Virtues of War

Hephaestion is a philosopher; they are warriors. He is a knight and a

gentleman; they are murderers. Don't mistake me; Hephaestion has

depopulated districts. He has presided over massacres. Yet these

don't touch him. He remains a good man. The monstrous does not

exist within him, and even the commission of monstrous acts

cannot cede it purchase upon him.

He carries nine great

wounds, all in the front. He is taller and better-looking than I, as

good a speaker, with as keen an eye for country. Only one thing

keeps him from being my equal. He lacks the element of the

monstrous.

For this I love him.

After me, Hephaestion is the ranking general of the

expeditionary force, which is to say of the army entire. Many envy

him bitterly. Craterus, Perdiccas, Coenus, Ptolemy, Seleucus—all

consider themselves better field commanders. They are. But

Hephaestion is worth the pack to me. Him awake, I can sleep. Him

on my flank, I need look neither right nor left. His worth exceeds

warcraft.

What drives the soldier is cardia, "heart," and dynamis, "the will to fight." Nothing else matters in war. Not weapons or tactics,

philosophy or patriotism, not fear of the gods themselves. Only this

love of glory, which is the seminal imperative of mortal blood, as

ineradicable within man as in a wolf or a lion, and without which

we are nothing.