‘My point though, is clear enough,’ Mardonius went on. ‘If a man loses his house to a storm, of course he will blame the storm. But if the storm says first to him, “Bend the knee to me and I will pass by, I will spare your wife and children” …’ Mardonius waited for the translator to catch up. ‘If the man refuses then and loses all he owns, all he loves, who can he blame if not himself? The storm will have torn away all his deceptions. Do you see? He will know he brought it on himself.’

‘And you are the storm,’ Alexander murmured.

Mardonius nodded so quickly, he wondered if the man had some smattering of Greek. Mardonius had risen in a ferociously competitive culture to stand as the king’s right hand. It was worth remembering.

‘We are the storm, of course. And perhaps his house would always have fallen. But the next man we meet? When I say to him, “Bend the knee,” perhaps he will, to spare all he loves. I think … this is something you understand.’

Alexander thought of the pride he had witnessed in Athens, compared to his own. The memory felt like bitterness in his throat. He had traded that pride to stand in that tent, as a trusted man. He looked from Artabazus, who watched with bright eyes and humour, to Hydarnes and Masistius, men dark and apparently hostile to the blond king of Macedon.

‘Gentlemen,’ Alexander said, ‘Persia is a long way away. Let me tell you a prophecy I heard once.’

In the morning, Mardonius had nothing to do while the camp was packed up. He shivered, his teeth chattering. A freezing wind had come out of the north. Squalls of rain made the ground a bog and all tasks twice as hard. The men were pleased enough to be about their business, or so their officers assured him. Mardonius smiled at the sight of one of his sons riding past, in a cloak so sodden it clung like metal, outlining his thighs.

Artabazus was as fine a horseman as Mardonius had ever seen, almost as skilled on horseback as Masistius, who could ride anything with hooves. Yet Masistius looked like a horseman, while Artabazus was somehow both fat and sturdy, a little block of a man. Mardonius had seen him tumbling like an acrobat with some of the young officers, turning full flips in the air. It strengthened joints and bones, so he said. If a horse ever threw him, he would surely bounce and roll, unhurt. The thought made Mardonius smile as the man reined in, curious at the general’s odd expression. The rain chose that moment to intensify, determined to pour cold water down both their necks and bow their horses under them.

‘We’ll be sneezing, or perhaps drowning, if this gets any worse,’ Artabazus said by way of greeting.

Mardonius nodded. He hated winter. It was just not a soldier’s season.