Loving the King
If just he wasn't such a sweetheart. With his wide almond eyes and gorgeous smile and a face that could have been painted by the gods, it would be easy to be jealous of him. But the gods are cruel to me, and so they gave him the sweetest of natures, honest and true and entirely lovable. It's hard to force myself to hate him, and yet I do.
How can you not hate the one who stole your love?
I watch him look at Alexander when we're talking. Alexander doesn't notice, of course, he's too absorbed by the map he's scratched into the dust. He looks up to joke with me about old childhood tales, and I laugh and so does he, I tease him, and yet my eyes again and again move back to Bagoas sitting in a corner of the tent watching Alexander. And I know that when I've left, he'll walk up to my Alexander to whisper into his ear, and Alexander will smile and answer, and they'll go to bed.
It used to be me walking up to him late at night to bring him to bed. A long time ago, it seems. A life, a century, and eternity. Now he doesn't look at me with those eyes that he had reserved for me. Oh, don't fret, we're still the best of friends, but this special loving gleam he now reserves for Bagoas, it seems. The little eunuch we picked up along the way, who sneaked his way into Alexander's heart and who'll probably never leave it.
I thought he would at first. It was unusual for Alexander to be infatuated with someone, but then he's no longer a boy and things can happen, but I was sure I was still the center of his world. Now I'm not. And his marriage didn't help me get over Bagoas. He lost interest in her soon enough, eager to go on to reach the end of the world, and he left her behind, but he wouldn't leave Bagoas. No woman could be my rival, it seems, but a doe-eyed eunuch is.
I feel like I'm a figure in a tragedy. I wonder who wrote it. I wonder where it will end.
What ever happened to Patrokles and Achilles? What ever happened to the long evenings back in Macedon when he'd sit next to me, staring at the sky, wondering what they saw while we could only see so little of the world. Sometimes he used to rage and cry when he had fought with his father or his mother. Whatever went on with him, he always came to me. Never Ptolemy. Never a girl. Never anyone else. Me. Me alone. And I loved him for loving me so much.
Now I wonder what will happen if I die? He'll grieve, of course he will, but how much? Will I leave an empty space in his soul that nobody can fill up, or will he finally be able to live happily with Bagoas without noticing me glaring at him?
I know he notices my looks, and I know they make him sad. He'd like me and Bagoas to be friends, but how could I ever be friends with the would-be man that's taken my place in Alexander's bed and heart?
And yet, with Alexander I cannot be angry. Could you curse the sun, maybe? He is the sun of my life, and even if he burns me so that scars remain, I cannot help marvelling at his beauty and strength and glory. He's a son of gods alright, I have no doubt about that – if not in shape, then in spirit. He burns brighter to me than Helios ever could. His deeds are more marvellous to me than Herakles's ever could be. Aphrodite cannot be more beautiful than him, nor Hephaistos more skilful. Artemis would love to go hunting with him, I suppose, finding him even to her own great skills.
I've always wondered what he was seeing in me, this lanky redhead, except someone who knew him before he became the king of the world. But so did Ptolemy. So did others.
Maybe I'm just no longer important. Maybe I'm not part of the scheme the gods have in mind for him. Maybe a beautiful eunuch is more fitting as the great king's companion than someone like me. I'm not beautiful. I'm pretty good when it comes to fighting, and better when it comes to logistics, but the one thing I can do best seems to be irrelevant.
And that is loving Alexander
If just he wasn't such a sweetheart. With his wide almond eyes and gorgeous smile and a face that could have been painted by the gods, it would be easy to be jealous of him. But the gods are cruel to me, and so they gave him the sweetest of natures, honest and true and entirely lovable. It's hard to force myself to hate him, and yet I do.
How can you not hate the one who stole your love?
I watch him look at Alexander when we're talking. Alexander doesn't notice, of course, he's too absorbed by the map he's scratched into the dust. He looks up to joke with me about old childhood tales, and I laugh and so does he, I tease him, and yet my eyes again and again move back to Bagoas sitting in a corner of the tent watching Alexander. And I know that when I've left, he'll walk up to my Alexander to whisper into his ear, and Alexander will smile and answer, and they'll go to bed.
It used to be me walking up to him late at night to bring him to bed. A long time ago, it seems. A life, a century, and eternity. Now he doesn't look at me with those eyes that he had reserved for me. Oh, don't fret, we're still the best of friends, but this special loving gleam he now reserves for Bagoas, it seems. The little eunuch we picked up along the way, who sneaked his way into Alexander's heart and who'll probably never leave it.
I thought he would at first. It was unusual for Alexander to be infatuated with someone, but then he's no longer a boy and things can happen, but I was sure I was still the center of his world. Now I'm not. And his marriage didn't help me get over Bagoas. He lost interest in her soon enough, eager to go on to reach the end of the world, and he left her behind, but he wouldn't leave Bagoas. No woman could be my rival, it seems, but a doe-eyed eunuch is.
I feel like I'm a figure in a tragedy. I wonder who wrote it. I wonder where it will end.
What ever happened to Patrokles and Achilles? What ever happened to the long evenings back in Macedon when he'd sit next to me, staring at the sky, wondering what they saw while we could only see so little of the world. Sometimes he used to rage and cry when he had fought with his father or his mother. Whatever went on with him, he always came to me. Never Ptolemy. Never a girl. Never anyone else. Me. Me alone. And I loved him for loving me so much.
Now I wonder what will happen if I die? He'll grieve, of course he will, but how much? Will I leave an empty space in his soul that nobody can fill up, or will he finally be able to live happily with Bagoas without noticing me glaring at him?
I know he notices my looks, and I know they make him sad. He'd like me and Bagoas to be friends, but how could I ever be friends with the would-be man that's taken my place in Alexander's bed and heart?
And yet, with Alexander I cannot be angry. Could you curse the sun, maybe? He is the sun of my life, and even if he burns me so that scars remain, I cannot help marvelling at his beauty and strength and glory. He's a son of gods alright, I have no doubt about that – if not in shape, then in spirit. He burns brighter to me than Helios ever could. His deeds are more marvellous to me than Herakles's ever could be. Aphrodite cannot be more beautiful than him, nor Hephaistos more skilful. Artemis would love to go hunting with him, I suppose, finding him even to her own great skills.
I've always wondered what he was seeing in me, this lanky redhead, except someone who knew him before he became the king of the world. But so did Ptolemy. So did others.
Maybe I'm just no longer important. Maybe I'm not part of the scheme the gods have in mind for him. Maybe a beautiful eunuch is more fitting as the great king's companion than someone like me. I'm not beautiful. I'm pretty good when it comes to fighting, and better when it comes to logistics, but the one thing I can do best seems to be irrelevant.
And that is loving Alexander