The Death of Cleitus by Kizzykat

Trust No One wrote a very good story called 'A Long Way From Paradise' on this subject. The first part of this owes something to that story.

This is very long. I thought about splitting it, but the middle sections are just bridging stuff and won't really stand up on their own. Skip them if you're only interested in the emotional stuff.

Hephaestion stared in horror at Cleitus' dead face. The dead man's eyes were white-ringed and staring with shock, the open mouth twisted in pain, the skin still flushed with the anger and the alcohol that had wrought his death. He lay sprawled motionless on the blood-soaked floor where Alexander's spear thrust had felled him, while the noise of Alexander's grief and rage and the uproar of anger and distress from the men around them as they vindicated Alexander, reassuring him that Cleitus had got what he was asking for, that they would have done the same, receded into the distance against the shocked circle of silence around the dead man.

Someone should close his eyes, Hephaestion thought numbly. Before he stiffens.

He went down on one knee beside the big man's body and pressed his eyelids down with his thumb and forefinger, holding them down for a moment as he breathed a prayer for the safe passage of the dead man's soul. He held the jaw together until the teeth clicked, and then he surged to his feet, suddenly conscious of the twisted hole in his heart where Alexander should be. They had wrestled the spear from him when he had turned it on himself, but he might yet find a way to do himself harm.

Staring men were encircling him, each seeking a view of the dead man so that they could verify it as a witness. "Chares!" Hephaestion called, recognising the chamberlain's appalled face. "Chares, have the body taken to his quarters and laid out decently. Inform his mistress. Ptolemy! Craterus!" he cried, moving forward and pulling at the men surrounding Alexander who were noisily offering support. Even those who had shouted in support of Cleitus were now anxiously reassuring Alexander that Cleitus had gone too far. "Order the ranks confined to quarters until Alexander decides what he wants to tell them!"

He grabbed hold of Alexander's heated body, aware of the twisted anguish which was tensing Alexander's muscles as hard as stone. "Come," he said, pulling at him, trying to get him up and moving. He could smell the vomit and sour wine from where Alexander had thrown up on the floor. "Leonnatus! Help me get him out of here!"

He was aware of the keening noise Alexander was making, the strangled scream of denial as he hung his head, on the verge of collapsing to the floor but for Hephaestion and the bodyguard Leonnatus' arms around him, holding his weight up. Hephaestion had seen his face in the instant of realisation of what he had done and knew that he had seen the face of one who had looked into the mouth of Hades.

"Ptolemy! Go!" he cried at the other man. Ptolemy was pushing the crowd back, making space for them to lead Alexander from the room. "There must be no panic! The men must know Alexander is unharmed!"

"It's alright!" Ptolemy said, moving to help pull Alexander along. "Every man is on our side! They know Cleitus was at fault! Entirely at fault, Alexander!" he said as Alexander's head came up.

"No!" Alexander screamed, surging forward out of their grasp. "No!" he screamed again, as the crowd backed up to give him space, a touch of fear in their eyes that they could be the next to die.

But their love and loyalty to their King won out at the loss and confusion in his eyes as he searched the crowd for he knew not what, turning round in despair at the inescapable. "Alexander!" they cried. "He was a traitor to you! He was unjust! He deserved to die!"

"No!" Alexander cried, spinning about as Hephaestion, Ptolemy, Craterus and his closer friends approached.

He wailed in grief and anger, his skin grey beneath the sweat and the flush of the wine, his eyes reddened and bloodshot as tears streamed from them.

Hephaestion reached for him, to hold him, to comfort him in his moment of despair at having killed a friend, an old colleague. In pride and drunken anger he had let his temper get the better of him.

But Alexander struck at him, flailing with his fists and arms at Hephaestion, not willing to be comforted, so deep was his hurt, crying even as he hit out at Hephaestion.

Hephaestion knew the battle rage was still in Alexander's blood, along with the wine, and he took the blows, getting within Alexander's reach until he could wrap him in his arms, even though Alexander tore at the clothes on his back, digging his nails into Hephaestion's flesh as he buried his face against Hephaestion's shoulder with a roar of pain and grief.

"Remember the gods," Hephaestion said against his hair.

"I do! I do!" Alexander cried as he raised his wet and twisted face. "They will not forgive me for this! They will not forget!"

"They know what is in our hearts. They will not forget their own."

"They will take back their promise! I am not worthy!"

"You are, Alexander!" Craterus cried. "You are the King! It is your right to judge whether a man lives or dies!"

Hephaestion twisted his head to look at Craterus, opening his mouth to protest Cleitus had had no trial, was guilty of no offence but disagreeing with the King, as any Macedonian might. But he felt Alexander stiffen in his grasp. "You are right," Alexander whispered.

"He refused my orders!" he cried, pushing free of Hephaestion, who stupidly let him go. "All I wanted was to reward him for his service to me and to my father! To give him this vast province! To be a king in all but name!"

Dumb-founded, Hephaestion listened to the half-truths Alexander was telling himself. Alexander turned and saw his wide-eyed face. His eyes, ravaged by despair, met Hephaestion's and his tear-wet face crumpled in self-loathing and hopelessness.

He buried his face in his hands. "I am cursed! I have killed my friend!"

Hephaestion took a step towards him, but with a roaring wail Alexander caught his hands in his hair, curling in on himself as he crouched, twisted, turned and fled from the room in a stumbling run, the crowd parting before him like wheat before the wind of a thunderstorm.

His closest friends hurried after him, blindly intent on protecting him from doing himself harm and offering what solace they could. Hephaestion, his mind numbly whirling in circles around a hole too big to contemplate, yet heard a voice of reason.

"Lysimachus! Seleucus!" he said, catching hold of them. "Get this crowd dispersed! Alexander does not need it. And order out the Royal Bodyguard. Have them patrol the camp and keep order." Seleucus listened with his head bowed towards Hephaestion, not batting an eyelid at Hephaestion telling him what to do with his own command, Alexander's most loyal men. Nodding succinctly, he left quickly, while Lysimachus began issuing orders in a strong voice, causing people to pause and begin to disperse.

Hephaestion hurried to Alexander's rooms. Alexander had left banging doors, startled Pages and frightened servants in his wake but in his rooms was an eerie quiet, Alexander's friends standing around uncomfortably, hovering about the muffled sound of Alexander's weeping as he lay on the bed, one leg sticking off the edge, his face buried in the scarlet pillows, his hands gripping the braided edges like talons.

Eyes turned in anticipation towards Hephaestion, heads lifting slightly in the hope that he would be able to do something. Hephaestion baulked for a moment, staring back at them hostilely. They too were Alexander's friends, why was the responsibility to rescue Alexander's soul his? Then he realised that they were tacitly acknowledging that his love for Alexander was greater than theirs. Was Alexander then to be deserted in his hour of need?

Quietly, he knelt beside Alexander's bed, the horrendousness of Alexander's deed beginning to dawn on him. He stretched out a hand and laid it lightly on Alexander's back. "Alexander," he said quietly.

"Leave me be!" Alexander wept, his voice muffled.

"Alexander," Craterus pleaded, stepping forward. "We are your friends."

"Go away!" Alexander cried.

"Alexander," Ptolemy said. "No one blames you."

Alexander flung out an angry arm in denial, just missing Hephaestion who sat back out of the way.

"Cleitus was a fool, Alexander," Leonnatus said.

"Can you not understand!" Alexander cried, flinging himself around to stare wildly at them with an impassioned and tear-stained face, "that I am ashamed! Ashamed to be seen by you! Leave me alone!"

He flung himself back down on the bed in a renewed paroxysm of weeping, hiding his head beneath the pillows.

Pressing his lips together, Hephaestion rose silently, almost reverentially, to his feet. He turned to the anxious generals. "Come," he said in a hushed voice. "He is right. He needs to make his own peace with himself."

He spread his arms in a shepherding gesture and ushered them from the room.

Outside, Craterus rounded on him as he stood with his back to the door. "We can't leave him!" he cried. "He might harm himself."

"He won't."

Craterus looked ready to argue, but Ptolemy said, "He's right, Craterus. I don't think we can do any good here now."

"No," Hephaestion said, moving forward. "I think it best if you check on the camp in case there's any trouble. Reassure Cleitus' friends and family. Reassure his nephew that he has nothing to fear unless he does something stupid. I'll keep an eye on Alexander."

There were some uncertain, some resentful looks and one or two muttered words, but Hephaestion outstared them, his gaze level, his head high, his eyes glittering, and gradually they went. He was left alone in the large antechamber except for the faceless Persian servants and the ubiquitous Pages.

"Out!" he cried, raising his arm at them, suddenly angry that these boys were witnesses to their King's shame. They fled, and the Persians melted into the shadows.

He began pacing backwards and forwards agitatedly before the doors to Alexander's bedchamber, suddenly shaking with anger and reaction. Alexander had killed Cleitus in anger, an anger he too had shared as Cleitus had belittled Alexander's achievements, saying Philip was a better king, that Alexander owed all his success to Philip's achievements, to Philip's army, Philip's men. Philip would not have become bogged down here in Bactria, in the back of beyond, chasing the rebel Spitamenes for the past two years in a hopeless war that would never be won. Philip would have withdrawn to Persia and fought another day, but Alexander was planning to move on to India and leave a man, Cleitus, to sort out a boy's mess.

Cleitus had pushed Alexander relentlessly. Even after he was dragged from the room, he had stormed back in to renew the argument with Alexander. Alexander, he said, was pushing aside the older men, Philip's men, to make way for his toadying 'Friends', his pretty boys who had never achieved anything on their own.

"Are you leaving me behind so that you can eliminate me when you no longer have need of me? Like you did Parmenion? To replace me with someone who keeps his mouth shut except when he flatters you?"

The last words Cleitus had uttered echoed round and round in Hephaestion's head as he paced frantically, snatches of the argument resurfacing in his mind, the meaning of the words changing and magnifying. Cleitus had glanced in his direction as he had said those words, and Hephaestion had felt the blame attached to those words – the blame of always supporting Alexander in public and keeping their arguments behind closed doors. He had not known that it made men think him a flatterer who only agreed with Alexander for gain. Or that it made Alexander look a fool.

Suddenly, he burst through the doors into Alexander's bedroom and then he stilled, recollecting himself. He closed the doors quietly. Alexander was still weeping, laying on his back now, one arm raised to cover his eyes. Hephaestion moved nearer and looked down at him with a mixture of pain, compassion and frustration.

He sat down on the bed helplessly.

"Go away," Alexander said thickly, not removing his arm.

"Alexander," Hephaestion said gently and laid a consoling hand on Alexander's stomach.

Alexander struck at his hand. "Get away," he said, turning his back on Hephaestion.

Stung, Hephaestion persisted, laying a firmer hand on Alexander's arm. "I'm trying to help."

Alexander flung himself from the bed as if he had been scalded. "Can you bring Cleitus back from the dead? No? Then nothing will help! I don't deserve your compassion!" he said, his voice thick with anger and weeping. He stood with his back to Hephaestion, refusing to turn around and look at him.

Hephaestion caught back the hot breath that had been about to expel angry words from his mouth. He knew Alexander's deed had been too enormous to be assuaged by a comforting hug and a few tender words, but they were all he had. He just wanted to hold Alexander, to absorb his pain, to let him know he was not despised and rejected.

He stood up and moved around the bed towards Alexander.

"I can't leave you alone."

"I do not need a nursemaid!" Alexander yelled, spinning around. "I am a murderer! I murdered an unarmed man! I do not need a nursemaid!"

"He could have moved."

Alexander looked as if he had hit a wall. He hadn't expected that.

"He had time, Alexander, between you grabbing the spear and the moment of impact to have backed off, to have fled."

Alexander's face crumpled and fresh tears filled his eyes. "Then I have killed a brave man. One who would not back down." With a groan of grief, he covered his face with his hands and collapsed against the bed, sobs shaking his shoulders.

Hephaestion hesitated, afraid to stir Alexander to fresh anger if he went too near.

"They took his sword away from him," Alexander muttered. "He did not have a chance."

"They took yours away too."

"I am dishonoured. As a man and as a king. I have utterly disgraced myself."

Hephaestion could find no answer that would not be a lie.

At his silence, Alexander stretched his arms across the bed and found the dagger that every Macedonian kept beneath his pillow. Even as Hephaestion saw the glint of the blade and dove forward, Alexander drew the tip of the blade down his wrist. The impact of Hephaestion's body against his dislodged his aim and even as he tried to turn the blade against his chest, Hephaestion caught the blade with one hand and Alexander's hand with the other.

Alexander threw his shoulder into Hephaestion's chest, dragging the blade from Hephaestion's grasp and slicing his palm and fingers in the process. Hephaestion's grip on Alexander's right hand was dislodged but even as Alexander drew back, rising from his knees, Hephaestion lunged forward and caught hold of Alexander's wrists, his right palm pressed against Alexander's bleeding wrist, and his own bleeding hand wrapped around Alexander's right wrist.

Before Alexander could react, he surged to his feet, holding Alexander's wrists apart, holding the dagger away from them both. "What are you doing?" he yelled in his face. "Are you a mouse or a man?"

At the momentary surprise in Alexander's face he loosed Alexander's bloodied wrist and tried to pry the dagger from his other hand.

"Why did you stop me?" Alexander yelled at him, and struck at him with his fist, catching him on the side of the jaw, hard enough to turn Hephaestion's head.

Ignoring the blow, Hephaestion freed the dagger from Alexander's fingers, threw it across the room out of the way, and grabbed Alexander's wrist to stop him hitting him again.

"Why did you not stop me?" Alexander screamed suddenly, fresh tears flooding down his cheeks, anger reddening his face as he thrust himself forward against Hephaestion's grasp, trying to overbear Hephaestion with his weight.

Hephaestion froze for an instant, at a loss to know how he was suddenly to blame, and lost the impetus against Alexander's strength.

"How could I stop you, Alexander!"

"You are my bodyguard!" Alexander cried. With a scream, he surged forward, bearing Hephaestion backwards. Unwittingly, Hephaestion braced his arms as he held Alexander's wrists, giving Alexander more to push against. Alexander bore him backwards and slammed him against the wall, pinning Hephaestion's hands and forearms against the wall with his own.

"You are my bodyguard!" he screamed into Hephaestion's face. "The guardian of my body and my soul! And you have let my soul fall into the abyss!"

Astounded, Hephaestion stared at him. "How? Everyman's soul is in his own keeping!"

Sensing the loosening of Hephaestion's grasp on his wrists, Alexander dragged his hands free and gripped them tightly in Hephaestion's hair on either side of his head. He brought his face so close to Hephaestion's they were breathing each other's breath.

"I gave you my body, my heart and my soul I gave into your keeping years ago!" he cried. "You have been the keeper of my dreams, my ambitions, my hopes, for years! And you have judged me!" In fury, he banged Hephaestion's head against the wall. "You have judged me! You have looked at me with your eyes of innocence, and you have found me wanting! You have looked at me with contempt! You have looked at me with pity!"

Unable to continue, he broke down and wept, his grip on Hephaestion's hair loosening, his head bowing towards Hephaestion's shoulder.

Incredulously, Hephaestion hung there against the wall, pinned by Alexander's weight, knowing that Alexander was right, knowing that he had looked down on Alexander, knowing he would never have gone as far as Alexander had.

"Don't hate me," Alexander wept, his wet face against Hephaestion's breast. "Don't hate me," he wept as his knees gave and he slumped to the floor against Hephaestion's feet.

Tears burning his eyes, Hephaestion dropped to the floor and gathered Alexander into his arms, pressing his cheek against Alexander's hair as Alexander's tears soaked his breast.

"I don't hate you!" he whispered. "I don't hate you. I didn't think you would go so far. Cleitus didn't think you would go so far. No one thought you would. That is why you are Alexander. You go further than any man."

"I have to!" Alexander cried against his chest in anguish. "I have to! Or I am not Alexander! I will not be Alexander!"

Hephaestion held Alexander tighter, but he was silent, at a loss. He could not begin to defend Alexander, utter empty lies to make him feel better.

"It was my pride," Alexander wept. "My terrible pride. I thought no one should stand against me. No one could tell me 'no'."

"It was a lot of things," Hephaestion said. "Pride, frustration. Anger. Alcohol. Young against old."

"Don't list my faults," Alexander said in tears, straightening from Hephaestion's embrace. "I deserve to die. Why didn't you let me die?" He looked down at his blood-soaked wrist, blood still oozing from the cut he had made.

"Because too many people depend upon you," Hephaestion said practically, taking Alexander's wrist to examine it. It was deep and could do with stitching, but Alexander had missed the vein and it was not serious. He pressed the lips of the cut together to stem the bleeding, pressing his own stinging fingers of his other hand tightly against his bleeding palm.

He looked around to find something to bind Alexander's wrist with, reluctant to let him go while he was relatively quiet. Alexander had covered his face with his free hand as he continued to weep. There was nothing within reach though and he had to let Alexander go to get up. He went to the washstand and, retrieving the dagger from the floor, ripped one of the hand towels into strips.

Securing the dagger safely in his belt, he knelt beside Alexander and caught hold of his wrist. As he began wrapping the cloth tightly around his wrist, he said, "This need stitching."

"Don't fuss," Alexander said heavily, dragging his hand out of Hephaestion's grasp.

Gritting his teeth on his own temper, Hephaestion caught hold of Alexander's wrist again and finished tying the bandage. His hands were covered in blood, his own and Alexander's, a lump was swelling on the back of his head, his jaw was sore, and there was so much he wanted to say to Alexander. But he was afraid, afraid to set Alexander's anger off. There was also, he realised as he opened his hand to look at the stinging cuts across his fingers and his palm, a small, shameful fear of Alexander's violence.

He started wrapping a strip of the towel tightly around his own hand and fingers to stop the bleeding. Inexplicably, he felt like crying. He was also very tired, and wanted this to end. If he could get Alexander to lie down, there was a chance he might sleep. He was still more than half-drunk and in sleep he might at least find a measure of healing. But Alexander never slept much, so there was little chance of that.

He finished tying the bandage with the help of his teeth, and looked up to find Alexander watching him, an Alexander whose face was reddened and swollen with weeping, his eyes heavy and desolate. He raised his eyes dully from Hephaestion's bandaged hand to his face. He must have seen the tears threatening Hephaestion's eyes, for his mouth quivered, his lips trembling as he said, "You will hate me."

As Hephaestion opened his mouth in denial, Alexander scrambled to his feet, turning away from him to walk towards the bed. Hephaestion got to his feet as Alexander threw himself down heavily.

Hephaestion followed him and looked down at Alexander. He didn't know what to do. Alexander lay on the bed, his eyes closed, one hand over his eyes as fresh tears leaked from beneath his eyelids. Hephaestion sat down on his heels on the floor beside the bed, his chin almost touching the mattress as he reached and slipped his hand inside Alexander's free hand, with his thumb trying to curl Alexander's fingers about his own.

Alexander pulled his hand away, not roughly, but firmly. "Please, Hephaestion," he said dully without opening his eyes. "Please go away. You cannot make this better. You cannot."

"Let me stay," Hephaestion whispered. "Just to be with you."

"No. I am unclean. I will pollute you with my crimes. Please. Go away. For your own sake."

"I won't," Hephaestion said, barely able to contain his tears.

Alexander moved his hand and looked at him with glassy eyes. "Please. I need to be alone. Offer sacrifices for me. Maybe, maybe," he said, his voice breaking, "that will help."

Hephaestion really did not want to go, but he realised that perhaps now his presence might be added gall to Alexander's guilt and shame. Perhaps recourse to the gods might help.

He bent down to kiss Alexander's forehead in blessing, but Alexander turned his head away, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. Hurt beyond belief, Hephaestion felt his heart contract in isolation around a shard of pain. He shut it deep inside himself, in the loneliness of his innermost heart.

"Be strong," he murmured to Alexander's averted face. Briefly closing his eyes, he withdrew and silently left the room.

Outside Alexander's room, Craterus, Ptolemy, several of the others, and attendant Pages had gathered in the antechamber. They moved forward in anxious expectation as Hephaestion emerged and closed the door quietly behind him.

"He's quiet," he said, his voice level. "He wants to be alone." He saw Ptolemy's eyes move towards his bandaged hand as it hung by his side and surreptitiously he moved it behind him out of sight.

"Are you sure?" Craterus said, stepping towards the door. "Perhaps he just needs to talk to someone."

Hephaestion held up a hand, but then stopped himself. He moved away from the door. "Go in, if you want. I was hoping he would sleep."

Craterus hesitated. "Perhaps sleep is best," he said and moved aside.

"Is there anything we can do?" Ptolemy asked.

Hephaestion shook his head. "Just wait." Turning away, he went and sat in a straight-backed chair that stood in the dimness against the wall of Alexander's room. He sat there stiff-backed as the others moved about irresolutely, speaking occasionally, waiting.

Sitting there in the semi-darkness, Hephaestion unexpectedly found tears trickling down his cheeks. Furtively, he wiped them away, then motioned to Perdiccas who was nearby. "He wants sacrifices made," he said quietly. "For himself and Cleitus. Can you arrange them?"

Perdiccas nodded and left, glad to have something to do. Hephaestion stood up suddenly. He needed air, and he walked out into the courtyard garden that beckoned to the side of Alexander's rooms.

He stood against the low wall of a raised flower bed, breathing the mysterious night fragrances of unknown blooms. He covered his mouth with his hand, and he wept. He wept for Alexander, for the lost dreams that meant he would never be the perfect, heroic king of a legend that would live untarnished forever. He would never now be the peerless hero of his dreams.

Hephaestion wept also for Cleitus, who had been a good friend. When they had been given joint command of the Companion Cavalry after Philotas' execution, he had never disparaged Hephaestion's youth and comparative lack of command experience. At least, never to his face. He had always been ready to offer advice, however rough and ready. Yet, given his words today, perhaps he had always resented having to share the command, although he had to have known he was too old to command the cavalry for long. At fifty, most men were too heavy and too stiff for cavalry manoeuvrability.

The first storm of weeping over, Hephaestion raised his face to the stars, regret filling his heart. Regret for what had been done and said, regret for what had not been done or said. He would always carry the regret, the guilt, that he had not been able to do something, say something to stop the awful sequence of events. And he would carry the shame forever that he had witnessed Alexander's downfall from his own heroic standards.

Wiping his face, Hephaestion walked quickly back into the antechamber. He caught a Page and quietly instructed him to go in and see if Alexander wanted anything. Or anyone.

The Page was a brave lad, and he swallowed his fear and went quietly and sensibly to do Hephaestion's bidding. A moment later he returned and shook his head at Hephaestion's questioning look.

Hephaestion turned and left. He went and made a quiet sacrifice to Heracles, Alexander and Philip's ancestor, who had himself run mad and killed his wife and children. He cut the throat of two small doves himself, let the blood trickle down the altar and laid their still warm, limp bodies on the god's altar. He prayed to the god to appease the Furies who were raging around Alexander, tearing his soul apart with eternal darkness.

He covered his face with his hands and prayed. He prayed longer and harder than he ever had in his life, but still he found no peace.

At last he rose, vaguely surprised to find that it was a cold and lonely dawn. He returned to Alexander's rooms, to find nothing had changed. Each of Alexander's friends had been in to offer solace, and all had been turned away.

Hephaestion instructed the Pages to keep a constant eye on Alexander. If Alexander would let him, the sensible Page was stay in Alexander's room, watch him and do his bidding. They were to make sure there was water within reach of Alexander's bed, food too, if they could tempt him to it. If he would let them, they were to offer him water to wash, and if he fell asleep, they were not to wake him.

With one last injunction to come and fetch him if there was any change, if Alexander asked for him or left his rooms, Hephaestion went to attend to Cleitus' funeral.

Hephaestion did not see Alexander again until the morning after. He had spent the previous day attending to Cleitus' funeral. He had ordered and paid for the flautists, the priests, the sacrifices, the funeral pyre. Preceded by the flautists and the priests, he had walked with Cleitus' nephew as Alexander's representative behind the funeral carriage as they passed from the city gates through the army camp. He had been faintly surprised at the number of men lining the way, many merely curious, most silent, only some young hotheads jeering insults at Cleitus' corpse until silenced by the Royal Bodyguards' threatening presence.

He had stood and watched the pyre burn, having earlier summoned the Guard who had sensibly refused to sound the alarm and call out the Royal Guard when Alexander had ordered him to. Alexander had punched him in the face. Hephaestion had commended the man for his bravery in defying the King, for if armed Guards had burst in on drunk and angry men, there would have been more fatalities. He gave the man a talent in gold but, maybe, just maybe, if Cleitus had been arrested, he would be alive today.

Hephaestion had supplied the funeral feast too, and he had been the first to raise a toast in Cleitus' memory. He had given a eulogy in praise of the dead man, giving full credit to his achievements, the day he had saved Alexander's life, his loyalty to Philip and Alexander, his bravery in battle. He had skimmed over the manner of his death and merely lamented his premature demise.

He had sat through the cheerless, awkward feast until all the guests had left. Cleitus' nephew, Lanike's son Proteas, had thanked him. He was understandably uncomfortable and nervous, and Hephaestion saw him go with relief.

He had gone to Alexander's rooms then, but he found that Alexander had instructed the Pages not to allow anyone in. Not having slept the night before, Hephaestion was too tired and too jaded to protest. He could have defied the Pages and walked in, but he found he was resentful that Alexander had not made an exception for him, was excluding him from his pain. Yet perhaps he deserved to be excluded, for he had not unreservedly defended Alexander's actions. He had not declared Cleitus guilty and deserving of death.

Without a word, he turned and left Alexander's rooms. He laid on his own bed and, though he did not fully sleep, he lay there in a blank, semi-stupor in which his mind refused to function and his body, at least, took some rest.

In the middle of the night he got up and started working on some of his correspondence. Shortly towards dawn, without meaning to, he found himself writing to Aristotle. He poured out all his thoughts, all his confusion, at times incoherently, at times logically and dispassionately to his old teacher.

When he looked up, the morning was well advanced. He sanded and tied the scroll, sealed it with wax, and then put it in the box of his private correspondence. He would probably never send the letter, but he felt lighter, somewhat cleansed, though by no means pure. Yet the bruise of his loneliness had deepened.

He rose and took a long drink of cool water. He splashed some of the water onto his face, changed his clothes, and then went in search of Alexander.

Alexander was seated in a chair by the open garden door in his antechamber. He looked grey, and terrible. Someone, probably Bagoas, had persuaded him to wipe his hands and face and change his clothes, but his hair was dark with sweat, his cheeks unshaven. His lips were dry and his eyes were raw with weeping. His hands hung loosely in his lap like an old man's and Hephaestion's heart smote him for having left him alone with Cleitus' shade for so long.

Alexander raised his eyes to him briefly and Hephaestion took that as an invitation to sit down in the chair opposite him. A table had been set beside Alexander and there was a half full cup of water on it and a plate of broken bread, so Alexander looked to at least have broken his fast.

"I hate myself," Alexander said, his voice ragged.

Hephaestion drew a deep breath. "Right now, I hate you too."

Alexander glanced at him with a murderous darkness in his eyes.

"Cleitus was a good man, Alexander," Hephaestion continued relentlessly, steeling himself against the possibility of violence from Alexander. "He didn't deserve to die like that. No matter what he said, he didn't deserve that."

Alexander didn't move. "I've behaved abysmally," he said bitterly.

Hephaestion held his breath. He raised his eyes, past Alexander, out into the garden, to the oblong of blue sky and white clouds. "In the end, though," he said, "it was the only outcome."

Alexander stared at him, but there was a glimmer of sharpness in his eyes that hadn't been there a moment ago.

"After the things he said," Hephaestion continued, "his lack of respect for you, his contempt for others amongst us, you could not have let him go unpunished. You would have to have taken the Bactrian command away from him. You could not have left him here unchecked, and you could not have let him continue to command front line troops when his loyalty was in question. Who knows what dissention he would have spread if he had been allowed to get away with it? One way or another, Alexander, his fate was sealed and you would have had to get rid of him eventually." Hephaestion stopped, wondering if he had just perjured himself, wondering if he had just condoned Alexander's violence, if he had just given him license to do as he would.

"I could have exiled him."

"Where would he have gone? Sparta? That would have just shifted the problem onto Antipater."

There was a truculent set to Alexander's mouth. "I could have challenged him to a duel. Single combat," he muttered.

Despite himself, Hephaestion laughed, a short, hard laugh. "Oh, that would have been dignified. Heroic, but definitely undignified. And hardly a fair fight."

"I don't know. He was a big man. Strong too."

"He'd been sick. And he was past his prime."

"That was the problem," Alexander said, his voice perilously close to tears. "He thought he was being put out to pasture. Like an old war horse."

"I think, deep down, he was trying to make you see he still had fire in his belly."

"The men," Alexander said, drawing a deeper breath as if life were returning to a corpse, "held an Assembly this morning and declared him a traitor." He looked at Hephaestion, his eyes filling with tears of gratitude.

"Did they? I didn't know."

Alexander wiped quickly at his eyes. "Their loyalty astounds me. I don't deserve it, and I thought you had organised it."

"No. I was sulking in my room."

A quick sputter of laughter issued from Alexander's lips, followed by tears of exhaustion leaking from his eyes.

As he wiped distractedly at them, Hephaestion rose to his feet. He cupped the side of Alexander's head with his bandaged hand and, as Alexander raised his face to him, he bent and kissed Alexander's forehead in blessing.

"Will you sleep?" he murmured.

"Later. I need to speak to Proteas. Will you bring him to me? He will not fear me if you bring him. I need to speak to the Guard I hit too."

"Later. Sleep first."

With a moan of longing, Alexander reached for Hephaestion, wrapping his arms around his waist and pulling him close as Hephaestion straightened. Alexander held on tightly to him, pressing the side of his head against Hephaestion's ribs as Hephaestion laid his arms around Alexander's shoulders.

"Chares said you arranged the funeral," he said quietly, feeling the blood beating through Hephaestion's body.

Hephaestion stirred and, holding his hips, Alexander drew back and looked up at him. "Did you order the lion statue for him?"

"I did," Hephaestion said, looking down at him, his lips lifting in the smallest and most tender of smiles.

"And probably paid for it too," Alexander murmured, hugging Hephaestion close again. He closed his eyes for a moment, resting against the warmth of Hephaestion's body, his pillar of strength and integrity.

"Oh, Eph, what have I done?" he said, his lips against Hephaestion's hip. "How do I live through this?"

Hephaestion touched his hair gently, lost for words. "I truly do not know," he said sadly.

"I have ruined everything. You will never forgive me. No one will."

"I will forget. We all will. Forgive and forget."

"I will never forget."

"No, and neither should you," Hephaestion said, squatting to look Alexander in the eyes, their arms still intertwined. "But that is what family and friends do. We have all done things we regret, lost our temper and eaten our hearts out wishing things undone. But family and friends forgive us. I am here for the bad times as well as the good, Alexander."

Alexander's face softened, colour beginning to return to his cheeks. He searched Hephaestion's face.

"Yet every time a man looks at me, he will remember what I am capable of. He will fear me. He will fear disturbing my temper."

Hephaestion looked at Alexander soberly. "Ultimately, Alexander, was that not what you intended?" He watched Alexander steadily, watched the volatile thoughts flickering through Alexander's eyes. "You have asserted your authority indisputably. You have put the fear of death into men if they cross you. They will be quicker to obey you now. Things have been hard the last couple of years, and they will get harder still as we move into India. In a sense, you had to crack the whip, and without intending it, you have found a way to do it. A very emphatic way."

He watched Alexander searching for an answer, knelt and drew Alexander into his embrace. "There is no separating the King from the man, Alexander. The King is the man, and the King is only as strong as the man."

Alexander drew the warm strength of Hephaestion's embrace into his chilled heart, savouring it with closed eyes. "Yet in strengthening the King, I will drive men away from the man."

"The men will love you the more for it, Alexander. You thrill them. Absolute power, and the will to wield it, are powerful attractions, for few men possess them."

Alexander drew back and looked at him, his tiredness showing plainly. "Power is a cold and lonely bedmate, Hephaestion."

"Nonsense. Power is a very passionate bedmate. It's what drives you."

A ghost of a smile lifted Alexander's lips. After a moment, he said, "I have had a whole stream of visitors this morning. Callisthenes told me I could not alter what the Fates had ordained. Aristander told me I had omitted a sacrifice to Dionysus and angered the god. Anarxarchus told me a king could do what he likes as he's above the law. Bagoas told me to stop wallowing in self-pity. But I was waiting for you."

Hephaestion touched his hair gently, lifting a strand of it back from his face. "I'm here now," he said quietly, "and they meant well. They were trying to prove their worth to you." A teasing smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Without you, they would all starve."

Alexander tried to smile, but his face cracked and silent tears spilled down his cheeks.

Hephaestion wiped them with his bandaged hand. "Bed. And sleep," he said.

"Yes, mother," Alexander said, swallowing against the lump in his throat.

"Come on."

Hephaestion pulled Alexander to his feet and led him into the bedroom, where the Pages had been changing the King's bedding.

"Scoot," Hephaestion said to them. "The King is going to rest. I am going to watch over him, and you are going to bring us some hot broth and fresh bread at noon. Go." The Pages left with the bundles of bed linen in their arms, their faces considerably brighter than they had been.

"Lie with me," Alexander asked quietly.

Hephaestion lay down with him, spooned against Alexander's back for warmth. He drew a soft, comforting blanket over them both.

"I am afraid of nightmares if I sleep," Alexander said into the pillow.

"Face them head on, Alexander, as you do all your fears."

"With you at my side. As always," Alexander said, his voice slurring towards sleep. Exhausted, he was asleep a moment later, breathing heavily.

Hephaestion closed his own eyes and felt himself quickly slipping towards forgetful, healing sleep.