Olympias, your beauty and your origins bewitched Philip. He had your father assassinated and abducted you from your country! Philip the tyrant is not my father. A young Greek warrior loved you, and you conceived me. Olympias, don't cry! I will have our revenge.

When I reached the age of six, my father stole me from my mother. I was driven out of town in a cart and was interned at the Royal School, where I was to learn to fight like every Macedonian man. Still haunted by Olympias's sobs, I walked timidly through that imposing portico. The sons of generals and noblemen kept their distance, eyeing me coldly. I stopped in front of the closest of them. He looked down.

"Are you a girl or a boy?" I asked him.

"A boy," he replied.

"What's your name?"

"Hephaestion."

I liked the way he flushed, the smell of him and his voice. I knew instantly that his friendship would be eternally faithful and protective.

I was the smallest and weakest at school. The boys imitated their fathers' coarse habits and walked with their heads held high.

They made fun of me and deliberately bumped into me. I was flattered merely to exist close to their muscles. I played Olym-pias, the submissive woman, and charmed them with my affable smiles. I took more interest in the beauty of the male body than in athletic training. The world of boys made me forget the unbearable ugliness of lame, mutilated, blinded, and scarred adults.

Philip announced the imminent arrival of a philosopher famous for his moral rectitude. He wanted the man to come to Pella, he explained, to correct the perversities Olympias had instilled in me. Aristotle appeared one spring morning, dressed in a white tunic which left his thin bony arms uncovered. I hid behind an olive tree, refusing to talk to this man who wanted to educate me in keeping with Greek customs. He would find out about my conversations with birds and my girlish ways. He would punish me and torture me. He was here to work on my reason.