This would be his first public appearance at a formal council meeting in a Phoenician city, even if it was primarily a meal. When he'd received Byblos's surrender, he'd done so in full battle kit to make a point. Now, he needed to make a different point. This was war no longer for Byblos, and both Sidon and Tyre had sent representatives to take his measure, so he wanted them to see what happened when cities cooperated.

He'd bathed and dressed carefully in a long-sleeved wool winter chiton, good sandals, and a cloak he'd found among the spoils from Damascus. It had probably been Darius's third-best cloak, maybe even fourth-best. Alexander had never seen anything like it. All purple Egyptian linen ripened by the sun to a brilliant pale lucidity, it was shot with gold, silver, and copper threads along the border in the form of bulls, stags, griffins, and lions.

Wearing this, he truly felt like a king.

He came out of the former king's house to be met by that evening's pair of Somatophylakes—his Bodyguard—but also a dekas of Hypaspists. Both, in fact, were his Guard, one in peace, one in combat. The Somatophylakes weren't a distinct army unit but served variously during battle. Being among the Seven was an honorary position, and tonight, one of the two was none other than Admetos, plucked by Philip from relative obscurity in Epiros. A titan of a man, broad in body as well as tall, he'd proved worthy of Philip's confidence, rising steadily until chosen not only for the Somatophylakes but also to command the Hypaspists agema, the king's personal guard in battle. Hence, tonight, he served double-duty.

"Present arms!" he bellowed as Alexander exited. All sixteen Hypaspists snapped to attention, slamming spear butts on the flagstones of the house forecourt. A versatile unit, the Hypaspists served many roles in combat, but their most fundamental armament was as traditional hoplites, not Macedonian sarrissaphoi, the regular infantry with the sixteen-foot pike. So sixteen aspides, the big round hoplite shields, met Alexander, with shorter spears upright, Phrygian helms down, bronze shining in evening torchlight. Each shield was unique, bearing that man's standard, and one of the sixteen helms had officer's feathers: the lochagos, the leader of that dekas.

Hephaistion.

Alexander hadn't asked for it, but Admetos had picked Hephaistion's dekas anyway. The king didn't recognize Hephaistion further than the short nod he gave all of them. At Hephaistion's curt command, they struck their spears twice on their shields, the age-old acknowledgement from spear-bearers to commander that they were ready to fight for him. Then enclosing Alexander in a block led by the two Somatophylakes, they marched through the streets of Byblos to the house of the president of the City Council, who now ran the Assembly after the flight of the king.

As he'd expected, Alexander found dinner dreadfully boring. Too bad he couldn't have fun making jokes with Hephaistion, but Alexander strictly observed his friend's duty, and not just for Hephaistion's sake. He'd do the same with any of his childhood friends who'd gone on to become junior officers. They needed to be respected for themselves. He not only understood that, but insisted on it. As a boy, still half spoiled by his mother's coddling, he'd been annoyed when his father had overlooked him or treated him like any other soldier. Older, he'd come to understand the grace in it, and now extended the same respect to his friends. Hephaistion was his officer tonight, not his lover.

He still looked fucking magnificent in his armor.

He wore a bronze muscle cuirass instead of the more usual linothorax made of glue-fused linen, the type Alexander preferred. Then again, Alexander usually rode, and it was nigh on impossible to ride in a bronze cuirass unless it was unduly short at the waist. Hephaistion had a linothorax, too, but often wore the bronze. He was a big man, if not like Admetos, yet size was one of the requirements for the Hypaspists. It was a picked unit, not a regional one. Bronze greaves covered his shins and his high Phrygian helm glittered gold in dinner lamplight, a white feather on each side marking his position as an officer. His shield device was a red octopus on dark blue. Hardly awe-inspiring but a joke on his part, directed at his king. "I need eight arms to fend you off!" Alexander had told him once when they'd been young and freshly new to sex. Alexander hadn't really objected, but Hephaistion's needs had been strong.

Years later, when he'd been inducted into the Hypaspists, he'd shown his king his new shield. "I'll need eight arms to protect you, you reckless idiot."

So Hephaistion was his Hypaspistes Oktopos, and fought like it. But tonight was just honorary, so Alexander listened to a lot of speeches, ate excellent food—including grilled octopus—and kept his mouth shut, taking the measure of the Phoenicians, especially the Sidonians and Tyrians. Byblos was in his hands. The other two weren't yet, though Sidon appeared inclined that way. Tyre, not so much.

After the meal broke up, Alexander made sure to address both sets of envoys. The Sidonians simpered, informing him that their Persian-appointed king had already fled. Sidon had history with Persia, and it wasn't good. He could tick off that town as won, even if it wasn't official yet.

Tyre was polite but cagey. They gave lip service to recognizing his authority, and Alexander promised several talents for the upkeep of their great temple of Melquart, the Greek Herakles, his ancestor. It was nice gesture, and after winning Darius's treasury after Issos, he had the cash. He added that he planned to make an appropriate sacrifice to Melquart in thanks for his victory at Issos. The Tyrians had bowed, but stiffly, informing him that the temple in Old Tyre on the mainland was an ancient site. "We make pilgrimages there for our most sacred festivals. We're sure you'd prefer to use that one, the original."

Loggerheads. They knew he wanted access to their island, with religion as an excuse, and they were telling him he couldn't have it by offering the older sanctuary.

Almost against his will, he glanced at Hephaistion, still on guard. His friend gave no sign, but Alexander was sure he'd heard the reply.

Thanking the Tyrians, if a bit brusquely, and the Sidonians more honestly, as well as the president of the Council of Byblos, he claimed an early night.

His honor guard escorted him back to his royal quarters, then Admetos dismissed the men while Pages took up duty outside the building, and Admetos and Demetrios, the evening Bodyguard, remained on regular duty on the first floor, stationed to either side of the staircase to the upper, private, level. Most of the Hypaspists took off, headed for the city gate, including the three who were supposedly Hephaistion's tentmates. Only higher officers were bivouacked in city housing; there just wasn't enough space and when a town surrendered, Alexander insisted on treating it fairly. Most of his army was still encamped beyond the city walls.

Hephaistion, of course remained, although he'd taken off his helmet, his curly damp hair sticking to his skull. He followed Alexander inside and upstairs. Neither of the Somatophylakes said anything. They never did.

In the big bedroom across from the office, Hephaistion laid his spear against a wall along with his octopus shield, then pulled off his greaves and unhinged his breastplate. His face was conflicted.

Alexander walked up behind to help undo the protective felt padding under the cuirass. "I didn't expect to see you tonight. Did Admetos say why your squad?"

"Motherfucker thought I might 'find tonight's conversation useful.'"

Alexander turned him around, looking up into dark eyes. "Did you?"

Hephaistion's expression was annoyed. "Yes. But I don't need to be put on duty just so I can eavesdrop on diplomatic meetings to counsel you later as pillow talk. My men know what this was about."

Which was a good point. Admetos meant well, and if he was far from the beefy brainless sort, he didn't always show shrewd discretion. He was a mighty fighter, not necessarily a good diplomat.

"Will it affect your command?"

"I hope not."

"Will it?"

"No."

"Hephaistion?"

"No, damnit! My men know we're lovers; they don't care because you don't fucking favor me. Admetos favors me more than you do, which is fucking annoying. Asshat."

"I'll talk to him about it."

"Don't. That's likely to make it worse because then he'll go the other way. Like I said, for the most part, my men don't give me shit unless I actually deserve it."

Alexander doffed his fancy cloak and sandals, watching while Hephaistion sat down to unlace his boots. He poured Hephaistion wine, cutting it only a little with water. "Shall I call for hot water for you? I bathed earlier."

"No, I'm tired. I want to eat and go to bed. You can deal with me stinky."

Alexander handed him a winecup—his own cup in fact, with the relief of them on the bottom. Reassurance.

They needed to talk, tonight, before any rumors might start. But his friend was cranky. Bad timing. Hephaistion downed almost the whole cup's contents in one long swallow.

"Shit," Alexander observed.

"It's been that kind of day."

"You can tell me in a moment." He stepped out into the hall, calling over one of the slaves. "Bring me more wine, plus cold, cured beef or whatever meat the kitchen has ready, lentil soup, honeyed dates, and sour bread for Hephaistion. Lots of the meat."

The quickest way to Hephaistion's heart was through his stomach.

"I'm getting you dinner," he explained, coming back in.

"Thanks."

The bed in the former king's chamber might not match Darius's, now Alexander's, but it was roomier than any Greek couch. These Easterners liked their luxuries, though Alexander had been convinced of the value of beds big enough to fit two comfortably. He plopped down on it, watching as Hephaistion poured himself more wine—no water at all. "Do you want any? I see I have your cup."

"I had plenty at dinner." He needed his mind clear for the conversation they needed to have. "Come to bed, at least until your food arrives."

Dressed now in a simple dun undertunic, Hephaistion did so. Still wearing the heavier wool chiton, Alexander wrapped him close. "You are stinky," he said. "Fortunately, I find your sweat an aphrodisiac."

"You can sniff my hairy armpit then." Hephaistion offered it and Alexander laughed. It broke a little of the tension. They just grinned at each other, lying side by side. "Sorry I'm snappy. Like I said, it's been an annoying day."

Rolling up on an elbow, Alexander tilted his head sideways. "Tell me?"

"Just little shit." He pointed to his boots on the floor. "Damn strap broke during drill, so I had to skip lunch mess to fix it and wound up with just bread. Then I lost two fucking drachmai at dice."

"I thought you hated dice?"

"I do, because I fucking lose money." He ran a hand through his messy hair, which only made it messier. "But it's good for morale to spend time with the men; I've learned a few things, watching you."

"Mmm. Nice to know you watch me."

Hephaistion's grin turned wicked. "I watch you very closely, my lord. You are, after all, my king. I especially like watching you in the bath."

"Smart ass."

"Anyway, after that, I got elbowed in the ribs at wrestling"—he pointed to a new bruise on his side, which Alexander obediently kissed—"and to top it off, Admetos showed up to put my squad on dinner duty, so I didn't get to eat again, and I had to make my men miss dinner, too. Admetos wants us all back on the field an hour past sunrise tomorrow. So tonight, I want food and sleep."

"Not sex?"

"Actually, no. Not feeling up to it. Pun intended."

Alexander might have made a crack about iron floating but instead said, "If I'd known you were that hungry, I'd have saved some of the octopus for my octopus."

Hephaistion chuckled. Alexander laid back down, still on his side so he could study Hephaistion's face. "What did you think of tonight's theater?"

"Sidon will surrender; they've already exiled their Persian-appointed king. It's just formalities at this point."

Alexander nodded. He'd thought the same.

"Tyre's going to refuse. They're on an island; they think they're untouchable. But you need to keep troops in both Byblos and Sidon. If they believe Tyre can defeat you, they'll break their treaty and come at you from the rear."

"Can I defeat Tyre?"

"I don't know. You're the military genius, you tell me. Nebuchadnezzar spent ten years trying to reduce that city and failed. That's why they're arrogant."

"Nebuchadnezzar didn't have torsion catapults and siege towers." Alexander rose on an elbow again, restless. "Tyre might have withstood Nebuchadnezzar, but they've never met Macedonian artillery."

"So you think you can reduce them?"

"Yes. It'll take time, but yes. If they force me. They're playing with old toys."

"And you have new ones?"

"I have amazing new ones." He looked down at his friend. "I just hope they come to their senses. I don't want to waste time on a siege, but if they refuse to surrender, I can, and will."

"But do you have to?"

That was, perhaps, the key question, one Alexander knew his army would ask.

"Yes, Phaistonaki. Think about it. You know—"

He'd have said more, but a sharp knock on the door interrupted. They both rose. It was Hephaistion's dinner, carried over to a small side table. Hephaistion sat down to eat with gusto. Alexander watched, stealing a honeyed date now and then. He found Hephaistion's earthiness endearing. His friend didn't suffer curling shame for a lack of physical self-control. Yet being earthy didn't detract from his intellect, which was sharp and pointed. He didn't apologize for his needs, didn't see a reason to, and that was why Alexander needed him to anchor them in the physical without rejecting the intellectual. Hephaistion had some native gift for balancing the two.

And once Hephaistion was fed, they were going to have to have a difficult conversation where Alexander would rely on his friend's innate ability to navigate both heart and head.