The Secret Life of Alexander The Great

Chapter Two: Golden Opportunity

 Chapter Two

Today is the day my tutelage with Aristotle ends.

            I have long been waiting for this day; I should be overjoyed. One step closer to being king.

            But I cannot help but feel that somehow, I am losing a greater part of my life. A part that could have been beautiful, a part that could have caused me greatness.

            Instead, no tears are shed when Aristotle finally leaves. He strokes his beard before he goes. And says, unsentimentally, “Sixteen years old.”

            “Just yesterday, sir.”

            “Good.” He pulls something out of his satchel. Papers—no, a...scroll?

            “An annotated copy of the Iliad,” he remarks, as I stare at the yellowed, crackling things with awe. Our last lesson had been Homer—his works in particular. It was something that I knew he knew I enjoyed.

            I open my mouth to thank him, but he is gone. As if he never was there at all. All there is left of him is the scroll—full of scribbles along its margins, in what looks like his and Homer himself’s handwriting.

            Thank you, Aristotle. I will treasure this forever.

Later that day I visit the palace stables. It has always been a good place for me—it helps me relax, it helps me unwind. The smell of the horses may be unpleasant to some, but to me it is quite comforting. And the most important thing of all is that my horse, Bucephalus, resides there.

            Bucephalus is probably my favourite creature in the entire world. When I was but a child, at maybe ten years old, my father bought him from a travelling trader who hailed from Thessaly. Thirteen talents was what this trader offered as the price; and despite the fact that this horse refused to be mounted by anyone, it didn’t stop my father from spending his money on it.

            But no one could mount it, still, even when my father promised the horse to anyone who could. Several people tried, but to no avail…except me.

            I don’t know how I did it, or how I knew. It is like a sixth sense. Somehow, I understood the horse. It wasn’t stubborn or hot-headed or even relatively dangerous, like everyone else claimed. It was scared—terrified of its new habitat, its new owners. I was the one to train it, the one who made it a good and strong stallion, and to this day Bucephalus—meaning ‘ox-head’—and I are inseparable. He is one of my greatest friends.

            One of my only friends, now that I think about it.

            I run my tanned hand over Bucephalus’ fine white coat. He neighs, and I stroke his nose.

            “Here, boy,” I say, feeding him a carrot. “It’s your favourite.”

            Bucephalus neighs once more, sounding pleased. He opens his mouth, and his big teeth chomp down on the vegetable. I usually give him sugar cubes, as they are his favourite; however, they are quite hard to come by, even to royalty like us.

            When I am king, I think, I will make sure that there would be no shortage of luxuries such as these.

            Suddenly at the corner of my eye I see something flash silver. A dagger? I may not have had the best military education, but for some reason I am able to whip around and—