‘I will conquer the world,’ Alexander said. His anger was quenched already by his burning curiosity, his interest, his appreciation.
She spat back, ‘Stay off the sea of grass, King.’ She shrugged. ‘Tell your slaves we came and gave you tribute, if you must. But stay off the sea of grass.’ She drew the sword of Cyrus from the scabbard at her side. ‘My people say this is the sword that Cyrus the Great King brought to the sea of grass. He left it with us. Come across the river and see what you will leave behind. I have spoken.’
She left him sitting on his ivory stool, holding his helmet. She didn’t wait for her escort of Macedonians, who had dismounted, expecting a longer parley. She gathered her maidens and they rode clear, and no hand was raised against them.
And across the river, at the top of the ridge that towered over the ford of the Jaxartes, a big man, naked in the sun, made a pile of all the Macedonian armour that his friends had stripped from the dead. He wept as he worked, but he worked hard, and many hands helped. He built the trophy carefully, until it towered above the ridge, and the helmet that graced the top had a blue plume and the bronze caught the sun and burned like a beacon.