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shock and terror on their faces. The peltasts came in at either end of the curving beach, javelins and bows ready. The sailors were trapped against the sea.
    There was no fight in them. They surrendered meekly and the entire year's grain harvest became Philip's prize. There would be hunger in Athens this winter. Or so I thought.

Chapter 5

    Philip was in high spirits as we rode toward Pella, his capital. He had failed to capture Perinthos, and had done little more to Byzantion than throw a scare into its citizens. But he had the grain harvest. An army of slaves had loaded it all onto creaking ox carts and then we had burned the Athenian ships, every last one of them. The black smoke rose like an offering to the gods and stained the crystal blue sky for days. The Athenian sailors he sent home on foot, despite the urgings of Alexandros and several others to enslave them.
    None of us was disappointed that we had won the grain without a fight. Except for Alexandros.
    "The young hothead thinks he's a new Achilles," grumbled Pausanias as we rode toward the capital. "He wants glory and the only way he can get it is by bloodshed."
    "How young is he?" I asked.
    "Eighteen."
    I made myself chuckle. "It's understandable, isn't it? Didn't you want to be a hero when you were eighteen?"
    Pausanias did not reply to my question. Instead, he told me, "A few years ago, while we were campaigning in northern Thrace, Philip left Alexandros in Pella, to govern while he was in the field. Gave him the ring and the seal and everything. That's when people started calling him the Little King. He couldn't have been more than sixteen."
    "He was left in charge at sixteen?" I marveled.
    "Antipatros was left with him, of course, to steer him by the elbow, but Alexandros took himself very seriously, even then. One of the hill tribes, the Maeti, stirred up some trouble. They're always raiding one another, those cattle herders, or trying to get away from paying the king's taxes."
    "Alexandros went after them?"
    Pausanias nodded. "Left the capital in Antipatros' hands, and he and his boyfriends went galloping out to deal with this miserable handful of cattle thieves."
    He broke into a sour grin, the closest I had seen Pausanias come to laughter. "The Maeti ran off to the hills, of course, and left their pitiful little village empty. So Alexandros sent back to Pella for a dozen or so Macedonian families, resettled them in the village, and changed its name to Alexandropolis."
    I waited for the rest of the story. Pausanias gave me an exasperated look.
    "No one is allowed to put his name to a city," he explained impatiently. "Only the king."
    I said, "Oh."
    "Do you know what Philip said when he heard about it?"
    "What?"
    " 'At least he might have waited until I'm dead.' "
    I laughed. "He must be fond of the boy."
    "He was proud of him. Proud! The little snot slaps him in the face and he's proud of it."
    I looked around us. We were riding at the head of the group but there were others of the guard close enough to overhear us. It was not wise to call Alexandros names.
    "Don't worry," Pausanias said, seeing the concern on my face. "None of my men will inform on us. They all feel the same way."
    I wondered if that were true.
    Pausanias went silent for a while and we rode with no sound but the soft padding of the horses' hooves on the dusty ground and the occasional jingle of metal from their harnesses.
    "It's his mother, if you want to know where the fault lies," Pausanias muttered, almost as if talking to himself. "Olympias has filled the boy's head with crazy tales ever since he suckled at her breast. She's the one who's made him think he's a godling. Made him believe that he's too good for us, too good even for his own father."
    I said nothing. There was nothing that I could say.
    "All those tales that Philip isn't his true father, that he was sired by Herakles—that's Olympias' twaddle, for sure. Sired by Herakles! She would've loved to have Herakles plow her, all