Phalanxes of the Macedonian army made the very earth tremble. My father advanced at the head of this swaying forest of lances, and never retreated. He returned to Pella only for major feast days. Crowned with laurels and wearing sandals of woven gold, he dominated the world as Zeus did Mount Olympus. His hair was bleached by the sun, his wind-burnished skin obscured by a beard, while his white tunic revealed one shoulder and showed off an arm with bulging muscles scored with lance wounds. And this mighty king publicly ridiculed me: he said I was as thin and stupid as a girl. He grabbed my hand and laid it on his scars, claiming he would teach me about manliness and valor.

Orgies could no longer satisfy his thirst for gratification. He took to keeping lions and releasing captives into the arena with them. The monsters roared and leaped onto these near-naked men. Rare were the slaves who could hold on to their weapons and fight against the lionesses, who were even fiercer than their mates. My father would laugh, standing up and craning his neck when a belly was ripped open. I sat beside him, no longer shaking. Olympias had taught me not to be afraid. She told me that when the storm was in full swing, I had to stay calm and keep my feet on the ground. Because nothing can sway the ground, nothing could destroy it. It is the source of all strength. That was the secret of our ancestor Achilles, who was invincible so long as his feet touched the ground. The spectacle was drawing to a close; my father spat, put his hand through my hair, and waggled my head, roaring with laughter. The sun was setting and the feasting began. The king was soon drunk, and his affection toward me turned to rage. He brandished his goblet and his sword, called me a bastard before everyone, and asked in a booming voice who my father was. The warriors laughed, each claiming I was his daughter.