I saw him there in the temple of the god of healing, a shadow amongst the shadows, the sudden scintilla of Persian sequins, a glint of gold. There was a whispering of heavy silks and the overpowering scent of foreign flowers which his out of season dark cloak could not conceal. He moved with the practiced grace of a dancer flowing from shadow to shadow, instinctively avoiding the light of the temple lamps until the last moment when he approached the offering table, placed a small object upon it, and disappeared all in one quick and uninterrupted moment. He was there and then he was gone. Curious to see what manner of gaudy bauble might profane the god's temple, I went to inspect the offerings. He had placed it apart from the others. There overshadowed by the rich vessels of gold and silver sat an old and worn child's toy, a little Persian chariot with turning wheels attached to a crude clay horse with a string for pulling, the very sort of toy with which little boys all over the world play while they are dreaming of becoming warriors among men. It was chipped and battered. He must have had this one thing left of his childhood. He must of carried it when he marched with us across the great frozen mountains down into the valley of the Indus. It would have been with him when Alexander lie dying from the wound of the Mallian arrow. He would have carried it as we endured the deserts of Gedrosia. It represented the old illusion which had given small comfort through his hard and hopeless life. He had given to the god his old childhood dream of becoming a warrior in exchange for the life of the greatest of all warriors, Alexander. There was a tiny scrap of parchment rolled neatly into a tube in the chariot. As I unrolled it, I saw written in childish Greek, Ένα παιχνίδι από ένα παιχνίδι "A toy from a toy" Bagoas Perhaps Bagos old friend, you grew up to be a soldier after all and a man like me, strong enough to trade your last illusion for your last hope.