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I knew Darius for what he was then: a dung beetle like those revered in Egypt, a shiny, indestructible insect that scurried from the earth after all manner of catastrophe.

Alexander’s curse might have shaken the temples on Olympus, and I’ve no doubt he would have run even precious old Ox-Head into an early grave in pursuit had it not been for the cry raised to our left.

“Bessus has broken through Parmenion’s line!” shouted a Companion, whose face was coated with dust and streaked with dark rivulets of sweat and grime. “Parmenion begs assistance to secure the baggage and avoid being flanked.”

An attack on the baggage meant one thing: an attempt to steal back Darius’ women. That was an insult Alexander would never let stand.

I felt his struggle as he turned and watched the dust swallow the golden gleam of Darius’ chariot as the Immortals retreated to join their worthless king. We would pursue, but not today.

“Hephaestion!” Alexander roared, and I turned about and galloped toward the left, my warhorse vaulting blurred corpses mostly outfitted in Persian gold, with few crowned by the silver helms of Macedon.

The baggage line was chaos when I arrived, my sword ready to relieve Bessus, or perhaps incompetent Parmenion, of his head. Slain attendants watered the earth with their blood, and near Sisygambis’ tent careened a chariot with three silk-clad women in its basket. The shortest of the women glanced to where an opening in the line temporarily yawned, her bent nose as sharp as a blade and her muscles corded all the way to her shoulders as she whipped the frantic horse.

I kicked my warhorse again, determined to reach the brilliant little idiot before she succeeded in stealing away to her father. It was in horror that I watched their horses rear and the chariot lurch over the bodies of the slain. Drypetis sailed from the chariot, then snapped back and was thrown against the exterior of the basket like a dying fish on a line, her shimmering silk robes shining like the rainbow-hued scales of a summer trout. She’d be dragged beneath the chariot, pulverized by the scythed wheels or her own horse’s hooves.

On a battlefield full of heroes’ corpses, one more death shouldn’t have mattered. Especially not that of a reckless Persian princess with a mouth full of vinegar.

Still, I galloped forward, then grasped the back of Drypetis’ silken robe even as her grandmother and sister clawed to pull the unconscious girl up. I threw her into the chariot basket with my bad arm and let out a mighty roar of blinding pain.

The bloodlust was broken with this act of mercy and, with it, my inability to feel the wound that now gushed torrents of blood.

“You two, into the tent!” I yelled. “Now!”

I waited only long enough to see Sisygambis acquiesce with a rigid nod, her lips set in a tight line. She was a good sort of woman, the same as my own mother, and knew when to cut her losses.

It was more than I could say for
some
women.

I drew a steadying breath—as steady as one could after the debacle this was turning out to be—and grasped the spear shaft embedded in my arm, yanking the weapon from my flesh and cursing the Persian who hadn’t cared to fully straighten the shank of his spear as I felt the wood make an agonizing scrape against bone. Blood flowed from the gaping hole; it would leave a gem of a scar if it didn’t supperate and kill me first.

I wished I could find the Persian who had launched the spear and skewer him through his neck with it, but barring that, at least I’d sent several of his brethren to greet Charon at the river Styx this day.

I tucked the bloody spear into my belt and marched toward the women’s almost-empty chariot, the pain in my arm throbbing like a second heartbeat.

Drypetis regained consciousness as I disentangled her wrists from the reins, one arm hanging useless at her side and her face the shade of sour milk. She blinked hard, her pupils dilated as she struggled to focus on me.

“You’re going to live to see another day,” I assured her in a curt voice, recognizing her confusion as she came to. “Now that I’ve saved you from being trampled by horses and minced by your scythes.”

I should have enjoyed the rare moment of silence, for it didn’t last long.

She jerked away to hurl a stream of abuse at me. “You didn’t save me! You’re the one who made my horses rear in the first place, you spotty piece of dung! I wish your mother had drowned you at birth,” Drypetis continued, cradling her arm and a hand that was quickly turning blue, “and fed your waterlogged corpse to the crows!”

Her curses were tame by any soldier’s standards, albeit creative, but I had an arm that screamed as if someone had tried to saw, stab, and then gnaw it off, and wasn’t in the mood to be entertained by a knob-nosed girl transformed into a fanged and hissing gorgon. I grabbed the neck of her robe with my good hand and hauled her from her chariot, ignoring her cry of pain as I pulled her into the decadent Persian tent. A miasma of incense choked me and several lamps still flickered, remnants of their prayers to the Persian god of fire. It was nothing short of a miracle that the whole damned tent hadn’t burned to the ground.

An
amphora
of wine stood abandoned on a table and I helped myself to it, knocking away its wax seal with my knife and guzzling its liquid treasure like a dying man.

I’d seen death again today, and bested it on the battlefield. No small accomplishment, and simply being alive sweetened the wine as it hit my tongue.

“Cease your shrieking,” I growled as Drypetis opened her mouth to continue her tirade, her gold-flecked eyes flashing.

“We might have escaped had it not been for you—” Drypetis started in again despite the fact that she swayed on her feet, but thankfully, Sisygambis stopped her this time.

“Hold your tongue, Drypetis,” she said, once again the queen of her domain. “I forbid you from speaking to Hephaestion.” She glanced at me. “Spare some wine for that arm of yours. The dust in it will make it fester and then you’ll smell worse than a rancid chicken.”

“Then, if we’re lucky, he’ll get blood poisoning and die,” Drypetis said between gritted teeth. She held up her good hand. I could tell from here that the other was broken. “I hope he’s in agony—”

“I’m fine,” I growled, but it was a lie. Only the gods knew how much of my blood stained the plains of Gaugamela, but it was enough to make the edges of my vision blur.

“My physician lies skewered by one of your men outside,” Sisygambis said, her lips disappearing again. “And you’ll look a fool if you pass out from loss of blood before your men. Let them finish the rout and content yourself with the healing skills of a dowager queen.”

“You’d tend the swine who captured us for a second time before helping your own granddaughter?” Drypetis muttered under her breath. “I hope you plan to poison him.”

“I’ll order your sister to gag you if I must,” Sisygambis said. She waited a moment, but Drypetis didn’t answer. “Hephaestion might well bleed to death here in our tent, which I doubt Alexander would forgive. You, however, will live to a ripe old age, despite your shoulder and hand.”

She crouched next to me to inspect my arm, even that simple movement filled with elegance. “My son has fled again. Thus, we shall remain the guests of Alexander and his Macedonians for the foreseeable future.”

“You’re a pragmatic old bird,” I said, not enjoying the way her voice came as if from far away.

She smiled and smoothed her silver hair with hands laden with golden rings.

“Bring a dinner knife,” she ordered Stateira. “Boiled wine, a clean rag, and a pot of honey too.”

Stateira was a welcome relief after the shrieking harpy that was her sister. Yet she took one look at the chunk of flesh missing from my arm, and her face drained of color. Thankfully, her grandmother was made of stiffer stuff. Unfortunately, that meant she was far from a gentle physician.

“Brace yourself,” she ordered, twisting the iron blade over the remnants of her sacred fire while heating an
amphora
of wine with the other.

I did as she commanded, but roared like a stuck boar as the blade hissed against my flesh, cauterizing the wound before the white-haired queen upended the heated wine over my arm.

“Head between your legs,” she said, and I might have protested had it not been for her insistent hand guiding my head where she instructed. “We don’t want you passing out and marring that pretty face of yours.”

“You should see to your granddaughter before she loses consciousness again,” I said, light-headed from pain and not wishing for any witnesses as the dowager queen finished slathering my arm with honey. I glanced up briefly to see Darius’ younger daughter sway in her seat, her elbow lifted so her forearm rested on her head, the same position as when she fell from the chariot.

“I’ve no experience setting shoulders or splinting hands,” Sisygambis said, winding a length of white cotton around my forearm. “She’ll have to wait until a field physician is available. A lesson in patience and suffering might do her good, considering the danger she put us in.”

I thought of the men I’d seen holding their guts in with their hands, the countless javelin punctures and gruesome sword wounds. Across from me, Drypetis shifted on her couch, going almost green with the movement as Sisygambis tied the ends of my bandage in a neat knot. Darius’ little gorgon had gotten what she deserved for trying to escape, but I had to admit that I was impressed with her lack of tears over her injuries. The dowager queen began to fashion a sling with a second swath of cotton, but I shook my head. “I’ll manage without it,” I said. I’d used one once for a sword wound on my other arm, but the thing was a damnable nuisance.

“You,” I said to Drypetis, feeling the world start to right itself now that Sisygambis was done poking at me. “Lie down.”

“Tell Alexander’s plaything I’d sooner die than follow a single order of his,” she growled, her knuckles white with pain as she clutched the pillow beneath her.

“Lie down so I can tell your grandmother how to set your shoulder,” I said. “Or I’ll knock you down myself.”

“You’re familiar with her injuries?” Sisygambis asked with a frown.

“The physician will have to splint her hand, but I fell out of a tree as a boy and landed on my shoulder. I thought I’d die from the pain, and my arm was stuck over my head too, at least until my mother’s howling brought the physician running.”

“It’s unfortunate you didn’t land on your neck,” Drypetis muttered. I pretended not to hear, knowing what was to come.

I jutted my chin toward the silken couch where she sat. “On your back,” I said.

“That might work with all the other women you’ve known—”

“Drypetis!” This time it was her sister who protested, while the dowager queen looked ready to strangle her youngest granddaughter. Yet Drypetis did as I commanded, the first and likely last time she’d obeyed any order in her life.

“Keep your arm up,” I said. “Fingers pointed toward the ceiling.”

“Tell the idiot it’s not as if I can move it anyway,” she said.

I felt no small satisfaction at her hiss of pain, yet Darius’ troublesome daughter managed to get herself into position without any further curses, which was more than most soldiers might have managed. Then again, most soldiers didn’t have their iron-haired grandmother standing over them with a glower that might have made Zeus soil himself.

“Push down on her upper arm and pull up on her elbow at the same time, then tuck her elbow into her ribs and pull her wrist away from her body,” I said to Sisygambis. “Fast, sharp movements.”

“This is going to hurt, isn’t it?” Drypetis asked as she stared up at the striped silk ceiling, blinking hard. I almost wished she’d had some wine to soften what was to come, but a mouth like hers would benefit more from a dousing of lye.

“Unless I’m lucky,” I said. “Then your grandmother will miss the socket and cause you excruciating pain.”

Sisygambis took the position. “Your sister is going to count to three,” she said.

“One,” Stateira said, her eyes screwed shut. “Two . . .”

And the dowager queen shoved Drypetis’ arm just as I’d instructed, eliciting a screech of pain from her granddaughter.

“Three,” Sisygambis said.

Drypetis pushed the knuckles of her good fist into her mouth and two lone tears streamed down her cheeks. Then she rubbed her arm, moving it slowly. “It’s better,” she said, a slow smile spreading across her face as she wiped her cheeks, her broken hand still hanging at her side. “I amend what I said before,” she said to her grandmother. “Hephaestion is only mostly an idiot.”

Sisygambis turned her back on her granddaughter, her hands clasped so tight I was sure she imagined wringing Drypetis’ lovely little neck. “You have my gratitude,” she said. “How may we thank you?”

“So long as Drypetis refuses to speak to me, that shall be thanks enough.” I gave her a succinct bow. “Try not to dislocate anything else, save your tongue.”

With that, I turned and left, setting several soldiers to guard the pavilion and breathing a sigh of relief to leave behind the women’s tent for the welcome carnage of the battlefield.

And carnage wasn’t in short supply; the plains of Gaugamela were pockmarked with corpses already beginning to stink despite the cool fall air, abandoned and broken spears, and overturned chariots with some of their wheels still spinning in the breeze. Bards would later claim that the battlefield at Gaugamela was littered with arms, some with their shields still attached, and heads with their eyes still open.

The bards didn’t lie.

But the horses . . .

I could gaze upon body after body and scarcely bat an eye; after all, these men had chosen to march after their king in search of glory and riches. But the horses that had ridden so bravely into battle now lay in twisted heaps on the earth and made the back of my throat grow suddenly tight. There were thousands of them, the gifts of Poseidon, the vision of their unseeing eyes clouded with a thick film of yellow dust.

And in the center of the battlefield, his hair gleaming like the sun fallen to earth, stood Alexander. The king of Macedon—
my
king of Macedon—was triumphant this day, for the vast majority of the corpses spread before him wore either the yellow tunics and white turbans of the Indian mercenaries or the blue of the Immortals, their helmets wrought with lion-headed serpents and sacred trees to ward off evil. Yet Alexander’s face was darker than a storm cloud.