Aristotle liked to use it as an example of how proper behaviour could result in immediate reward.

I was suspicious of that. It was my left hand that hurt as if it was newly injured every time it rained, not Aristotle’s. My smooth-skinned girl screamed when her hand found my scars and she woke her father.

I had nightmares. Still have them. NothingI ever found on the great wheel of the earth ever terrified me like that night in the woods when the ghosts walked, Death prowled and I was in the doorway between this world and the next, my soul stretched thin on the ground, when men wandered out of the dark to hurt me.

But Alexander and the rest treated me like a hero. And that was, in fact, worth the cost.

TWO

Macedon and Greece, 341–338 BC

My best memory of Aristotle is one of my most unhappy memories of myself.

We were wrestling. Before my injury, I had been the best pankrationist – and the best boxer. The effective loss of my left hand, which was just strong enough to grasp the reins and not much more, left me a much worse wrestler and a bad pankrationist. I didn’t do much to change that.

It must have been spring in the year that Alexander became regent. Greece was in ferment, Demosthenes was ranting against us every day in the Athenian Assembly, the Thebans were threatening war and nothing was as it had been in the outside world, or in the Gardens of Midas.

The pecking order among the pages was no longer malleable. Hephaestion was at the top, with Alexander – he had no authority of his own, but Alexander would always back him, and the rest of us had learned to avoid open conflict. On the other hand, while I had been on my father’s estates, my ribs knitting back together, my arms healing, Hephaestion had changed for the worse – he no longer stood up for the other pages against Alexander. I suspect they’d been lovers since they knew how to do it, but they were thicker than thieves after the hunting camp. Inseparable.

I was a distant third. I was not handsome, and that counted against me with Alexander. But like Black Cleitus, whose loyalty was beyond question, I had special rank, and no other page could touch me.

After us came the best of the other boys – Perdiccus, Amyntas, Philip the Red – by now all leaders in their own right, with their own troops of cavalry. Cassander, Antipater’s son, was there – a useless twit then and now – and Marsysas, who even as a young man played the lyre and wrote better poetry than we did; nor was his sword hand light. Indeed, even Cassander – the best of the worst, if you like – was a fair fighter, the sort of man that troopers could follow in a pinch, with a rough sense of humour and a good way with hunting dogs.

Then there was a pack of younger men and boys – the youngest was ten or eleven, and we treated them like slaves, for the most part, while trying to win their devotion at the same time, as older boys do to younger the world over. It was good practice for leadership – for war. Everything we did was practice for war.

At any rate, we were fighting unarmed in the palaestra – a cool spring morning, all of us oiled, naked and trying to pretend we weren’t cold.

I went up against Amyntas. I never tried – oh, Zeus, it hurts more to tell this than to tell of being tortured. I never even tried. I basically lay down and let him pin me.

No one said a thing. Because by then, I’d done it fifty times. In fact, I remember Alexander smiling at me.

But after we’d had a bite of bread moistened in wine, while Alexander and Hephaestion were fighting like desperate men – and by then we had seventeen-year-old bodies and a lot of muscle – Aristotle came and put a hand on my shoulder.

‘What I hate most about the Illyrians,’ he said, ‘was that they tortured your arete out of your body, and now you have no daimon at all.’

Sometimes you know a thing is true. I burst into tears.

Every man there turned and looked at me, and the pity in their eyes was like Tarxes’ eating spike driven into me again and again.

Aristotle took me by the hand and led me out into the garden.

‘Ptolemy,’ he said, and he put a hand on the back of my neck as if I might bolt, ‘you were the best of the pages. And now you are not even a man. You have the honour of the prince’s esteem – you saved him. You alone saved him – with your head and with your sword. Is that to be the sum of your acts? Will you lie on that bed of laurels until it is withered, or will you rise from it?’ He turned me to face him. He was not a particularly handsome man, but I’ve always maintained that his looks made men think of him as thephilosopher – bushy eyebrows, deep-set, wide, clear eyes, a thin mouth, a high forehead – the very image of manly wisdom.

I’m ashamed to say that all I could manage was some sobs. It was all true. I’d lain down for every contest since I came back, and no one said me nay. I was an object of pity.

‘Let me tell you what I know of men,’ Aristotle said. ‘Most men are capable of greatness once. They rise above themselves, or they follow a greater man, or the gods lend a hand, or the fates – once, a man may make a fortune, may tell the truth despite pressure to lie, may have a worthy love who leads him to do good things. This taste of arete is all most men ever have – and they are better for it.’ He looked at me. ‘Stop blubbering, son of Lagus. I tell you – and I know – you are better than that. I expect better of you. Go and fight and lose. Lose fifty times to lesser men and you will be better for it. You have reached a point where there is no penalty for failure, and that is the worst thing that can happen to a young man. So here is your penalty – my contempt. And here is your reward – my admiration. Which will you have, son of Lagus?’

I’d like to say that I stood straighter, looked him in the eye and thanked him. What I did was to run off into the garden and bawl my eyes out.

And the next day, when we were to box, I faced off against a much younger page – and folded.

Aristotle just shook his head.

And over the next few days, I began to notice a certain want of regard among the younger pages. They had worshipped me when I returned, and that worship was falling off.

That hurt.

Cleomenes, the young sprig I’d rescued in the hunting camp, was my most loyal follower, and he sat on my tightly rolled war cloak in the barracks and glared at me. He had a black eye.

He wasn’t eleven any more, either.

‘Amyntas says you are a coward,’ he said with all the hot accusation that a thirteen-year-old can throw at a seventeen-year-old. ‘He says that the Illyrians cut your courage out, and we should treat you like a woman.’

‘If Amyntas thinks women are cowards, he should try birthing a baby,’ I said. One of my mother’s sayings. I sighed. ‘I’m not a coward,’ I said.

‘Prove it,’ Cleomenes said. ‘Beat the shit out of Amyntas.’

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘Because that’s what he did to me,’ Cleomenes said with a half-sob.

Life among the pages. Very nice.

It occurred to me to go to Alexander.

But after further thought, I realised that they were all right.

It is odd – I don’t think I was ever a coward. I just didn’t need to excel, and since the need was taken away, I coasted. Or maybe there’s more to it than that. I certainly had a great many nightmares, and my camp girl – I’ll explain that later – would wake me in the night with a hand on my cheek because I was screaming and waking the barracks.

I thought about it, and I came to a set of decisions – every one of them nested into the next. I needed to learn to be the man I had been. And I wasn’t going to learn with the pages.

Polystratus had become a foot companion – one of the elite infantrymen of the old king – and he had a farm not far from the gardens. So I asked for an hour’s leave and rode out to find him, and dragged him from his plough and made of him my sparring partner. His whole idea of fighting with a sword was to hit faster and harder – worthy objectives in themselves, but not a way to win a fight, unless your only goal is to smash your way through the other man’s shield. So, in order to arrange to practise myself, I spent two weeks training him.