My life was waiting.

My life was worrying.

My life was joy and wrenching pain, endless dozing and awakening.

Was he injured? Could he find his way?

Had he been struck by a poisoned arrow? Seen the savage leaping at him from the trees? While I waited, I grew weaker.

I no longer had any appetite for food, games, or pleasure.

I no longer dreamed. I no longer spoke. I was silent.

I did not know what I was waiting for-for him to come back, for him to leave, for his wounded flesh, for his dead body on the top of the pyre.

I forced myself to eat, to get dressed, to arrange my hair. Before Alexander's men and women I hid my despair and forced myself to stand upright, to command and be radiant. I granted each of them a silent blessing, a prayer. Soldiers, wives, courtesans, whores, tradesmen, workmen, slaves, horses, dogs… I loved them all because I loved their king.

When alone with Ania, I could not look her in the eye. I was afraid she would discover my secret: I had agreed to be Roxana, Queen of Asia, for the beauty of my beloved. Behind my facade of dignity I had been defeated by suffering, I had grown weak and was no longer worthy of her loyalty. She and the other girls should leave this queen who could not fight her own sorrow. But how could I survive without them?

It was my punishment for relinquishing my freedom.

I missed the steppe. I missed the calls of migrating birds. I thought of the girl children, the foals, the goats. I missed the smell of our cooking. I missed the song of the steppes. I was no longer Tania, the melancholy girl who liked to savor the pleasures of life in secret. I, Ania, was overrun by the impurities of the world of men, disgusted by their massacres, intriguing, and denunciations. I was tired of living among women who did not know how to enjoy life and who argued all day long over a scrap of fabric, a child's pout, the cost of a ring.

Men and women hovered around me, the queen's serving woman. They threw me compliments, brought me their regional dishes, gave me gifts, and tried to find me a husband. I turned them away with a scowl.

It was so easy to read their thoughts: they wanted to bribe me in order to win the queen's favor. They wanted to know the secret of where we came from, our past, our customs. They wanted to know the queen's moods, what she said, and what she worried about so that they could take great pride in telling the entire city.

These men and women with eyes like an owl's and ears like a dog's started speaking ill of us the moment they were back in their own quarters. The queen's name and the names of her strange servants were on everyone's lips, all these thankless people growing bored while they waited for the king's victory. Rumors circulated from one tent to another: a slave girl, a workman, or a soldier would secretly come to inform me of the latest snippet livening their conversations. I, Ania, listened to this gossip as if suffering a thousand bee stings. In a fury, I stormed into my queen's tent and blurted out the slander I had heard.

People said our queen was an evil witch who had killed Oxy-artes' daughter Roxana and had stolen her skin and her identity. They said that the satrap had agreed to play the role of her father in return for command of the army. They said we came from a dark, shady land where women conversed with spirits, that the queen used black magic to ensnare Alexander's heart. They said that I, Ania, was cold and cruel, and that I manipulated the queen. I was the one controlling her and reigning over Alexander through her.

Tears sprang from my eyes and down my cheeks. I threw myself at my queen's feet.

"Let's go home! These people are mad! They are cursed! The warriors of the steppes kill with their weapons, but Alexander's men and women exterminate with their tongues!"

Alestria stroked my hair and told me it was not important. She told me white cranes should be able to fly above the flames.

"Alexander has cast a spell over you! He's hiding behind you to manipulate his people, who need a queen. They want to venerate her, to malign her, to exhaust her!"

"Surely you know I am not Roxana," she said in reply. "What they say about Roxana is of no concern to me."

"You who galloped across the steppe, you who fought the fiercest of men, how can you let these simpletons sully your name? They call you a witch as soon as they have had what they want from you: your goodness and purity. Alestria, let's leave! Leave this evil wasps' nest! Leave Alexander, master of these disloyal men and women!"

"They are disloyal because they are weak. We should pity them. Do not weep."

I could not believe what I had just heard. I was angry with her.

"Do not weep, is that all you can say to me? I weep every day over my queen's fate! Alexander does not love you-he married you to have a child. He wants an heir to guarantee the continuation of his dynasty. Just like Darius, just like the men before him, he wants a son from the queen of the Amazons. That is why he comes back, sleeps with you, then leaves!"

Alestria trembled. My well-aimed words had reached her, cut into her. After a brief silence she said:

"You understand nothing of love, Ania. Love is loved by love."

A dark glow of happiness appeared in my queen's eye. There in the candlelight I saw it overflow, waft past me, and fill the entire tent.

My queen had gone mad.

Ania had never loved a man. She knew nothing of love or the happiness of reunited lovers: their limbs intertwined, they fell asleep to meet again in their dreams. She did not know the wrenching pain when lovers part, when their bodies feel amputated. She did not know the strength that made me impervious to slander, betrayal, accusations, and intrigues. She did not know this madness: Alexander could take everything from me, I gave myself to him so fully I could tolerate even his absence.

Love lodges itself inside the body, somewhere in the chest. Love does not get lost and cannot be stolen. Love tortured me and made me beautiful. Love made me despair and filled me with hope. I loved Alexander! Those words steeped me in ice-cold water and in flames, brought me joy and pain. They made blue skies and storms. I felt a hundred years old, and I felt defenseless as a child again.

How could rumors have done me harm? How could malicious gossip hurt me? I who stood in the hanging garden of my suffering and my happiness, what did I care for their comments!

I hated the waiting, I loved the waiting! Not being able to touch him, not hearing his voice, made me weep. When I touched him, when I heard his voice, I already thought of how he would tear himself away from me, depriving me of that touch and those words. So I preferred his absence. I went to bed so that I could join him inside my head, on my inner steppes: he kissed me and whispered to me, making me laugh as we rode across the green waves.

Love is tenderness. Love is terror. Love is a soft cushion and a sword against my throat. No longer seeing the one I loved, no longer having to wait for him, never touching him again-that would have severed my very life.

When Alexander got up and put on his armor to go back to war, he would promise me nothing and I would ask for nothing. Warriors know that every day may be the last; they know that to promise is to lie. They prefer death to the cowardice of those who avoid combat. Between Alexander and myself there was only love: the word death did not exist. He said nothing to me and I said nothing to him. I helped him dress, fastened his sandals, and arranged his hair with my hands. I touched his curls and breathed in the smell of him. Every time might be the last. Death was there, but we pretended to forget it. We who had come so far, we who had come through seasons, storms, and wars to meet, how could we leave each other?