Showtime! Chapter 3
Fandom: Alexander the Great
Rating: FRT/PG/K+
Credits: Thanks again to
suesfan for her patient, thoughtful beta work! Remaining glitches are mine.
Author's Note: A stadion is about 600 feet, or around 160 meters.
I realize now it takes me minor eras to revise and update - sorry! The story continues right where Ch.2 ended, a moment after Amyntor revealed, "This is my son. Hephaestion."
Chapter 3: The Best
The noise of the crowd continued, jovial and rowdy all around the field; the pennants above kept snapping pleasantly in the breeze, vivid splashes of color against a backdrop of golden-white clouds and summer-blue sky.
Yet, for the moment, all this had faded out of focus. The rest of the arena was relegated to mere background, awash in a sunlit haze, while the clamor of the audience was only a distant drone in Alexander's ears. Here inside the royal box, there was only mute, astonished stillness, like the effect of some sudden enchantment.
The boy shifted a little, trying to stand even straighter than before. "Joy to you, Your Majesties," he said brightly, breaking the spell of silence. "And . . . joy to you, Prince Alexander."
When the royal family just kept staring at him, he glanced up hesitantly at his father. Amyntor gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
It took several more seconds, but Alexander was the first to recover. "Joy to you, Hephaestion," he said, feeling slightly breathless, hoping his voice sounded much firmer than it felt - and unexpectedly pleased, when Hephaestion darted him a small, fleeting smile in return.
It was just one surprise after another today!
Philip started laughing. "Zeus' thunderbolts, Amyntor! You've got the entire arena believing your son's a commoner! I've seen hopeful fathers in droves, introducing their sons at banquets, at festivals, even during the lulls in state assemblies, and to hear them talk you'd think their sons were little demigods. I say, this is the first time anyone has allowed me to mistake his son for a member of the staff!" He shook his head incredulously. "Why didn't you just introduce him in court the usual way?"
Amyntor smiled. "It was late when we arrived. And we were otherwise occupied this morning."
"Never mind the formal introduction!" Philip exclaimed. "What about riding with the rest of your men? The show was obviously planned around his participation in it, no matter when you'd bring him to an official audience with us."
Olympias' astonishment had quickly turned into irritation, and now she tilted her chin up contemptuously. Philip actually seemed to think this amusing! Well, it was no surprise that this foreigner thought he could play insolent pranks, taking them all for uncouth boors, but he was dreadfully mistaken. The Macedonian court could conduct itself with manners and propriety as much as any old city-state, and whatever her own grievances against Philip, Olympias would not stand idly by while anyone made a fool of her husband, the King.
"Your son shouldn't be taking part in the show at all," she admonished, but that was just the start. "As my husband just said, you've got all the important people thinking he's a mere groom. And what else could they think?" Her words quickened, gaining momentum. "You not only give the impression that he's little more than a servant, you introduce him here at the riding grounds, when we have a perfectly serviceable great hall for such things. And if you introduced him there, you could - well, I'm certain you could clothe him better, for one. Surely you must be able to provide him with some finer robes, of higher quality than that - it's serves for riding, I suppose, but it's much too plain for a court appearance, especially considering it's his first! And he and the riding master both could do without those plain little satchels at their sides; they didn't have them during the performance, did they? What a strange addition to their garb, just before they come to meet us!" Her lips curled up in a glittering semblance of a smile. "Or are they the latest high fashion in Athens?"
"Oh, nothing like that, Your Majesty." Amyntor spoke as mildly as if the queen had just commented on the pleasant weather. "They usually have those when working, to hold a few odds and ends - treats for the horses and such. And they had already started tending to their mounts when I went to escort them."
Philip shot him an inscrutable glance. "How very practical."
Amyntor responded with equanimity. "Indeed, Sire." He offered Olympias an amiable smile. "Far from any sign of disrespect, say, rather, that they forgot to take them off, overwhelmed by the honor of an audience with the royal family."
Olympias arched her brows at Amyntor's persistent calm. "Well, I suppose it wouldn't matter if you really were just introducing staff. But this is your son! Really, it's not proper this way!" she insisted. "Especially when he's all dusty and mussed up after a ride!"
Philip's gaze flashed knowingly. "Any other man would give a fortune to have his son sitting with us. Instead, you give him a horse in the arena."
Olympias frowned austerely. "Look, there's a smudge on his chiton."
"Even the horse, he had to win for himself," Philip grinned suddenly, "by jumping out of a speeding chariot!"
"He'll have a hard enough time here with his accent - he won't be able to string two words together without people knowing he's from Athens. And now you've gone and introduced him in this - this outlandish fashion!"
"You couldn't do this anywhere else, not Thebes, certainly not Athens as it is now . . ."
"In any case, at least, you're considered a friend of the king. You're not doing your son, or yourself, any justice!"
"What an entrance into court here at Pella!"
"This is hardly the way to make a good first impression!"
Alexander's parents often spoke thus, as if absolutely deaf to each other. But right now Alexander did not mind. In fact, he was barely listening, and for once he could not bring himself to agree with his mother, not in the slightest.
The great legends - most of all, his beloved Iliad - were full of fleet-footed champions and horse-taming heroes. Hephaestion had just proved himself worthy of such praise - the very words sung by Homer about Achilles, about Patroclus, about all those extraordinary, legendary men. Even now, Hephaestion's dark curls were ruffled by the wind and glinted in the sun; the flush of exertion had not yet faded from his cheeks, and in his eyes there remained a glimmer of that light, so intense, so alive, that Alexander had noticed earlier.
The accent, the satchel, and even the chiton with its faint smudge only added to the effect. In Alexander's view, this boy might as well have sprung directly from the verses of Homer.
When their parents had begun talking over their heads - specifically, when the queen had begun lecturing about court etiquette - Hephaestion's smile had disappeared. He had lowered his gaze, deferential but guarded, as if he had expected an unfavorable reception all along. Alexander almost started forward, though he had no idea what he might say or do; he wanted Hephaestion to look up again, to see that not everyone shared his mother's opinion.
Strangely enough, a moment later Hephaestion glanced up, incidentally meeting Alexander's gaze. Even more strangely, while he had not looked truly unnerved by the queen's rebuke, he appeared quite taken aback to find Alexander's gaze upon him.
It occurred to Alexander that any lingering surprise in his expression might look all too similar to his mother's disdainful shock. Quickly, he offered a friendly smile.
Hephaestion blinked, seeming uncertain what to make of it. But before either of them could say anything, Alexander's parents had reached another verbal draw, and Alexander's father stepped forward.
Philip had not yet decided whether it was laughable or disturbing that his wife had just said everything that his oldest, staunchest army veterans might say. Yet Amyntor's composure proved that he already knew Philip's own conclusions about the introduction.
If ever there was a court that welcomed skill of any kind - from any place in the world - it was Philip's court at Pella. No matter how his soldiers might grumble (though never in his hearing!), especially at his singular indulgence toward Athens, he felt that his creation of a place that welcomed all talent, regardless of the individuals' origins, was as worthy of pride as a victory in war.
Besides, apart from such serious concerns, what better way to be won over than entertainment! And now it was time to turn the joke on everyone else. He gave Amyntor a conspiratorial smirk.
"Well, little Amyntoros, you've hardly made a bad impression," he chuckled, pointedly ignoring his wife's sharp glare. "Come, Amyntor! Let's make it known just who this young horse-tamer is!"
* * * * *
"What?" bellowed Craterus. "He's the man's son?"
Throughout the arena, a rumble of incredulous shock echoed his sentiments. But its tone soon softened, fading to vague muttering. And before long, a fresh cheer broke forth.
Cleitus grinned, long since recovered from the surprise. "Well, at least if we ever get around to war with Athens, there's a chance our opponents won't all be mincing pansies."
"It's - it's just not done that way!" Craterus spluttered indignantly. "It's good to ride well, of course, but no self-respecting man of any standing would allow his children to muck about the stables all day, and he certainly wouldn't let an entire arena of people think his son is a mere groom!"
Nerachus shrugged. "We did sort of take it for granted that the lad was only a groom."
"We're not exactly to blame," protested Cassander. "When my father took me to meet the king, it was at a huge banquet. Everybody knew who I was before the first course was over."
Craterus let the comment pass, while Cleitus almost laughed, reminded of the countless starry-eyed sons introduced at such banquets, whose names never really left an impression even before the wine started passing around.
But Philotas chimed in too. "Same with me, only it was a state dinner!"
"Even I got a better introduction on my first visit," Harpalus remarked lightly.
"Exactly," Philotas added. "He might've been limping, but at least people knew who he was!"
Nicanor looked down from atop Perdiccas' shoulders with wide, innocent eyes. "But we do know who he is."
Cassander snorted. "Harpalus? Of course; you'd have to be really dim not to -"
"Not Harpalus," protested Nicanor. He pointed admiringly toward the royal box and said the name of Amyntor's son. Or rather, he made an earnest effort.
Cassander snorted, not only because Nicanor had stumbled over the foreign name - wondering, not for the first time, if a boy who was so easily awed could truly be his full-blooded brother.
But the others smiled, amused. "That's right - Hephaestion," Seleucus called up encouragingly, enunciating just a little.
Nicanor frowned anxiously at his mistake. But then Hector declared, "It's a strange name, isn't it?" and the others chuckled in agreement.
"It might be a family name," Perdiccas suggested.
"Or it could be based on Hephaestus, god of the forge," said Ptolemy. "But maybe something like Bellerophon would suit that boy better - and trip more easily from the tongue!"
"Bellerophon?" Hector asked.
"Athena gave him the golden bridle, to tame Pegasus!" Nicanor declared, glad of this chance to redeem himself.
"Oh! That would be very nice, wouldn't it?" Hector exclaimed. "He's from Athena's city. And he's got the perfect horse for the story, too!"
The others laughed at the little boys' enthusiasm, except for Cassander and Philotas, who shook their heads in disgust as only older brothers can.
And of course, Craterus still disapproved, severely. Cleitus cheerily elbowed him. "Come on. Any Athenian who's not just chattering all day is worth a second look, right?"
Craterus resolutely maintained his scowl. "It's just not proper!"
* * * * *
The crowd applauded everyone receiving a garland, but when Amyntor's son was beckoned forward and Philip himself set the wreath on the boy's head, they cheered the loudest of all.
Before the applause faded, Olympias spoke up, her voice suddenly soft. "Dear husband, I heard you made a wager with your friend - on a race, I believe?"
Philip's gaze flicked over to her. "So I did." He wondered which loose-lipped servant he should reassign this time. "But it was a passing thought; we haven't even set a day for it yet."
Olympias smiled indulgently. "Why don't you have the race right now? Here's an eager audience already warmed up, primed to see something truly magnificent. And what could be more magnificent in this arena than a contest featuring the fine stallions of their own King Philip!"
Philip raised an eyebrow. "It was a private wager. And," he turned pleasantly to Amyntor, "I wouldn't want to be accused of taking advantage, since your horses have already been running!"
Olympias' smile widened. "Why, aren't you underestimating your friend? And after you proclaimed his horses worthy of - which god did you say - Ares? Come now, obviously they've been bred for battle, and we all know battles last hours, even days. Surely the show was merely a hint of their true abilities. Isn't that so, Amyntor?"
Amyntor did not need the shrewdness he had honed in Athens to sense the queen's hostility. In any case, he knew better than to get dragged into a quarrel between husband and wife. (Especially husband and wife who happened to be royalty. Especially when that royal husband and royal wife happened to be Philip and Olympias.) He gave an absolutely neutral answer. "At your Majesties' pleasure."
But that was enough for Olympias. "Well, it's settled then!" Her voice assumed a hypnotic rhythm. "Your best, against the King's best."
That was the wager, word for word. Philip decided he should just reassign Olympias' entire staff.
Before anyone could get a word in edgewise, Olympias continued, shooting a glittering glance at Amyntor's son even as she spoke to the father. "Your son was quite the star of the show. I suppose he'll be the one riding for you, Amyntor?"
"Give the boy a rest!" Philip motioned for the servants to bring another chair. "He's more than earned a place up here with us - unless you'd really rather send him back out there, Amyntor."
Though he had spoken to Amyntor his stare remained on Olympias, his exasperation a clear sign of opposition to her wishes, whatever they were. Amyntor hesitated.
Between Philip and Olympias, no neutral answer was possible.
But before he could conjure a good excuse, Hephaestion turned to him. "Let me race, Father?" His low tone was edged with a certain urgency.
Amyntor's first instinct was to recommend Aristomedes instead. He had seen Olympias' steely gaze fixed on Hephaestion as Philip awarded him the wreath. Even abroad, she was notorious for her fierce pride in her son - the prince. Amyntor knew that Hephaestion would, by far, prefer another ride to sitting around the king and queen, being on tenterhooks about his every move, every word. No matter how well Amyntor had prepared him, he could hardly be expected to feel welcome, finding himself in the midst of their crossfire so soon after his introduction!
Hephaestion was watching him intently for his answer - and so were Philip and Olympias. Amyntor sighed. His son must get used to court sooner or later. Not to mention, his participation in the race seemed exactly what Olympias wanted ...
"I'll ride, too, Father!"
All eyes turned to Alexander.
"A race of the best, isn't it?" Alexander asked, smiling, determined. "So Hephaestion will ride the white stallion, and I'll ride Bucephalus!"
Amyntor watched as Hephaestion's initial surprise rapidly gave way to wariness. Amyntor felt slightly reassured - at least Hephaestion sensed that competing against royalty was no game.
But then, in his son's eyes there arose a spark of curiosity, too. Amyntor understood why, though he did not share the sentiment. Alexander seemed so ... eager ...
Olympias was as astounded as anyone at her son's declaration, but only because he seemed to have divined her thoughts. She had been planning to name him as Philip's rider. No other horse could possibly compare to his Bucephalus, just as no other person could ever compare with her Alexander. Seeing him now - so strong, so confident, so firmly holding his father's gaze - she felt a swell of pride. Already she believed - she knew - that he would triumph. Yes, her son would win, and the people's adoration would once again be solely his.
Philip's gaze was measuring, evaluating. But Alexander's bright confidence never wavered. Indeed, he smiled wider at his father, and was blithe enough then to turn that smile on Amyntor and his son.
Philip stood. "Euthymius! Bring out Bucephalus!"
* * * * *
King Philip strode to the center of the arena. In a booming voice, he announced that the day's events were not yet over, that there was to be a race. "Of the best!" he chortled, and the crowd was very pleased that the riders would be none other than Amyntor's son and their own beloved prince.
The arena itself was too small for a race. After consulting briefly with Euthymius, Philip proclaimed the course, from the center of the arena through the grounds outside. In the hilly land surrounding the stadium, there was a narrow pass about a stadion from the gate. Two clusters of trees stood across it, dividing it into three gaps. The ground of the gap in the middle sloped up sharply, but those on the sides were much lower, quite safe for riding.
Beyond that, after another three or four stadions, was a grove of almond trees. Whoever returned first with a branch from that grove would be the victor.
Bent as the course was, with the trees further obscuring the view, the audience could not watch the entire race. Still, they welcomed the idea of the almond branch as proof of the outcome - fitting as well as practical. As the first flowers to bud each spring, almond blossoms symbolized hope and new beginnings, and now the grove was sure to be in full bloom. The poets of stuffy old Athens could have chosen no better prize for these young competitors!
* * * * *
Aristomedes needed no sign to know that Amyntor wanted to speak with Hephaestion before the race. He was already on his way to retrieve Hephaestion's stallion. However, for once the reliability of his men brought Amyntor no comfort.
The gods could be cruel in their irony. He had prayed so often for these people's cheers to be awarded to his son. Yet now they provoked only apprehension.
Amyntor took his son aside.
"Hephaestion," he began.
Hephaestion simply waited, earnest, attentive. But Amyntor could not think of how he should continue. In a paltry few seconds, how could he ever explain the dangers of competing against royalty, of racing the king and queen's son, prince and most likely heir to the throne - of risking the displeasure of either Philip or Olympias? (Or, may all the gods forbid, the displeasure of both!)
Suddenly, Hephaestion smiled. Comprehension suffused his features. "I'll be careful, Father."
Amyntor paused. To his surprise, that look on his son's face was enough to ease his anxiety. Somewhat. With an effort, he reminded himself that it was not for nothing he had taken Hephaestion to Athens so often, that despite his frequent absences from home, he had taken all possible care to ensure his son's preparation for the future.
He shook his head wryly. "May Athene smile upon you," he murmured.
The sudden ovation caused both of them to turn. Walking side by side, Euthymius and Aristomedes were leading the horses in.
* * * * *
Alexander's stallion was truly magnificent. Spirit in every line of its body, power in every move. If Hephaestion had not known it already, he would have realized it with his first glance at Bucephalus: the race would not be easy to win.
Not that he was set on winning.
His father often said that the finest rhetoric could conceal the worst intentions, especially when used by those in power. So when the prince had volunteered to race, he naturally recalled his father's cautions about people of rank, how their status allowed them to break promises without fear of punishment - how deceptive and competitive a court full of such men could be. Yet, since his father was adamant that he should not follow his footsteps to work in one state for the interests of another, Hephaestion was to seek his fortune in just such a court.
However, despite many warnings about royalty, Hephaestion's father always spoke well of Alexander. If any of the stories were true, life in Macedon might be tolerable, but something in Hephaestion still rebelled against accepting it all. Alexander was a prince. He had every reason to be conceited and spoiled. Anyway, why should his father tell him anything bad about Alexander if his future depended so much on the prince's favor?
So Hephaestion had come to Pella, expecting nothing more than a chance to scout out this foreign city where he would have to start life anew, away from his family and Aristomedes - everyone he knew and loved. Already he was starting to resent the place. While trying to find out more about the palace grounds that morning, everybody he spoke to had immediately eyed him with disdain or derision, or even ignored him altogether. Indeed, Queen Olympias had hit the mark about certain things - like his accent. Euthymius, for all his gruffness, was the only one who had not judged him for it.
Thanks to the gods that his father had agreed so readily when he first asked to participate in the show! It was the only part of the visit he had looked forward to - and it was even more fun than he had imagined, for the audience truly liked the performance! Even in his highest hopes he had never dreamed of such an honor as the gift of the paean.
Of course, what followed was not so fun. Knowing how pivotal the introduction was, he was not very eager to meet the royal family. He wanted to make his parents proud, but at the same time, he could not help feeling unsettled whenever he was reminded that his future depended, most likely, on getting along with the prince. Though he was determined to fulfill his parents' hopes, he had not quite decided yet whether he wanted the prince's approval.
Not that it mattered. And victory in this race mattered just as little. Even if Alexander were to ride a three-legged pony, Hephaestion was quite willing just to make a decent show of effort and let the prince win.
But Alexander seemed to mean it, about racing.
Although Hephaestion had heard so much about the prince, the actual meeting still surprised him, somehow. He had been reluctant to believe in most of the stories, neat little anecdotes that made Alexander more like a child-hero from some epic legend than a living, breathing boy. He was even rumored to be the son of a god! And if he was truly so clever and talented, that just made it easier for him to be arrogant, even cruel. The succession of Macedonian kings almost depended on such traits.
Yet, standing there in the royal box, finally facing Alexander not five steps away, Hephaestion suddenly found himself understanding why Pella's citizens, from ordinary grooms to high-ranking soldiers, adored the prince so - speaking of him as of a young god: golden hair and luminous eyes, quick, intelligent, overflowing with energy, and poised beyond his years. It was not only appearances either, for Alexander had proved himself a "good horseman" - words of high praise indeed, when spoken by Aristomedes. He was good enough to tame the black stallion, which was already rumored to have divine heritage.
Hephaestion could believe it of the horse. And now, extraordinary though it was, he thought he could even believe such a thing of Alexander.
Still, what truly surprised him was something else entirely. His father had warned him about prejudice here against his Athenian heritage. But Hephaestion did not sense any of this in Alexander. Rather, among the royal family it was the prince who had returned his greeting first, with a smile that was all the more brilliant for how unguarded it was. While the king and queen made their separate remarks, the prince had only regarded him with what seemed a genuine friendliness.
And there was another indication of character, one that Aristomedes claimed to be more trustworthy than the judgment of most men: the reaction of a good horse.
Alexander had tamed Bucephalus.
Surely, if the prince could understand such a creature, he could not be cruel? If so spirited and wary a horse had gifted him with its trust, surely he could not be unfair, or unkind?
They were at the center of the arena now, where Aristomedes and Euthymius were holding their stallions.
Aristomedes handed the reins to Hephaestion with customary sternness. But then, he gave a small nod, a brief smile. Hephaestion let out a breath he had not known he was holding.
Reminding himself to relax, he instinctively began to watch Alexander's movements with his stallion. He noted how gentle the prince was, turning his steed toward the sun before springing lightly astride. Hephaestion suddenly felt a little ungainly as he mounted, like a bundle of overgrown limbs; his mother had already woven two new chitons for him this year.
However, soon he felt more at ease. While they rode to the starting point at the gate, the prince merely kept up his thoughtful attention to his horse. Even when the spectators' shouts rose sharply in anticipation, Alexander remained patient, stroking the creature's rough mane with surprising care.
Hephaestion smiled - not without a small sense of wonder. Some stories might be worth believing, after all.
As they drew near the gate, he remained respectfully silent, not wishing to disturb the prince and his stallion. He was surprised, therefore, when Alexander suddenly turned with a smile and extended his hand.
"It's a pleasure," he said simply, his eyes glowing even more warmly than his sunlit curls.
Hephaestion blinked. Alexander's smile was honest, open - he almost seemed merely another boy, just looking forward to a good race on a bright summer day.
He clasped Alexander's hand.
"The honor is mine."
The horns sounded; they were off.
* * * * *
Since before mounting Bucephalus, Alexander had been pondering what to say. He wanted to ask Hephaestion not to hold back out of respect for the prince of Macedon, but to compete in earnest. Not to let Alexander win, for there would be no repercussions for showing his true ability, not if Alexander had anything to do with it.
At the last moment, when he had offered his hand, Alexander finally managed to begin his speech, determined to make it absolutely clear that he was speaking quite seriously, that he truly wished for this to be a real competition.
But in the moment when the other had met his gaze, everything else was forgotten. "The honor is mine," Hephaestion had answered quietly, and that common platitude had been transformed by the solemn sincerity in his eyes, his voice - everything about him - into something inexplicably wonderful, something that made Alexander's heart soar.
He knew, then, that no more words were needed. Hephaestion was going to do nothing less than his best, precisely because he did respect Alexander.
And Alexander's hunch was right.
At the blast of the horns, together they shot forward from the gate. When they reached the narrow pass, they parted to race through the separate gaps on either side of the central slope. Closed off by the distance and the densely packed trees, for a few seconds Alexander lost all sight and sound of his opponent. He and Bucephalus cleared the pass at top speed; Hephaestion and the white stallion emerged several seconds later.
Yet, soon they were racing side by side again, the other horse right there by Bucephalus, only a stride or two behind, even managing at moments to close the gap so that they ran abreast.
As they dashed across the field, Alexander could sense it all - the sun's rays, the wind whipping his hair back, Bucephalus' hooves hammering the ground below - and his opponent close by, always. Everything was in motion, the tall grass shimmering as it flashed by beneath, the white clouds flowing with the currents above. The stallions' hoofbeats so fast, so close, rumbling across the earth like a roll of thunder.
However, Bucephalus was the more powerful of the two horses, and as they approached the almond grove the white stallion was no longer keeping up. Alexander felt it, even as he set his eyes on a small branch and reached. There was a vague stirring in his heart - and, oddly, it was not the elation of anticipated triumph.
But he had no time to dwell on it. With a neat snap, the branch came away in his hand and Bucephalus veered around the grove - and the other horse appeared again at the edge of his vision. Petals showered down, swept in whirling white cascades from the overhanging branches by the momentum of their ride. With Hephaestion's deft guidance, his steed turned sharply, nearly doubling straight back, darting through the narrow space between Bucephalus and the trees to take the lead. Alexander gasped, but all he could do was urge his stallion on; Bucephalus responded with a burst of speed that he had not thought possible.
Alexander was thrilled - even the sheer pleasure of riding Bucephalus without any escort, free to wander wherever he wished, could not match the joy of this!
* * * * *
Hephaestion knew where each horse's advantages lay: raw power in the prince's steed, dexterity and training in his own. Running a straight course, Bucephalus would definitely win. The turn around the almond grove was the only point at which he could gain any lead.
At the beginning, the small detour to go through those gaps in the narrow passage should also have given him a small advantage. But a thick branch had suddenly appeared as he turned the passage's sharp corner, too high to jump, but low, so low, and he was still astonished that his stallion had managed slip by underneath. At the time he did not even have the breath to cry out, just hunched down, fervently hoping that by some miracle the branch would get out of the way of his horse's head and neck. Thanks be to Athene that his stallion was not even half an inch taller!
Avoiding the accident raised his spirits almost as much as the ride itself. It was a close race, just as he had expected. Alexander's horse was bigger, with longer strides, but the course was far from done. Upon arriving at the almond grove Hephaestion concentrated on plucking down a branch, then threw a glance ahead through the shower of petals, automatically gauging the distance between the trees and the prince's veering stallion. Before he knew it, he had made the turn, dashing through the tight space. It was quite possibly the sharpest, neatest one of his life, and he felt a rush of exhilaration.
He pulled ahead then, but the prince quickly caught up. As they neared the passage on the way back, the stallions were galloping abreast, hurtling along at breakneck speed. Hephaestion wondered at the swiftness his horse was capable of, but there was no sign that he was pushing too hard - no frothing at the mouth, no undue tension in the muscles. It almost seemed as if his stallion was just rising to the other's challenge. He smiled.
The next moment he gasped; they were approaching the narrow passage again, and the prince was heading right for the gap on the left, the one with the branch. It was a wonder Hephaestion's own horse had made it through. There was no way Bucephalus, at least two hands taller, could avoid the branch - not even by jumping, as it was too high for that.
Hephaestion shouted a warning, but the prince did not hear, concentrating so intently on the race. Zeus above! In a few moments Alexander would turn that corner in the passage and the horse would be hurt badly, and Alexander himself would have a broken rib or a concussion, or worse - !
There was no time for thought. Hephaestion urged his horse forward, cutting across the prince's path, eliciting a scream of angry protest from the black stallion. However, it accomplished his purpose, for Bucephalus did turn aside - but toward the gap in the middle, where the ground sloped up. Hephaestion's own momentum made it impossible for him to turn toward the gap on the right, the only safe one, but the prince could still head for it. Yet he showed no sign of changing direction. Hephaestion wanted to yell another warning; the ground was so much more level in that passage on the right, and surely the prince could see that it was safer! But the prince and his stallion were already bounding through. Air rushed cold and sharp into Hephaestion's lungs and he could only squeeze his eyes shut and cling on desperately as they crashed through behind, a breath away from colliding into the black stallion's hooves.
* * * * *
An uneasy murmur coursed through the arena, but it was nothing compared to the alarm of the young riders' parents. Amyntor sprang to his feet; the Queen cried out, eyes blazing. Even Philip, their battle-hardened King, surged up from his seat, gripping the handles of his chair so hard that the veins stood out on his arms and hands.
* * * * *
A moment later, Hephaestion dared open his eyes again. The jump was behind him. And before him - no fallen steed or injured royalty, just the prince and his stallion dashing onward toward the arena. Thankfully, too, his own horse seemed unhurt.
Relief hit like a hammer, forcing the thought from him in a breathless shout. "You - you're inSANE!"
* * * * *
Hearing the startled cry behind him, Alexander felt a little surge of indignation. For whatever reason Hephaestion had suddenly blocked his path, forcing Bucephalus in a different direction. That was enough of a distraction, though Alexander was certain Hephaestion had a reason for it. And now, this!
However, the goal of the moment was victory - only a few seconds more, and he would win this race, the closest competition of his life.
With an exultant cheer, Alexander urged Bucephalus in the gate and onward toward the royal box.
* * * * *
The cause was not clear, but the crowd could guess what had happened - the prince was approaching the passage, when Amyntor's son had suddenly wheeled in front of him, forcing him to go through the most dangerous gap of all, the one where the ground sloped up sharply, forming a high, long obstacle.
Even without any hurdles, cutting into another horse's path at such a moment was reckless, dangerous.
But Hephaestion had done it. So Amyntor believed there was a reason, a good one.
He just hoped his son would have an opportunity to explain himself. By the look of things, however, there would be little chance of that. At the Queen's shriek, the guards closest to the royal pavilion swarmed forward. She herself was rushing down from the royal box as the prince galloped in, grasping him tightly as soon as he dismounted, while the guards continued past her, toward Hephaestion.
Amyntor's jaw tightened. He matched the king stride for stride as Philip, too, stalked onto the riding ground.
* * * * *
When he let his horse stop at the center of the arena a few seconds after the prince had crossed it, Hephaestion still felt shaken, and it was no longer because of the near-accident. A chill ran through him as he saw the grim alarm on his father's face.
It was so close to disappointment.
Hephaestion's heart sank. Had he not promised his father just before the race that he would be careful, and not just in riding? And now look what he had done - made a foolhardy, dangerous move, risked tripping up his horse mid-gallop over a high, long jump, and at the end of it all when the danger itself was already past, he had called the prince crazy. The prince!
To his chagrin, he found it impossible to quell the tiny part of him that insisted on the truth of it. True or not, it was definitely, absolutely, most assuredly not a clever thing to say.
He had hardly dismounted when a shadow loomed over him - a tall, broad-shouldered young officer, followed by a pack of other soldiers. They quickly surrounded him. His eyes widened; beside him his stallion snorted, loathe to stay still in the hostile press of men.
The tall officer stepped closer and sneered, ripping the almond branch from Hephaestion's hand. Hephaestion hardly noticed; he had forgotten he was holding it. "Don't play innocent, little whelp!" the officer growled, advancing another step, crushing the blossoms underfoot. "I saw what you did out there! Not only trying to cheat, but endangering the prince's life to do so! Did you think you could actually get away with it, son of Amyntor?"
The accusations hit him almost like physical blows. Such charges, however untrue, leveled against him, against his father's house! He should never have tried that stunt.
Yet he knew that if he were to go through it all over again he would do the same, no matter how incriminating it appeared, because it had all been instinct - not a shred of logic in the whole thing. He was even more mortified to feel heat rising to his cheeks, not only from a sense of the unfairness of it all, but from a sense of disgrace. His father would not believe him capable of it, but obviously the rest of the people here thought he had resorted to outright sabotage just to win a stupid race. And he had promised his father to be careful, promised to make him proud at the court of Pella!
Well, he had to say something in his own defense. "There was a branch - " he began, but the officer bawled an order, drowning out his voice.
"Seize him!"
last revised 12 September 2006
Rating: FRT/PG/K+
Credits: Thanks again to
suesfan for her patient, thoughtful beta work! Remaining glitches are mine.
Author's Note: A stadion is about 600 feet, or around 160 meters.
I realize now it takes me minor eras to revise and update - sorry! The story continues right where Ch.2 ended, a moment after Amyntor revealed, "This is my son. Hephaestion."
Chapter 3: The Best
The noise of the crowd continued, jovial and rowdy all around the field; the pennants above kept snapping pleasantly in the breeze, vivid splashes of color against a backdrop of golden-white clouds and summer-blue sky.
Yet, for the moment, all this had faded out of focus. The rest of the arena was relegated to mere background, awash in a sunlit haze, while the clamor of the audience was only a distant drone in Alexander's ears. Here inside the royal box, there was only mute, astonished stillness, like the effect of some sudden enchantment.
The boy shifted a little, trying to stand even straighter than before. "Joy to you, Your Majesties," he said brightly, breaking the spell of silence. "And . . . joy to you, Prince Alexander."
When the royal family just kept staring at him, he glanced up hesitantly at his father. Amyntor gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
It took several more seconds, but Alexander was the first to recover. "Joy to you, Hephaestion," he said, feeling slightly breathless, hoping his voice sounded much firmer than it felt - and unexpectedly pleased, when Hephaestion darted him a small, fleeting smile in return.
It was just one surprise after another today!
Philip started laughing. "Zeus' thunderbolts, Amyntor! You've got the entire arena believing your son's a commoner! I've seen hopeful fathers in droves, introducing their sons at banquets, at festivals, even during the lulls in state assemblies, and to hear them talk you'd think their sons were little demigods. I say, this is the first time anyone has allowed me to mistake his son for a member of the staff!" He shook his head incredulously. "Why didn't you just introduce him in court the usual way?"
Amyntor smiled. "It was late when we arrived. And we were otherwise occupied this morning."
"Never mind the formal introduction!" Philip exclaimed. "What about riding with the rest of your men? The show was obviously planned around his participation in it, no matter when you'd bring him to an official audience with us."
Olympias' astonishment had quickly turned into irritation, and now she tilted her chin up contemptuously. Philip actually seemed to think this amusing! Well, it was no surprise that this foreigner thought he could play insolent pranks, taking them all for uncouth boors, but he was dreadfully mistaken. The Macedonian court could conduct itself with manners and propriety as much as any old city-state, and whatever her own grievances against Philip, Olympias would not stand idly by while anyone made a fool of her husband, the King.
"Your son shouldn't be taking part in the show at all," she admonished, but that was just the start. "As my husband just said, you've got all the important people thinking he's a mere groom. And what else could they think?" Her words quickened, gaining momentum. "You not only give the impression that he's little more than a servant, you introduce him here at the riding grounds, when we have a perfectly serviceable great hall for such things. And if you introduced him there, you could - well, I'm certain you could clothe him better, for one. Surely you must be able to provide him with some finer robes, of higher quality than that - it's serves for riding, I suppose, but it's much too plain for a court appearance, especially considering it's his first! And he and the riding master both could do without those plain little satchels at their sides; they didn't have them during the performance, did they? What a strange addition to their garb, just before they come to meet us!" Her lips curled up in a glittering semblance of a smile. "Or are they the latest high fashion in Athens?"
"Oh, nothing like that, Your Majesty." Amyntor spoke as mildly as if the queen had just commented on the pleasant weather. "They usually have those when working, to hold a few odds and ends - treats for the horses and such. And they had already started tending to their mounts when I went to escort them."
Philip shot him an inscrutable glance. "How very practical."
Amyntor responded with equanimity. "Indeed, Sire." He offered Olympias an amiable smile. "Far from any sign of disrespect, say, rather, that they forgot to take them off, overwhelmed by the honor of an audience with the royal family."
Olympias arched her brows at Amyntor's persistent calm. "Well, I suppose it wouldn't matter if you really were just introducing staff. But this is your son! Really, it's not proper this way!" she insisted. "Especially when he's all dusty and mussed up after a ride!"
Philip's gaze flashed knowingly. "Any other man would give a fortune to have his son sitting with us. Instead, you give him a horse in the arena."
Olympias frowned austerely. "Look, there's a smudge on his chiton."
"Even the horse, he had to win for himself," Philip grinned suddenly, "by jumping out of a speeding chariot!"
"He'll have a hard enough time here with his accent - he won't be able to string two words together without people knowing he's from Athens. And now you've gone and introduced him in this - this outlandish fashion!"
"You couldn't do this anywhere else, not Thebes, certainly not Athens as it is now . . ."
"In any case, at least, you're considered a friend of the king. You're not doing your son, or yourself, any justice!"
"What an entrance into court here at Pella!"
"This is hardly the way to make a good first impression!"
Alexander's parents often spoke thus, as if absolutely deaf to each other. But right now Alexander did not mind. In fact, he was barely listening, and for once he could not bring himself to agree with his mother, not in the slightest.
The great legends - most of all, his beloved Iliad - were full of fleet-footed champions and horse-taming heroes. Hephaestion had just proved himself worthy of such praise - the very words sung by Homer about Achilles, about Patroclus, about all those extraordinary, legendary men. Even now, Hephaestion's dark curls were ruffled by the wind and glinted in the sun; the flush of exertion had not yet faded from his cheeks, and in his eyes there remained a glimmer of that light, so intense, so alive, that Alexander had noticed earlier.
The accent, the satchel, and even the chiton with its faint smudge only added to the effect. In Alexander's view, this boy might as well have sprung directly from the verses of Homer.
When their parents had begun talking over their heads - specifically, when the queen had begun lecturing about court etiquette - Hephaestion's smile had disappeared. He had lowered his gaze, deferential but guarded, as if he had expected an unfavorable reception all along. Alexander almost started forward, though he had no idea what he might say or do; he wanted Hephaestion to look up again, to see that not everyone shared his mother's opinion.
Strangely enough, a moment later Hephaestion glanced up, incidentally meeting Alexander's gaze. Even more strangely, while he had not looked truly unnerved by the queen's rebuke, he appeared quite taken aback to find Alexander's gaze upon him.
It occurred to Alexander that any lingering surprise in his expression might look all too similar to his mother's disdainful shock. Quickly, he offered a friendly smile.
Hephaestion blinked, seeming uncertain what to make of it. But before either of them could say anything, Alexander's parents had reached another verbal draw, and Alexander's father stepped forward.
Philip had not yet decided whether it was laughable or disturbing that his wife had just said everything that his oldest, staunchest army veterans might say. Yet Amyntor's composure proved that he already knew Philip's own conclusions about the introduction.
If ever there was a court that welcomed skill of any kind - from any place in the world - it was Philip's court at Pella. No matter how his soldiers might grumble (though never in his hearing!), especially at his singular indulgence toward Athens, he felt that his creation of a place that welcomed all talent, regardless of the individuals' origins, was as worthy of pride as a victory in war.
Besides, apart from such serious concerns, what better way to be won over than entertainment! And now it was time to turn the joke on everyone else. He gave Amyntor a conspiratorial smirk.
"Well, little Amyntoros, you've hardly made a bad impression," he chuckled, pointedly ignoring his wife's sharp glare. "Come, Amyntor! Let's make it known just who this young horse-tamer is!"
* * * * *
"What?" bellowed Craterus. "He's the man's son?"
Throughout the arena, a rumble of incredulous shock echoed his sentiments. But its tone soon softened, fading to vague muttering. And before long, a fresh cheer broke forth.
Cleitus grinned, long since recovered from the surprise. "Well, at least if we ever get around to war with Athens, there's a chance our opponents won't all be mincing pansies."
"It's - it's just not done that way!" Craterus spluttered indignantly. "It's good to ride well, of course, but no self-respecting man of any standing would allow his children to muck about the stables all day, and he certainly wouldn't let an entire arena of people think his son is a mere groom!"
Nerachus shrugged. "We did sort of take it for granted that the lad was only a groom."
"We're not exactly to blame," protested Cassander. "When my father took me to meet the king, it was at a huge banquet. Everybody knew who I was before the first course was over."
Craterus let the comment pass, while Cleitus almost laughed, reminded of the countless starry-eyed sons introduced at such banquets, whose names never really left an impression even before the wine started passing around.
But Philotas chimed in too. "Same with me, only it was a state dinner!"
"Even I got a better introduction on my first visit," Harpalus remarked lightly.
"Exactly," Philotas added. "He might've been limping, but at least people knew who he was!"
Nicanor looked down from atop Perdiccas' shoulders with wide, innocent eyes. "But we do know who he is."
Cassander snorted. "Harpalus? Of course; you'd have to be really dim not to -"
"Not Harpalus," protested Nicanor. He pointed admiringly toward the royal box and said the name of Amyntor's son. Or rather, he made an earnest effort.
Cassander snorted, not only because Nicanor had stumbled over the foreign name - wondering, not for the first time, if a boy who was so easily awed could truly be his full-blooded brother.
But the others smiled, amused. "That's right - Hephaestion," Seleucus called up encouragingly, enunciating just a little.
Nicanor frowned anxiously at his mistake. But then Hector declared, "It's a strange name, isn't it?" and the others chuckled in agreement.
"It might be a family name," Perdiccas suggested.
"Or it could be based on Hephaestus, god of the forge," said Ptolemy. "But maybe something like Bellerophon would suit that boy better - and trip more easily from the tongue!"
"Bellerophon?" Hector asked.
"Athena gave him the golden bridle, to tame Pegasus!" Nicanor declared, glad of this chance to redeem himself.
"Oh! That would be very nice, wouldn't it?" Hector exclaimed. "He's from Athena's city. And he's got the perfect horse for the story, too!"
The others laughed at the little boys' enthusiasm, except for Cassander and Philotas, who shook their heads in disgust as only older brothers can.
And of course, Craterus still disapproved, severely. Cleitus cheerily elbowed him. "Come on. Any Athenian who's not just chattering all day is worth a second look, right?"
Craterus resolutely maintained his scowl. "It's just not proper!"
* * * * *
The crowd applauded everyone receiving a garland, but when Amyntor's son was beckoned forward and Philip himself set the wreath on the boy's head, they cheered the loudest of all.
Before the applause faded, Olympias spoke up, her voice suddenly soft. "Dear husband, I heard you made a wager with your friend - on a race, I believe?"
Philip's gaze flicked over to her. "So I did." He wondered which loose-lipped servant he should reassign this time. "But it was a passing thought; we haven't even set a day for it yet."
Olympias smiled indulgently. "Why don't you have the race right now? Here's an eager audience already warmed up, primed to see something truly magnificent. And what could be more magnificent in this arena than a contest featuring the fine stallions of their own King Philip!"
Philip raised an eyebrow. "It was a private wager. And," he turned pleasantly to Amyntor, "I wouldn't want to be accused of taking advantage, since your horses have already been running!"
Olympias' smile widened. "Why, aren't you underestimating your friend? And after you proclaimed his horses worthy of - which god did you say - Ares? Come now, obviously they've been bred for battle, and we all know battles last hours, even days. Surely the show was merely a hint of their true abilities. Isn't that so, Amyntor?"
Amyntor did not need the shrewdness he had honed in Athens to sense the queen's hostility. In any case, he knew better than to get dragged into a quarrel between husband and wife. (Especially husband and wife who happened to be royalty. Especially when that royal husband and royal wife happened to be Philip and Olympias.) He gave an absolutely neutral answer. "At your Majesties' pleasure."
But that was enough for Olympias. "Well, it's settled then!" Her voice assumed a hypnotic rhythm. "Your best, against the King's best."
That was the wager, word for word. Philip decided he should just reassign Olympias' entire staff.
Before anyone could get a word in edgewise, Olympias continued, shooting a glittering glance at Amyntor's son even as she spoke to the father. "Your son was quite the star of the show. I suppose he'll be the one riding for you, Amyntor?"
"Give the boy a rest!" Philip motioned for the servants to bring another chair. "He's more than earned a place up here with us - unless you'd really rather send him back out there, Amyntor."
Though he had spoken to Amyntor his stare remained on Olympias, his exasperation a clear sign of opposition to her wishes, whatever they were. Amyntor hesitated.
Between Philip and Olympias, no neutral answer was possible.
But before he could conjure a good excuse, Hephaestion turned to him. "Let me race, Father?" His low tone was edged with a certain urgency.
Amyntor's first instinct was to recommend Aristomedes instead. He had seen Olympias' steely gaze fixed on Hephaestion as Philip awarded him the wreath. Even abroad, she was notorious for her fierce pride in her son - the prince. Amyntor knew that Hephaestion would, by far, prefer another ride to sitting around the king and queen, being on tenterhooks about his every move, every word. No matter how well Amyntor had prepared him, he could hardly be expected to feel welcome, finding himself in the midst of their crossfire so soon after his introduction!
Hephaestion was watching him intently for his answer - and so were Philip and Olympias. Amyntor sighed. His son must get used to court sooner or later. Not to mention, his participation in the race seemed exactly what Olympias wanted ...
"I'll ride, too, Father!"
All eyes turned to Alexander.
"A race of the best, isn't it?" Alexander asked, smiling, determined. "So Hephaestion will ride the white stallion, and I'll ride Bucephalus!"
Amyntor watched as Hephaestion's initial surprise rapidly gave way to wariness. Amyntor felt slightly reassured - at least Hephaestion sensed that competing against royalty was no game.
But then, in his son's eyes there arose a spark of curiosity, too. Amyntor understood why, though he did not share the sentiment. Alexander seemed so ... eager ...
Olympias was as astounded as anyone at her son's declaration, but only because he seemed to have divined her thoughts. She had been planning to name him as Philip's rider. No other horse could possibly compare to his Bucephalus, just as no other person could ever compare with her Alexander. Seeing him now - so strong, so confident, so firmly holding his father's gaze - she felt a swell of pride. Already she believed - she knew - that he would triumph. Yes, her son would win, and the people's adoration would once again be solely his.
Philip's gaze was measuring, evaluating. But Alexander's bright confidence never wavered. Indeed, he smiled wider at his father, and was blithe enough then to turn that smile on Amyntor and his son.
Philip stood. "Euthymius! Bring out Bucephalus!"
* * * * *
King Philip strode to the center of the arena. In a booming voice, he announced that the day's events were not yet over, that there was to be a race. "Of the best!" he chortled, and the crowd was very pleased that the riders would be none other than Amyntor's son and their own beloved prince.
The arena itself was too small for a race. After consulting briefly with Euthymius, Philip proclaimed the course, from the center of the arena through the grounds outside. In the hilly land surrounding the stadium, there was a narrow pass about a stadion from the gate. Two clusters of trees stood across it, dividing it into three gaps. The ground of the gap in the middle sloped up sharply, but those on the sides were much lower, quite safe for riding.
Beyond that, after another three or four stadions, was a grove of almond trees. Whoever returned first with a branch from that grove would be the victor.
Bent as the course was, with the trees further obscuring the view, the audience could not watch the entire race. Still, they welcomed the idea of the almond branch as proof of the outcome - fitting as well as practical. As the first flowers to bud each spring, almond blossoms symbolized hope and new beginnings, and now the grove was sure to be in full bloom. The poets of stuffy old Athens could have chosen no better prize for these young competitors!
* * * * *
Aristomedes needed no sign to know that Amyntor wanted to speak with Hephaestion before the race. He was already on his way to retrieve Hephaestion's stallion. However, for once the reliability of his men brought Amyntor no comfort.
The gods could be cruel in their irony. He had prayed so often for these people's cheers to be awarded to his son. Yet now they provoked only apprehension.
Amyntor took his son aside.
"Hephaestion," he began.
Hephaestion simply waited, earnest, attentive. But Amyntor could not think of how he should continue. In a paltry few seconds, how could he ever explain the dangers of competing against royalty, of racing the king and queen's son, prince and most likely heir to the throne - of risking the displeasure of either Philip or Olympias? (Or, may all the gods forbid, the displeasure of both!)
Suddenly, Hephaestion smiled. Comprehension suffused his features. "I'll be careful, Father."
Amyntor paused. To his surprise, that look on his son's face was enough to ease his anxiety. Somewhat. With an effort, he reminded himself that it was not for nothing he had taken Hephaestion to Athens so often, that despite his frequent absences from home, he had taken all possible care to ensure his son's preparation for the future.
He shook his head wryly. "May Athene smile upon you," he murmured.
The sudden ovation caused both of them to turn. Walking side by side, Euthymius and Aristomedes were leading the horses in.
* * * * *
Alexander's stallion was truly magnificent. Spirit in every line of its body, power in every move. If Hephaestion had not known it already, he would have realized it with his first glance at Bucephalus: the race would not be easy to win.
Not that he was set on winning.
His father often said that the finest rhetoric could conceal the worst intentions, especially when used by those in power. So when the prince had volunteered to race, he naturally recalled his father's cautions about people of rank, how their status allowed them to break promises without fear of punishment - how deceptive and competitive a court full of such men could be. Yet, since his father was adamant that he should not follow his footsteps to work in one state for the interests of another, Hephaestion was to seek his fortune in just such a court.
However, despite many warnings about royalty, Hephaestion's father always spoke well of Alexander. If any of the stories were true, life in Macedon might be tolerable, but something in Hephaestion still rebelled against accepting it all. Alexander was a prince. He had every reason to be conceited and spoiled. Anyway, why should his father tell him anything bad about Alexander if his future depended so much on the prince's favor?
So Hephaestion had come to Pella, expecting nothing more than a chance to scout out this foreign city where he would have to start life anew, away from his family and Aristomedes - everyone he knew and loved. Already he was starting to resent the place. While trying to find out more about the palace grounds that morning, everybody he spoke to had immediately eyed him with disdain or derision, or even ignored him altogether. Indeed, Queen Olympias had hit the mark about certain things - like his accent. Euthymius, for all his gruffness, was the only one who had not judged him for it.
Thanks to the gods that his father had agreed so readily when he first asked to participate in the show! It was the only part of the visit he had looked forward to - and it was even more fun than he had imagined, for the audience truly liked the performance! Even in his highest hopes he had never dreamed of such an honor as the gift of the paean.
Of course, what followed was not so fun. Knowing how pivotal the introduction was, he was not very eager to meet the royal family. He wanted to make his parents proud, but at the same time, he could not help feeling unsettled whenever he was reminded that his future depended, most likely, on getting along with the prince. Though he was determined to fulfill his parents' hopes, he had not quite decided yet whether he wanted the prince's approval.
Not that it mattered. And victory in this race mattered just as little. Even if Alexander were to ride a three-legged pony, Hephaestion was quite willing just to make a decent show of effort and let the prince win.
But Alexander seemed to mean it, about racing.
Although Hephaestion had heard so much about the prince, the actual meeting still surprised him, somehow. He had been reluctant to believe in most of the stories, neat little anecdotes that made Alexander more like a child-hero from some epic legend than a living, breathing boy. He was even rumored to be the son of a god! And if he was truly so clever and talented, that just made it easier for him to be arrogant, even cruel. The succession of Macedonian kings almost depended on such traits.
Yet, standing there in the royal box, finally facing Alexander not five steps away, Hephaestion suddenly found himself understanding why Pella's citizens, from ordinary grooms to high-ranking soldiers, adored the prince so - speaking of him as of a young god: golden hair and luminous eyes, quick, intelligent, overflowing with energy, and poised beyond his years. It was not only appearances either, for Alexander had proved himself a "good horseman" - words of high praise indeed, when spoken by Aristomedes. He was good enough to tame the black stallion, which was already rumored to have divine heritage.
Hephaestion could believe it of the horse. And now, extraordinary though it was, he thought he could even believe such a thing of Alexander.
Still, what truly surprised him was something else entirely. His father had warned him about prejudice here against his Athenian heritage. But Hephaestion did not sense any of this in Alexander. Rather, among the royal family it was the prince who had returned his greeting first, with a smile that was all the more brilliant for how unguarded it was. While the king and queen made their separate remarks, the prince had only regarded him with what seemed a genuine friendliness.
And there was another indication of character, one that Aristomedes claimed to be more trustworthy than the judgment of most men: the reaction of a good horse.
Alexander had tamed Bucephalus.
Surely, if the prince could understand such a creature, he could not be cruel? If so spirited and wary a horse had gifted him with its trust, surely he could not be unfair, or unkind?
They were at the center of the arena now, where Aristomedes and Euthymius were holding their stallions.
Aristomedes handed the reins to Hephaestion with customary sternness. But then, he gave a small nod, a brief smile. Hephaestion let out a breath he had not known he was holding.
Reminding himself to relax, he instinctively began to watch Alexander's movements with his stallion. He noted how gentle the prince was, turning his steed toward the sun before springing lightly astride. Hephaestion suddenly felt a little ungainly as he mounted, like a bundle of overgrown limbs; his mother had already woven two new chitons for him this year.
However, soon he felt more at ease. While they rode to the starting point at the gate, the prince merely kept up his thoughtful attention to his horse. Even when the spectators' shouts rose sharply in anticipation, Alexander remained patient, stroking the creature's rough mane with surprising care.
Hephaestion smiled - not without a small sense of wonder. Some stories might be worth believing, after all.
As they drew near the gate, he remained respectfully silent, not wishing to disturb the prince and his stallion. He was surprised, therefore, when Alexander suddenly turned with a smile and extended his hand.
"It's a pleasure," he said simply, his eyes glowing even more warmly than his sunlit curls.
Hephaestion blinked. Alexander's smile was honest, open - he almost seemed merely another boy, just looking forward to a good race on a bright summer day.
He clasped Alexander's hand.
"The honor is mine."
The horns sounded; they were off.
* * * * *
Since before mounting Bucephalus, Alexander had been pondering what to say. He wanted to ask Hephaestion not to hold back out of respect for the prince of Macedon, but to compete in earnest. Not to let Alexander win, for there would be no repercussions for showing his true ability, not if Alexander had anything to do with it.
At the last moment, when he had offered his hand, Alexander finally managed to begin his speech, determined to make it absolutely clear that he was speaking quite seriously, that he truly wished for this to be a real competition.
But in the moment when the other had met his gaze, everything else was forgotten. "The honor is mine," Hephaestion had answered quietly, and that common platitude had been transformed by the solemn sincerity in his eyes, his voice - everything about him - into something inexplicably wonderful, something that made Alexander's heart soar.
He knew, then, that no more words were needed. Hephaestion was going to do nothing less than his best, precisely because he did respect Alexander.
And Alexander's hunch was right.
At the blast of the horns, together they shot forward from the gate. When they reached the narrow pass, they parted to race through the separate gaps on either side of the central slope. Closed off by the distance and the densely packed trees, for a few seconds Alexander lost all sight and sound of his opponent. He and Bucephalus cleared the pass at top speed; Hephaestion and the white stallion emerged several seconds later.
Yet, soon they were racing side by side again, the other horse right there by Bucephalus, only a stride or two behind, even managing at moments to close the gap so that they ran abreast.
As they dashed across the field, Alexander could sense it all - the sun's rays, the wind whipping his hair back, Bucephalus' hooves hammering the ground below - and his opponent close by, always. Everything was in motion, the tall grass shimmering as it flashed by beneath, the white clouds flowing with the currents above. The stallions' hoofbeats so fast, so close, rumbling across the earth like a roll of thunder.
However, Bucephalus was the more powerful of the two horses, and as they approached the almond grove the white stallion was no longer keeping up. Alexander felt it, even as he set his eyes on a small branch and reached. There was a vague stirring in his heart - and, oddly, it was not the elation of anticipated triumph.
But he had no time to dwell on it. With a neat snap, the branch came away in his hand and Bucephalus veered around the grove - and the other horse appeared again at the edge of his vision. Petals showered down, swept in whirling white cascades from the overhanging branches by the momentum of their ride. With Hephaestion's deft guidance, his steed turned sharply, nearly doubling straight back, darting through the narrow space between Bucephalus and the trees to take the lead. Alexander gasped, but all he could do was urge his stallion on; Bucephalus responded with a burst of speed that he had not thought possible.
Alexander was thrilled - even the sheer pleasure of riding Bucephalus without any escort, free to wander wherever he wished, could not match the joy of this!
* * * * *
Hephaestion knew where each horse's advantages lay: raw power in the prince's steed, dexterity and training in his own. Running a straight course, Bucephalus would definitely win. The turn around the almond grove was the only point at which he could gain any lead.
At the beginning, the small detour to go through those gaps in the narrow passage should also have given him a small advantage. But a thick branch had suddenly appeared as he turned the passage's sharp corner, too high to jump, but low, so low, and he was still astonished that his stallion had managed slip by underneath. At the time he did not even have the breath to cry out, just hunched down, fervently hoping that by some miracle the branch would get out of the way of his horse's head and neck. Thanks be to Athene that his stallion was not even half an inch taller!
Avoiding the accident raised his spirits almost as much as the ride itself. It was a close race, just as he had expected. Alexander's horse was bigger, with longer strides, but the course was far from done. Upon arriving at the almond grove Hephaestion concentrated on plucking down a branch, then threw a glance ahead through the shower of petals, automatically gauging the distance between the trees and the prince's veering stallion. Before he knew it, he had made the turn, dashing through the tight space. It was quite possibly the sharpest, neatest one of his life, and he felt a rush of exhilaration.
He pulled ahead then, but the prince quickly caught up. As they neared the passage on the way back, the stallions were galloping abreast, hurtling along at breakneck speed. Hephaestion wondered at the swiftness his horse was capable of, but there was no sign that he was pushing too hard - no frothing at the mouth, no undue tension in the muscles. It almost seemed as if his stallion was just rising to the other's challenge. He smiled.
The next moment he gasped; they were approaching the narrow passage again, and the prince was heading right for the gap on the left, the one with the branch. It was a wonder Hephaestion's own horse had made it through. There was no way Bucephalus, at least two hands taller, could avoid the branch - not even by jumping, as it was too high for that.
Hephaestion shouted a warning, but the prince did not hear, concentrating so intently on the race. Zeus above! In a few moments Alexander would turn that corner in the passage and the horse would be hurt badly, and Alexander himself would have a broken rib or a concussion, or worse - !
There was no time for thought. Hephaestion urged his horse forward, cutting across the prince's path, eliciting a scream of angry protest from the black stallion. However, it accomplished his purpose, for Bucephalus did turn aside - but toward the gap in the middle, where the ground sloped up. Hephaestion's own momentum made it impossible for him to turn toward the gap on the right, the only safe one, but the prince could still head for it. Yet he showed no sign of changing direction. Hephaestion wanted to yell another warning; the ground was so much more level in that passage on the right, and surely the prince could see that it was safer! But the prince and his stallion were already bounding through. Air rushed cold and sharp into Hephaestion's lungs and he could only squeeze his eyes shut and cling on desperately as they crashed through behind, a breath away from colliding into the black stallion's hooves.
* * * * *
An uneasy murmur coursed through the arena, but it was nothing compared to the alarm of the young riders' parents. Amyntor sprang to his feet; the Queen cried out, eyes blazing. Even Philip, their battle-hardened King, surged up from his seat, gripping the handles of his chair so hard that the veins stood out on his arms and hands.
* * * * *
A moment later, Hephaestion dared open his eyes again. The jump was behind him. And before him - no fallen steed or injured royalty, just the prince and his stallion dashing onward toward the arena. Thankfully, too, his own horse seemed unhurt.
Relief hit like a hammer, forcing the thought from him in a breathless shout. "You - you're inSANE!"
* * * * *
Hearing the startled cry behind him, Alexander felt a little surge of indignation. For whatever reason Hephaestion had suddenly blocked his path, forcing Bucephalus in a different direction. That was enough of a distraction, though Alexander was certain Hephaestion had a reason for it. And now, this!
However, the goal of the moment was victory - only a few seconds more, and he would win this race, the closest competition of his life.
With an exultant cheer, Alexander urged Bucephalus in the gate and onward toward the royal box.
* * * * *
The cause was not clear, but the crowd could guess what had happened - the prince was approaching the passage, when Amyntor's son had suddenly wheeled in front of him, forcing him to go through the most dangerous gap of all, the one where the ground sloped up sharply, forming a high, long obstacle.
Even without any hurdles, cutting into another horse's path at such a moment was reckless, dangerous.
But Hephaestion had done it. So Amyntor believed there was a reason, a good one.
He just hoped his son would have an opportunity to explain himself. By the look of things, however, there would be little chance of that. At the Queen's shriek, the guards closest to the royal pavilion swarmed forward. She herself was rushing down from the royal box as the prince galloped in, grasping him tightly as soon as he dismounted, while the guards continued past her, toward Hephaestion.
Amyntor's jaw tightened. He matched the king stride for stride as Philip, too, stalked onto the riding ground.
* * * * *
When he let his horse stop at the center of the arena a few seconds after the prince had crossed it, Hephaestion still felt shaken, and it was no longer because of the near-accident. A chill ran through him as he saw the grim alarm on his father's face.
It was so close to disappointment.
Hephaestion's heart sank. Had he not promised his father just before the race that he would be careful, and not just in riding? And now look what he had done - made a foolhardy, dangerous move, risked tripping up his horse mid-gallop over a high, long jump, and at the end of it all when the danger itself was already past, he had called the prince crazy. The prince!
To his chagrin, he found it impossible to quell the tiny part of him that insisted on the truth of it. True or not, it was definitely, absolutely, most assuredly not a clever thing to say.
He had hardly dismounted when a shadow loomed over him - a tall, broad-shouldered young officer, followed by a pack of other soldiers. They quickly surrounded him. His eyes widened; beside him his stallion snorted, loathe to stay still in the hostile press of men.
The tall officer stepped closer and sneered, ripping the almond branch from Hephaestion's hand. Hephaestion hardly noticed; he had forgotten he was holding it. "Don't play innocent, little whelp!" the officer growled, advancing another step, crushing the blossoms underfoot. "I saw what you did out there! Not only trying to cheat, but endangering the prince's life to do so! Did you think you could actually get away with it, son of Amyntor?"
The accusations hit him almost like physical blows. Such charges, however untrue, leveled against him, against his father's house! He should never have tried that stunt.
Yet he knew that if he were to go through it all over again he would do the same, no matter how incriminating it appeared, because it had all been instinct - not a shred of logic in the whole thing. He was even more mortified to feel heat rising to his cheeks, not only from a sense of the unfairness of it all, but from a sense of disgrace. His father would not believe him capable of it, but obviously the rest of the people here thought he had resorted to outright sabotage just to win a stupid race. And he had promised his father to be careful, promised to make him proud at the court of Pella!
Well, he had to say something in his own defense. "There was a branch - " he began, but the officer bawled an order, drowning out his voice.
"Seize him!"
last revised 12 September 2006