The warriors took their places as pitchers of wine were carried along the corridors. Whole roast calves on silver trays converged on the feasting hall. There, by torchlight, mouths covered in scars gleamed with grease as they popped olives and grapes. My father sat in pride of place. Beneath his thick fair eyebrows, a flame danced in the heart of his one blue eye. He held forth about military operations yet to be perpetrated and kingdoms yet to be conquered. I hid behind a column and listened, fascinated by his booming voice but not understanding a word. The clamor was deafening. Philip poured wine down his throat with one hand and delved into the belly of a roast calf with the other. He drank quickly and ate too much. Pleasure-that sweet, slow progressive sensation-was unknown to him. He liked only instant gratifications so that he could move on to the next.

When the servant women found me, they took me away forcibly and shut me in my room. I leaned on the windowsill, watching lights twinkling around the town. All of Pella was feasting with the king. When the moon was bright I could see naked men walking through the gardens and terraces. They chased each other through the grass and disappeared into the trees. One day the slaves forgot to block my door, and I slipped out of my room. I came round a bend in a corridor and saw Philip almost naked. He was fighting with a young man. They were both groaning. I froze at the sight of them. Fascinated by their thighs and stomachs, I could not tear my eyes away. My father gave long rasping moans that terrified me. I ran to my room in tears and hid under the bed.

The tyrant disappeared for months at a time. Life settled back into its gentle music. I did not want to be a man, to be like

Philip. I liked braids and women's clothes, and learned the disciplines I enjoyed: dance, the lute, poetry, the game of marbles. But the tyrant returned more fiery and brutal, more drunk than ever. Olympias wept. Philip bellowed. I trembled, closing my eyes and blocking my ears. My father's imprecations and my mother's screams as he struck her hammered through my head.

Olympias, your beauty and your origins bewitched Philip. He had your father assassinated and abducted you from your country! Philip the tyrant is not my father. A young Greek warrior loved you, and you conceived me. Olympias, don't cry! I will have our revenge.

When I reached the age of six, my father stole me from my mother. I was driven out of town in a cart and was interned at the Royal School, where I was to learn to fight like every Macedonian man. Still haunted by Olympias's sobs, I walked timidly through that imposing portico. The sons of generals and noblemen kept their distance, eyeing me coldly. I stopped in front of the closest of them. He looked down.

"Are you a girl or a boy?" I asked him.

"A boy," he replied.

"What's your name?"

"Hephaestion."

I liked the way he flushed, the smell of him and his voice. I knew instantly that his friendship would be eternally faithful and protective.

I was the smallest and weakest at school. The boys imitated their fathers' coarse habits and walked with their heads held high.

They made fun of me and deliberately bumped into me. I was flattered merely to exist close to their muscles. I played Olym-pias, the submissive woman, and charmed them with my affable smiles. I took more interest in the beauty of the male body than in athletic training. The world of boys made me forget the unbearable ugliness of lame, mutilated, blinded, and scarred adults.

Philip announced the imminent arrival of a philosopher famous for his moral rectitude. He wanted the man to come to Pella, he explained, to correct the perversities Olympias had instilled in me. Aristotle appeared one spring morning, dressed in a white tunic which left his thin bony arms uncovered. I hid behind an olive tree, refusing to talk to this man who wanted to educate me in keeping with Greek customs. He would find out about my conversations with birds and my girlish ways. He would punish me and torture me. He was here to work on my reason.

Aristotle sat on a bench and called for Alexander. Hephaes-tion dragged me by the hand, then pushed me forcibly. I stood in front of the philosopher with my eyes lowered and my hands behind my back, staring at a column of ants carrying grain toward some bushes. Aristotle's voice rang out. It was the first time I had heard pure Greek, unhampered by any accent.

"Macedonia is just one star in a sky full of stars, do you know that?"

I looked up.

Aristotle drew me in and tamed me with his beautiful words and his soothing presence. He let me feel his body, which was nothing like those of the warriors I grew up with. His status as a philosopher meant he could dispense with all athletic training: his skin was soft, his belly fat, his chest flabby. Aristotle was living proof of the diversity of the world. Other men may be as powerful as warriors. Other towns may be more beautiful than Pella.

In the shade beneath the porticoes Aristotle unrolled his maps. He took an olive branch and traced the roads and shorelines. Country by country, he communicated his passion for geography to me. He smelled good, and his face glowed. No one before him had that phrasing, that way with words, that stringency and clarity. Aristotle was a mason who knew how to build minds. He consolidated the foundations laid down by Olympias, and erected the columns. Mathematics, logic, and metaphysics supported the structure of thought. I grasped that history was not written only by the gods of Olympus or by heroes destined for great exploits. The earth was populated not only with Cerberuses, centaurs, and mermaids. Men had created kingdoms, cities, and governments. Somewhere beyond incantations and witchcraft there was grammar, analysis, and morality. Beyond the art of divination, there was arithmetic, and that quest for a just medium between the failings and qualities of all things, that balancing act, that is called politics.

Phalanxes of the Macedonian army made the very earth tremble. My father advanced at the head of this swaying forest of lances, and never retreated. He returned to Pella only for major feast days. Crowned with laurels and wearing sandals of woven gold, he dominated the world as Zeus did Mount Olympus. His hair was bleached by the sun, his wind-burnished skin obscured by a beard, while his white tunic revealed one shoulder and showed off an arm with bulging muscles scored with lance wounds. And this mighty king publicly ridiculed me: he said I was as thin and stupid as a girl. He grabbed my hand and laid it on his scars, claiming he would teach me about manliness and valor.

Orgies could no longer satisfy his thirst for gratification. He took to keeping lions and releasing captives into the arena with them. The monsters roared and leaped onto these near-naked men. Rare were the slaves who could hold on to their weapons and fight against the lionesses, who were even fiercer than their mates. My father would laugh, standing up and craning his neck when a belly was ripped open. I sat beside him, no longer shaking. Olympias had taught me not to be afraid. She told me that when the storm was in full swing, I had to stay calm and keep my feet on the ground. Because nothing can sway the ground, nothing could destroy it. It is the source of all strength. That was the secret of our ancestor Achilles, who was invincible so long as his feet touched the ground. The spectacle was drawing to a close; my father spat, put his hand through my hair, and waggled my head, roaring with laughter. The sun was setting and the feasting began. The king was soon drunk, and his affection toward me turned to rage. He brandished his goblet and his sword, called me a bastard before everyone, and asked in a booming voice who my father was. The warriors laughed, each claiming I was his daughter.