But we covered a lot of ground, driving the deer – and every other living thing – into the open end of the funnel. By full daylight, we closed the net tight. The first day was sloppy, and we pages were blamed for indiscipline. But on the second morning it was well done, and we drove fifty deer down the funnel into the older men, who killed them with swords and spears. Laodon was thrilling to watch, standing coolly with a short spear – a longche, just the height of a man, and heavy in the shaft. He killed a stag that charged him – stood his ground, shifted his weight and the animal was down, and then all the older men finished it. A few deer got past, of course, and soldiers with bows shot them down – shooting carefully, because hitting one of the king’s companions was a death sentence. Perhaps they were shooting too carefully, because one enormous stag, a monster as big as my horse, beloved of Artemis, burst through the archers and raced free up the hills and vanished into the deep trees.

Alexander cantered up. I’ve said he wasn’t the best at everything, and he wasn’t, but he was the finest horseman I’ve ever seen – years later, when we rode against the Sakje of the Sea of Grass, I remarked that he was as natural a rider as they. What always amused me is that he took this utterly for granted and would accept no praise for it – never told self-important stories about his riding prowess, never bragged about the horses he’d broken. Horses loved him, and I suspect that’s because he always knew exactlywhat he wanted.

Laodon was standing there, naked, wiggling his spear back and forth in the stag’s chest, trying to draw it free where it had lodged against bone. He looked up when he heard Alexander’s hoof beats, and waved a salute.

Alexander merely pointed at the rump and tines of the great stag galloping for the treeline. A few heartbeats later and the animal would have been gone. But Laodon saw what he had missed, and rage filled his face. He let go his spear haft and walked over to the archers. Words were exchanged, and a man struck to the ground.

Alexander pursed his lips.

Laodon came back and shook his head. ‘My apologies, Prince. That beast should never have slipped us.’

‘The will of Artemis,’ Alexander said. But the way he said it indicated that he meant the opposite. And Laodon knew it.

Next day we went out as scouts, all the pages, looking for the boars. I was with Laodon, and we rode from sun-up until high noon through the woods. The day was beautiful, with a golden autumn sun on red leaves and the most amazing, heady scent in the air of fresh-fallen leaves – the perfume of Artemis, Laodon called it.

I remember that I spent a good deal of time worrying whether he meant to rape me. Just to give you an idea of what Laodon was known for.

He was an excellent hunter, though, and his eye for the field sign was without error, and while I don’t remember why I was allowed to accompany him, it certainly wasn’t my looks. I was fit – we all were – but you can look at my profile on coins, can’t you? I am not a handsome man, and my friends called me ‘Georgoi’ or ‘Farm Boy’.

If it was a privilege, it was a scary one. I was on my guard, never within reach of his arms. That’s pretty much how we lived our lives – just so you know.

Noon came, and I was ravenous. What boy isn’t? We’d been mounted since dawn, and up and down from our mounts, looking at fewmets and tracks and traces and rubs, and then up again – riding down steep hills, up rocky defiles, or over the downed trunks of ancient trees that had stood like towers when Hector fought Achilles.

We came to a muddy ditch where the trail crossed a stream – the passage of men and animals had worn the end of the trail into the ditch. Laodon dismounted, handed me his reins, and looked into the ditch for a long time.

‘A great many men passed this way,’ he said, and scratched his beard. His eyes were alive, of a sudden, and he moved his head slowly around like a hawk does when searching for prey.

Then he shrugged. ‘I’m getting old, boy, and I see bandits behind every tree. What have you packed us to eat?’

I had a leather bag full of cheese and bread, and a pottery flask of good Nisean wine. I laid it out for him and stood back – pages don’t eat with knights.

He nodded curtly, ate some bread, drank some wine and grinned at me.

‘That’s good wine, young Ptolemy.’ He drank another sip from his horn cup and nodded.

I probably flushed with the praise.

‘Sit, boy. Eat.’ He indicated the food.

I guess my fears were obvious. I sat too carefully.

Laodon laughed. Like lightning, his hand was on the back of my neck, locking me to the ground. ‘If I wanted you,’ he said with a snort, ‘you’d be mine.’ He snickered. ‘Not my type, boy.’ He slapped my rump and picked up his horn cup, which he’d somehow set aside without spilling its contents while he put me on the ground with one hand.

I was shaken, but I managed to eat anyway. Oh, for a moment of that youth now! Beans make me fart, milk curdles in my stomach and too much wine goes to my head. At fifteen, I could go straight from fear and terror to eating without passing through any intervening stages. I remember how good the cheese was.

‘Have some wine, virgin,’ Laodon said, handing me his cup. He got to his feet. ‘I’m going to look around.’

I sat on a big rock by the stream and drank wine from his horn cup. He was an important man and a famous warrior, and to be allowed to drink from his cup was a compliment. My father loathed him – which, at fifteen, can make a man more appealing.

I was wondering whether his permission went as far as a second cup of wine when a hand came over my mouth and I was dragged off the rock.

‘Don’t make a noise, virgin,’ Laodon said. ‘There’s an Illyrian raiding party on the other side of the ridge. Can you find your way back to camp without me?’ His hand came off my mouth.

‘Yes, lord,’ I said.

‘You are absolutely positive? No horse shit?’ He turned my head. ‘Swear by Zeus?’

‘By Zeus, god of kings, and my ancestor Herakles,’ I said.

‘Good boy. Go! Warn the prince!’ he said. He helped me mount to save time. ‘Never take lunch by a stream,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘You can’t hear anything.’

‘Are they after us?’ I asked him.

He shrugged and slapped my horse on the rump, and Poseidon sprang forward.

Almost immediately I faced a quandary. I was not lying – I knew how to get back to camp. But we’d come a great half-circle north and west around the high hill, and the only way back to camp that I knew for certain was to cast all the way back. Or I could cut the circle and ride north and east. Camp had to lie that way – across the shoulder of the high hill, maybe eight stades or a little more. But if I missed the ridge and the clearing – by Artemis, I’d go for ever and never find another man or horse.

I didn’t have a weapon, either. I had an eating knife – not really a useful instrument for killing, although you’d never know it from the number of men I’ve seen put down with eating utensils – but neither spear nor lance nor sword.

I headed across the circle, east by north.

The nerves didn’t start until I was over the shoulder of the hill. I’d convinced myself that when I rode over the shoulder, I’d see the meadow, at least from the top. But I couldn’t, and all I could see were trees – red, orange, evergreen, stretching in an endless parade to the north and west.

I reined in. Poseidon was edgy, and he fidgeted under me on the knife-edge ridge. I thought about it for as long as a man takes to run the stade – a good man – and then I turned Poseidon north and climbed higher on the ridge.

By the time I’d ridden for a hundred heartbeats, the awful truth was clear – I wasn’t on the right ridge. We’d come farther around the mountain than I thought. I wasn’t quite lost – but I didn’t know what angle to cast on to make it to camp.