Alexander's Wife

Men call him the King of Kings, the son of Zeus, the man who conquered the world. Generations would take up his mantle, birth fire of purpose in their hearts from the mere sight of his image, name cities and citadels in his honor. They would delegate him among the greatest of giants who walked this earth. But what of me?

I am the one who waited for him to return for nights on end, years on years. While he marched to the edge of the world to live his dreams, to conquer reality, I was the one who held his son in my arms, deflecting those who would do him harm whilst he was far away in foreign lands.

I was the one who bore the burden of his legacy on my shoulders, for the simple reason that he loved me. I was the one that queens of nations lay their expectation on, so that my husband's achievements may live on evermore. For without progeny, even a god's triumphs are pillars of sand.

I was the one who kept the wives of his generals happy in Babylon whilst their husbands marched across the earth. You would remember those who fought with spears and shields in phalanxes, yet what of us? What of the ones who governed their attained lands, who held together the broken kingdoms of their conquests? Who groomed their daughters and sons to be those worthy of the label of "heir?" For without an anchor, even the swiftest of ships is worthless.

The songs remember even his steed, Bucephalus, the one with a spirit so untamable like that of a raging bull, whose very name means "ox-head", as the loyal mount who set forth with the demigod into battle, charging into his victories. Men glorify this beast, as a spirit reflective of the king he carried upon his back. The pair are depicted in images and works crafted by the hands of masters, so that generations may remember them both for centuries and millennia. Cities are named after this animal. What creature has enjoyed such honor among beasts?

But what of me? What do the histories know of me? Do you even know my name? Used as a tool by his various retainers, I was naught but an ornament for conquerors to use after my husband's death, to justify their own greed for power. I suffered a death by poison with my child son in my arms, for the ambitious lust of man. I comforted the dying child, sucking in each laborious breath so that I might offer just one more word, live one more breath than him, so that the child would leave the world knowing his mother loved him. Can you imagine? A goddess, empress of the world, executed by a man who would claim to be my husband's successor, usurp the place of my son, by a method fit for cowards.

Was that my place in the world? Was I naught but the shadow of the king, a specter who wiped the dust from his cloak, a single line of ink in the scrolls which proclaimed his greatness? Did I not love him as well? Did I not hold him close to my chest on many a night when he was weary of his determination, when his fortitude was near failure? Did I not whisper into his ears words of encouragement his councilors could not even dream of conjuring in their minds?

My name is Roxana. I am Roxana of Bactria, and I was Queen of the Known World, mother to the son of a demigod, love and pillar to a man others worshipped as a god. And though the fickle memories of man and history may not recall my name, I yet lived a more fulfilled life than those who would disregard my existence could ever hope to live. May the world remember us.