Sitting at the foot of the Acropolis, I was before the very gates of eternity, looking toward the horizon: the sea, silvery waves, and sailing boats. Socrates had been condemned to poisoning. Plato's republic was now a mere shadow on the walls of a cave. Athens and its ruined palaces, the great city of Thebes that I myself burned down, and Macedonia, a land rich in cereal crops but poor in the arts: these three formed a vast prison locking me in its unhealthy backstreets and decadent ways.

Disguised as a soldier, I loitered around the port of Athens looking for easy pleasures. Boys hovered round me, flashing me looks and tugging at my arm. The most beautiful succeeded in getting me to sit down and share their cheap wine. The sun was setting over the sea and the clouds turning scarlet. Growing steadily more drunk as my frustration grew, I could not find a single face that attracted me, a body that smelled good, a person who could bring me gratification to distract me from my gloom. I turned a street corner and caught the eye of a frightened little boy selling dates under a tree. Inexplicably, my body was inflamed by him. I grabbed him and, despite his pleading and crying, dragged him to the nearest inn and emptied myself into him.

The following morning I left Athens as soon as the sun was up, horrified by the memory of that drunken night, by the little boy's terrified expression-so like Alexander's as a child. I had committed Philip's crime. His soul was distilled in my blood. In death, he lived through me, making a mockery of my pointless rebellion.

I needed greater acts of cruelty, fiercer battles! I had to gallop and climb and throw myself at the highest battlements. Only arrows and the sparking clash of swords, only the cries of dying men and the flames of burning cities, could exorcise my anguish! With Greek cities pacified, the world had become too small to contain my suffering, which prospered more swiftly than my pleasure. I needed new cities, barbarian nations, and unknown lands to deflate my pain.