The Edge of the World

Alexander III of Macedon, King of Kings

You are Alexander, son of Philip, conqueror of the Persian Empire, pharaoh of Egypt, lord of Babylon. In eight years you have never lost a battle. You have crossed deserts, scaled the Rock of Aornus, and defeated King Porus and his war elephants at the Hydaspes. You believe you are descended from Achilles and Heracles. Some say you are a god. But the monsoon rains have broken something in your army. Men who followed you across the world now weep openly and refuse to march further. Yesterday, Coenus — your most respected veteran general — stood before the assembly and spoke against you. The army cheered him. You retreated to your tent in rage and have not emerged for two days, waiting for them to relent. They have not.

The eastern bank of the Hyphasis River in the Punjab region of India. Monsoon rains have swollen the river to a churning brown torrent. The Macedonian camp stretches for miles along the western bank — a city of tents, siege equipment, and exhausted men who have marched over 11,000 miles from home. Beyond the river lies the Nanda Empire, rumored to field 200,000 soldiers and 6,000 war elephants. The air is thick with humidity, disease, and mutinous whispers.