Poros had set a trap for Alexander! Alexander the invincible, too eager to finish off his rival, too impatient to claim victory, had offered himself to his enemy's archers! But it was too late to think. We surrounded the king and made a wall with our bodies. I waved my daggers to deflect the arrows, but in vain: they embedded themselves in my legs. A muffled cry made me shudder, and I turned to see that Alexander, who already had several arrows in him, had one right in the middle of his forehead. He fell from his horse. I slipped to the ground and dragged myself painfully toward him. Blood was spreading over his forehead, down his nose, and onto his pale cheeks. Blood spilled into my eyes, and something knocked me out.

When I came around, it was already night. The arrows had stopped whistling. Shadowy figures moved closer to us, cooing with joy in a language that sounded like strange night birds. We had been taken prisoner by Poros.

I woke in the dark to the boom-boom of drums, and realized straight away that my hands and feet were tied. A long time went by before I remembered what had happened: Alexander's body had been taken away; the surviving soldiers had been piled onto carts and taken to Poros's encampment, where we were searched from head to foot. The Indian soldiers cried in amazement when they discovered I was a woman. Their officer left. When he returned, he gave the order to carry me to a tent, where two women hauled out the arrows that had struck me, and I passed out with the pain.

I crawled to the side of the tent and put my eye up to a gap: I could see the soldiers guarding me and campfires blazing in the distance. The sound of singing and clapping reached me, and there were silhouettes dancing round the fires-Poros was celebrating his victory.

Where was Alexander? Where were the soldiers? Where was Alestria?

I woke again when dawn lit up the tent and shed light over my body, which was wrapped in Indian cloth. Some women came in and untied me, took off my bandages, and changed the foul damp mud applied to my wounds. They gave me some food, then tied me up. They came back toward the end of the day. A little later night fell, and in the distance, the celebrations began once more. I felt no fear and no regret. I was expecting torture, rape, and execu-tion-that is the fate reserved for the defeated. For a warrior there is no humiliation in this, it is the natural end to a fight.

Toward the middle of the next day some men burst into the tent, tipped me violently onto a carved wooden door, tied me to it, gagged me, and carried me out of the tent. Trees skimmed past me against the sky. I greeted passing birds, asking them to fly to my queen and my sisters, and tell them Ania would be joining the glorious souls of the warrior women.

There were four men carrying me on their shoulders, and they were joined by an escort of horsemen. Shouting and jeering started up, accompanied by slow, languid music. We passed foot soldiers, more horsemen, and then Poros on his golden chariot or-more likely-one of his look-alikes.

Some westerners on horseback loomed against the sky. They slipped to the ground and leaned over me. I recognized Hephaes-tion! The Indians put me down and withdrew, while the Macedonian soldiers untied me and took the gag from my mouth.

"Alexander!" I cried. "Where is Alexander?"

I leaped to my feet, but a sharp pain shot through me, and I fell back down.

"Alexander has gone home," Hephaestion replied.

His words chilled me to the bone: so Alexander was dead.

The soldiers helped me to a sedan chair. Alexander's troops greeted me as I passed before them. I could not help shedding tears when I spotted the royal tent adorned with gold and pearls gleaming at the far end of an avenue guarded by soldiers. Four Amazons took over my chair, lifted the door of the tent, and set me down inside.

Alestria was standing, while Alexander, stretched out on a wooden door like mine, still had the arrow that had brought him down in his forehead.

"Alexander is not dead. You, Ania, have come back to me! I am the happiest woman in the world," the queen told me, smiling, as tears welled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks and onto her husband's arm.

Poros knew that if he killed Alexander, the Macedonians and Persians would come back to avenge their king's death. He also knew that the arrow that had struck Alexander's forehead was fatal.

Alexander was still alive, but he was condemned to die.

Poros had proposed peace to the Macedonians in exchange for their king's body.

Hephaestion had negotiated with Poros and promised to leave Indian territory.

Hephaestion and Poros had agreed on the division of wealth: the Macedonians would leave Poros any towns conquered in the Indies, while Poros would hush up Alexander's injury and capture, and would help put about the word that Alexander was still alive.

Poros's army withdrew.

Alexander's army erected a wall of spikes around the encampment.

Hephaestion transported Alexander's body inside a sealed tent. He purified the air by burning large candles. He delicately removed the arrowhead using a magnetic stone, closed the hole in the skull with powdered ivory, and covered the wound with skin taken from Alexander's leg. Alexander lay in darkness for three days. His heart was beating, but he did not talk or even open his eyes.

Alestria, alone in her tent, could not eat. She lay with her eyes closed, not sleeping but praying.

Flames press against each other, joining together and then exploding. Flames crawl and leap and swirl. They are black, threatening, ice-cold. I stray aimlessly through the world of flames, not knowing who I am. I move forward and turn back. I run and then walk. Who am I? I finger a body I do not know but which is somehow mine.

The flames throw themselves at me, then drop back and fall to the ground. I am not afraid. They seem familiar to me. They are like me. They have come to cheer me on with their frenetic dancing.

A question hovers over my lips.

"Do you have souls?" I ask them.

A sharp pain stabs at me. The flames quiver, try to strangle me, then withdraw, and I understand that this is a forbidden question in this world. By asking it, I have proved I have a soul. Whose is it?

Every part of me hurts, and I curl up tightly. I roll on the ground, then leap to my feet and start to run. But the pain follows me. The pain is inside my body, so the soul is also rooted in my body. The flames leer and sneer at me. They are the damned whose souls have been taken; that is why they seem so voracious and so fierce, and why they do not burn me. For, without souls, all beings are but illusion. They can survive only thanks to the fear they engender.

I have a soul. I am Alexander! That name is a terrible aching! Images reel by in the flames.

Two little boys going into Apollo's temple. The marble god watches them as they undress and fall into each other's arms.

A woman with a long braid and heavy breasts leans on the balustrade of a terrace, waving her hand and weeping.

A city appears with painted walls, embroidered flags, and streets milling with people and horses. A succession of palaces, and in them eunuchs and concubines.

Muddy roads, torrential rains, icy tracks, unbearable cold! Corpses slither over the flames, wearing different costumes, bearing open wounds. Columns of smoke rise up and wither away. Breached ramparts, sumptuous banquets, and warriors' faces all file by. Fruits and vegetables spring from the gaping neck of a bull. Naked men embracing women wrapped in fine cloth, swaying together and disappearing. All these images make up Alexander. Alexander is mountains climbed, rivers crossed, land burned. Alexander is in the dust, in the clouds, and in the ashes.