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Alexander's march through the desert had taken a terrible toll. The sands had swallowed countless men, their strength sapped by disease, or thirst, or long-festering wounds.
Why? Why confront the desert? To claim the glory of overcoming it? Or to punish the army that had refused to indulge his ambitions? Only the gods know now.
And there were graver losses yet to come.
Not you, Hephaistion. Anyone but you.
I would have followed you to the ends of the earth, Alexander.
As Achilles grieved for Patroclus, so Alexander grieved for Hephaistion: an epic anguish, biting sorrow mingled with thundering rage.
Like a storm cloud, gathering up its fierce energy as it rolls across the darkening sky, Alexander convulsed with wrath that demanded release.
His black gaze fell upon the Cossaeans, who dwelt among the craggy mountains of the Zagros. In baneful silence, the great conqueror led his men into the hills — for the final time.