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deathbed and claimed that I was as strong as the Aegean waves that crashed on the rocks below her childhood home in Thessaly. Yet I was born on the day my father’s men conquered her homeland at the Battle of Crocus Field, and so he had decreed my name should be Thessalonike: Victory in Thessaly . Now the Thessalians revolted again, and I wished I knew some good words to curse them with. Too bad I refused to speak to Alexander or he might have taught me some.
    Then Olympias smiled, a gesture that might have frozen the sun. She didn’t offer any explanation, only watched as Alexander led his men in the ceremonial march between the two severed halves of a recently sacrificed dog, its red and purple entrails spilling from the furry brown body. I looked away, recognizing the poor beast as one my orange tom had often taunted, my eyes stinging at the thought that the poor animal had been wagging its tail and eating a fine feast of minced liver only this morning. The army would be purified once the cavalry and infantry had passed between the sanctified dog as decreed by the oracles, and Alexander would officially take his place as their commander.
    And then I knew why Olympias smiled so.
    “Alexander will lead the army against Thessaly, won’t he?” I asked.
    She didn’t glance at me, only nodded. “And he will rout them.”
    I’d sought to curse the Thessalians mere moments ago, but I felt only one thing for them as the army raised swords, banging on their glaring sun shields and cheering their acceptance of my brother.
    Pity.
    •   •   •
    R egret and relief roiled deep in my belly as I watched Alexander leave our city, a golden lion at the front of a long line of shield bearers and foot companions, all dressed in greaves and leather breastplates, carrying lances and Macedonian sarissas , those deadly pikes made of sturdy cornel wood and tipped with iron that could pierce through the strongest cuirass. Their shields were freshly stamped with my brother’s newly claimed symbol: a sixteen-pointed star, one spoke for each of the twelve gods of Olympus and the four seasons, as if Alexander planned to harness all of those mighty powers. Alexander rode his black horse, Bucephalus, an untamed beast whelped in Hephaestus’ fiery forges that he’d broken as a young man and since taught to kneel in full armor, and the crowds threw fragrant jasmine petals into the air and chanted his name. And my golden brother threw back his head and laughed, a glorious sound that made the crowd cheer louder.
    “I love Alexander,” Arrhidaeus said next to me, grinning his lopsided grin. He’d lost weight since the night in the courtyard and I’d had to give him my three-legged tortoise to coax a smile out of him, but now the parade distracted him and he clapped his hands. “Everyone else does too.”
    I watched as Alexander threw his fist into the air, prompting a deafening cheer. It seemed Arrhidaeus was right; the army cared little for the recent murders and not even Achilles and Heracles could have looked more glorious as they strode into battle. A shudder passed through my bones as I remembered the way those brave heroes had perished. Only the gods knew whether my brother would follow in their footsteps, and I was ashamed to feel myself softening toward him, knowing as I did what horrors he’d sanctioned for his throne.
    I longed to leave Aigai, to climb Egypt’s ancient pyramids and gape at Persia’s renowned Ishtar Gate, as Alexander claimed he would on this conquest, yet I could never leave Arrhidaeus. And a girl could never travel with the army, although I’d heard stories that King Darius of Persia kept his entire family with him when campaigning.
    Alexander met my gaze and grinned, then beckoned to his newly appointed bodyguard: Hephaestion. My brother riffled in his saddlebags and pressed something into his friend’s hand, winking at me before turning away. Hephaestion guided his horse toward the shaded dais where I