"Next time, you can help," she said.

I asked her to describe her pleasure.

"Like honey," she said, and, "Like a drum." And other similes: cresting a hill, waves breaking, the colour of gold.

She said when I came I sounded like a man lifting something heavy and then, with a great effort, setting it down.

THE FIRST G GREEK KING in Macedon was told by an oracle to build a city at the place where he first saw the in Macedon was told by an oracle to build a city at the place where he first saw the aigas aigas, the goats. Twenty-four years ago, Philip's first military outing as king was the defence of Aegeae-former capital, site of the royal tombs-against Athens. Late this summer, the court relocates to Aegeae.

The palace, protected from behind by a mountain, faces north, with a view across the shrine and the city to the plain below. It's smaller than the palace at Pella but older and holier; all important ceremonies are held here. At the heart of the complex is a square courtyard forested with columns; then reception rooms, shrines, living rooms. The circular throne-room has an inscription to Heracles in mosaic; elsewhere the floor is worked with stone vines and flowers so that it's like walking across meadows in bloom. Near the west wall is the outdoor theatre. A tall stone wall shelters courtiers on their way from the palace to the theatre, cutting them off from the public s.p.a.ce of the city. The theatre is stone and beaten earth, with platforms for the audience and an altar to Dionysus at the centre of the pit.

In addition to the court from Pella comes the king of Epirus, Olympias's brother Alexandros. Philip, politicking to the last, has arranged for his and Olympias's daughter to wed her own uncle. The marriage is widely understood as a tool to confirm Alexandros's loyalty to Philip, rather than to Olympias. It's an important wedding, too, not so much because of who the bride and groom are-Philip, presumably, still has a thumb free for each of them-but as an opportunity for Philip to display his grand greatness before all the world. Macedon itself will be on display. There will be a festival of the arts, games, and ma.s.sive banquets over many days. Foreign guests come from everywhere; this is not the season when foreigners are refusing Philip.

On the morning of the first day of celebrations is to be a performance of Euripides, the Bacchae Bacchae, again. Is Philip indulging in a little irony, reminding his brother-in-law of the last performance they attended together, all those years ago? We all love the Bacchae Bacchae.

I sit in the audience with my nephew, toward the back, waiting for the play to begin. Below us sit a few hundred of Philip's choicest guests, men all bright and lovely in their festival clothes, flowers in their hair, their many languages glorifying the air. The rest of the guests-a thousand all told, I've heard-will be feasting already, waiting for this afternoon's games. The heat is oppressive and I'm missing Herpyllis, who's remained behind in Pella to care for Little Pythias and our newborn son: Nicomachus, after my father. I miss my son's small self in the bed, where Herpyllis matter-of-factly put him between us that first night, where he sleeps with his arms stretched wide, a hand on his mother and a hand on me. He gives me a deep animal pleasure-his fat little heat and snoring, a cub in the den, tangling limbs-that I never had with my daughter. Pythias insisted she sleep in her own room with her nurse, who for nighttime feeds roused us formally with a ritual knock at the door, as though fearing to interrupt us in some act of uxoriousness. Little Pythias was a fretful baby and took forever to get back to sleep once woken. Little Nicomachus, so far, eats like a wolf-Herpyllis feeds him on her lap, cross-legged next to me in the bed, like a peasant girl-and sleeps like a sot, a white trickle of his bliss still in the corner of his mouth. He will be an uncomplicated sort, I think. I miss him. I take pleasure, too, in Herpyllis, who is naturally kind and competent, who shares my childhood memories and has a rea.s.suring earthiness to my dead wife's absentee etherealism. But my work frankly bores her, and when I speak of it she always has another task in hand, mending, or tr.i.m.m.i.n.g vegetables, or feeding the baby, or braiding Little Pythias's fine hair.

It's time to start choosing a future: somewhere with people I can talk to, or at least ghosts I can live with. "I see a journey," Callisthenes said to me yesterday, waggling his fingers in front of his eyes like a priest having a vision. So do I; but journeys need hope and courage and planning and a desire to get up in the morning. It's going to take me a while to muster those troops.

The procession starts, the drums and trumpets, the statues of the G.o.ds, and then Philip himself a few steps ahead of his bodyguard. The crowd roars. One of the bodyguard ducks suddenly and draws a knife. Philip seems to say something, seems to raise a hand to the soldier's shoulder, and then the knife is sticking in Philip's chest. What? Philip looks over his shoulder, kneels carefully, touches the knife's handle, and lies down.

I don't see what happens onstage after that. All around me men are shouting profanities, naming the G.o.ds, denying what they've seen. What? No! Then the crowd is pushing and stumbling and running and we are borne along in it, Callisthenes and I, particles in a current. We link elbows to stay together. Outside the theatre, soldiers are yelling at people to go back to wherever they're lodging and stay there. For us, that's the palace library. We're searched for weapons several times as we make our way there. Callisthenes is bleeding from a kicked ankle.

"Is the prince all right?" I ask a soldier at the palace gate. He recognizes us.

"The king, you mean."

"Is he all right?"

"He's the king," the soldier says.

The library is silent. Our bedrolls are where we left them this morning. So many foreigners are here, every spare room is taken. I don't like eating and drinking and washing and p.i.s.sing in here, bringing moisture in with the books, but we weren't given a choice.

"You saw who it was?" Callisthenes tears a strip from his bed linen to bind his ankle. "Pausanias."

"Why?"

Callisthenes knows. There's a story told about the officer-a bookend to the story Carolus told me about his promotion, long ago-that he quarrelled with Attalus, the new queen's father, and that Attalus, pretending reconciliation, invited him to dinner, got him drunk, and threw him into the yard with the stableboys. When Pausanias went to Philip for justice, the king refused to punish his own father-in-law. Instead, he sent Attalus off in command of an advance force to Persia to prepare for the coming invasion, and promoted Pausanias once again, this time to his personal bodyguard, in an attempt to pacify him.

"They held him down and took turns," Callisthenes says. "He s.h.i.t blood for days."

"He attacks the king because of some rough trade? That doesn't sound right." Though, as Carolus once reminded me, they celebrate with it, they make people suffer with it, they do their business with it, they run the kingdom with it they celebrate with it, they make people suffer with it, they do their business with it, they run the kingdom with it. "You don't suppose Philip's dead?"

The room has one tall slit of a window overlooking vineyards. Callisthenes cranes his neck, trying to see something, anything. "Do you think anyone remembers we're in here?"

The answer comes at midnight. We've lit lamps and drunk this morning's stale water but we haven't dared go look for food. Now we're lying in our bedrolls, wide awake, when a soldier opens the door. A soldier: Antipater.

"Not you," he says to Callisthenes.

I follow him through the unfamiliar halls. Aegeae is older and rougher than modern, expensive Pella; the halls are narrower, darker, with lower ceilings and uneven floors. We pa.s.s sentries and patrols, antsy soldiers with white faces who startle and bristle until they recognize Antipater. I'm glad we didn't try to leave the library ourselves.

"Face me," Antipater says outside a door. "Spread your arms." He pats me down for weapons. "Go in."

"What is this?"

"Go in."

A bedroom. Alexander sits on the bed, head in his hands. He looks up when I come in. I sit down beside him and put an arm around his shoulders.

"Maybe I wanted it," he says.

"All young men want their fathers dead. I did. And then when it happens-"

"I sacrificed for it."

"What did you sacrifice?"

"A black c.o.c.k. I wanted a bull but you can't hide a bull. But the G.o.ds knew what I meant."

"When was this?"

"After Maedi, after he said he'd cripple me if I went out again on my own."

"Three years ago?"

"The G.o.ds knew."

"Three years," I say. "Child, the G.o.ds don't wait that long. You didn't do this."

"I knew about Pausanias."

"His argument with Attalus?"

"And if it wasn't Pausanias, it would have been someone else. The G.o.ds heard me."

Accept the guilt. Accuse yourselves.

"He looked at me," Alexander says. "I was behind him, under the archway, waiting for my turn to enter the theatre. After Pausanias-my father couldn't speak, but he turned to look at me. He knew it was really me. The G.o.ds opened the door."

Opposing extremes, but also versions of the same form.

"I've been waiting and waiting for you," Alexander says. "No one knew where to find you. Where were you?"

"In the library."

He starts to cry.

"My father died of plague." I take my arm from his shoulders. "Your father was killed by an a.s.sa.s.sin. The body needs a balance of fluids. Grief creates an excess, which we release through tears. Too many tears and the body becomes parched; the brain shrivels. You need to grieve, and drink water, and sleep. In the morning you'll ask the G.o.ds to turn the guilt you feel into a tiny fish. You'll hide that fish somewhere inside yourself." I touch my temple, my heart. "Here, or here. You can live like that. No one will know."

"Antipater thinks Pausanias was paid."

"Who by?"

He looks at me.

"He doesn't think that."

"My mother, then."

"That's ridiculous. Wipe your nose." He wipes his nose on his sleeve. "Any number of ambitious men would perceive a benefit in your father's death. Antipater will see that."

"You think so?"

"It makes sense. Some disgruntled chieftain who fancies himself in line for the throne, maybe, who found a sharpened tool in Pausanias. I'll have a word with him." I stand. "You need to sleep. Shall I bring the lamp?" He nods. I light a table lamp from a torch on the wall and bring it to his bed, where he's lain down. "All right?"

He nods.

"You didn't do this."

He closes his eyes.

Children hold hands. Men walk by themselves, you see?

AFTER PURIFICATION RITUALS AND a period of lying-instate, Philip is buried with his weapons under a great tumulus of earth. Pausanias's mutilated body is burned on top of the pile. The sons of Aeropus, a disgruntled chieftain, are tried, convicted, and put to death. Ritual sacrifices, funerary games, full pomp and honours in the high, golden, late-afternoon summer sunlight, pollen twinkling in the air all around. a period of lying-instate, Philip is buried with his weapons under a great tumulus of earth. Pausanias's mutilated body is burned on top of the pile. The sons of Aeropus, a disgruntled chieftain, are tried, convicted, and put to death. Ritual sacrifices, funerary games, full pomp and honours in the high, golden, late-afternoon summer sunlight, pollen twinkling in the air all around.

I grieve. There's a tiny place deep in my chest where a little man sits, a manikin, weeping. I tell him to settle down. In the evenings, when I drink, he clambers up onto my shoulder for a shy look round. He thinks the same thoughts I do, in his small way, highly spiced thoughts, meat skewers, tiny and intense memories. He's a bit of an Arrhidaeus, my manikin, with his crust-nosed gibbering, probably diapered, probably can't feed himself, but he remembers exorbitantly, lavishly, complexly, in flashes of super-saturated colour. Here's one: Philip opening his eyes under water for the first time and laughing, bubbles streaming silently from his mouth, reaching to touch the bubbles that streamed from mine, looking over his shoulder, at his feet, over his head to the surface, and back to my face. Philip with both eyes open, laughing under the sea.

"BE SAFE," HERPYLLIS SAYS.

It's bronze-dayed, crisp-nighted harvest time. Callisthenes and I are taking a trip while we can, before the weather turns. We'll ride Tar and Lady; Tweak is for the bags. He huffs and snuffs, annoyed at the unaccustomed weight. Callisthenes scratches his nose and tells him he's gone soft.

I pick Little Pythias up in a hug and tell her I'm going to find us a new house to live in.

"Me too?" she says.

"You too."

She b.u.mps her forehead to mine. I put her down and she goes to stand beside Herpyllis, who holds the baby.

We mount and ride away. "It hasn't been all bad," Callisthenes says as we turn back to wave, meaning Pella, meaning the three of them.

"You think we should stay?"

"In Pella? No."

"In Macedon?"

"That's what this trip is about, isn't it?"

We ride east, in sight of the ocean for a while and then inland. We toast bread on green sticks over our nightly smudge of fire and sleep rough. We're quiet together, each looking inward. I have a feeling about my nephew, an idea there's something he wants to tell me. No matter. I won't mind what he decides either way, though I'll miss him.

Philip's army-Alexander's now-has been busy in Chalcidice. Even just a few weeks' reconstruction have brought some of the prettiness back, some of the prosperity, the fruit and the birds and the colour. Go still at sundown and you can hear the earth itself humming. The ground stays warm long into the night; strange-familiar faces smile up at us from the fields; the stars are a splash of silver liquid across the sky, a spill pattern as familiar as the stains on my mother's kitchen table. I'm almost home; all this time, it's been only two days' ride away. Callisthenes smiles at me once or twice without saying anything, at something he sees in my face. It'll take a good month to pack up the house in Pella and conclude my affairs there, and by then it'll be too late in the season for the women and children to travel, too wet and cold for the baby especially. We'll make this journey again, for real, in the spring. This is just reconnaissance.

As Antipater warned me, the east coast is still bleak; Stageira is the exception. The fields lie fallow and the vineyards are overgrown but the village has been patched back together, old stones and new wood. I show Antipater's letter to the officer in charge, who gives us stew in his own tent and says he's grown fond of the place these past couple of months. Nice manners. I tell him his men have worked fast.

He pours more wine. "We know where our orders come from. Who you are."

We throw dice together for a while, and then I walk down to the sh.o.r.e in the moonlight. Callisthenes follows after a couple of minutes.

"You're happy," he says.

"Am I?"

"Comfortable. You belong here."

"I guess I do. I don't know. It's a good place for a childhood. I like to think of Nicomachus running around here the way I did when I was a child."

"Playing with your ghost."

I point at the sea. "That little boy is about fifty feet out and twenty feet down, diving for sh.e.l.ls. Anyone who wants to go look for him can try."

Callisthenes hugs himself and rubs his biceps up and down. "I'd rather see the house."

My father's estate is set back from the sea. The big house is dark but from a distance we can see light in one of the outbuildings. Closer, the window of the garden cottage. When our footsteps sound on the pebbles, an old woman appears in the doorway.

"h.e.l.lo, Beauty." Callisthenes ducks down to greet her.

She's a hunchback and twists herself so she can look at our faces with sharp eyes. I don't recognize her.

"Do you live here?" he asks.

"I know you."

Callisthenes smiles. "I don't-"

"Not you." She looks at me. "You."

I tell her my name and my father's name. "If you know me, you know where you're living."

"No one's been here for years. They rebuilt it first and it stood empty. I keep it nice."

"May we see?"

We follow her inside the cottage.

"Ah!" I say. It's small; they rebuilt it small, or my memory did. Six years ago it was half-burnt, roof gone. It's clear the old woman lives in this one room with the neat hearth and the dried lavender hanging from the ceiling. How is it possible the place smells the same after all that's happened, all this time? "Do you keep the big house, too?"