Chapter Text
Crimson came from wriggling insects dried and crushed and processed by a calibre of artisan unlike any that would ever attend the servant girl. But, she thought, if she cut the crimson cloak up into pieces instead of wearing it outright, then perhaps she could escape suspicion. She imagined rich borders on her dress and a bright ribbon in her hair. With that, she waved her arms and whooped, stomped her feet and made herself large. She took the edge of the cloak and shook it until all the crows dispersed.
Gathering it from the grass, she was elated: nary a tear or stain in the soft fabric. The crows had inflicted little damage, and she would have ample cloth to work with, more than she could have hoped for. But happy ideas of gifting ribbons also to her friends died suddenly when she straightened the cloak to reveal the gold and white trim: Page's colors. She whipped it in irritation. She should have realized it sooner.
With no hope now of keeping her find for herself, the servant girl dutifully delivered it to her mistress, who saw that it was passed on to a palace steward, who ensured its return to the Page's dormitory, and the unwilling possession of a senior Page who knew at once whose it was. Nobody else would discard his cloak so irreverently in the palace grounds. Sighing, he signalled the search anew.
The sun plunged beneath the Bermion range and cast a pall over the troop of boys trudging out to the stables. They overturned hay and checked each stall, groaning and bickering. More still scattered across the courtyards and circled the palaistra, eyes peeled for a runaway Page fleeing between columns or crouched in the brush.
Ptolemaios was recruited to lead the search. He had graduated from the Pages two years prior, but his shadow was long and reliable. The oldest Pages dithered momentarily with anxiety before someone inevitably said Ptolemaios, and four others echoed it, echoed it all the way to the barracks until the man in question appeared for them and they they breathed fuller breaths again.
He stationed Harpalos on a balcony, watching the scene in case of a sprint from hiding spot to hiding spot. He sent Philotas to the woods, knowing he would be shouting Hephaistion! through cupped hands only until the canopy obscured him from view, and would then sit down to pop berries into his mouth. He had made his view plain enough after the last escape attempt—one so determined to leave simply would, despite anyone's efforts. He sent Perdikkas to the stables, counting on his haste, not because he had more care than Philotas but because he had been on watch for the day and would face the consequences if Hephaistion chose then to succeed.
Perdikkas had accompanied him back to the dormitories following a ball-game before supper. The mood had been cheerful. Though the youngest of the boys and thus less than average in build, Hephaistion was fast as a rabbit and resilient enough to have quickly become a sought-after teammate.
Perdikkas was hopeful the escape attempts were behind them, but he was still cautious to ask a guard to keep watch when Hephaistion begged off supper and said he wanted to head to sleep early. All seemed well when the Pages returned. No one had been seen leaving the dormitory since the rush of boys to the dining hall. A dark head lay burrowed in the sheets, shoulders drawn up, body a restful curve. But the discarded Page's cloak warranted suspicion, and they uncovered the bundle on the bed. They found only a kitchen boy who wore his hair long like Hephaistion, sheepish and awake already, clutching his one obol of payment.
Ptolemaios sat in discussion across from Euippus, crouched on stone steps. A steady rain of wood shavings buffeted him, and he occasionally paused to look up. "Careful with the knife there, Mongoose."
Alexander, who had made his place astride a bronze horse statue overlooking the gate to the dormitories, hummed his acknowledgement after some delay. He had already stained his figurine red with a few drops from his palm. He was working on the head.
He felt it beneath him to badger Ptolemaios for attention. But even at eleven years old, the prince was amply conscious of the value of his time, and had begun the promised lesson without his teacher. He was disdainful of the latest installment of a trend which had only worsened since Ptolemaios had made officer. Alexander had returned to Pella only that day, bursting with enthusiasm for reunions with friends, only to be sideswept by their preoccupations. He blew more shavings to the ground, hoping it would give Ptolemaios some incentive to hurry this new distraction that had taken hold of him now.
"Ptolemaios, how is my lion thus far?" he called down.
"It's very good."
Alexander pursed his lips in displeasure. "But Ptolemaios, you haven't seen."
"Yes I have, I see you very well from the corner of my eye."
"Really?" Alexander craned his neck out from behind that of the horse's and eyed the trajectory suspiciously. He held up a finger, the middle one of his right hand. When he received no reaction, he huffed and went back to shaping the muzzle.
Ptolemaios was more attentive to Nearkhos, who ran up then panting. "Nothing in the East yard," he said nervously. "And Kleitos saw us, he knows something is about. We should tell them."
Ptolemaios shook his head. "No, they'll have your hides for it. The boy will be somewhere here." He had already been delivered news of some reassurance minutes earlier: the Pages he had sent to the stables had found no horses unaccounted for. He was sure Hephaistion would not leave on foot—Amyntor's estate was nearly half a day away. "He must be lurking about, waiting till sunup to steal into the stables so he won't have to ride through the night."
"And if he's already run off, then the guards won't find him either. There's no good in telling them now," Euippus said.
If the news had to be delievered, they thought that the best way for the King to learn of it was by Amyntor's own letter informing him Hephaistion had arrived home. Nearkhos was more fearful of the drill master finding out that they had already known the fact and had hidden it from him. He reluctantly took a seat beside Euippus, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Ptolemaios looked over the sinking horizon and the far-off lamplights appearing one by one, orange smeared on stone. "Stay posted here. I will return soon."
Hephaistion coaxed the small flame best he could. It was short and sputtering, and he had gotten lamp oil dripped on his chiton for his efforts. He rearranged himself again, spreading his body on the floor so he could bring his face close to the scroll and read better in the bad light. His nestled against the curved wall for meagre comfort, because he had forgotten to bring a bedroll and had only a cloak for warmth.
"What are you reading?"
Hephaistion startled worse than he would have had the words been spoken normally. The whisper unnerved him, lodging like a chill in his spine. He scrambled to his feet, only to see that the intruder had not bothered—a shadowed face gazed up at him.
"How did you get here?"
The boy tilted his head quizzically. It was true he was standing in the only entryway, a hatch that opened up into the room. Hephaistion thought of shutting it on him, but it would do nothing to avert the disaster. "Who are you?" he asked instead.
"That is a good question," the boy said, taking leave to hoist himself up into the room proper. "I have the same for you. Are you the new Page?"
Hephaistion said that he was not, and turned to bury his nose back in his scroll, hoping the boy would leave him.
"What are you reading?" came again, closer this time. The boy was leaning over his shoulder. "Discourse is good for learning."
"I am here to read alone."
"Strange place to read." He swivelled his head around pointedly at the feeble illumination of Hephaistion's struggling lamp. They were in a storage room above the kitchens, wedged oddly between walls that had been at some time redone to reroute servant's tunnels and accesible only by an unobtrusive ladder. The room was built circularly like a wine bottle, the walls coiled on empty space. Remaining small seeds and ring impressions of jars patterned the floor, but the storage had been cleared out. "Have you seen anybody else around these parts?"
"I haven't."
"Yes, I thought not, but I had to ask." Hephaistion glared at him out of the corner of his eye. He was unable to decipher the tone. He had been made, he thought. But the boy continued, upbeat, "You are not from here, are you? Or I would know you."
"I am only exploring the palace. My father is a visiting officer."
"What for is he visiting Pella? How long ago did you arrive?"
"He has some business, I know not. And only this month. We shall be away before the week's end, so it won't be useful to make friends."
"Oh. Where are you from? Where are you going afterwards? What is your name?"
Hephaistion curled his hands in agitation. There was too much force in the stranger. It made Hephaistion feel diffuse in comparison, like all the weight had gone out of him. He swung to look at the boy full in the face and glowered as sharply as he could. "What is it that you want?"
The boy did not draw back. His eyes gleamed, earnest. "Only company. What are you reading?"
Hephaistion eyed him balefully, but placed the scroll in his hand. The boy squinted in the lamplight. "Oh, the Theogony. But this copy is bad." He waved away Hephaistion's indignation. "Yes, it is, it has recorded the Moerae incorrectly. It alleges that Nyx bore them."
"Of course. What is incorrect?"
The boy shook his head with a smile, as if reasoning with a child. "The Moerae are the daughters of Anankē. She presides over the Spindle, Platon writes. How else could the Fates weave? The Republic is the best of his work, you should know."
"I do know," Hephaistion said, petulance turning down his features despite himself. "But Platon was not intending to set down lineage."
"He did anyway, and rightly so. We are lucky that it is not in Anankē's nature to take offense. We so often neglect her. Have you read Timaeus?"
Hephaistion had not and was irritated to say it.
"It says that the best would be for man to enjoy a long life and acute sense, but the Demiurge could work only by Anankē's consent. She said we could not have both the strongest head and the wisest head. So from necessity the gods drove the compromise of our skull: bone, for some protection and longish life; and the magnificent flesh inside, now constrained and rendered fallible. The degree of our sense and the length of our lives—tell me, is that not the work of the mother of fate?"
The boy peered insistently at Hephaistion, who at once felt the urge to react with insight he did not have. While searching his mind for an answer, he recalled that he did not want to talk at all, and made that his response. He tugged the scroll out of the boy's grip and smoothed the papyrus. It was uncrumpled, for the boy's grip had been neat, but it gave Hephaistion something to do. He looked at the boy with deliberate nonchalance and found the desired effect.
The boy's face was scrunched in affront. Though his brightness dimmed, he persevered, "Well, why are you reading up here then?"
"Just passing the time." Hephaistion shrugged, and held back amusement when the boy jutted his chin up in dissatisfaction. Then a thought occurred to him, seeing that the opportunity had presented itself to learn of happenings he could not himself venture out to to see about. "Say, have you been about the frontmost courtyard today? Has the royal family returned from Aigai yet? I heard it might be today."
Instantly the boy was smiling again. "Yes, I have. They arrived after midday. Do you want to meet them?"
"No," Hephaistion said honestly. He did not intend it, but was happy to watch the boy's mouth turn at his answer. Evidently it had been a rhetorical question.
"What? Why not? You should want to."
"Have you met them?"
"Of course I have."
"Tell me then, what do you think of the prince?"
If he thought it an odd line of questioning, the boy did not make much of it. His face betrayed consternation for all of a moment before he slapped his thighs and promptly burst into laughter. Hephaistion stared at him, bewildered.
"Are you afraid of Arrhidaios? You too!" the boy gasped between peals.
"What? No!" Hephaistion objected hotly. He reached forward and flicked the boy's forehead as he petered out into chuckles. "What are you saying!"
"He is not possessed, or a demon or what have you. He only makes those faces because he is prone to fits sometimes, and he can be overexcitable, but you will not find anyone more unassuming in the entirety of Pella."
Hephaistion had heard of the lesser known son of Philippos and his afflictions, and stored this opinion away for the future should he need it. But it was not what he wanted to know. "I meant the prince Alexander."
The boy relaxed, pleased. "Ah, good. I do not like people who are afraid of Arrhidaios. It shows a certain weakness of mental fortitude, I think. But then why are you afraid of Alexander?"
"I am not!" Hephaistion snapped. "Who said anything about being afraid in the first place? I will not talk to you if you insist on conjuring ideas like this. You are just talking to yourself then."
The boy looked at him with alarm, though a grin still alighted his face, and waved his hands in protest. "Oa, don't be like that!" he placated. "I was guessing only. If you tell me nothing then I have to make my own guesses, do I not? Well, there is not much to say on Alexander. He is like you would expect a prince to be."
Hephaistion had to contain his disappointment. He had asked many of the Pages in the preceding days and they had all had interesting stories. Alas, there was nothing to it. He should not be asking in the first place. But he was very transparent, he thought with irritation, because the boy again saw his mood and added, "But I do know him some. I am Alekos, son of Menandros. Maybe your father knows mine?" When Hephaistion gave no sign of recognition, he continued, "Well, he is a cavalryman, so I grew up around the palace, and Alexander likes to be out and about. I see him often. Why do you ask?"
"Everyone should want to understand the future king, should they not?"
"But we don't know that he will be yet," Alekos dismissed, and Hephaistion doubted. "Besides, why would you want to understand the future king when you are not even interested enough in court to stay a Page?"
Hephaistion attempted half-heartedly to feign ignorance, but Alekos only wrinkled his nose at him. "If you were a Page trying to desert his duty, then, why do you suppose that could be?"
Hephaistion sighed. "You could leave such a Page to his own affairs, could you not?"
"Yes. I could," Alekos said meaningfully. "But what it is to me, it is that I had an appointment this evening. A wood carving lesson with the officer Ptolemaios, do you know him? Well, he knows of you, because he's out there in a fuss helping the Pages look for you, instead of helping me as he promised." Here a sulk draped his face. "You've got them all scared to death that the king will hang them or something such."
"But he wouldn't."
"Of course not. But he will be annoyed."
Hephaistion shrugged. "Fine. They will what they will. But if your only concern is that you have missed wood carving, of all things, I can show you instead. Have you a knife?"
When Hephaistion woke the next morning, a thin film of dust had settled on his eyelids. As they fluttered open, he sneezed, and someone made a vehement noise of insult. He sat up, rubbing his eyes. "What?"
"I got you a horse," said Alekos.
"You—I don't want a horse, why would I want a horse?"
"It is sunup. They were watching the stables, but I told them I wanted to go on a morning ride and they were not even suspicious. Come, I left him at the edge of the yard."
He could only barely make out the blurry face that faded farther into the dark, as if expecting him to follow. "I don't want to go on a morning ride," he said slowly to where it had been.
Alekos balked. "You're not going on a morning ride, you idiot! How were you planning to steal a horse from the stables?"
"I wasn't," Hephaistion murmured. He flattened back to the floor, pressing his cheek to the stone to chase the warmth he swore he had had only moments before. Alekos smacked him upside the head. "Ow! What?"
Grudgingly and with one eye still closed, Hephaistion gave in to the demand for explanation. He planned to stay camped until notice of his disappearance was sent to his mother who was staying in Athens. His father, if he simply rode to the estate, would send him straight back to the palace.
This seemed to irritate Alekos, who asked why he had not said so earlier, to which Hephaistion could only say that he had not expected Alekos to steal him a horse at sunup. He heard frustrated mumbling until the hatch creaked shut, and then retreated into sleep again.
When he next came to, he found on the floor a full plate and a wineskin. A circle of larger oil lamps had also appeared, properly illuminating the little room. Alekos, it seemed, was determined to be a friend.
Hephaistion had kept dried meats and apples in his pack, but the plate of fragrant fresh bread and honey-drizzled cheese was more welcome. He ate with an appetite he had thought to banish for the time being, focused on lasting with only what he had packed and what he could swipe from nearby kitchen storage, but which returned full force at the sight of the opportune meal. The light, too, made his head clearer and his nerves more solid. He drank deeply and admitted to himself he was grateful. For that, and because there was little else to occupy himself with while he waited, he picked up his blade and one of the larger chips of wood Alekos had discarded the night before.
The blade was thicker than the precise, flexible iron tip Alekos had with which Hephaistion had instructed him the night before, but he could make it work, even with an irregular carving surface. Fortunately for his new wayward friend, Hephaistion's father had taught him the technique years ago and he was not unskilled. Though it had been a long time, he thought, since he had last made use of it.
Hephaistion had begun his lesson by showing him basic cuts on a plain block, but Alekos had been impatient. He had produced a mottled two-pronged ball which he said was half a lion, and he wanted to learn how to carve a lion only. Acquiescing, Hephaistion had improved upon the mane of Alekos's figurine with delicate lines, and left him to attempt to recreate the pattern. He had never before touched a carving knife in his life, it was clear, but he was not half bad once he had something to emulate. They had sat together for what must have been a quarter of the night, Hephaistion reading as the sounds of thin scraping filled the background. By the time Alekos was yawning precariously, his work finally resembled something recognizable as the head of an animal. It amused Hephaistion to think that after so late a night, Alekos had woken up before the sun to conspire against stable boys for his benefit. For him, Hephaistion made a lion, or the major proportions of one at least, with detailing where each new texture began. Alekos could look to it as example for his project.
When he finished, he was at a loss for what to occupy himself with next. He found he had not accounted for how restless he would be, and it was only the first day. He thought it might take two until they sent for his mother, and another on top of that if he wanted to be sure the messenger could not easily be caught up to and recalled.
When it reached her, she would find it to be the disaster she had been waiting for. Perhaps she would even try to ride up to Pella herself, though Athens was too far for her to make it before he would inevitably be discovered in the palace. He held out a slight hope still, for he would have liked to see her, but his purpose would be accomplished nontheless. He needed her worry, her fearful and angry letters to strongarm his father into letting him quit the palace. He did not know King Philippos enough to gauge whether he would prevent it, but he thought it would be incentive enough in itself to be rid of a troublemaker.
From the start, Berenikē had been in a panic about it. He had thought it just another of her flights of anxiety, at first.
On a blinding sunlit morning, she had kissed him goodbye and told him to be careful. A sense of despair began in this pit of his stomach as he watched the carriage take her days away. He had always had a strong bond to his father, felt his reassurance like a balm in contrast to his mother's constant worries. He missed her dearly when she stayed in Athens, but he had never been discontent in his father's presence. But then, by the next day when his father packed his things and took him across the hills to the expanse of Pella, that pit in his stomach had seeped through his body, making his skin sharp, wracking his dreams. His father glowed with pride, heedless of his son's unease growing to match his mother's with every step they took towards the palace.
He read two more of the scrolls he had brought with him until his eyes grew tired. He was a good reader, a good student, but theology had not been his subject of choice until then. He feared the gods as much as anyone, maybe more, with the foreboding stories his mother wrapped him in, but he had never any felt singled out by them, nor had he worshipped them any differently from everyone else. He was an obedient knife-bearer for his father when they made sacrifices on auspicious days, prayed at the temple when his mother fell into her coughs and fevers, poured a drop for the gods before he ate. Nothing was worth note. But now they came to him in flickers in the edges of his dreams, and he chased in scrolls whatever he could find about what he saw. If he had his mother, he thought, it would be so much easier. His mother always knew these things.
He took another chip, though he could not find any with as much volume as the one he had fashioned the lion out of, so he made crooked faces on its surface until they bled into each other. He dipped his fingers in the oil of a lamp and went back to the lion he had fashioned for Alekos, varnishing it to a deep golden-brown.
Hephaistion had been sure Alekos would come, stubbornly stuck as he seemed to want to be, if for nothing but curiosity. As the day went on in monotony, however, some doubt crept in. By the time sleep was prickling at his eyes again, he thought perhaps Alekos's interest was more fickle than he had understood it to be, and the morning's gifts had been a way to bid farewell. He would be sorry if that was it. At least he had not told anyone where Hephaistion hid, or they would have surely hauled him out by now.
He had an odd sense of repetition when the hatch finally opened. He had almost fallen asleep, but his heart shot up at the sound. The same as in the morning, he crawled out of half a dream to see Alekos's face hovering over him. "Brought you more to eat."
Hephaistion grinned back. "Thank you," he said.
Alekos settled himself down across from him and his plate, biting into a dried fig he had taken for himself. "I had meant to come earlier."
"There's no need," Hephaistion disclaimed. Alekos smirked at him.
"And I would have come earlier, but my pedagogue was hovering all day, and everyone was in busy knots about the disappearances," Alekos said, rolling his eyes at him and stretching out the last word with irony. Hephaistion went to laugh to the jab, but it came out confused when he processed the casual plural in it.
"Disappearances?" he said. "Don't tell me you ran off on that horse." That seemed like something Alekos would do just for the shock of it once he had gotten the idea, impish as he had already proved himself to be.
Alekos shook his head, chuckling. "No, I'm staying put. I was travelling for some time this season, and I've missed Pella."
Hephaistion asked again, "Disappearances?"
"Oh, yes, you wouldn't know, but it has become a team sport now, it seems. There's another one of you they can't find."