Mary Renault

Hephaistion was worse next day, and had cramps in his belly. Busy as he was, Alexander spent all his spare time with him. Achilles had always bound Patroklos’ wounds.

A smell of sickness hung in the air. He lay on the bed, his face turned up, his mouth fallen open. Someone had closed his eyes. Grasping the body with both fists, lying across it, his mouth pressed to its face, was Alexander. He lifted his head, and gave again that dreadful cry; then buried his head in the dead hair.

After a while Perdikkas, awkward with shame and pity (yes, and already fear), said, “Alexander.”

He looked up. I stepped forward, caring for none of them. He had turned to me before, and knew that I understood. His gaze passed over me, empty. It seemed at that moment that for him I had never been. Lost, gone, possessed.

Suddenly Alexander flung himself to his feet and stared at us, as if he might kill any one of us without caring which. “Where is the doctor?”

Ptolemy looked round to ask the servants, but they had long since fled. He said, “He must have gone to the games.”

I had withdrawn near the door, and w?as aware of something behind me. It was the man himself, slower than I had been to take alarm; just come, just aware of what he saw. Alexander sprang across like a beast of prey, fastened on him, and shook him to and fro. “You murderer! Why did you leave him? Why did you let him eat?”

The man, almost past words, stammered that he had seemed to be out of danger, that he had ordered him chicken broth.

Alexander said, “Hang him. Take him away and hang him. Do it now.”

Two or three men came out to talk apart. Ptolemy said softly, “We must get him out before it starts to stink, or he’ll lose his reason. Maybe for good.”

“By force then?” said Perdikkas. “He won’t come else. It must be all of us; it’s no time to be singled out.”

Next day Alexander planned the funeral. It was to be in Babylon, the new empire’s center, where his memorial would stand forever. When Darius sued for peace after the fall of Tyre, he’d offered as ransom for his mother and wife and children ten thousand talents. On Hephaistion, Alexander was spending twelve.

is a deity himself already; Ammon acknowledged him. Without Hephaistion, he cannot bear even immortality.

He set out within seven days. Any Kossaians he killed, he? said, he would dedicate to Hephaistion, as Achilles had done the Trojans on Patroklos’ pyre.

At night they observed the heavens; the stars were stuff more divine than any other thing man’s eye could reach, a fifth element not to be found on earth.

In the stolen intimacies of Pella, Hephaistion had only had eyes for Alexander; now he saw refracted, as clearly as in the optics class, the fact that they made a very goodlooking pair.

To his regret, it was Aischylos’ Myrmidons, which showed Achilles and his Patroklos as more (or in his own view less) than perfect friends. In the midst of his critical concerns, when the news of Patroklos’ death had reached Achilles, he became aware that Alexander was sitting trance-bound, tears streaming from his wide-open eyes, and that Hephaistion was holding his hand. A reproving stare made Hephaistion let go, red to the ears; Alexander was unreachable