sun, already high, made their helmets and cuirasses gleam, and their shields dazzled.
Still Alexander slept. His companions had the greatest difficulty waking him, but when he rose, he mounted Bucephalus and rejoined the right wing, at the head of the Macedonian cavalry.
Darius, at the center of his elite infantry—ten thousand Immortals, so called because whenever one died in the course of combat he was immediately replaced—gave the order to attack. He set the bulk of his cavalry on Alexander’s left flank and sent his chariots to thrust through the central phalanx. The king of Macedonia did not seem concerned. He led his cavalrymen toward the right, as if he wanted to skirt the front on that side, provoking, as in a mirror, the same shift in the opposing cavalry, but with the effect of severing it from the rest of the troops and stretching out the front. While Parmenion was subjected to the Persian assault, the phalanxes were preparing themselves for impact. When the chariots were no more than fifty meters away, this human hedge, bristly with lances, opened to form several aisles. At the same time, the trumpets sounded, and all the foot soldiers began to strike their iron shields with their swords. This incredible clamor spooked the teams of horses; some halted abruptly, causing the chariots to tumble, while others instinctively rushed down the lanes formed by the soldiers. Closing back in on them, the phalanx swallowed and digested them with jabs of its sarissas. It must be admitted, however, as Diodorus said, that some chariots, having avoided this defense, did terrible damage in the places where they landed. The cutting edges of the scythes and other metal fittings attached to their wheels were so sharp they brought death in a number of different ways—taking off some soldiers’ arms along with the shields they carried, cutting off others’ heads so suddenly that when they landed on the ground their mouths were still mid-roar. Several unfortunates were cleaved in two and died before they felt the blow.
Once Alexander calculated that he had drawn the Persian cavalry far enough, and as it was preparing to attack, he abruptly turned his horses half around, revealing the corps of slingers that his advance had concealed. Leaving these skilled warriors to pelt the Bactrian cavalry with their stones, he rushed into the breach and galloped off toward the center of the opposing army, right at the Immortals protecting Darius. An excellent opening! A line of red ink between the paragraphs of the battle! In the sandy dust raised by the combat, thousands of men are gutted in the terrible melee; swords and Macedonian javelins send blood spurting into the air, splatter the yellow robes embroidered with lavender, split hooded heads, rend wicker shields; axes and curved swords descend on the hoplites, smash crested helmets, slice, kill, mutilate unrelentingly. Caught up in a parallel fury, the men butcher one another, their disemboweled mounts gnashing their teeth. The dying continue to advance; they choke on pink foam, stumble, entangled in their own entrails. A single cry of pain seems to emanate from the mounds of the dead and wounded, whose bodies cushion their assailants’ steps. The Immortals are as resurrected as they can be, they are not renewing themselves fast enough to scatter the Macedonian wave. And suddenly, behold, they are disbanding, the Persian center is broken, Darius is fleeing. It is at this moment, as Alexander sees his opponent’s motley chariot disappearing in the dust, that a messenger reaches him: on the left flank, Parmenion and his Thessalonian cavalry are faltering before the Persians; without reinforcements they will not last long.
It was at this moment that Miss Sherrington chose to shake her master’s shoulder: “Monsieur, please, Monsieur Canterel . . .”
Martial Canterel was stretched out on a bed that had been imported at great cost from an opium den in Hong Kong. The battlefield was spread out across the floor, occupying almost the entirety of the parquet surface; twenty-five thousand lead soldiers, which he had spent several days positioning in order to reproduce this pivotal moment: should Alexander go after Darius, or rescue Parmenion?
“Miss Sherrington?” he said, raising glassy eyes to hers. “I’m listening.”
“You have a caller,” she said, holding out a card to him. “And, if I may, you should stop smoking that filth. It’s not good for your health.”
“It’s medicinal, Miss Sherrington. You can address any commentary to Dr. Ménard.”
Canterel took a look at the card and sat up immediately.
“By the Holy Candle of Arras, Holmes! Holmes is here, and you didn’t tell me! Why haven’t you sent him up?”
Miss Sherrington raised her eyes to the heavens, as if she were dealing with an imbecile.
“I’ve been trying to wake you for ten minutes . . .” And, indicating the opium kit that was lying on the bed: “I’ve brought your medication, or do you need even more?”
“Out of here, please, and spare me the sarcasm.”
Martial Canterel was forty-five. Imagine a thin face, hair slicked back and sticking up in all directions—the hair of a man who sends for his barber each morning and gives him as a model a portrait of Louis II of Bavaria at the age of eighteen—big green eyes with lashes so thick that one would have thought him naturally made-up, a nice nose, and—between a French mustache and a tuft of hairs forming a fan under his lower lip—a fleshy little mouth with a disconcerting pout. His mustache was no less bizarre: very thick beneath the nose, it rippled out horizontally, stretching to an uncommon length before rising up, and then fading into tawny whiskers. Canterel maintained it obsessively. Add to this a braided frock coat over a waistcoat of quilted silk, a white-collared shirt with a double bow tie the color of a Périgord truffle, cashmere trousers, and gray beaver boots, and you will understand that the figure whom we are examining cultivated the appearance of a dandy.
Canterel inspected his attire in the mirror. He was adjusting his collar when Holmes entered, followed by a black man whom he did not know.
“Hello, my friend!” Holmes said, stepping forward with his arms outstretched. “Just what are you playing at, Martial, having me wait at your door like some common delivery man?”
“Stop, not another step!” said Canterel, flatly.
“What’s the matter?” asked Holmes, worried, tottering on one foot.
“Look in front of you, old chap, you were about to trample Cleitus the Black’s squadron!”
“By Jove!” he said, seeing the armies of lead soldiers that covered the floor. “Have you gone mad, my dear friend? What is the meaning of this?”
He put on his spectacles and carefully squatted down for a closer look.
“Very nice, a splendid collection! I’ve never seen a set so complete . . . Alexander and his companies! The Immortals, Darius on his massive golden chariot!”
“Mine’s only gold-plated . . .”
“Regardless, Canterel, it’s absolutely extraordinary!”
Holmes stood up in order to take in the whole scene, waved his hand vaguely as he deliberated, and grimaced. “At first glance, this looks like the Battle of Issus, but there is something that doesn’t quite make sense in the left wing . . . I’d say the Granicus or . . . No! Of course, it’s Gaugamela, right as Darius is turning to run from the attack of the Macedonian center!”
“Splendid,” said the other man, “it’s quite easy to visualize the nasty position that Parmenion’s troops have found themselves in, and how Alexander could still lose the battle . . .”
“And whom do I have the honor . . .?” asked Canterel, allured by the shrewdness of this remark.
“Allow me to introduce Grimod, my butler,” said
