A Murder in Thebes

CHAPTER 13

The rain fell in sheets, drenching the camp; it seemed as if the heavens themselves were stretching down to complete the picture of devastation around Thebes. Miriam sat in her tent half listening to the heralds postponing the play that was supposed to take place the following morning. She looked at Castor standing before her.

“You are sure?”

“Mistress, as I am that I am standing here. The staircase was dark but the cloak the man was wearing was very similar to the one that that priestess wore.”

“But it was not the priestess herself?”

“Oh, no,” the boy said hurriedly. “But I remember that it was thick and gray, the edges trimmed with red stitches.”

Miriam glanced at Simeon.

“Very observant,” her brother replied. “That’s what Antigone was wearing but such cloaks are fairly common.”

Miriam gave the boy a coin and watched him go out, splashing in the mud.

“Brother, pass me Antigone’s gift.”

Simeon tossed it across. Miriam pressed it against her face and sniffed carefully. She could detect nothing, so she unrolled it. Near the middle, where it had been draped around the priestess’s throat, she sniffed again.

“Brother, here! Smell this; can you catch a fragrance?”

Simeon took the cloth and sniffed at it. “A slight one,” he said, “of perfume.”

Miriam took it back and sat holding the piece of silk.

“Everything is wrong,” she murmured. She recalled Antigone squatting in the temple, watching them make their discovery; the table in the garret above Memnon’s chamber and the fragrance she had detected there.

“But that’s impossible!” she exclaimed.

“What is?” Simeon demanded.

“I smelled some perfume on a table in the Cadmea. It’s the same as on this piece of silk.”

“Perfumes are common,” Simeon replied, “as are cloaks. You don’t think Antigone is the Oracle, do you?”

“No.” Miriam shook her head. “I’ve spoken to virtually everyone who used that tower. Never once were any of the priestesses seen in the citadel. But, it is a coincidence.”

“Antigone couldn’t kill a man,” Simeon declared.

“No, no she couldn’t.”

The flap was pulled back and Alexander, accompanied by Hecaetus, slipped into the tent. The king shook himself like a dog and sat on Simeon’s bed, staring across at Miriam. He had lost his look of exhaustion; the skin around his eyes was smooth. He wiped the rain from his face.

“I’m so glad the weather’s broken,” he declared. “It’s kept Mother in her tent. She hates the rain. She even talks of going back to Pella sooner than she’d planned. Hecaetus, would you like to go with her?”

“Don’t threaten me, my lord. You know I would be dead within a month. Olympias would kill me just for the sport of it.”

Alexander laughed.

“Mother hates rain.” He leaned forward. “Her face gets wet, the paint runs, and she hates to look old. That’s why she stopped campaigning with Father and why we moved to Pella. There’s supposed to be less rainfall there. Miriam, I want you to pray to your known God that it rains until the army marches. Yap! Yap! Nag! Nag! Anyway, I received your message about the Crown.”

Miriam told him what she had discovered. Alexander sat, fingers to his lips, listening attentively. When she finished, he stretched toward her and gripped her hand.

“You were always better at logic than I. I never dreamed that black iron bar was the solution. However, it won’t bring back the Crown. It won’t capture the Oracle, and Memnon’s blood, as well as Lysander’s, still cries to the gods for vengeance.”

“Does it really matter?” Simeon asked. “Soon the army will move; Demosthenes has fled from Athens. You are undisputed captain-general of Greece.”

Alexander clapped his hands.

“You are right. What happened here will soon be forgotten. Until I cross the Hellespont. Then Demosthenes will scurry back to Athens.” His face grew tight. “And do what he is very good at-whisper, gossip, gossip! Say that Alexander is cursed! That the removal of the Crown was a sign of the gods’ anger toward me! So, I want that Crown! I want the Oracle crucified!”

“This spy. .” Miriam turned to Hecaetus. “Before all this began, you knew there was a spy in the Cadmea?”

“I knew for two reasons,” the master of spies replied languidly. “First, the rumors in Thebes itself. Second, we intercepted a letter from Demosthenes to his Persian paymasters.”

“What did it say?” Miriam demanded angrily.

Hecaetus closed his eyes and swallowed hard.

“The actual quotation was, ‘So you have been informed that there’s a spy in the Cadmea to harm Macedon’s interests?’”

“Why didn’t you tell me this?”

“I did tell you, in as many words!”

“Say it again.”

Hecaetus repeated the phrase.

“So, the spy could be working for anyone: Demosthenes, the Persians, as well as the Thebans?”

“So it appears to me. Anyway,” Hecaetus added crossly, “it’s the same thing. Thebes relies on Athens, and Athens relies on Persian gold.”

“But bear with me.” Miriam held her hand up. “This was a letter from Demosthenes to the Persians?”

“Yes.”

“And he is repeating information received from the Persians?”

“I suppose so.”

“And why do you call him the Oracle?”

“It’s a word Demosthenes uses in the next sentence, ‘This Oracle,’” Hecaetus closed his eyes, “‘could be of more value than the one at Delphi.’”

“So,” Miriam persisted, “the spy could be working for the Persians?”

“Of course.”

“But who would have informed the Persians?”

Hecaetus blinked.

“What are you saying?” Alexander asked. He loosened the tight strap on one of his sandals and rubbed the top of his foot against his leg. He cocked his head sideways, a common mannerism whenever he was puzzled.

“It’s possible,” Miriam replied, “that one of the garrison simply opened negotiations with Persia. However, that’s very dangerous; he would probably have had to use someone in Thebes, or even more perilous, someone in Athens.”

“And the more people know, the more dangerous it is.”

“Naturally.”

“So?”

“There is another alternative.”

“You mean?” Hecaetus broke in, “Persia already had a spy here, who, in turn, bribed a member of our garrison?”

“It’s a possible interpretation of Demosthenes’ letter.”

“And?” Alexander asked.

Miriam heaved a sigh.

“And nothing, my lord; that’s as far as I can go. But, I beg one favor. Have the soldiers on the shrine and at priestesses’ house doubled. Tell the officers to be most vigilant. The priestesses are not to leave.”

“I can’t very well stop them.” Alexander got to his feet. “I gave them my word that they would be protected and given safe passage.”

“It’s raining,” Miriam replied. “Surely, my lord, priestesses cannot travel in such weather?”

Alexander came back and ruffled her hair.

“Let me know what happens, and by the way, Miriam, hide that piece of blue silk. If mother sees, it she’ll want it.”

Hecaetus would have stayed but Miriam insisted that she wanted to be alone. When her visitors had gone, she picked up the blue silk, lay down on the bed, and laid it across her face. She used to do this when she was a child. Different colors meant different worlds. She’d make up stories or pretend the piece of cloth was a magic mirror that would let her see her mother or Jerusalem. Now she saw the Cadmea, that grim citadel, and its lonely tower. Outside the Thebes had ringed it: Lysander’s corpse was rotting on the cross. Memnon was hiding in his chamber, wondering if he was hearing ghosts. And that garret above. The figure on the stairs dressed as a woman. Lysander squatting in the courtyard, surprised at what he had seen. Images were jumbled in her mind. She couldn’t make sense of them, and even if she did, what sort of proof could she offer? Every line she followed had proved futile.

“Let me go back,” she murmured.

“Miriam, you are talking to yourself!”

“Shut up, brother, I am thinking!” She recalled the different conversations she’d had with the officers, the pages, and Antigone. She recalled Telemachus, defiant yet driven with anguish at what had happened to Thebes. And what was it Telemachus had said about Memnon flying from the top of the tower? But he hadn’t fallen from the top. He’d fallen from his window. So why had Telemachus said that? Why hadn’t he said he’d been pushed? Miriam pulled the piece of silk away from her face and sat up. “Because he did fall from the top!” she shouted.

“Sister, what is the matter?”

“Memnon didn’t fall from his window,” she declared.

“From where, then?”

“Telemachus talked about Memnon flying from the top of the tower. I think it was the only mistake he made, but that’s why he was killed. He could have made other slips, though I am just beginning to wonder how much Telemachus really knew. You see, brother, Memnon’s chamber was locked and guarded, his war dog was with him. No one could go through the door, and, if anyone tried to come through that window, the dog would have attacked and Memnon would have fought for his life.” She paused. “We must turn the problem around. No one came through the window. I now believe Memnon climbed through it, probably with the help of someone else.”

“Where was he going?” Simeon asked.

“He was climbing to the top of the tower!”

“Like a fly?” Simeon teased.

“No, he was being helped. Someone persuaded Memnon to leave that chamber. Someone persuaded Memnon that he was in great danger.”

“Which is why he was dressed?”

“Of course. He climbed the rope and reached the top of the tower.”

“But Memnon would have still struggled.”

“No, brother, Memnon told his war dog to stay silent. He left, climbing the rope, but as he reached the top, the person who was supposed to be helping him, instead of grasping his hand and pulling him over, pushed him away. Memnon, shocked and surprised, fell to his death. The assassin pulled up the rope and disappeared.”

“But who was the assassin?”

“I am not too sure. It’s one of those officers. Simeon, go find the pages!”

Simeon reluctantly agreed. A short while later, he brought a bedraggled Castor and Pollux into the tent. They looked nervous, slightly wary but Miriam assured them all was well. They protested that they’d already answered her questions, but Miriam said it was important so the two pages, sitting on a rather tattered, woollen rug, repeated their earlier conversations about the officers and their private lives, what scandal and gossip existed. After they’d been paid and left, Miriam got up, put a pair of battered boots on and fastened her cloak around her.

“Where are you going?”

“You are coming with me, Simeon. I want you to do exactly what I ask.”

They went out of the tent-Miriam talking, Simeon protesting, but at last he’d agreed. He went down to the quartermaster’s stores and came back. Miriam, meanwhile, had seen the captain of the guard and, with a squad of soldiers behind them, set off for the priestesses’ house. It was cold and growing dark. All those who could had found shelter either in the camp or in the ruins of the city. The olive grove was a popular place, the men sheltering beneath the trees, clustering around camp fires. The air was thick with the odor of sweaty leather and cooking. The priestesses’ house was well guarded but lights in both the lower and upper windows showed that the women had not yet retired. Merope answered their knock and took them into the small dining chamber. Antigone came downstairs, her fingers stained with ink.

“I’ve been making inventories,” she apologized.

“Could you take me to Jocasta’s chamber?” Miriam asked.

Antigone looked surprised.

“Please!” Miriam insisted, “it’s very important!”

Antigone shrugged and went up the stairs. Miriam quickly stepped into the kitchen, where the other priestesses were seated around the wooden table. She asked them a few questions then broke off as Antigone called from the top of the stairs.

“I am sorry,” Miriam apologized, joining her. “I am curious as to where you are all going.”

Antigone had already lit the lamps in Jocasta’s chamber.

“It’s rather warm despite the rain,” Miriam declared. She opened the shutters and stared out. She saw Simeon standing below, dressed in a military cloak. Antigone came behind her and gasped.

“It’s only my brother,” Miriam confided. “But this is where Jocasta stood the night she was killed isn’t it? You were with her, remember?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

Miriam turned so that her back was to the window.

“You loved Jocasta?”

“Like a mother.” Antigone became wary.

“She was old,” Miriam continued. “My mother died in childbirth, but I tell you this, priestess, I would not have let her go out in the dead of the night to meet a ghoulishly dressed stranger standing under the olive trees.”

“What are you saying?” Antigone’s hands fell to her side. “What are you implying?”

“I just think it’s very strange,” Miriam repeated. “Here you are, Thebes is devastated, a killer on the loose. Jocasta sees this possible killer from her chamber window.”

“But she ignored my advice, she wanted to go,” Antigone broke in. “Jocasta really thought it was Oedipus, or at least a friend.”

“Shouldn’t you have accompanied her? And when she didn’t return, why didn’t you become alarmed? Why not send a messenger to the camp or even gather the others and go looking?”

“But it was common knowledge that Jocasta went out and visited the shrine.”

“At the invitation of a stranger?” Miriam snapped. “There’s a contradiction, Antigone. I asked your sisters downstairs. They thought Jocasta had gone out to the shrine that night. I wager they didn’t know she had left with a stranger; if they had, they would have become alarmed. I just find it overstrange, that you let your so-called mother wander off into the darkness and never turned a hair, at least not until we arrived with the dreadful news.”

“Jocasta was a law unto herself,” Antigone retorted. “She was high priestess.”

“We’ll leave that for the moment.”

Miriam sat down on a stool, Antigone on the cot bed. Miriam noticed that her hand was out, just touching the rim of the bolster.

“You gave me a lovely gift.” Miriam forced a smile. “A piece of blue silk. I could smell your perfume on it. I detected the same fragrance on a table in the citadel, but you didn’t visit there, did you?”

“Of course not!”

“And that page boy who brought the message from the camp yesterday. He claimed to have seen a woman dressed in a cloak similar to the one you wore coming down the steps of the Cadmea. He was intrigued because, although the cloak was a woman’s and the fragrance was certainly not worn by any man, the figure was definitely a male.”

“I’m not responsible,” Antigone’s gaze didn’t waver, “for what went on in the Cadmea.”

“Oh but you are,” Miriam declared. “Do you know, Antigone, that I think you are a killer, a murderess! With your shaven head, your slender form, your doll-like eyes, and, above all, your blunt speech, you could deceive Olympias, that queen of serpents!”

“Are you going to say that I am the Oracle?” Antigone accused. “The spy in the citadel?”

“Everything to its own,” Miriam murmured, “and in its own time. You say you were Pelliades’ niece?”

“Of course.”

“And Pelliades came out here to visit you often?”

“Naturally, I was his kinswoman.”

“And you and he would just talk, would you? Is that why a leading Theban councillor came to the shrine, to see his beloved niece? Or was it something else? Do you know, Antigone, I believe you seduced one of the officers in the citadel. If you painted your face, lost that reverential look, and donned an oil wig like the women of Egypt wear, you’d be very beautiful, quite ravishing.”

“I thank you for the compliment,” came the cool reply.

“You seduced one of the garrison officers, a man open to bribery. He became the Oracle. You told him what to do. Rumors were sweeping Greece that Alexander was dead and the Macedonian army no more. In Thebes, Pelliades and Telemachus fanned these sparks to a flame, especially when they received confirmation from a Macedonian officer.”

“So I deceived my uncle?”

“Oh, don’t look so round-eyed, Antigone, you know you really should act in Olympias’s play. The queen would take to you like she does to one of her vipers. You didn’t really care about Pelliades or the Thebans. And it wasn’t very difficult for your lover in the citadel to confirm the rumors, started by other Persian spies, that Alexander of Macedon was no more.”

Antigone’s brows knit together.

“But I don’t understand, Israelite. You talked about my uncle’s visits here and yet the spy was in the citadel?”

“That was the transparent beauty of your scheme.” Miriam shifted on her stool. “Until the siege began, the Macedonians were able to wander where they wished. That’s how you enticed the officer, wasn’t it? A man who came here to see the shrine, susceptible to your charms and to the wealth and prospects you offered. At first he may have been reluctant, but eventually, like all traitors, he embraced the whole treason, just as he embraced you, body and soul. You played a very treacherous game. You told your uncle that one of the garrison had come to the shrine. Oh, you. .” Miriam shook her head, “. . you wouldn’t tell him that he was your lover, no more than you’d reveal that you were a Persian spy, but you would tell him that he’d confessed to you some dreadful news, that Alexander and his army had been destroyed. Pelliades and Telemachus, eager to throw off Macedonian rule, would scarcely believe such marvelous news. However, thanks to Persian gold, similar rumors were seeping through all of Greece, so they accepted it as a truth revealed by the gods. They would often come out here to see how much more you had learned and you would tell them about the garrison. How some of the officers were weak but that the two leaders Memnon and Lysander, well, they were Alexander’s men, body and soul, and they wouldn’t frighten easily.” Miriam paused. Antigone was now watching her like a cat, head down slightly, glaring at her from under her eyebrows. “Pelliades,” Miriam continued, “encouraged you further; that’s why you used Jocasta and the priestesses here to open negotiations with the Macedonian in the citadel.”

“But Jocasta was her own person,” Antigone snapped.

“Jocasta loved you,” Miriam retorted. “I could see that. She would do whatever you asked. Go out into the night to meet a stranger, or act as the broker of peace for your uncle. Now we come to Lysander.” Miriam brushed the hair from her brow. “I really thought you were telling us the truth behind Lysander’s death, about one of the Theban councillors almost betraying the identity of the spy in the citadel. It was all a lie. The spy never went into Thebes. He never met Pelliades, Telemachus, or anyone else. The only person he met,” Miriam pointed across the chamber, “was you, somewhere in the olive grove. He’d come here disguised as a woman, wouldn’t he? I suppose that was your idea? You lent him the perfume, the paint for his face, the gray cloak. You told him what to say and what to do. To any onlooker, you’d be two women talking.”

“Do you have proof of all this?” Antigone intervened.

“Logic is better than proof. Antigone, why should a Macedonian officer dress up as a woman to meet Thebans? They’d see through the disguise and it would afford him little protection. One member of the Macedonian garrison nearly stumbled on the truth: poor Lysander. One day, by chance, he came into the grove. He glimpsed something extraordinary, one of his compatriots dressed as a woman, slipping through the trees. Now, Lysander probably dismissed this as some sexual escapade. He may not even have been sure who the man was. What he didn’t know was that the spy had also glimpsed him. Frightened about what Lysander might eventually do, you persuaded your uncle to open formal negotiations and entice Lysander out. You were very persuasive. Pelliades would listen. If you could entice Lysander, even Memnon, out of the citadel and kill both of them, your spy in the Cadmea would be protected and the others might be persuaded to surrender. In the end, Pelliades had to accept Lysander alone.”

“But he needn’t have come,” Antigone said softly.

“Oh no, it was very clever,” Miriam declared. “You asked for Memnon and Lysander. Anyone who knows soldiers would realize that Memnon couldn’t possibly come but would send his lieutenant.”

“And Jocasta swore an oath to guarantee his safety?”

“Another reason for Lysander to come out. Jocasta swore this oath at your insistence. Poor Jocasta was deceived. She had to die, didn’t she? In time she may have come to reflect, question the advice you had given her. In the end you were successful. Lysander came out, and once he was through that stockade, he was killed. There was no argument, just brutal murder. Pelliades was acting on your advice. The garrison had lost an outstanding officer and now they could display his corpse to lower the morale of the soldiers inside. At the same time, your lover began to play upon poor Memnon’s mind. Memnon, however, was made of sterner stuff. He didn’t break, so he had to be murdered.”

“And Memnon never knew who the spy was?” Antigone leaned forward.

“It was a skillful piece of treachery,” Miriam declared. “Before the siege ever began, the Oracle told Memnon that he, in fact, had found a spy among the Thebans, that he was receiving secret information. Memnon, of course, accepted this and allowed his officer the use of the garret above his chamber so he could dress the part.”

“And you say Memnon accepted this?”

“Of course he would! As commander of the citadel, he’d be deeply interested in collecting information about Thebes.”

“Wouldn’t he tell the others?”

“Why should he? The spy answered to him and when matters turned ugly, just before the siege began, this officer would hint that he was also hunting a spy among the Macedonian garrison. So, why should Memnon reveal that?”

Antigone smiled, thinking.

“The two of you played the Macedonians and Thebans like musicians would flutes, piping the tune everyone wanted to hear.”

“But Thebes fell,” Antigone declared. She sat farther up on the bed, close to the bolster.

Miriam wondered if she had a dagger concealed, but Simeon was downstairs and the house was surrounded; she did not feel afraid but satisfied; Antigone’s reaction was proof enough of the accusations leveled against her.

“You didn’t give a fig if Thebes fell,” Miriam replied. “What did it matter to you? But let me hurry on. Thebes did fall. The Macedonians swept in and the garrison was relieved. Now you had two tasks. To spoil Alexander’s victory as much as possible and to steal the Crown. First, there was the usual whispering campaign. I suppose the envoys from Corinth and elsewhere became aware of the gossip. You and your lover dressed as Oedipus, a charade both of you had played before. At night the two of you would approach lonely sentries. The Macedonian soldier, cold and disgruntled, encountered this beautiful woman coming out of the night carrying a small jug of wine and some honey cakes. He’d relish the chance to gossip. Perhaps tease and flirt. You were safe. If any officer approached, you would hide in the shadows till he passed, and no soldier would confess to being distracted by such a beauty during guard duty.” Miriam paused. Antigone’s head was back, a faint smile on her face. “The soldier would be off his guard, shield and spear down. He’d hardly hear your lover come up behind him. And with a swift blow to the head, the man was dead. But that was just a minor part of the drama to dull Alexander’s victory. Your real intent was to steal the Crown.”

“I didn’t know how the Crown could be removed,” Antigone intervened. “And, even if I did, how could I get through lines of soldiers?”

“Oh don’t be so coy, Antigone! It was quite easily done. You’d work on Jocasta. She would give you the password. But, there again, perhaps she didn’t, because it wasn’t really necessary, was it? What we have are a squad of soldiers outside the shrine of Oedipus. They are truly bored. The shrine is quiet, the olive grove a sea of darkness around them. From the camp they can hear the sound of revelry as their fellow countrymen celebrate their great victory. They would be slightly resentful. Thebes was no more. Why should they waste their time guarding a deserted shrine? You played the same game again. If Jocasta could slip out at night, why not you? You could make up any excuse. You wanted to see that everything was safe. Or to walk through the trees. Or to take the night air. Why should Jocasta object? The high priestess had been given the solemn word of Alexander of Macedon that she and all her household were safe. I am speaking the truth, aren’t I?”

Antigone, tight-lipped, just stared back.

“Don’t you object?” Miriam asked.

“I am a priestess,” Antigone replied. “But I do love a good story, Israelite. So far you’ve no evidence.”

“Oh, but I have.” Miriam leaned forward. “More than you know.” And, at last, she saw her opponent’s confidence slip-a quick blink, a licking of the lips. “He’s told me.”

“You’re a liar! He’d never say.” Antigone’s hand went to her lips.

“Who’d never say, Antigone?”

“I cannot and will not betray myself,” the priestess replied. “You have me tangled, trapping me with words. You come here with a story and now you are going to allege that I, who did not know the secret, persuaded Macedonian soldiers to let me through their lines.”

“Ah, yes,” Miriam replied, “so let me tell you about the honey cakes and wine.”