Christian Cameron - Destroyer of Cities

And then there were weeks of negotiations. But for all those weeks, the food poured in, so that the pithoi under the old temple floor filled with grain again. And as soon as the negotiations started, something changed in every man and woman. Although there was wine to drink, no one was drunk.

Miriam wore the full robes of a woman, and put off the boy’s tunic she had worn for months. When she did, so did the other women who had fought to the last.

The newly enfranchised citizens were assigned homes.

No one kissed in the streets. But the law courts returned to their function.

The stone of the third wall was retrieved to reface the theatre.

Before the ink was dry on the papyrus, the city had begun rebuilding.

And then, one morning more than a year after he had landed, Demetrios, the remnants of his army and his fleet, packed and sailed away for Greece. They left six thousand wretched slaves, who were immediately fed by the city and put to work.

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.