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Book 1, Chapter Three: The Taming of Bucephalus, Pages 63 and 64

The city of Pella is no match for the exuberance of their little prince and his horse,
hoofs pounding,
tud-tud-tudd,
across dusty roads
past washer women and barking dogs and irritated old men cursing over their fences.

Meanwhile, there is another boy.
You may have heard of him,
though no description survives, not even a statue,
but here, this time,
he is dark-haired, like the colour of unspun wool from the darkest sheep:
Hephaestion.

In the garden,
poking at a frog in a puddle,
stick in hand.

Then the ground trembles,
like an earthquake,
the frog leaps away from Hephaestion’s harrassment,
as a voice calls out for him from far away.

“Hey! Hee-phai-stiooon!”