Greek Words to Know:

paidagogos: a teacher of young boys

demokratia: democracy (literally demos + kratia: power of the people)

eleutheria: liberty or the personification of

omomokotes: magistrates of the Athenian bureaucracy

theorikon: the treasurer of Athens

hetaira, hetairai: female companions/prostitutes of ancient greece

pornai: prostitutes of lower stature than hetairai, usually found in brothels called porneion

Ariston: lunch

kylix: wide wine cup

basileus, fem. basileia: king or queen, emperor or empress

argyraspides: lit. 'the Silver-Shields'; an elite force of hypaspists, shield-and-spear bearing infantry

Elysion pedion: Elysium

pteruges: a war-skirt

doru: the hoplite's spear

kopis: a curved hunting dagger

xiphos: a short, leaf-shaped sword (Riptide is a xiphos)

pelte: a shield with a crescent indent at the top

hoplon: the big hoplite shield

sarissa: a massive, 4-6 meter long double-ended spear

ekklesia: the Athenian assembly, parliament

pezhetairoi: lit. 'foot-companions', the infantry of Alexandros's army

"But then, my friend, the gods for ills past/ healing/ have set endurance as the antidote." — Archilochus, fr. 13

II

As the Council debates the future of the world, Rhoxana ponders her future. In Athens, a young girl prepares for a marriage she does not want. And in Babylon, the Council confronts old divisions.

THE QUEEN OF THE WORLD

The messenger stood by the doorway, one forearm pressed against the heavy door for support. His arm muscles tensed up to assist his forearm as he tried, desperately, to compose himself. Even the messengers, trained to deliver any missive or command effortlessly, seemed to struggle with this message. No one was spared from the pain of the loss.

Especially not Raoxshna, the wife of Alexandros, the Princess of Sogdiana, the Queen of the World. A princess in her own right, a Queen because of Alexandros. He had given her queenship, and so much more. Love, affection, happiness. And physical things too. Great wealth, endless protection, so much food she found herself getting fat at times. Recently, he had given her a child. All of these things had come at a cost though.

Raoxshna. Her name. Not Rhoxana, like the rest of Alexandros's army called her. That name, so foreign to the Makedonians, had been stripped from her so that she could fit in amongst her King's court. Not that she much minded, for what was a name in comparison to the riches of Africa and Europe and Asia?

That was what Alexandros had given to her, a dream which was once only that. Though she was not unused to being waited on, there was a difference between what she had enjoyed as a princess of Sogdiana and what she had enjoyed as Queen of Alexandros's ever-expanding empire. As a young princess, she could expect the best of Bactria, so long as she remained within her father's limits. As Alexandros's first queen, and as his pregnant wife, she could expect her every need to be waited on with the best of the known world, without limit. She delighted herself with treats from places as exotic as India and Libya, dressed as the princesses she had admired as a young girl, and acted among her new subjects as they had acted with her. Even the loss of her firstborn could not truly dampen the happiness her marriage to Alexandros had brought her. The only thing that had dulled the flame was the arrival of the King's second and third wives, though he had assured her that she was still the top priority. He had made sure to back up his claim by keeping them in Susa while he marched back to her. Smiles and kisses she bestowed upon him in public, but in private her fury was great. So great that his generals left the two of them alone for hours while Raoxshna grilled her lover over his infidelity.

The fiery fury soon turned to fiery passion. A bonfire was lit on their bed and they had danced in it so rough and unkempt. Their love for each other overrode politics and backstabbing, wars and soldiers, the weather, the stars and the sun. The rest of the world may have seen her as a foolish girl, but she was not. The Queen knew why he had married the princesses, and it was not the same reason why he had married her. Alexandros in his turn understood he deserved to get his feet held over the fire if nothing else.

He endured a few hours of pain so that they could get back to their love. And they had, for a year. Even oblivious Perseus understood that they worked well together. Raoxshna was the woman of his dreams. Canny, strong, resourceful, the Princess of Sogdiana was not a hapless Athenian maiden. For a full year, they had each other alone. They would wake up together, he would go to his meetings and train, and then they would dine together, retiring to their rooms finally for the night. A full year of bliss.

And then it was over. Alexandros was dead, taken from her by the jealous gods he claimed first descent from and kinship with. He was…

Words escaped her comprehension, so instead, she cried. Tears wrenched themselves out of her eyes, pouring down her face in an uncontrollable flood. There was no steady increase to bawling, instead, like a dam being breached, she cried hard and fast. Her face became soaked, salt coating her tongue. She opened her mouth to wail. A gross, wretched sound ran from her mouth. Raoxshna had heard sounds like this before, from mothers crying over children lost in wars or from patients getting limbs removed. Never had she believed that she would end up like them.

Raoxshna knew the message was coming, for their Queen was not an imbecile as the rest of the men might have claimed. Alexandros had become ill and something inside of her, whether it was a lover's bond or a mother's bond, told her the terrible truth before even the healers. She had taken steps to prepare herself for the horrible truth, but as soon as the message had been delivered, her knees gave out from underneath her.

Inside her mind the mortal woman railed at the gods. "How dare you?!" she screamed. Her son, Alexandros's son, rested in her belly, unaware of his father's doom. At least consciously; her stomach was churning and she felt like she might hurl at any moment. Her son's father was gone. Her bloated belly pressed up against her knees as her body took over from her mind. Her mind was in too much shock to sustain the body, but instinct took over. Her back rested against the royal bed where Alexandros had laid beside her just a week before. She worried about her son's safety as sobs racked her body, causing violent shaking.

"My Queen… Perseus said that — that if you needed him, he could come. I-I understand how difficul—"

"Enough. You're dismissed." Raoxshna was impressed with the amount of control she had over her own words, given how little control she had over her own body. She gave just an inkling of a thought to the messengers actually words and recoiled immediately. Oh gods above… her beloved king's death would ruin this world. "Tell Perseus his services are needed elsewhere. I can… I can deal with myself."

Raoxshna couldn't take her eyes off her hands, folded over her rounded belly, but the routine had become so usual to her that there was no need to see in order to know the messenger's movements. The messenger gave a deep bow and turned out of the room, still bowed. He kept his head down as he walked away and two guards closed the door to her room. She was alone.

Alone, truly. Her son was not born yet, and as much as she could talk to him as he grew in her womb… he was not here yet. Stateira and Parysatis were of no help, instead, they were detriments. They were threats, bigger than before. Threats to her and her son. Her family was far away, ruling Bactria only through Alexandros's good graces. Now, as easily as their power had been bestowed by Alexandros, that power could be taken away by whomever decided to rule his empire. Whoever was strong enough.

She had heard all of the rumblings from his men and his generals, from his cup-bearers and courtesans, from his servants to his friends. Understanding that she was in a foreign environment, at battle as constantly as her husband, she kept her ears always open . She was infertile, they said at first. Once her firstborn never made it through, the talk was that her "inferior" blood made it impossible for her to bear Makedonian children. The first time she had heard that rumor, she had her personal guard cut out the rumor-bearer's tongue. Next, once Alexandros had bedded the two Persian princesses, and rumors began to circulate that it Alexandros who was infertile, at least with foreigners… well, she had let those rumors continue. Punishment, she supposed, for taking two extra wives.

But her fertility, Raoxshna understood, was more than just rumor and court gossip. It was the future of the greatest empire the world had ever seen. She remembered how happy Alexandros had been when he learned that she was pregnant once more. His smile had stretched from one side of his handsome face to the other. From green eye to blue eye. He had swept her up in his strong hands, swinging her about in their room — now hers alone.

It seemed as though not even the good memories were safe of this new, foul taint.

The top of her nightgown was soaked and her throat hurt from crying. Her shins ached from kneeling on the hard floors.

How was she so ill-prepared for this moment? A moment which she knew would come, if not from an injury sustained in war then from one the gods would inflict. There were so many gods now, all of them could be jealous of her husband. Or just one. It only took one, did it not?

Her eyes would run dry before she stopped crying. She had experienced rivers that had dried up like that as a child, small rivers and streams which would, during hot and dry summers, fail to keep up. The wells would dry up next causing the land itself to fragment. The people would flee in large numbers, for their village had become a place of constant strife in the mad dash to get water. She remembered her father dealing with those crises, and had used his experience when she had to deal with them on her own, as Queen of a desert wasteland. Now, as she dealt with her own well drying up, the Queen of the World could draw on no one's aid.

Hearing footsteps, Raoxshna looked up. The doors, still closed, barred her sight. She listened intensely, trying to discern the guards' words. In order to get a better sense of what they were saying, the Queen of Makedonia got an all fours. She had to crawl, for she did not trust her legs to carry both her and her child — the last true relic of Alexandros.

Once she was a few paces away from the door, she stopped herself. She listened.

"As I said, the Queen is not to be disturbed at the moment."

One of the guards, Tisias, spoke, his tone annoyed, against someone else.

"Were those her orders? Or did you all just think you could boss her around now?"

Oh, it was Perseus. Of course, it was Perseus. She had specifically instructed the messenger to tell the bodyguard not to attend to her. However, Raoxshna was a fool to think that Perseus would ever listen to that order. They had been too close of friends for him to think that her words, spoken by another, were really the truth. Not that she was too annoyed by his arrival. Even the Queen of the World needed someone to lean on every now and then.

Taking a deep breath, she called out to the guards: "let him in!" She tried to make sure her voice was strong enough to convey some sense that she was holding up. By the gods, even in her head that lie held no water. Her words probably held less, since her voice broke half-way through the command. It was too high-pitched, as if she was a serving girl once more.

Collapsing back onto the floor, she curled her knees to her chest. The pain was too much, too unbearable. And there was no use in pretending to be composed, she wondered why she had even bothered in the first place. He cared not, he was here. Though he should have been elsewhere, he had come to help her in her darkest hour.

The man she regarded as all but a brother stepped into the expansive room. He was shoeless; she could tell because all that was in her sight were his shoeless feet. The door closed behind him. He stopped.

"If you really don't want me here, I, uh, I apologize my Queen. I just thought that —"

She shook her head against her knees. After a brief interlude, her tears returned, streaming down her barren legs.

Perseus knelt, and it was at that point that Raoxshna realized how young she truly was to have experienced such heartache. They called Perseus the young one, and he was still half-a-decade her elder. No more than seventeen, how had she already lost so much? To have experienced so much war and turmoil in such a short time span? And she was about to experience so much more, for her son's ascension was not secure. She would have to be strong for him, stronger than she ever assumed she could be. But she would do it. For Alexandros, and his beautiful dream, and for her son, their son; their son who could carry out that dream.

"Rhoxana… My Queen. I am so, so sorry. I-I can't even imagine what you're going through right now."

Her head shook again. She didn't need to hear his words, no matter how genuine they were. She just needed silence. Pure silence.

"Close the windows." For the rushing of the wind and the whirling of the Euphrates had become too much.

Obediently, he stood. Still unable to look up, she could feel his presence walk away. When he had retreated far enough away, she looked straight up at the ceiling. Seeing anyone else might break her, but Raoxshna needed another's presence. Alexandros's, preferably. But Perseus would do until she was met him again in death.

The ceiling, her room in general, was beautiful, intricately carved by Nabû-kudurri-uṣur hundreds of years ago. Still in pristine condition, it was that mad king's lasting legacy on the world. What, she wondered, would be her beloved's impact on the world? What would be his legacy?

Strong arms circled around her bloated stomach, then slid below her son. They lifted upwards and for a moment Raoxshna wished that she could just slip into a fantasy world where the arms were Alexandros's, where he was still alive, and where they could rule the world with their son.

That was what dreams were for, however. For that was all that fantasy could ever be. Dreams were where she could slide into oblivion, be alone and with him. Had that not been where she laid with him the most? They were together mostly in her dreams because he was so preoccupied with his own dream. Unlike most of his men, Alexandros was able to control himself when it came to bodily pleasures. He loved her, she knew, but his true love was of knowledge and of conquest. It was his destiny to conquer the world and to rule it as an eutopia. But that destiny and that dream were dead. They had died with the dreamer.

Perseus laid her down on her bed, covered in silks and feathers, allowing her to get comfortable. This bed of hers would have to go, she realized, for it reminded her too much of him. Over the past year, as he struggled to get over the death of Hephaistion, Alexandros would come into her room and they would talk for hours. Sometimes he would sit by her side and read, sometimes to her. Their nightly encounters had become so frequent up until the moment of his death that she had almost forgotten about his marriage to the two Persian princesses. Almost.

Perseus drew the cover up above her shoulders. The light silk was perfect for the heat of the Babylonian summer. She would end up discarding it, unbeknownst to her, halfway through the night.

Though she had a strong desire to remain calm and stately, Perseus's presence fought back against that. Outside of Alexandros, he was the only one she truly trusted. She did not trust one woman in all of Babylon, for who knew who they truly worked for. This was not her city, never was her city, and never would be her city. She could, therefore, trust no one of this city; she did not even want to go into the rest of his Royal Army.

The Makedonians were prejudiced to the extreme, even those who would claim to their graves that they were not prejudiced. With Perseus it was different. He had never judged her, never said a bad word against her. When Alexandros was gone, it was Perseus that came to talk with her. He was closer in age to her than any other of Alexandros's somatophylakes. He had become like a brother to her, and, she assumed, she was like a sister to him.

"How do we go on?" Her words were raspy from crying.

Perseus sat at her bedside, running his hand over back.

"We go on for him. For your child. The council has decided that your child —"

"Alexandros."

"What?" Perseus's hand stopped, and he looked down. She didn't look at him, still afraid that the sight of another person's grief would make this all real once more. Her eyes were tightly shut; her face pressed roughly against the pillow.

"His name," she said, her voice lowered after being muffled by the pillow. "His name is Alexandros. My son. Alexandros the Fourth, King of Babylon and the World."

"How do you know your child will be a boy?"

Her warm, brown eyes opened into the blank view of her pillow. They rolled before quickly closing again. "Because what mother wishes to bring another girl into this world?"

"I always wished for a daughter."

"Of course you do. You are a man, you know not what a woman has to go through."

"I know well enough from talking to you," Perseus retorted. While her tone was rough and accusatory, bogged down by the pillow and looming sleep, his voice held none of the same bite. It was not as if he was unused to such arguments between them. "And I would never let any of the things that happen to girls happen to my daughter."

"Because you have power. You can shelter your daughter from those terrors."

"You have power too — the most power in the world!"

"And you are still a blissful fool. Perseus, I have no power whatsoever!" It was her great dilemma. She did hold power, she held him in her stomach. Even that power was conditional on the notion that the Makedonian army wanted her son to be the next ruler. Raoxshna had heard rumors of men desiring Perseus to be king. Not that he would accept it, but the idea that they would turn to a man without royal blood was scary at least.

She sat up to look at him fully, shaking off the fear of falling apart again. It was a struggle, however, because of the weight of her son. Her arms pushed down, falling into the soft feathers of her bedding. Lifting her eyes, she gazed upon his tan face for the first time tonight. It was a mistake, she immediately realized. Perseus's eyes, usually so bright and happy, were bloodshot. Tears were stained on his cheeks, and he looked gaunt. Immediately, she choked up as well. Her tears came back to her.

Perseus reached out to hug her. She leaned in as far as she could from across the bed, and with her belly in the way. He still smelled like the ocean, a trait he could never shake. It was comforting, however, and she did not mind. Her head rested on his shoulder as he rubbed her back. Raoxshna allowed herself to fall apart on him. She needed to fall apart at least once, just once, to someone so that she could put herself together.

Without Alexandros.

"My Queen, we will all back you! Perdikkas, Lysimachos, Ptolemaios, Nea—"

"Men who would much rather see themselves rule than my son."

"No, no! We're standing behind you and your chil—Alexandros. I promise you that. Please, please just trust me." His hands reached out to grab her shoulders. Raoxshna, however, could not look upon him. She simply looked down at the bedding and nodded. She was too tired to fight him on this. Taking that as somewhat of acceptance of his words, Perseus pulled her back in for a hug. She let out a sigh but accepted it anyway. They stayed locked in the embrace for a few moments, allowing her to dwell in her thoughts. Though seven years her elder, how was he so naïve? Had he no clue of courtly politics? Perhaps not, because he had spent most of his time in the war room or on the training grounds. Perseus was a fighter, not a politician, at heart. He had no clue how to play the game.

Sweet, innocent Perseus. He would be the first to die in this new world.

THE DAUGHTER OF ATHENS

"I am off for the day. Boys, listen to your paidagogos! Do you think Herakles got through his Twelve Trials without a little bit of brain?"

Her little twin brothers giggled at their table. They looked up at their father with such love and adoration, with widened brown eyes, trained on his stately figure, that it hurt her. Throughout their first young years of existence, they idolized their father and wished to become everything he stood for. Which is to say, they wished to become the agents of oppression and slaughter, protected by the garbs of "demokratia" and "eleutheria".

Their other idol, of course, had to have been Herakles. Herakles! Herakles, the mythical idol of her younger half-brothers, Herakles who murdered his first wife and children in a fit of madness. What fine men they would grow up to be if they followed in his footsteps.

"And Anaïta Bethzatha… please listen to your mother today. You have so much potential, and even with your flaws I have so many suitors still asking for your hand."

Anaita Bethzatha, or as she liked to be called Annabeth, did not even look up from her loom. Her father had upset her one too many times in her thirteen years to make her warm towards him. When he had first refused to let her learn to read and write, she had stolen his books and snuck out of the house to listen to orators. In order to not look like an outsider, she had cut her hair down to use as a disguise and created a longer wig to wear around her father. For two years she worked relentlessly to sneak past the slaves and her father, always distracted by his duties as a good citizen, in order to learn basic skills. When her father finally caught her, he had been furious. Annabeth received a solid lashing from her father's slaves and her father went out to look for a new wife.

Annabeth's mother had died in childbirth, leaving the young girl with nothing to remember her by. She was given neither a name nor a description of her mother. Apparently her father thought she needed a motherly figure around. Annabeth thought all she needed was some freedom and control over her own life.

Her father's new wife, whom he tried to force her to call "mother", was only six years Annabeth's elder and thoroughly, well, stupid. Helene had bought into the patriarchy, like so many other women had, and was devoted to making her house an image of perfection. She ran the slaves when Annabeth's father was out, made Annabeth's father clothes, and stayed out of the way of the boys' education. Helen had the gods on her side, too, since, at the age of fourteen, she gave birth to twin boys and lived to tell the tale.

Annabeth, however, did not agree with the gods. Helene was a scourge upon the face of Gaia, devoted not just to the perfect household but also the perfect family. This meant that Annabeth was not allowed to read or write except for basic numbers and letters to keep the household intact. Since Helene and her father slept in different rooms, Annabeth's father decided to make Annabeth sleep in Helene's room after catching his daughter up with a candle and scrolls late one night. Helene was not happy with it but went along with it after coming to an arrangement with Annabeth's father.

Helene and Annabeth's father, Pherekrates, were decades apart in age. Almost fifty, Helene was not Pherekrates's first wife, nor his second. He had had, before Annabeth, nearly eight daughters and sons combined. Only one, Malkolmemnon, had survived past childhood. Her older brother was currently stationed overseas, as a commander at Samos. Annabeth had only seen him a few times in her life: once at the age of five, once at the age of ten, and last year during the Exiles' affair. Unlike his father, Malkolmemnon had encouraged her to read, although below his father's nose. He told her that she was special, unlike any child he had seen before. And last year, he had told her that she would lead Athens to greatness once more. She appreciated the compliment, but wondered how she would make such a thing happen.

Even without his endorsement of her dreams, Malkolmemnon's hatred of Helene earned him a permanent spot on her good side. What made the entire situation better was that Helene was obviously infatuated with the young officer. Obnoxiously so. When he came over, Helene was always a mess, flustering and blushing at a mere glance. On more than one occasion, Annabeth's giggles at the scene earned her an ostracism from the table.

Her father was, of course, oblivious to the whole Malkolmemnon situation, but not to the other times his young bride's eyes wandered. Like so many other older husbands, Pherekrates let adultery slide. Once a week, Helene was allowed to go to another man's house without question or complaint. Always perceptive, Annabeth caught on to what was going on by the age of just ten. Those nights ended up being her favorites though, because she was able to read through the night without getting interrupted.

In addition to her once-a-week nightly readings, Annabeth kept a scroll in the outhouse. That way, whenever she needed to relieve herself, she could read from it for a little bit before moving back inside. These readings were not enough for the hungry young woman, but she had to make do with what she had.

Her father sighed when he did not get the response he was looking for. Not that he was unused to his daughter's coldness towards him. He turned out the door anyways, departing with an armed slave next to him. As the citizen in charge of Athens's finances, he was allotted the protection. Unlike the rest of the omomokotes, her father served for four-year terms as the theorikon and was on his second term now. He had been instrumental in Hyperides's removal of Demosthenes last year, accusing him of stealing Harpalos's money.

And as much as her father doubted her intelligence — or rather denied its existence — she knew better than the rest of Athens on that subject. Her father and Hyperides, along with the rest of their co-conspirators, had taken the three-hundred-and-fifty silver talents themselves, as a downpayment to a mercenary officer named Leosthenes. She had listened to their conversations and had re-read their scrolls. She knew that the removal of Demosthenes was only for Hyperides' own gain. Demosthenes, once Hyperides's mentor, was removed right at the time of the Exiles' affair. And as such, if war broke out between Makedonia and Athens… it would be Hyperides, not Demosthenes, leading Athens to glory.

The slaves took away the boys' plates as they sat down with their paidagogos. From him, they learned how to read and write, how to speak, and how to win military battles. Their paidagogos was a slave from Samos named Epandros, whose family had been enslaved to her family for three generations now. He was a friendly enough man, with whom she had had a few sparing yet intimate conversations. She had gotten enough out of him to know that he did not dislike his servitude, especially to her family. Annabeth supposed that after a long enough amount of time, anything seemed normal, and normal seemed good.

Helene moved out of the kitchen. As she did every morning, she turned around when Annabeth did not move with her. "Are you coming or not child?" She asked in that stern, "motherly" voice of hers. By Hera did Annabeth hate that forced voice.

"Of course, of course."

In getting up, Annabeth "accidentally" let her dress get caught in the loom's mechanism. The light yet large frame could not let go of the dress on its own, so when Annabeth took a few steps forward the whole thing crashed to the floor. Annabeth rolled out of the way with inhuman agility, her dress miraculously slipping free before she too was brought to the floor. The loud crash startled the boys and their paidagogos. They sprung from their seats and raised their eyes, once more widened, at Annabeth and the loom. Her smile widened as the teacher tried to move the boys out of the room.

On all fours, her knees probably scraped, her arms flexed to let her seat herself on her knees. Annabeth used her hands to casually brush the dust off of her peplos. Her hands, roughened by the loom, swept the mostly imaginary dust particles off the white cloth. She turned to survey the damage on the loom. The beams looked intact, fortunately; however, the string that hung down from the top of the loom was too tangled to be repairable. Inside, Annabeth smiled at the commotion she had caused. No doubt Helene was furious with her but there was nothing that Helene could do that would scare Annabeth at this point.

She saw out of the corner of her eye her two brothers who were still stuck, staring at the scene she had just made. She ignored them for their mother, whose seething anger was palpable in its heat. Never had Annabeth seen her stepmother like this before. Her pale face was turning bright red, her hands clenched in fists at her side. Annabeth heard the paidagogos encourage her half-brothers to get back to studying.

"Clean this up."

Her stepmother's voice was scarily calm, quiet, and was coming out through harsh breaths. It was the voice one used when they were unnaturally mad and at wit's end. The slaves which she had directed the order at moved quickly to obey. Two strong men lifted the womb back into place, then began working to cut away the strings.

Annabeth raised her eyes to meet Helene's soft brown ones. The grey-eyed girl had no difficulty meeting the woman's harsh gaze with her own determined stare. Even as a young girl, Annabeth had never been afraid of Helene, not once in her life. The meanest Helene had ever gotten was a slap, and even that was not painful. Simply put, Helene was a weakling compared with Annabeth. At thirteen, Annabeth was twice as strong as Helene.

Even so, the hand that connected with her cheek still stung, and would surely leave a red mark. It forced her to break her gaze with the older woman. However, Annabeth quickly recovered to stare back defiantly. She would not be cowed by this idiot woman who believed that a woman's place was inside the house. Their world was confined by four walls and a roof. Even her escapades at a young age had died away in her memory. Annabeth barely remembered what the Pnyx looked like. She wanted out, unlike Helene.

Helene growled, her hand seizing some of Annabeth's hair. She dragged her out of the kitchen, Annabeth's feet tripping up as she struggled to keep up with Helene's furious pace. Annabeth was startled by the sudden bout of rage, which was, for all intents and purposes, completely abnormal. This bout of strength too was unnatural.

Annabeth had never seen this level of anger in Helene before. It had to be what was fueling the strength, taking the young girl by surprise. As Helene dragged her through the courtyard, Annabeth's mind wandered, wondering what might have brought this on. Surely it had to do with something other than her, for Helene usually just tried to ignore her husband's daughter.

The pull on her hair hurt badly. Her hair had grown out since she had cut it all those years ago. It was blonde, an unusual coloring for a Greek, long, naturally soft, and curly. Annabeth hated it. It was difficult to maintain, knotted too easily, and took too long to wash. Now she hated it even more. Helene's fingers got caught in the knots and as she dragged Annabeth across the courtyard, those fingers yanked her knots forward. She felt like her hair was getting ripped out of her head, and it probably was, so she tried to slap Helene's hands away.

Even with her superior strength, it was to no use. Helene dragged her through the courtyard and into their shared room. Slamming the door open with her foot, Helene then marched inside. The floor was stone, which got hot in these brutal Attik summers. Helene let go of Annabeth's hair, throwing the younger woman to the ground. On her knees, Annabeth tried to desperately compose herself. She felt a lone tear slip down her tan cheek.

"I have had enough of you. Absolutely enough! Do you think that you are special? That you are different than the rest of us women? That you can prance about without a husband, throwing tantrums against your suitors? Do you know how many good men you have forced to reject your hand? How many good proposals you have shot down? Do you think nothing of your own family?"

Good men? Did Helene hear herself? Annabeth glared up at her stepmother, unimpressed by her outburst. The older woman was a funny sight, with her normally soft and doting eyes narrowed into tight slits that tried and failed to give off the impression of being scary. Her pale cheeks, which had lost their color by being cooped up inside all day, were bright red. Instead of looking like a vengeful goddess, Helene looked closer to what Annabeth remembered actor masks looked like. And on top of all that, she had called Annabeth's former suitors "good men"?

There was nothing good about either suitor. The first, an arrogant young man, twenty-one years of age, fresh out of his mandatory two-years of military service, was far more interested in her stepmother than her; noticing this, Annabeth took it upon herself to have less than appetizing eating habits, and "accidentally" spilled some wine down Helene's dress. The commotion that had ensued earned Annabeth a month of extra chores and twelve lashings.

The second suitor was a man thrice her age, and very interested in her. Annabeth disliked the man's obvious groping — though far and beyond him she disliked that her father and stepmother encouraged the man to 'feel as he pleased'. Instead of climaxing for him, as she knew he wanted, Annabeth had gathered all of her fluids and urinated on his hand. Far from her best moment, but at least it was excusable. Not that her father and stepmother had taken the excuse.

So no, neither man was "good". She had rejected all of her suitors so far. Normally girls went without a say in the matter, but Annabeth was smarter than most girls. Still, she had no doubt her time would come. She just wished to delay it as much as possible. There was an idea in her head to run away, but that was just a half-formed plan. The young girl gathered she needed as much as a month to finish her preparations.

"I talked with your father yesterday." Annabeth turned to face Helene. "He agreed with me. You need to be broken in before you can be married. The Hippokratics think it's good for a woman, and I agree."

Broken in.

Broken in.

No, no, no. Annabeth's face morphed from smug defiance to fear instantly. She knew what that meant, and her opened mouth reflected that. Her father had talked about it before with his friends at symposiums, friends who had given up their daughters to hetairai to train them in the art of lovemaking. One especially cruel friend had told her father that he had let his daughter work as a pornai for a year at the age of eleven before giving her off to an oddly-tasted man. That story had kept Annabeth up for many nights in a row, fearful that her father would do the same to her. She did not doubt that he might if a man asked for her to be "prepped" that way. She had used her father's altar to pray to Aphrodite and Hera that such a fate would never befall her. Those prayers were seemingly going unanswered.

"Oh, I see your fear. Finally, in all of your miserable life, you'll have to deal with being a woman, like the rest of us!"

Her stepmother smirked down at Annabeth, who was still recoiling on the floor. For the first time in her life, Annabeth was entirely at a loss as to what to do. Annabeth had prided herself on being in control, for always having a plan. When her father caught her sneaking out of the house, Annabeth began to read at night. When her father caught her reading at night, she read in the outhouse. When her father gave her suitors, she spat in their faces. Now, she was unsure of what to do. Annabeth had no doubt that her uncertainty was playing itself out across her face right now as fear, given the triumphant smirk on her stepmother's face.

"Dwell on that the next time your father brings you a worthy suitor."

Helene walked out of the room, slamming the door on her way out. Still stunned, Annabeth could only stared at the wooden door. On the other side of it, she heard her stepmother conversing with the slaves, telling one of them not to let her out for the rest of the day.

Did Helene really think her father would do that? That one of the most respectable men in Athens would let his daughter get used like a commoner before being married off? She knew some men, when they were low on money or had caught their daughters in affairs, would send them off, but her father was not in any of those positions. Doing so would risk so much, would risk his status and reputation, would risk her worth to other suitors. He couldn't. He wouldn't.

Would he?

Annabeth reached behind her, grabbing onto the rough bed frame. Tears welled up in her eyes, only held back by her determination not to cry over this. She would not let tears fall, she would not give Helene that satisfaction, even if her stepmother would never see the tears. The young girl twisted her body, her stomach contorting like a twisted wash rag. Her forehead leaned against the bed frame and she let out a long, shaky breath. She trusted that her father wouldn't do that to her.

He wouldn't.

Π

Annabeth spent the rest of the day in her room. Her stepmother was not cruel, and gave her ariston of bread and cheese, along with sausage and olives. She even got a kylix with wine, though considerably cut. When she was not eating, Annabeth paced back and forth across her room, unable to take out the scrolls underneath her bed. Besides the fear of being caught, the main reason she refused to read was that she could not possibly focus on anything other than her current predicament. She had played out many scenarios in her head, trying to get back on top of things.

The first scenario she found was what Helene had described. Though Annabeth tried to believe it could never happen, there was no reason to believe that it could not possibly happen to her. Her life then would be turned upside down, being raped repeatedly before being sold off to a far older man to bear his children and be his bitch for the rest of her life.

The second scenario arose because she could not let the first happen. If her father decided that it would be in his best interests to give her to a hetaira, then Annabeth would be forced to run away. Knowing that the announcement could come at any possible minute, she knew she should begin to prepare now. To an extent, she knew how to sneak out of the city — she had found a map in her father's room — and figured she was resourceful enough to slip past the guards at the gates.

The third scenario was that her father gave her to a suitor, and whether or not he had to tie her up and ship her off was not his problem. If the man was decent enough, then she could easily adjust. She would not like it, but men were easy to manipulate. Helene had been useful for that much, teaching her, unbeknownst to the teacher, that even smart men like her father were imbeciles when it came to women. If the man was not decent — and the possibility that he was not was higher than the possibility that he was — then she would be forced to repeat the second scenario. Her father would not be willing to let her drive away her third suitor.

Annabeth would be forced to wait for now, until something did happen. Her best option, she assumed, would be to lay low at the house, quietly gathering supplies to sneak out when or if the time arose for such a thing. She would be nicer, though not enough to arouse suspicion, to both Helene and her father. Lower their guard a bit. Perhaps she would swallow her pride and let Helene think she had won a great victory. If it meant freedom, Annabeth believed herself able to choke down her greatest possession.

A stubborn young girl, Annabeth's mind was set quickly. Plan for the worst, hope for the best. Though the best might mean the worst would have to happen first. No matter, she had a plan. And a plan was all that she needed to survive. Stick to the plan. Stick to the plan.

"Anaïta Bethzatha, you can come out now. Come greet your father before deipnon."

Annabeth put a smile on her face. She remembered watching a few plays as a young girl. Their masks would be her masks, her armor.

THE BODYGUARD

Perseus found himself getting into armor once more. The hetairoi and pezhetairoi officers had stormed Alexandros's room early in the morning, demanding entry. They knew what those in the room already knew — Alexandros was gone. For all of the divisions the army had had with him, for all of the rebellions, they still loved him. How could they not? Everyone loved him.

Before the room had been stormed, clear battle lines were formed inside. One group, headed by Perdikkas and including Leonnatos and Peithon, was ready to let the signet ring be the end of it. Perdikkas was in command, that was what Alexandros had meant. Perdikkas alone had the power to choose the next king, they argued, and everyone else would have to suck it up. The other group, headed by Ptolemaios, argued for a rule of many. Give the satraps their satrapies, he argued, and let them rule the empire as a council until Alexandros's child came of age.

Perseus was inclined to side with Ptolemaios. The older man had been one of his greatest mentors, along with Alexandros. Ptolemaios was, in Perseus's opinion, the smartest man in any room that did not include the King. Perhaps, sometimes, even smarter. Smart enough to know that Perseus was on his side, even if he never said it. It gave Perseus room to mediate between the two sides.

He was no fool, though even he admitted he was sometimes oblivious. He knew a civil war was coming. By Zeus! could Alexandros not have died only a bit later? Once his child was established as ruler, once Krateros had pushed out Antipatros? He did not for a moment doubt Nearkhos's suspicion that Iollas and Kassandros worked on their father's behalf to poison the King.

But he wished that these generals would just get along. Were they not after the same thing? Did they not want the continued existence of the Argead dynasty with Olympias and Rhoxana presiding over it? He did not see any ambition in anyone else's eyes to name themselves basileus over Alexandros's child, or even over Arridaios. As far as he could tell, they were jockeying to become regent.

And for some, not even that. Ptolemaios, he knew, was focused on securing wealthy Egypt. Lysimachos wanted Thrace. Others had their own regions they wished to secure. And outside of the somatophylakes, Perseus did not know. He had not known Antipatros for many years now, but he knew Antipatros's sons Iollas and Kassandros and disliked both. Antipatros ruled over Makedonia and the rest of Europe. The old man had been antagonistic towards Alexandros since the invasion of Persia. He knew his duty, however, and Perseus expected Antipatros to back Alexandros's trueborn son.

The other major wildcard was Krateros. While he respected the man as a warrior and as a staunch loyalist of the King, he wondered how far those loyalties would hold with Rhoxana's child on the throne. He did not know what Krateros wanted, however. The reports earlier in the summer said that the old general had stopped in Kilikia. The reports worried Ptolemaios. They now worried Perseus too. With 10,000 argyraspides, the elite troops of Alexandros's conquering armies, under his command, Krateros had the ability to take on a force far stronger than his own, perhaps even those whose numbers doubled his own.

Ptolemaios had pulled him aside as the officers walked past their fallen King. 'We need to talk tomorrow. About what, you already know.' Perseus had been in discussions with the senior officer for the whole week leading up to the King's death.

The King's death. It didn't feel real, that Alexandros was really gone. They had all suspected it for a few days now, but when it really happened, when he really left them for Elysion pedion, Perseus could not believe it. His whole world was directionless, adrift at sea without any hope of rescue. He could not begin to imagine how Rhoxana felt. As much as he tried to reassure her that it would all work out for her and her child, even he could not stomach that lie. Her husband's body was not yet cold and his most trusted friends and generals had split themselves down the middle.

Not that he was free from blame. When there was a suspicion that Alexandros could not overcome this illness, he and Ptolemaios had immediately put their heads together to keep Alexandros's legacy alive. They made enemies out of friends, rivals out of comrades. There was not a hint of doubt amongst any of them that war was a matter of when not if.

All of this was going through his head as he prepared to fight the first battles of this war. Behind him, his page, Ethandros, strapped him into his cuirass. The muscle plate was gilded with silver, engraved with intricate designs throughout the chest and back. A similarly gilded pteruges was strapped around his waist already. The page, a young boy from Boeotia, was fifteen years of age, and very obedient. Also quiet. Perseus disliked that he couldn't much get the young boy to speak, but he respected the boy's space. Ethandros had his skills outside of the tongue. What he had learned about the boy's combat prowess he liked.

Whereas the majority of the Makedonian army consisted of the heavy hypaspists, hoplites, and phalangites, Perseus much preferred the more maneuverable peltasts. When fighting the Scythians, Perseus realized their worth too. Mobility was Perseus's greatest weapon. Therefore he quite liked the sly style Ethandros brought to the table, constantly trying to dodge and flank his opponents. Luckily, the boy had never seen true battle, but in the fighting pits he was brilliant. Perseus had nearly lost to him once.

The young page handed Perseus his doru. The regular weapon for the somatophylakes when they were in actual bodyguard mode, it was also one of Perseus's more favored weapons. His other weapons hung in a wardrobe across from his bed. Two kopis daggers, a set of throwing knives, and a xiphos short sword sat next to his pelte shield. Today he would take in his left arm a hoplon shield, the massive wooden frame concealing almost his whole body.

But before he took the shield, Perseus sat his Korinthian helmet, gilded with silver and carved with the most detailed of designs, upon his head. While the helmet restricted his visibility in open combat, it was the required ceremonial helmet. Once it was firmly rested, Perseus took his hoplon from Ethandros. He smiled at the young page, who only bowed his head, a slight blush along his cheeks.

"How do I look?"

"Imposing."

Perseus looked back at the boy. His head remained bowed, his eyes glued to the floor. Perseus found this behavior odd. A few of the Persians had exhibited such behavior to Alexandros during his stay in Babylon, but Perseus was no Alexandros. And Ethandros had never exhibited such behavior to Perseus or even to Alexandros. Come to think of it Perseus was unsure if his page had ever met the King.

"You don't have to act like that around me. Come now," Perseus placed his arm around the boy's shoulders. He still stared at the ground. Perseus frowned. "You don't have to act like that. It's a Persian way of greeting a King. And I am no King. You can meet my eyes."

Finally, Ethandros looked up at him. His brown eyes exhibited something close to fear, a fear Perseus had not seen even during the fiercest fighting at the pits.

"Ethandros, what's wrong? You look as though Ares himself stands before you? Is it the helmet?" He tried to jest.

Ethandros shook his head but said nothing. Perseus was truly worried. His tight-lipped page was normally this taciturn, but never in the face of his questions or with such fear attached.

"Ethandros, you have to tell me what's going on, otherwise I cannot help you!" Perseus added emphasis at the end of the sentence, trying to drag the fear out of his page.

"The men around the city… the soldiers." Ethandros shifted his feet. "They were saying things about you."

"What things?" Perseus asked as his body froze up. Mutterings among the troops were never good, especially not now. The last time such things happened, Alexandros himself had faced revolt. If there were stirrings in the army, it needed to be faced down. Quickly too, before the coming meeting began.

"They were talking about you… and about the new king."

"What were they saying? I need details Ethandros."

"I-it was about the succession. I overheard some of the men saying that you should lead—"

Ethandros seemed to recognize the expression on Perseus's face as something dangerous. He shut his mouth quickly and his head shot back down to look at the floor. Though Ethandros was tall for his age, Perseus was taller. The older man sat down on his bed, keeping one hand on Ethandros's shoulder. Their heads were at the same level. Both his doru and hoplon shield were forgotten on the ground, Perseus's Korinthian helm pushed up above his head.

"Ethandros, I'm not going to get upset at you for repeating what others have said. Just… relay what they said to me, okay?"

"I hadn't, well, I didn't really know what happened in Malli."

Now it was Perseus's turn to freeze up. Of course, some of them were talking about that. In a time like this, that was what they turned to? None of them were there to witness what had happened inside that city. Even those who were there did not fully understand what happened. Hades himself! Perseus didn't know what had happened.

His grip was too tight on the boy, Perseus realized once he saw Ethandros wince. Hastily he removed his hand, setting it down on his lap.

"I apologize, that wasn't directed at you. I…"

Ethandros rubbed his shoulder, eyes trained on the ground as they had been all day. If he had heard some version — no doubt twisted beyond comparison to the original — of what had happened that day, no wonder the boy was afraid. Perseus had constant nightmares of that day. He was only happy that the King was not conscious, and had thus missed out on the horrific episode. When he had heard what had happened, Alexandros was more than understanding about the whole affair. It may have been because he did not witness it himself, but Alexandros comforted the young Perseus as he struggled to retain his sanity.

He missed his King. Not just because he would know what to do in this situation, but also due to the simple fact that if he were still alive none of them would be in this situation.

"Was Malli all they talked about? If so, well, I am in no state to answer any questions on that subject now."

Ethandros was smart enough to understand. "No, no sir. They also talked about… I mean, it relates to Malli, but we-we don't have to talk about it - Malli - to talk about what they said."

It scared him, how much this boy, perhaps ten to twelve years his younger, was afraid of him. Perseus had heard the men talking about Malli before and had seen the different level of respect they accord to him after it, but he never assumed it could lead to fear.

"They said that you were a demigod, like Alexandros. I heard one of the men say that they thought you were… you were the obvious choice to lead. Everyone else seemed to agree with him."

"Lead? Lead what?"

"Lead the empire."

His page's words repeated themselves over and over again in his mind until he could hear nothing else. The words echoed, sped around his head, pounded against the walls of his mind. Alexandros's empire… Alexandros's army…

Perseus shook his head. No, it was a few soldiers discussing a probability, not a certainty. It was not his empire to rule. Although Perdikkas claimed himself regent, it should be Ptolemaios in his place. Or, at the very least, Ptolemaios deserved a say. Perseus wondered if the King knew the shithole he was leaving them all behind in. Knowing him, probably.

"Well, as much as I appreciate their… trust… I cannot take them up on their offer." Perseus tried to make the last part lighter, as if he was turning down an invitation to a symposium. His page, however, showed no reaction to his — terribly lame — attempt at humor. His face was strained, his eyebrows scrunched together, his mind deep in thought. Perseus gazed upon the boy a bit. His skin, naturally pale, had seen some browning in the Babylonian heat. His bowed head only showed Perseus the curly brown hair that rested on its top.

With a sigh, Perseus pushed himself up from the bed. His hand wrapped around the doru again, his left hand picking up the hoplon. The weight of the spear, he was ashamed to say, felt reassuring in his hands. Though he had held the front line with a sarissa and pelte, the doru or a xiphos or kopis always felt better in his hands. He was an individual fighter more so than a foot soldier.

"Come along now," Perseus began to make his way through his room to his doorway. His head looked back over his shoulder, finding Ethandros stuck in his previous position. "We can't be late for this. It wouldn't look good at all."

That struck the page from his stupor. The young boy scurried to drop into place behind Perseus, following the older soldier as he continued his march to the throne room.

"Why not?"

"Hmm?"

"I mean… why not lead?"

A good question for a boy to ask, but the way Ethandros asked the question made him groan. Just like everyone else in this gods-forsaken city, the boy had tasted power, absolute power. No doubt the boy had dreamed of it himself too.

"Because power, it corrupts. And the power held here… it is too great to leave no mark on man. I wish to remain unblemished."

"So you'll leave Babylon?"

He would, but those plans were not yet finalized. "We will, in time. Don't let the power get to your head, either."

"What about the, um… what about the power you possess?"

Perseus stopped cold. He spun on his heel, his eyes harsh and wild. The boy had overstepped his bounds. Had he not already told him not to prod into that fucking mess? He told Ethandros as much; the reprimand was too harsh, for his page immediately slunk back in fear. Perseus sighed, rubbing his temple with the hand that also held his hoplon.

"I am sorry, Ethandros. But that is not something I will discuss. Ever. With you, or with anyone. Not even Ptolemaios or the King has heard much. Don't take it personally. Okay?"

The boy quickly nodded. Thus they resumed their journey back down the halls of power, neither of them speaking a word.

THE SIGNET-BEARER

A ghost presided over their meeting.

Whether it was Alexandros's or Nebuchadnezzar's, Perdikkas could not tell. The air was unusually chilly for a Babylonian summer day and the room gave off an odd combination of extreme anger and extreme melancholy.

On the Throne sat the King's armor, robes, and diadem. Leaned against the decorated chair, lofted above all others, were his sarissa, pelte, and xiphos. A warrior in life and in death. The signet-ring, which had been placed in Perdikkas's hand in the King's last moments, still sat in Perdikkas's palm. The khilliakchos was unable to sleep the night before and had taken to staring at the ring for hours. He had memorized every detail.

Perdikkas now sat in his chair to the right of the vacant Throne. To his right sat Leonnatos, to whose right sat Peithon, to whose right sat Aristonous. Opposite them, to the left of Alexandros's now-empty throne, sat Ptolemaios, Perseus, and Lysimachos. Behind Ptolemaios's faction stood Nearkhos the Navarkhos. Behind Perdikkas's faction stood Eumenes the Greek. Battle lines had been drawn.

In front of the assembled senior officers stood an ekklesia of more junior officers. Meleagros, a favorite of the pezhetairoi but not of the fallen King, stood in the front, next to other, less notable hipparkhoi and taxiarkhoi. His trusted commanders, Seleukos and Antigenes, stood with Meleagros. Hopefully, the infantry would defend him, when the time soon came, against the pushback of his newfound-rivals. His trust in Ptolemaios had withered down to dirt in the days following Alexandros's injury at Malli and had never recovered. Perdikkas had no faith — though nor did any of the other somatophylakes — in Antipatros or Krateros either. Then there was the threat of Antigonos in Asia Minor still, and the always-constant but suddenly more so danger of rebellion throughout the empire. But Perdikkas had faith in himself to succeed. He had studied under Alexandros for a long time and felt as though he knew what had made the Great King great.

The Great King who now rested in between his side and Ptolemaios's side. His body, still in pristine form and without the blemish yet of death, laid on a bed of flowers picked by the grieving Rhoxana. Though, weren't they all still grieving? Laying one of his dearest friends to rest, in full view of everyone, was hard. But Perdikkas knew the impact it would make.

In fact, Perdikkas saw the impact it had on young Perseus immediately upon his arrival. His eyes had widened, his lower jaw had slumped down. There were rumors, less frequent since the Indian campaign, that the reason Alexandros had been so inclined to promote Perseus was that the King was in love with the then-teenaged soldier. It would have explained why Hephaistion had such a one-sided rivalry with the young officer. Currently, Perdikkas was unsure what to make of the boy. He was on Ptolemaios's side, without a doubt, but he did not seem much of a partisan. The coming days would make his position more clear, Perdikkas believed.

"The matter before us is of the utmost importance, as you all undoubtedly know." Perdikkas rose from his chair, walking over to Alexandros's body. His hand ran along the sides of the pedestal the King rested on. "We must choose a successor, for the King left us without his own choice."

His eyes were glued to Alexandros's as he spoke; the King's eyes, both the brown and blue ones, were forever more closed. No, Perdikkas thought to himself, he could not think of that right now. A lone tear trailed down his cheek, forcing Perdikkas to wrench his eyes away from the horrific sight. He restarted his speech with a loud, protruding voice, with his eyes darting around the room, catching the eyes for a split second of one officer then another the next. He kept his eyes steered forward, not for a moment glancing behind him towards the rest of the somatophylakes. They were not his priority; those that had been convinced were of no threat and those that had not been were inconvincible.

"But he did leave us with an heir, although not yet born. To ensure that our empire, our empire that we all bled for, lost friends for, lost families for, survives, we must wait for his Queen to give birth. In less than a month we are told she will give birth, and we shall wait until then and do our best to ensure the child's survival. If the child survives and we determine the child's gender to be male, then we have ourselves a king. We must pray to the gods for a healthy boy."

"In the meantime, we have to make sure this empire holds until we can crown a new King." Perdikkas looked behind him to identify the voice. His supporter, Aristonous, was making his move. Aristonous stood up, his moves choreographed to perfection. Perdikkas acted surprised when Aristonous began to speak. He shuffled back to his own seat to let his fellow somatophylax speak on his behalf. "We have to follow someone! We cannot just chase around like a headless chicken. Our king agreed. He knew he needed an heir, and didn't have one. So he gave his signet ring to the man he knew could lead. Perdikkas!"

The man in question gazed upon the assembled faces of his comrades. There were some murmurings and nodding heads. A good sign. In the corner of his eye, Perdikkas caught Ptolemaios with a blank expression on his face, and Perseus rolling his eyes. Hypocrites, for Perdikkas did not for a moment doubt the duo had their own theatrics planned.

"We know Perdikkas too! A good man, a good general. Since the beginning, he fought with Alexandros! Since the beginning, he served with distinction! He is a man I know I can follow and trust. Tell me he is not a man you cannot follow and trust as well. Alexandros trusted him!"

"It is true," Perdikkas began. He stood from the right-hand seat. He began subdued, emphasizing humility. "Alexandros gave me his signet-ring—" Perdikkas brandished the ring up high, in between his pointer and thumb, so that all assembled, even those behind him, might see it "—and I take it with the greatest humility. If you all so wish, I will use it, to the height of my abilities, and with the blood you and your men have shed deeply seated in my mind. It is a trial that I will not shy away from, a trial given by the gods themselves. It is not by Tyche's favor that I have come across this ring, but by Ares's and Athena's, by Zeus's and Hera's! We stand at a crossroads, my companions, and may the gods bless us with the right path."

With his speech finished, Perdikkas took a moment to recover his breath. Speaking was never something he had had to do much of, and if he had it was not for political reasons. For so long it was Hephaistion who had spoken if Alexandros wanted someone else to speak, and after him, the King liked it when Perseus spoke. Perdikkas, though he was made the khilliarkhos after Hephaistion, never spoke much unless it was before battles.

Apparently, that was an issue, for very few of the taxiarkhoi or pentakarkhoi were nodding along with the hipparkhoi. Most of the infantry officers instead were shaking their heads or muttering amongst themselves about who-knew-what.

"We are not short on heirs, Perdikkas." The signet-bearer turned around to face the voice. Nearkhos, the navarkhos and a Greek, had addressed him. Though Perdikkas respected the man's devotion to Alexandros and his naval prowess, he was still a Greek-speaking out of turn. "Just legitimate ones. The King has a son! Herakles, born of a half-Greek mother and a Makedonian father! A far more acceptable ruler than one half-Persian, would you all not agree? Legitimize him, make him king. The boy will be of age in far less time than Rhoxana's child will be ready to rule without a regent."

Perdikkas glared at the Greek for his not-so-subtle attack upon his authority. A retort was notched on his lips, ready to let loose, but Perdikkas was not the only one Nearchos had offended. Perseus turned in his chair to gaze upon the naval officer, a hard look in his eyes.

"Which would make you brother-in-law to the King, yes? Quite convenient for you, wouldn't you agree old friend?"

Nearchos put up his hands, slinking back from the counter-attack. Far less effective on land than at sea, Perdikkas chuckled internally.

"It was worth a shot," the Greek tried to joke. A few grunts of laughter were heard around the room at Nearchos's attempt to get the best out of a bad situation. Perseus, satisfied, turned his back on the sailor. His defense of Rhoxana's child was not surprising, but nonetheless Perdikkas knew the two had some room to work together on.

"Herakles is a bastard, and by my accounts, Rhoxana's baby will be too!"

Perdikkas's head snapped to his left to find that Meleagros had separated himself from the pack of officers. The man had somehow managed to disparage Alexandros and lived to tell the tale, and with Alexandros dead, Perdikkas assumed, Meleagros wanted his limelight. Not everyone was too heartbroken over the King's death.

"Do you all really think our armies will march behind the banner of a half-Persian boy? Do you think that they will march into Arabia on his behalf when we still haven't been able to march back home?"

Perseus stood from his chair, walking towards Meleagros. Since Perdikkas was in his path, the signet-bearer moved to the side. It was best to let these two duke it out before he swooped in. The enemy of your enemy was still your enemy.

"Yes, tell me how well it went the last time the King tried to send us home? Did we listen? No, we whined and bitched until he was forced to talk to only Persians. Come now Meleagros, don't be a fucking fool." Perseus's voice was calm, cool, and dangerous. Perdikkas had seen him act the same way twice before, once towards Kleitos the Black and once towards a soldier who had spoken out against Alexandros. Less than an hour after both encounters the men were dead. "Who do you wish to lead instead of Alexandros's trueborn son?"

As Perseus got into Meleagros's face, and even though Perseus stood a head above the infantry general, the older man stood his ground. Perdikkas applauded the man's bravery, for not many were able to stand toe-to-toe with the Demon of India. The two men had been rivals for half a decade, as Perseus not only continued to be promoted but had become one of the King's closest friends. This was just one of many headbutts the two had had. Meleagros opened his mouth to reply, though the room knew whom he would choose.

"Arridaios."

"Arridaios?" Ptolemaios had spoken, which Perdikkas knew without having to turn around. His eye twitched when he heard the imperious man speak. His voice, so officious and condescending at times, irritated Perdikkas to no end. "Arridaios is an invalid at best. He has the mindset of a child—"

"—and has been the rightful king of Makedonia since his birth!" Meleagros boldly interrupted Ptolemaios, stepping away from the other man's deputy to face Ptolemaios. It wasn't just the interruption that was bold, but the words too. Arridaios was Alexandros's younger half-brother, an imbecile, but was born to full Makedonian parents. In many people's eyes, that was apparently enough to raise Arrhidaios above Alexandros.

These words would have meant instant death if the King was alive, as they had meant for Kleitos the Black, but seeing as the King was dead, no one had the power to enforce their ban. Still, everyone was shocked.

The assembled officers stared, agape, at the brash infantryman. The somatophylakes, though they had expected the army to support Arridaios originally, had not suspected such unorthodox views from the army. Perdikkas could hear them shifting uncomfortably in their seats. He too was uncomfortable. He knew he had no power to do so at the moment, but by Dike he wished he could bring swift and inescapable justice upon this shame of a man.

Meleagros himself realized that he had overstepped his bounds, for he quickly backtracked. The horror at his own words was written across his face, so Perdikkas felt as if he had not truly meant them. Instead, he probably said them in a fit of rage. This line of thinking allowed Perdikkas's head to cool, and to allow for rational thought to take over once more.

"I mean, he could have been. And should he not now? By law he is the heir!"

The infantryman's voice was quieter than before and far timider. He had overplayed his hand but did not want to turn victory into defeat. Luckily for him, his fellow pezhetairoi murmured their consent, and all was good for Meleagros. This, in turn, meant that nothing was good for the somatophylakes. They had the hipparchoi on their side, but not much else.

"A useless heir who will require a regent for life," Ptolemaios replied. His earlier condescension was gone, replaced by a cool tone. Unlike his ally, Ptolemaios held no emotion in his voice, only his own unmistakable brand of rationality. "And even Rhoxana's child — I pray to the gods it is a healthy boy — will require a regent too, for at least a dozen-odd years! And what power will this regent have?"

Perseus had stepped out of the way but had not taken his seat as Perdikkas had done during the fight between Perseus and Meleagros. Instead, he stood behind Ptolemaios, his hand on his doru. Ptolemaios had the stage.

"And by what authority should this regent rule? A ring of metal? That was not all that was passed between us and the king in his final moments." Ptolemaios paused for effect, trying to reassert not just his authority but to rebuild the authority of the rest of the senior officers. Last night, as the junior officers had barged into Alexandros's bedside, it became apparent that they had little trust in the somatophylakes any more. "He told us that his authority would go 'to the best'."

Ptolemaios gazed around the room. "The best of us, but we were all equals. Is the message not clear? It goes not to one of us above the other," he said gesturing behind him, "nor to us above you. It goes to us all, to vote on. Are we not peers in our campaigns, in the love we had for our king? We have different opinions, and our king respected that. Let us now respect him. Form a council to rule, made up of the somatophylakes, hetairoi, and the pezhetairoi. A council to create the best ideas, to lead Alexandros's empire not just in the ideal of one vaguely appointed man, but in the ideals of many."

"You sound like Demosthenes. Should we give the common people a vote too? Maybe the women? What about the dogs? Oh! And don't forget about the horses!"

The assembled officers laughed at Leonnatos's well-timed joke. Perdikkas was sure he would have to thank the man later. Ptolemaios was an idealist not unlike the King. That idealism was what had lost him the momentum in India, Perdikkas believed. A belief that had never been voiced but was nonetheless right.

"Did I say anything about the women and the dogs, Leonnatos?" Ptolemaios looked back at this fellow somatophylax for a moment before turning back to the assembled officers. Perseus stepped forward, however, and stole the stage for a moment. Ptolemaios might be content to continue on and ignore pompous Leonnatos, but Perseus didn't take slights against friends lightly.

"Perhaps you yourself wish to be the regent Leonnatos? Or, dare I say it, the king? If I flip my hair back like the king can I too rule? Though I'm not half as pretty as you, unfortunately. You all know what?" Perseus threw out his arms, a sly smile adorning his, admittedly gorgeous face. "Let's make you satrap of Athens — Alkibiades the Second!"

At this point, the glorious speeches Perdikkas had dreamed would come about had yet to materialize. The whole assembly had turned into a cat-fight yet with epic consequences. He had thought it would be easier than this, with the ring in his hand, to control just the officers. A headache was forming already.

Leonnatos looked to retort, since no one wanted their opponent to get in the last word. But Ptolemaios was already getting back to his vainglorious speech on power-sharing. It wasn't even his power to give, it was Perdikkas's! The thrice-damned fool.

"I offered to give you power, Leonnatos. To give all of us power. Not as if we were Athens, but as Makedonians. We who conquered the world! Who wiped out Persia! Who defeated elephants and camels and snakes! Tell me this — did we do that blindly following Alexandros, or did he give us all a say? Did he not turn around from his conquests because we said no? Did he not consult us when he drew up his invasion plans? He did not conquer the world alone, he did so with our help. And with our help his child will rule an empire even greater than his father!"

The hipparkhoi and some taxiarkhoi, those who might have gotten promotions to hipparkhoi in the advent of an invasion of Arabia, pounded their spears. The rest would not be so easily convinced to give up one position for another so quickly.

"And you will all help, of course." Perdikkas stood from his chair, moving to center stage. Unlike Ptolemaios, he needed no pretty-boy deputy. The two men, however, had the dignity to sit down once he stood. "Ptolemaios brings up a good point. This is such a difficult empire to rule." He took a pause for effect. "I cannot do it alone.

"I will appoint Krateros and Antipatros rule of Europe. And as for Asia, Leonnatos and I will, with your input, run this vast continent. I will still serve as overall regent, as Alexandros intended—" he brandished the ring once more "—and if Rhoxana gives us a healthy male heir, once he comes of age the boy will be King!"

Perdikkas glanced over at Ptolemaios. His longtime rival was furious, to Perdikkas's great delight. Oh, he was absolutely giddy at Ptolemaios's bright red face, looking like a Persian gown. Ptolemaios had thought he had played his trump card, but the man had forgotten whose authority he was dishing out.

Quickly, before anyone had time to object, Perdikkas moved to deal out orders. His men would deal with the cavalry, who would be by-and-large on his side, while he would order Meleagros to deal with the infantry. Though Meleagros would be upset at his failure to secure Arridaios, Perdikkas did not think the officer truly believed that imbecile could run Alexandros's holdings. They were just some things that needed to be said in order to gain the support of the army; Meleagros could at least tell his fellow soldiers he had tried. It left out Perseus even though Perseus outranked Meleagros; this was, of course, by design. His comrade had made it very clear he was with Ptolemaios on this one.

"Leonnatos, Aristonous — inform the cavalry of the developments. Meleagros, talk to the infantry, convince them of this path, the right path."

His orders were followed with shock precision by his loyal men, but Meleagros held fast. As Leonnatos and Aristonous gathered their gear and prepared to leave the room, Meleagros stepped forward once more.

"Have we agreed to this? Have we voted on this?" He looked about the room of officers, officers whose ancient duty it was to choose a new king of Makedonia. A duty Perdikkas hoped they had forgotten over the many years away from their homeland. "It is the army's duty, after all, King Perdikkas, to confirm their King. Not yours."

As Meleagros spoke, he made his way up to the stage to confront Perdikkas. Once more, he prepared for a fight. This day had barely begun and already he was exhausted. The fact that he had not slept the night before was not much of a boon to his health either. Any more confrontations and Perdikkas believed he might as well just curl up and die.

But he would not, and he could not. There was too much at stake for him to do that. All of Alexandros's empire lay in his palm. If he could just tighten his grip a bit more, gain a few more loyalists, he would own it.

Perdikkas gazed back at the ekklesia. His men were thumping spears on the ground, which was a good sign. He turned to glance at his loyalist in the elite corps. They nodded at him. He had it. He could taste the power. Taking a deep breath, Perdikkas began to speak for what he hoped was the last time today.

"Then vote! Make your choice my comrades in arms. Do you support Meleagros and Arridaios? Or myself and our council?" Intentionally, he had left out Ptolemaios's proposal, posing as if he had reconciled with Ptolemaios, if only just to rile the older man up.

"Meleagros?" Eumenes question the assembly. Perdikkas held his breath as the men voted. He felt his heart rate increase and a bead of sweat formed on his brow. This was it.

At once, the men beat their spears to their shields. A few men spoke 'yay's, but overall, the officers had taken Perdikkas's side, allowing him to let go of the breath he was holding. It was over. Without even having to wait for the vote on his proposal, he knew he had won.

"Perdikkas?" the Karian asked. This time, he got the opposite response. The yays had the majority, and very few spears met shields.

"Perdikkas's proposal has the yays." The Karian continued. Perdikkas moved back into the center of the stage. He had the power now, not Perseus, not Nearchos, not Meleagros, and by the gods not Ptolemaios. Once again he relayed his orders. When they were this time obeyed without hesitation, Perdikkas was so happy he failed to see the look of disdain painted across Meleagros's face.

The officers picked up their gear from where they had laid it, mostly at their own side. Then the roughly hundred or so assembled men filed out the doors. The somatophylakes, sitting above the rest, waited for the procession to disband.

Once they had exited and the doors had closed, Perseus sprung to his feet. Leaving his doru and hoplon behind, he stormed over to where Perdikkas was standing, still reveling in his victory. Not ready for the sudden advance, Perdikkas stumbled backwards in shock.

"Are you a fucking idiot?!" Perseus yanked Perdikkas forward by the collar of his armor. The younger man was far stronger and far more agile than Perdikkas, something he had learned through various spars with his fellow bodyguard, leaving Perdikkas with little ability to move out of the grasp of his hand. Perdikkas stuttered, not expecting Perseus, of all people, to care so much about his proposal losing out. He quickly regained his cool, sliding into statesman mode even from this awkward position.

"I rolled your proposal into my own! A unified fro—"

Perseus rolled his eyes at the khilliarkhos. "No, you fool, you complete fool!" He let Perdikkas go, taking a few steps back. Perdikkas took a deep breath, then stood up straight. He eyed the rest of the somatophylakes letting go of the grip they had found on their weapons, but none moved their hands away from them. "I'm not talking about the proposal! I'm talking about fucking Meleagros!"

Perseus paced in circles, throwing his hands up to the ceiling. "By Athena herself!" Perseus wheeled back on him and thrust out an accusatory finger. "You trust Meleagros? Meleagros?! The man who wanted Arridaios on the Throne?!"

"Meleagros is an infantry captain, he will corral the pezhetairoi to our side of the argument and from there we ca—"

"From there? We're lucky if you haven't doomed us to early graves! If you really think that Meleagros will 'corral' the army to Rhoxana's son, then you have another thing coming." With one last glare shot in his direction, Perseus broke eye contact and stormed over to his seat. He leaned down to pick up his doru and hoplon. "Something I won't be part of."

Perdikkas looked towards Ptolemaios, wondering what kind of trick he was playing now. Ptolemaios, however, looked just as confused as Perdikkas, not that the acting convinced Perdikkas of his innocence. Whatever was going on, Perdikkas hoped to put a stop to it before it became a threat.

"And just where do you think you're going? You still have a job, a very sacred job, might I add, as the King's bodyguard."

"I won't bodyguard a dead body. I love Alexandros, but you really want us to guard his corpse? From what, death?"

Even Perdikkas was about to let out a smile to that. It was so odd, being sudden rivals with men he had been friends with, had drank and fought with, had feasted and been injured with for so long. As much as he hated Ptolemaios, there was no denying that he had been friends with the man for longer than they were enemies.

Perseus was already walking down the steps and had brushed past even Ptolemaios when he continued. His back was towards them, the shining armor glinting as the morning sun poked through the windows.

"No, I'm going to fix the problem you created with the army."

And then the alarms went off in Perdikkas' head. They could try to pretend they were still friendly all that they wanted, but in the end, their friendship was dead. They were rivals now, true rivals, with too much to lose to let the others succeed. Any move by former friends could mean certain death, or worse.

"No, you will not! Did I say you could leave?"

Perseus turned on his heel, pivoting back to face his brothers. "I'm not asking for permission. I'm going to save your sorry ass, and I won't even ask for thanks. Besides," he continued, walking backwards, "what are you going to do?"

It was a good question, for Perseus knew that Perdikkas would not dare kill or maim Perseus. He already had enough issues with the army as it was. Besides, Perdikkas doubted that even all of the somatophylakes could take down Perseus. The boy was a beast in individual combat. Thus he was at a crossroads. Let Perseus go, and risk him drawing the army to Ptolemaios's side; or try to stop him, and risk death.

Perdikkas chose the former option. If worse came to worst, he still had the hetairoi behind him. So Perseus just walked out the doors, his 'fuck you' to Perdikkas's authority complete.

"What now?" Lysimachos asked. Everyone seemed a bit shaken, even Ptolemaios, by Perseus outburst.

"We wait. One of them will turn the army around."

"And if they don't?"

"I'll deal with that bridge once we get there."

So here we all are. Chapter II is one for the books and I am beyond excited to see what you all think. Please comment on characters, writing style, anything you think I can improve upon.

Some housekeeping notes:

I have a school trip this week, where I will be out in the woods from Wednesday till Sunday. I have orientation from Wednesday till Friday and classes start the following Monday (when Chapter III is supposed to be going up). I think I will get Chapter III up by that Monday but past that each chapter will probably take longer than two weeks to complete. I had wished to get more work done before I posted this story but my inspiration has always been fleeting.

Check Twitter for updates: LoverBo94183834

Striving to provide Southern hospitality the world over,

LoverBoi (yes, I'm a guy)