Why would the king’s sister venture through the slums of Babylon, oh fair Thessalonike? You slip out of the palace, clad in a man’s clothes, while Alexander, your brother and king, lies feverish in his bed. And I, less than a man but more than a shadow, float in your hurried wake through dark alleys to the witch’s door.
A hag sits cross-legged upon the dirt, grey hair matted, face wrinkled and scarred. She doesn’t look Persian, or Scythian, or even an expatriate Egyptian priestess. And she certainly doesn’t look Greek. But, oh daughter and sister of great kings, if only you could see her as I do, my beloved, through sight not of flesh but of spirit, you’d know that she’s none of these. She’s all of them and more. The spectral host of her foremothers, back to the world’s making, crowd up behind her. Her kind knows neither lord nor land.
You tiptoe through her filth...