Sometimes, Kleopatra forgot to pay attention to what Hephaistion was saying, seized instead by the straight line of his nose, the square jaw under a closely-trimmed beard, the long fingers holding the stylus, or the heavy braid that fell over a shoulder. She wanted to get her fingers in that hair.

She kept her fascination to herself, refusing to admit it to anyone. Her crush was impossible, she knew it impossible, and she’d never been the girl who chased the impossible, unlike Thessalonikē. Her sister always agreed to sit in on these tutoring sessions just so she could blather and sigh about him later, as they readied for bed.

Yet Kleopatra couldn’t control her own heart, which beat faster when he leaned close, or as close as decorous tutoring allowed. And she had to choke back a giggle sometimes from simply being in his presence. How utterly humiliating. Why couldn’t he be a prince of some kingdom her father needed to ally with, so he’d offer for her in marriage? Instead, he was heir to an estate everybody knew securely in the Makedonian fold.

“Kleopatra? Are you listening?”

His question brought her back. “Sorry, I got distracted.” By your mouth.

He scratched his chin, apparently oblivious to her ridiculous fantasies. “Shall we stop for the day?”

“No!” she blurted, not wanting to lose his presence so quickly. “I just didn’t sleep well last night.”

Sitting in a chair under the lone high window, Thessalonikē snorted. Hephaistion glanced over at her, then returned attention to Kleopatra. “Really, we can continue tomorrow, if you’d rather.”

“Let’s finish this theorem, or I’ll lose track. Just, go back a few steps.”

He did so, and she forced her mind to follow. Before long, she was caught up in the geometry, not his physiology. She truly loved ideas. Geometry was clean and logical, pairing away any messiness of emotions, especially when bruised. When they talked maths, they sloughed off the social boxes of female and male, royal and not, and became most purely themselves. In numbers and geometry lay an understanding of the whole world: form, symmetry, relations. It wasn’t static theorems, but a debate about the nature of reality itself. She could see it in everything around her, and when she wove, it danced through her designs. That he saw the world the same way underlay her fascination with him as much as the beauty of his face. She thought she would love him even if he were as ugly as his name-god, Hephaistos. The girl in her got lost staring at his profile. The mathematician in her got lost in the profile of his mind.

They’d reached the final part of the proof when the door opened and her mother swept in like a trireme at ramming speed, making them all jump, even Thessalonikē, although this was a public room and Kleopatra wasn’t alone with an unrelated male. “Girls, return to the women’s rooms. I’ll speak with Hephaistion privately.”

“Mammá, we were just getting to the end—”

“Later, Kleopatra. Amyntoros and I have things to discuss.”

Kleopatra glanced at him. He appeared at once nervous and determined, although on him, both were subtle expressions, easily missed if unfamiliar. His face had gone hard, but also pale.

“Mammá, Hephaistion has been a perfect gentleman in his tutoring, nothing untoward—”

“I’m well aware. That’s not what I’ve come to discuss. Go back to the women’s rooms with your sister.”

Kleopatra shot him a sympathetic look, although he wasn’t watching her. His gaze was seized by her mother.

Outside, Thessalonikē asked, “What d’you think that’s about?”

“Nothing good.” Of that, Kleopatra was fairly certain. Yet she couldn’t imagine why her mother might be upset with Hephaistion.

***

Hephaistion watched Olympias. Just as the year before, all the boys had returned to Pella for the winter Lenaia, the festival for Dionysos. He’d wondered how long until news of his new relationship with the prince might earn a response from Olympias. Given her extensive network of spies, she’d probably learned about it within weeks, maybe days, of the Dion Olympics. So far, the king seemed sanguine, or at least, he hadn’t objected. Olympias was another matter.

Now, she settled in the chair Thessalonikē had occupied, positioning herself between him and the door. For a long time, she said nothing, testing his comfort with silence, perhaps. Yet silence was his chief skill; he waited her out.

“So, you’re his lover now.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

“He’s prince and heir. You’re nobody.”

“I’m the son of Amyntor of Europos, and Berenikē of the royal house of Paionia.”

“Amyntor of Pydna, grandson of an Athenian ex-patriot and second-rate playwright. How distinguished.”

Hephaistion stuffed down irritation. “My mother is—”

“No one in Stoboi would recognize you as a claimant to the kingship of Paionia. Yet you think yourself good enough to make the son of the king of Makedon his boy. I had no particular opinion about you before, but you’ve pushed past your place. Yet I’m sure that’s what you planned all along, isn’t it?”

Furious and unable to contain himself, Hephaistion shot to his feet. “How dare you accuse me of using Alexandros. I love him!”

“Do you?”

She remained seated, perfectly calm, and he forced himself to sit down again. “You’re a bitch,” he said, conversationally.

She actually smiled. “I am. I’m also a princess, born to the purple, as is he. Do you have any idea what your relationship has done to his reputation?”

“Who even knows—?”

“Everybody knows. You’ve no understanding of a court, Amyntoros: who talks to whom, and what gossip matters. All you could see was that bedding a prince advanced your own place.”

“That’s not how it is,” he snapped, feeling blood burn his neck and cheeks and ears. She remained unmoved, merely blinked in the face of his outburst, and again, he forced himself calm. He would win nothing by losing his temper. “As I told you, I love Alexandros.”

“And as I asked, Do you?”

“Who are you to question my claim?”

“His mother.”

She still didn’t appear the least threatened by him, although Hephaistion was struggling to remain at least marginally composed. Taking several deep breaths, he replied, “Then, as his mother, you’d want somebody to court him who genuinely cares for him, wouldn’t you?”

She smiled; it was predatory. “I want him to survive to reach the throne, and that survival rests on his ability to command respect, which he can’t do as the boy of another man. You grew up on a horse ranch, then spent half a year in Pella before going to Mieza for an isolated education. You’re ignorant of this court, or any court, which makes you dangerous to him.”

And he was infuriated again. How could she upend him so thoroughly, so quickly?

Abruptly, she leaned forward. “Let’s be very clear, Amyntoros. If you truly loved my son, you’d never had seduced him.”

“I didn’t seduce him.”

She cut her hand through the air. “Are you my son’s declared erastes?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then you seduced him.”

“I didn’t!”

“Shut it. I’m telling you what others see. Do you understand? I doubt it. You’re young and stupid and possessed by eros.” Desire. “Alexandros must be a leader, a commander. As somebody’s boy, he can’t do that. As I said, your so-called love for him endangers his authority, and thereby, his survival. If you truly loved him, you’d withdraw immediately. But I don’t think you’ll do that, because I don’t think you love him. You’re using him.”

Rage seized Hephaistion’s heart again, but this time, it spread ice, freezing what had been a cautious neutrality towards her into something implacable. She might have healed him once, but as he’d realized after trying to thank her for it, she hadn’t done it from kindness, but to accommodate her son and annoy the king. He’d been a means to an end, just as she seemed to think he viewed Alexandros.

He leaned forward in his chair too, holding blue eyes so like her son’s. “That’s how you see the world, isn’t it? Who can be useful and who not? Even Alekos. He’s just your path to becoming chief wife as mother of the heir. It’s you, not me, who uses people.”

A muscle in her jaw ticked. He’d finally found a soft spot. Yet she didn’t reply directly. “Do you know how long I was in labor with Alexandros? Almost two days. I wasn’t yet fifteen when I arrived in Pella for my marriage, and pregnant within months of that. I gave birth to him when I wasn’t yet sixteen. I was always small, and thin, and the midwife feared I wouldn’t survive once the first day of labor had passed.”

Hephaistion cocked his head, wondering where this was going.

“Men have no idea what labor feels like. It begins as a sharp cramping, but you breathe through it. You think, ‘This won’t be so bad.’ It’s only now and then. But over hours, it accelerates until you can think of nothing but surviving the next wave. Most women are fortunate, even with a first birth; it lasts less than a day. Some of us aren’t fortunate, and if labor goes on too long, the girl is too exhausted to push at the end, when it’s like having a hot sword thrust through your belly. And giving birth? Like being ripped apart between the legs.”

Hephaistion winced.

“Nonetheless, when they put Alexandros in my arms, none of it mattered. I swore I’d battle Zeus himself to see him healthy, strong, and on the throne. For fifteen years, I’ve kept that oath. Now—” she leaned back against the chair “—tell me again how much you love him. You’ve known him, what, two years? Two-and-a-half? And what sacrifices have you made? What pain?”

A mix of shame and anger was boiling again in his middle, melting the ice. She’d known exactly what to say to trivialize his own ties to Alexandros, and he couldn’t even gainsay her claims. If he played against her the way he usually did, the way he’d fought Kassandros, or Kleitos, he’d lose. She was far too subtle, and clever. But he’d won a glimpse at the chink in her armor.  So, as she’d initially tried to use silence against him, he used it now. For a long time, he didn’t reply, turning over what to say and how to say it. It made her crack, just a little. “Well?” she prompted, when the silence had stretched too long.

He pounced. “I wouldn’t pretend to set my time with Alexandros against yours. And you’re right, I’ve no experience of court life. But that might be a good thing: what I can give him. Because you’re wrong on the most important point of all. I do love him. And in my family, people aren’t a means to anything. You love them because you love them.”

“How quaint. Do you take me for a fool?”

“Not a fool, but perhaps overly cynical, which is quite peculiar for me to be saying. Truth is, I don’t care if you believe what I’m telling you. Your belief or lack of it doesn’t alter reality.” He stood. “For his sake, don’t quarrel with me. Don’t make him choose between us.”

“You fear you’ll lose.”

“No, actually. The fact you’re here says you’re afraid you’ll lose.”

She laughed. “Dear boy, I have no fear of losing to you. I’m his mother. I’m here because you’re endangering the very person you claim to ‘love,’ which tells me you don’t.”

He just held her eyes for several breaths. “We don’t see this the same way at all. There’s no point in continuing.” He strode past her for the door.

“I didn’t give you leave to go, Amyntoros.”

“I don’t need your leave.” He shoved the door open and exited.