'The King is troubled,' said Hephaistion. 'He believes you can be of great help to him.'
'Troubled? In what manner?'
Hephaistion sat back on the parapet. 'There are two Alexanders,' he said softly. 'One I love, the other I fear. The first is a kindly friend, understanding and caring. The second is a ruthless and terrifying killer.'
'You are speaking very frankly, Hephaistion. Is that wise?'
'Oh, I think so, my lady. You see, he told me about your stay in Pella and the… aid you gave him.'
'Aid?' she asked, nonplussed.
'How you helped him to take the throne.'
'I see.'
'I think you do,' said Hephaistion softly, his dark eyes holding to her gaze. 'When the King received your letter, he asked me to come to you… to thank you for all you have done for him. He gave me two instructions. Both were different, but I am becoming used to that.'
'What were these instructions?'
'Firstly, as I have said, he asked me to bring you to him.'
'And the second?'
'Well, that brings me to a problem. Perhaps you could help me with it?'
'If I can,' she told him.
'As I told you there are two Alexanders, and each of them gave me separate instructions. Whose should I follow? The friend. .or the one I fear?'
'It is always wise,' said Aida carefully, 'to respond with caution to orders from men one fears. The friend can be forgiving. The other will not.'
Hephaistion nodded. 'You are very wise, lady.' Leaning forward, he took her arms and lifted her to sit on the parapet wall. 'Wise, and beautiful. I shall take your advice.'
'Then our relationship has begun well,' she said, forcing a smile.
'Indeed it has,' he agreed, 'and ended well.'
'Ended?' Aida's mouth was dry and she felt the beginnings of fear.
'Yes, lady,' he whispered. 'For, you see, my friend asked me to bring you to him. The other Alexander told me to kill you.'
'That cannot be. I am his loyal servant, I always have been. He would not order my death. You are mistaken, Hephaistion. Now let me down. I have had enough of this nonsense.'
'Perhaps you are right,' he told her. 'It is so hard sometimes to tell them apart. But in Pella you helped him to kill a child; you even convinced him he should eat its heart. I don't believe my King has need of your counsel.'
'Listen to me. .' she began. But Hephaistion's hand took hold of her legs, tipping her back into space.
Aida felt herself slide clear of the wall.
Far below her the jagged rocks waited, and her screams echoed over the village.
Hephaistion leaned over the parapet to watch Aida fall — her body spiralling down, her shrieks carried away on the wind. It seemed to the Macedonian that she looked like a huge crow, her black robes fluttering like broken wings. He watched her strike the rocks, heard her screams cut off, then saw a flock of gulls descend upon her, their white forms slowly masking the black robes.
Stepping back he took a deep breath. He had never killed a woman before, but he felt no regrets. Her evil had been almost palpable and he was sullied by touching her.
He had told her the truth, in part at least. Alexander had admitted to fearing her and wishing her dead — yet later, his voice cold, he had ordered her brought to court. During the two years since the bloody slaughter at the Issus Alexander had spoken often of his fears, of the dark force eating away at the centre of his soul. Hephaistion knew more of the King's secrets than any man — even Parmenion, who now commanded a second Macedonian army and rarely saw Alexander.
It was Hephaistion in whom Alexander confided, and Hephaistion who recognized when the Dark God was close to the ascendant. The King's voice would grow cold, his eyes distant. Then he was chilling. .
As on the night in the captured city of Persepolis when he had led a drunken mob of torch-bearers to destroy one of the great wonders of the world, the beautifully carved wooden temple to Ahura Mazda containing the works of the prophet, Zoroaster. Hephaistion had stood by, stunned, as Alexander hurled oil over the ox-hides on which the words of the prophet were written in gold.
Twenty thousand hides, the most treasured possession of the Persian people, destroyed in one night of debauchery, billowing flames clawing at wooden carvings which had lasted for centuries under a Persian sun.
Alexander remembered nothing of it the following morning.
Then had come the Night of the Spear.
A late-night feast had ended with the cavalry general, Cleitus, asking the King why he had taken to wearing Persian robes and insisting on the Persian practice of forcing his subjects to prostrate themselves before him, kissing the ground at his feet.
Alexander was embarrassed by the question, for there were several Persians present and Hephaistion knew that, though the King did not like the ritual, he was endeavouring to act like a Persian monarch, honouring their customs.
But he had never asked his Macedonian officers — nor any Greek — to prostrate themselves before him.
Cleitus was drunk, and unhappy at being asked to sit away from the King's right hand, his place being taken by a Persian general.
Hephaistion had tried to pull Cleitus away from the table, urging him to return to his tent and sleep off his drunkenness, but the old cavalryman pushed him away and stumbled towards the King, shouting: 'I served your father, your arrogant puppy, and I never had to kiss his feet. Damned if I'll kiss yours!'
Hephaistion saw Alexander stiffen and watched in sick horror as his eyes grew pale. Never before had the transformation happened publicly and he ran towards the King, desperate to get him away from the revellers. But he was too late. Alexander stepped back, seized a spear from a guard and thrust the iron blade through Cleitus' belly.
Blood gushed instantly from the old man's mouth and he fell back, the spear tearing loose from the wound. For several moments the stricken man writhed on the floor, screaming. Then, with a gurgling, choking cry he died.
A stunned silence followed.
Alexander blinked and staggered as Hephaistion reached his side, taking his arm. 'What have I done?' whispered Alexander. 'Sweet Zeus!' Turning the spear upon himself he tried to fall upon the blade, but Hephaistion wrestled it from him. Two guards came to his aid and the weeping King was helped from the tent.
The following day, his hair covered with ash, Alexander led the funeral procession behind Cleitus' body. Instead of following the Macedonian custom of burning the corpse and placing the bones in a ceremonial casket of gold, he had ordered Egyptian embalmers to preserve the body, intending to have it placed in a crystal case and displayed in a specially built tomb of marble.
The King's grief was obvious to all and the soldiers, who loved Alexander, forgave him swiftly. But his officers, having seen him murder a loyal brother, were silent, and Hephaistion knew their thoughts. Who will be next?
The embalming of Cleitus was a memory Hephaistion would never forget.
A slender Egyptian moved to the body carrying a box of cedar wood from which he produced a long, narrow spike, bent and forked at the tip.
'What is he doing?' Hephaistion asked the King.
Alexander's reply was detached, his voice distant and cool. 'He must remove the internal matter of the skull to prevent it rotting. So that the face is unmarked, he will insert the spike in the nostril and hook it into the brain, dragging it out.'
'I need to know no more,' snapped Hephaistion, turning and rushing from the room.
Later he made Alexander promise that if he, Hephaistion, ever fell in battle, he was to be buried in the Macedonian way.