A Murder in Thebes

CHAPTER 8

“That is nonsense!” Alexander exclaimed. “Oedipus is dead!” He sighed. “But I agree, ‘I learn in sorrow upon my head the gods have rendered this terrible punishment they have struck me down and trod my gladness under foot.’”

“‘Such is the bitter affliction of mortal man.’” Olympias finished the quotation from Sophocles.

“It’s strange,” Miriam interrupted. Both the Queen and her son glanced at her.

“What is it?” Olympias snapped.

“Here we are, in a devastated Thebes,” Miriam continued. “And what is happening? Echoes of Sophocles’ play.”

“Explain,” Alexander insisted.

“Well, the city was founded by the hero Cadmus, whom misfortune had befallen even before the city was established: he was ravaged by a fierce dragon, which he killed. However, heaven was still against him and the dragon’s teeth were sown on the site of Thebes. From these sprang a tribe of giants. Now, Oedipus was one of Cadmus’s descendants.” Miriam stared at the empty pillar. “Oedipus solved the mystery posed by the Sphinx but ended up killing his father, Laius, and marrying his mother, Jocasta, bringing down the judgment of the gods.”

“And how does this apply to my son?” Olympias fumed.

“Well, Oedipus has returned. The city is devastated once more. Alexander, in a metaphorical way, has sown dragons’ teeth. The Sphinx is represented by the riddles surrounding Memnon’s death-the spy in the citadel, the dreadful murders, and the theft of the Crown.”

“And so what do you suggest?” Alexander asked quietly.

“That we act quickly,” Miriam replied. “Word of this will spread. It will be in Athens within a week. Alexander may have destroyed Thebes, but Thebes is destroying Alexander. His men are being mysteriously killed, the Crown wrenched from his grasp, the displeasure of the gods made manifest for all to see.”

Alexander now forgot the Crown as he realized the implications of such propaganda.

“So what do you suggest,” he teased, “woman of Israel?”

“All those who know about this,” Miriam declared, hoping she was saying the right thing, “should be sworn to secrecy: the guards, everyone. This temple should sealed, the dead quietly buried.”

“Continue,” Alexander demanded.

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Miriam declared, but she looked at the corpses, the blood coursing along the floor, and she repressed a shiver. “That poor beggar man saw flesh and blood. If Oedipus had been sent by the gods, why should he kill the poor priestess? Or the soldiers? Why not do something more dreadful, like call fire from heaven? A true immortal,” she gibed, “could pass through marble walls and take the Crown.”

“You don’t take our legends seriously, do you?” Olympias, arms crossed, sauntered toward her. “You think they are children’s fables. My son called you a woman of Israel, you with your hidden God, whose name cannot be mentioned!”

Miriam looked over Olympias’s shoulder at Alexander, who had a warning look in his eyes. Olympias’s face was full of rage, not at Miriam but at being cheated of the Crown. And, as was her wont, Olympias vented her rage on anyone and everyone around her.

“Yes, I think your stories are legends and fables,” Miriam replied quickly, “but behind them are hidden truths; that is what we have here. Truth and lies. The truth is that Alexander conquered Thebes, which rose in rebellion.”

Olympias’s face softened. “And?”

“The lie is that someone wants to mock that victory. I don’t think it’s Oedipus’s wraith or specter but flesh and blood. He is here to weaken Alexander’s victory, to snatch a great prize from his hands. The theft and murders committed in the shrine are somehow connected to the death of Lysander and Memnon’s fall from the tower.”

“The Oracle?” Alexander asked.

“Yes, the Oracle. But I cannot see how he works. I discovered, my lord, that Memnon thought he had seen the shade of Oedipus in the citadel, yet two of his lieutenants saw him beyond the walls.”

“Treachery?” Olympias asked. “Hidden doors and passages?”

“No,” Miriam shook her head. “The citadel was well-fortified and guarded. Now this Oracle, dressed as Oedipus, terrorizes lonely sentries on the outskirts of the Macedonian camp. Tell me, my lord, imagine yourself as a sentry on the lonely heath land, a mile away from the camp. Someone approaches you.”

“I’d call out to him to stop.”

“But these don’t,” Miriam insisted.

“It could have been done by stealth.”

Perdiccas had come back into the temple, and was standing behind her.

“One sentry, perhaps,” Miriam replied. “Even two, but three or four? And the sentries here? If they’d seen someone approach they’d have issued a challenge. If the officer had thought it was threatening, he would have immediately raised the alarm, but that didn’t happen.”

“What are you implying?” Perdiccas snapped. “Some form of bribery and corruption among my men?”

“No, no, Perdiccas, don’t stand on your honor,” Alexander declared. “Miriam is trying to reach a conclusion.”

“It’s not much of one,” she confessed. “But the murderer of these soldiers came alone. They saw him as a friend; therefore, he must be a Macedonian.”

“Agreed.” Alexander kicked at a pile of cold charcoal ash. “But,” he continued, “let’s say a Macedonian did approach the temple steps. He’s welcomed by an officer and three guardsmen, the best my regiment can provide. What happens then? Does he start running about with a club? He may kill one but how can he slay three others and face no opposition?”

Miriam pulled a face. “I don’t know. That’s where my hypothesis fails.”

“And once in here,” Olympias snapped, “the soldiers welcome him with open arms?”

“That’s a real mystery,” Alexander declared. “The assassin has killed four of my soldiers; he takes the key and goes into the vestibule. Now the doors to the shrine are locked from the outside, but they are also barred from within.” He pointed to the doors and the bronze bar hanging down.

“The soldiers inside will only lift that if the password is given by either their officer or the high priestess but we know that, by then, both of them are dead. Moreover, the two soldiers have heard nothing of the violence outside.” He flailed his hands. “Yet the doors are unbarred, the assassin enters, quietly dispatches fighting men, and steals the Crown. How?” he demanded angrily.

“Again, I don’t know,” Miriam declared, her cheeks growing hot with embarrassment. “I can only describe what I think is logical.”

Alexander patted her gently on the shoulder.

“But what now?” Perdiccas asked. “If I accept your conclusion, Miriam, this Oedipus is one and the same as the Oracle spy. He now has the Crown. Why doesn’t he just flee?”

“Oh, he will, eventually,” Miriam agreed. “But not too soon; that would arouse suspicion. True, he has the Crown, but what’s he going to do with it? Now we go back to Sophocles. The playwright went to Athens; his tomb can still be seen outside the city gates.”

“Of course!” Olympias exclaimed. “And in the second play, Oedipus at Colonus, the blinded king goes to Theseus, king of Athens for succor.”

“Demosthenes!” Alexander exclaimed. He began walking up and down, rubbing his hands together as he did whenever he became excited. Now and again he would curl his fingers into a fist.

“He’ll sell the Crown to Demosthenes. Oh, how the Athenians will laugh.”

“That’s why you must act quickly,” Miriam insisted. “Issue a proclamation that we have the Crown.”

“What good will that do?”

“It will cause confusion,” Miriam declared. “I am sure our ironsmiths could fashion a Crown with a red ruby in the center. If our suspicions are correct, if this Oedipus is going to sell the Crown to the Athenians, our action will cause chaos. Demosthenes does not want to buy a fake and proclaim himself a fool throughout the length and breadth of Greece.” Alexander stopped his pacing. He smiled dazzingly at Miriam and then, going forward, wrapped her in a hug. She smelled the sweat from his body-wine mingled with olives.

“You are choking me!” she gasped, although Miriam was more concerned by the viperish look in Olympias’s eyes.

“I always said she was a clever girl,” the queen declared. “Alexander,” she purred, “you really should leave Miriam with me in Pella when you march against Persia.”

“And I’ll be dead within a week,” Miriam whispered.

“Nonsense, Mother!” Alexander stood away but he held on to Miriam’s hand. “Where I go, my companions always follow. Perdiccas, clear up the mess in here! Have the corpses quietly removed! Tell the guards to take an oath. Oh I, know some of them will chatter, but give them a gold piece each and tell them that if they blab, they could end up on crosses.”

“And the beggar?” Perdiccas asked. “Shall two of my lads take him into the trees and cut his throat?”

“No, no please.” Miriam gripped Alexander’s fingers. She could see that Alexander was about to confirm Perdiccas’s order. “Please!” she added, “there’s been enough killing!”

“He’s my prisoner,” Alexander declared. “He’s to be kept in honorable but very comfortable confinement. Mother, I suggest you go back to the camp. Miriam, where’s Simeon?”

“Outside,” Miriam replied. She was going to add that her brother could never stand the sight of blood but she bit her tongue just in time. They went out onto the steps; the corpses had been removed.

“We checked the wine and food, or what was left of it,” Simeon declared. “There’s no sign of any potion or philter. No evidence the guards were drugged.”

Alexander nodded and snapped his fingers at Perdiccas.

“I want this shrine closed.” He paused halfway down the steps. “How could they?” he whispered.

“What?” Miriam asked.

Alexander didn’t reply but, shaking his head, walked down the steps and strode into the grove. Miriam followed. Cretan archers now squatted among the trees; they rose as the king approached.

“Where’s the corpse?” he asked their commander, “the priestess?”

“There’s no corpse, my lord.”

“What?”

“We have searched, sir.”

“Where’s that beggar man?”

“He led us to the spot, sir, but there was no corpse. The earth appears to have been disturbed, kicked and scuffed. Something happened there. Come and see!”

The captain led them to the spot deep in the grove, a small clearing with a spring nearby. The patch of grass where the corpse must have lain had been brushed as if someone had tried to hide all signs of the priestess’s murder. The light was poor; Miriam squatted down. Dried flecks of blood were still visible, and she could see where someone had brought water from the spring to wash away the rest.

“Have the grove searched,” she demanded. “The assassin apparently came back, took the corpse, and hid it elsewhere.” She lifted her head and sniffed the breeze. At first she thought she must be mistaken. She smelled not only the acrid wood smoke but something else, the stench of fat left in a pan over a burning fire.

“In that direction.” She pointed deeper into the trees where the grove stretched beyond the shrine.

“I smelled it, too!” the Cretan replied.

“Didn’t you investigate?” Alexander asked.

“Sir, all of Thebes smells of burning.”

Alexander snapped his fingers and the Cretan hurried off. Alexander squatted down next to Miriam, poking at the earth with his dagger.

“Why burn the corpse?” he murmured. “That’s what’s happened isn’t it, Miriam?”

She agreed.

“But why?” Simeon echoed Alexander’s question.

“I don’t know.”

Alexander got to his feet and, not waiting for them, strode off, following the Cretan into the trees. Miriam, wrapping her cloak more firmly around her, looked at Simeon, shrugged, and followed. The olive grove apparently ran beside the shrine and then around to the back. The deeper they went into the trees, the stronger the offensive stench grew. At last, just behind the temple, the tree line broke and they reached the edge of a small glade. The Cretan commander was standing in a spot where small rocks thrust up from the earth. He was squatting down, hand over his mouth and nose, staring at a great patch of burning black remains. The smoke was still rising in spiraling gray wisps. Miriam approached. The corpse, or what remained of it, lay in a smoldering bed of ash. No distinguishing elements remained. The flesh had shriveled and bubbled; the bones were charred and had snapped.

“She must have been drenched in oil,” the Cretan declared. “Drenched in oil and set afire.” He drew his dagger and, poking through the ash, pushed the tip through the eye socket of the skull and lifted it up. He pointed to the great hole on the side.

“That’s her death wound,” he declared. “Her skull was shattered!”

“That’s why the beggar man met Oedipus,” Miriam declared. “He was going back into the grove to dispose of her corpse.”

The stench was so acrid that Alexander had to pinch his nostrils and walk away.

“Clear up the remains!” he shouted back. “Put them in a jar! The priestesses have a house here, haven’t they?”

“Yes,” Miriam replied.

“Then hand the remains to them.” Alexander went back into the trees, squatted on the fallen log, and put his face in his hands.

“Our killer has been busy,” he murmured. “And it’s my fault. I should have put guards in these trees. I issued a decree. All temples and their sacred groves were to be protected. I just didn’t want any of my men to give offence to the priestesses.”

“The killer had a free hand,” Miriam declared. “He could wander the grove, plot mayhem, and carry it out under the cloak of darkness. True, more soldiers may have prevented it, but, there again, I suspect the assassin would have only changed his plans.”

“In what way?” Alexander said crossly.

“He always intended to seize Oedipus’s Crown,” Miriam replied coolly. “By fair means or foul, probably the latter. He was determined to wreak havoc and destruction. However, let’s not concentrate on what might have been and what should be. By the way, your mother’s right, my lord, being cross doesn’t suit you.”

Alexander chuckled. “I haven’t eaten and I can still taste yesterday’s wine.”

“What is more important,” Miriam persisted, “is possibly the mistake our Oedipus made in burning that corpse. Why not just leave it out in the grove for all to see? I believe that the poor old woman was tortured for the password and for the instructions as to how the Crown was to be removed.”

“But she was a stubborn old thing.”

“Stubborn is as stubborn does,” Miriam replied. “But can you imagine being enticed into a grove by some horror from Hades who then binds you and begins some subtle torture.”

“Someone would have heard her scream,” Alexander objected.

“Not if she was gagged. Eventually she would have broken. Whatever, Oedipus or the Oracle did pot want us to see the signs of his destruction. Indeed, I wager her murder will be placed at your door.”

Alexander cursed and got to his feet.

“Her death will have to remain a secret,” he declared. “I’ll send orders to guard the priestesses’ house. They’ll not be allowed out to spread rumors.”

“Let me go there first,” Miriam requested. “I haven’t washed or changed, but those unfortunates had better be informed of what has happened.” She stared up at the entwined branches; the sky looked threatening with lowering gray clouds. We should be gone from here, she thought. Oedipus, horrors of the night, a devastated city, and a shrine that seems set to sour Alexander’s great victory. She glanced at her brother.

“Simeon, what will you do?”

“He’ll come back with me,” Alexander offered.

Miriam watched them go, listening to the crackle of bracken; then the grove fell silent. She stayed still and listened. No sound of birdsong. Was this place cursed? She had talked so rationally, dismissing all fanciful notions! She swallowed hard. This was a sacred place, to Thebans as well as to all of Greece. A great sacrilege had occurred. And what if Oedipus, that shadow of the night, still lurked among the trees? Miriam grasped her walking cane and hurriedly left the clearing. The Cretan archers were assembled, their captain calling out orders. Miriam approached him and made her request. The fellow nodded.

“Two of my lads will go with you.”

“They must not enter the house,” Miriam declared. “The priestesses will be frightened enough.”

The archers went before her, one of them claiming he knew in which direction the house lay. Miriam had visited the place the day before but she was still glad of the archers’ company. Images teemed in her mind: blood-splattered corpses in the shrine, the blackened, burnt remains of the old priestess. A killer was prowling Thebes, and he had already attacked her, trapping her in Memnon’s chamber. It would only be a matter of time before he struck again. When they reached the priestesses’ house, Miriam told the archers to be vigilant and walked into the courtyard. The door was off its latch. She pushed it open and walked into the sweet-smelling atrium. A young priestess appeared from out of the kitchen. She was dressed in a white linen shift, her feet bare. She wore no wig, and her face looked white and anxious.

“Where’s Mother?” she demanded.

The other priestesses sat in the kitchen, clustered around the table. From the smell, Miriam realized that they had been cooking.

“We were to have a feast today.”

“You are Antigone, aren’t you?”

The young priestess nodded.

“We were to have a feast today.” She continued as if Miriam hadn’t interrupted. “Jocasta said we should celebrate our deliverance.”

“Deliverance from what?” Miriam asked.

The young woman waved her forward.

“Your master Alexander, he has been most kind to us. He has kept his word. The shrine and this house have not been troubled.”

“But you are Thebans, and your city is destroyed.”

“Jocasta thought differently,” Antigone murmured. “When Pelliades killed Lysander and put his corpse upon a cross, Jocasta cursed him. If Alexander had been beaten off by Thebes, who knows what might have happened to us?”

“Why?” Miriam asked.

“Pelliades, leader of the council, was very angry with Jocasta. He accused her of being pro-Macedonian. In the city, so great was the hatred of Alexander that such an accusation carried the death sentence.”

“But you are priestesses?”

“Pelliades wouldn’t have cared. He was ruthless.”

Miriam nodded. She wondered if Hecaetus had any luck among the Theban prisoners. What a pity they couldn’t have laid hands on Pelliades. What a song he would sing, what information he could give. A man who had lost everything might reveal the name of this spy. She looked at the other priestesses and recalled the reason for her visit.

“I’d best come in,” she murmured. “I have something to tell you.”

“You should really wait until Mother returns.”

Miriam took her gently by the elbow and led her into the stone-paved kitchen. She stood at the end of the table.

“What time did Jocasta leave?” she asked.

“It must have been very late last night,” Merope, a middle-aged priestess replied.

“Why?”

“She is high priestess,” Antigone declared. “She may have visited the shrine, sat and prayed there; sometimes she did that.”

“She didn’t visit the shrine,” Miriam declared. “Your shrine has been violated. The Crown has been stolen. And, I am afraid, Jocasta has been killed.”

The priestesses looked at her in stunned silence. Antigone’s hand went to her mouth. She sat like a frightened child. Merope was the first to recover. She sprang to her feet, kicking the stool aside, her face contorted with rage.

“You did that! You and your bloody-handed masters. You’ve murdered Jocasta and stolen the Crown. You’ve committed blasphemy and sacrilege. All of Greece will know!” Her eyes filled with tears. “Jocasta was our friend, our mother. Consecrated to Apollo.” She paused gripping her stomach. “Jocasta was also your friend, a brave woman. She tried to save your envoy Lysander.”

The other women were now weeping. Miriam stood her ground. Merope picked up the stool and sat next to Antigone, putting an arm around her shoulder.

“I swear on my life,” Miriam declared quietly, “by any oath you wish me to take-by Apollo, by land and sky, by the name of my unknown God-Alexander of Macedon had nothing to do with this sacrilege.”

A wail of protest greeted her words.

“No, no listen!” Miriam held her hands out. “I have come here on my own. Two archers stand outside, but they are forbidden to enter. Please!” Her voice rose at their cries of protest. “Please listen to what I say. I can produce proof!”

Merope was about to object but Antigone clutched her wrist.

“Let the Israelite speak,” she declared. “There is no lie in her face or voice. Let us at least listen.”

She gestured to a stool. Miriam sat down and fought to hide her own fear. The thin, slender priestess known as Ismene had brought her hand from beneath the table. She was gripping a knife. Miriam held her gaze.

“An attack on me,” she added, “will achieve nothing. Let me tell you what I know.”

They sat and listened as Miriam began to describe what had happened. The murder of Lysander; the mysterious death of Memnon; the presence of a spy in the Cadmea; the deaths of the sentries; the appearance of Oedipus; and the events of the previous night: the deaths of the Macedonian guards, the violation of the shrine, and the murder of Jocasta. When she had finished, they cried again, but this time more softly, more controlled.

“I speak the truth,” Miriam affirmed.

Ismene threw the knife onto the table. “I accept that you do.”

“So why did Jocasta leave?” Miriam asked.

Antigone replied, telling her what had happened, how this shadowy figure, undoubtedly Oedipus, had been seen around the house on different evenings, standing just beneath Jocasta’s bedroom window. How the old priestess had kept a vigil, waiting for him to come; how last light she had accepted the invitation to go out.

“I thought she was safe,” Antigone concluded. “What could an old priestess fear from the god whose shrine she guarded?”

“But weren’t you anxious,” Miriam asked, “concerned when she didn’t return?”

“No. The Macedonians were friendly. Jocasta spoke most kindly about the guards at the shrine. They called her Mother, did everything to help. The officer, in particular; he was most courteous and kind.” Antigone smiled through her tears. “Jocasta even called him son. I thought she would go there. She often did. It was her second home, the whole purpose of her life. So why should someone kill her? Treat her so barbarously?”

“Tell me,” Miriam said, “did any of you know the password to the temple?”

They shook their heads.

“And before you ask,” Ismene spoke up, “we didn’t know how the Crown could be removed; that was a secret passed from one high priestess to another.”

“Are you sure?” Miriam asked.

“By the land and the sky,” Antigone retorted, “I cannot tell you. Nor can any of my sisters.”

“What will happen now?” Ismene asked.

Miriam explained that Alexander wished to keep the matter as secret as possible. That they still had hopes of trapping the murderer and that they were not to leave the house.

“You will be well looked after,” Miriam added reassuringly. “The king is firm on this matter. It is to be kept secret until it is resolved.”

Miriam got up, walked to the door, and stared out. The grove did not look so green and peaceful now, but dark and threatening. She couldn’t see the archers and she realized that it would take some time for Alexander to muster a guard and send them out to protect this place. Antigone joined her.

“What is the matter?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Miriam replied. She scratched her head.

“Show me where Jocasta saw Oedipus.”

Antigone led her out of the house and around to the back. The small wicket gate was unlatched. Miriam went through and stood at the edge of the wood. She could see no marks in the soil. She looked around. The house was built in a clearing surrounded on all sides by the olive grove; the trees clustered thick and close. Jocasta, she thought, must have gone willingly but then, deeper in the woods, the mysterious stranger must have struck.

“A place of death.” Antigone spoke Miriam’s thoughts. “This used to be so different.”

Miriam looked around at her.

“The citizens of Thebes called this the women’s place. Before the troubles started, few men came here except when the oath was to be taken and the Crown removed. Now it is a place of the sword, of violent men.” Antigone drew close and grasped Miriam’s hand. “Who was it?” she asked. “Why did he come every night and stare up at Jocasta’s room?” She pointed to the window, the shutters were still flung back.

“I don’t know,” Miriam replied, “but I suspect that our killer is a cunning and devious man. His presence every night was comforting. Jocasta would have been pleased. Perhaps she thought she was seeing a vision, some form of reassurance from the gods. A promise that, though Thebes had fallen, the shrine would remain. Anyway, once the killer gained Jocasta’s confidence, it was easy to entice her down. However he did not want her, but only the secret she held.”

Miriam was about to continue when she heard a scream, like the shriek of a bird, from the front of the house. She hastened around, Antigone behind her. The front door was open. Ismene had apparently walked out across the yard to the edge of the olive grove. Now she came back, her hands covered in blood.

“They are dead!” she screamed. “The guards you brought! They are both dead!”

Miriam rushed by her. Forgetting any sense of danger, she crossed the yard to the edge of the clearing. The Cretan archers lay a few paces apart, blood seeping out from the terrible wounds in their skulls.