Free The Liars' Gospel by Naomi Alderman

its fluttering flags, she knew something was wrong. Her father’s grip tightened on her shoulder.
     He stood still. Behind them, back the way they’d come, there was a tight knot of men, walking slowly but at a steady pace.
     The shutters on the buildings nearest the Hippodrome were shut and closed tight with wooden pegs. To the right, up the narrow
     alleyway, another small group of men. Burly farmers with corded muscular arms, each with a long bag on his back.
    The soldiers on the steps of the Hippodrome were laughing. Two of them were throwing dice. The others had wagered money on
     the outcome. Some were on lookout, most were watching the game. Miryam’s father’s grip was like iron tongs on her shoulder.
     They were in a thin crowd—some other parents with children, or whole families, each looking as frightened as they. They walked
     into the Hippodrome square, moving as quickly as they could without breaking into a run. Passing an open doorway, she saw
     that the dark room beyond was full. She had the impression of watchful black eyes, of shifting flesh, of the dull sheen of
     metal. Men had come to Jerusalem from all over the country for this festival. The thing had been planned.
    The day had grown overwarm and clouded, the sky off-white. The breeze faded away, the air was soft and moist as damp cloth.
     A splash of rain fell onto the cream marble plaza. A heavy, ripe droplet which burst on the dusty stone. And then another
     drop, and another. And as if the rain had been a signal they had agreed on long before, the men came.
    Screaming, they ran. Dark-skinned and red-mouthed, letting every rasping breath go from their lungs with a cutting edge like
     their metal blades. Wild shouting, anger howling, swinging their iron arms like free men whose home was overrun by vermin,
     they pelted up the steps of the Hippodrome and began the slaughter. The first guards, shocked by the sudden inrush, legs trembling,
     died before they had unsheathed their swords. Miryam saw one split from stomach to throat—a quiet smiling man who had unloosened
     his breastplate with the hotness of the day. Another soldier went down screaming, calling to the garrison.
    There were arms around her, suddenly. Strong arms around her waist and under her shoulders, lifting her up off the ground
     though she kicked and wrestled, pulling her back, gripping her close, and in her confusion it was several moments before she
     realized that the voice shouting in her ear, “Be still! Be still!” was her own father’s.
    He ran with her, as the rain fell more strongly and the men screamed, ran back through the crowd. Charged at them with his
     shoulder, held her pressed close into his chest so that she could only inch her face to the side to breathe and, with one
     eye open, see glimpses of those who pushed forward. They were smiling hot, blood-grins. It was those soldiers who had taken
     their land, it was this man, and this, who had stolen their harvest, their women, their God. Miryam did not see where her
     father was running to, only that he was striving against the sea, pushing away from the place of blood.
    When at last they came to rest and the noise was more distant, she saw at once that her father had taken two gashes, one across
     his shoulder, through the fabric of his robe, and one to his ear, which was half gone, the top sliced off, and oozing dark
     blood. He had collapsed, with her still grasped firmly by one of his arms, on a pile of sacks. They were in a dark room across
     the courtyard from the Hippodrome. She tried to stand up, but her father pulled her back.
    “Be still,” he whispered, and fell back onto the sacks.
    Clasped against his chest, Miryam could feel his breathing, rapid and shallow. His grip loosened, and she crawled out from
     under his arm, staying low. The shouting and the dreadful cries from the square were increasing. She saw a long trickle of
     blood run down her father’s neck and, feeling with her fingers in the