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I have heard rumors, men, that your conviction is faltering; that some among you wish to turn back and leave our conquest incomplete.
Do you not know what lies beyond this river? Lands lusher than you have ever seen; riches that Croesus would envy; glory – oh, what glory – to rival Heracles himself!
Silence? Speak, someone. I am no tyrant.
We love you, Alexander. Truly, we do. But we want to go home.
East is the Ganges, which empties into the Great Sea that girdles the earth, and will bear us back to Macedon. East is the way, east we shall go.
But still the silence persisted. The men refused to go on.
Like Achilles sulking at Troy, Alexander withdrew to his tent. For two days, he spoke to no-one, his heart filled with terrible rage.
Armies are fickle — perhaps the men would reconsider their refusal, whether from shame or fear or duty.
Or perhaps the gods, who had shown Alexander such favor, would send a sign that none could ignore.
No such portent came, nor did the army's grief turn to compliance.
And so Alexander at last agreed to take them home — but, as you might expect, he wasn't simply going to take them back the way they came.
They would build ships, sail down the Hydaspes until it joined with the River Indus, and then on to the sea.
Any who stood in their path they would conquer, filling the glittering river with bloated corpses.