A Murder in Thebes

CHAPTER 9

Miriam heard a crackling amidst the trees. Someone was lurking, staring out from the tangled greenery. She caught a movement, a figure stepping out from behind one of the thick, gnarled trees. She turned and ran, pushing the priestesses ahead of her through the door of the house and slamming it behind her. Miriam brought down the bar, screaming at the others to shut the windows. No sooner was this done than something thudded against the shutters, and wisps of smoke curled into the house. Miriam had been in enough sieges to know what was happening. Their assailant was in the trees. He had lit a fire, taken the Cretan’s weapons, and was now loosening fire arrows at the house. She murmured a prayer of thanks that the building was of stone, its roof of red tiles. But what would happen if there was more than one attacker? If they tried to force the door? Was this the horrid-shaped Oedipus who had already caused such bloody chaos? Or was it a roaming party of Theban soldiers? The priestesses were frantic with anxiety. Miriam shouted at them to keep silent, and she told Antigone to wash the blood from Ismene’s hands. What was happening was a result of foolishness and naïveté. Alexander had ravaged the city of Thebes but that damned grove, with its tortuous paths, had not been guarded. From the top of the stairs Antigone screamed. Another fire arrow had hit a shutter on the upper floors. Others followed. Smoke curled in, thick gray wisps as the dry wood caught fire. Miriam noticed water jars in the kitchen. Some were too heavy to move but she scooped water into jugs and cups; the others did likewise thereby drenching the shutters from within. Ismene was beside herself with fear, sitting at the foot of the stairs, hands waving, feet stamping, shrieking like a child. Antigone ran to her, slapping her hard on both cheeks before hugging her close and crooning sweet sounds into her ear like a mother would her child.

“Do you have any weapons?” Miriam asked. “A sword, a spear?” She coughed as the smoke caught in her nostrils and throat.

“Nothing but kitchen knives,” Antigone replied.

Miriam noticed the peephole in the front door, a slat of wood that could be pulled aside. She opened this carefully and peered out. The forest edge looked deserted. She was about to sigh in relief until she noticed wisps of smoke along the far wall. She stared in horror as a figure, terrible to behold, stood up. He was dressed in wild skins, a mask over his face. She could see that his hands and wrists were stained in blood but that he was no ghost or specter. With his great horn bow he loosed another fire arrow. What did he hope to achieve? Miriam hastily closed the shutter as the arrow hit the door. She ordered the priestesses to drench this with water and she reopened the shutter. Miriam could see nothing untoward. Then the figure came up again, arrow notched, but this time he paused, looking behind him as if he had heard some sound. The bow was hastily dropped. Miriam closed the shutter and went to sit with the rest as they huddled at the bottom of the stairs. She heard shouts, the clink of armor. She grasped a knife from the kitchen table and opened the shutter. Macedonians had arrived: guardsmen in their plumed helmets, shields and spears in their hands, but the officer directing them looked confused. He could see that the house had been under attack and he was vainly searching for the assailant. Miriam opened the door.

“Over here!” she called.

The officer hurried forward, wiping his sweat-soaked brow on the back of his wrist. He recognized Miriam.

“What is the matter, mistress? We’ve seen the corpses of two Cretans. They were killed in the same way as the sentries around the camp, skulls staved in, brains and blood spilling out.”

“We were attacked,” Miriam replied, “by whomever it was that killed the Cretans.” She pointed at the charred shutters, the still-smoldering doors. “Though no real harm has been done,” she forced a smile, “my legs still tremble and my stomach is pitching.”

The officer turned around shouting orders.

“Weren’t there soldiers in the grove?” Miriam asked.

The guards officer shook his head.

“There’s a rumor,” he declared, “that something happened at the shrine. Perdiccas ordered the guards and archers stationed there back to camp to take an oath.”

Miriam pulled a face. Of course, that was what Alexander had decided earlier. In fact, she had recommended it. The assailant must have discovered this and exploited the gap between the soldiers leaving and fresh ones arriving. Yet how had he killed those archers? Such men were fierce fighters? They wouldn’t have given their lives easily.

“I want a guard around this house!” Miriam declared. “No one is to approach the priestesses unless they carry the personal seal of Alexander.”

The officer agreed.

“You are the Israelite, aren’t you? Perdiccas told us to look out for you.”

He spoke with that lazy, easy charm, a characteristic of Alexander’s officers. Once they recognized her, they would do what she asked and, in teasing good humor, offer no objection. Miriam stared back through the open doorway. The priestesses had now regained their composure. Antigone, despite being the youngest, calmed them down, served them cups of watered wine. Antigone was cool, self-assured. During the attack she had acted as bravely as any soldier.

What, Miriam wondered, if there was more than one Oedipus, a group of ardent Thebans dedicated to Alexander’s discomfiture? Miriam crossed her arms and walked away, leaving the officer looking nonplussed. Such an explanation, she reasoned, would resolve a number of mysteries. How Oedipus could have been seen inside and outside the Cadmea. And what if this group was both male and female? A lonely soldier would not regard some pretty girl as a threat though a woman like Antigone could wield a club as deadly as any man. Had Antigone encouraged Jocasta to go out? Had someone like Antigone, or indeed her sisters in the order, learned both the password and the secret way of lifting the Iron Crown? Such thoughts ran wild in her mind. One Oedipus? Two, or even a dozen?

“Mistress.”

She turned around. The officer was looking at her strangely.

“I’ll leave a guard here, as you say. Is there anything else?”

“Yes, yes, I’m sorry,” Miriam apologized and walked over to him. “Tell your men not to stay alone or to stand guard by themselves. Treat anyone who approaches you-man, woman, or child-as suspicious, unless as I said, they carry the King’s personal seal.”

The officer nodded and shrugged. “I would agree with that.”

Antigone came out of the house, a blanket wrapped around her, though her feet were still bare. Her eyes were red-rimmed but otherwise she looked serene enough. Miriam recalled her suspicions. Addressing Miriam, she said, “We have allowed no one near this house.” Turning to the officer, she continued, “And we will not unless they are escorted by you; that’s how it all began.”

“What do you mean?” Miriam asked.

“When the city was stormed,” Antigone replied, “the king sent an officer with the seal of Macedon to assure Jocasta and the rest that we and the shrine would be safe.”

Miriam half heard her; Alexander had done that throughout the city, dispatching envoys to the different temples and shrines to afford them protection. The priestess turned, about to go back to the house.

“Did you leave the shrine during the siege?” Miriam asked.

Antigone whirled round. Miriam saw the flush on her face.

“We have nothing to do with war,” she declared, drawing herself up. “The only time was when the elders of the council led by Pelliades came to the shrine to take the oath that they would fight to the death. And, of course, to ask Jocasta to act as the intermediary to swear that Lysander would be returned unharmed.”

“An oath they broke,” Miriam declared. “Why did they come to see Jocasta?” she continued. “Why not to some other shrine or temple?”

Antigone licked her lips, opened her mouth to reply, but then glanced away. “It was my idea,” she answered.

“What?” Miriam drew closer. She took the woman by the elbow and led her into the house.

“I am not what I appear to be.” Antigone closed the door. She peered around Miriam to ensure that she was out of earshot of the rest.

“You are a priestess,” Miriam declared, “a keeper of the shrine.”

“I am also kinswoman to Pelliades, leader of the Theban council.” She glimpsed the surprise in Miriam’s eyes.

“Pelliades came here,” she declared in a rush. “He was full of what he called great news. Alexander’s army had been massacred in the Thessaly mountains. The Macedonian king was dead, the League of Corinth dissolved. Thebes would be free again.”

“And he came here to ask Jocasta to intervene?”

“No, no. He came here to see me,” Antigone retorted. She rubbed her cheek. “He always did. I’m his niece. He had no children himself and often brought gifts for myself and the other sisters. I’ll never forget that morning; Pelliades was almost dancing with joy.”

“He and who else?” Miriam asked.

“Telemachus, his confidant, his aide. They were rejoicing. They’d poured oil on their heads and drunk quite heavily. All Thebes, they said, would soon know the news.”

“Why didn’t you tell us this?” Miriam interrupted.

“You never asked,” Antigone replied in mock innocence. “But then again, Miriam Bartimaeus, when Alexander’s soldiers are marauding through the city and Pelliades is at the head of their list of wanted men, it is not the time to declare kinship!”

“Did Pelliades tell you” Miriam asked, “how he had learned such news?”

“He was going to but Telemachus restrained him, urging him to caution. He said it wasn’t right that I should know but Uncle was insistent. He said they had a spy in the Cadmea. Someone who had Thebes’ interest at heart. Telemachus laughed at that. More like Persian gold, he quipped. Pelliades, however, said this man was a friend of Demosthenes and that he had confirmed the news, a closely held secret in the citadel, that the Macedonians had suffered a terrible setback in Thessaly.”

“Did he give any indication, please,” Miriam grasped her hand, “as to who this person was?”

“He said he was an officer.”

“Did Jocasta know all this?”

“Oh yes, she always insisted that she be present when Uncle was visiting.” Antigone smiled sadly. “We are all consecrated virgins and Jocasta took her duties very seriously. Moreover, there was a secret agreement between Jocasta and the council that if Thebes ever fell Jocasta was to take the Crown and hide it.”

“Then why didn’t she?”

“Jocasta was furious with Pelliades. He had broken his oath to her and killed Lysander. She cursed him, told him never to visit this house again. I think Pelliades would have taken the Crown himself but the council would never have accepted such blasphemy.”

“And this spy?” Miriam prompted her. “And Lysander?”

“Well, this was before Pelliades broke his oath. He said he wanted to avoid all bloodshed, that he would be happy if the Macedonian garrison left, walked out of Thebes, and never came back. I remember asking him why their spy didn’t just open the gates. Telemachus laughed. He reminded me that there was one main gate and a small postern door; their spy had told them that both were closely guarded.”

“Of course,” Miriam interrupted, “and if the citadel was attacked, the Macedonians would have sold their lives dearly.”

“Naturally.”

“But if Pelliades and Telemachus wanted the Macedonian garrison to leave, why didn’t they negotiate with Lysander instead of killing him?”

“Jocasta never understood that,” Antigone replied. “You see, when Pelliades was talking about negotiations and avoiding bloodshed, Jocasta offered her mediation. She was a priestess; she would guarantee Lysander’s safety. Pelliades seized on that, claiming it would be very useful.”

“But what changed his mind from honorable negotiations to foul murder, displaying Lysander’s corpse on a cross?”

“Jocasta said,” Antigone went and sat at the foot of the stairs, “she said it all occurred so quickly. As you know, the Thebans had built a palisade around the Cadmea.”

“Until then,” Miriam asked, “the Macedonians had been allowed to wander through the city?”

“Oh yes, until everything became tense and rumors started to spread. You see, at first, they were just rumors. Alexander dying, his army being defeated, a revolt in the Macedonian capital at Pella. When these rumors were confirmed as fact,” Antigone sighed, “the palisade was built, the citadel put under a virtual state of siege.”

“Then negotiations were opened?”

“Yes, and you know what happened. Captain Memnon sent out Lysander.” Antigone waved her hand. “You asked me why they killed Lysander. Afterward Pelliades came here; he tried to make his peace with Jocasta.” She smiled wryly. “He wasn’t even allowed in the yard. So I had to go out to meet him at the gate. Of course, I was furious as well. I asked him why he had violated Jocasta’s oath, his promise to her and to me. Pelliades was more sober-minded now. He said that when Lysander came out, one of the Thebans councillors had said something that, if Lysander took it back to the citadel, might reveal the identity of their spy. Indeed, Lysander seemed to recognize this; he became alarmed and stepped back. The councillor, realizing his mistake, drew his dagger and, before Pelliades could stop him, plunged it into Lysander’s throat. Pelliades claimed that he had no choice but to display the corpse, turn what had happened to their advantage, show the garrison that there was really no hope whatsoever.”

Miriam opened the door and stared out. The officer was arranging a guard around the house. She closed the door and leaned against it, a tingle of excitement in her stomach. She had finally discovered a loose thread.

“And you have no idea,” she asked, “what this councillor said?”

Antigone looked as if she was going to shake her head.

“Please!” Miriam went and knelt before her. “Pelliades has gone. Thebes is a desert. It’s no longer now a question of just Macedon. Jocasta’s murder must be avenged.”

Antigone put her face in her hands.

“I did ask Pelliades. He was furious at the councillor. Oh, they didn’t care very much about Lysander, but their spy in the Cadmea was very valuable. If I remember correctly, the councillor jokingly referred to the spy as a woman.”

“A woman?” Miriam exclaimed.

“That’s what he said. It apparently meant something to Lysander. According to Pelliades, Lysander became pale. He actually spat out, ‘That treacherous bitch!’ ” She spread her hands. “That’s all I can tell you.”

Miriam went and opened the door. She called across to the officer and asked him to send a message to the Cadmea demanding that the officers Demetrius, Patroclus, Melitus, Alcibiades, together with Cleon, meet her in the mess hall.

“May I have an escort as well?” she added.

“Of course the officers are ready. And by the way, mistress, my men have scoured the woods, and they can find no trace of the attacker.”

“And his weapons?” Miriam asked.

“As I have said, no trace.”

Miriam thanked him and closed the door. Antigone still sat at the foot of the stairs, arms crossed, rocking gently backward and forward. Miriam caught her by the arm and helped her to her feet. “You’re safe,” she reassured her. “Alexander will not lift his hand against you.” Miriam walked Antigone away from where the others, now much calmer, sat in the kitchen peering out. “Antigone, I trust you. Is there anything else you can tell me?”

Antigone’s dark-green eyes shifted.

Miriam continued, “The other priestesses, could they have been involved in Jocasta’s death? Let me explain. Someone is able to move around the Macedonian camp.”

“They were all in the house when that man attacked.”

“No, no,” Miriam declared, “what happens if there’s a killer, and a woman, one of the priestesses, is working with him?” Miriam flinched at the hardness in Antigone’s eyes. “I have helped you. I have confided in you and for that you have my thanks and Alexander’s protection.”

Antigone’s face softened. “I apologize,” she murmured, “but the Crown is gone, the shrine is violated. What happens to us now?”

Miriam patted her on the shoulder. “Alexander will take care of you. There are other temples, other shrines that could use your skills. I beg you to reflect further on what I have said. Is there anything else you can tell me? Be prudent.” She stepped away. “And do not leave this house.”

Miriam made her farewells and reached the Cadmea just after noon. During her walk back she could see that Alexander had acted vigorously. The revelry in the camp had been cut short. Soldiers and archers now patrolled the olive groves. An entire corps had been deployed around the shrine. At the citadel the garrison had been strengthened, the men standing to arms. Officers and heralds were moving about, proclaiming that no Macedonian was to wander by himself. Any stranger who approached an outpost must be recognized as an enemy. She found Demetrius and the rest waiting for her in the mess hall, lounging on benches; this time there were no grins or sly jokes. They soon assembled around the main table.

“I can see that you have heard the news.” She bit her tongue.

“What news?” Alcibiades lisped.

“The dead guards?” Cleon asked.

“And the other business?” Demetrius snapped.

“What other business?” Miriam demanded.

“Oh, we have heard gossip, rumor. Something happened at the Oedipus shrine.”

“I have not come to talk about that. Is it possible to have some watered wine, food? I haven’t eaten since last night.”

Cleon hurried off to the kitchen. He brought back a small bowl of watered wine, cut-up bread, a small pot of honey, and some rather wizened apples.

“It’s the best I can do,” he apologized.

Miriam thanked him. She nibbled at the food and sipped at the wine.

“I have learned two things,” she said, clearing her mouth. “First, before matters became tense in Thebes, you were allowed to wander the city at will?”

“Of course,” Demetrius replied. “Beer shops, wine booths, the pleasure of the brothels. You know soldiers, Miriam, no commander likes to keep them cooped up like chickens. But, as I told you, the rumors started, two of our lads disappeared. Memnon ordered us back into the citadel and then the palisade was built.”

“But you could go where you wanted before things turned sour?”

“Oh, yes,” he agreed.

“What’s the second thing?” Melitus asked.

“Ah!” Miriam put the wine bowl down. “I know why Lysander died. I honestly think,” Miriam continued, “the Theban council simply wanted to get you out of the Cadmea and well away from Thebes. There was no secret plan to massacre you. They simply wanted you out and their citadel back. Now, in the negotiations between the Thebans and Lysander one of the councillors made a terrible mistake. He referred to their spy as ‘that woman.’ Now apart from the servant girls, there was no high-ranking lady or wife of an officer. Yes?” She studied their faces quickly and caught the flicker in Alcibiades eyes. “However, Lysander seemed to know exactly what this councillor was talking about. He reacted. The Thebans realized their spy had been betrayed-”

“-So Lysander was killed.” Cleon finished the sentence.

“I suspect,” Miriam declared, “that the councillor was referring to a man. I ask you now, on behalf of the king, insulting though this epithet is, why should Lysander become alarmed?” Miriam could tell that the officers were alarmed by what she had said. Alcibiades blushed, Demetrius became agitated. “I’m an Israelite,” she declared. “I am not Macedonian. However, I have lived at Philip’s court. The old king was killed by Pausanias, one of his bodyguards. Pausanias, how can I put it?”

“He liked dressing up as a woman,” Patroclus scoffed. “It was well known. And you are right, Israelite, there are a number of Macedonian officers who sometimes dye their finger nails, paint their faces, and curl their hair.” He leaned across the table. “In doing so they only imitate their betters.”

“You are referring to the king?” Miriam asked.

“It has been known,” Patroclus declared. “And I have seen Hephaestion at feasts and banquets.”

Miriam knew he spoke the truth. Alexander and his companions, particularly when in their cups, were known to imitate the rather effete fashions popular in Athens.

“We are not talking about the king or his companions,” she replied heatedly, “but a spy responsible for the slaughter of Lysander and possibly the death of Memnon and other heinous crimes against the king.”

“We cannot help you,” Demetrius intervened. “True insults are traded, gossip is passed round. But I’ve never heard any of my companions here called a woman, or seen any of them dressed as or act such a part. Indeed,” he gibed, “we are as mannish as you are!”

Miriam colored at the insult.

“There’s no need for that.” Alcibiades spoke softly.

Demetrius wouldn’t hold Miriam’s gaze. He gestured with his hand.

“No, mistress, there isn’t. I apologize. But we have been besieged in this citadel; we held it for the king. Now we are being accused of being spies and killers.”

“There is one thing.” Patroclus, like Cleon, had remained calm, either because he had nothing to fear or because he could hide his agitation well.

“I never told any one of this,” he declared, “because at the time it didn’t make sense. It was before the siege began. Or, as you put it mistress, before matters turned sour. We all became lonely and wanted to meet a friendly face as well as grasp a pair of juicy tits or firm, round buttocks. The Cadmea is not the most hospitable place. So we used to stroll down to the city. The Thebans were not happy with our presence but they tolerated us and took our silver. One day Lysander came back. He was slightly drunk. It was late in the evening. He squatted in the courtyard, eating bread and talking to some of the men about his adventures in a pleasure house in the city. How the Theban women were like cats and that he had the scars to prove it. The men drifted away. I went and sat beside him. We got to talking. Lysander, well, he was in his cups; he turned to me and said, ‘Patroclus, have you ever wanted to dress like a woman? I mean, not like the court fops or dandies, but in women’s clothing, sandals-actually pretend you are one?’ ‘No,’ I replied, ‘Why?’ ‘On my journey back from the city,’ Lysander replied, ‘I didn’t think it was possible, but one of our comrades is a woman.’ ‘Who?’ I asked.” Patroclus stared down at the tabletop.

“And?” Miriam asked.

“Well, Lysander was an officer. He became embarrassed and said he shouldn’t spread such gossip. At the time I agreed and walked away.”

“You never told anyone about that?” Demetrius demanded.

“I didn’t think it was important.”

“Can you remember the day?” Miriam asked.

Patroclus put his head in his hands and, muttering to himself, began to count back the days.

“You know why I ask? Was there a duty roster?” Miriam demanded.

Demetrius was about to object.

“There must be,” Miriam declared. “Where is it now?”

“When Alexander arrived and the city was taken. .” Demetrius wouldn’t meet her gaze, “. . all such papers were handed over to the scribes in the treasury. They’ll have it.”

“Is there anything else?” Miriam got to her feet. All five just stared at her, so Miriam thanked them for the food and their cooperation. She left the hall, went out into the courtyard, and stopped. Hecaetus and his boys were there, crouching. At their feet, thick ropes bound around him, was a bedraggled, bloody-faced prisoner. Hecaetus minced forward.

“Pelliades may be dead.” He turned with a theatrical gesture. “But look, Israelite, whom we have found!”

“Hecaetus, you should have been on the stage.”

“That’s what Olympias said. She wants me to take part in her play! Now, aren’t I a clever boy? This is Telemachus.”