Alexander: Child of a Dream


Before his birth, omens foretold that Alexander, son of the warrior-king Philip of Macedonia, was destined for greatness. From boyhood, the prince was trained by the finest scholars and mightiest soldiers to attain extraordinary strength of body and spirit. A descendant of Heracles and Achilles, Alexander aimed to surpass his ancestors' heroism and honor, and his chosen companions strove to be worthy to share his godlike fate.

Even as a youth, Alexander's deeds were unequaled. ...

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Before his birth, omens foretold that Alexander, son of the warrior-king Philip of Macedonia, was destined for greatness. From boyhood, the prince was trained by the finest scholars and mightiest soldiers to attain extraordinary strength of body and spirit. A descendant of Heracles and Achilles, Alexander aimed to surpass his ancestors' heroism and honor, and his chosen companions strove to be worthy to share his godlike fate.

Even as a youth, Alexander's deeds were unequaled. In a single day, he tamed the fierce steed Bucephalus. In his first battle, his troops defeated the invincible Sacred Band. And as he grew to manhood, surrounded by deadly plots and intrigue, his friends pledged to follow him to the ends of the world. With the support of that loyal group of men, Alexander's might would transform dreams of conquest into reality amid the fabled cities of Persia and the mysterious East...and his destiny would carry them all to glory.

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780743434362
  • Publisher: Washington Square Press
  • Publication date: 10/2/2001
  • Series: Alexander Series , #1
  • Edition description: Original
  • Pages: 368
  • Sales rank: 1,030,498
  • Product dimensions: 0.82 (w) x 5.50 (h) x 8.50 (d)

Meet the Author

Dr. Valerio Massimo Manfredi is an Italian historian, archaeologist, and journalist. The professor of archaeology in the "Luigi Bocconi" University in Milan and a familiar face on European television, he has published a number of scientific articles and essays as well as thirteen novels, including the Alexander trilogy and The Last Legion. Alexander was published in thirty-six languages in fifty-five countries and was sold for a major film production in the U.S., and The Last Legion is soon to be a major motion picture starring Colin Firth and Ben Kingsley. Dr. Manfredi is married with two children and lives in a small town near Bologna.

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Chapter One

Olympias's decision to visit the Sanctuary of Dodona was the result of a strange premonition that had come to her as she slept alongside her husband, Philip II, King of the Macedonians, who lay that night in a wine- and food-sated slumber.

She had dreamed of a snake slithering slowly along the corridor outside and entering their bedchamber silently. She could see it, but she could not move, and she could not shout for help. The coils of the great reptile slid over the stone floor, its scales glinting copper and bronze in the moonlight that penetrated the room through the window.

For a moment she wanted Philip to wake up and take her in his arms, to hold her against his strong, muscular chest, to caress her with his big warrior's hands, but immediately she turned to look again on the drakon, the huge animal that moved like a ghost. A magic creature, like the creatures the gods summon from the bowels of the earth whenever the need arises.

Now, strangely, she was no longer afraid of it. She felt no disgust; indeed, she felt ever more attracted and almost charmed by the sinuous movement, by the graceful and silent force.

The snake worked its way under the blankets, it slipped between her legs and her breasts. She felt it take her, light and cold, without hurting her at all.

Olympias dreamed that its seed mingled with the seed her husband had already thrust into her with the strength of a bull, with all the vigor of a wild boar, before he had collapsed under the weight of exhaustion and of wine.

The next day the King had put on his armor, dined with his generals on wild hog's meat and sheep's milk cheese, and left to go to war against the Triballians. A people more barbarous than his Macedonians, they dressed in bearskins, wore hats of fox fur and lived along the banks of the Ister, the biggest river in Europe.

All Philip said to Olympias was, "Remember to offer sacrifices to the gods while I am away and bear me a man-child, an heir who looks like me."

Then he had mounted his bay horse and set off at a gallop with his generals, the courtyard resounding with the noise of the steeds' hooves, echoing with the clanging of their weapons.

Olympias took a warm bath following her husband's departure, her maidservants massaging her back with sponges steeped in essence of jasmine and Pierian roses. Still deeply troubled, she sent for Artemisia, the woman who had been her wet nurse. Artemisia was aged now, but her bosom was still ample, her hips still shapely, and she came from a good family; Olympias brought her from Epirus when she had come to marry Philip.

She recounted the dream and asked, "Good Artemisia, what does it mean?"

Artemisia helped her mistress out of the warm bath and began to dry her with towels of Egyptian linen.

"My child, dreams are always messages from the gods, but few people know how to interpret them. Go to the most ancient of the sanctuaries in Epirus, our homeland, to consult the Oracle of Dodona. Since time immemorial the priests there have handed down the art of reading the voice of the great Zeus, father of the gods and of men. The voice speaks when the wind passes through the branches of the age-old oaks of the sanctuary. It makes their leaves whisper in spring and summer, and stirs the dead leaves into movement around the trunks during autumn and winter."

And so it was that a few days later Olympias set off toward the sanctuary which had been built in a most impressive place — in a green valley nestled among wooded mountains.

Tradition had it that this was among the oldest temples on earth. Two doves were said to have flown from Zeus's hand immediately after he chased Cronus, his father, from the skies. One dove had lighted on an oak at Dodona, the other on a palm tree at the Oasis of Siwa, in the midst of the burning sands of Libya. And ever since then, in those two places, the voice of the father of the gods had made itself heard.

"What is the meaning of my dream?" Olympias asked the priests of the sanctuary.

They sat in a circle on stone seats, in the middle of a green meadow dotted with daisies and buttercups, and listened to the wind through the leaves of the oaks. They seemed rapt in thought.

One of the priests spoke, "It means that the child you will bear will be the offspring of Zeus and a mortal. In your womb the blood of a god has mixed with the blood of a man.

"The child you bear will shine with a wondrous energy. But, just as the most brightly burning flame consumes the walls of the lamp and quickly uses up the oil that feeds it, his soul may burn up the heart that houses it.

"Remember, my Queen, the story of Achilles, ancestor of your great family: he was given the choice of a brief but glorious life or a long and dull one. He chose the former; he sacrificed his life for a moment of blinding light."

"Is this fate inevitable?" Olympias asked apprehensively.

"It is but one possibility," replied another priest. "A man may take many roads. But the strength that comes as a gift from the gods seeks always to return to those who bestowed it. Keep this secret in your heart until the moment comes when your child's nature will be fully manifest. Be ready then for everything and anything, even to lose him. Because no matter what you do you will never manage to stop him fulfilling his destiny, to stop his fame spreading to the ends of the earth."

He was still talking when the breeze that had been blowing through the leaves of the oaks changed, almost suddenly, into a strong, warm wind from the south. In no time at all it was strong enough to bend the tops of the trees and to make the priests cover their heads with their cloaks.

The wind brought with it a thick reddish mist that darkened the entire valley. Olympias, too, wrapped her cloak around her body and her head and sat motionless in the midst of the vortex, frozen like a statue of a goddess.

The wind subsided just as it had begun, and when the mist cleared, the statues, pillars, and altars that embellished the sacred place were all covered in a thin layer of red dust.

The priest who had spoken last touched the dust with his fingertip and brought the finger to his lips: "This has been brought here on the Libyan wind, the breath of Zeus Ammon whose oracle sits among the palms of Siwa. This is an extraordinary happening, a remarkable portent! The two most ancient oracles on earth, separated by enormous distances, have spoken at the same moment. Your son has heard voices that come from far away and perhaps he has understood the message. One day he will hear them again within the walls of a great sanctuary surrounded by the desert sands."

After listening to these words, the Queen returned to the capital, to Pella, the city whose roads were dusty in summer and muddy in winter, and there she waited in fear and trembling for the day on which her child would be born.

The labor pains came one spring evening, after sunset. The women lit the lamps and Artemisia sent word for the midwife and for the physician, Nicomachus, who had been doctor to the old King, Amyntas, and who had supervised the birth of many a royal scion, both legitimate and otherwise.

Nicomachus was ready, knowing that the time was near. He put on an apron, had water heated, and more lamps brought so that there would be sufficient light.

But he let the midwife approach the Queen first, because a woman prefers to be touched by another woman at the moment she brings her child into the world: only a woman truly knows of the pain and the solitude in which a new life is made.

King Philip, at that very moment, was laying siege to the city of Potidaea and would not have left the front line for anything in the world.

It was a long and difficult birth because Olympias had narrow hips and was of a delicate constitution.

Artemisia wiped her mistress's brow. "Courage, my child, push! When you see your baby you will be consoled for all the pain you must suffer now." She moistened Olympias's lips with spring water from a silver bowl, which the maids refreshed continuously.

But when the pain grew to the point where Olympias almost fainted, Nicomachus intervened, guiding the midwife's hands and ordering Artemisia to push on the Queen's belly because she had no strength left and the baby was in distress.

He put his ear to Olympias's womb and could hear that the baby's heart was slowing down.

"Push as hard as you can," he ordered Artemisia. "The baby must be born now."

Artemisia leaned with all her weight on the Queen, who let out one frightfully loud cry and gave birth.

Nicomachus tied the umbilical cord with linen thread, then cut it immediately with a pair of bronze scissors and cleaned the wound with wine.

The baby began to cry and Nicomachus handed him to the women so that they could wash and dress him.

It was Artemisia who first saw his face, and she was delighted. "Isn't he wonderful?" she asked as she wiped his eyelids and nose with some wool dipped in oil.

The midwife washed his head and as she dried it she found herself exclaiming, "He has the hair of a child of six months and fine blond streaks. He looks like a little Eros!"

Artemisia meanwhile was dressing him in a tiny linen tunic because Nicomachus did not agree with the practice followed in most families by which newborn babies were tightly swaddled.

"What color do you think his eyes are?" she asked the midwife.

The woman brought a lamp nearer and the baby's eyes shone as they reflected the light. "I don't know, it's difficult to say. They seem to be blue, then dark, almost black. Perhaps it's because his parents are so different from each other."

Nicomachus was taking care of the Queen, who, as often happens with first-time mothers, was bleeding. Having anticipated this beforehand, he had snow gathered from the slopes of Mount Bermion. He made compresses of the snow and applied them to Olympias's belly. The Queen shivered, tired and exhausted as she was, but the physician could not afford to let himself feel sorry for her and continued to apply the ice-cold compresses until the bleeding stopped completely.

Then, as he took off his apron and washed his hands, he left her to the care of the women. He let them change her sheets, wash her with soft sponges steeped in rosewater, change her gown to a clean one taken from her clothes chest, and give her something to drink.

It was Nicomachus who presented the baby to Olympias. "Here is Philip's son, my Queen. You have given birth to a beautiful boy."

Then he went out into the corridor where a horseman of the royal guard was waiting, dressed for a journey. "Go, fly to the King and tell him his child is born. Tell him it's a boy, that he is beautiful, healthy and strong."

The horseman threw his cloak over his shoulders, put the strap of his satchel over his head, and ran off. Before he disappeared at the end of the corridor, Nicomachus shouted after him, "Tell him too that the Queen is well."

The messenger did not pause in his course, and an instant later there came the noise of a horse neighing in the courtyard below and then the clatter of galloping, which soon faded to silence along the roads of the sleeping city.

Copyright © 1998 by Arnoldo Mondadori Editore S.P.A.

Translation copyright © 2001 by Macmillan

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First Chapter


The King set off again across the desert, taking the route that led from the Oasis of Ammon directly to the banks of the Nile near Memphis. He rode alone for hours and hours astride his Sarmatian bay, while Bucephalus galloped alongside wearing no halter or tack at all. When Alexander realized just how long their journey was going to take, he sought to spare his horse whenever possible, keen to preserve its strength and vigor.

The march took three weeks under the baking hot sun, and they suffered greatly before the thin green line marking the fertile banks of the Nile came into view. However, Alexander seemed to be immune to exhaustion, hunger and thirst, so immersed was he in his thoughts and in his memories.

His companions tried not to disturb these reveries because they realized he needed to be alone in the midst of those endless, desert spaces, alone with his feeling of infinity, with his anxious dreams of immortality, with the passions of his soul. Only when evening fell was it possible to approach the King, and occasionally some of his friends would enter the tent to speak to him and keep him company while Leptine bathed him.

One day Ptolemy took him by surprise with a question he had been wanting to ask his King and friend for too long: "What did the god Ammon tell you?"

"He called me 'son,'" replied Alexander.

Ptolemy picked up the sponge that had fallen from Leptine's hand and returned it to her. "And what did you ask him?"

"I asked him if all of my father's murderers are dead or whether any of them have survived."

Ptolemy said nothing. He waited for the King to come out of the tub and then placed a towel of clean linen over his shoulders and began rubbing him dry. When Alexander turned, his friend looked firmly and deeply into his eyes and asked him, "So do you still love Philip, your father, now that you have become a god?"

Alexander sighed. "If you weren't here before me now, I would say that this question had come from Callisthenes or Cleitus the Black....Give me your sword."

Ptolemy looked at him in surprise, but he did not dare reply. He simply unsheathed his sword and held it out.

Alexander took the weapon and cut the skin on his arm with the sharp metal point so that a bright red rivulet started trickling down.

"What is this, Ptolemy, if it is not blood?"

"It is indeed blood."

"Quite. It is not the ichor which is said to run through the veins of the celestial gods," he continued, reciting from Homer. "Therefore, my friend, try to understand me, and if you love me, then put an end to these pointless jibes."

Ptolemy understood and apologized for having spoken in that way, while Leptine washed the King's arm with wine and put a bandage on the wound.

Alexander saw that his friend was truly sorry and invited him to stay for supper, even though there was not much to eat -- dry bread, dates, and some rather sharp palm wine.

"What are we going to do now?" asked Ptolemy.

"We will travel back to Tyre."

"And then?"

"I do not know. I think Antipater will send me news on what is happening in Greece, and our informers will let us know what Darius is planning. At that stage we will make our decision."

"I know that Eumenes has given you the bad news regarding your brother-in-law, Alexander of Epirus."

"Yes, he has. My sister Cleopatra will be beside herself with grief, and my mother too, for she loved her brother very much."

"But I am sure the greatest grief will be your own. Am I not right?"

"Yes, I believe you are."

"What was it that brought the two of you so close together, apart from your family ties?"

"A great dream we shared. Now the entire weight of that dream lies on my shoulders. One day we will invade Italy, Ptolemy, and we will annihilate the barbarians who killed him."

He poured some wine for his friend and then said, "Would you like to hear some poetry? I have invited Thessalus to keep me company."

"Indeed I would. Which poems have you chosen?"

"Works by a variety of poets, all of which are about the sea. These endless sands around us remind me of the great expanse of the sea, and then all this dryness makes me long for it."

As soon as Leptine had cleared away the two small tables, the actor entered. He wore a stage costume and had makeup on his face -- bister around his eyes, his mouth lined with minium, a red dye to create a bitter expression, like those of the masks from the tragedies. He strummed some subdued chords on his lyre and began:

"O breeze, breeze of the sea,
That wafts swift galleys, ocean's coursers,
Across the surging main!
Where will you bear me, the sorrowful one?"

Alexander listened in the deep silence of the night, enchanted by the voice that was capable of any intonation, of resonating through all human feeling and passion, of imitating the very wind and the crash of thunder.

They sat up until late in the night listening to the voice of the great actor as it mutated through every shade of feeling, wailing through the tears of women, or rising proud as he gave voice to the heroes.

When Thessalus finished, Alexander embraced him. "Thank you," he said, his eyes moist with emotion. "You have evoked the dreams that will come to me this night. Now go and rest -- we have a long march ahead of us tomorrow."

Ptolemy waited up a little longer to drink some wine with Alexander.

"Do you ever think about Pella?" he suddenly asked. "Do you ever think of your mother and your father, of the days when we were boys and we rode all over the hills of Macedon? Of the shining waters of our rivers and our lakes?"

Alexander considered the question for a moment and then replied, "Yes, often, but it's as though they are distant images, like things that happened many, many years ago. Our life is so intense that each hour is like a year."

"This means, then, that we will grow old before our time, does it not?"

"Perhaps, or perhaps not. The lamp that burns brightest in the room is the one that is destined to burn out first, but all those present will remember just how beautiful its light was during its heyday."

He pulled the door of the tent to one side and accompanied Ptolemy outside. The sky over the desert was filled with a myriad of stars and the two young men lifted their eyes to look.

"Perhaps this too is the destiny of the stars that shine brightest in the celestial vault. May your night be a peaceful one, my friend."

"And yours too, Aléxandre," replied Ptolemy, as he moved off toward his tent on the edge of the camp.

Five days later they reached the banks of the Nile at Memphis, where Parmenion and Nearchus were waiting for them. That same night Alexander saw Barsine again. She was staying in a sumptuous building that had belonged to a pharaoh, and her apartments had been arranged on the upper floors. In the evening the northerly winds brought to these rooms a pleasant coolness as they stirred the blue byssus curtains, as light and delicate as butterfly wings.

She waited for him, sitting on an armchair decorated with gold and enamel friezes, dressed in a light gown in the Ionian style. Her black hair with its violet highlights lay loose over her shoulders and she wore light makeup after the Egyptian manner.

The moonbeams and the light of the lamps hidden behind alabaster screens mingled in an atmosphere perfumed with nard and aloe, glowing with amber reflections from the onyx tanks full of water, on the surface of which lotus flowers and rose petals floated. From an openwork screen of stylized ivy branches and gliding birds came the quiet, gentle music of flutes and harps. The walls were completely frescoed with ancient Egyptian pictures representing scenes in which naked maidens danced to the sound of lutes and tambouras before the royal couple on their thrones, and in a corner there was a large bed with a blue canopy supported by four columns of gilded wood, with capitals in the shape of lotus flowers.

Alexander entered and looked long and ardently at Barsine. His eyes were still full of the dazzling-light of the desert, his ears rang with the sacred words of the Oracle of Ammon, his whole body, emanated an aura of magical enchantment: the golden locks falling on his shoulders, his muscled chest with the scars it carried, the changing color of his eyes, his slender, nervous hands with their blue veins. Over his naked body he wore only a light chlamys, held loosely on his left shoulder with an ancient silver buckle, an age-old inheritance of the Argead dynasty, and a golden ribbon around his forehead.

Barsine stood up and immediately felt lost in the light of his gaze, "Aléxandre...," she said as he pulled her into his arms and kissed her lips, as full and moist as ripe dates. He pulled her down to the bed and caressed her hips and her warm, perfumed breasts.

But suddenly the King felt her skin go cold and her limbs stiffen under his hands; a menacing air permeated the room, sending all his warrior's senses into alarm. He turned quickly to face the imminent danger and found himself being attacked head-on by a body running toward him. He saw a hand raised as it brandished a dagger, he heard a wild, strident cry reverberate around the walls of the bed-chamber he heard Barsine cry out in grief and in pain.

Alexander quickly pinned the aggressor to the floor, twisting his wrist and forcing him to release the weapon. He could have massacred him there and then with the heavy lamp holder he had instinctively grabbed, but he had recognized the young fifteen-year-old -- Eteocles, Memnon and Barsine's eldest son! The boy struggled and turned like a young lion caught in a trap, shouting all sorts of insults, biting and scratching now that he was unarmed.

The guards burst in, having heard the scuffle, and they took hold of the aggressor. The officer in command understood immediately what had happened and called out, "An attempt on the King's life! Take him below and have him tortured before he's executed."

But Barsine threw herself crying at Alexander's feet. "Save him, my Lord. Spare my son's life, I beg you!"

Eteocles looked at her with contempt written all over his face and then, turning to Alexander, said, "The best thing for you to do is to have me killed, because I will try again and again...a thousand times until I succeed in vindicating the life and honor of my father." He was still shaking, partly because of the excitement and agitation of the scuffle, and partly because of the hatred burning in his heart. The King gestured to the guards to leave.

"But, Sire -- " protested the officer.

"Out!" said Alexander. "Can't you see he's just a boy?" and the man obeyed. Then the King turned once again to Eteocles. "Your father's honor is fully intact. He died because of a fatal disease."

"It's not true!" shouted the boy. "You had him poisoned and you're trying to take his woman. You are a man with no sense of honor!"

Alexander moved closer and repeated, his voice firm. "I admired your father; I considered him my only worthy adversary and I dreamed of one day fighting him in a duel. I would never have had him poisoned; when I have to deal with my enemies I do so face-to-face, with sword and spear. As for your mother, she has made of me a victim because I think of her every waking moment; I am tormented by the thought of her. Love has all the strength of a god; love is irresistible and invincible. Man knows neither how to avoid it, nor how to escape it, in the same way that ultimately man cannot avoid the sun and the rain,birth and death."

Barsine sobbed in a corner, her face hidden in her hands.

"Have you nothing to say to your mother?" the King asked.

"From the very instant you first laid hands on her, she has no longer been my mother, she is nothing to me now. Kill me, I tell you, it is in the best interests of both of you. Otherwise I shall kill you and I will offer the blood of both your bodies to my father's soul, so that he may find peace in Hades."

Alexander turned to Barsine. "What shall I do?"

Barsine dried her eyes and composed herself. "Let him go free, I beg you. Give him a horse and provisions and let him go. Will you do this for me?"

"I warn you," said the boy once more, "that if you let me go I will speak to the Great King and I will ask him for armor and a sword so that I may fight in his army against you."

"If this is the way it must be, then so be it," replied Alexander. Then he called the guards and issued orders for the boy to be given a horse and provisions before being set free.

Eteocles walked away toward the door, seeking to hide the violent emotions gripping his soul as his mother called out to him. He did stop for an instant, but then turned his back once again, crossed the threshold, and went out into the corridor.

Barsine called out again, "Please wait!" Then she went to a chest and out of it pulled a shining weapon together with its scabbard. She rushed into the corridor and held it out to her son. "It is your father's sword."

The boy took it and held it close to his chest, and as he did so burning tears flowed from his eyes and made tracks down his cheeks.

"Farewell, my son," said Barsine, her voice quavering. "May Ahura Mazda protect you and may your father's gods protect you, too."

Eteocles ran off along the corridor and down the stairs until he came to the courtyard of the palace, where the guards placed a horse's reins in his hands. But just as he was about to leap astride the animal, he saw a shadow emerge from a small side door -- his brother, Phraates.

"Take me with you, I beg you. I won't stay here, a prisoner to these yauna," and Eteocles hesitated as his brother continued to plead with him. "Take me with you, I beg of you, I beg you! I don't weigh much, the horse will manage both of us until we find another one."

"I cannot," replied Eteocles. "You are too young and then...someone must stay with our mother. Farewell, Phraates. We will see each other again as soon as this war is over, and I will free you then." He held his tearful younger brother in a long embrace, then he leaped onto the horse and disappeared.

Barsine had witnessed the scene from the window of her bed-chamber and she felt herself wither at the sight of her fifteen-year-old boy galloping off into the night to face the unknown. She cried disconsolately, thinking of just how bitter the fate of human beings can be. Just a short time before she had felt like one of those Olympian goddesses painted and sculpted by the great yauna artists, and now she would gladly have changed places with the most humble of slaves.

Copyright © 1998 by Arnoldo Mondadori Editore S.p.A.

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Sort by: Showing all of 7 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted November 21, 2003

    This is THE Greatest Book Ever

    First of all, when I finished reading this book, I put it down, and whispered 'whoa' to myself. I was completely blown away. This definetely is an absolute thriller. I read this for a book report for school, and I enjoyed it so much that I went to B&N today and bought #2 and 3, and I have been recommending this series to virtually everyone I know. I must thank Manfredi for writing such a wonderful book, and Halliday for doing such an excellent job translating. I HAVE FALLEN IN LOVE WITH THIS BOOK!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 23, 2004

    Best Historical Novel of Ancient History Ever

    Without a doubt, this is the best book of Ancient Greek History I've read in a long time. Kudos to the author.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 2, 2003


    An excelent book. Do you want to know about a little one of the greatest warriors in history? and...well written!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 23, 2002

    amazing book

    the way this book is written makes you not want to put it down. Alexander is one of the most intresting people I've ever read about.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 27, 2002


    This book reads like part adventure novel, part biograpy. It is super captivating. You can tell that this was written by a person who has done not only research into Alexander, but the people he meets and the places he conquers.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 31, 2009

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted November 14, 2009

    No text was provided for this review.

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