God of War: The Epic Story of Alexander the Great

SEVENTEEN

The morning after the Battle of the Granicus, Alexander was already master of western Asia.

We took their camp with our scouts after the battle. The Agrianians had superb discipline – remarkable, really, considering their origins – and were probably the only unit in the army that could be trusted not to loot the camp. We rode in the next morning, and discovered that we were masters of thousands of slaves (mostly very attractive women collected from all over the empire), tents, baggage animals (including camels) and a fair amount of gold. Enough gold to pay the troops, anyway.

Polystratus did well for himself, because Alectus and he were friends. Don’t imagine that the Agrianians were stupid – just careful, and only their closest friends got first pick of the loot. My share was a beautiful ear-dagger from Aegypt, fine steel and gold and ivory – I have it still – and a new sword in the Persian manner with fine green stone grips. It was beautiful to look at. The dagger was superb and a fine fighting weapon – the sword was pretty and broke in my hand, as I’ll no doubt tell you later. There’s a lesson there, if you like. A parable of some sort.

But the best prizes I received were horses, and a wreath of laurel. Polystratus – always my right arm, especially when it came to practical matters – got the horses of a number of Persian nobles. I was young enough to pretend they were the men I’d put down, but really, I think Polystratus simply rode around the battlefield before the last arrow flew and started collecting horses. I got two Nisean mares and a stallion, as well as a dozen lesser horses – lesser, but as good as Poseidon.

Well, that’s a lie. As good as Poseidon to look at. Heh – Poseidon. Loved that horse. He was smart like a dog. Horses are dumb – you must know that. But one horse in a hundred thousand is some sort of horse genius.

Its nothing to do with this story, but I put the stallion to the mares the next day and then sent them home with a pair of slaves – Keltoi men, expert with horses – and one of Polystratus’s grooms, and they made it all the way to Heron after a dozen adventures, and became the prize of my stud – both threw colts, and suddenly I had a Nisean stud. In many ways, those three horses made me more money than all the gold captured at Granicus. I still ride horses bred from Poseidon, the three Niseans and Ajax, the brute I took on Parnassus.

The Nisean stallion had a mark on his forehead like a trident. And he and Poseidon got along – a great rarity among stallions.

And Heron freed the two slaves for their honest service, and they wandered back to our army and joined the mercenary cavalry, and they ended up serving under your father for years. Andronicus and Antigonus!

Small world, really.

Alexander was beyond elation after Granicus.

The night after the battle he insisted on refighting it, blow by blow. We had an enormous fire in front of what had been Arsites’s pavilion. We lay on Persian couches around the fire, and our new slaves served us fine Ionian wines. Philotas was uncomfortable, but Nicanor was already one of us in many ways, and he drank cup for cup with the king, unwatered wine.

Alexander seized a harp from one of our minstrels and struck the opening bars of the Iliad, and men fell silent, and he began to sing. He was clever with words – and he was singing the Iliad, but it was the Rage of Alexander.

To me, it was like hubris and blasphemy rolled together. But Cassander smiled, and Nearchus, and Black Cleitus could apparently stomach anything Alexander did.

He had been the best fighter in the army. I doubt that any man had put so many Persians into the darkness, and he had a wound – almost a death wound – to prove his valour.

But he would not shut up about it.

When his focus was elsewhere, I rose and went off into the darkness to find Poseidon. Polystratus was there, and Ochrid, poulticing the great horse’s arrow wound and a dozen lesser wounds, and he withstood their ministrations with the same remarkable intelligence – only men who understand the deep stupidity of many horses can fully appreciate what it’s like to have a war horse with intelligence.

I brushed him, where he wasn’t wounded, with a pair of marvellous Sakje brushes – woven horsehair – that Polystratus had picked up as part of the loot. Persians love their horses, and have the finest tack and equipment in the world, and next to them, we are mere barbarians.

Polystratus waved away the smoke from the resinated torch we were using and grinned. ‘And ten more like it – nosebags of linen, some halters that I think are silk, and horse blankets – beautiful stuff.’ He shrugged. ‘Seemed better than gold.’

Did I mention that Polystratus was a prince among servitors? And yet, he was no longer any kind of a servant, except where it came to my horses.

I was enjoying the beautiful things – horse things, as I say – when we heard screams. I froze, and then I realised it was the wounded out on the battlefield.

‘Scavengers moving in,’ Polystratus said.

We’d lost good men at Granicus – almost no infantry, but a fair number of cavalrymen. Seleucus was badly wounded, and I had some nasty cuts – Marsyas was in a coma (although, of course, he recovered) and Perdiccas had a wound, as well. Philip, the commander of the allied cavalry, was killed. So was the commander of the Thracians, one of Philip’s old men.

Alexander promoted men in all directions after Granicus. Parmenio’s brother got to be satrap of Phrygia, a powerful office that offered comfort and took him out of the command structure. The Thracians went to Alexander of Lyncestis, who’d proved himself relentlessly loyal since betraying his own brothers, and Alexander felt that he deserved it. And Alexander was loyal only to the king and not to Parmenio.

Likewise, Parmenio’s brother had commanded the Thessalian cavalry, and now that he was out of the way, Alexander gave the command to Philip the Red – Philip son of Meneleus, my boyhood enemy/friend from the pages.

Most of my friends didn’t see it happening, but Parmenio knew immediately what was going on, and so did I. Alexander was filling his staff with royalists, just as Parmenio had filled Alexander’s with his own people.

It was not a bad policy – a system of checks and balances. Except that this was Macedon, not Athens.

Phrygia fell easily, and we marched inland for Sardis after accepting the surrender of Cyzicus. Alexander led us quickly – the Aegema, which increasingly meant all the hypaspists, the Agrianians and all the Hetaeroi; he left the rest of the army to come more slowly under Parmenio with the baggage (including all the new baggage) and the siege train. Memnon fled the field at Granicus (doubtless muttering ‘I told you so’) and began gathering forces at Miletus. Alexander proclaimed his intention of following – but we didn’t take the coast road.

We raced across the mountains to Sardis. It’s a good road, but a brutal trip with an army, and we had minimal baggage and six thousand men and three times as many animals. Any mountain valley was bled white just to feed us. And Alexander cared for nothing but speed, so our movements had the effect of a plague of locusts – and we had the main army behind us.

But fifty stades north of Sardis, Mythrines, the satrap of Sardis, met us with two hundred noblemen at his tail and surrendered the city and the fortress – and the treasury. None of us could believe it – and the next morning, when we rode into our new capital of Asia, our incredulity was downright insulting. I could have held Sardis for six months. It was a richer city than Amphilopolis and Pella rolled into one – I could have fitted both of them into the Jewish quarter of Sardis. The treasury was full of gold, and the magazines were stuffed with grain and oil.

But Sardis’s surrender is part and parcel of how Darius failed. Mythrines was no friend of his, and there was very little racial pride among the higher Persians. They were like Greeks in that respect – they were happy to play traitor if it served their own ends. Or put another way, Mythrines hated Darius more than he hated Alexander. And after Arsites killed himself – news of which came to us about this time – there was no commander in West Asia until Darius granted the title to Memnon.

At any rate, Alexander was stunned by the craven surrender of Sardis. It had been his goal since the start of the expedition – he’d spoken of it often enough as the Troy of our crusade. But instead of an epic siege, it surrendered to his advance guard.

The army rolled into Sardis, exhausted and hungry, but the plains around Sardis were fecund, the barns were full and Lydia was almost mythologically rich, and our army ate themselves sick. Probably improved the local breeding stock, as well.

We were a month at Sardis. Spithridates, the actual satrap, died at Granicus, and Alexander didn’t trust Mythrines enough to give him the office, so he gave it to Parmenio’s brother Asander. Another promotion – another one of Parmenio’s old men moved out of the command structure.

But at Sardis we received news that one of the original plotters against the king was at Ephesus – Amyntas, son of Antiochus. And once Thaïs had enough reports compiled, she sent to the king and guaranteed to seize the city in his name if he’d pay the bill – twenty talents of gold.

Twenty talents of gold for the most famous Greek city in Asia.

Parmenio had taken the city a couple of years earlier, but he’d failed to hold it, and Memnon had taken it back without much of a struggle. There was a large pro-Macedonian party in place, and Thaïs fed it with money and hope.

Alexander sat in my house – my borrowed house, chosen and furnished by Thaïs and thus better than the king’s borrowed palace, a fine house with a courtyard and a rose garden – his chin in his hand. He was in my favourite of his moods – wry, human and intelligent. ‘I want a great siege!’ he said. He was mocking himself. Rare indeed. He had Hephaestion with him, and Callisthenes, Aristotle’s nephew, his new private secretary.

Thaïs rolled her eyes. ‘Play Achilles in your spare time, lord. Achilles didn’t set out to conquer Asia. Ephesus—’

‘Gives us the port we need,’ Alexander said. ‘We need a port for the allied fleet. And I need to rebuild the Temple of Artemis.’

Thaïs raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. One of the most delightful aspects of living with (near, around) Thaïs is that she was many different women and one never had time to grow bored. In the mountains, she dressed in wool and sheepskin, her heart-shaped face and pointy nose peeping out from under a shepherd’s hat – the picture of an adventurous woman. But a week in Sardis and her hair had a glint of purple-red from some costly dye, her toenails were solid gold in her golden sandals and her eyes were rimmed with kohl. She smelled like . . . the danger of battle and the joy of love all rolled into one smell.

I know I can wax boring on Thaïs, but love is like that. We’d been together a year or more, but Sardis was special. She had provided Alexander with information before, and taken Priapus, but Ephesus was the first time she prepared an action with her own people – and launched it – with his acknowledgement and support. She looked like a queen, and when Alexander smiled at her, she smiled back – peer to peer.

‘Give me twenty talents of gold and I’ll give you Ephesus,’ she said. ‘My understanding is that you’ll have your Troy at Miletus. You know Memnon has sent his wife to Darius as a hostage?’

Alexander laughed. ‘Some men would see that as a double victory – to gain the king’s trust and be rid of a wife.’ He winked at Hephaestion. Callisthenes winced.

Thaïs smiled, and her smile held a thousand secrets. ‘She is reputed to be the most beautiful woman in the world,’ she said. ‘She or her sister. Some say one and some the other.’

Alexander shrugged. Thaïs was more interested in female beauty than Alexander. ‘Why would such a traitor have the veritable Helen?’ he asked.

Thaïs crossed her legs and looked away. She glanced at me for help and back at the window.

I cleared my throat. ‘Erygius and Laodon serve against their own cities, from time to time. Memnon is Ionian – and African.’

Alexander nodded. ‘Oh – very well. Let us buy the damned city. But I assume you’ll use the demos faction to overthrow the oligarchy – yes?’

Thaïs nodded.

Alexander shook his head and made a face. ‘That’s contrary to my policy in Greece. I worry that I’ll seem fickle.’ He glanced at Callisthenes.

Callisthenes frowned. ‘The better for us, if you liberate the cities of Asia for democracy,’ he said. ‘Excellent subject for a panegyric. And perhaps if you made the point that when the mainland cities can be trusted, they too will have democracies?’

Thaïs looked as if she’d eaten bad seafood. She could stomach double-dealing spies, but there was something about the self-serving nature of Alexander’s policies that stuck in her throat – or perhaps she was simply enough of an Athenian to be repulsed.

Callisthenes tried to kiss her hand when the king left. He also put a familiar hand on her bottom. ‘Are you available only to Ptolemy?’ he asked with a leer. ‘You must have some spare time.’

Thaïs drifted out of his hands. ‘None whatsoever, my lord,’ she purred. Her voice was so throaty and seductive that it took him precious seconds to realise he’d just been turned down flat. He flushed, but he was most of the way out of our door.

He turned. ‘You whore,’ he said, and spat on our step.

‘No,’ she said. ‘What you want is a whore. I can find you one, if that will please you.’

What amazed me was that he said this in front of me, although my relationship with her was known throughout the army. But he was an arrogant pup – and he was as much a fool about men’s feelings as the king himself. And the two fed on each other. Aristotle has a lot to answer for.

He made a rude gesture. ‘You open and shut like an oyster,’ he said. ‘And I’ll have you whether you like it or not.’

His contempt for her – for all women – blazed like a torch.

Ordinarily, I let Thaïs fight her own battles. After all – that’s what she wanted. And she was capable of punishing me for leaping to her defence in any way that seemed to her a slight on her capabilities.

But this had become an attack on me.

So I grabbed him and slammed his head into my doorpost.

Sometimes, the only answer to an arsehole is a good beating. Heh.

His slaves picked him up and carried him out the door, and I wiped my hands on a towel, and then I heard the sound of two small hands clapping. I turned to find Thaïs applauding me.

‘I didn’t love you for your strength or your temper,’ she said, ‘but it is sometimes lovely to see a man behave like a man.’

I won’t go into details, but we had each other on the spot – court clothes and make-up pots discarded in all directions, until she was naked except for her golden sandals and I except for my Aegyptian dagger. On the carpets in the portico. If our slaves were scandalised, they were discreet. She smelled like danger and love, and she said I smelled like violence.

Oh – Sardis. I remember Sardis through the curtain of her hair.

We marched as soon as Thaïs had a receipt for the twenty talents of gold, and the city opened its gates as we approached. Memnon’s garrison marched out through the Miletian Gate as we marched in through the Sardis gate, and Ephesus was Sardis all over again – another magnificent city, this one grander than Athens, surrendered without a fight, and even I felt a certain . . . sadness, if that’s the proper phrase.

Thaïs had no such heroic scruples, and though she entered the city with the baggage, on a mule, Alexander sent her a box – inside was a gold statue of Artemis holding a tiny key.

She kept it until she died. I wondered why Alexander found it so easy to admit publicly that she’d taken Ephesus, but couldn’t reward Cleitus for saving his life.

Ephesus was more dangerous to us than Sardis. Sardis was an alien, Persian city, and our troops knew they were in enemy territory. Ephesus was Greek through and through, and for all I claim that Macedonians hate Greeks – we love Greece, and we are Hellenes. Women in Ephesus looked like Greek women, and spoke Greek. The temples were to Greek gods. The stalls in the agora sold Greek goods and the shopkeepers spoke Greek.

And the artists and philosophers were Greek. Ephesus was the city of Heraklitus and of Thales – of Hipparchus the Comic Poet, and Archippos his son.

Apelles the Artist was living in Ephesus when we took it, and the purge instituted by Thaïs’s democrats had almost killed him. Alexander had the good fortune to rescue him personally from a crowd of democrats who didn’t, apparently, appreciate the new taste in art.

For a while, they were inseparable. Apelles was an agreeable man, I confess – and no sycophant, except out of pure sociability. He was an amiable man, gentle, brilliantly educated. Your father knew him.

Kineas had come down from Phrygia with a squadron of Athenian cavalry, because Alexander wanted to garrison the city with Greeks and Ephesus and Athens were old friends. It was the first time Alexander gave Kineas a direct command, as well – Kineas was the son of a great Athenian aristocrat, and as such was the right man to keep the democrats in line and guarantee to the (surviving) oligarchs that the rule of law would be preserved.

It was beautifully done, and typical of Alexander’s style. He let Thaïs’s partisans get carried away – and they killed almost everyone who might have resisted him. And then he ordered them to stop with a shudder of revulsion and appeared deeply contrite. And summoned his friend, an Athenian aristocrat, to put it all to rights, thus appearing even-handed and just – after ruthlessly exterminating opposition.

Thaïs was disgusted – she’d intended to institute a truly popular democracy. Did I mention my lover was a firebrand? But again, Alexander’s brilliance was ahead of her. She loathed aristocrats (myself excepted, I assume) but deeply respected Kineas. She didn’t do anything to undermine him – although if Perdiccas (for instance) had been commanding the military police, she might have had a different . . . approach.

And of course Kineas did an excellent job. But those few weeks made his career, with us – he dined every night with the king, and never abused the privilege. Only once did I see him anything but perfectly well behaved. One night Seleucus slapped him on the back. ‘You’re like one of our own officers, Kineas,’ he said. ‘I never even think of you as Athenian.’

Kineas winced, and his eyes narrowed. ‘I am, though,’ he said. ‘I am not a Macedonian, Seleucus.’

Apelles laughed aloud. ‘And thank the gods, Kineas!’ He raised a kylix of wine. ‘No Macedonian could have brought peace to the factions here.’

Apelles had excellent social skills. He did tend to go on a bit about politics, and I sometimes think the king kept him around to make his staff look more worldly.

At any rate, we had to wait for the allied fleet to catch us up, and Alexander had detached Parmenio to pluck the rest of Lydia if the garrisons were weak, so we had time to kill, and Alexander spent his time going to parties and getting his portrait painted by the foremost artist of the day. He was drunk a great deal.

Philotas and I avoided each other.

Memnon was gathering an army at Miletus.

Kineas had an increasing number of crimes to deal with – rapes and thefts by Macedonians. He dealt with them as tactfully as he could, but he was also outraged when he found that any Macedonian he turned over to Philotas was released.

And Alexander spent far too much time ignoring all this and sitting on Bucephalus in a tent by the agora, where Apelles painted him in encaustic, carefully coloured wax. I found the new, imperial Alexander a little grating and I had duties to perform, and frankly, I was besotted with Thaïs and we made love as often as I could catch her and get her clothes off – and the success of taking the city had made her as randy as I. We had a fine time, but Ephesus had a certain aura – it was too sophisticated for my taste, and I suspect it actually frightened some of our Pellan farm boys.

At any rate, Apelles finished his military portrait, and I saw it. It was . . . accurate. It showed the fire in Alexander’s eyes, and the ram’s horns where his unruly blond hair rose in rebellion against the brush when he’d been on campaign a week or more. And there were the lines around his mouth that he got in combat, and there were the knuckles, white against the hilt of his sword – and there was Bucephalus, his deeply swayed, broad back accurate in every detail.

Alexander hated it.

By Apollo, I could have told Apelles if he’d asked me. Kineas and I had a laugh about it, and that was before the king saw it. It was a magnificent portrait of the King of Macedon at war.

But Alexander didn’t see himself as the King of Macedon any more.

I was there when he exploded. I wanted to be there. And besides, had I shown signs of chickening out, Thaïs was going to make me. Everyone in Ephesus knew the king was going to hate it, and everyone wanted to hear what he had to say.

‘It is bad art,’ Alexander said, his arms crossed, an entirely false smile on his face. ‘My dear Apelles – it is trite. You should be ashamed of yourself.’

At the pronouncement, the apprentices at the back of the tent – busy grinding priceless substances to powders so fine they could be used to mix with melted beeswax – guffawed.

Alexander’s ear was always tuned to the sound of derisive laughter. His head came up and he looked around, like a stallion hearing a mare.

‘What was that?’ he asked.

‘My apprentices,’ Apelles said. ‘They are mocking you for pretending to know anything about art.’

Alexander’s face grew red. ‘I studied with Aristotle!’ he said, and Callisthenes nodded.

Apelles shrugged. ‘He didn’t know shit about art, either.’

Callisthenes had a mouth full of wine, and he spurted it all over the ground.

Good times.

‘The likeness to me is good enough, I suppose,’ Alexander said. ‘I know it’s meant to be me.’

Apelles stood stony-faced.

‘But Bucephalus is not a swayback carthorse, and my thorax doesn’t buckle under my right arm.’ Alexander moved around the painting. ‘And the light is odd.’

Apelles laughed, and his laugh was unforced and unconcerned. ‘My lord, you are the greatest warrior in the circle of the world, and may indeed be the child of the gods, but you telling me about art is like me telling Ptolemy there about horses.’

‘Leave me out of it,’ I said.

Apelles smiled a lazy, evil smile. ‘Why don’t you fetch an impartial judge?’ he asked the king. ‘Get your horse and bring him here.’

The great war horse was brought, and as soon as the horse saw the likeness, he raised his head and gave a stallion trumpet call.

He seemed puzzled when the other horse didn’t move. But he looked at the painting for a long time.

‘I rest my case,’ Apelles said.

‘What, your painting is good enough to please a horse?’ Callisthenes asked.

‘The horse recognises the likeness. Animals live in a natural world – art, to be art, must be natural.’

Callisthenes shrugged. ‘Nonsense. Art is always artifice. Any child can copy nature.’

‘It is always easier for a pompous fool to imitate a philosopher than other men,’ Apelles said to Callisthenes.

Apelles ended up executing another painting, this one of Alexander in the guise of Zeus, throwing a thunderbolt. Kineas, for example, found it horrible. Thaïs laughed and laughed.

Alexander loved it. And so did the troops.

Late summer, and we finally moved. Parmenio had done his usual brilliant job cleaning up Phrygia for his brother, and now he was coming to us with the army. The allied fleet – all one hundred and sixty ships – was riding snug in Ephesus’s near-impregnable harbour. But at sea, the Persians had it all their own way, and aside from a few minor ship actions – all won by Athenians – our fleet was too ill trained to risk in a straight-up fight.

We marched to Miletus, and not a moment too soon. Kineas had taken to arresting Macedonians and trying them in military courts without handing them over to Philotas, who was nominally, at least, governor of the city, and the two of them were nearly at war when Kineas executed a pair of pezhetaeroi for rape. Alexander backed him, but Philotas swore to have his head. You can guess whose side I was on . . .

The fleet anchored between the island of Lade and the mainland, virtually under the walls of the city. There was immense historical value in this – the Persians were anchored over by Mycale, and both places were redolent of past conflict. Here, the Ionian rebels and their Athenian allies had lost one of the greatest naval actions of all time – to treason – against the Persians.

‘My ancestor was here,’ Kineas said, pointing across the water. ‘Arimnestos the Plataean.’

And here, on the beaches of Mycale, the Athenians smashed Persian seapower for a hundred years.

‘My ancestor was at Mycale, too,’ Kineas said, with a certain aristocratic insolence. He didn’t actually say ‘while your ancestors were herding sheep and sending tribute to Persia, mine ruled the world’. He didn’t say it, but he thought it.

He was a fine man, nonetheless.

Heh. Your ancestors, too, lad.

Anyway, we beat the Persians to Miletus by days, and that was pretty much the siege. The Persian commander started negotiating as soon as we got there.

The only battle was between Parmenio and Alexander.

Parmenio had been away, marching around, taking the surrender of Phrygia and cleaning up the corners of Lydia. The king had been in Ephesus, surrounded by admirers and flatterers. Collision was imminent.

The first issue was Philotas. Alexander attempted to fob him off with Ephesus to govern. Philotas had no intention of trading command of the Hetaeroi for one city, no matter how mighty. It’s funny, in a way – two years before, when Parmenio took Ephesus the first time, we’d heard rumours that he intended to keep it for his own and make his people into kings there.

But fatter men have greater appetites, or so we say in Macedon. Since Granicus, we’d all begun to raise our eyes to wider horizons. And Parmenio and his family had their eyes on some major prize – although I’m not sure they’d actually named it, even to themselves.

I’ll add that the other poison in the mix was that Philotas never bothered to hide that he felt – rightly or wrongly – that his father was doing all the hard work while Alexander was swanning around and flirting with artists.

At any rate, Philotas flatly refused to stay in Ephesus when the army marched. Alexander only accepted him when he’d had a conference with Parmenio – a talk that none of us was welcome to overhear. It must have been something.

But there was worse to come. Parmenio wanted a forward strategy. He wanted to commit the fleet to a major action at Mycale. He was willing to see either of two strategies – a night assault on the beached Persian ships, or a combined attack with the army and the fleet. Philotas marched off with half the hypaspitoi and half the Hetaeroi to close all the stream-heads to the Persians – so that they had to sail a hundred stades around the headland to get water for their rowers.

Parmenio didn’t ask the king before sending his son away with half the Aegema, and a bitter dispute arose.

‘When I see an opportunity, I act on it!’ Parmenio roared. We were in the command tent – a dozen of the king’s friends, and most of the ‘college of old men’, as Diodorus called Parmenio’s generals.

‘Just as you did at Granicus?’ Alexander asked.

Parmenio laughed. ‘Boy, you rode off with a wild hare under your arse and almost got yourself killed – as we knew would happen. That wasn’t an opportunity.’

Alexander smiled, and his eyes got that glittery look they did in combat. ‘Then you are a fool. We could have had Granicus in an hour if your son hadn’t wasted so much time.’

Parmenio shrugged. ‘I won’t debate with you, lord. Men know who won the Granicus, and how it was won.’

Alexander nodded. ‘Precisely. You will not dispatch troops without my consent, Parmenio. Not ever again. And these were my own household.’

‘They were in armour and prepared,’ Parmenio said, but I could tell from his tone that he knew himself bested.

‘And I will not risk my empire and my future on a sea battle. The last time the Greeks made a stand here, half their fleet defected. I won’t allow it. I don’t trust them enough to lead them in person.’

Parmenio crossed his arms on his chest. ‘Then we may as well go home. As long as the Persians hold the sea, we’re here on their sufferance. Any day now, Memnon will fill that fleet with marines and send it to Athens – and a day later, Greece will be afire behind us and we’ll have to march home.’

‘Really?’ Alexander asked. Again the smile.

‘Oh – you have one of your amazing plans?’ Parmenio was contemptuous. ‘Spare us. Let’s get this done. The Athenians are a match for any ten Persian ships. Let’s send to Athens for another fifty ships – they’ll send them after Granicus. Then we’ll have the ships and the skilled rowers. They could be here in two weeks. Less.’

Alexander’s smile never faded. ‘You can be remarkably un-Macedonian, Parmenio. If we call on Athens for a fleet, whose victory will it be? And what price will Athens demand in the aftermath? And what will the League say?’

‘Who gives a fart?’ Parmenio roared. ‘Lord – you try my patience.’

Alexander’s smile broadened. ‘Luckily for both of us, I’m the king and you are not.’

It was the first time their conflict was open.

We stormed Miletus anyway. But part of the garrison got away, and Memnon had already shifted his base to Halicarnassus, the best-defended city in Ionia – the birthplace of Herodotus, master of history.

Alexander was determined to follow him. He was tired of men telling him that Memnon was the finest strategos in the world.

So as the autumn rains started to fall on the green coast of Asia, we marched on Halicarnassus.