Tomb of the Lost

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The man’s head moved back and forth as he lay in the bed. His lips moved, trying to form words, though no sound came out. He opened his bloodshot eyes at the feel of someone’s touch on his sweating forehead. A cool cloth gently dabbed at his face.

“Is that better my King?” a voice enquired.

Alexander ‘the great’ of Macedon opened his red eyes again and struggled to focus with blurred vision on the face peering down at him. He turned his head this way and that. There were a dozen faces there and he screwed his eyes up to see better. Faces became names as he recognised the men around him.

Craterus, Ptolemy, Seleucus, Nearchus.

They were the companions.

Beyond them a line of men filed past silently. For hours they had passed the Royal bed, believing their King to be dead, relieved to see him alive. Nothing could stop them from seeing him once more.

Earlier in the day two doorways had had to be knocked through the walls of the Royal bedchamber to allow the army access to him and as they passed one by one, not saying anything, Alexander weakly raised his head off the pillow but in his eyes they could see he recognised each and every one of them. Most of them were moved to tears, beyond words now.

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