Chapter Text
“From Selene’s immortal head a radiance is shown from heaven and embraces earth; and great is the beauty that ariseth from her shining light. The air, unlit before, glows with the light of her golden crown, and her rays beam clear, whensoever bright Selene having bathed her lovely body in the waters of Ocean, and donned her far-gleaming raiment, and yoked her strong-necked, shining team, drives on her long-maned horses at full speed, at eventime in the mid-month: then her great orbit is full and then her beams shine brightest as she increases. So she is a sure token and a sign to mortal men.”
Homeric Hymn 31 to Selene (Greek epic C7th - 4th B.C.)
The rosy light of dawn slowly crept upon the majestic Mount Orontes to the south, lightning its still snow-covered peak with an orange tint. The snow had been melting for some time and all around the last buds of spring were perfuming the air with their exotic smells. Across the green plain to the east, the long expanses of cultivated land lay still in shadows, waiting for the day that chased away the night.
High above, a waning moon was still shining, resisting the inexorable pull to disappear as the sky turned from pink to orange, and from to orange to lilac.
Hephaestion sighed as he kept watch over the mighty capital of Media, one of the wonders created by the mighty Queen Semiramis and what used to be the summer palace of the Achaemenid Kings. Slowly, the moon became opaque above it, Selene being driven away by mighty Helios.
Ecbatana was slowly waking and Hephaestion only wanted to sleep.
Since the day they had arrived in the city, real sleep had eluded him. Something in the air, drenched with the sweet nectars of late spring, woke him each night in the middle of the night watch. Most nights, he would lay in bed, eyes closed tightly and limbs relaxed; but most nights, no amount of relaxing made Hypnos claim him again.
Tonight, he had decided to succumb to sleeplessness and had risen from bed, ignoring the mountains of paperwork still waiting on his work table, and headed out to look for one of the open terraces that overlooked the city below and the mountain beyond.
There was something intensely beautiful about Ecbatana, something Persepolis and Pasargadae, and even Babylon, had lacked. It was equally sumptuous and royal, but something in its design spoke of long summer nights and silent winter days. He could picture himself here, exploring the gardens that Semiramis herself had commissioned, or taking a horse and riding south towards the dramatic mountain rage and its green skirts underneath, undoubtedly filled with small streams and rivers.
Ecbatana was calling to him as no other Persian city had before. Whether that was a good or bad omen, only time would tell.
He heard the change of guards behind him, somewhere in the long silver-columned hallway of the living quarters of the Palace. Only some months before, some other guards had done the same but for another King.
Darius had fled, Ecbatana was Achaemid no more. The only old guard left to watch over the city was the beautiful statue of the Persian goddess Anahita in her temple. Everything else was Alexander's now, from the silver and gold columns of the Palace, to the last slave in the easternmost and poorest quarter of the city.
Hephaestion sighed again, turning sideways and letting himself fall to one of the silver columns next to him. He was exhausted, barely even conscious of his own weight. He knew his body had been acting out in response to his state of mind.
Two months had elapsed since that night back in Pasagardae's paradeisos, the one where things had broken in a way he knew not how to repair. There was a darkness inside him that had woken that night, and it had been the only real companion in his life since then. He couldn’t name it nor explain it, but it was ever present, like a curse. He wasn’t proud of what had elapsed that night, even if he had been proud of it at the time.
When Alexander had fled from him and left him on his own, he had felt a sense of freedom he had forgotten he was capable of feeling. That night, he had slept under the moonlight, uncaring of the predators around him and simply happy to be alone. Only afterwards had he understood that the elating sense of freedom had been disguised guilt over his words and structured self-hate.
Back in Pasargadae, he had realized he was capable of breaking two spirits at once: his and Alexander's.
He knew the knowledge would come in handy in the future, but he wasn't sure anymore what his future held. Once, he had been sure. Once, he had wanted nothing else but to ride next to Alexander, looking towards the next battle, the next city, the next enemy. His spirit had been aligned with Alexander's back then, his goals and dreams the same.
But the darkness that had woken in both him and the King was ever present between them, like the rivers of blood they had created together. Like the small children behind them that would grow up without a home, a family, or a life beyond war.
Hephaestion was capable of breaking Alexander, as much as Alexander was capable of breaking the whole world.
For Alexander, the whole world was not enough, and now Hephaestion partly understood that maybe Alexander was not enough for him.
The mountain in the distance was by now fully covered in a golden light, its green slopes underneath slowly beginning to awaken with the same light. Birds were tweeting somewhere in the Palace gardens below, slowly welcoming the light.
Hephaestion shivered, suddenly feeling the coolness he hadn’t realized was all around him. There was no welcoming light for him, the sun could rise but he wouldn’t truly feel it. As beautiful as the city was below him, he couldn’t shake the cold off his limbs.
Somewhere from inside the columned Palace he heard soft movement. Attendants were beginning to rush into darkened rooms and staff were already coming back from the kitchens with plates full of food. Soundlessly, concubines and whores would begin to slowly depart from shared beds while the High Command awoke to a new day of intense planning and high rhetoric from the King.
He turned his back from the open view over the city and the mountain and walked away quickly, not wanting to be stopped. His quarters were on the farther end of the Palace, as far away as physically possible from the King’s quarters.
If he had to live in cold splendour, then he would learn to grow used to the cold.
No matter how divided his feelings were towards the King, he would regret hurting Alexander until he drew his last breath. But as long as he breathed, he wouldn’t regret standing his ground and being true to himself, while asking the same of Alexander.
Only death would make him pliant. And only the Fates would show in time if Alexander truly knew how to be human .
Or not.
“If we stay here one more day, they will regroup. The fate of the empire falls on speed and expediency and on not allowing for reinforcements to arrive or for alliances to be made without me there.”
Ptolemy looked around the Council room, trying to find anything else to look at but at the King. Everyone around him looked unsure and somewhat scared, not unlike how Ptolemy felt. There was a fire in Alexander’s eyes that had been burning for some time and it showed no signs of abating.
Two months ago, Alexander had dragged them all - in some cases even literally - from the comforts of Pasargadae and made them bite dust across Media. The maddening speed the King had imposed upon the High Command, his Friends, the entirety of the army and baggage train, had been close to hubris . Not even Hermes could storm across the dry land in that speed, but Alexander had demanded nothing less. Ptolemy had lost two of his horses, and even one informal concubine. Everyone had been too exhausted to protest, and the ones who dared even think about it had been pushed to harder extremes, all in the name of catching the fleeing Darius.
They had been in Ecbatana for three days now, having arrived to find Darius gone and reported on the road, somewhere in Hyrcania. The fire in Alexander’s eyes was burning harder than ever, consuming everything around them.
“We will not stop until I have my hands on Darius,” Alexander said slowly, voice dangerously low.
Ptolemy looked at the table, not daring to look up. He saw Coenus’ shadow fidgeting across him. A bad move.
“You disagree , Coenus?” three words made the man addressed freeze completely, confusion showing clearly on his face.
“Never, my King. Darius must be captured and it must be as soon as possible,” Coenus uttered quickly, anxiety clearly tinting his words. To his right, Cleitus looked sideways and away from the King and grimaced, clearly not agreeing with the statement.
“Then it is set, we ride out the day after tomorrow. Parmenion is set to arrive early tomorrow and we will meet in a night session to finalize the organization of the Treasury and the military unit that will be left behind for its protection,” Alexander stated, tone not allowing for any kind of comment or sign of disagreement. The King was past that by now.
The Council sessions had become increasingly Persian in its tone, no more than a communications between the King and his subjects. Old Macedonian interactions between the war leader and the fighters were practically gone by now. Alexander was their war leader, but first he was the King of Kings of an empire vaster than their minds. He had begun to wear a version of the Persian diadem - much simpler than the upright Persian tiara but still foreign to them - and he had adopted Persian Royal colors in some of his chitones , chlamyses and himatia . It was only a matter of time before he began mixing Persians into the army, maybe even into the High Command.
Ptolemy rose from the chair, following the muted movements around him. He saw Hephaestion rise from the middle of the table, quickly turning to escape the heavy air of the room.
They could lie to themselves all they wanted, but everyone knew Alexander’s intensity was linked to Hephaestion’s silences. Once, they would have openly commented on this, if not before the King and his Head Administrator — they all agreed upon this, Hephaestion was beyond them all in organizational skills — at least amongst themselves. But these days every man kept his thoughts to himself. They were too exhausted to whisper and conjecture. They were too rich to speculate on anything beyond the price of the prettiest concubine in the city.
Over the past months, they had all learned to swim in the vast ocean between the King and the Administrator. None of them were stupid enough to question the existence of the ocean.
Ptolemy walked out of the double doors, noticing Eumenes glide past him and into the Council room, a tower of parchment rolls in his arms. Most of those rolls were probably satrap’s reports, garrison leaders’ briefs, petitions for reinforcements or requests for more funds to rebuild or expand the cities they had stormed,taken under siege or founded. Mountains of paperwork that, beyond the glory of victory and treasure, required time and energy. Alexander would surely spend a few moments with Eumenes, simply receiving reports on all the paperwork. Ptolemy knew most of the simple work would fall back on the Chancellery, and the hard work would fall back to the most trusted of Administrators, Hephaestion.
No matter how vast the ocean, the King and the Administrator were still a force to be reckoned with. Ptolemy thought of this as he headed towards his quarters.
Maybe, it was better this way. In the grand scheme of things, Alexander was the King and they were all here to serve him.
And perhaps Hephaestion had finally understood the maxim that once Aristotle had spouted in every astronomy lesson, the one they had all made fun of at the time.
“ The moon doesn’t shine on its own, it burns on account of the sun .”
“Surely, my King, the Chancellery is capable of dealing with the administrative issue of the satrapal appointment. The paperwork necessary to formalize your decision is something I myself have done before. May I remind the King that once Philip asked me to-”
Alexander looked up, eyes instantly drilling into Eumenes’. The Greek man before him stopped speaking almost instantly, visibly nervous under his King’s intense gaze.
He had no patience for name dropping at the moment. If Eumenes thought that mentioning his father would help, he clearly had not processed or known of the letter from his mother that had been delivered to him at dawn. Apparently, there had been a slip and the letter was a month old, having arrived in Media but never passed on to him. No mention of Philip would ever help after reading one of his mother’s letters, full of pride and reproaches towards the late King, as much as commendation to follow what he had done in several domains. His mother was contradictory like that, slandering his dead father in a sentence and putting him as an example in the treatment of alliances in the next. And this time around she was also probably furious at his lack of response. No doubt another letter would be arriving soon, berating him about his silence.
“Satrapal appointments are not the same as hill tribes appeasings, Eumenes,” he said slowly, making sure to not break the stare he was directing towards his Secretary, “Make sure the letter from the garrison and the annexing papers are redirected to Hephaestion. He has more experience on these matters, especially with Phoenician cities.”
Eumenes opened and closed his mouth before him, round eyes going rounder. Alexander brought his cup to his lips, wishing it contained undiluted wine. He had no time to placate Greek secretaries on issues of capability, specially after the late delivery of his Mother’s letter, neither did he intend to get him used to special treatment. Paperwork was paperwork, and as in battle, the one who did it better and faster was the one who won the day. Eumenes had always been a responsible and diligent administrator, but Hephaestion could be even more meticulous while doing it in half the time.
Alexander stood up, cutting short Eumenes’ reaction.
“Make sure to prepare the papers on fund requests for Parmenion, who is due to arrive at sundown,” he walked around the table and let his cup be refilled by the Page attending him, “And if another letter arrives from my mother…”
He let the words drag, conscious of Eumenes’ barely concealed surprised expression. He really didn’t know about the letter. Someone in the Chancellery was going to get yelled at today.
“If anything else from my mother arrives, hold it for a day or two but no more than that ," he said pointedly, "We march the day after tomorrow, I need all my energy to prepare.”
Eumenes bowed his head slightly, but before he dismissed him, a quick idea came into Alexander’s mind.
“No, do not hold any letters. Send them to Hephaestion along with all Administrative papers, he can keep them for me for a while,” he said quickly, looking down to try and hide his expression. It was a good excuse for him to approach Hephaestion or to summon him in the future. And also, a good indirect berating towards Eumenes for not delivering the last letter on time.
He waved his hand at the Secretary and the Head Page nearby, dismissing them in one gesture. Eumenes noisingly gathered all the rolls he had brought with him, while the Pages clanked cups and plates in their exit. Somewhere to the back of the room, two eunuchs glided towards the door, not a sound in their movement but for the whisper of their Persian robes.
Alexander sighed as he sat down in his place at the table, at the head of it and in the tallest chair. Sometimes he longed for Persian company, at least from them he could get commendation and tradition. His Macedonians these days appeared to him rougher than before, sometimes too forward and informal in speech and actions. In this new empire he had conquered, he almost felt like an impostor King, having climbed down from a hill with some half-trained men to find levels of refinement and elegance he had never known and, if he was honest, could never fully understand.
In truth, he had grown up in a refined state, compared to what Macedonia had been barely a generation before him, but still he now understood some words he had heard as a young, impressionable boy back in Pella. Memnon of Rhodes had spent some time in exile in his father’s Palace and even if back then he had barely understood the importance of this man’s presence there, he never forgot words he whispered in his presence.
“ Philip is more a King of domesticated hill sheep than of trained wolves. ”
He sighed into his cup, drinking it down to the last drop and reveling in the few moments of solitude he had left. There were orders to be dispatched, movements to be checked again, routes to be submitted to field experts, reconnaissance teams to be directed before them, contingents to be determined for garrison, second units ordered for reinforcements.
And in the midst of it all, Alexander had to deal with his own personal predicament.
He stood up from the table, walking towards the silver columns that opened to a wide golden-columned portico overlooking the northeastern section of the city, with the looming mountains and the idyllic greenery as a backdrop. Somewhere behind those mountains ran the Royal road to Babylon, with its Hanging Gardens and blue-tiled walls.
He felt centuries away from those warm nights in Babylon, spent basking in the glory of triumph and the excitement of the chase. Nights he had never spent alone, plans he hadn’t had to dream on his own. He had felt whole then, a real King to his men and a real man to his loved one.
He could still picture Hephaestion next to him in those all-night symposia, whispering things in his ear to make him laugh when the mood got too rowdy around them. He recalled late lunches with his Administrator, combing over stacks of paperwork and court procedures new to them. In his mind were those long walks through the Hanging Gardens after morning Council, debating whether Darius planned to meet them in battle again and what formations or tactics he would use, having spent his major force in Gaugamela.
Days and nights, formal and informal. Back then, Alexander had been both leader and friend, two things he was having trouble reconciling now, in the high platform of his Palace that overlooked the city of Ecbatana.
Something in him pulled in one direction while simultaneously pulling the opposite way. The need to pacify and the need to attack worked inside him, biting at each other painfully.
He needed Hephaestion yet he needed not to need anyone. Everything he had been taught since birth contradicted his inner longing for companionship. A King had Friends but not for his own pleasure but for his Kingdom’s sake. A leader of men built rapport but asked for the respect due to his station. The head of an army had to have many aides but no confidants unless he wanted to lose the war.
A man could have a beloved but never let that love consume him. Achilles’ love and his rage at losing it had made him a force to be reckoned with. But Achilles’ grief had ultimately got him killed, in body and spirit.
A cold wind rose around him, sweeping past the golden columns and up into the intricately carved wooden ceiling. He still had a lot to fight for, he was not Achilles in his tent, hiding away with Patroclus. He had surpassed his hero and understood his follies and caprices too well to imitate them.
The mountain in the distance stood rooted to the same spot since millenia, yet it changed slowly, being beat down by weather and man. It shielded the city, provided water and food as much as it proved a challenge to the ones looking to surmount it.
He had to be like that mountain now, impervious yet giving. A King’s duty was to his gods, then to his people, and lastly to his enemies. Only as a second thought, if ever, was a King’s duty to himself.
There was a soft knock at the door and Alexander found himself standing taller instantly, almost in a thoughtless reflex of poise.
There was no room for mortal longing in his life now, he was past that. His Kingdom awaited, his men looked at him for direction and meaning.
And if Alexander lacked direction and meaning, then he could count that the King in him would find it eventually, with or without aid.
Even at the expense of losing what he loved best.