The Conqueror and the Rose
Roxana kept her head bowed as Alexander stepped towards the captives of war, sweeping his cloak behind him. He passed by all of the women with the indifference and sobriety that rivalled their fairness and beauty.
"The Bactrian women are eyesores," His deep, passionate voice ran out, earning the chuckles of his generals.
That was when she realized that a pair of feet in leather soles had stopped before her. Slowly, she looked up. She saw a pair of metal greaves on strong, sturdy legs. She saw a kilt and scaled armour securely tied off at the shoulders. On the centre of his chest was engraved a sun with a face drawn on it. Then she focussed her eyes on his chiselled jawline, then at his arrogant mouth, and then his mismatched but clear brown and blue eyes.
Roxana's eyes widened. This was the greatest commander ever known on earth, the one who massacred thousands of citizens who revolted against him in Thebes, the one who had burned down the palace complex of Persepolis in one night, and the one who never lost a battle in his life. She wanted to look away from his intense gaze. But she lifted her chin a little higher and boldly locked her gaze with his.
"What is your name?" He asked, his expression stone cold. She felt his hand touch a lock of her long, dark brown mane. His gaze bore into her eyes so piercingly that she decided to cast her head to the side.
"Roxana, my lord." She replied.
"Who is your father?"
"Oxyartes, mighty warlord and nobleman of Sogdia."
"Ah, Oxyartes. I know him. I know him very well," He smiled. Then he bent down so that the tips of their noses were almost touching. She could feel his warm breath which turned into mist in the freezing winter air. Roxana shivered.
"Tell your father that I have come," He whispered, "And that his people are now my people."