From atop the Ammonium’s elevated parapet, the servile runt surveyed all. An air of serene desolation lay upon the land: beautiful...yet strangely foreboding. The barren desert, extended away on all sides, to a point beyond the realm of man – a celestial tapestry of vivid colour and hue, which gave lie to the merciless savagery of the land...a land impervious to the dreams and ambitions of men – a land where the actions of men were inconsequential...no law held sway here, no dictator ruled here; here, the desert ruled and conquered all those that would challenge for dominion.

 The runt shifted position with an easy and well-tried familiarity – a man hardened to a Spartan existence by years of unquestioning service to a deity, known, but always beyond reach. The man’s olive skin which, belied the youth of his twenty seven years, possessed the texture of well-worn parchment and the toughness and durability of leather. There was nothing, save for a rather peculiar muscular development around and across the man’s shoulders, which might lead one to suspect a deformity; but when he walked, it was with a geometric grotesqueness, that left none in doubt.

 The sun had now been high in the sky, although not yet at its zenith, for some hours. The gently undulating dunes, baked to in excess of 100 degrees by the far-off star, gave of no shadow, shelter or respite. Haze rose, in serried and monotonous form, from the peaks of the highest dunes and distorted the empty and distant horizon, so that the stark and unremitting contrast between the desert and blue opacity of sky, seemed at last to become blended into a surreal and dreamlike tapestry marred only by the blinding and burning source, which helped form it.

There was an absence of wind, bird or animal – no sound, no movement; the land seemed to be in mourning...a silence lay heavily upon the land...not a comforting quiet or peace – solitude was not to be found here; the silence was a thick, claustrophobic, deadening silence, which defied one to utter a sound for fear of being identified and isolated as the only person alive; it, was, considered the runt, a portent of great and ominous events. 

 The runt, casting his gaze in the direction from which he was most expectant, saw that the land lay unbroken, without blemish or scar, except for...from a direction broadly North East, a minute dust cloud, far away in the distance... thrown up against the deep blue of the sky. This almost imperceptible wisp of dust, however, was sufficient to attract the runt’s keen vision; it distorted the otherwise unbroken line where earth met sky, but he hesitated still...wallowing in those few gratifying seconds when the mere prospect of something much sought after, assumes an unquestionable certainty; the aberration drew his eye and overwhelmed his senses...from a different world, he thought; indeed, they appeared to have sprung upon and invaded - ruined even, this most perfect of canvasses...yet on they came with a relentlessness matched only by the baking heat of the high-arching sun: riders.

 “He’s here...at last...it’s him.” Mouthed the runt inwardly to himself, then rising, scurried awkwardly down from his vantage point, and disappeared through a rough-hewn arch, which gave access to a small, mean area of dust and desert scrub,

     “Master, Master, he’s here; he comes.”   

 The runt, as instructed, returned to the high parapet and monitored the approach of the horsemen; he traced their progress toward him by observing the spray of sand and dust, which flew from the horses hooves. As their indistinct form continued to grow out of the desert hinterland, he could discern the glint of sunlight upon steel; he could see the flight of their cloaks - thrown backward by the headwind created by the urgency of their approach; he could see weapons: spears, shields and swords; but most magnificent of all, was the vision of the huge black horse contrasted against the golden sand and sapphire sky – it led them...surging ahead of the others: tireless, mighty and indomitable - pre-destined for immortality, no less than its master:  Bucephalus.

 At a distance of 500 paces, the riders slowed and reigned in their horses. The man astride the great black horse, turned and spoke evenly to the man (an officer of high import, the runt considered), on his left. It was this man, swathed in black, who then turned to the body of soldiers, who were some thirty strong in number, and commanded them, in a foreign tongue unintelligible to the runt, to dismount and take up sentry and look-out positions; this same officer, then passed instructions to two other men, who, immediately began the work of attending to the horses.

 The runt watched from above, as the leader of the company tarried momentarily, as if to consider his surroundings. He thought that he saw...reflected, in the man’s eyes, the very same emotions that he’d seen in the eyes of so many that had made this pilgrimage: expectation, uncertainty and perhaps, not a little fear. Then, abruptly, this leader of men came forward on foot, attended by four companions; they passed beneath the parapet where the runt remained on his lofty perch, until they travelled out of sight under the same rough hewn arch as he’d traversed earlier when alerting his master to the company’s approach.

 The five men proceeded beneath a rough stone arch, and entered a small scrub area. There they found themselves awaited by two men who, relative to the bronzed Olympian soldiers suddenly admitted to their company, appeared enfeebled, for both were slight in stature and scantily covered in robes that were thread-bare and filthy. The soldiers exchanged glances with one another, but the ruler of men, stood, resolute and unabashed. This stand-off prevailed: silent and frozen, for moments that stretched, seemingly, into eons. At length, one of the two poor wretches came forward and approached the bronze-clad warriors

     “Come. Follow me.”

The robed figure made toward a small opening, to the left of the soldiers, which had been excavated to a depth of 3 metres to provide relief from the sun.

     “Not you...Alexander; you, will follow me.”

Alexander, the ruler of men, followed the second of the robed figures to a similar opening, but located at the opposing wall of the scrub area to that which his companions had been ushered.

 Alexander proceeded the second of the two robed figures out of the intense heat of brilliant daylight, down into a world of darkness...their journey accompanied by sounds new and alien to the Macedonian king: the echo of footfall, the dripping presence of subterranean water, the noise of darkness...amplified and twisted by the mind into ghoulish and terrible horrors.

 At length, their descent into darkness was brought to an abrupt halt, by the sudden appearance of a very small cell-like structure on the left of the passage, which was illuminated by a solitary candle that had been placed at the centre of a small tablet of stone, which appeared to serve as an alter of sorts. Although the cell was a little less than adequate in size to accommodate the two men...that they were required to kneel: one either side of the stone tablet; it seemed to Alexander, as though he’d been cast down from the living to dwell among the dead. The cell, was dank and airless, and his intimate proximity to the robed wretch that had led him here, brought no comfort. This place, he considered, was not a place for the living; the emaciated features of the figure across the table were exaggerated and impressed upon his unconscious mind by the febrile light of the candle...this was a tomb, and here was death.

     “We have been waiting for you...Alexander. And now, now that you are at last with us; please, tell us what it is that you would know.”

     “My heart is filled with a desire to avenge the death of my father, and if that means pursuing the Persian king to his destruction, then, I am sworn to do so. However, weighing against such ambition is the reality of my situation...I cannot prosecute a war against the Persian hordes of Darius with the limited forces at my disposal; ultimately, I will lose.”

     “And yet, Alexander, you triumphed at both the Granicus and Issus; you are undisputed ruler of Egypt...what more would you have Ammon do?”

     “Rescue me from the abyss which now confronts me...bring a conclusion to this conflict...end the war in such a way that I will avoid losing face to those thousands of soldiers that have rallied to my cause; in a word, help me to retain power.”

     “A man may believe himself superior among men Alexander, not only superior, but more, perhaps even a force of nature: an individual that can move, influence and hold power over other men...an individual that can influence the world of men, and perhaps even hold dominion over that world. But only God exercises that power Alexander...only God moves men. But such a statement is in itself incomplete...to reconcile oneself with such a statement is to embrace a false eschatology, of which, there are many. No Alexander, men are not made in the image of God; men are of God.”

     “I do not understand how that helps me.”

     “Thus speaks the man...Alexander. You are here, because you have been summoned by God to attend upon him; he has work for you. That which dwells in all men, call it the spirit or the conscience of man, that is the dwelling place of God within the mortal vessel comprised of no more than dust and bone, which we call man. But it is through the eternal spirit of man, that God achieves his goals and objectives.”

“You talk of one God priest; may I call you priest?”

     “How you call or address me is without consequence.”

     “You talk of one God, but I have been schooled to revere many Gods.”

     “Yes, Alexander, that is why you have been summoned. The many Gods are given force by many false eschatologists or false profits.”

     "I find it difficult to perceive the difference between those which you call many and false, and that which you would now seem to promote at their expense...how is man to know that which is true from that which is false?"

"A false eschatology will seek to promote the dominion of man; this eschatology - the only true eschatology, seeks only to promote the dominion of God. Imagine, if you can Alexander, something that is a whole: a single entity...your position as king of Macedonia for example. Your army strikes East at your command...how would it be if, suppose, your soldiers thought to turn North, South or even West at whim...simply, you would either have to enforce their loyalty or lose power and abandon your objective(s). So it is with the dominion of God Alexander, except that the threat to God's divine objective are real, and actively perpetrated by those that are equally of God"

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

     "If God is all-powerful, how can such a force be challenged?"

     "You are right, of course, Alexander: God is all-powerful. But the challenge to God's dominion comes not from without, but from within. All men are of God - there is that part in each of us which is of the essence of God. Understand, if you can, that the corruption of that essence by the promotion of an eschatology which is false and contrary to the truth, will have the effect of haemorrhaging the very essence which is God - the one loses power to the many...that which is strong and potent, is rendered weak, fragmented and prone to corruption"

     "No less than my army would disintegrate into self-interested and disorganised bands of thieves and murderers if my command was usurped by my many captains?"

     "You grasp my understanding, I think..."

The priest reached around and unfastened a clasp, which had secured around his neck, a crude form of amulet, which he then proffered to Alexander. The latter tentatively took possession of the gift, and turned it over in his hands as though to make examination of it.

     “That which you now carry Alexander, is the one true eschatology – it is the truth; it is not for you to understand or interpret – that is a task for him that will one day come after you. Your mission is to always have custody over it...in death...and even unto the afterlife. Now go.”

     “Go? What of the problem that I came to you with? In the face of such overwhelming odds, my army cannot hope to prevail against Darius. But having come so far, how can I now conclude this war and save face, having not properly avenged my father’s death?”

     “Alexander, God has decreed that you will destroy the Persian Empire and occupy Babylon. Drive your army towards Gaugamela; God will furnish you with the weapon and equally, denude the Persian king of the means to combat it...now, it is time.”

 The two men extricated themselves from the breathless confines of the cell, and re-traced their steps until Alexander was once more confronted by the searing brilliance of the desert sun. He found his four companions already waiting, and as seemingly eager to depart as he now was.

     “Alexander...”

His companions, alarmed by the brusqueness of address, exchanged concerned glances and some even covered the hilt of their swords.

     “Alexander, please accept as a servant into your house, my loyal a life-long companion of mine: Brutus.”

 The robed figure beckoned down the watchful runt from atop the parapet, and reconciled his services to the ruler of men.

 The six men: king, soldiers and runt, took their leave and made to return to the company of cavalry that patiently awaited their return, but were again, forestalled by the robed figure that had attended Alexander.

     “Remember! Alexander...you are of God. You will carry your message to, and beyond the grave.”

 There was a new mood of optimism, which seemed to instantly take hold within the breast of Alexander’s companions; from greatest lord to lowliest servant, there burned a new reverence for the king in the eye of all. The priest turned – his work done.

 A horse was made available for the runt, and the company disappeared back into the desert’s empty vista in the direction from which they had first emerged. But not three leagues distant, Alexander reigned Bucephalus to a halt.

     “Cleitus...!”

The bronzed captain arraigned in black spurred his horse to the side of his king

     “Yes Alexander?”

     “Return to the Ammonium and return this...” Alexander produced the amulet from the fold of his cloak.

     “Yes king.”

Cleitus, took the amulet, and again spurred his horse toward Siwa. It was not until the early evening that Cleitus was able to rejoin the company. The sun’s brilliance had succumbed to the refreshing chill of evening. The indomitable Cleitus approached the king’s tent and made to enter, but finding his way barred by Brutus, announced his presence with no small degree of irritation. Admitted to Alexander’s presence, he cast a dismissive look in the direction of the king’s new man-servant and made his address.

     “Alexander. The two men that greeted us at the Ammonium were, upon my return, dead. I discovered them both, after not a little trouble, lying side-by-side in a tiny darkened cell. There was on the table, this scrap of parchment, which I am unable to understand.” Alexander took the scroll from Cleitus:

“Unto and beyond death Alexander...” he read “...unto and beyond death” Alexander took the amulet from Cleitus and fastened it around his neck; the parchment, he consigned to the flames of his campfire.

     “Thank you Cleitus”

     “My lord”

Brutus observed the exchange between king and captain from a distance:

     “Unto, and beyond death” he mouthed silently.

Three days hard riding saw Alexander and his soldiers back at Alexandria, and a further five weeks, witnessed the Macedonian army mobilised and en-route to Gaugamela. For Alexander, the enormity of the task confronting him: the defeat of Darius seemed as elusive and improbable as it had since Issus, for whilst the oracle had prophesised victory, it had not detailed the way in which his 35,000 Macedonian soldiers could combat 250,000 Persians; indeed, as the exhibition continued, Alexander’s doubts assumed an increasingly dark and perplexing form...on a whim he would act with or without mercy – command life or death without reason. But for the army of men that followed him, the words of the priest at Siwa had produced a singular effect: Alexander was no longer “of God”, Alexander, was a God; and it was a God that 35,000 highly trained killers now obeyed without question.

 A thousand kings, satraps and senior commanders swelled the court over which the great king Darius held sway. Most were confident – eager to avenge the defeats visited upon them earlier in the campaign by this young Macedonian pretender; others, were more wary...the brilliance – genius even, that this young Alexander had shown upon the field of battle, had been wholly unexpected and had blunted their appetite for further conflict.

     “Soldiers...” the great king began – sensing the schism within the assembly “yes! We have tasted defeat; yes! We have lost territory; yes! We have all lost loved ones. But those battles, in which we allowed Alexander to choose his ground – to deploy his troops to their advantage and our disadvantage; those battles, in which we were able to deploy only a small fraction of our forces, will, I promise you; be as nothing compared to that which is coming. For I have dreamed and been advised by the Gods...” he eyed them with a mock solemnity, considering his timing – judging the moment

     “Here! My soldiers...that is where we will defeat this Alexander...” and he snapped an 18” piece of slender bamboo, smartly, against a spot indicated upon the papyrus map, as an immense barren plain - flat and devoid of feature: a veritable wasteland

     “Here! Is where we will deal the death blow to this Macedonian invasion; I promise you that upon this plain, you will see a Persian army the like of which the world has never seen before – an army more numerous than the blades of grass that grow upon the most fertile of land. Here! I will assemble scythe chariots, cavalry and infantry. Here! At Gaugamela, I promise you; soldiers! Alexander, will be overwhelmed and destroyed.”

 In the days and weeks that followed Darius’s address, even the faintest Persian heart gained a stoicism founded upon a faith and belief in the God that was the architect of their great king’s strategy; for truly, the chosen field of battle was majestic, in that it would allow the massive Persian army to bring its full power to bear simultaneously, whilst denying to Alexander and his much smaller army, any measure of topographical advantage. The scene was set...the Gods had spoken.

 Those same days and weeks preceding the encounter, which for Darius and his Persian hordes heralded a growing enthusiasm to march to Guagamela and inflict a crushing victory upon their nemesis, had, for Alexander, been punctuated by vicious and mindless outrages, horrifically violent perpetrations and acts of aggression, such that, some senior officers within the Macedonian elite were beginning to question the prudence of making any further incursion into Persian territory. Surely, some argued, Macedonian honour had been amply restored – was there a need to press ever onward – to risk everything that had been achieved. Perhaps, some ventured, there were limits to what even a God might achieve...a perspective which gained greater support as the Persian plan began to unfold

     “It’s obvious, Alexander; he’s leading us by the nose to Gaugamela...can’t you see? What chance will we have on a plain such as that? None! My scouts inform me that the Persians are flattening, smoothing and levelling the ground; Alexander! I beg you, turn back...recruit more soldiers...to continue against these odds – to walk into what is obviously a trap, is madness. I beg...”

     “Enough! Thank you Parmenion for the candour of your advice...we are yet three days march from Gaugamela...there is still time”

     “Time, Alexander? Time for...”

     “...time! Thank you”

 Alexander sat slumped at a make-shift wooden table, which had been haphazardly loaded with a myriad papers of next to no consequence. A weak and frigid breeze attempted egress at his tent's canopied entrance, but it simply teased the guy-ropes before dissipating. His once stoic heart, brimming with conquering zeal, revenge and ambition, had been drained and left empty by his scout's now daily reports of Persian troop concentrations upon the plain of Gaugamela - the thousands upon thousands of new arrivals made his own force appear increasingly insignificant. Looking up unexpectedly, he caught sight of a papyrus script fluttering on the last breath of a faltering and retreating breeze: 29th September 331BC. He'd been on the cusp of actioning an idea that had occurred to him some weeks previously, but he'd valiantly resisted it...but now, at the last, the king's courage failed him

     "Brutus..."

     "My king?"

     "What I command you to do now, must remain between the two of us. Do you understand?"

     "At your service my king"

     "Make your way by stealth to the court of Darius...let none here, know of your departure. Deliver to him, this message..."

He handed a sealed parchment, bearing the Macedonian royal seal, to the servant: Brutus

     "Go!"

      "Your majesty, we caught this wretch attempting to steal through our lines...he bears a communication, which he says is from the Macedonian king: Alexander"

Darius halted mid-sentence, his dialogue with a small assemblage of satraps, and eyed the captain-of-guard with not a little curiosity

     "It is sealed?"

     "Yes majesty..." returned the soldier. Darius beckoned forward the soldier, and took possession of the communication, which he broke open, and, struggling to fully apprehend the contents of that which was written therein, allowed his eyes to revisit the script - his heart devouring the contents. Darius hesitated...the merest trace of a smile playing upon his lips

     "Alexander, asks for terms" he mouthed with sufficiency to reach the ear of those within intimate proximity of him

     "What of this one majesty?" ventured the soldier, as he pushed forward the deformed man-servant

     "Should I send his head as our Persian reply?"

     "No! Take him to quarters, and provide him with food and drink. I will draft a response for return to his master"

     "Yes majesty..."

The great king beckoned to a scribe, and bid him write:

 "Alexander. Too long coming has been, this, our moment of meeting, such that I am powerless to delay further. You have waged a costly and unrighteous war against my land and my subjects, so that now, I bid you, come to the plain of Gaugamela on the 1st of October so that the meeting between Darius and Alexander will echo throughout time"

 Alexander received the script from Brutus, and immediately breaking the seal: read.

     "Leave me..." issued the Macedonian king. Brutus withdrew and secured the tent's draw-chords to deny unwanted access to the king. Alexander, furiously clenched the papyrus script into his tight fist and cast it into the flames of a small fire - his fate sealed. He grasped a reed jar by the handle, and poured undiluted red wine greedily down his gullet. The jar emptied, he tottered to a cot in the corner of his tent - a cot that had been abandoned for several days, collapsed onto it and fell into a deep, deep sleep; in this deep inebriated sleep, there came then upon him, a dream:

     "Alexander, the pieces are now in place...the Persian king has summoned you to attend him at Gaugamela, and it is your destiny that you accede to his request. Take heart Alexander and banish fear from your breast...the Persians are indeed many, but Darius is blinded to the will of God. This is what you must do..."