Grooms led these around, harnessed and ready. Telemachus was bundled up onto one of them. Hecaetus helped Miriam onto a gentle palfrey beside the prisoner, and with Hecaetus’s men around her, they left the citadel. Darkness was falling. Miriam noticed how many of the fires had now gone out. Thebes was nothing but a wide sweep of ruins, broken walls, blackening stonework, and over all hung the dreadful stench of death. She glanced sideways at Telemachus. He was fighting back tears.
“Nothing,” he whispered. “There’s nothing left! A terrible price, Israelite? A warning to all Greece, eh?”
Miriam didn’t reply but grasped her reins more tightly. She wanted to be back in the camp. She wanted to be away from Thebes. Above all, she couldn’t bear the horror-stricken look in this man who was certainly doomed to a hideous death. Darkness enveloped them. Ahead the fires of the camp rivaled the stars now breaking clear in the velvet blackness above them. Miriam became aware of how silent this devastated city had become. Time and time again the Macedonian soldiers had combed it, looking for items of plunder that their predecessors had overlooked. Now it was a place of ghosts, of shades wandering from the shadows of Hades looking for their homes, signs of their former lives. Telemachus had his head down and was quietly sobbing at the full horror and degradation of what had happened.
Miriam recalled her father’s lamentations over Jerusalem. She had never seen the holy city, but her father used to tell her about the temple, the incense-filled courtyards, the streets, olive gardens, and cypress groves. About how the invader had brought it all low by fire and sword, reducing her people and culture to nothing but a sea of ash. The exiles had now returned. Miriam had vowed that one day she would join them, go to the holy place, and pray for her parents. She and Simeon had often discussed it though not in detail. She glanced sideways and wondered what Alexander would do to Telemachus. Suddenly a bright light caught her eye and she whirled round. They were passing what had once been a narrow alleyway in the poor quarter of Thebes; from the ruins a torch was tossed. It landed in their midst, creating chaos and consternation. Hecaetus shouted orders, horses whinnied and reared. Thankfully, Miriam was on the other side and she was able to steady her docile mount. She heard a sound like the whirr of a hunting hawk swooping from its perch. One of Hecaetus’s men threw his arms up and screamed. Something whipped by her face; there was a loud cry followed by a moan. She turned her horse around. Some of the riders had dismounted. One of Hecaetus’s men was lying on the road, his face visible in the pool of light thrown by the pitch torch. He was dead, eyes open, blood pouring out of his mouth. Miriam quickly dismounted, using her horse as a shield. An assassin was on the loose! Hecaetus’s men were already drawing swords, running toward the ruins. Her horse moved and she saw Telemachus; the arrow had caught him deep in the chest. He lay, his head half buried in a mound of ash. She scrambled over to the corpse. In a way she was relieved. Telemachus must have died instantly, the stout, feathered Cretan arrow having pierced him directly in the heart.
“You will tell us nothing now.” Miriam tried to close his eyes with her hand. She heard shouts and cries. A torch was picked up; Hecaetus crouched beside her.
“Whoever it was,” he grasped, “has gone. Very clever, very quick, eh Miriam?”
He got up and kicked the corpse. “Now his mouth is sealed for ever.” He shouted into the darkness, calling his men back. They had suffered two casualties: one of Hecaetus’s men was dead, the other had a slight arrow wound to the shoulder. Hecaetus thrust an arrow into Miriam’s hand.
“It’s one of ours,” he declared.
“It was taken from a Cretan this morning,” Miriam explained. “You know; I told you.”
Hecaetus had the horses collected, the corpses slung across, and muttering that the king would not be pleased, led them back into the camp.
Miriam found that the attack on the shrine and the deaths of the guards had already made itself felt. Alexander had moved the camp to military preparedness, as if they were in a hostile country expecting to do battle. No longer solitary sentries, but groups of men, gathered around camp fires within sight and earshot of each other. Deeper in the camp, groups of cavalry mounts were ready to take up any pursuit. The haphazard nature of the encampment had also been changed, avenues and paths laid out. Around the royal quarters in the center, a three feet moat had been dug, spanned by makeshift bridges.
Hecaetus would have liked to talk. Miriam explained that she was too tired and would be reporting all to the king. It was not so much Alexander’s questions she feared but Olympias’s. If the queen was in one of her moods, she would talk and talk until Miriam’s legs buckled under her. Simeon was waiting for her in their tent, seating cross-legged on his cot bed, carefully rewriting drafts of Alexander’s orders. Miriam threw herself down on her own bed, ignoring his questions. She realized how tired and grubby she felt.
“Don’t ask me any questions, Simeon.” She hardly bothered to raise her head. “My legs ache. My belly has had nothing but paltry food and all I have seen today is murder.”
Simeon came over with a goblet and told her to sit up. She sipped from the wine, wrapping her blanket round her. She felt warm and sleepy.
“Don’t disturb me,” she begged.
Simeon grinned. “Olympias has sent for you. She wishes to begin her play tomorrow.”
“Then she’ll have to do it without me!” Miriam snapped. “Simeon, do me a favor. Let me sleep. But go to the chief scribe in the king’s writing house and ask him if he has any records, manuscripts from the garrison at the Cadmea. Will you do that?”
Simeon promised he would, but Miriam was past caring. She put her cup down on the ground, pulled the army blanket over herself, and fell into a deep sleep.
She woke early the next morning clearheaded and refreshed but ravenously hungry. Simeon was snoring on the bed opposite. On the camp table she saw a mound of greasy yellow papyrus parchment; Simeon had kept his word. Shivering, moving around to keep warm, Miriam quickly stripped and washed herself with the water, a rag, and some oils that Simeon had laid out. She put on the thick-gauffered linen dress Alexander had given her as a present from an Egyptian merchant, picked up a military cloak-the heaviest she could find-and wrapped this around herself. She put on some leggings and a pair of stout military boots and went out into the camp. A heavy mist had rolled in. She could scarcely see in front of her, but she followed her nose and found a group of cavalry men cooking oatmeal and boiling a chicken. They declared, in round-eyed innocence, that they had been given it as a present. Miriam guessed they had filched it either from some deserted, outlying farm or from the quartermaster’s stores. They allowed her to join them, indulging in gentle teasing and banter. They gave her a bowl, first slopping in thick oatmeal mixed with honey and, when she had eaten that, pieces of chicken white and tender, chopped up and mixed with dry rye bread and olive oil. She ate quickly, listening to the men’s chatter.
“There were no incidents last night?” she asked.
The officer in charge shook his head.
“We don’t know what’s going on,” he moaned, “but the orders come down.” He peered across the fire at her. “You are a member of the royal circle. You should know more than us.”
“I’m just like a soldier,” Miriam replied. “I follow orders as well.”
Someone muttered a joke about Alexander’s bed. The officer, his mouth full of food, shouted that he would have no offensive remarks when a lady was present.
“How do you think this will go on?” he asked. “I mean, who has been killing these sentries? And the business down at the shrine. They say the guards were killed and the Crown stolen.”