In the thin light of dawn, Alexander squeezed out of the postern gate of the palace at Pella and latched it quietly behind him. He raised a hand to the guard on the wall above, and the helmeted man grinned down at him. Menoetes was an old and trusted friend and would make sure that the gate stayed unbarred until Alexander returned.

The postern gate was there to allow access to a spring at the foot of a rocky outcrop. Rather than use the path down to the spring, Alexander scrambled straight down the steep slope of dirt, dusty pebbles and bleached stems of grass dead from the summer heat. He had to be back before his tutor Leonidas noticed he was missing or he'd have to explain where he was going.

He leapt down the twelve foot rock face at the end of the slope, narrowly missing the loose rocks and landing on the hard, pale dust beyond. Ignoring the jar to his ankles, Alexander sprinted for the shelter of the evergreen bay bushes beyond.

Hurriedly, he pushed his way through the cool dusty leaves and emerged onto the deserted roadway. A few homesteads where some of the king's noblemen lived lay scattered and sleeping across the fields in the pearly, faintly pink light of dawn. Their walled enclosures shrouded their occupants from disturbance at this early hour, their huddled shoulders turned against the encroaching light and coming noise of the day, while in the distance the mist-shrouded mountains were lifting their faces towards the sunrise.

Making sure there was no one about, Alexander slipped his sandals off, tied the laces together and hung them about his neck. It was much easier to run barefoot, and the soles of Alexander's feet were hardened against sticks and stones. The dust felt cool and silky on Alexander's feet before he began to run along one of the cartwheel ruts of the trackway.

He steadied his pace, holding his sandals with his hands to stop them bouncing about. It was a hard, punishing pace, but Alexander could keep it up long enough to get where he was going and he had no thought of tiring.

Alexander's thick wavy hair flew back from his forehead with the speed of his running. His mother kept telling him it was too long and needed cutting, but Alexander didn't want to cut it. He wasn't going to cut it just because he was told to: it was his hair, and it made him look different because he felt different. It kept getting in his eyes, but there was a perverse pleasure in trying to look at people through his hair, and it provided a good excuse not to meet their eyes if he didn't want to.

Today, Alexander didn't mind if his hair flew back from his face as he ran. He was free, and there was no one to watch him. There was just the air on his face, the clean breath in his lungs, the rythmn of his legs, the pounding of his feet, and the steadiness of his purpose.

He passed the fields and the great houses and came to a more wooded area where a track branched off to the left. He followed this to where the ground rose and became more uneven and he slowed to a dog trot to catch his breath.

He passed a farm where the dogs came out growling and showing their teeth at him, and Alexander spoke softly to them. They stopped growling as they recognised him and ran alongside him for a way, their ears lifted alertly. A woman stepped into the open doorway of the farmhouse and watched him pass. Alexander turned his head and smiled politely at her, but she did not return his smile.

Beyond the farm the land dipped and Alexander picked up his pace as he flew downhill. His legs were tiring but it wasn't much further now. Soon he cut off the track and headed uphill again, forced by the steepness of the slope to slow down. Still he hurried as much as he could, heedless of the rough stones beneath his feet. Today was not a day to waste a moment and he would not be easy until he had done what he intended.

At last he came to the big oleander bush growing at the base of a small cliff. Panting, Alexander stopped in a moment of thanksgiving to make sure all was well. Then he went to the rock face, clambering over the uneven ground as he pushed himself behind the scratchy branches of the oleander bush and into a hidden cleft in the rock.

A pace and a half deep, it barely merited the name of cave, but it was his place – his secret place, his holy place, and only his.

Alexander dropped to his knees before the small shrine he had built. He clasped his hands together tightly in prayer before his still heaving chest, squeezing his eyes shut in concentration and entreaty.

"Be still, my soul," he whispered, "that I may listen to the sound of thy voice, O great Achilles. Be with me this day, my divine hero, guide of my heart and guardian of my conduct. Grant that I may always follow thy example, to live a brave warrior's life, to die an honourable warrior's death. Grant that I may never shame thy memory or flinch from any hard task. And grant that I may have found my Patroclus."

There, he had said it. He tightened his hand clasp, pressed his knuckles against his lips and listened intently for a sign.

He heard nothing except for the far off call of a startled bird. Yet he felt a sudden relief and certainty flood his heart, so much so that he relaxed with a perfect smile upon his lips and leant against the wall of his shrine. Hephaestion was Patroclus. Achilles had confirmed it. Hephaestion was his.

Alexander leant his back against the sharp-edged wall of the cave, his face tipped upwards and his eyes dreamy with visions of what would be. He could see himself and Hephaestion fighting side by side, spear-tips glinting in the sunlight, bright helmet plumes tossing, shoulder to shoulder, shields locked against the enemy. Nothing would stand against the band of brothers they would lead.

Alexander shook himself like a dog waking. He could not sit here dreaming or he would be missed. He got to his feet and bowed to the battered and ancient helmet he had placed on a shelf of rock. He had found it not far from here, scoured it with sand, rubbed and polished it until in places it gleamed. Upright beside it stood a small gold ornamental dagger which he had told his father he had lost, a dish in which he burnt some incense when he could steal it, a small clay lamp and garlands of dried and withered flowers. He promised his divine hero he would sacrifice a cockerel to him as soon as he could.

Unbidden, an image of Hephaestion's face appeared before Alexander's mind, with that smile which made his eyes sparkle, and which made Alexander's heart skip a beat. Alexander blinked. He could not start thinking about Hephaestion's eyes or his smile, for he grew confused when he started thinking about them. He could not think clearly about what it was that Hephaestion did that turned his insides out and sent a tremor through his heart and blood rushing quickly through his limbs.

Feeling embarrassed but without knowing why, Alexander pushed his way out of his cave. He started downhill and suddenly he felt free, he felt elated, as if he could fly. He spread his arms wide and careered madly down the hillside, a yodelling cry escaping from him in joyous triumph.

He emerged onto the trackway into the middle of a herd of goats, who scattered, bleating in alarm, the bells around their necks clanking. Alexander grinned at the startled, ragged-haired boy of about eight who was taking the goats out to forage and took to his heels, back on the road towards Pella.

The way back seemed much shorter and though Alexander's legs were no longer fresh, he fairly flew along, his soles scarcely seeming to touch the ground because he was now certain of his destiny: he had taken the first steps on the road towards being a hero. Maybe even a divine hero one day, for he was certain he now had a well-loved friend to stand at his side and without whom no man should go into battle.

When he got back to Pella, rather than take the long way round by the spring, Alexander climbed up the rock face, scrambled across the steep slope and slipped in through the postern gate. He latched and barred it quietly, then stepped out from the walls, waved and grinned up at Menoetes on guard above. Alexander would slip him a piece of silver later. He never asked where Alexander went, but probably had his own ideas, none of which Alexander thought would be right.

In the clear, golden sunlight of the early morning, Alexander walked out into the yard where the king's finest horses were stabled. There were people about now, unbolting stable doors, fetching rakes and shovels to start mucking out, and leading out a couple of the big stallions as Alexander made his way to the horse trough. He needed to wash his feet or Leonidas would guess he had been out running. He was thirsty, but he knew better than to drink such water and risk an upset stomach, so he would have to wait. He splashed one foot in the water and put his sandal on before washing the other foot.

He was standing with one foot raised on the edge of the trough, lacing his sandal when a man approached. Alexander looked up at him from under his heavy hair. He was a thin man, no soldier but well-dressed and of some consequence. He was old, about forty by Alexander's estimate, with a high-furrowed forehead and thinning hair. He had lined, hollow cheeks, and a wide mouth that looked as if it could smile.

"Who are you?" Alexander asked.

Aristotle blinked for a moment, taken aback by the boy's impertinent tone. Yet he had known from the moment the boy walked into the yard who he was. The consciousness of being watched had sat on the boy's shoulders like a cloak. Though no one had stared, eyes had turned and curiosity had stirred through the yard at the presence of the king's son.

A small smile lifted the corners of Aristotle's mouth. "My name is Aristotle of Stagira," he said mildly.

Alexander straightened. "My name is Alexander, Philip's son," he said, watching the twinkle in Aristotle's eyes. There was intelligence and kindness there too. Alexander decided he might like this man who was to be his tutor. "Welcome to Pella, master Aristotle," he said.

Aristotle's smile broadened. "Thank you, Alexander," he said, "but I am no stranger to Macedon. I spent part of my boyhood here. My father was physician to your grandfather King Amyntas."

Alexander's face quickened with interest. "I did not know that," he said.

"Yes, I know this area well. I might even know where you have been this early in the morning," Aristotle said.

Alexander's face instantly became guarded. "I have been running," he said, his chin lifting defiantly.

Aristotle saw the stubborn set of Alexander's chin and broke eye contact with him, disarmingly taking a seat on the edge of the horse trough. "Running to or from something?" he asked.

"I do not run from anything," Alexander said haughtily, but he did not turn away from Aristotle. "I might run to something and back again."

"I am glad to see you understand the rudiments of logic," Aristotle said.

Alexander considered for a moment. Then he too sat on the edge of the horse trough. "What else will you teach me?" he asked, looking round to meet Aristotle's gaze.

Aristotle smiled. "What would you like to learn?"

"Everything," Alexander said simply.

Aristotle smiled slightly in reply, waiting for clarification, and Alexander realised that it was some sort of test. He straightened his shoulders. "My tutor Leonidas has taught me to overcome the body's weaknesses," he said. "My father has taught me to be a brave and resourceful soldier. The heroes teach me to be steadfast and courageous. The poets can teach me men's hearts and minds, but I don't understand everything they say yet. But I want to learn so much more. Like, why is the sky blue? What are other lands beyond the sunrise like? Why do we have eggs? Where do jellyfish come from?"

Aristotle laughed slightly. "Curiosity is the attribute of an agile mind, and I will do my best to satisfy your curiosity, Alexander. Perhaps we can discover the answers to some of your questions together. A philosopher prince, one who excels in wisdom and virtue as well as strength and courage should be the ideal for all men to follow. Such a man will attract the best of men to him, to the greater benefit of the state which he serves."

"The king serves the state?" Alexander asked, a frown of concentration between his brows. "Is the state not the king?"

"No. The king is the embodiment of the state, its face and its voice. But the state should not be the king: it should not stand or fall on the power of one man alone."

"But the king gives the state its power. He makes the state."

"Yes, in the case of a king like your father, who gives his own strength to the state. But if the power of the state resides only in him, then he is merely a tyrant. A king must utilize the excellence of the men who serve him, empower them in the service of the state. Otherwise he has failed in his duty as a lawgiver, as the leader of his people and the example which they should follow."

Aristotle's lips quirked in a small smile at the absorbed expression on Alexander's face. Alexander's stomach rumbled. "But politics before breakfast is not a good appetizer," Aristotle said, "and you must be hungry after your exercise."

"Yes," Alexander said, not interested at the moment. He raised his eyes to Aristotle's. "Then a king's first duty must be to win the love and loyalty of his men so that they will willingly obey him. And he must do so by being as good as he can at everything he does so that they will admire him in all things."

"Indeed," Aristotle said, not entirely sure that was the direction his thoughts would have tended, but he decided now was not the time to pursue the subject. "Friendship is certainly to be desired over fear and coercion."

Suddenly Alexander smiled at Aristotle, and at that moment Aristotle's heart was won. The boy was glowing with belief in love and loyalty, his idealism tangible, and Aristotle's heart yearned towards that innocent, youthful power. He smiled at Alexander.

Alexander smiled back at him, sharing that moment of understanding. But then his eye caught the movement of a boy across the yard and Aristotle lost his attention. Aristotle watched the expression in Alexander's eyes. There was a yearning there as he watched the other boy approach, keenly hopeful, yet pained in uncertainty. He wanted, yet did not know if he would get what he wanted.

Aristotle turned his head to view the boy walking across the yard: a slender, dark-haired boy who moved with the long-legged grace of a dancer. He stopped before them and smiled tentatively, the hopeful uncertainty in his bright blue eyes mirroring Alexander's. Yet the uncertainty in his clear, innocent eyes made him seem vulnerable, while in Alexander's eyes, the uncertainty roused his passionate nature to win what he wanted. And he wanted this boy's friendship very badly.

"I was looking for you," the dark-haired boy said to Alexander.

Alexander stirred and Aristotle, glancing at him, noticed that his colour had risen. "Hephaestion," Alexander said, and cleared his throat. "This is my new tutor, Aristotle." He turned his head towards Aristotle with a quick, complicit smile. "Hephaestion is coming with us to Mieza."

"I am glad to hear it," Aristotle said. "A student should have friends around him with whom he can share and explore ideas, and against whom he can sharpen his wits."

"Will we have debates, like your students in Athens?" Alexander asked curiously.

"Yes. If a man can express his thoughts to his friends, he will often discover his own mind because he is forced to clarify his thoughts."

Aristotle looked up at Hephaestion, who had moved to stand by Alexander's side at the end of the horse trough. Hephaestion smiled at Aristotle, a quick, wide, slightly mischievous smile and Aristotle found his eyes lingering just a touch too long on the boy's pretty face. He resolutely turned his gaze back to Alexander and disconcertingly found that Alexander was a very good-looking boy too.

Aristotle dismissed his vague, half-formed thoughts and said with a smile, "Besides, I find my students' discussions most illuminating and they often lead my thoughts to explore ideas they would not have entertained otherwise."

"Why did you wish to have the school at Mieza and not here in Pella?" Hephaestion asked. He leant his chest and stomach against Alexander's arm, his hands resting lightly on Alexander's shoulder.

Alexander turned his head to look up at Hephaestion, feeling his warm weight against him. He was suddenly conscious that he was dirty and sweaty from running. He would hate Hephaestion to think he stank.

Hephaestion smiled down at him, a warm and beguiling smile that said he would rather have Alexander's warmth and closeness than anything in the world, and that Alexander had nothing to fear.

Forgotten, Aristotle watched them as Alexander, wide-eyed, returned Hephaestion's smile. Aristotle saw the first tender touches of love caressing their souls, weaving an intimate spell of first awakening. Trust touched their hearts with its tendrils, unfurling the blossom that would bear the fruit of love and friendship.

"The Gardens of Mieza," Aristotle said, "will allow us time for uninterrupted study and for quiet contemplation." The two boys looked at Aristotle, as eager and trusting as puppies. For a moment Aristotle considered the enormity of the task before him; of fostering the development of their characters into men of honour, forethought, compassion and nobility. He had never been entrusted with boys so young, so malleable, and with such unformed souls before.

"With a pure soil," he said, holding the eyes of both boys, "I hope to plant in your hearts and minds the seeds of a noble character, so that as men, you may never act without thought, you may never make a rash judgement on the lives of the men you lead, and you may always aspire to the excellence of the greatest gods and heroes."

Spellbound, the two boys watched him with solemn eyes.

Alexander's lips parted. "You have my word that I will strive never to disappoint you," he said fervently.

Aristotle smiled slightly. "I do not ask for your word, merely your best intentions, Alexander." He looked up at Hephaestion and was surprised to see momentary distress in the boy's eyes. "Hephaestion?" he asked quietly. "Is anything wrong?"

"Nothing," Hephaestion said, trying to hide his feelings. "I just hope I do not disappoint you."

"I am sure that you will make me proud of you," Aristotle said kindly.

Alexander looked up at Hephaestion, a little worried. "Your father would be proud of you already, Hephaestion," he said quietly. "Your mother is."

Hephaestion smiled, a tight, warding smile that said in friendly fashion, that he wanted to change the subject. "I'm hungry," he said, brightly. "I haven't had any breakfast yet."

"Nor have I," said Aristotle cheerfuly. "I thought an early morning walk to see the changes in Pella since I was a boy would wake my appetite, and it has. And I know Alexander's stomach is empty."

"Yes it is," Alexander said, standing up quickly. "Let's go to the guards' mess hall, Hephaestion. They'll have porridge and bread and bacon. I'm starving."

He turned to Aristotle who, standing, raised a hand in refusal. "My breakfast is waiting in my rooms," he said.

"We'll see you later," Alexander said, and he and Hephaestion smiled in farewell and began to walk across the yard together, ahead of Aristotle. "I need to have a wash as well," Alexander said to Hephaestion.

Hephaestion leant towards Alexander. "Where were you?" he said in a loud whisper. "I looked everywhere for you."

Alexander's demeanour changed, becoming urgent as he turned towards Hephaestion. "Have you got enough money to buy a cockerel?" he whispered.

"Yes. Why?"

"Can you lend me the money to buy one as well? We need two," Alexander said.

"What for?"

"A sacrifice. To Achilles. And Patroclus," Alexander hissed. "Come on and I'll explain," he said and they began to run across the stableyard, racing off into their world of boyhood secrets and leaving Aristotle behind.

Thanks to Yolass for the jellyfish.