Alexander sprinted up the ridge, heedless of the shouted commands coming from the hoplite behind him. He might be young, but he was fit and covered the ground quickly and the chasing hoplite gave up after a few steps as Alexander knew he would. He heard snippets of curses as he ran, the usual punctuation about Thrace and his light complexion in some oft-heard abusive combination or other. He smiled and ran on, his dirty red mop of hair flopping in front of his blue eyes. The very hair and eye combination that prompted the hoplite’s taunts, the thing that set him apart from every other Athenian he’d ever met, and apart from every other Greek for that matter. The noise of the army ahead of him singing their war song as they marched pulled him onwards to where he could catch a glimpse of his father befo...

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