Storm of arrows

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T he conqueror of Asia stalked into his tent and tossed his golden helmet at the armour stand by the camp bed. It hit the wooden post with a bronze clang. The servants froze.

‘Where the fuck are my recruits?’ he yelled. ‘Antipater promised me eight thousand new infantry. He sent three thousand Thracians and some mutinous Greeks! I want my Macedonians!’

Members of his staff followed him into the tent, led by Hephaestion. Hephaestion was not afraid of his royal master, certainly not his master’s temper tantrums, and his bronze-haired head was high. He was smiling.

Behind him, Eumenes and Callisthenes were more hesitant.

Alexander scratched his head with both hands, trying to get the sweat and the dirt out of his hair. ‘Don’t stand in the doorway like sheep. Come in or get the fuck out.’

Hephaestion handed him a cup of wine, poured another for himself. ‘Drink, friend,’ he said.

Alexander drank. ‘It’s not fair. If people would just do as they were told…’

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