she’d been around enough men and boys in her life to read their dissembling.

“I also read Anabasis.”

“I’m told it’s quite good.”

“You were told that by Xenophon himself, I suspect.” He finally turned his eyes to her. “I’ve also read Plato.”

“I’m not the one for book discussions.”

“My father will disappoint you.”

“Entirely possible. Bold of you to say it, though.”

“I won’t.” He turned fully, and she looked at him. Shorter than many, but muscular, with broad shoulders and the bandy legs of a born horseman. “My father just ruined years of work, killing Artabazos’ pawn. Now I’ll need to reassure him that I’m a pliable fool cossetted by his daughter somehow.”

“Sounds inconvenient.”

“I’m not a child.”

“Not for very much longer, at least.” She stood away from the wall. “Alexandros, I’ll be blunt, since you seem to appreciate that. I’m going to kill Artabazos before too much longer, and if I find out you’re working for him…”

“He’s as much a fool as my father is. Through him and Barsine and Amminapes I’ve learned much of Persian weaknesses, almost as much as I learned from Xenophon.” Alexandros showed no fear of her, and she found that almost amusing. “And of course the one who actually made Xenophon’s decisions for him.”

“Don’t mistake Xenophon for a puppet. He never was.”

“But you were there.”

“I was of assistance, yes. I’m surprised you learned that.”

“Aristotle’s copy of the Anabasis was the one Xexophon himself wrote. Before you prevailed on him to edit it, I imagine.” He went back to stroking the horse’s neck with a brush.

“That’s too bad.”

“Father will dither. He’s ambitious but he’s always thinking he needs this or that to be ready. And he’s superstitious. That’s why he took mother and why he’ll discard her.”

“But not you?”

“Superstition is a tool. Encourage it in others as it benefits you. But nothing but your own hand can be relied upon. If the gods are real, they are fickle.” He fished out an apple and fed it to the horse. “Artabazos fears you greatly. He calls you the tainted one, and says that anyone who could kill you would be a hero in Persia. He fears my father is your tool.”

“We have common interests.”

“I would also like to have common interests with you.”

“You’re right. You’re not a child, Alexandros.” She reached into the stall, took the reins and led the horse out. “Perhaps I’ll come visit Aristotle again before I leave Makedonia. You can tell me what other old books you’ve read.”

As she swept onto the horse’s back she met his eyes, weighing him. He had a mastery of himself few adults managed, much less a boy just fourteen years. Then again, he was the heir to the Argeads and they ruled with swords in their hands, so perhaps he was more like a Spartan his age would be than a soft Athenian. He still seemed wholly unperturbed by the conversation, just brushing the horse’s mane.

She rode away from the Temple and towards the road to Pella.

Chapter Text

338 BC

“What do you suggest?”

“Here.” She pointed to a spot on the hasty map Phillip had carved into the soil with a stick, outlining the Theban and Athenian armies. “They don’t mesh well. You can turn the Athenian flank here and crush them, then smash into the Boetians and spade the whole lot in one go.”

“How?”

“Pull back your right wing.”

“What? That’s my strongest…”

“Don’t interrupt me, Phillip. You asked, here is the answer. Pull back your right wing, wheel your forces. Make it look like a retreat in the offing, lead them to attack, and then…” She pointed across the packed tent to where Alexandros stood, his helmet in his hand. “Let your son loose upon them from the left. He and his horse can do more damage faster than the phalanx can, and the Athenians have no response to it.”

Phillip’s eyes narrowed, but Kassandra stood and let him stare. He didn’t like the plan, of course, because it was reckless, and worse, would cover Alexandros in glory if it succeeded. Worst of all, he suspected the boy of having come up with it. And he had – she’d met with him the night before and worked it out with him, modifying his plan to the situation. Kassandra was many things, but she wasn’t a general – she preferred striking unseen. Still, she’d been in more battles than either Phillip or his son, and she had spotted the best way to use this one.

The air in the tent shivered, waiting, and then the King nodded.

“Get to your horse, boy. Your companions will be taking the charge for us.”

The collective breath released, the assembled leaders of Makedonia’s grand army left to execute their King’s will. Alexadros nodded to his father, making sure not to make eye contract with Kassandra as he left, leaving her alone with Phillip. He gestured towards a table.

“Wine?”

“The battle is still on. You haven’t won it yet.”

“You are a strange woman.” He shook his head. “Are all the women in Sparta like you?”

“I wouldn’t know, I haven’t been back in a very long time. From what I remember, most are more like me than you would be comfortable with.”

“I married Olympias.”

“You’ve married a lot of women.” She shook her head. “Phillip, you’re on the cusp of doing what no one has ever done. Bringing all of Greece together under you. Focus on that.”

“I don’t have Sparta, and I won’t have it even after this.”

“Ignore them. Let them sit in Laconia and fester over their impotence. Lead Greece. You win this battle, and you’ll be master of all Hellas. Let’s get it done already.” She exhaled, preparing to leave.

“Why Alexander?”

“Because he’s the head of your horsemen. If you didn’t want him there, you shouldn’t have put him there.”

“No other reason?”

“I have many reasons for everything I do. I’d think you of all people would remember that.”

“I do. I remember that day in Thebes, what you told me then. And it’s all happened. But I remember how I got here.” He put his hand on his sword hilt, resting it. “I won’t go the way of Perdiccas.”

“If I wanted you dead, Phillip, you’d never even know it was happening.” She stopped at the tent flap. “But eventually you will die, and when you do, Alexander will rule after you. I make no apologies for preparing him for the task ahead. If you don’t conquer Persia for me, he will.”

She strode out of the tent, daring him to do something. Phillip was a brave man, strong, a skilled warrior. The wicked wound that took his eye was proof of that, purely because he’d survived it. But he held a superstitious fear of her, as did most of those she interacted with. Those few that knew who she was knew that she’d been fighting on battlefields across the Greek World since the early days of the Peloponnesian War, a hundred years in the past. They might not believe it – she suspected that Aristotle didn’t, couldn’t believe it without empirical evidence that she had no way to supply it – but those that did, like Phillip, feared her. And she’d grown used to it Numb to it.

She thought back to that farm in Arkadia where her brother lay buried. By the end, long past the pain of what the Cult had made him. Alexios had been the grand grey patriarch of a clan of his own, of boisterous great grandsons and daughters running wild on the property. She remembered the smile on his face in his last days, how his eyes had crinkled in laughter. How his embrace had never lost the strength of his younger days. He’d been gone for decades and she felt it every time she saw someone working in a field. She could see many in Charonea.

By the time she stalked over, Alexander and his Companions – she could see Cassander on a horse, and Hephaestion as well, smiling with a sword in his hand – were mounted and ready. She nodded and Alexander nudged Boukephalos over. The horse laid its nose into her palm, and she felt another little ache remembering another horse.

“I was surprised he agreed.”

“It was a good plan, Alexandros.”

“He wouldn’t have if I had suggested it.”

“Perhaps not. Your family has a history of turning on one another.” She looked at the battlefield near the town. “How are you going to do it?”

“We have to wait until they are fully committed. The Thebans are our equals in battle. It’s their phalanx we’re using… eventually I’ll change that, but today isn’t that day. But the Athenians have always been hopeless in land warfare.” She fought back a chuckle.

“They’ve bloodied Phillip’s nose a time or two.”

“I’m told everyone loses occasionally. You’ve never lost a battle?”

“I’ve lost a battle to Athenians.” A brief moment, a quiver of memory for the burning trees at Pylos, the fighting, Alexios growling at her as they locked blades. Isn’t that the point and seeing him cut down Brasidas. A long ago hurt, it shouldn’t have the power to reach her there. “Be careful.”

“I’m always careful. Even when I risk.” He swung himself up fully and lead Boukephalos away, took his place with the others and began riding away from the battle, making it look like a withdrawal. She watched and waited for a few moments, seeing the allies Theban and Athenian forces begin to pivot towards the Makedonian right flank as it wheeled away from them.

Then she dropped down the hillside and moved like a shadow in the trampled countryside. It took her longer than she wanted to cover the distance, picking her way back behind the phalanx lines, in the alienated country mangled by the tread of thousands of feet. The tree line to the edge of the battlefield served her now. Charonea was near the Gulf of Korinth, but not so near that she could hear or smell the ocean.

No one saw her as she approached the tent nestled in the shade of Thurion, with the waters of the Kephisos across the allied line. It had been a masterful bit of ground to fight from, and she admired the allies craft in selecting it – the benefit of Thebans fighting on Boetian soil, they knew the terrain. She knew it, too, though – had fought for it alongside Stentor a lifetime ago. Coming back now was like walking in a graveyard, everything reminded her of someone long dead.

I should leave Greece. Go somewhere I don’t know anyone, where nothing is familiar.

It took her a while to pick her way through the sentries. Most of the Athenian and Theban forces were committed to the battle now, as they had been since both armies had arrived and faced one another across the plain. Phillip had snarled at the sight of their forces, with mountains on either side and that river making a trap almost impossible. It made sense that he’d doubt the Boetians would take the bait. Alexandros’ plan was a gamble. But straight fighting here favored the defenders too much – they all knew it.

She skulked through the camp, picking her way over wooden palisades, around tents, and finally found what she was looking for.

In a tent overlooking the battle, a knot of several Boetian soldiers stood around a table much like the one Phillip had used, staring at the battleground. One of them, a tall, broad shouldered man with a beard like a wasp’s nest and a helmet pushed back from his face was staring.

“Why would they…” He ran his finger along the map. “The cavalry.”

“They can’t use their cavalry here.” One of the others with him started, but the big man cut him off with a gesture.

“They couldn’t use their cavalry here. Not with the two mountains and the river.” He pointed at a spot on the map. “But if he manages to pull us out of position… get me a runner now. We have to hold the Athenians in place. Tell Chares…”

She fired her bow from cover, and the arrow took the man giving orders in the back. Somehow he actually heard it coming – she was impressed as he dropped, turning what would have been a lethal shot right through his chest into a grazing hit. She nocked and fired again, this time taking the man he’d been ordering in the right eye. Three of them were boiling out of the tent at her, and she barely had time to fire again and take down another before they were on her.

She parried one with the shortened spear in her left hand and stepped away from a spear thrust, circling as she went, in an agony of frustration. Stupid. How many years had she been shooting people and she misses? An agony of seconds went by as she saw the big man grabbing a sword and shield and blessed the gods that he came charging at her instead of running while she was occupied.

With three of them on her now it was a real fight, but not one she worried about. She could feel where they were going to try and strike, almost dance away and come back in for her counters, the transformed Staff of Hermes lashing out to carve through the neck of the closest man while her kopis knocked thrusts aside.

Seconds of grunting and heavy breathing, sweat falling down into her eyes. This, at least, remained the same. She whirled around a spear thrust that came within a hair’s breadth of her abdomen, drove the sword hard through the man’s back and spine, and felt it crunch. Knowing the sword was trapped in his ribcage she let go of it and evaded the big man’s shield strike, rolling away to come up on the balls of her feet.

“You’re everything they said you were, Theagenes.” She held the half-spear in her left hand, turning to the right to try and keep him focused on it. “Sadly, I can’t let you warn them of the trap they’re about to walk into.”

He said nothing, simply watching her, looking for his opening. He’d picked up a fallen man’s spear and was watching her intently, focused, silent. She liked that. No boorish comments about how she belonged on her back somewhere, no dismissal of the threat she posed. He realized he was in danger and he focused on it. It was rare she met someone she could respect on the field who didn’t ruin it with that talk. She shifted her feet, feinting to the left, then coming in on his shield-side.

He didn’t fall for it, his movements positively graceful as he stepped and extended, the spear point lashing out so that she was forced to drop to her knees to come in under it, and her return strike lacked power. It left only a shallow slash on his arm and he managed to catch her with the shield edge, sending a stream of blood from her cheek under the hood. She managed to roll away, but her hand found the kopis in the dead solider’s back and used the force of her roll to wrench the blade out and free.

He came charging in and tried again with the spear, and she crossed and blocked it, pushing him back and she could see the surprise on his face. He hadn’t expected her to be that strong. It took only a moment for him to react, but that was the moment she’d been waiting for – him, overextended, the spear in his hand well past her. She stepped forward and thrust both the spear point and the kopis, taking him in both sides at once, punching through armor and bone.

This was how the Boetian general Theagenes, the man who’d seen through Alexandros’ plan and would have gone down in history for it, died. Only one person in the world would ever know, in the years after, how he’d been cheated of his due.

She closed his eyes herself. It was the only bit of respect she could offer him.

I need the Makedonians too much, Theagenes. I need a united Hellas. I need an army that will march on the East. The Order of the Ancients started this war. I’m sorry, but you were in my way.

She made her way out of the camp. By the time the Boetians found out that Theagenes was dead, they’d already have lost.

Hours later, with the sun dipping low, she watched the final rout.

Phillip had kept the fighting going for long enough that the fairly green Athenian troops had been exhausted, while his battle-hardened Makedonians were well used to fighting fatigued. That had left them open, and no one had expected a cavalry charge in this rocky, hilly scrubland bounded by mountains with a river on the right side. It had been an act of madness, some said. But the Companions under Alexander had done it, and it had worked – the Boetians and Athenians simply weren’t ready for anything like it.

When the butchery was over, she found Phillip in his tent. He was filthy and his hand was bloody, because Phillip was an Argead and they led their men from the front. Whatever else she thought of the man, she respected that. He was holding a xiphos in a clearly exhausting grip, almost ready to drop it. He nodded to her.

“I hear that Theagenes of Thebes didn’t survive the battle.”

“I didn’t think it worth risking him remaining alive.”

“I wish I’d thought to ask, then I could take credit for his death.” He winced. “It gets harder every time.”

She didn’t say anything to that. Phillip was in his forties and his life had not been an easy one. It would be a mistake to sneer at him for that, when he wasn’t blessed or cursed with the blood that ran through her veins, the burden of the Staff that kept time away from her. If not for that, she’d have joined or even preceded Alexios across the Styx by now.

“The boy did well.”

“He’s not been a boy for years.” She looked out to where Alexander was being hoisted off of Boukephalos’ back by his men, with Hephaiston embracing him as always. The two were inseparable. She wondered what that felt like, to be that young and that sure of oneself.

“I suppose not.” There was a look in Phillip’s eye, a look she didn’t like. If Kassandra was sensitive to anything, it was to how fathers viewed their children – she had a flash to dangling over the edge of Taygetos, Nikolaos’ fingers wrapped around her wrist.

Her hand felt empty. They were alone, save for two guards outside the tent.

Not yet. Wait and see. He may do nothing, and you need him. He has to weld them together.

The victory was celebrated in the typical Makedonian fashion – they all got piss drunk and pawed at anything that moved. Alexandros, for all his planning, was not immune to it – she watched as he and Hephaestion fell all over one another in wine-besotted bliss to the amusement of their brothers in arms. Even Phillip indulged. She had little taste for it – Spartans drank, and she could put away wine with anyone, but there was a lack of discipline to the Makedonian indulgence that never suited her. They took Dionysos seriously up in the north.

She decided instead to walk away. She stopped by where the horses were being kept and fed, saw Boukephalos with his forehead marking.

“Na. How goes it, boy?” The horse stomped to greet her and she brushed her hand across his nose. “I’ve known many of your kin. One of my favorites was named Phobos. He was from Makedonia, too. Did I ever tell you?” She produced a pear, let the horse crush it in those teeth while she brushed at his neck for a while. “You did well today. It’s a rare thing, and you did it well. Thank you. It’s been hard, waiting this long. But the wait is almost over. I’m almost there.”

She imagined it. Persia on fire. The last thing she’d heard from her sources in Egypt was that Artaxerxes III was dead and his son Arses had taken the throne as Artaxerxes IV. She didn’t know how long he’d last on the throne – his empire was rotten, his satraps disloyal. The Persians had finally retaken Egypt three years previously, after sixty three years of independence, but that was all right – it served her purposes to have the Egyptians as a back door into Persia whenever she needed it. Her grandchildren…

Her eyes filled with tears for a moment remembering Elpidios, the son she’d never been a mother to, the lost child she’d done everything and nothing for. By now he was likely dead, and his children were almost Phillip’s age. They were Egyptians. They didn’t know her. They wouldn’t even know to shout her name on a street. They carried their father’s eyes and she was nothing to them, a strange Greek woman from far away. By now they had children of their own, more children she’d never know. Family she’d never be a part of.

The rage of that strangled her and she stepped away from the horse with a last brush of his face. He made a noise but went back to his feed happily enough while she led one of Phillip’s horses out of the encampment, only mounting once she felt fully in control of herself again.

Let the Makedonians have their revels. There was work in the future, but for now she was content. Athens and Thebes were broken. The way south was open to Phillip, and the Greek world would unite behind him. And she would finally, finally, make the trip to the home of the Order and give them the gift they’d given her. They’d stolen her world.

You will burn the world. We must burn you first.

“You failed.” She exhaled, feeling the hate hot in her chest the way she had the day she found Natakas dead and Elpidios gone. “And now, I’m coming for you.”

Chapter Text

336 BC

“I want him dead.”

“You have a strange notion of pillow talk.” Kassandra lay back and luxuriated in the boneless feeling that came after an orgasm. Her bedmate, her long black hair freed from its usual tight arrangement, lay against her side.

“He offered my daughter… our daughter… to my brother.”

“So he did.” Kassandra turned to look at Olympias’ face. “And here you are in my bed.”

“This is my bed.”

“Not for very much longer, I suspect.” Kassandra lifted her head to look out at the moon hanging low over Epirus. “I mean, Alexander took the offer.”

“Thus, my desire.” Olympias’ name had been Myrtale before she’d married Phillip – a princess of the Molossae, daughter of a king of Epirus and brother to another, she felt herself more royal, more regal, more everything than her crude Makedonian betrothed. She could trace her descent from Neptolemus the son of Achilles and she did, often. Kassandra often wondered if the woman found her desirable for her bloodline more than her appearance. Still, even with her son now fully grown, Olympias was slender limbs and a throat worth kissing and Kassandra enjoyed their time together. “It was bad enough when he married that whore…”

“If Attalus’ daughter had been a whore, you wouldn’t have had any problems.”

“Must you?” Olympias’ lip was curling despite herself. “She bore him a daughter. After all that, a daughter. For now Alexandros is still secure, but if I give Phillip much more time…”

“You really think he plans to dispossess his son? Alexandros won him the Korinthian League.”

“And now that he has it, what does he need with a half-Epirote when he can get himself a fully Makedonian heir, and one who won’t threaten his popularity with the men while he takes the next decade to subjugate Sparta and consolidate his hold on Epirus?”

“I’m not a fool.” Kassandra rolled over and pinned Olympias to the bed, staring into her polished onyx eyes. “You won’t get me to support you just by flashing fire and waving his dithering at me.”

“I wouldn’t wave anything of his at you.” She slithered so that they were touching, her conical breasts against Kassandra’s, the heat between her legs up against Kassandra’s thigh. “What we do here is separate from that. I thought you were sated?”

“So you talk of murdering your husband?”

“I can do many things.” That savage little grin. “Tell me you’ve never thought about killing him.”

“I think about killing many. It’s nothing personal.” She lowered her mouth and caught Olympias’ lips with her own, and kept her occupied. It was the safest way to deal with Olympias – if Phillip had kept his attentions focused on his fourth wife instead of marrying Attalus’ daughter things would likely be a lot more harmonious in his life. She ran a hand up the woman’s sleek hip and flank, feeling fingers curl into her hair as they kissed. Olympias’ teeth were sharp, and she’d already drawn blood that night while they were occupied.

After they’d spent another hour and Olympias lay on her back snoring gently, Kassandra stood and dressed herself. The Molossae princess was not quite forty, and she had an agelessness to her that made Kassandra wonder if she was blood of Achilles, another ‘tainted one’ as the Persians called them. Like Kassandra herself. Her brother Alexios had died with that same kind of unfaltering vigor, not young but not old either, despite his huge grey beard and locks. She wondered, if she had not been chosen to carry Hermes’ burden, would she have looked like that?

She took in the scars on her right arm. Well, not exactly like that. Despite the fire inside her, Olympias had lived a far more common life for someone of royal birth than Kassandra had.

The wedding of Alexandros I Molossis and his niece Cleopatra of Makedonia was days away. Phillip of Makedonia would be there, and Kassandra wondered at how that reunion would be – his estranged wife and her son, Phillip’s nominal heir and brother of the bridge. Kassandra wondered what young Cleopatra felt about all of it – had anyone asked her what she thought about marrying her uncle in order to strengthen her father’s hand? Did she know, or care, that she might be costing her brother his position? Often these decisions were made with no more consideration of the woman’s feelings than they would be of a horse being bought or sold.

If the horse doesn’t want to be ridden it can kick you off.

 She wished Olympias’ words didn’t ring true. She’d put Phillip on the throne of Makedonia because alone of his family he had the genius and the temperament she was looking for, but now that she’d put Greece in his hands, what was he doing with it? Trying to breed a new heir and saber rattling in the south instead of getting the Korinthian League to do what it was made to do. Where were the armies she’d expected? Where was the invasion force? Two years as master of Hellas and he’d done nothing but squabble with his wife and son.

The old Argead need to fight with one’s kinfolk.

Not that it was unique to the Makedonians – look at Olympias and her brother, the man she’d named her son after. He took the deal, took his own niece as a bride. It wasn’t surprising that Olympias wanted Phillip dead – if replacing her with Attalus’ daughter Cleopatra wasn’t bad enough, sending her own Cleoptra off to be the bride of her brother?

Also, did Makedonians not know more than six names? There were two Alexandros and two Cleopatras in this story, could they not name a child something else? What’s wrong with Lycurgus or Philonoe or Helene? For Hades sake, even Kassandra, that’s a perfectly good name for a girl. Or if you’re all so obsessed with Neoptolemos, why not Deidamia or Andromache?

She snorted. Yes, Phillip was slow. But she’d put him there, and he had done what she’d needed him to do.

Once fully dressed, she climbed out the window and made her way out of the city. She had no interest in Alexandros of Epirus – the man wanted to go fight in Italy, which was in the wrong direction and had nothing to do with her goals. If Olympias had wanted her to kill her brother, then maybe. She found her latest horse in the stable near the gates, paid the boy keeping the place, and rode for anywhere that wasn’t Passaron.

She was an hour away from the city when she wheeled her horse off of the road and leapt from its back onto a nearby tree branch, and then began clambering back through the branches until she saw the two horsemen that had followed her out of the Molossai capital studying the ground. She drew her bow and sighted, but the mark on the first horse’s head told her who it was, and she put the arrow squarely between his fingers as he knelt on the ground looking at the tracks.

The first man pulled a long spear from his horse’s back but Alexandros held up his hand and strode forward, scrutinizing the trees trying to see her.

“A good shot.”

“What do you want, Alexandros?”

“A few moments of your time, nothing more. You were so generous to my mother, I thought perhaps you could spare them.”

“Jealousy, Phillipais?”

“Not merely so, and not for the reason others might be.” He’d finally seen her, so she dropped from the tree. “The past two years have not been kind to me.”

“I warned you that your family wasn’t kind to each other.” She held her bow with both hands. “Is that Hephaestion with you?”

“Always, Eagle Bearer.” The sunny shadow of Alexander waved, still holding the spear he’d pulled out to defend his chosen one. “It’s been a while.”

“Yes. I’m pleased you are well.” She looked back to Alexander. “if this is about Olympias…”

“My mother’s bed partners don’t concern me. I have my own problems. She’s tried to recruit you to kill my father?”

“If your mother had been indiscreet enough to do so, it would have been with the understanding that I am not indiscreet enough to discuss it.” He laughed and nodded.

“Well. If such an indiscretion occurred on her part, I would hope that you would also be wise enough to realize Phillip must live a while yet.”

“Interesting.” She looked from Alexandros to Hephaestion and back again. “Considering some say he’s trying to replace you, that’s a remarkable statement from you.”

“Father needs me. I’m trained. I have led men to victory in battle. I’m popular with the army. And Makedonia needs him. Do you know what will happen if he dies now? Chaos. Half the south will rise up in revolt. Athens, Thebes, even Argolis… and the Spartans still sit there, dreaming of past glories. They may be an old dog but they still have teeth. No, Phillip must not die.” He shook his head. “Mother will never understand, but I will ensure her place. As long as I live she won’t have to fear.”

“You’re feeling confident.”

“Father wants to invade Persia. He can’t afford to go to war with an infant girl as his heir. He can’t do without me.” Alexandros’ curly locks and beardless face had a look Kassandra had seen before on others, a young man just out of childhood who didn’t even know how important his father’s approval was to him. How much he felt that lack of approval, how much he’d do for it. “You have to make mother understand.”

“I can’t make Olympias do much of anything. Few can.” She replaced her bow on her back, walked over and retrieved a pear from her pack. “Hello, Boukephalos. How are you?”

The horse took the pear and Alexandros’ gaze softened for just a moment.

“He usually won’t let anyone but me feed him.”

“He’s a good horse.” She sighed. “I’m not going to kill Phillip. You can relax. Strange as your concern might be.”

“Father’s death now would make my life much harder.”

“But not impossible. You’d be king of Makedonia.”

“I’ll be king of Makedonia without it.” He shook his head. “My sister marries my uncle today, and my father will bring me back into his house, and from there we go on to plan the invasion. You’ll get what you want. Just please, ignore my mother.”

“It’s not wise to ignore Olympias.”

“Fair.” He laughed and she looked at him. He bore little resemblance to Phillip, and in truth, to any of the males who might well have cuckolded Phillip with Olympias. There was something about Alexandros that seemed unique to himself, and Kassandra thought again of all those rumors about Olympias and the Dionysos cult. “I was worried you’d be disagreeable.”

“What was your plan if I was?”

“As many guards as I could arrange. His bodyguard Pausanias suggested it.”

“I’ve never liked the name Pausanias.”

“He’s been father’s friend for years.”

“It’s none of my business.” She brushed her hand down Boukephalos’ neck, felt the muscles flex. “A beautiful one, your ox-eyed here. I had one much like him. I still miss that horse.”

“Yes.” The Makedonian boy wasn’t a boy any longer buy his voice broke with strain, the affection for that horse clear in the thickness of the word in his mouth. “Thank you, Diotima.”

“How is Aristotle?”

“Well enough. He and Hephaestion write to each other.”

“But not you?”

“I am a middling writer.”

“In his hand a pen is a poor substitute for a sword.” Hephaestion laughed, clapped a hand on Alexandros’ shoulder. “Are you coming back to Passaron for the wedding?”

“No, but thank you.” She whistled, and her borrowed horse trotted out of the trees. “I’ll be heading to the coast. I have work lined up in the south.”

One last pat on Boukephalos’ neck and she was mounted and gone, riding south. 

Chapter Text

333 BC

The Persian navy held Mytilene between spear points, but the city had not yet fallen.

Kassandra of the Agiad looked out over the water at the Persian ships, shaking her head. How like the Makedonians to make no provision for the ocean, and how like a Rhodian to think of it – now Chios and most of Lesbos were in Persian hands and with them, the supply chain.

She walked from the harbor, looking at the faces of those she passed, the grim certainty of the inevitable. They knew the Persians would take their city, that the forces of the united Hellene army were effectively a world away from them. They’d all heard of Alexandros’ victories, of course, but the Granicus was a year in the past and Memnon was there, right there, and he held the area outside the city. There was no way for Mytilene to survive this time – this was no mere Athenian ship come to deliver orders, this was a whole fleet, and thousands of men waiting to batter their way in.

Alexandros was a canny leader, but he was a horseman first and foremost. He led men well in battle – indeed, she viewed him as a superior general compared to his deceased father. But Phillip, for all the frustration of waiting for him to move, had been exacting. He would never have charged into Anatolia without securing the Aegean, and that was exactly what Alexandros had done in his haste, his worry over the revolt of the Athenians and the recalcitrance of the Spartans.

She looked over the forest of stakes and campfires that made up Memnon’s forces, waiting for the sun to drop below the horizon. There had to be thousands of them, a mix of Greek mercenaries from Rhodes and Persians. Ironically, it was likely Alexandros’ victory at the Granicus that had convinced Memnon he couldn’t beat the Makedonian on land.

You thought you learned their hearts when they were in exile, eh Alexandros? I bet you wish I’d killed Artabazos and Barsine now that her husband sits poised to starve you to death. She’d wanted them all dead, of course – Artabazos was in the Order. But Alexandros had insisted they were more useful to him alive. The fact that the exiled satrap’s daughter caught his fancy had a lot to do with it, even after her husband Mentor died and she married his brother, Memnon. Alexandros was a lot of things, but he was far from circumspect with his attractions.

The smell of woodsmoke and the sea carried over the wall. The guards on the wall were staring out at their doom, of course – everyone knew that Memnon was just waiting for a few last ships to arrive before he marched on the city and broke it once and for all. Just getting the Adrestia past the blockade had been a challenge, and Kassandra had fought back wistful memories as her triearchos, a stout Egyptian boy named Khiufu, had barked orders and chanted the opop – opop – opop to drive the oarsmen on. He was a good man, talented and loyal, but he wasn’t the same.

Nobody was the same.

Even Alexandros was a replacement to her. She’d meant Phillip to be the instrument of her vengeance, and for all that they’d clashed, she’d respected him – his methodical nature, his brutality, his willingness to fight with his men, his wry knowledge of himself and his limitations, even his cursed need to rut with so many different women at once. Then again, she’d lain with Olympias herself, she knew how tempting the Epirote was.

An eagle cried out above her, and she looked up, surprised. It was late and dark and not the time eagles hunted. It had been years since Phaethon died, and with him gone had gone her desire for another – the pain of their loss outweighted the joy of having them, of reaching out and seeing through their eyes, of feeling the purity of their wants and needs. Still, the instinct was there and she almost held out an arm. Even in the dark she could see the bird wheeling over the Persian camp.

Shall I take you for a sign, brother? Do you guide me onward?

The sun dropped below the horizon. When it was gone, and the world seemed wrapped in Nyx, she dropped off of the wall and made her way through the plain towards the camps. How many times in her life had she picked her way through darkness, with eyes staring out from every corner, and yet she always remembered being a child on Kephallonia filching food from some bedraggled farmer or another, the first lesson of poverty always the strongest. The Persians and Rhodians feared nothing – they’d already won and they knew it. Their eyes lacked the keenness of a man guarding his last chicken.

The camp was broad, with the unusual tents of the Persians, and guards in those ridiculous leather masks. She ended up going over them, climbing a pole and skittering along a rope to hang in the air above the largest tent, listening to voices that came out with the smoke of their fire.

“Pharmabazus is ready to assume command?”

“Yes, my lord. You can leave for the mainland tonight. He promises Mytilene will be yours before you reach Asia Minor.”

“And the rebels back in Greece?”

“The Spartans have been stubborn. They insist there are religious ceremonies they must perform before they can march. The Athenians are more willing to act now – they hate Phillip’s son more than they hate Persians, it seems.”

“Phillip’s son is the one who has successfully put his boot on their throats.” His voice was smooth. “What of the Spartan woman?”

“I’m sorry?”

“The Tainted One. The one who helped Phillip. I suspect her of keeping the Spartans from open revolt.” Ah, you are a clever one, Memnon. She watched the guards outside the tent, waited. The faint breeze coming in off of the Aegean cooled the sweat on her forehead. “You do not know where she is?”

“My lord, we’re not even sure that she still exists. There was a Tainted One in Makedonia, but that was nearly a hundred years ago, and we know Phillip was aware of the Order’s presence, he suspected Artabazos…”

“As well he should.” Memnon chuckled. “I’d always hoped it would be him to come east.”

“Alexandros has done well so far.”

“He has. I underestimated him at the Granicus. But I won’t be stupid enough to meet him again until we’ve carved his supply line away from him and hunger begins to claw at those Makedonian bellies. Phillip would have garrisoned these islands, made it almost impossible to cut his army off from Greece.” It was so close to what Kassandra herself had thought it made the skin on her neck pebble up. “But I want to know where she is. Tell the men. Spread the word to everyone, the Tainted One is our next target. She must be found and killed before Alexandros realizes how close he is to defeat.”

“Yes, my lord.” A few moments, and Kassandra saw a young Persian in more elaborate armor come from the tent and two of  the guards followed him away, no doubt to communicate Memnon’s words to his men. She wondered how much they actually knew about her – could they find the few places she lay her head? Most of her life was spent on horseback or on the Adrestia now, she hadn’t had a home since Alexios died for fear she’d draw attention to his family. Of her son’s children and grandchildren and by now great-grandchildren, she knew nothing.

This is the only life left to me, thanks to you.

Another hour passed with her hanging there, watching them. Memnon did not come out of the tent. The four guards remained at the corners, watching, the weariness of men who had no reason to expect any danger creeping over them. Her arms and legs stayed locked in place, her eyes darting from man to man. Waiting.

The eagle in the air above cried out again and she let go.

The first guard, a big brute was a long spear, looked up in time to die. The Staff of Hermes flared to life, became a short half-spear with a broad Spartan blade and punched through his eye, sending blood, bone and brains out the back of his head. She was in motion before the second guard could even determine what had just happened, throwing the spear-head and following it like a bolt from heaven, tearing his throat out in one fluid motion.

The last two guards still couldn’t see very well, the torchlight leaving circles of amber around them that were the boundaries of their world. But Kassandra could see them, and moved, her kopis sliding out of her belt and striking once, twice, again on the third guard while the half-spear parried the last one’s wild strike, her foot coming up to crash into his gut and keep him from shouting the alarm. Even as he convulsed, trying to fight off sickness, she lashed out and cut right through his leather breastplate. He died still not knowing what was happening.

She strode into the tent, where Memnon was still strapping on his breastplate. It was Greek, a bronze cuirass with the exaggerated chest muscles, she’d worn one like it many times herself. He looked up and saw her, the blood on her blades, took it all in with a simple glimpse.

“I should have looked for you first.”

“You would have wasted time.”

His sword was across the tent, closer to her than him. He glanced over at it, but didn’t make a move. With only a breastplate and no weapons, he had little chance and they both knew it.

“It was going to work.”

“It was.” She agreed. “He’s a better general than his father but he’s young. Phillip was more cautious because life taught him to be.”

“The Order was right. Your kind ruin everything.”

“The Order made this happen. I was living in a shack when they decided to kill my…” She took a breath, stepped over to block his path to the sword. “It doesn’t matter, and you won’t distract me by playing on old wounds. It happened before you were born.”

“Then get it…” The spear was in his throat before he could finish talking. She watched him fall, watched him gurgle out his last breaths. It was in her power to end his suffering, but she didn’t. Instead she ransacked the tent for the papers detailing the Order’s agents in Greece. There were many, throughout Athens and Sparta, and she remembered Amorges voice the day she’d killed him.

Greece is ours.

She slipped them under her breastplate, stepped over and pulled the spear point out of Memnon’s throat. His eyes stared up at nothing. She didn’t close them. He chose to support the Order in life, he could suffer like them in death.

She stepped out and found a sputtering torch one of the guards had dropped, picked it up. Threw it back into the cushions Memnon had used as a bed. Hate pulsed in her like the drums as the triearchos urged the oarsmen on. Opop – opop – opop her heart pounded, the blades in her hands. There were hours yet before sunrise and many dark corners to hide in. Many Persians and Rhodians between her and Mytilene.

She found the shadows and began her work. Alexandros would make his way through Anatolia without worrying about food, no matter how many people she had to kill to ensure it. The Order had hunted her in Makedonia all those years ago because they feared she would burn the world, and she intended to give them what they wanted.

She would burn their world, a man at a time if necessary.

Chapter Text

324 BC

She bent down and smelled his lips.

The look of his skin, his face, the lividity of his chest were what made her most suspicious. Even in death he was blotchy, red, his once open and smiling face twisted up in pain. In the darkness of the room Alexandros paced like an animal, his cheeks stained with tears. Kassandra forced herself to ignore him – this sudden display of humanity was one she didn’t know how to deal with. Alexandros had only lost one person in his life, and Phillip’s death had given him so much and solved so many of his problems one couldn’t really compare it to this.

“Where is Glaucias?”

“He left. Hephaestion… “ She could see Alexandros fighting to maintain his bearing in her presence. The past ten years had seen the boy catapulted from the ruler of a backwoods northern pretender, to the master of all Hellas, to the conqueror of Darius and the ascendant King of Kings, Basileus Basileon. In all that time, she didn’t think Alexandros had suffered anything like this, save for the death of Boucephalos in his pointless push into the lands of the East.

She stood up.

“He seemed to improve?”

“Yes.”

“When was this?”

“After we arrived in Ecbatana. He took ill, for a week he looked sick to death, but then he rallied.” Alexandros’ hair was damp with sweat and his eyes were wide, darting around the room. “I would not have left, but Glaucias assured me… he was on the mend. We spoke. He seemed healthy, he laughed at me, told me to go to the games. They were being held in my honor, he said, I couldn’t well miss them.”

“And then he took food and sickened.” She walked over to the stomach of the corpse, looked for signs of it having distended. There were none. It was possible for some disorders to kill one in that way – Typhoid, for example, could kill you if you ate food too soon – but she saw no signs of it. Memories of a life long since gone, of helping Hippokrates in Argolis, Athens, even Boetia and listening to him natter on about boils and sores had imparted that bit of knowledge. The smell on his lips could be wine, but…

“Please. Kassandra. You know what he was like. No man was healthier. He was young, there’s no reason…”

“Sometimes we die for no reason, Alexandros ho Megas.” Her dark eyes were hooded in the dim light from the hearth. She gauged the King of Kings, who looked impossibly young to her. He was just past his thirty-first year. But his eyes were very like his father’s had been near the end, save that he still had both of them. “He’s been poisoned.”

“What?” She watched it happen. Alexandros had been in shock, had been drowning in grief. He and Hephaestion… she’d known other men like them, of course, it was common in Athens and other parts of Greece, even in Sparta she’d known of them. Sophocles and Euripedes, although there was the age difference, where Alexandros and Hephaestion had been closer than brothers, almost the shadow and the sun. It didn’t surprise Kassandra that Alexandros loved Hephaestion – he’d gone so far as to marry the man to a daughter of Darius, after all, the sister of one of his wives. But still, to see pain and loss and grief twisted into fury so intense, to see his rage come fully upon him, she took no pleasure in it. It was pain so intense it made men into beasts. “Who would… Glaucias.”

“Most likely.” Since she had no idea how to offer him comfort, she decided on the next best course of action. “Leave him to me.”

“I’ll…”

“Alexandros.” She didn’t say it the way she might have a decade earlier, because whatever else he was, Alexandros was the conqueror of Asia – it had been his tactical genius, his intellect that made it happen. She’d helped, surely, but the mind that came up with the plans that won Issus, Gaugamela, even the Hydaspes had been Alexandros’ own. He’d done everything she’d needed from him. Darius was dead. Persia was… well, not gone, but it would be centuries before the Order of the Ancients could possibly rule these lands easily again. So she didn’t speak to Alexandros as a child or a tool, but as an equal. “You have a nation to rule. Leave him to me. Let it be my last gift to Haephestion.”

He stopped mid rant. She wondered if her was remembering the day she came to Aristotle’s school, the one where he and Haephestion and the other children of Macedonian royalty were learning to be men. Since she was, she thought it was appropriate.

“I..” He walked over to the corpse. Dead a day now, and no amount of time would change that. She remembered Alexios, his calm face, his gray beard like a statue of Zeus when he passed, and she pitied Alexandros the more for having missed that moment. If the King of Kings had loved anyone, he’d loved Haephestion. “There are rites. I’ll have to see to… he was just married.”

“You see to them.” She pulled her hood up. “I’ll attend to Glaucias.”

She’d been to Ecbatana many times since she’d helped topple the Persians, having gone so far as to challenge Darius himself in his throne room before he’d been assassinated by his own cousin. She knew the palace well enough. She knew Glaucias wouldn’t stay there. Not a fool, he would know that Alexandros’ rage would be towering, and he’d know that the Makedonian wouldn’t necessarily wait for proof to have him killed. He’d killed Kleitos, who’d saved his life in battle, in a drunken rage – how much worse would his revenge be against the doctor who failed to save Haephestion?

So she didn’t bother going to Glaucias quarters, a luxurious set of chambers in the palace. Alexandros would have already had them searched. Instead, she went to the center of town, where many services could be provided for coin in this chaotic time. The town was still reeling from the ascension of Alexandros and the death of Darius, and in such uncertain circumstances people always found a way to profit.

She passed the spot on the road where she’d killed Parmenion and shook her head. His son had plotted against Alexandros, but she was never sure if Parmenion had been part of the plot or not – his death had brought her no joy, not even after finding the metallic seal of the Order on his body. He’d been so very close to the levers of power and she hadn’t suspected him. Now Glaucias. They were getting in under the cracks.

She found old Diaoku’s drinking home the same as it had been on her previous trips – crowded with sweaty men, many of them former Persian soldiers or Greek mercenaries, a few local Medes, and others from as far away as the Parapamisadae near the Hindu Killer mountains. The man himself she found seated at a broad table, drinking unwatered wine and belching contentedly between drinks.

She seated herself across from him.

“Diaoku.”

“I don’t know where he is.”

“Who?”

“Eh?” He peered blearily at her over the bowl in his hand.

“I didn’t say I was looking for anyone. Who in particular are you so sure you don’t know where he is?” She didn’t bother to threaten him. By now, the Eagle Bearer was famous across much of Persia, even if she no longer bore an eagle of her own.

“Iskandar’s lost his pet. Everyone knows.” He blew a slobbering kiss and poured more wine down his throat, gestured to his girl – a young one, maybe fourteen years – to fill his bowl, and belched again. “You’re looking for the doctor. Why else? Only someone the King wants dead very badly would warrant you.”

“This is true.” She pulled her hood back. “So I figured I’d stop in here. Of course, you’ve already been paid and you’re not going to tell me where he is.”

“I don’t even know. Safer for everyone.”

“I’m sure.” She waited a beat and then lashed her head backwards, taking the man who’d been trying to creep up on her full in the face and feeling his nose crunch. She grabbed his beard with her left hand and pulled him forward, smashing him face down into the table and kicking off, rolling under a sword and drawing the half-spear from her quiver as she did.

The man holding the sword made a surprisingly soft noise as the broad blade punched into his kidney and fell down onto the floor. She grabbed his sword, a crude makhaira but with a good enough edge for her purpose, and swept it and the half-spear to block a dagger strike before slashing the man trying it across his chest.

The sword, still slick with his blood, found Diaoku’s throat before he could finish trying to get away from her, but she made sure not to bite just yet.

“Tell me where he is, and I’ll have no reason to stay here.” She flicked the blood from the half-spear. It wasn’t the original. But in its way, it was even more important, and she didn’t want to leave blood on the artifact of Hermes.

He swallowed, and exactly three seconds before she would have grown cross enough to use that spear to help convince him, told her where to find Glaucias.

She laughed, surprised by the audacity of it.

Glaucias looked over his possessions one last time. His clinic inside the former royal district had been the only safe place for him – with Haephestus dead, the poison proved, his quarters had of course been visited by the King’s men. But the clinic had been closed for a week, as Haephestion had been his only concern for the duration of his illness, and he hadn’t been seen returning to it.

The clinic hadn’t been his originally, of course – Glaucias was no native of Ecbatana. But it had served him well, as no one had thought to look for him there. Soon, Diaoku’s men would arrive and see him safely out of the city, where he would report to those who had ordered the death of the Makedonian. Now that they knew the poison worked, soon Alexandros would submit to a similar death.

All he had to do was get out of the city alive.

There was a knock at the door. The several staggered beats, six then two then four, the signal. He threw it open in relief.

Then he saw the woman.

She was tall, and well muscled, and her jaw was clenched. Under the hood she wore her eyes were like two agates, glittering in the lamplight.

“Glaucias.” Her hand wrapped around his throat and he met the wall with his back. “I would like to talk to you.”