Lord of the World

By John McLeod

Lord of the World is the second novel from John McLeod. A sequel to The Lion of Macedonia, it continues the epic story of Alexander the Great through the years of the Persian campaign, tracing his progression from the Hellespont through Egypt and Babylon to the borders of India. Lord of the World is meticulously researched, and weaves the known facts into a believably fictional account of Alexanders life and career.

It could have happened this way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 7, 2006
• ISBN: 9781453550267

John McLeod

John McLeod is Lecturer in English at the University of Leeds

Book preview

Chapter One

The Granicus

The coast loomed larger and a narrow strip of beach could be seen. Bushes sprouted from an earthen bank at its rear, woods and fields beyond. The fleet altered direction and men stood to gather equipment, readying themselves for the landing. Eyes turned to the warrior standing at the prow of the lead galley. His armor glinted in the sun.

The warrior raised the spear in his hand, steadying himself as the galley ground to a halt in the surf.

I am Alexander, he bellowed. King of Macedonia and the third of that name. The king hurled the spear. It soared through the air and skewered the beach, its shaft quivering. I liberate this land in the name of the League of Corinth and the Gods of Olympus.

King Alexander leaped ashore.

Cheering erupted from every ship. Then the men followed, wading through the surf and fanning out along the shoreline. They carried weapons and equipment, hefting tents over their shoulders. They formed into files at the barked orders of their sergeants.

Hephaestion, commanded the king. Place pickets half a stadium length apart at a distance of ten stades in every direction. The Persian fleet may have missed their chance, but their army may not be so lax. Until we’re ashore in strength, we’re vulnerable.

Hephaestion issued the orders, then turned back to the king and laughed with glee. We’re here. We’ve crossed the Hellespont.

Alexander grinned back. I know. It’s hard to believe, but we’ve finally done it. I almost wish my father was here to see this.

And he’d only say it’s about time, or ask when we’re marching on Babylon.

Babylon can wait. Right now, I’ll be happy to settle for getting the men safely ashore. Philotas, any news from your father?

His scouts were waiting for us, sir, answered Philotas. The main force is landing unopposed and encamping, and he suggests we join them as soon as possible.

And I intend taking his advice, but not yet. First, we must make sacrifice to Zeus of Safe Landings, in gratitude for giving us fair weather during the crossing. Find Aristander and ask him to prepare an altar.

A messenger was sent to seek out the king’s soothsayer from among the throng gathering on the beach, and another to select a goat from the sacrificial animals they’d brought with them.

We should send word to my father, sir, said Philotas, beckoning a scout over. He may worry we’ve been attacked if he hears nothing. When should I tell him to expect our arrival?

Tell Parmenion to proceed without us. It’ll take a couple more days for the whole army to cross, and I have better things to do than wait in my tent. I’m going to leave you here to land the rest of our contingent and safely link up with your father, but I’ll be taking a few men to scout out the surrounding area. Troy isn’t that far away, and I’ll not pass up the chance to honor the resting place of Achilles.

Hephaestion grinned. We’re going sightseeing.

They attended the sacrifice to Zeus in his role as patron of safe landings, and then a small force rode inland. Alexander traveled light, fifty yellow-cloaked Companion cavalrymen and the seven purple-cloaked members of his personal bodyguard. Aristander joined the force to oversee ceremonies at Achilles’ tomb, and Callisthenes to record the event. A boyhood friend of the king, Callisthenes had been assigned the role of historian for the expedition.

While the rest of the column fell in behind Alexander, another boyhood friend rode alongside. None objected to this junior officer taking a position of such privilege. He was Hephaestion, and favored by the king.

It was late in the day when they arrived in Ilium. The Greeks had laid siege to the ancient city of Troy near this spot, and the village had turned its location into a thriving tourist industry. Alexander was soon led to a temple dedicated to Athena, stuffed with arms and armor purported to date from the great siege.

In the ante-chamber, said the guide, we have the actual lyre belonging to Prince Paris. Perhaps, lord, you would like to see it?

Certainly not, replied Alexander. Why should I want to see the instrument with which that womanizer bewitched the noble Helen? He turned to Hephaestion. Now, if it was the lyre upon which Achilles sang the praises of his men.

Hephaestion nodded agreement. Do you see this? he said. It could only have belonged to one of the heroes.

Alexander followed his gaze. The armor certainly was magnificent. Pure bronze, it glinted in the light streaming through the open temple doorway. A helmet with twin white plumes sat atop a wood frame, with a breastplate mounted beneath. It shone with intricate carving. A shield, its painted face portraying the eye of Zeus, and sword and grieves completed the panoply.

If I didn’t know my Iliad better, said Alexander, I’d swear this was Achilles’ own sacred armor. It’s worthy of the honor, that’s for sure. He turned to the captain of his bodyguards. I shall take this armor as my own, Ptolemaeus, and wear it with pride in every battle we face in this coming campaign.

Outside, they paused to eat and drink, resting on the podium of a long-toppled statue. The torso lay shattered at their feet.

Who was this? asked Alexander.

He was the satrap in my father’s day, lord, replied the guide. His statue was destroyed after he fell out of favor with the Great King.

Alexander knew both terms; a Macedonian king couldn’t help but be familiar with them since childhood. The Great King was the official title of the Persian emperor, while each province was known as a satrapy, with a satrap to govern it.

So, Aristander, my feet are resting on the body of one of my enemy’s governors. What do you make of that?

The fortune-teller stood up. He’d been chief seer to Alexander’s father and now served the son in the same capacity. He was an expert in his craft. He walked the length of the statue, making a show of bending down to pull away some weeds that obscured the defaced head.

The statue is wearing boots, sir, so is dressed for riding, and his satrapy was Phrygia, where we now stand. The meaning is clear. Should you fight the enemy before we leave the bounds of Phrygia, your cavalry shall achieve a great victory. He beamed. And a satrap’s body lies beneath your feet, sir, which signifies you’ll personally kill a Persian commander. These are wonderful portents.

Splendid. Alexander jumped to his feet. And now, I think, it’s time to pay homage to Achilles.

The guide led them out of the village to a plain where a scattering of tumuli marked the presence of an ancient graveyard. He pointed to the largest mound. There, lord, is the tomb of Achilles, and there lie the remains of his beloved companion, Patroclus.

Alexander took Hephaestion by the arm and stepped forward. Can you imagine, Hephaestion? he whispered. All my life I’ve idolized my ancestor. I live every day according to his ideals and virtues, and now I stand at his tomb. And there lies Patroclus. You’re Patroclus, Hephaestion. You are my Patroclus.

He smiled at Hephaestion, aware of the distinction he was bestowing upon him.

They each sacrificed a goat, Alexander at the tomb of Achilles, Hephaestion at the tomb of the legendary hero’s lover. Afterwards, they scattered garlands on the mounds and raced each other around the tumuli, in accordance with ancient custom. Their companions watched, the significance of what they were witnessing not lost upon them.

They spent the night in Ilium, a somber affair marked by readings from the Iliad, Homer’s epic tale of the Trojan War. At daybreak, Alexander returned to the temple to sacrifice, and to deposit his old armor as a replacement. He didn’t want to incur the wrath of Athena by being accused of stealing from her temple.

By nightfall, Alexander sat in his giant pavilion, surrounded by the tents of his army. The crossing had gone smoothly. The Persian fleet had failed to appear and now he had a force of some thirty-five thousand men encamped on the heights above the Hellespont, the gateway to Asia.

It was the realization of a dream. For years, his father, King Philip, had planned and fretted, and delayed this expedition. Parmenion had even been sent ahead with ten thousand men, vanguard of an invasion that Philip hadn’t lived to lead. Then, since his father’s murder nearly two years before, Alexander had been forced to fight not only for Macedonia, but also for the whole of Greece. And he’d done it. He’d disposed of his rivals, pacified the northern tribes, and coerced the Greek cities into a sham alliance known as the Corinthian league. He was still only twenty-one, and he was Alexander, King of Macedonia and Hegemon of the League of Corinth.

And now he stood on Persian soil. Some fifty years before, the Persian Great King had stolen this land from Greece and enslaved its people. Its liberation was the one cause capable of unifying Greece and, since childhood, Alexander had dreamed of leading this crusade. It had also been his father’s dream. He smiled whimsically. The old fool would have reveled in this. He’d be outside with the men right now, getting uproariously drunk and crooning obscenities in some young officer’s ear.

So, are you going to join us, or spend the evening skulking in your quarters?

The voice startled him and he looked toward the canvas doorway that led through to the main hall of the pavilion.

Come in, Hephaestion. I was just studying the maps. We must march at daybreak, and it helps to know where we’re marching to.

Hephaestion stepped through the flap, followed by a small group of men. Alexander smiled when he saw them. They were his truest friends, companions since their schooldays. Although he was the youngest, by several years in some cases, they’d bonded together during four years studying under Aristotle. They’d followed him since, even into exile during the troubled relationship he’d had with his father.

They formed a semi-circle around him. At one end stood Ptolemy, Craterus, Leonnatus and Nearchus. They were officers in the Companion cavalry, Macedonia’s elite corps of noblemen.

Next in line stood Iolaus, a chief steward with the title of Alexander’s cupbearer. He was the son of Antipatros, the veteran general Alexander had left behind to govern Macedonia in his absence.

Then came Perdiccas and Philotas. Perdiccas was already a company commander and Philotas had been newly assigned command of the Companion cavalry. The fact his father was Parmenion, Alexander’s senior general, had played no small part in the appointment.

At the far end stood Harpalus and Callisthenes, officials in Alexander’s administration. As well as being the campaign’s historian, Callisthenes was the nephew of Aristotle, their former tutor and now rising to fame in Athens as a philosopher of note.

One man did not stand in line. Within this intimate circle of old friends, Hephaestion took his place beside his partner. Their arms touched, just for a moment.

So, what’s this? asked Alexander. A reunion of the Pig-Stickers? They laughed at the mention of their old hunting club.

You could say that, answered Hephaestion. See who we’ve found wandering the camp.

Three more came into Alexander’s living quarters, Proteas and the brothers Erigyius and Laomedon. A grin split Alexander’s face when he saw them. They’d been among the vanguard sent to Anatolia under Parmenion two years before, and Alexander hadn’t seen them since. Proteas’ mother had been Alexander’s childhood nurse, and they’d shared a cot as babies. He embraced the three.

This truly is a reunion, he said, but there’s one thing missing if this is also to be a celebration. He led them to the wine krater placed strategically beside his map desk and ordered a page to fetch more drinking cups.

They drank a toast. In the name of the Gods of Olympus, we salute Alexander, King of Macedonia, recited Leonnatus. May he lead us to victory over the Great King.

Alexander, King of Macedonia, chorused the others.

In the name of Dionysus, I salute friendship, replied Alexander. My friends here, and those still in Macedonia. He gave a nod to Iolaus. His brother had been among those left behind to defend the homeland.

Alexander stood among his friends, the shortest of the group. Although not stunted by any means, he’d always been below average height. He made up for it in other ways, being as fast as Olympian runners and with the muscles of a wrestler. He had a mane of tawny hair, a noticeable bulge to his forehead, and eyes that could shine like distant stars when he became animated. His grin matched his eyes, with pearly teeth and breath that never grew stale. Not for nothing did the troops call him the Lion of Macedonia.

Where are we marching to tomorrow, sir? Craterus indicated the pile of maps on the desk.

South to Sardis, ventured Philotas, eager to be seen as a tactician. It’s a royal road, so will be easier on the troops and horses. And we’ll control the whole region once we hold Sardis.

Our enemy is not at Sardis, answered Alexander. We march east to Dascylium. He smiled at their puzzled looks.

One thing my father bequeathed me, he continued, was an excellent network of spies. I heard from one this afternoon, and it would seem the Persian satraps are gathering their forces at Dascylium. And they’re doing just what I hoped.

And that is? asked Callisthenes. This would need to be recorded for posterity, and the text would require every detail.

My spy tells me they held a council-of-war. The local Phrygian governor is nominally in command, but each sees himself as the equal of the other. That’s the problem with these Persian satraps; they report only to the Great King. Fine when they’re at home governing their provinces, but not when they have to act in unison. He supped from his wine cup before continuing.

They’re a fractured army without Darius, gentlemen, while we fight as one. Only Memnon’s advice need have caused us worry, and it seems the others overruled him. They’re more interested in personal glory than defeating us; they seem to think that much is a foregone conclusion.

What was Memnon’s advice, sir? prompted Callisthenes. Memnon was a Greek mercenary in Persian pay. He’d lived in King Philip’s palace in Alexander’s childhood and had met the boy. Memnon knew the Macedonians, and how to defeat them.

Alexander’s smile was more of a grimace. He suggested the Persians should avoid a fight; that they should retreat before us and burn everything in our path. He’s guessed how low our supplies must be, and how easily we could be starved into abandoning the campaign. He also wants to send a force to invade Greece, with the aim of compelling us to withdraw and defend Macedonia.

The traitor! exclaimed Perdiccas.

He’s more than that, answered Alexander. He’s dangerous. Happily, the Persians ignored his advice. It’s against their nature to destroy their own property, and his insinuation that Persian troops are inferior to our own didn’t go down well, apparently. And if there’s a rift, I’m going to exploit it by banning any plundering of Memnon’s estates. Alexander grinned. Let the Persians think he’s in league with us and they’ll listen to his good advice even less. He paused, waiting for someone to provide the next opportunity to display his brilliance. Callisthenes was quick to oblige.

What have the Persians decided to do, sir?

They’re going to face us, and that’s what I want.

Why?

Because we can’t afford a protracted campaign. An army can carry only so much on the march, and we left Macedonia with supplies for just thirty days. They’ll soon be exhausted. We need a quick victory or I must split the army to forage for food. Besides, Memnon is right; our troops are superior, and we will defeat them.

He didn’t add that the mules bearing his treasury didn’t warrant their accompanying guards. As much as a crusade, this was a chance to replenish Macedonia’s empty coffers, and he wanted the gold the Persian governors would be carrying in their baggage train.

The army broke their fast just before dawn and readied themselves for the march. Tents were collapsed and stuffed into leather covers, before being loaded onto the backs of protesting mules. The heavier equipment followed, and then fires were doused and the latrine pits filled in. Sergeants walked the deserted site and expressed their satisfaction. The third trumpet sounded, the signal that the army was ready to march. It had taken less than an hour.

Now the army stretched across a broad plain, patiently awaiting their king. They’d been stood at ease, with packs placed at their feet and free to sip from waterskins as needed. They chatted quietly, stifling the occasional laugh.

Behind them, the baggage train waited impatiently. With one slave for each cavalryman and one for every ten infantry, plus the siege engineers and mapmakers, the clerks and mule drivers, and the assorted women that followed every army, Alexander had brought more than forty thousand across the Hellespont.

Signs of movement came from the mass of officers surrounding the king, and then Alexander burst forth from their midst astride Bucephalus, his favorite horse. A cheer rose from the men as sergeants swiftly brought them to attention, and the contingent of officers mounted their own horses to fall in behind. Alexander, resplendent in his new twin-plumed helmet and Trojan armor, rode in front of the massed ranks, reviewing and numbering his troops.

The Companion cavalry held place of honor on the right wing, the sword side. This corps of Macedonian nobility, some two thousand strong, took their name from their role; they were the king’s companions. To their left stood the Royal Regiment of Hypaspists. Named for their large wooden shields and armed with spears and swords, these three thousand elite guardsmen formed the vanguard of any attack.

The solid blocks of the phalanx formed the center of the line. These six battalions, each with a complement of fifteen hundred pikemen, were the reason Macedonia now held sway over the rest of Greece. They were the creation of Philip, Alexander’s father, and the extra length of their pike, the sarissa, had felled armies throughout Greece. Each man wore a standard uniform supplied by the state. A single sheet of cloth with a hole for the head covered the body, stretching nearly to the knees and tethered by a cord at the waist. The garment was worn throughout Greece, from King Alexander down to the poorest beggar. Each phalangite wore a cuirass of either bronze or stiffened linen, with a sword carried in a sheath slung from a strap around the neck. Unlike the large shields of the hypaspists, and the hoplites who formed the phalanx in Greek armies, a small bronze shield was buckled to the elbow, enabling the sarissa to be gripped in both hands. A coned Phrygian helmet was worn in battle, but most men wore a wide-brimmed felt hat for the march. Most wore boots and shoes, but even noblemen were comfortable barefooted. All were clean-shaven. For hygiene, as well as to prevent enemy hands gaining an advantage by grabbing at a bushy beard, Alexander’s Macedonians shaved every day.

He dutifully continued down the line, to the shield side. Here, his Greek and tribal levies were less exuberant in their greeting. Numbering more than twenty thousand, these men were reluctant allies, more hostages for the good behavior of their cities and tribes. Thracian peltasts armed with javelins and half-moon shields stood alongside Athenian hoplites and mercenaries from Corinth. Alexander trusted none of them and intended using most as garrisons in conquered cities, save the horsemen of the famed Thessalian cavalry and the warriors from Agriania, long-time allies of Macedonia.

All the men on the shield side sported beards, with the northern tribesmen competing in their hairiness. Alexander knew better than to try to curb their tribal displays of manhood.

He paused to exchange pleasantries with his namesake, Alexandros of Lyncestis. He was the son-in-law of Antipatros, the veteran general now governing Macedonia in Alexander’s place. He’d also been the first Macedonian officer to proclaim his support for Alexander at the time of King Philip’s death. The move had secured the throne for Alexander and command of the Thessalian cavalry for Alexandros.

The Prodromoi cavalry held the farthest point in the line, and would be the first to move off. Lightly armed and armored, these Macedonian scouts were Alexander’s eyes and ears on the march. He exchanged a greeting with their commander and instructed him to begin the march.

The leading ranks of the prodromoi cantered forward, wheeled right, and trotted toward the far edge of the plain. Here, the soothsayers had erected a shrine and cleaved a dog in two with an ax. Slaves held the halves high on pikes, forming an arch through which the cavalrymen passed. Purifying blood and ooze dripped on them from the carcass above their heads. The king had decreed that his army should perform this most ancient of Macedonian customs at the start of this most sacred of campaigns.

Column after column, the army marched through the arch, with Aristander, as head soothsayer, reciting a purification spell as they passed. Cleansed of their sins, they marched to war.

Outside Lampsacus, an effusive oration from the city’s envoy, and an even more effusive bribe, persuaded Alexander to bypass the city. At Priapus, the inhabitants opened their gates and became the first town to be liberated. Images of their local god, with his inflated phallus resting on a wheelbarrow, provided much amusement for the troops and granted him the honor of later being named a son of Dionysus.

But the enemy was close and, six days after crossing the Hellespont, Alexander’s scouts rode in to announce the Persian army was standing-to on the far side of the River Granicus, immediately ahead of the advancing army. Alexander rode forward with his officers to a small rise that gave a vantage point.

The enemy had chosen a good defensive position. Thousands of Persian cavalry lined the far bank, with thousands more infantry behind. A swamp at one end and broken terrain at the other limited the front they needed to defend, and a steep slope rose up from the river immediately in front of them, which looked to be deep and swift-flowing.

Bring up the Companion cavalry and issue the command for the phalanx to advance in battle order. We shall attack immediately, ordered Alexander.

What! Parmenion was aghast. He’d been King Philip’s senior commander and had years of experience behind him. Think, sir. It’s already late in the day and it’ll take time to bring up the phalanx. If you attack now, the Companions could find themselves isolated on the far side and slaughtered; that’s if they can even ford the river and climb that slope. Wait for the morning, when we can attack in strength.

If I can cross the Hellespont, I can cross that piddly stream, retorted Alexander. The veteran general was prone to overcaution, and it sometimes irritated him. And holding back in fear will make the enemy believe they’re our equal. We’ve done nothing to cause them alarm since we landed, and it’s about time we did.

This is the month of Daisios, sir, and fighting is unlucky.

Alexander stared at Philotas. The superstition was true enough, but King Philip had long since ignored it and Alexander hadn’t even given it a thought. It had arisen in ancient times to discourage kings from waging war when the men were needed on the land, but Alexander commanded a professional army and the reasoning no longer had any validity; Philotas was using it as an excuse to back up his father’s argument.

Do you think, Philotas, that I’d have chosen the spring to launch this campaign if that had been a consideration? The sarcasm in his voice was heavy, making both father and son flinch. Unlike my forefathers, I don’t need to release half my army at harvest time. He noticed doubt on the faces of the other officers.

Very well. If you’re so concerned, Philotas, I rename this the second month of Artemisios. We can fight.

The second month, sir?

Yes, Artemisios is now followed by the second month of Artemisios. I decree it.

There was silence. A few turned to contemplate the enemy massed on the far side of the river.

Despite the rebuke, Parmenion wasn’t giving up. You say you don’t want the enemy to think themselves our equal, sir, but if our grand attempt at crossing the river is defeated, not just they, but all Persians, will consider themselves just such. He swung an arm in the direction of the river to emphasize his point. We don’t even know how deep it is yet, sir. We may not be able to force this river against an enemy that’s deployed and waiting for us.

Alexander opened his mouth to answer, but shut it again. Even as he’d been arguing for the attack, common sense had been eating at his self-confidence. It was late in the day and the far bank was steep and well defended; a defeat would be catastrophic.

You have a point, I suppose, he said finally. I’m certain we’d prevail, but the consequences of failure are not worth the risk. Very well, we’ll wait. We scout out the river tonight for an attack in the morning.

Not just Parmenion, but all those assembled on the rise breathed a sigh of relief.

They encamped and Alexander’s officers gathered in his pavilion to receive orders for the coming battle. The Companions would strike from the right wing, supported by Agriane tribesmen and the hypaspists. The solid blocks of the phalanx would force the center, while Parmenion had command of the Greek contingents on the left wing. Their job was to hold their ground; with so many of their kinsmen serving as mercenaries in the Persian ranks, Alexander didn’t trust his allies with more than that.

The plan was simple, a classic hammer and anvil tactic. The Companions, the hammer, would break through on the right and then swing around to crash into the Persian center from behind, while the phalanx would engage them from the front and be the anvil upon which the Persians would be pounded.

Amyntas. Alexander singled out a veteran cavalry officer in the front row. You have the honor of leading us tomorrow. Your command will be the first to cross.

Amyntas smiled and nodded his head, while his colleagues murmured their congratulations and patted him on the back.

Where is Alexandros?

Here, sir, called Alexandros of Lyncestis.

I’m placing your Thessalian cavalry on the extreme left of the line. You’re part of Parmenion’s command, but be prepared to act independently if necessary. Your primary task is to ensure we aren’t outflanked. If an enemy force crosses the river to the left of you, leave the line and block them.

Yes, sir.

Have the Persians withdrawn? Alexander turned his attention to the junior officers at the back of the group.

They have sentries standing-to on the bank, sir, called one, but the army has pulled back to some high ground to their rear.

They haven’t withdrawn entirely? That was Alexander’s fear; waiting overnight gave the Persians the opportunity to flee without a fight, leaving him facing a long-drawn-out pursuit. He needed to fight before his supplies were exhausted.

No, sir. We put a patrol across on their flank and they penetrated far enough to observe the enemy camp. They’re at full strength.

Good. Alexander turned to Parmenion. Well, it seems you were right, Parmenion. Thank you.

It’s what they usually do, sir. The Persians always withdraw their horses a safe distance, and often hobble them to stop the enemy stealing them away. And the Persian religion forbids marching before the morning sacrifice, so we should be able to ford the river and form up on the other side with ease if we attack at sunrise.

Yes, waiting until morning is proving to have added advantages. And with that, gentlemen, I think we should retire; we have an early start tomorrow.

They assembled for battle with the sun a faint glow on the horizon. On the opposite bank, Persian sentries shouted the alarm and a rider galloped back to the enemy camp, a smattering of lights in the distance.

Alexander and his accompanying officers occupied the same vantage point as the afternoon before. The king sat astride a spare horse; Bucephalus had a fever and wasn’t at full-strength. Beside him, Ptolemaeus sported the Trojan shield with its eye of Zeus. Cavalry only wore shields into battle when expecting to fight on foot, but Alexander wasn’t leaving the trophy in his armory. Kings and generals employed shieldbearers, and the captain of his bodyguard had been assigned the honor.

We’ve caught them, exulted Alexander. They’re still asleep. It was as Parmenion had predicted. The Persians had withdrawn a safe distance for the night, too far to prevent the Macedonians crossing the river. They’d lost the advantage.

We must be quick, sir, warned Demetrius, another of his bodyguards. There’s movement in the enemy camp. A few Persian cavalrymen were already riding forward, while more were extinguishing fires and mounting their horses. The chink of harness echoed across the river and Alexander watched their shadowy figures approaching the far bank.

He placed the twin-plumed Trojan helmet on his head and nodded to his trumpeter. The man licked his lips, and then three discordant notes blared out. The cavalrymen of Amyntas’ command pricked their ears at the sound of their unit’s call sign. Two long notes followed, the signal to advance.

They moved forward, aiming for the opposite bank. Splashing through mud and then the river, they reached the other side and were met by a hail of javelins from those Persian cavalry on the heights above them. Horses shied and turned to escape the flying blades and a man fell, his neck pierced, but the Persians were too few to stop the advance and Amyntas led his men to the top of the rise. The Persians scattered.

Order a general advance, said Alexander. I shall command the right wing.

The army crossed the river unopposed and formed up on the plain beyond. They held the same positions as before, but with Alexander now commanding the Companion cavalry on the right wing. The phalanx still stood in the center, and Parmenion commanded the Greek allies on the left. Before them, the Persians were also assembling for battle.

They’re using the same order as last night, said Alexander. The fools. They’re filling their entire front rank with cavalry and relegating the infantry to the rear. I can understand their commander not putting his own infantry in the line, they’re peasant conscripts and would break too easily, but he’s not using the Greeks either. Look, they’re placed on that ridge to the rear.

The Persian commander was using a battle formation that certainly looked unorthodox to western eyes. Heavy in cavalry, he’d lined all twenty thousand of them in front, with the fifteen thousand infantry conscripts tacked behind in a purely supporting role. They stood armed with spear and wicker shield, and looked ready to run as soon as the fighting started. But five thousand Greek mercenaries, experienced warriors all, stood with their commander, Memnon, on a rise in the ground to the rear of the Persian left wing. They were too far back to be more than mere spectators in the coming battle.

You know, I think this is a lesson for Memnon, announced Alexander to the cluster of officers surrounding him. They want their victory to be an all Persian affair. They want to show him he’s wrong; that they’re the superior warriors. He laughed. Well, gentlemen, let’s prove Memnon right.

Amyntas again led his men forward, this time obliquely, passing in front of the bulk of the Companion cavalry and aiming for the far left of the Persian line. But the enemy was ready and the sky filled with Persian javelins, forcing Amyntas’ men to stall in the face of such concentrated fire.

More used to attack than defense, the Persian cavalrymen saw their enemy’s hesitation and couldn’t help but hurl themselves forward. Trumpets blared and men yelled, their excitement having a knock-on effect down the line and drawing more cavalrymen impetuously forward. As the charge thinned their ranks, so a gap opened in the Persian center.

It was what Alexander had been waiting for. He raised his lance and urged the Companions forward. He led them himself. Sporting his Trojan armor, he pressed his knees into his horse’s flanks and galloped toward the Persian center. The Companions followed, a seething, surging mass of cavalry, screaming praises to the god of war at the top of their lungs.

They smashed into the enemy, Alexander at their head. His lance stabbed at a Persian chest, the man making a vain effort at fending off the point with his hands. The melee intensified, horses slipping in mud, squealing as they were felled. It became a tug-of-war, riders pushing and shoving each other, arms flailing, barely able to maneuver in the tight squeeze of frantic horses. But the Persians were armed with only two short javelins each, while the Macedonians carried long lances of cornel wood. In the center, the phalanx advanced with sarissae pointed at the faces of the enemy horses. The Persian defense began to give way in both the left and center.

Alexander’s lance shattered as it drove through an enemy tunic and pierced the armor beneath. Aretes, give me your lance, he called to a nearby Companion cavalryman.

Mine’s gone, too, sir, the man answered, holding up the stump.

Here, Alexander, take mine. Demaratus rode alongside and offered his lance. The Corinthian mercenary was more than a mere hired soldier. He’d been a long-time friend of King Philip and had known Alexander since childhood. It was he who’d bought the young prince his beloved Bucephalus. In the midst of battle, the two men paused to exchange a grin.

But the Persians had rallied and now thousands of cavalrymen filled the plain before them. The enemy could see the figure in the twin-plumed helmet at the head of his men, and knew this was the Macedonian king. They were cavalry and cavalry attacked. They rushed Alexander, intent on taking his head. The satraps led the way, each eager to claim the honor of killing the enemy king. The battle paused as men stopped to cheer this Homeric clash of champions.

The leading satrap’s attire and jewels signified a Persian prince, the Great King’s own son-in-law. He flung a javelin at Alexander, but Ptolemaeus pushed the Trojan shield in the way. The javelin punctured the shield, ripping it from the bodyguard’s grasp and smacking it against Alexander’s body. Such was the force of the throw, the javelin’s blade dented his cuirass.

Furiously, Alexander lashed out with his lance, driving it into the prince’s face. With a groan, he fell, but a second Persian came from the other side and smashed his sword down on Alexander’s helmet. The blow penetrated, shearing off one of the prized white plumes and grazing his forehead. His eyeballs popped and he tasted blood, and he sat stunned and immobile upon his horse as the Persian raised his sword to deliver the deathblow. The man screamed a curse as a curved Macedonian sword sheared through his wrist. He stared unbelieving at the blood pumping from the stump, and was dispatched by Alexander’s savior.

Alexander’s vision returned and he found Cleitus beside him, pulling the Persian’s body from where it had slumped into his lap. Companion cavalrymen surrounded him now, and the phalanx was charging across the plain. The Persian cavalry were in full flight and the hapless peasant conscripts were dying in their thousands. Only the Greek mercenaries still stood, knowing that flight would be futile. Alexander had won.

He looked down at the Persian satrap, now lying in a heap under his horse’s hooves. I have you to thank? he asked.

Cleitus smiled. His sister had been Alexander’s nurse and his nephew was Proteas, his childhood friend.