'Yes,' said Alexander. 'I ought to see Peithon first. He put out his shield to cover me when two of them were at me, and that man with the forked beard caught him under it. But for you he'd have been killed outright.' He took off his helmet (they were both armed, at short notice, from the common stock of the Pella armoury) and ran his hand through his damp hair.

'You ought to have waited, before you dashed in alone, to see if we'd come up with you. You know you run faster than anyone else. I could have killed you for it, when we were milling in the doorway.'

'They were going to drop that rock there, look at the size of it. I knew you weren't far off.'

Hephaistion was feeling the reaction, not only to his fears for Alexander, but to all he had seen and done.

'Rock or no rock, you'd have gone in. It was written all over you. It's only luck you're alive.'

'It was the help of Herakles,' said Alexander calmly. 'And hitting them quickly, before they could hit me.'

He had found this easier than he had foreseen. The best he had hoped from his constant weapon-practice had been some lessening of disadvantage, against seasoned men. Hephaistion, reading his thought, said, 'These Thracians are peasants. They fight two or three times a year, in a cattle-raid or a brawl. Most of them are stupid, none of them are trained. Real soldiers, like your father's men, would have cut you down before you were well inside.'

'Wait till they do it,' said Alexander sharply, 'and tell me about it then.'

'You went in without me. You didn't even look.'

Suddenly transformed, Alexander gave him a loving smile.

'What's the matter with you? Patroklos reproached Achilles for not fighting.'

'He was listened to,' said Hephaistion in a different voice.

From below in the fort, the wail of a woman keening rhythmically over some dead man broke off in a shriek of terror.

'He should call the men in,' Alexander said. 'It's enough. I know there was nothing else worth taking, but '.

They looked along the wall; but Philip had gone off on some other business.

'Alexander. Listen. It's no use to be angry. When you're a general, you'll not be able to expose yourself like that. The King's a brave man, but he doesn't do it. If you'd been killed, it would have been like a battle won for Kersobleptes. And later, when you're King...'

Alexander turned round, and riveted on him that gaze of peculiar intensity with which he told a secret.

Dropping his voice, a needless caution in so much noise, he said, 'I can never not do it. I know it, I've felt it, it's the truth of the god. It's then that I '

A sound of panting breath, catching in shrill sobs, broke in on them. A young Thracian woman rushed in from the ramparts and, without looking right or left, dashed towards the wide parapet above the gate. It was some thirty feet from the ground. As she got her knee on the sill, Alexander jumped after and grasped her arm. She screamed, and clawed at him with her free hand, till Hephaistion caught it back.

She stared into Alexander's face with the fixity of a cornered animal, writhed suddenly free, crouched down and clutched his knees.

'Get up, we won't harm you.' Alexander's Thracian had been improved by his talks with Lambaros.

'Don't fear, get up. Let go'

The woman gripped harder, pouring out a stream of half-smothered words as she pressed her face with its running eyes and nose against his bare leg.

'Get up,' he said again. 'We won't...' He had never learned the essential word. Hephaistion supplied a gesture of universal meaning, followed by a strongly negative sign.

The woman let go and sat back on her heels, rocking and wailing. She had red matted hair, and a dress of some coarse raw wool, torn at the shoulder. The front was splashed with blood; there were damp patches of leaked milk over the heavy breasts. She wrenched at her hair, and began to wail again.

Suddenly she started, leaped to her feet, and flattened herself against the wall behind them. Footsteps approached; a thick breathless voice called, 'I saw you, you bitch. Come here. I saw you.' Kassandros entered. His face was crimson, his freckled brow beaded with sweat. He charged blindly in, and stopped dead.

The girl, shouting out curses, entreaties, and the incomprehensible tale of her wrongs, ran up behind Alexander and grabbed his waist, holding him like a shield. Her hot breath was in his ear; her wet softness seemed to seep even through his corselet; he was half stifled with the rank female smell of dirty flesh and hair, blood, milk and sex. Pushing her arms away, he gazed at Kassandros with mystified repugnance.

'She's mine,' panted Kassandros, with an urgency hardly capable of words. 'You don't want her. She's mine.'

Alexander said, 'No. She's a suppliant, I've pledged her.'

'She's mine.' He spoke as if the word must produce effect, staring across at the woman. Alexander looked him over, pausing at the linen kilt below his corselet. In a withdrawn distaste he said, 'No.'

'I caught her once,' Kassandros insisted. 'But she got away.' His face was ploughed down one side with scratches.

'So you lost her. I found her. Go away yourself.'

Kassandros had not quite forgotten his father's warnings. He kept his voice down. 'You can't interfere here. You're a boy. You know nothing about it.'

'Don't dare call him a boy!' said Hephaistion furiously. 'He fought better than you did. Ask the men.'

Kassandros, who had blundered and hacked his way through the complex obstacles of battle, confused, harassed, and intermittently scared, recalled with hatred the enraptured presence cleaving the chaos, as lucid as a point of flame. The woman, supposing all this to be concerned with her, began to pour out another flood of Thracian. Above it Kassandros shouted, 'He was looked after! Whatever fool thing he did, they were bound to follow him! He's the King's son. Or so they say.'

Stupid with anger, and looking at Hephaistion, he was an instant too late for Alexander, whose standing leap at his throat took him off balance and hurled him to the rugged floor. He threshed and flailed; Alexander, intent on choking him, took kicks and blows with indifference. Hephaistion hovered, not daring to help without leave. Something rushed past him from behind. It was the woman, whom they had all forgotten. She had snatched up a three-legged stool; missing Alexander by an inch, she brought it down in a side-sweep on Kassandros' head. Alexander rolled out of the way; with a frenzied rage she began to beat Kassandros over the body, slamming him back whenever he tried to rise; taking both hands to it, as if she were threshing corn.

Hephaistion, who was becoming over-wrought, burst out laughing. Alexander, regaining his feet, stood looking down, stone cold. It was Hephaistion who said, 'We must stop her. She'll finish him off.'

Without moving, Alexander answered, 'Someone killed her child. That's its blood on her.'

Kassandros had begun to roar with pain. 'If he dies,' said Hephaistion, 'she'll be stoned. The King couldn't refuse. You pledged her.'

'Stop!' said Alexander in Thracian. Between them they got the stool away. She burst into wild weeping, while Kassandros rolled about on the cobbled floor.

'He's alive,' said Alexander, turning away. 'Let's find someone reliable, and get her out of the fort.'

A little later, rumours reached King Philip that his son had thrashed Antipatros' son in a fight over a woman. He said offhandedly, 'Boys will be men, it seems.' The note of pride was too clear for anyone to risk taking it further.

Hephaistion, walking back with Alexander, said grinning, 'He can hardly complain to Antipatros that you stood by and let a woman beat him.'

'He can complain where he likes,' said Alexander. 'If he likes.' They had turned into the gate. A sound of groaning came from a house within the wall. Here on makeshift bedding the wounded lay; the doctor and his two servants were going to and fro. Hephaistion said, 'Let him see properly to your arm.' It had started to bleed again, after the brawl in the gatehouse.

'There's Peithon,' Alexander said, peering into the gloom with its buzzing flies. 'I must thank him first.'

He picked his way between mats and blankets, by the light from holes in the roof. Peithon, a youngish man who in battle had looked stem and Homeric, lay with his bandage seeping, limp with loss of blood.

His pale face was pinched, his eyes shifted anxiously. Alexander knelt by him and clasped his hand; presently, as his exploits were recalled to him, his colour livened a little, he bragged, and essayed a joke.

When Alexander got up, his eyes had grown used to the shadows. He saw they were all looking at him, jealous, despondent, hopeful; feeling their pain, and wanting their contribution recognized. In the end, before he left, he had spoken to every one of them.

It was the hardest winter old men remembered. Wolves came down to the villages and took the watch-dogs. Cattle and herd-boys died of cold on the low slopes of the winter grazing. The limbs of fir-trees cracked under their weight of snow; the mountains were blanketed so thick that only great cliffs and clefts in them still showed dark. Alexander did not refuse the fur cloak his mother sent him. Taking a fox among the stark black tangle of the rose-thorns near Mieza, they found that its pelt was white.

Aristotle was very pleased with it.

The house was pungent and smoky with its braziers; nights were so bitter that the young men doubled up together, only for warmth. Alexander was anxious to keep well hardened (the King was still in Thrace, where winter blew down straight from the Scythian steppes). He thought he should get through the cold spell without such coddling; but gave way to Hephaistion's view that people might suppose they had quarrelled.

Ships were lost at sea, or land-bound. Even from as near as Pella, the roads were sometimes snowed up.

When the mule-train got through, it was like a feast-day.

'Roast duck for supper,' said Philotas.

Alexander smelled the air and nodded. 'Something's wrong with Aristotle.'

'Has he gone to bed?'

'No, it's bad news. I saw him in the specimen-room.' Alexander went there often; he was now apt to set up his own experiments. 'My mother sent me some mitts; I don't need two pairs, and no one sends him presents. He was there with a letter. He looked dreadful; like a tragic mask.'

'I daresay some other sophist has contradicted him.'

Alexander held his peace, and went off to tell Hephaistion.

'I asked him what the trouble was, if I could help. He said no, he'd tell us about it when he was more composed; and that womanishness would be unworthy of a noble friend. So I went off, to let him weep.'

At Mieza, the winter sun went down quickly behind the mountain, while the eastward heights of Chalkidike still caught its light. Around the house, the dusk was whitened by the snow. It was not yet time to eat; in the big living-room with its peeling frescoes of blue and rose, the young men hung round the fire-basket on the hearth, talking about horses, women or themselves. Alexander and Hephaistion, sharing the wolfskin cloak sent by Olympias, sat near the window because the lamps were not yet lit.

They were reading Xenophon's The Upbringing of Kyros, which, next to Homer, was just then Alexander's favourite book.

'And she could not hide her tears,' read Hephaistion, 'falling down her robe to her feet. Then the eldest man of us said, "Don't be afraid, Lady. We know your husband was noble. But we arc choosing you out for one who is not below him in beauty, or mind, or power. We believe that if any man is admirable, it is Kyros; and to him you will belong." When the lady heard this, she rent her peplos from top to bottom crying aloud, while her servants wept with her; and we then had a sight of her face, her neck and arms.

And let me tell you, Kyros, it seemed to me and all of us that there was never so beautiful a woman of mortal birth in Asia. But you must be sure to see her for yourself.

'"No, by God," said Kyros. "Especially if she is as lovely as you say."

'They keep asking me,' said Hephaistion looking up, 'why Kassandros doesn't come back.'

'I told Aristotle he fell in love with war and forsook philosophy. I don't know what he told his father. He couldn't have come back with us; she broke two of his ribs.' He pulled another roll out of the cloak. 'This part I like. "Bear in mind that the same, toils do not bear equally on the general and the common soldier, though their bodies are of the same kind; but the honour of the general's rank, and his knowing that nothing he does will go unnoticed, make his hardships lighter to endure." How true that is. One can't bear it in mind enough.'

'Can the real Kyros have been quite so much like Xenophon?'

'The Persian exiles used to say he was a great warrior and a noble king.'

Hephaistion peered into a roll. 'He trained his companions not to spit or blow their noses in public, not to turn round and stare...'

'Well, the Persians were rough hill-people in his day. They must have seemed to the Medes like, say, Kleitos would to an Athenian.... I like it that when his cooks served him something good, he sent pieces round to his friends.'

'I wish it were supper-time. I'm clemmed.'

Alexander edged more of the cloak around him, remembering that at night he was always drawing close because of the cold. 'I hope Aristotle will come down. It must be icy upstairs. He ought to have some food.'

A slave came in with a hand-lamp and tinder-stick, and kindled the tall standing lamps, then reached his flame to the hanging lamp-cluster. The raw young Thracian he was training closed up the shutters, and gingerly pulled the thick wool curtains across.

'A ruler,' read Alexander, 'should not only be truly a better man than those he rules. He should cast a kind of spell on them...'

There were footsteps on the stairs, which paused till the slaves had gone. Into the evening snugness, Aristotle came down like a walking corpse. His eyes were sunken; the closed mouth seemed to show beneath it the rigid grin of the skull.

Alexander threw off the cloak, scattering the scrolls, and crossed the room to him. 'Come to the fire.

Bring a chair, someone. Come and get warm. Please tell us the trouble. Who is dead?'

'My guest-friend, Hermeias of Atarneus.' Given a question of fact to answer, he could bring out the words. Alexander shouted in the doorway for some wine to be mulled. They all crowded round the man, grown suddenly old, who sat staring into the fire. For a moment he stretched his hands to warm them; then, as if even this stirred some thought of horror, drew them back into his lap.

'It was Mentor the Rhodian, King Ochos' general,' he began, and paused again. Alexander said to the others, 'That's Memnon's brother, who reconquered Egypt.'

'He has served his master well.' The voice too had thinned and aged. 'Barbarians are born so; they did not make their own base condition. But a Hellene who sinks to serve them... Herakleitos says, The best corrupted is the worst. He has betrayed nature itself. So he sinks even below his masters.'

His face looked yellow; those nearer saw his tremor. To give him time, Alexander said, 'We never liked Memnon, did we, Ptolemy?'

'Hermeias brought justice and a better life to the lands he ruled. King Ochos coveted his lands, and hated his example. Some enemy, I suspect Mentor himself, carried to the King tales he gladly believed. Then Mentor, pretending a friend's concern, warned Hermeias of danger, and invited him to come and take counsel on it. He went, believing; in his own walled city he could have held out a long time, and was in reach of help from... a powerful ally, with whom he had agreements.'

Hephaistion looked at Alexander; but he was fixed in entire attention.

'As a guest-friend he came to Mentor; who sent him in fetters, to the Great King.'

The young men made sounds of outrage, but briefly, being eager to learn what next.

'Mentor took his seal and fixed it to forged orders, which opened all the strongpoints of Atarneus to Mentor's men. King Ochos now owns them, and all the Greeks within them. As for Hermeias...'

A brand fell out of the hearth; Harpalos picked up the fire-iron and shoved it back. Aristotle wetted his lips with his tongue. His folded hands did not move, but their knuckles whitened.

'From the first his death had been determined; but that was not enough for them. King Ochos wished first to know what secret treaties he might have made with other rulers. So he sent for the men whose skill it is to do such things, and told them to make him speak. It is said they worked on him a day and a night.'

He went on to tell them what had been done; forcing his voice, when he could, into the tone of his lectures on anatomy. The young men listened wordless; their breath hissed as they sucked it in through their shut teeth.

'My pupil Kallimachos, whom you know, sent me the news from Athens. He says that when Demosthenes announced to the Assembly that Hermeias had been taken, he numbered it among the gifts of fortune, saying, "The Great King will now hear of King Philip's plots, not as a complaint from us, but from the lips of the man who worked them." He knows, none better, how such things are done in Persia.

But he rejoiced too soon. Hermeias told them nothing. At the end, when after all they could do he was still alive, they hung him on a cross. He said to those in hearing, "Tell my friends I have done nothing weak, nor unworthy of philosophy.'"

There was a deep-voiced murmuring. Alexander stood rooted and still. Presently, when no one else spoke, he said, 'I am sorry. Indeed I am truly sorry.' He came forward, put his arm around Aristotle's shoulders and kissed his cheek. He stared on into the fire.

A servant brought the warmed wine; he sipped it, shook his head, and put it aside. Suddenly he sat up, and turned towards them. In the upward glow of the fire, the lines of his face looked as if carved in clay, ready for casting in the bronze.

'Some of you will command in war. Some of you will have the ruling of lands you conquer. Always remember this: as the body is worth nothing without the mind to rule it, as its function is to labour that the mind may live, such is the barbarian in the natural order God ordained. Such peoples may be bettered, as horses are, by being tamed and put to use; like plants or animals, they can serve purposes beyond what their own natures can conceive. That is their value. They are the stuff of slaves. Nothing exists without its function; that is theirs. Remember it.'

He stood up from the chair, giving as he turned a haunted look at the fire-basket, whose bands were reddening. Alexander said, 'If I ever take the men who did this to your friend, the Persians or the Greek, I swear I will avenge him.'

Without looking back, Aristotle walked to the dark staircase and went up it out of their sight.

The steward came in, to announce that supper was ready.

Talking loudly of the news, the young men made for the dining-room; there was not much formality at Mieza. Alexander and Hephaistion lingered, exchanging looks. 'So,' said Hephaistion, 'he did arrange the treaty.'

'My father and he caused this between them. What must he feel?'