That evening, Satyrus and Abraham, Miriam and Charmides, Anaxagoras and Melitta and Jubal, Thyrsis and Scopasis and a half-dozen others sat comfortably on stools in the cool autumn breeze with members of the boule and Antigonus, the new commander of mercenaries. Demetrios’ fleet was still visible, their sails like knife cuts in the edge of a parchment.
‘He’ll be back,’ said Abraham, raising a wine cup.
Satyrus shook his head. ‘Never. He and Antigonus One-Eye are finished.’
Anaxagoras was gently strumming his lyre. He looked up. ‘Were we finished? At any point?’ he asked softly. ‘They are, in their way, great men. They will find more warm bodies to carry their spears and pull their oars, and the world will have no peace until they are hacked to pieces.’ He began to play the hymn to Ares very softly.
Miriam sat back and stretched like a cat. ‘I hate them,’ she said. ‘I hate them all. None of them is great. They are all little men trying to be that great monster, Alexander. I spit on his shade. They posture and kill and torture and inflict catastrophe — why? To be more like a man who died drunk and alone at thirty-three!’
Antigonus of Pella looked at her for a moment, and bit his lips. ‘Alexander was a god,’ he said very carefully, through his teeth.
For a moment, she looked at him, her face impassive.
And then Miriam laughed. And her laughter — the ancient derision of women for the foolish games of men — rolled out over the sea, and followed Demetrios.