Perinthus, on the Thracian Coast
Drums boomed, marking a slow, steady beat. Alexandros, one hand light on the reins of Bucephalos, trotted along the raised, metaled road that led into the city. The gates stood wide, the entrance tunnel through the walls bright with lanterns and torches. Bucephalos swung his head, tossing a thick black mane woven with ribbons, and snorted, smelling other horses. Lines of men in Western armor, legionaries, stood in ranks along the road. Their standards and banners fluttered in the light breeze off the sea. Alexandros raised a hand in salute, letting the sun sparkle from his mailed gauntlet.
Behind him, advancing at a steady, measured pace, marched thirty thousand Goths. Their long sarissa dipped and swung like a metronome, their booted feet crashing down as one. An impressive sight, thought the Macedonian, turning his horse in the shadow of the city gate. The first syntagma tramped past, entering the gate with a shout. Each man turned as he passed, their heads swinging in unison, their helmets gleaming with the afternoon sun.
"Alexandros!" they boomed, a thousand men with one voice. "Victory!"
Then they were past, and another regiment passed, and then another.
The Macedonian sat on his horse, smiling slightly, thinking of another day, long ago.
Men marched past, bearded men, with their helmets plumed with horsetails, their oval shields shining with the sunburst of Macedon. A great fleet waited on the shore, waiting to cross into Asia. Persia lay beyond, the mightiest empire in the world, endless, its armies without number. Waiting for him. As the gods had promised.
"Comes Alexandros?" A man with long blond hair rode up on a spirited gray horse. He looked tired, his face worn and shadowed by the fringe of a beard. He was not a Roman. "I am Dahvos, khagan of the Khazars. There are two legions here, the Third Augusta and another, which is currently nameless. I have letters for you, from Rome. They say that you are to take command of all of us-my men, the Legions, your own. Emperor Galen expresses great confidence in you."
Alexandros nodded, clasping hands with the man. The Khazar's eyes were haunted, as if he had looked upon an abyss. The Macedonian looked at him for a long moment, then smiled.
"Well met, khagan Dahvos. I have heard your nation is a brave and noble one."
Dahvos did not answer, turning away, his face stiff. "I will show you the city."
Alexandros nodded, then turned Bucephalos to follow. The Goths continued to march into the city, tramping through the tunnel. Within the stone walls, there seemed to be only soldiers. A city stripped for war, then. Alexandros grinned to himself, urging the stallion ahead. There was a heady smell in the air, a tension that spoke of battle and coming glory.
He could even see the Asian shore, if he climbed the walls.
And there are Persians! he exulted. Within the reach of my lance, my eye, my spear!