I had grown up. I no longer cried. I was training myself to withstand suffering. One day a slave would kill the lions. One day Alexander would slay the tyrant.

Having abused her body and debased her soul, Philip neglected the queen who no longer appealed to him. Freed from his pestering attentions, Olympias took refuge in the consolation of women and formed an attachment with a young slave girl she kept in her bedchamber. Olivia was gentle and fair-skinned. When she brushed her garnet lips over my mother's face, she made her forget this life of imprisonment she had never chosen.

One day when he was drunk, the king came across Olivia in the garden and raped her. Bleeding and ashamed, the slave girl drowned herself in a lake. Olympias was demented with grief, resentment, and hatred. She beat her breast, tore out her hair, and cursed the king. She ran barefoot to the top of the ramparts and wanted to throw herself to her death, but the soldiers held her back. The king ordered her to be locked up, and a rumor spread that the queen had gone mad.

I came back from the Royal School for her sake, kneeling before her and calling to her. She did not recognize me but gabbled deliriously, her hair awry and her tunic soiled. I lay my hand on her forehead; she shivered and tried to fight me off. I did not move away but sent her my thoughts through the palm of my hand. A spark appeared in her eyes, and tears sprang up. I drew her to me, and she followed me out of that underground dungeon. She went back to her chamber and lay on the bed where Olivia would no longer join her. Olympias huddled close to me, her tears falling on my breast, but the pain was more bearable now. My muscles were beginning to forge themselves, I had learned to fight with a sword and had my first scar. I no longer knew pity.