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of all his friends was the one who was most like him.
Ptolemy, almost fourteen, was quite stocky and well developed for his age. The first spots were appearing on his face together with a few wry hairs, and he had funny features dominated by a large nose and hair that was always ruffled. His companions poked fun at him, saying that he’d started growing nose-first, and this upset him no end. He would lift up his tunic to show off other protuberances that were growing no less rapidly than his nose.
Apart from these moments of excess in his high spirits, Ptolemy was a good boy, very fond of reading and writing. One day he let Alexander come to his room and showed him his books. He had at least twenty of them.
‘So many!’ exclaimed the Prince as he went to touch them.
‘Stop right there!’ said Ptolemy as he blocked him. ‘They’re delicate objects: papyrus is fragile and it disintegrates easily; one has to know the right way to unroll and roll them. They have to be kept in a well-ventilated and dry place with a mousetrap nearby because mice love papyrus and if they get hold of the scrolls that’s
the end of that. They can polish off two books of the Iliad or a tragedy by Sophocles in one night. Wait just a moment and I’ll get one for you.’ He took out a scroll marked with a small red card.
‘There. You see? This is a comedy by Aristophanes. It’s called Lisistrata and it’s my favourite. It tells of an occasion when the women of Athens and Sparta were truly fed up with all the wars that kept their menfolk away from home and they were all desperate for …’ he stopped when he saw Alexander’s face, his mouth gaping. ‘Well, let’s skip that, you’re too young for these things. I’ll tell you all about it some other time, all right?’
‘What’s a comedy?’ asked Alexander.
‘Haven’t you ever been to the theatre?’ asked Ptolemy, shocked.
‘Children aren’t allowed. But I know that it’s like listening to a story, only there are real men with masks on their faces and they pretend to be Hercules or Theseus. Some of them even . pretend to be women.’
     
‘More or less,’ replied Ptolemy. ‘Tell me, what are your teacher’s lessons about?’
‘I can add and subtract, I know the geometrical figures and I can distinguish the Great Bear from the Little Bear in the heavens as well as more than twenty other constellations. And then I can read and write and I’ve read Aesop’s fables.’
‘Mmmm …’ observed Ptolemy, carefully putting the scroll back in its place. ‘Kids’ stuff.’
‘And then I know the entire list of my ancestors, both on my father’s and on my mother’s side. I am a descendant of Hercules and of Achilles; did you know that?’
‘And who were Hercules and Achilles?’
‘Hercules was the strongest hero in the world and he carried out twelve labours. Shall I tell you about them? The Nemean lion, the Hind of Cery … Ceryne …’ The boy couldn’t quite get his tongue round it.
‘I see, I see. You’re very good. But if you like I can read you some of the beautiful things I have here in my study … what do you think? And now, why don’t you run along and play? Did you know there’s a boy who’s just arrived here in Pella and who’s just your age?’
Alexander’s face lit up. ‘Where is he?’
‘I saw him in the courtyard kicking a ball around. He’s a strong-looking specimen.’
Alexander ran down as fast as he could and sat under the portico to watch the new guest without daring to speak to him.
All of a sudden the boy kicked a little harder and sent the ball rolling to Alexander’s feet. The newcomer ran after it and the two youngsters found themselves face to face.
‘Do you want to play with me? It’s better when two play. I’ll kick it and you catch it.’
‘What’s your name?’ asked Alexander.
‘Hephaestion, and yours?’
‘Alexander.’
‘Right. Come on then, up against that wall. I kick first and if you catch the ball you get a point, then