have no love for me!”
“Then, who?” Miriam asked.
“I don’t know.” Cleon shook his head. “I really don’t. You see, Miriam . . .” He pushed the bowl away. “All of us could be
described as secretive or lonely men.”
“What do you mean?”
“We were in a siege. Tension in the Cadmea was palpable. We all tried to look for some refuge for ourselves. One person would
go off here, another there.”
“But did you see anything suspicious?”
“Nothing.” Cleon made a cutting movement with his hand.
“But Memnon did?”
“He might have, though he never mentioned it to me. Allhe could talk about was the traitor. Someone who knew the strength of our garrison.” Cleon licked his lips. “He did become
a little suspicious toward me.”
“Why?” Miriam asked.
“Memnon had two great fears. One was the spy, but the other?”
“Was a mutiny?” Miriam asked.
“Yes, a mutiny. Memnon was concerned that his officers, would believe that the Macedonian army had been destroyed and killed.
And that they might murder him and open negotiations with Thebes for some sort of honorable surrender.”
“So this worry could have caused him to commit suicide?”
Cleon picked up the napkin and dabbed at his mouth. He smiled at Miriam from under his eyebrows.
“I would like to say yes. I would like to put my hand on some sacred object and swear that Captain Memnon’s mind was turned,
that his wits were as wandering as flies in summer. But that wouldn’t be the truth. I don’t think Captain Memnon committed
suicide.” He leaned his arms on the table. “But only the gods know how he was murdered.”
“I ask the same question myself.”
Miriam started and turned. Alcibiades stood in the doorway. He sauntered across, picked up a piece of stale bread, and sat
on the bench next to Cleon. He had been drinking, and his eyes were red-rimmed, his pale face sweaty; the tunic he wore still
bore stains from the previous night’s feasting. He scratched his unshaven cheek.
“Don’t worry. I am going to have a bath.”
Cleon wrinkled his nose. “And not before time,” he whispered.
Alcibiades playfully nudged him back but his eyes held Miriam’s. She saw the malevolence, the sneering look.
“You don’t like me, do you?” she asked.
She moved the writing satchel from the table on to the bench beside her.
“It’s not that, my dear. I just don’t like women in general. And I don’t like those who come snooping into men’s affairs.”
He chewed noisily on the bread, deliberately opening his mouth so Miriam would look away.
“Do you like Israelites?” Miriam asked.
“You are the first I have met. So, no.”
“Hush,” Cleon intervened, “she’s from the king’s writing office.”
“I couldn’t give a donkey’s fart where she’s from!” Alcibiades retorted. “I am a Macedon, I can speak my mind. I was loyal
to Philip and I’ll be loyal to his son. I have marched through freezing snow. I have had the sun burn my arse! I have stood
in battle line with the rest and I’ve never retreated.” He turned and spat the bread out of his mouth onto the floor. “I was
a loyal officer of the garrison.” His voice became strident. “As is Cleon and the others! I saw no treachery. We should be
rewarded not treated with suspicion.”
“I fully agree.” Demetrius, clapping his hands, came in with Patroclus and Melitus. They bowed sardonically at Miriam and
then wandered into the kitchen looking for food. They came back talking noisily about the feast the night before—like boys
in a school room determined to antagonize their master through dumb insolence rather than direct insults. They sat on the
bench, scraping their bowls with their fingers, slurping beer from their cups.
Miriam sat patiently. She had been raised among men like these, coarse but brave. Soldiers who believed women had a certain
place in the scheme of things but it certainly wasn’t in their mess
“Then, who?” Miriam asked.
“I don’t know.” Cleon shook his head. “I really don’t. You see, Miriam . . .” He pushed the bowl away. “All of us could be
described as secretive or lonely men.”
“What do you mean?”
“We were in a siege. Tension in the Cadmea was palpable. We all tried to look for some refuge for ourselves. One person would
go off here, another there.”
“But did you see anything suspicious?”
“Nothing.” Cleon made a cutting movement with his hand.
“But Memnon did?”
“He might have, though he never mentioned it to me. Allhe could talk about was the traitor. Someone who knew the strength of our garrison.” Cleon licked his lips. “He did become
a little suspicious toward me.”
“Why?” Miriam asked.
“Memnon had two great fears. One was the spy, but the other?”
“Was a mutiny?” Miriam asked.
“Yes, a mutiny. Memnon was concerned that his officers, would believe that the Macedonian army had been destroyed and killed.
And that they might murder him and open negotiations with Thebes for some sort of honorable surrender.”
“So this worry could have caused him to commit suicide?”
Cleon picked up the napkin and dabbed at his mouth. He smiled at Miriam from under his eyebrows.
“I would like to say yes. I would like to put my hand on some sacred object and swear that Captain Memnon’s mind was turned,
that his wits were as wandering as flies in summer. But that wouldn’t be the truth. I don’t think Captain Memnon committed
suicide.” He leaned his arms on the table. “But only the gods know how he was murdered.”
“I ask the same question myself.”
Miriam started and turned. Alcibiades stood in the doorway. He sauntered across, picked up a piece of stale bread, and sat
on the bench next to Cleon. He had been drinking, and his eyes were red-rimmed, his pale face sweaty; the tunic he wore still
bore stains from the previous night’s feasting. He scratched his unshaven cheek.
“Don’t worry. I am going to have a bath.”
Cleon wrinkled his nose. “And not before time,” he whispered.
Alcibiades playfully nudged him back but his eyes held Miriam’s. She saw the malevolence, the sneering look.
“You don’t like me, do you?” she asked.
She moved the writing satchel from the table on to the bench beside her.
“It’s not that, my dear. I just don’t like women in general. And I don’t like those who come snooping into men’s affairs.”
He chewed noisily on the bread, deliberately opening his mouth so Miriam would look away.
“Do you like Israelites?” Miriam asked.
“You are the first I have met. So, no.”
“Hush,” Cleon intervened, “she’s from the king’s writing office.”
“I couldn’t give a donkey’s fart where she’s from!” Alcibiades retorted. “I am a Macedon, I can speak my mind. I was loyal
to Philip and I’ll be loyal to his son. I have marched through freezing snow. I have had the sun burn my arse! I have stood
in battle line with the rest and I’ve never retreated.” He turned and spat the bread out of his mouth onto the floor. “I was
a loyal officer of the garrison.” His voice became strident. “As is Cleon and the others! I saw no treachery. We should be
rewarded not treated with suspicion.”
“I fully agree.” Demetrius, clapping his hands, came in with Patroclus and Melitus. They bowed sardonically at Miriam and
then wandered into the kitchen looking for food. They came back talking noisily about the feast the night before—like boys
in a school room determined to antagonize their master through dumb insolence rather than direct insults. They sat on the
bench, scraping their bowls with their fingers, slurping beer from their cups.
Miriam sat patiently. She had been raised among men like these, coarse but brave. Soldiers who believed women had a certain
place in the scheme of things but it certainly wasn’t in their mess
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