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Like Heracles, driven mad by Hera's hand, Alexander slaughtered the Cossaeans without pity, soaking the hills crimson.
And then, sated, he was alone once more. Hephaistion, Cleitus, Bucephalus, Parmenion — they had all crossed the Styx.
And how many brave men besides? How many soldiers had left Macedon as keen-eyed youths, only to heave their last breaths on some distant, desolate plain?
At last Alexander, who had seen so much death, confronted it himself.
Some spoke of disease; others of poison. Perhaps the many wounds finally wore him down, or the drink, or the grief. Even the greatest have their limits.
You must choose a successor, Alexander. To whom will the kingdom pass?
To the strongest.
And with that, the mighty heart stilled. Bereft, filled with sorrow and regret, his dreams of world conquest thwarted, the blazing star burnt out.
But ah, how brightly it had shone. He was too much for this world: too spirited, too ambitious, too bold. Should he be faulted for that?
As for the empire he forged… Well, as you might expect, bequeathing your realm 'to the strongest' is hardly conducive to a smooth transition of power.
Alexander's generals immediately set to fighting one another, pulling the empire apart like stray dogs tearing at a hunk of meat.
No empire would ever be so rapidly gained, or so suddenly shattered.
Let me rest my tired voice now, and then I shall tell you of another empire: one that rose slowly, patiently, relentlessly — and endured.