It was June 11, 323 BCE, in Babylon. Arcs of lightning flashed through the sky in anger, screaming at the people on the earth as if they had killed its son. On their side were the clouds, rapidly gathering and darkening the sky, foretelling unavoidable doom.
Down on the earth beneath this turbulent sky, behind the great Ishtar Gate—one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World—stood the greatest city in all of Asia: the city of Babylon.
Behind the Ishtar Gate was a hub of life: foreigners, traveling merchants, locals, and soldiers of the great Macedonian army moved about, a sweet and joyous air filling the city. None were aware of the solemn atmosphere that pervaded one of the most important rooms within the great palace of Babylon, which stood at the heart of the city.
With skin pale and covered in sweat, eyes barely open, the man who had conquered nearly all of the known world lay on his bed, too weak to lift a limb, staring at the beautiful marble ceiling above him.
Around him were his closest companions, all wearing somber expressions as they stared at him.
Closest to him, sitting by his bed, was his wife, Roxana. She placed her hand on his left hand, then rested her left hand on her swollen belly, her eyes filled with worry for both her husband and their unborn child.
Away from the couple, at the foot of the bed, was Aristander, the chief seer. He was currently on his knees, throwing cowries onto a dish placed in front of him, his hand circling over the dish as he muttered several incomprehensible words.
Within the room was absolute silence, all eyes on the seer. His actions left the others in suspense.
Aristander performed his rituals for several minutes before suddenly snapping his head up to the sky. The dish before him and its contents ignited in flames, and then he looked at everyone and silently shook his head.
If possible, the already downtrodden atmosphere in the room grew even heavier. Everyone's heads dipped in sadness and hopelessness. From among the people around the bed, a man with narrowed eyes, a thick brown beard, and a wrinkled forehead stepped forward.
This man was Acarnia, the chief physician. Beside the bed, he stared down at the king, his critical eyes studying his expression, before speaking.
"The king is tired. Let us leave him to rest."
Subconsciously, everyone in the room nodded. But before any departure could begin, Aristander, still on the floor, stared down at the dish and spoke.
"He will not rest."
The man's words were simple, but they carried different emotions for those in the room. For people like Roxana and Craterus, one of the generals of the great Macedonian army, whose eyes still held hope, Aristander's words caused them to frown. Their gazes moved to him with warning. However, some in the room were more realistic, and one of them stepped forward.
Walking toward the great king's bed, Perdiccas, one of the generals of the Macedonian army and a most trusted officer of the king, moved past Acarnia, who made way for him and bowed.
Already knowing his intent, everyone in the room focused their attention on the king. As Perdiccas spoke, not even the sound of breathing could be heard.
"My king, to whom do you leave your empire?"
It took several seconds, but for the first time in days, the king's eyes opened wide. Light from the world poured into them. However, rather than answer the burning question of his subordinates, he remained staring at the ceiling, his expression tightening as he fell into deep thought.
From the victory at Chaeronea, where he shattered the Greek city-states and established Macedonian supremacy, to the Battle of Granicus, where he first encountered the Persians and made them taste defeat, there was the Siege of Tyre, where he conquered the supposedly impenetrable city, and then the Battle of Gaugamela, where he slew Darius and claimed Persia. Finally, there was the battle against Porus in India, where he defeated the mighty king and his elephants.
At this moment, these battles played in his head, as if they had happened just yesterday. The warm feel of blood and the scream of rage as he claimed victory still echoed in his mind. Yet here he was, after all these earth-shattering victories, helpless and dying from some pathetic disease.
The contrast made no sense, and the great king could not help but think of one of the men who had inspired him: Achilles, who at least died on the battlefield.
"But still, an arrow to the heel is no way to end a great man."
With the last of his strength, the great conqueror's mind stirred, and his teeth clenched. Could this be the work of fate?
That Achilles lost his life to an injury on the heel, and he soon to follow, was dying in a sickbed.
Was this a curse from the heavens, or a mockery from fate to those who sought to be the strongest, their greatness sealing their doom?
Within the eyes of the dying king, a fire was lit, and pushing past the weakness that had claimed his body, he spoke in a voice full of power.
"To the strongest."
The king's eyes burned with power as he spoke these words. His body brimmed with strength, and his every being seemed ready to defy the powers that sought to dictate his destiny.
Seeing the strength that radiated from the king, hope was reignited in the eyes of his closest companions. Yet, after these words left his mouth, the strength that had suddenly burned within him mysteriously drained, and life was sucked from his body.
Thus, Alexander the Great—King of Macedonia, Hegemon of the Hellenic League, Ruler of Asia, and the proclaimed son of Zeus—died.