“Hey, Ptolemaios, we’ve known each other for thirteen years and I still have no idea where’re you’re from.”

“That’s true,” I agreed, “although you’ve asked me approximately eight hundred and fifty-seven times.”

Kleitos shook his head. “Nah, it’s gotta be closer to a thousand.”

I laughed. “Didn’t realize you were counting.”

In the murky light of dawn, we were gingerly slip-sliding toward Alexandros’s tent through the thick, sucking mud. It was the day after Alexandros, with the assistance of his troops, had burned down most of Persepolis. Neither Kleitos nor I had gotten much sleep during the night. As a result, our banter was even more lame than usual.

The fires, both the normal camp variety and the spectacular conflagration kind, had sputtered into oblivion under the relentless rain. Only the barest tendrils of lavender, creeping timidly above the ridges of the eastern mountains, illuminated our way.

Kleitos changed the subject. “What do you think he’ll have to say for himself this morning?”

I shrugged. “Maybe he’ll tell us where we’re going next.”

“Oh, that’s a no-brainer. Even I can figure that much out. I’m just wondering what his ultimate goal is.”

“Who knows?” Even though I’d lost my ability to know the future, I still possessed sufficient insight into our leader’s psyche to make a fairly good guess about our next destination, as well as Alexandros’s ultimate objective. However, I chose to keep my surmises to myself.

*******

The road to immortality went through Ekbatana. After that, all bets were off. Oh, there were omens aplenty, even before we’d left Persepolis, if only we’d paid attention. But Alexandros had bigger swords to whet, we were all distracted by the recent inferno, and, in any event, there wasn’t a soothsayer among us.

As we gathered at the entrance to the command tent, awaiting our leader’s emergence, each of us had a different excuse for our lack of foresight. Parmenion, who would’ve normally spent his time worrying about Alexandros’s next impulsive move, was instead basking in the company of his two surviving sons, Philotas and Nikanoros. Even though the three of them served in the same army, they were rarely able to spend much time together. Perdikkas, as dour as the weather, was too busy pondering his next intrigue to consider any troubles that might lie ahead. Then there was Hephaistion, who’d spent so much time brown-nosing Alexandros, his vision was effectively blocked by our leader’s rippling nether cheeks. And I was too busy wrestling, for the umpteenth time, with the implications of the Prime Directive to consider what the Fates had in store for us.

As we shivered and stamped our feet, Kleitos attempted to pierce the miasma of a sodden day. “You boys look like a litter of drowned rats.” Then, realizing that Parmenion was standing in our midst, he wiped the smile off his face. “Begging your pardon, sir. Didn’t mean to imply you look like a drowned rat, sir.”

For once, even the usually humorless Parmenion played along. “That’s alright, Kleitos. At least this rain will wash all the rejectamenta from our camp.”

“Reject a what?”

But Parmenion had already turned back to his boys and Kleitos gave up his efforts to cheer us up. “You guys should’ve stayed in your tents.”

“Speaking of which, where is he?” This from Krateros, who’d managed to join our group unobserved. “Isn’t he up yet?”

“He had a tough night,” I said. “And besides, who wants to rush on a morning like this?”

“I do.” Alexandros poked his head out. “Take every day by storm is my motto.”

“In that case, sire, the gods have stolen a march on you today.” Kleitos’s wit was, as usual, even quicker than his sword.

For a split second, the air crackled with menace but, with a hearty laugh, Alexandros cut through the tension like sunshine dispersing fog. “The day is still young, my friend. Now let’s get moving.” He parted the flaps and joined us.

There was something about the king, as he emerged from his tent, that struck me as odd. I searched his face for some telltale sign of regret for the wanton destruction he had wreaked the day before or chagrin at his nocturnal misadventures but he seemed well-rested and relaxed. He was dressed in Persian garb, which we were still trying to get used to, but that wasn’t it, either. Ah, he’s no longer a callow youth, I thought. He’s twenty-six by now and the presumptive emperor of Persia. That must be it. Looking at my fellow commanders, I imagined similar questions coursing through their minds.

Alexandros set off at a brisk pace and we fell in around him, forming an honor guard. In case of need, we were quite capable of protecting his physical safety but, on this day, he was invulnerable. We proceeded in silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts.

I was busy gawking at our newly altered surroundings. A pall cast by smoldering ruins hung over the great platform upon which a succession of Persian emperors had erected their splendid royal palace. The soaring halls, adorned by colorful murals, finely woven Persian rugs and tapestries, priceless art and furniture, had all been destroyed by the implacable flames. Where marvelous marble statues had stood the day before only small heaps of melted quicklime remained. Decapitated columns, ashen floors, shattered tiles, and hard-baked cuneiform tablets were the sole, mute, accusing survivors of the formerly imposing imperial complex.

Since our capture of Persepolis, some four months earlier, Alexandros had been using the apadana, the great reception hall adjoining the royal palace, for his daily audiences. This morning, unfortunately, the apadana was gone, burnt to the ground by the caprice of an outraged Alexandros. As a result, we all headed for the mustering ground in the middle of our military camp, a small square of oozing mud, trampled weeds, and buzzing flies.

By the time we arrived, a temporary throne had been set up at the eastern edge of the square, balanced precariously atop two large tables. The skies were still threatening but the rain had stopped. People stood around in small clusters, marking time, awaiting the entrance of the putative new emperor of Persia.

Macedonian commanders, doing double duty as bodyguards, searched the Persian noblemen, courtiers, and eunuchs for concealed weapons. Our erstwhile enemies, risible in their resplendent robes amidst the squalor of a military encampment, were clotted in tight knots near the empty throne. Eddies of unctuous priests and oleaginous soothsayers swirled around the periphery, emitting whiffs of smoke, hard-to-identify odors, and unintelligible incantations. Among the surrounding tents, ordinary soldiers, going about their quotidian tasks, eyed the crowd curiously while staying well clear of the square.

All conversation and movement within the various groups ceased when the squishing sound of boots alerted them to our arrival. Alexandros was wearing one of Dareios’s imperial robes, cut down to suit his smaller frame. Anyone else might have felt self-conscious but he exuded an air of easy confidence, as if he’d been sporting Persian attire all his life.

He clambered up the rickety structure to his throne, sure-footed as a mountain goat, smiling and waving to his friends. His entrance had its usual effect. The Macedonian commanders faced the throne, their attentive expressions glowing with eagerness. The Persian courtiers, after a barely perceptible moment of hesitation while they searched for a dry patch of ground, prostrated themselves as per protocol. The sight of those splendidly dressed men and almost-men, wallowing on their bellies in the mud, did detract a bit from the solemnity of the moment. Kleitos burst out laughing, as was his wont, but quickly controlled himself. Alexandros, too, fought to suppress the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. The priests and soothsayers paid various degrees of obeisance, depending on the norms of their faiths, some bowing, others kneeling; some touching their foreheads to the mud, others sprawling in it. Only the magoi of Ahura Mazda remained rigidly erect. Even the common soldiers milling among the tents, although well out of earshot, ceased their movement. As if on cue, the threatening clouds parted and a shaft of sunlight illuminated the makeshift throne. Professional courtesy, I thought.

Alexandros raised his hand. “We’re leaving for Ekbatana tomorrow.” His order arrived, like a heart attack, without preamble, apology, or explanation. All of us, including Alexandros, knew it wasn’t possible for the army to march out in less than a week. Even absent the chaos caused by the destruction of the palace complex, it would take days and days to carry out all the organizational, administrative, and logistical arrangements required to get an army of close to 50,000 men on the march in a day – assuming the men were willing to go.

Two days later, on the first day of June, 256 Z.E.[1], we were on the road to Ekbatana.

______________________

[1] Zoroaster Era, calculated from the great prophet’s purported date of birth. Ptolemaios, the narrator of this tale, was a time traveler from a future that used the Zoroastrian calendar. Writing for an audience in his native era, Ptolemaios naturally retained their method for keeping track of dates. Had he been composing his memoirs for our edification, he would’ve written 330 B.C.E. instead.