Wondery Plus subscribers can listen to Tides of History early and ad-free right now.

Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts.

The dust was everywhere.

The tramp of so many tens of thousands of feet on the dried-out summer plains of Gaza

drove the stuff into the air in thick clouds.

It got into the mouths, noses, and eyes of the soldiers,

leaving them hawking up gobs of brown phlegm and shedding tears

that left thin trails in the dirt stuck to their faces.

Poros, son of Attalus, wiped his hand across his mountain, grimaced, and spat.

The other horsemen around him were doing the same, and their mouths winnieed and tossed their heads to be rid of the stuff.

There was plenty of dust in the gnome of Arsinaway, especially around the edges, where the fertile soil around the oasis gave way to the harsh surrounding desert,

separating it from the Nile. But this felt different, thicker, nastier, like a curse sent down

by the gods to plague the soldiers of King's Colomy and Antiochus. Maybe it was him, though. Horus

had fought plenty in his 30 years against marauding Libyan tribesmen and

rebellious Egyptian peasants, and even a few Persian horsemen, but he had never been anywhere near

a battle like this. Nobody alive in this part of the world had. His hands gripped the horse's

reins, and it was all he could do not to haul on them and try to escape. Before he left Arsinoa, Horace's father Attalus had told him of their ancestors' deeds

and other great battles.

The two men shared a cup of wine, like equals, the first time in Horos' memory that he had

really felt that way.

Attalus Monophthalmus, the one eye, his left socket cleanly bisected by a long, straight gash that ran from

his hairline to the edge of his mouth, had always seemed terrifying to his son. As hard as the

...