Of all the things he had, I wanted only his strength.

Ever in pursuit of the model of divine beauty, artists abandoned the coarse bodies of athletes and became infatuated with the cool contours of my muscles, my graceful limbs and fine features.

Looking at my reflection, I no longer saw the timid girl with braided hair, or the melancholy little boy who dreamed of being Homer. Instead there was a young prince with a proud nose and a determined chin. He had large, green innocent eyes that fascinated the powerful Macedonian warriors, and an adolescent mouth that the Greeks longed to kiss. His square shoulders, strong chest, and narrow waist, his firm belly and muscled buttocks, still had the harmonious curves and sweet proportions of a woman. I had become a work of art and was offered to everyone, but was forever inaccessible to common mortals.

How could it be that such filth and crime had made my body so resplendent? I was obsessed with hatred, ravaged by vengeance, initiated in the art of torture, unmoved by corpses, laughing as I decapitated and eviscerated them… how could it be that my features were still so incomparably pure?

Is the face a comedian's mask hiding the tragedy of the soul?

The body a statue of marble to serve men and the gods?

With Aristotle, I was an assiduous and intelligent pupil. With my father, a torturer and a whore. With my fellow students, a tyrannical leader and a servile lover. With Hephaestion, a suspicious woman, constantly haranguing him reproachfully to make him suffer.

I had grown accustomed to being several different people. There were as many Alexanders as there were men and women interested in me, in love with me, intoxicated by my face.

Paris took Helen away, and the Greeks waged war on the Trojans for ten years. Achilles killed Hector and was killed in turn. The defeated Priam had his throat cut, and the conquering Agamemnon was assassinated by his own wife. Beauty is prey to strength. Beauty destroys strength. From a crawling caterpillar I had turned into a butterfly. From the defenseless little girl I had forged my own strategy. My beauty had subjugated Philip; it had incited young men to fight each other, and elicited vows of loyalty. It made Hephaestion weep and tricked Aristotle. I offered it, then took it back; I threw it out, then hid it again. Beauty was my sword, and I loathed it.

Hatred of beauty was my armor. Self-loathing appeased my pain.

Philip had taught me to spy, Olympias to plot and scheme. I never hesitated to follow the king's order in killing lovers he thought were traitors. I trained myself to know no pity in order to protect my girlish heart and my poet's dreams.

I woke in the mornings exhausted by my restless sleep. I stripped naked and posed for artists who displayed my image as the aesthetic ideal to every nation. I would rule over this world of ugliness and violence with my radiant smile and innocent expression. In Pella everyone had become my lover, my slave. Everyone wanted to die within me, had sworn to die for me.

My mother's indulgence and constant weeping exasperated me. I now hated her more than I loathed Philip. So long as she was alive, her existence would remind me that I was the instrument she had forged to spite the tyrant. Wherever I was, she would be inside my head, whispering her disappointment and resentment toward men. My mother was the mirror in which I contemplated my own reflection in horror.

Who was I?

A weakling or a towering force?

Hephaestion, do you remember our early years spent running through the forests like fawns?

Do you remember our first embrace?

Do you remember the sunbeam that came in through the temple doors, unfurling a great carpet of light at our feet!

Veiled in brilliant red by the setting sun and draped in white cloth, you blushed and smiled, twisting your head away when I tried to kiss you. I pinned you to the plinth at Apollo's feet, reached out my hand, and let your tunic slip from your shoulder. As you struggled, you did the same to me so that I was naked. You were only fifteen years old, and I even younger. Do you know that I was already accustomed to hairy adult bodies and was moved by your young, hairless skin? Your lips seemed to swell, your eyes pierced mine, paralyzing me. I had to force you to turn round. You clung to Achilles' ankles. Drops of water fell on my arms, you wept as you gave me my first climax.

You have always asked me why I wept with you that day. And why I laughed as I wept. Here is my secret: I was my father's whore. I had just freely given you what my father paid for in cattle, horses, and gold pieces. I had just realized that what you had given me without compensation was worth more than the treasures of every Greek city. I learned that there was something in the world, a feeling that could not be bartered, stolen, or taken by force.

Love repairs what beauty destroys. I became a man the day you gave yourself. I, who hoped to find a warrior to release me from the prison created by my father, I nurtured the desire to become a hero to guard our purity!

Hephaestion, do you remember? For the first year of school I was always on the ground during wrestling classes. The boys called me a bastard and you fought for me, rolling on the ground with Crateros, who took pleasure in humiliating me. Do you know that for a long time I wondered which I liked best: you, my protector who looked on me tenderly, or him, the cruel one who rejected me?

When we left the temple, the sun was shining along the path. I was filled with the happiness of having known physical delight. As I walked hand in hand with you, I understood that I was no longer the king's slave, and now I wanted to become king, your king and king of the Macedonians and the Greeks. On that day I knew I had something more than my father, the invincible warrior, ever had.

I am woman and man. I am stronger, more intelligent, and more determined than a man who has not known a woman's suffering.

Be thanked, Hephaestion, for your patience and tolerance. I was once afraid you might abandon me, and I tormented you to keep you by my side. This evening I release you from my possessive desire. You are free.

Tomorrow Philip will die, or he will survive.

Tomorrow I shall be king, or I shall be condemned.

Tomorrow will be ours, or we shall be forgotten to the world for ever.

Come, Hephaestion! Let us join Cassander, Crateros, Perdic-cas, and the others. We should not make them wait.

Slaves, light the braziers! Dionysus, break open your pitchers, let the wine flow.

Let us drink and make love and celebrate!

Here's to us, brothers in arms, children of Macedonia, may we conquer pyramids, deserts, oceans, the steepest mountains and the most magnificent cities.

Blood is our strength; pain our ecstasy!

Pausanias did not break his word; his dagger struck Philip.

The king crawled along the ground before falling motionless. Only his hands still quivered. Blood blossomed on his white tunic, tinting it red. All around me women screamed and children howled. Men blamed themselves and beat their chests. They tore their clothes and lost their sandals as they barged past each other in pursuit of the murderer. Olympias threw herself at my feet, shaking me as she sobbed. I looked up toward the sun and let tears of joy stream over my cheeks.

Aristotle, your words hardened the ribs of my flanks, your lessons straightened my spine! Your knowledge armed my mind. Henceforth I shall be a king, I shall dominate this world of violence with the strength of thought. Pausanias was a soldier prepared to die for a great cause; others will follow his example and die for Alexander.