“There was someone here,” she whispered, “and I don’t think they meant me well.” She then described what she had read in Memnon’s manuscript. Simeon whistled under his breath.
“The specter of Oedipus!” he joked. His face became serious; he stared owl-eyed at his twin sister. She was so different from him, tall and resolute. Simeon liked the comforts of life. He felt at home in the writing office, sifting through parchments, drafting letters, listening to the gossip, reveling in the excitement that always surrounded Alexander. Miriam, that determined look on her thin face, was always wandering off to places where she shouldn’t.
“Come on,” he urged. “You haven’t eaten. Let’s leave this benighted place. Alexander is holding a banquet.”
By the time they reentered the camp, the revelry had already begun. They were stopped by cavalry patrols and sentries in the iron ring Alexander had placed round his sprawling camp. Alexander was cautious. A small portion of the Theban army, including the cavalry, had escaped. Alexander was wary of the silent assassin, or the madman who might try his luck in delivering one blow, one knife thrust.
They found the king in a banqueting tent, a huge pavilion of costly cloths, now turned into a drinking hall. All around, shaped in a horseshoe, were small banqueting tables, cushions, and other costly chairs and stools looted from hundreds of Theban homes. Torches burned brightly on lashed poles or spears thrust into the ground. Huge pots full of burning charcoal sprinkled with incense provided warmth. The tent flaps were open allowing the cold night air to waft away the smoke.
Alexander lounged at the top of the tent on a makeshift couch, his household companions on either side. Perdiccas, Hephaestion, Niarchos, Ptolemy, and the principal commanders of the different corps. Food was being served: lamb, beef dressed in different sauces, great platters of stone-ground white bread, bowls of fruit. A makeshift banquet but the unwatered wine was copious and flowed freely. A page led them to a table on Alexander’s right. The king lifted his head. He had bathed, his hair was cut and oiled, his face closely shaven. In the torchlight Alexander’s face had a burnished look. Miriam smiled and winked. Alexander loved to imitate the appearance of a god and now he posed as a victorious one. He had deliberately donned his dress armor; a gold-wrought breastplate, where snakes writhed and turned; silver armlets on his wrists; a thick military cloak fastened around his neck by a silver clasp.
“Greetings, Miriam, health and prosperity! And you Simeon?” He drank from the cup and went back to whisper to Hephaestion.
Miriam groaned. “It’s going to be a long night,” she whispered.
Dancing girls, accompanied by a dispirited group of musicians were ushered in, but the revelers were not interested in dancing or music. Some of the guests started throwing scraps of food at them. Alexander clapped his hands and wearily dismissed the dancers. His commanders were intent on eating and drinking their fill, reveling in their victory, boasting of their own prowess. And, of course, the toasts began.
“To Alexander, lion of Macedon! To Alexander, captain-general of Greece! To Alexander, conqueror of Persia!”
Miriam leaned back on her cushions and smiled across at Eurydice, Ptolemy’s mistress, a beautiful, olive-skinned young woman with oil-drenched ringlets framing her perfectly formed face. Her gray eyes had a glazed look, and there was a petulant cast to her mouth.
“She’s like us,” Simeon whispered. “She’d prefer to be elsewhere.”
Miriam absentmindedly agreed. She was settling down, slowly drinking her cup of very watered wine. Alexander was now in full flow.
“We will wait for Mother,” he declared, “and then take counsel.”
“Not return to Macedon?” Perdiccas asked.
Alexander shook his head. “We shall not return to Macedon,” he slurred, “until we have marched in glory through Persia. By the spring we shall be across the Isthmus. I shall sacrifice to Achilles among the ruins of Troy.”
“Oh no!” Miriam whispered, “not Achilles!”
“And then,” Alexander lurched to his feet, swaying tipsily, cup in hand, “we will march to the ends of the earth.”
His triumphant shout was greeted by roars of approval. Alexander sat down.
“For those who wish to,” he smiled, “you may retire! But those who drink can stay!”
Some of the women left, followed by some of the lesser commanders who had duties to carry out. Miriam excused herself, but Simeon said he would stay. She put down the cup, slipped out of the tent, and stood allowing the night breezes to cool her. She collected her writing satchel from the groom she had left it with and made her way back to the tent she shared with Simeon.
The camp was noisy, fires glowing in every direction. Soldiers staggered about, but officers dressed in full armor and horsehair-plumed helmets, kept good order with stout ash canes. Soldiers lurched up from the campfires and staggered toward her. When they recognized who she was, they mumbled apologies and slipped quietly away. The camp followers were doing a roaring trade in different tents and bothies and she could hear the hasty, noisy sound of lovemaking. Somewhere soldiers were singing a raucous song. From another place she heard the piping tunes of flutes. Horse neighed. Servants hurried through with bundles on their backs. Miriam looked up. The sky was clear, the stars more distant than in the hills of Macedon. She recalled Alexander’s words. He would never go back there. She wondered about his boast to march to the ends of the earth. Sometimes Alexander, in his cups, would talk of leading his troops to the rim of the world, of creating an empire dominated by Greece that would make the world gasp in surprise. He wants to be greater than Philip, she thought; he wants to outshine him in every way.
She pulled back the flap of her tent and went in. Someone had lit the oil lamp on the table; it still glowed weakly. She picked up the scrap of parchment lying beside it. She made out the letters in the poor light.
“Doomed, oh lost and damned! This is my last and only word to you for ever!”
Miriam’s heart quickened. She fought hard to control her trembling. She recognized the quotation from Sophocles and recalled the mysterious intruder outside that lonely chamber in the Cadmea. She was being warned, and if Simeon hadn’t come? She sat down on the thin mattress that served as a bed.
“Miriam.” She started. Hecaetus poked his head through the tent flap, smiling sweetly at her like a suitor come to pay court.
“You shouldn’t crawl around at night, Hecaetus. It doesn’t suit you!” she snapped.
“May I come in? I have a visitor.”
“I can’t very well stop you.”
Hecaetus entered. He pulled his great cloak more tightly.
“It’s so cold,” he moaned. “Why doesn’t Alexander march somewhere warm, where the sun always shines. By the gods, where is he?” He went back and pulled up the tent flap. “Come on man,” he said pettishly, “the lady’s tired and I’m for my bed.”
The man who lumbered in was small and thickset; a scrawny mustache and beard hid the lower part of his face. His hair was unkempt and oil-streaked. He moved awkwardly, nervously staring around the tent.
“This is Simothaeus.” Hecaetus made the man sit. “He’s a soldier, served under Memnon. Come on. Do you want some wine?” Hecaetus spoke to the man like some disapproving aunt. The man shook his head, eyes fixed on Miriam. She smiled and he grimaced in a show of broken teeth. Hecaetus sat between them and patted the man’s bony knee.
“Simothaeus likes drinking, and he’s been rejoicing at his king’s victory. Do you want some wine, Miriam?”
“I drank enough in the king’s tent.”
“Yes, I’m sure you did.” Hecaetus’s womanish face became petulant. “Always the servant, never the guest.” He waved his hand foppishly. “Alexander needs me but never invites me to drink with him.”
“He knows you are a skilled hand at poisons.”
Hecaetus, eyes crinkled in amusement, wagged a finger. “You are very naughty, Miriam; I only remove the king’s enemies.”