A/N Hephaestion is now into the first week of typhoid with high fever, loss of appetite, cough and headache. As this part progresses his symptoms will worsen until he gets too weak to carry on. Anyone interest I got the symptoms off . The story gets a little dark from now on so be warned!

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PART THREE

Chapter Seventeen

The fever has been very high this week so that sweat has poured off me like the melting snow from Mount Olympus. I have no appetite; I cough every time I try to speak and my head feels as if my neck can no longer support its weight.

And now I can feel the cramps in my gut getting worse, the pain grabbing me with no warning as if someone was trying to rip my innards out with a fruit knife. I know what this is; I've seen it a hundred, thousand times before – in India, in unclean camps. Some survive it; if I can get through the next few weeks I have a good chance but – I know I'm going to lose this fight. Alexander has now taken to staying with me all night; I'm well enough to be left during the day with only twenty or thirty visits!

But I will not finish this writing. I feel the weakness in my arm, the energy draining from me by the minute. I must try to get as much done as I can.

Where was I? Ah, yes – the Hindu Kush…

The campaign against Bessus took two years of guerrilla fighting and putting down small revolts he was fomenting in his wake – the man was so scared of Alexander he never gave us full battle.

To assist in this Alexander split the Companions into five hipparchies under the command of Cleitus, who got two, Ptolemy, one for himself and finally me. On top of my command I continued as the logistics officer and this part of my job now came under its biggest challenge yet – getting the army through the Hindu Kush.

I have never felt so cold in my life! Bessus was being sensible and destroying crops as he went but in such a spasmodic manner that my foraging parties always found enough. We didn't eat like kings, but we ate. What was worse was the strange sickness that befell us as we climbed ever higher into those mountains – listlessness, shortness of breath and loss of knowing where we were; the locals said it had something to do with us not being used to the air. I sent word of it to Aristotle and he wrote back that it was a common occurrence when climbing very high – he believed it had something to do with the brain not getting sufficient air to function. Whatever it was we had to keep an eagle eye out for men, and women and children, who were suffering with it. Alexander crossed that range more than once as he was constantly going up and down the line, joking with the men and hauling stragglers out of snow drifts who had decided all they wanted was to sleep.

We were no longer an army but a moving city containing everything it needed – slaves, cooks, doctors, engineers, architects, not to mention armourers, grooms and military engineers. The administration of the empire also went with us with an army of scribes and wagon upon wagon filled with the archive.

Finally we were over and onto the other side and heading for the river Oxus. Here Alexander gave Artabazus the satrapy of Bactria to hold whilst we moved on, after resting a few days, into the desert.

From freezing cold to raging heat, the contrast couldn't have been more exact. We travelled by night as the heat during the day was far worse than it had been in Egypt – or so it seemed. It was a nightmare. The joy felt at the sight of the Oxus was palpable throughout the whole army as a physical thing. I commandeered as many tents as I needed, had them sewn together and filled with hay and lashed together to form rafts. The crossing took five days. We lost a few men and animals but not as many as I feared.

Word was sent to us soon after that Bessus had been deposed and left for Alexander in a village some miles away. He did not go himself – the man was a regicide not a king and deserved no such honour. When Ptolemy brought him back he was flogged then handed to Oxathres, Darius' younger brother who had joined us, and was marched back to Ecbatana for trial in the Persian manner – it would mean mutilation, ears and nose cut off and being impaled on a cross. Some muttered that Alexander was becoming too Persianised but he was now Great King and had to deal with different races according to their own laws.

Our next objective was Samarkand and our first run in with the Scythians. In one explosive fight, Alexander got an arrow in his leg, splitting the bone, so he couldn't ride; he rode in a litter instead, carried by the infantry – until the cavalry started to get jealous and complained so he split the job between the two. He told me after one particularly gruelling day being carried around that the infantry were a lot better at it than the horse men, being more used to walking I suppose. But I saw in his face the pleasure he got from the knowledge that his men loved him so much they were prepared to fight over the honour of carrying him. Love feeds him more than food ever does.

We took Samarkand, garrisoned it and moved on to quell the local chieftains but they decided to attack the city in our rear and when the relief force was cut up, Alexander back tracked to raise the siege himself. At one point he was hit in the throat by a stone and couldn't speak for days though he did keep trying – we dealt with this in different ways; Bagoas would not take any verbal orders from him at all and only accepted them when asked in sign language or written down- very clever; I took the easier option and walked out the tent. The eunuch and I had come to a wary acceptance of the other, we tolerated each other and the boy did take care of him for me whilst I wasn't there – what else they did I kept firmly to the back of my mind and totally forgot at the reception I always received from Alexander when I returned from a mission, even if only for a few days. What ever bruising my heart had had it was clear now.

Then the Scythians appeared, horsemen of the plain – I swear by all the gods they were taunting us! I led a small force across the river, as did Alexander, but neither of us managed to bring them down – they disappeared into the mists like spirits; the Persians with us explained that none of their kings had ever been able to bring them to heel and this mollified my feelings of frustration somewhat but not Alexander. He hated defeat in any form. But the men were suffering, having only the water to drink and they were going down with diarrhoea. Just as we were turning to go back they appeared again – this time to parley. We sat down and came to the agreement he would leave them alone if they left our line of communication un-harmed – they agreed and we even went back with a small regiment of them to swell our ranks.

I can't recall the exact time or place but I know it was around here that Alexander decided something that was to cause a great deal of trouble and finally grief.

As Great King the Persians did obeisance to him, the prosknesis; the man approached the king, got down on his knees and bowed his forehead to the ground. I had seen this performed many times by our Persian allies and they did it with becoming grace – still the Macedonians, who bowed only to the gods, found it hilarious and openly laughed. Alexander decided this had to stop. He was king of all and he needed a way to bring the two sides together in a uniform salute of his position as king so that his place was clearly understood – to the Asians the king was above all; not so with us and it was our cursory attitude to him, calling him by name instead of 'your majesty' that shocked them to the core.

How could he get the Macedonians to bow to him at least once – then he could give them the Kiss of Kindred and they wouldn't have to do it any more. Well, good luck to you, I said, much to his annoyance. His first attempt was to try and get his divinity accepted as the son of Ammon – if they did that then they wouldn't mind bowing. Oh, how that didn't work! Mainly due to Callisthenes I might add standing up and giving a lecture on hubris. So he decided to try another tack, or at least asked me to think of one.

Of one thing I was sure it had to be only Macedonians, no Persians in sight to see this 'humiliation', and totally private. I talked him out of making it army wide and restricted to the Staff and Friends at a small supper party. For days before I spent hours talking to each individual man on how he needed to meld the Persians into our army and what would happen; every one of them agreed to it, putting the King before their own feelings for once – it would only be the once and in private, so they accepted. Even Callisthenes never murmured a word against it – which immediately worried me. I discussed this with Alexander and together we came up with a plan to deal with him when the time came, as I knew it would.

The party went very smoothly. Alexander and I had devised the ceremony ourselves which would lead to the proskynesis. A loving cup was brought in and the king drank from it; he then passed to me. Having drank to him I handed it back and rose from the couch to stand before him; I had been practising this for days (which was one of the reasons I chose to wear a Persian robe over my chiton, to save my blushes) and knelt down and bowed in one fluid motion before standing up and going to him to receive the Kiss – it was on the mouth which denoted I was now considered Kindred and need never bow again.

Every one of the officers there drank, came forward and bowed and received their Kiss. It was all going so smoothly, too smoothly; it was the turn of Callisthenes. As he approached our couch I said something to Alexander that made him turn to look at me instead of the old philosopher, as planned. When he turned back Callisthenes was standing before him waiting for his kiss – which was the point when one of the others ruined everything by crying out 'he never bowed so he shouldn't get a kiss!' However well a plan is set you can never account for everyone's actions – of course we knew he hadn't bowed; by distracting Alexander it took the sting out of Callisthenes action to wound but allowed the king the freedom to ignore the old fools insult. Not so now. He had to refuse the Kiss of Kindred and Callisthenes had won his point, saying loudly "So I go short of a kiss."

Alexander quietly dropped the whole idea of proskynesis.

Soon after this Artabazus sent him word that he wished to retire from the Bactrian satrapy – he was in his ninety's and 'feeling his age'. Alexander's replacement was to surprise many of us but none thought it would end in the tragedy it did.

He chose Cleitus. This would not be a temporary post but a permanent one – he was being retired and he knew it. Why was the question I asked myself? He was one of the best generals on the staff and the men doted on him; it was clear Alexander wanted him gone and this 'honour', he felt, would be the way to do it. Cleitus did not see it that way and nor did I. I knew why he was being abandoned in the middle of Asia – me.

We had made love again only once when I had returned to find my king with his eunuch. Since then we had become true friends much to Alexander's growing annoyance. I recalled his words to me, so many years ago, that he would never let me fall in love with anyone else; he succeeded. I was never in love with Circe but Cleitus was a different matter.

The day was the Feast day of Dionysus but Alexander, for some unknown reason, sacrificed to the Twins, Castor and Pollux instead. Then he called a feast. Cleitus had decided to sacrifice to Dionysus himself but before he had started he was called to the feast and he came away, unaware that the sheep he had planned to offer the god were following him. It was a bad omen and Alexander was genuinely worried for the man, ordering the seers to sacrifice immediately to appease the god. It didn't work. The water was bad here so we drank unwatered wine. The court poet sang of his feats by denigrating some officers who had erred at Samarkand and had to be saved by the king himself. As always when in his cups he liked to go over his feats again and again and started to say he even rivalled the Twins in his ability as a soldier.

And this was when Cleitus started in on him. He told him that to compare himself with a god was hubris in its worst form. Alexander retorted by recounting how he had raised the siege at Samarkand.

"Did you do it on your own, son of Zeus? If memory serves there was an army there with you!"

"I'm aware of that. No army has been given as much as mine! I keep little for myself."

"Yes – you give it away to your Asians and your sycophant friends! Do you listen to the army any more? Do you listen to your generals? No – one by one we'll be packed off to some god forsaken backwater in your 'empire' to rot."

"Bactria is one of the most important satrapies in the empire – some meagre retirement I'm giving you!"

"It was never your father's plan to become king of Asia…"

"I am not Philip."

"No – you're not."

This was getting out of hand and Ptolemy pulled at Cleitus' arm trying to make him either sit down or leave – but it was too late. Beside me Alexander stiffened as if struck.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It's his army that's won your battles for you; his training that taught these men, and you, how to fight. And how do you honour him? By denying he's even your father! By forcing on us all this – bullshit – that you are a son of a god!"

"Be careful Cleitus! You mock the gods!"

"I mock them? You insufferable boy, it is you that does so! Putting Asians in command of our men; aping their ways and bedding their king's cast-offs; trying to make Macedonians bow down before you! You make fun of brave men to glorify yourself and you say I mock the gods?"

"Leave Cleitus – while you can."

I signalled to Ptolemy and Leonnatus to get the man out of there; they dragged him away, still yelling, whilst I held onto Alexander – he was shaking, as if in an ague, with pure rage.

"Come away, my king. Leave this madness and let yourself calm down. Come away, now."

He let me lead him out. We had reached the guards at the door when to be my horror I saw Cleitus striding back towards us. Oh, which god was doing this? I frantically shook my head at him but he never saw me – only Alexander.

"What did the oracle at Siwah tell you Alexander? Did it confirm your mother was a whore as we've all suspected…"

With a cry that could have awoken the dead Alexander screamed in shear pain, grabbed a spear from the nearest guard and drove it with all his strength into Cleitus' heart. He fell dead at my feet, his last look at me not one of surprise but, almost joy – had he done this deliberately? I had no time for my own grief as an ear piercing keening wail assaulted them. Looking down I saw Alexander on his knees beside the fallen man, clawing at him, begging him to get up; then he realised it was a corpse at his feet and, pulling out the spear, started to turn it on himself. The guard, fully alert now and unmindful of disrespect, pushed his king back towards me so that he could grab the spear and take it out of reach.

With the help of Nearchus and Perdiccas I got him back to his tent. He was catatonic, in shock; I needed to break this and slapped him, once, twice, and three times so hard I broke the small finger on my left hand. It was also my way of letting out my anger at him for killing my – what? Yes, killing my lover. I could admit that now.

What he had done broke major laws in Macedon. As a king he had killed a man who was only asserting his Macedonian right to free speech. The man had saved his life at the Granicus and many other times; besides he had known him since a boy when Cleitus' sister was his nurse and he had often visited the nursery. All this he knew as he grieved. For three days he neither ate nor drank; he wouldn't talk and he ignored everyone who came to him, except for Bagoas who kept him clean and wet his cracked lips with water. He did more than I at first for I was grieving myself and angry at him. But when the fourth day came round with no change I began to fear I would lose both of them; that his mind was broken.

Talking to the Staff I had them convene an Army Council – they were all Macedonians; they recognised a death caused by a drunken brawl, it happened all the time; they returned a verdict of treason against Cleitus – it was the only way, they hoped, to get him over what was, though painful, a common enough occurrence.

I dismissed Bagoas, mainly to get some sleep, and took Alexander into my arms, sitting on the floor from which he would not get up.

"The army have condemned him, Alexander. You are exonerated of blame." No reaction. "It was the will of the gods – a madness brought on deliberately by Dionysus because you ignored his Feast day and sacrificed to the Twins. He brought the madness onto both you and Cleitus who had never finished his own sacrifice."

Finally I felt him stir and raise his head to look at me.

"Truly – they forgive me?"

"The men will always do that, Alexander. They love you, they need you; I need you."

"You – loved –him." He asked, his voice raw but calm.

"Yes."

"Can you ever forgive me, Phai? I was sending him away because I couldn't bear him near you… I never meant to kill him…"

"Ssh. I forgive you, my love. He is at peace now. He was a soldier – to put him in Bactria would have killed him anyway. We need you to be strong, my king. Now come, eat. There are still worlds out there to conquer."

TBC