I, Alexander, son of Philip, king of the Macedonians, and Olympias, daughter of the king of Epirus, I, descendant of Achilles and Zeus, came into this world in a poor village, close to the temple of Artemis. Apollo is my god and protector.

Macedonia, my country, I was born for your high mountains and deep valleys. I grew strong in your forests and meadows. Soon I was running to join in the Feast of Horses and babbling the word "horse," which lends itself to so many expressions of strength and speed. Early in the morning I sat on the balustrade of the terrace at the very top of my white palace, and watched women in brightly colored aprons and red skirts as they drove their flocks toward the hills. Clouds glided across a blue sky, followed by their shifting shadows. I peered at the horizon. The sea was far away, farther than the hazy line lit up by the blazing dawn. Way over there Neptune was blowing into his horn and raising a storm; Achilles was sailing for Troy, city of his demise, which would render him immortal; Ulysses was drifting from one island to another, haunted by the sirens. He too would go down in legend.

My mother came over to me, her long black braid wound round her head, her body draped in a white tunic. She took me in her arms, enveloping me in her perfume. I buried myself in her embrace as avidly as a honeybee looking for nectar in the most beautiful flower in Macedonia. She was young and beautiful, daughter of the gods whose whims she described for me, daughter of the heroes whose capricious acts she whispered to me. Her velvet voice transformed bloody wars into lovers' tiffs, monsters of the abyss into cooing birds. Her gaze lingered in the invisible sea. I watched her smile and grow sad, I watched her weep but was unable to console her. My mother bore a secret in her heart.

I could not understand the obsession men had with war. There was nothing more lovely than soft fabrics, colored stones, and women's laughter.