The House of Death

by Paul Doherty

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Mysteries; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

As Alexander the Great sits with his troops poised to attack, his guides are murdered. Can he uncover the spies in time? The House of Death is the first mystery in the magnificent Ancient Greece series featuring Alexander the Great and his physician Telamon, by master historian Paul Doherty. Perfect for fans of Gary Corby and Margaret Doody. 'Paul Doherty has created a vivid, credible picture of life in the Persian and Macedonian courts on the eve of Alexander's conquests' - The Times It is 334 BC and the young Alexander sits with his troops by the Hellespont, poised to attack the empire of the great King Darius III. To win the approval of the gods for his enterprise he makes many offerings, yet the smoke does not rise, the sacrificial animals are flawed. Worse, his guides are being brutally murdered, Persian spies are in the camp, and Alexander's generals have their own secrets. Into this turmoil comes Telamon, a physician and boyhood friend of Alexander. As the climax builds and Alexander throws off his nervous fears, winning a brilliant and bloody triumph over the Persians, Telamon must at last succeed in unmasking their enemies... What readers are saying about The House of Death : ' A book to fall in love with ' 'Paul Doherty at his very best! Very well researched - a joy to read ' 'Found myself totally engrossed in the book; I could not put it down till I got to the very last page'

Release date: June 6, 2013

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 288

Sample

Mathilde of Westminster

THE CUP OF GHOSTS

THE POISON MAIDEN

THE DARKENING GLASS

Sir Roger Shallot

THE WHITE ROSE MURDERS

THE POISONED CHALICE

THE GRAIL MURDERS

A BROOD OF VIPERS

THE GALLOWS MURDERS

THE RELIC MURDERS

Templar

THE TEMPLAR

THE TEMPLAR MAGICIAN

Mahu (The Akhenaten trilogy)

AN EVIL SPIRIT OUT OF THE WEST

THE SEASON OF THE HYAENA

THE YEAR OF THE COBRA

Canterbury Tales by Night

AN ANCIENT EVIL

A TAPESTRY OF MURDERS

A TOURNAMENT OF MURDERS

GHOSTLY MURDERS

THE HANGMAN’S HYMN

A HAUNT OF MURDER

Egyptian Mysteries

THE MASK OF RA

THE HORUS KILLINGS

THE ANUBIS SLAYINGS

THE SLAYERS OF SETH

THE ASSASSINS OF ISIS

THE POISONER OF PTAH

THE SPIES OF SOBECK

Constantine the Great

DOMINA

MURDER IMPERIAL

THE SONG OF THE GLADIATOR

THE QUEEN OF THE NIGHT

MURDER’S IMMORTAL MASK

Hugh Corbett

SATAN IN ST MARY’S

THE CROWN IN DARKNESS

SPY IN CHANCERY

THE ANGEL OF DEATH

THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS

MURDER WEARS A COWL

THE ASSASSIN IN THE GREENWOOD

THE SONG OF A DARK ANGEL

SATAN’S FIRE

THE DEVIL’S HUNT

THE DEMON ARCHER

THE TREASON OF THE GHOSTS

CORPSE CANDLE

THE MAGICIAN’S DEATH

THE WAXMAN MURDERS

NIGHTSHADE

THE MYSTERIUM

Standalone Titles

THE ROSE DEMON

THE HAUNTING

THE SOUL SLAYER

THE PLAGUE LORD

THE DEATH OF A KING

PRINCE DRAKULYA

THE LORD COUNT DRAKULYA

THE FATE OF PRINCES

DOVE AMONGST THE HAWKS

THE MASKED MAN

As Vanessa Alexander

THE LOVE KNOT

OF LOVE AND WAR

THE LOVING CUP

Kathryn Swinbrooke (as C L Grace)

SHRINE OF MURDERS

EYE OF GOD

MERCHANT OF DEATH

BOOK OF SHADOWS

SAINTLY MURDERS

MAZE OF MURDERS

FEAST OF POISONS

Nicholas Segalla (as Ann Dukthas)

A TIME FOR THE DEATH OF A KING

THE PRINCE LOST TO TIME

THE TIME OF MURDER AT MAYERLING

IN THE TIME OF THE POISONED QUEEN

Mysteries of Alexander the Great (as Anna Apostolou)

A MURDER IN MACEDON

A MURDER IN THEBES

Alexander the Great

THE HOUSE OF DEATH

THE GODLESS MAN

THE GATES OF HELL

Matthew Jankyn (as P C Doherty)

THE WHYTE HARTE

THE SERPENT AMONGST THE LILIES

Non-fiction

THE MYSTERIOUS DEATH OF TUTANKHAMUN

ISABELLA AND THE STRANGE DEATH OF EDWARD II

ALEXANDER THE GREAT: THE DEATH OF A GOD

THE GREAT CROWN JEWELS ROBBERY OF 1303

THE SECRET LIFE OF ELIZABETH I

THE DEATH OF THE RED KING

The House of Macedon

PHILIP King of Macedon until his assassination in 336 BC. Father of Alexander

OLYMPIAS OF MOLOSSUS (Born Myrtale). Philip’s queen, Alexander’s mother. Co-regent of Macedon during Alexander’s conquest of Persia

ALEXANDER Son of Philip and Olympias

EURYDICE Philip’s wife after he divorced Olympias. She was niece of Philip’s favourite general, Attalus. Eurydice, her baby son and Attalus were all executed after Philip’s death.

ARRIDHAEUS Philip’s son by one of his concubines, poisoned by Olympias. He survived but remained brain damaged for the rest of his life.

The Court of Macedon

BLACK CLEITUS Brother to Alexander’s nurse. Alexander’s personal bodyguard

HEPHAESTION Alexander’s boon companion

ARISTANDER Court necromancer, adviser to Alexander

ARISTOTLE Alexander’s tutor in the Groves of Mieza; Greek Philosopher

SOCRATES Athenian Philosopher. Found guilty of “impiety”, forced to drink poison.

PAUSANIAS PHILIP OF MACEDON S ASSASSIN

Alexander’s Generals

PARMENIO, PTOLEMY, SELEUCUS, AMYNTAS, ANTIPATER (left as co-regent in Macedon), nearchus

The Court of Persia

DARIUS III King of Kings

ARSITES Satrap of Phrygia. Persian commander-in-chief at the Granicus

MITHRIDATES AND NIPHRATES Persian commanders

MEMNON OF RHODES A Greek mercenary in the pay of Persia, one of the few generals to defeat Macedonian troops.

CYRUS AND XERXES Former great emperors of Persia

The Writers

AESCHYLUS, ARISTOPHANES, EURIPIDES, SOPHOCLES Greek playwrights

HOMER Reputed author of the two great poems the Iliad and the Odyssey

DEMOSTHENES Athenian demagogue, ardent opponent of Alexander

HIPPOCRATES OF COS Greek physician and writer, regarded as the father of medicine.

The Mythology of Greece

ZEUS Father god

HERA His wife

APOLLO God of light

ARTEMIS Goddess of the hunt

ATHENA Goddess of war

HERCULES Greek man-god. One of Alexander’s reputed ancestors

AESCULAPIUS Man-God; a great healer

OEDIPUS Tragic hero king of Thebes

DIONYSIUS God of wine

EYNALIUS Ancient Macedonian god of war

The Trojan War

PRIAM King of Troy

HECTOR Priam’s son and Troy’s great general

PARIS Hector’s brother whose abduction of the fair-faced Helen led to the Trojan War.

AGAMEMNON Leader of the Greeks in the Trojan War

ACHILLES Greek hero and warrior in the Trojan War, the slayer of Hector. He was eventually killed by an arrow fired by Paris. Alexander regarded him as a direct ancestor.

PATROCLUS Achilles’ lover, his death in the Trojan War led to Achilles’ homicidal rage.

ULYSSES King of Ithaca: he fought against Troy and his journey home became the subject of Homer’s poem.

AJAX Greek commander in the Trojan War: his violation of the priestess and prophetess, Cassandra, led to his own death.



“Darius became King before the death of Philip . . . but when Philip died, Darius was relieved of his anxiety and despised the youth of Alexander.”

Diodorus Siculus, Library of History,Book 17, Chapter 7

Once it was a lonely plain, shrouded in silence, fringed by mountains and covered in leafy fields and mist-ringed fir trees. A place where the dust devils blew in summer, the lair of the wildcat and savage wolf. Cyrus the Great had changed all this. It had become the sanctuary of the Holy Fire, the Treasury of Heaven, the Shrine and Glory of Ahura-Mazda, the god of light, the Lord of the Hidden Flame, of the Sun Disc, the Ever-Seeing Eye, borne aloft on the wings of eagles. Persepolis, the house of god’s representative on earth, Darius III; King of Kings, Lord of Lords, the owner of men’s necks. A city which lay like the hub of a great wheel, the centre of empire, Persepolis stood on artificial, well-watered terraces between the Mountain of Mercy and the River Araxes. The mud-caked walls of its palaces rose over twenty yards high and were glazed with gold. Its porches and entrances boasted columns of marble and precious wood to support roofs of Lebanon cedar.

At the heart of the royal palace, surrounded by three huge walls and defended by bronze-plated gates flanked by flagstaffs, lay the Apanda, the House of Adoration in the Hall of Columns. This holy of holies was guarded by the immortals, the personal bodyguard of the King of Kings, garbed in bronze-studded cuirasses over kilts of red cloth and striped leggings: on their heads, soft caps with thick cheek guards; these could be pulled round and wrapped across the mouth and nose to protect the wearer when he marched and ate the dust of his Lord of Lords. The immortals stood in silent array in porticoes, along colonnaded walks, in courtyards and paradises. Immobile as statues, in their hands were rounded shields and long spears, counterweighted by golden apples from which they earned their nickname, the “Imperial Apple Bearers”.

Dusk had fallen. The Persian court, its officers and chamberlains, the Imperial Fan Bearer and Fly Swatter, the Medes and Magi, all knew that, tonight, their Lord of Lords would show his face: he had agreed to grant an audience to his favourite, the renegade Greek, General Memnon of Rhodes. They had whispered about it all day. They’d gathered in chambers to savour the news. Others, more wary of their master’s legion of spies, met in the sweet-smelling groves of the fertile paradises, those elegant gardens where every flower and shrub of the empire, flourished in black fertile soil especially imported from Canaan. These whisperers all agreed on one thing: the King of Kings was troubled. A dark shadow had emerged on the edge of his empire. The news was on everyone’s lips: Alexander of Macedon was coming! Alexander, son of Philip the Tyrant and Olympias the Witch Queen. Alexander, whom Demosthenes of Athens had dismissed as a “stripling”, “a mere booby”. Alexander seemed to have all the power of the underworld supporting him. He had clawed his way to the top, crushed conspirators, crucified rebels, and extended his sway over those wild tribes Darius had bribed so heavily to ravage Macedon’s borders. Now these same barbarians had bent their heads, taken the bread and salt and swore great oaths of loyalty to Alexander of Macedon. Everyone thought he’d perished in the sombre, icy forests of Thessaly but he had loped back like some ravenous wolf and torn apart his enemies. Athens was crushed. Its leading citizens, whom the King of Kings had supported with golden darics, hid out in desert places or skulked like beaten dogs in whatever village would house them. Even Thebes, the city of Oedipus, was nothing more than a devastated ruin, a place of blood where the scavengers hunted and swarms of black flies buzzed around unburied corpses.

Now Alexander of Macedon had turned his eyes east. Captain-General of Greece, he had sworn holy oaths to wage eternal war, with fire and sword, by land and sea, against the King of Kings. Already the spies had come galloping in. Alexander had left Pella. Alexander was marching east. Alexander was at the Hellespont, staring hungrily across its blue, fast-running waters to the glories of Persepolis. Some said that he marched at the head of a great army. More sensible people said this was only 30,000 or 40,000 men and, surely, the great King of Kings could defeat such a rabble. Darius’ harmony was certainly disturbed. He had tried to keep Macedon at bay with gold but now the wolf was sniffing outside his door. Darius had sent for Memnon of Rhodes, saying it takes a wolf to fight a wolf. Memnon had spent time as a hostage in the Macedonian court; he had studied the souls of Philip and his son; he had watched the Macedonian phalanx, with their short shields and long spears, shatter one Greek army after another. Memnon had eventually escaped from Macedon and now had the ear of the King of Kings. Memnon knew all about such wolves. He had fought courageously against Parmenio, the veteran Macedonian general sent across the Hellespont to establish a bridgehead.

On that particular night, however, waiting in the antechamber at the foot of the stairs leading to the Apanda, Memnon didn’t feel highly favoured. He stood with his mute servant Diodes and his Master of Horse, Lysias, and tapped his sandalled foot imperiously at the delay. The chamber was stiflingly hot, guarded by the “Apple Bearers” and thronged with courtiers and chamberlains – Medes, not Persians, in their brightly decorated robes and trousers, faces heavily coated with cosmetics, rings flashing at earlobes. They, too, caught this barbarian’s unease and moved resdessly about, their high-heeled boots tapping on the floor. Now and again they would stop and glance sly-eyed at Memnon. They did not like Greeks, whoever they were. In particular, Memnon, his bald head glistening with oil, that craggy face, weatherbeaten and suntanned, his squat nose slightly broken and twisted, bloodless lips and darting, cruel eyes.

“Never trust a Greek” ran the Persian proverb. There were no exceptions!

“How long?” Memnon spoke in Greek, a hard, jarring sound. It disturbed the songbirds in their golden cages which hung on silver cords from the cedarwood beams.

“Be patient, my lord.”

Memnon’s companion, the Persian Prince Arsites, satrap of western Phrygia, smiled tactfully and bowed, raising his hand to cover his mouth as if scratching his well-oiled moustache and beard. If Arsites had his way, Memnon, that stupid-looking Diodes and the shifty-eyed Lysias, would be hurled into the crocodile pool; however, Memnon was highly favoured. He had been shown great honour when he had arrived the previous evening. Escorted through the shadowy, perfume-filled chamber of Darius’ harem, Memnon was proclaimed as “Friend of the King of Kings” and solemnly greeted by Darius’ women in their silks and precious cloths, bright as fireflies, necks, ankles and wrists shimmering with precious jewels. They had dipped plates into their sacks of gold and filled the chest a eunuch had carried beside Memnon. The Greek was to take this away, a token of the emperor’s friendship and pleasure. Memnon had also been shown the imperial treasury, the Red House, its walls and ceilings of blood-like stone, where tens and tens of thousands of talents of gold lay stowed away in chests, coffers and baskets.

Arsites turned his sallow face away and dabbed elegantly at the drop of sweat above the stiff-rimmed collar of his gown. Darius had been too gracious. The satrap played with the gold chain round his neck. He walked towards the wall as if interested in the carving of a Mede courtier sniffing at a lotus flower. Arsites recalled Darius’ words: “Show Memnon my favour. Show Memnon my power and, above all, show Memnon my terror.” Arsites lowered his head. He had done all three. He had taken Memnon out into the paradises, with their fountains and shadowy grottoes, to savour the cool shade of the tamarind, sycamore and terebinth trees, and enjoy the fragrance of the pomegranate, apple and cherry orchards. Suddenly, without warning, they had turned into the garden which lay just beneath the Apanda – a long lawn, though one not bordered by flowers or herbs, but by a row of crosses on which Darius crucified those who had incurred his displeasure. On this occasion, a unit of cavalry men, guilty of cowardice and treachery; each had been stripped, castrated and then crucified against the soaring wooden beams. A few had died immediately; others would linger for days. Oh yes, Memnon had been shown terror.

Arsites moved to the window. Lanterns and lamps had been lit in the gardens below. He relished the perfume of the flowers on the evening breeze, but he was at heart a soldier. He stood, all senses straining; he caught it: the iron tang of blood and the low moans of those who still survived.

“Will the Great King listen to my plan?”

Arsites sighed, glanced quickly at one of the chamberlains and shook his head slightly, secretly warning him not to reproach Memnon. After all, the Rhodian was a barbarian. He did not know the protocol and etiquette of the Divine One’s court: that silence was to be observed so one could prepare the heart and soul for the great favour soon to be shown.

“I do not know what is in my lord’s mind,” Arsites replied, walking back. “But, when he opens his heart to us, you shall see his wisdom.” Arsites’ gaze moved to Lysias. “And his justice!”

Memnon felt a prickle of unease. He had been out campaigning, collecting troops, hiring mercenaries. He had done well: thousands of hoplites under arms. Veterans of many a war, a well-trained war horde, yet there was something wrong. If only he could act on his own. Yet, everywhere he went, the King of Kings’ spies followed him. Memnon had listened to rumour and gossip. His Persian officers maintained traitors skulked in the Greek camp. Memnon refused to believe this. Now, however, waiting in this shadow-filled chamber, surrounded by silent guards and sly-eyed courtiers, was something wrong? Memnon knew he was disliked. He held favour with Darius for two reasons. First, he had proved his loyalty. Second, he had beaten the Macedonians. Yet Darius himself was a demon! Volatile and at times cruel in the extreme, he had fought his way to the imperial throne, slaying rivals before rounding on those who had helped him: slitting noses, gouging eyes, removing hands and feet. Darius hadn’t killed all of them. He’d allowed some of his victims to wander like doleful ghosts around the palace: a warning to all who might threaten the golden throne. Darius could be gentle and kind, even generous to a fault but, to keep this great empire in check, he would indulge in sudden flashes of terror, like lightning across a summer sky. May the gods help those whom Darius had marked down for destruction!

“He awaits!”

A chamberlain’s voice echoed through the room. Memnon breathed in deeply and wiped his sweaty hands on his white robe – obligatory dress for such an occasion. Arsites walked before him, the chamberlains behind. The immortals turned, a silent file on either side as they climbed the steep steps to the Hall of Audience. Memnon felt as if he was scaling Olympus, the sacred mountain, going up into the court of the gods. Hundreds of torches, fastened in the walls, spluttered and danced in the draught, bringing to life the dramatic friezes on the walls. The paintings depicted Darius and his ancestors in victorious battle against foreign enemies – even demons of the underworld, particularly the lion-headed griffin and savage sphinx. Memnon missed his footing and quietly cursed. He smelt the lotus blossom which strewed the sacred steps. He glanced to his left. Diodes’ face shimmered with sweat and the mute glanced quickly at his master with the furtive look of a hunted gazelle. Memnon forced a smile. He had two great loves: his wife Barsine and this body-servant who would give his life for him. Memnon stretched out his hand and lightly touched Diodes’ wrist, a gesture to remain calm. Lysias, on his right, kept his head down betraying no emotion except, now and again, by scratching at the well-cropped white beard or, more surreptitiously, removing a trickle of sweat from his brow.

“Great glory awaits us,” Memnon whispered. “Do not show your fear!”

They reached the top of the staircase. The bronze-plated doors were flung open and Memnon entered the Hall of Audience all ablaze with light. He remembered protocol. On the marble floor, just within the doorway, stretched a broad, blood-red carpet leading up to the hearth where the sacred flame leapt up from its log-based platform. This was the sacred fire of Ahura-Mazda, the god of the Persians. It was tended by priests and burnt continuously through the king’s life: it would only die when he did. The carpet was sacred, to be trodden only by Darius himself. Memnon and his group knelt by the side. Further down, beyond the sacred fire, under a silver and scarlet banner bearing the eagle’s wing and sun disc, sat Darius on his golden throne. He drank specially boiled water, ate barley cakes and sipped wine from a golden, egg-shaped cup, watched by officials and members of his family. The royal enclosure was now screened off by a thick white veil; in front of this stood three lines of immortals in gorgeous battle armour. Memnon waited. The air was sweetened by hundreds of flower baskets placed along the walls. From one of the adjoining passageways echoed the soft melodies of court musicians.

“Bow your heads!” a chamberlain’s voice thundered. “Look now! Darius, King of Kings, Lord of Lords, beloved of Ahura-Mazda the possessor of men’s necks!”

Memnon glanced up. The immortals had now disappeared. The white gauze veil had been pulled aside. Darius sat on his golden throne, in one hand a white wand of office, in the other a jewel-encrusted fly whisk. He was dressed in robes of silver and purple under a heavy cloak of gold embroidery; his ankles and throat shimmered with jewels which reflected the glare from the sacred flame. On the king’s head was a brimless top hat of purple and his feet, resting on a silver footstool, were sheathed in padded sandals of purple satin.

“Adore!” the chamberlain behind Memnon ordered.

Memnon bowed his head. Time passed slowly. The music stopped and Memnon heard the soft pad of slippers. From the paradise below came a cry of agony like that of an animal trapped in a thicket.

“You may approach!”

Memnon sighed and got to his feet. Darius had now dispensed with ceremony, given up the white wand and the fly whisk. The gold embroidered cloak had been removed. He now sat on a divan of cushions just beyond the sacred flame. Led by Arsites, Memnon and his two companions walked up, made their obeisance and sat on the cushions provided. A small table separated them from the king. On this stood three goblets of wine, bowls of fruit and strips of roast goose. Memnon’s throat was parched but, according to court etiquette, he would not eat until Darius gave the sign. The hall seemed empty; the immortals stayed in the shadows, in the window enclosures and the long passageways, ready to act at the slightest sign of danger to their master.

“My friend,” Darius’ voice was deep and throaty. “You may look upon my face.”

Memnon did so. Darius seemed at peace: his black, ringleted hair, moustache and beard were drenched in the most exquisite perfume; his olive-skinned face shimmered with oil. Memnon sighed in relief. At times Darius’ eyes could be slits of black obsidian – now they crinkled in welcome.

“My hawk, my falcon, my lion of Rhodes!” Darius smiled. “My courtiers may not like you, Memnon, but I love you as a brother.” Darius’ smile widened. This was the Greek who would defend his empire, drive back the Macedonian barbarian.

“My lord, why am I here?” Memnon asked in the tongue of his master.

“To gaze on my face. To see life. To receive honour.” Darius paused. “And my justice.”

Memnon caught his breath. Darius raised his hand.

“So he comes.” His gaze held Memnon’s. “Alexander of Macedon will cross the Hellespont. How many men will he bring?”

“Some people say as few as thirty thousand; others forty.”

Darius glanced at Arsites.

“You could swat him like a fly.”

“My lord,” Memnon interrupted. “I have seen the Macedonian phalanx. Think of a moving wall, a block or a wedge. Shields locked, the long sarissas coming down.”

“We have cavalry,” Arsites said.

“They will split themselves on the Macedonian spears,” Memnon retorted.

“Why?” Darius took a grape and held it between his forefinger and thumb. “Why can’t we squeeze and eat such a puny force?”

Memnon closed his eyes. He thought of the Macedonians: tough, hard, a moving wall of death, aiming for the centre while their cavalry poured into the enemy flanks like fire from heaven.

He opened his eyes. “My lord, you have to see it to believe it. They have a power and a cunning, a savage ferocity. Numbers mean little to them. Cunning and speed, power and strength do. Alexander is committed to total war. You have heard the rumours, my lord?”

Darius shook his head.

“Alexander is short of money. He has given away all his lands. One of his generals asked what did he have left? Alexander replied, ‘My dreams.’” Memnon couldn’t resist a smile at the courage of his young, would-be opponent.

“And?” Darius asked softly.

“‘What about the future?’ This same general asked. Alexander replied, ‘My hopes.’”

“How old is he?”

Memnon spread his hands. “Twenty, twenty-one summers.”

“And what does he look like, this Macedonian gnat who wants to sting my empire?”

Memnon recalled his own memories as well as news from his spies. “A small man who seems tall,” he replied slowly. “Alexander is thick-set with the body of an athlete. He walks with a slight limp.”

“His hair?”

Memnon tapped his own bald head and grinned. “Some say blond, the colour of wheat, curled and cropped round the nape of the neck and brow. Flatterers say he has golden skin. He is of ruddy complexion, pleasant and well proportioned. He does not have the snub nose of his father, though he has Philip’s laughing mouth.”

“And the eyes?”

Memnon gazed at Darius. “They always remark on his eyes, my lord, of different colour, one blue the other brown. Alexander possesses all the skill of an actor: a liquid glance, girlish they say, smiling, mocking but, when required, as hard as iron, as unyielding as the coldest marble. He tends to keep,” Memnon mimicked the gesture, “his head down, chin almost touching his chest. Sometimes he turns his head slightly sideways. When he talks to you, Alexander treats you as if you were the only person who mattered.”

“Remarkable,” Darius murmured. “And what other qualities does this so-called stripling have?”

“He is generous, brave, a superb horseman. He has an interest in all things, whether it be plants . . .”

“Or the writings of Aristotle?”

“Aristotle was his tutor,” Memnon agreed. “Alexander and his companions were educated by the Athenian fop in the groves of Mieza.”

“Ah!” Darius rocked backwards and forwards on his cushions, a far-away look in his eyes. “And how is the Lady Barsine?”

“As lovely as the night, my lord.”

Memnon felt a frisson of fear. Darius had still not invited him to eat or drink. Arsites seemed tense, head down, constantly stroking his oil-drenched beard as if he was either listening intently or distracted by something else.

“And as a general?” Darius’ voice was harsh. “This Alexander?”

“He has mercenaries, Thessalian light horse, but they are only chaff in the wind compared to his own troops.”

Memnon himself was distracted. In his mind’s eye he could see the massed ranks of the Macedonian phalanx: the long sarissas coming down, the tramp of sandalled feet, the battle paean, the thunder of cavalry.

“If they are the chaff,” Darius smirked, “what is the plant?”

“More like a harvest,” Memnon whispered. “A moving cornfield, my lord, but its stems are wood and cruel steel. Can you imagine?” Memnon held up his hand. “They hit their opponents in the flank or even head-on. The sarissa is some six yards long. It can pierce and penetrate before their enemy even engages.”

“You could use archers,” Arsites interrupted.

“The phalanx moves too fast, they could form a shield wall.”

“We could counter them,” Arsites declared.

From the paradise below a nightingale sang, clear lucid notes, an incongruous sound in this chilling hall, with its silent, brooding menace.

“The pikemen of Macedon are born and raised as warriors,” Memnon declared. “It’s not just the power of their arm but their speed, strength and confidence.”

“Show me their tactics.” Darius gestured, pointing to small sticks of incense on the banqueting table.

Memnon laid them along the table. “This is the enemy, my lord.” He smiled apologetically. “Or should I say our Macedonian opponents? Infantry in the centre, cavalry on the wings, yes? The danger posed by Macedon is threefold. First, the cavalry led by Alexander. He will base himself on the right wing. Second, in the centre, the foot brigades, divided into two: the shield-bearers and light infantry, very fast but deadly . . .”

“And, third, the pikemen?” Darius intervened.

“Alexander’s tactics are speed and movability,” Memnon continued. “H. . .