A Murder in Thebes

CHAPTER 2

In the Cadmea, the great gray stone citadel that overlooked the city of Thebes, the spy and assassin whom Hecaetus called the Oracle pulled a military cloak about his shoulders setting the hood firmly around his face. He tapped the hilt of the sword he had taken from the armory and hurried up the steps onto the curtain wall overlooking the city. Other members of the garrison were assembled there, shouting and gesticulating. The spy gazed down the rocky escarpment. The great palisade built by the Thebans so as to hem them in was now deserted. The sound of hideous battle came from the city.

“Alexander has broken in!” a voice shouted. “The king is here!”

Discussion and debate broke out. Should the garrison help or stay in the citadel? There was no Memnon or Lysander to impose order. The spy smiled to himself; that was his doing. What did it matter if Thebes fell? He looked down at the courtyard where the rest of the garrison was milling about. Some were dressed in half-armor, others totally unprepared.

“I can see plumes of smoke!” someone shouted. “They are setting fire to the houses!”

The Oracle stared across at the great high tower of the citadel, which housed the officer’s chambers. The windows were all shuttered, a grim, stark place though one where good work had been done. Darius III in Persepolis would be pleased, and the Persian bankers in Argos and Corinth would put aside more silver and gold. He could play this game as long as he wanted, do as much damage as he could, and leave, whenever he wished, with his heart’s desire, the love and light of his life.

The Oracle walked down the steps, across the dusty yard, and into the tower: a great square four-storied building. Some people said it had been built when Oedipus was king. The spy stopped, scuffing the dust with his thonged sandal. Oedipus! He knew what Alexander would do if he took Thebes. He’d protect the shrines, particularly the small one in the olive groves that contained the Iron Crown of Oedipus. Would Alexander seize this for himself? Or would that be seen as sacrilege? And what about the harsh-faced Jocasta, the high priestess, she who had negotiated a truce when the news of Alexander’s alleged death had swept through the city? The spy leaned against a wall and crossed his arms. Jocasta was old, and that stern face! Those black eyes gleaming beneath the oiled wig she wore over her balding head. The Oracle had been informed that Jocasta would not give up the Crown lightly. It had been in Thebes for hundred of years, so why surrender it to a Macedonian upstart?

The spy rubbed his mouth. He’d be glad to be out of the citadel, to taste a little wine, eat good food. He was eager to plot the escape of both himself and his beloved. He walked up the stairs. On the second floor, he paused outside Memnon’s chamber. The old, grizzled captain had spent his last days there. The spy touched the latch; it was locked. From behind the heavy wooden door he heard the dead captain’s mastiff, Hercules, whine mournfully. He should not disturb him. There were shouts from below; the spy turned and hurried back down the winding staircase. The courtyard was now a hive of activity. Soldiers were arming, eager to break out and join the plundering. Sharp-eyed scouts on the walls claimed they could already see Macedonian banners. The spy made his decision. When the gates were opened he would slip out and mingle with the rest. As for the Crown of Oedipus? How much, he wondered, would Alexander’s enemies pay to have their hands on that?

Jocasta led her priestesses up the white, chalk path that wound through the shadowy olive grove surrounding the sacred shrine of Oedipus. Jocasta moved purposefully. Despite her age she wielded her staff, pulling herself forward. She must get to the shrine! She must be there when the Macedonians broke through. She touched the sacred pectoral resting against her chest, a thick gold crown in its center, then stopped so abruptly that the other priestesses bumped into each other. She gazed at them sharply, dressed from head to toe in white robes, the oiled wigs on their shaven heads slightly askew, their faces dusty and sweat-streaked.

“You should not be worried,” she announced. “The Macedonians will not hurt the shrine or its worshipers. But we must be there. We must guard our sacred place.”

“Mother. .” The youngest, Antigone, pushed herself forward. “Mother, we have heard stories. Houses are burning, women and children are being dragged off. The cavalry has fled while the foot soldiers are left unprotected.” Tears arose in her eyes.

“We all have kin, menfolk in the army,” Jocasta declared tartly. “Soldiers fight and die. Priests and priestesses pray. We each have our place and we must be in ours.”

She hurried on. They turned the corner. Jocasta’s heart sank. The six guards who manned the sacred doors were gone.

“Cowards,” she hissed.

She climbed the crumbling steps, steadying herself on one of the pillars around which ivy tightly curled. The portico was rather shabby and dusty. Jocasta took the keys that hung on her belt and inserted one into the door. She turned it and the door swung open. Jocasta stepped into the darkness and sighed. It was cold but still smelled fragrantly of incense and the salted, perfumed water they used to purify themselves. They now did this hurriedly-dipping fingers into the stoups of holy water and sprinkling themselves before taking small pinches of salt, which they rubbed between their hands and around their lips. Jocasta pulled the white linen hood over her wig. She joined her hands, fingers pointing upward, and tried to compose herself. She turned and bowed to the statue of Oedipus, it was of white marble, though now cracked and dusty with age. The body was sinewy, that of a soldier-one hand holding a club, the other a shield. His bandaged eyes gazed toward the bronze doors that shielded the shrine. Jocasta stared up at the face. Was this really the likeness of Oedipus? The fleshy cheeks, the jutting lips, and prominent nose? Was this the man-god who had married his mother and killed his father, and yet, if Sophocles was to be believed, still had the courage and favor of the gods to confront such sins?

Jocasta, followed by the other priestesses, moved across the dark vestibule to the small shrine of Apollo, the hunter. The high priestess gazed up. The god’s features were smooth, girlish, the hair neatly massed, falling down around his brow and ears. The sculptor had dressed Apollo in a simple chiffon and hunting boots, a girdle slung round the slim waist. In one hand a bow, in the other an arrow. Jocasta’s eyes filled with tears. A true god’s face! She had been brought here by her own mother, and though she had never confessed it, had fallen in love with this statue. It represented the brother she had always wanted, the husband she so vainly pined for, and the son she. . Jocasta clutched her stomach. Her womb was shriveled, her breasts merely dry sacks of skin. She watched the oil lamps in the niches dance from the draft that seeped through the open door.

“We must lock it,” she declared.

The two priestesses hurried off. The door was closed. Jocasta inserted the key and turned the lock, which had been intricately and cunningly wrought by a locksmith hired by the temple. The priestesses then made themselves ready and moved toward the inner shrine. The bronze doors were unlocked and opened. The priestesses stood on the threshold behind Jocasta and gazed into the sacred place of their city. All was in order. The black marble floor glinted in the light from the alabaster oil lamps located in niches around the white marble walls. Jocasta bowed her head. She intoned: “How great are you, oh Lord Apollo!” / Mighty in war, mighty in peace! / And you, Oedipus, true son of Thebes! / Be with us at this dangerous hour!”

As if in answer to her prayer, the sun, which had slipped behind the clouds, now moved out, and its rays came through the narrow window, bathing the shrine in light. Jocasta moved slowly forward, eyes fixed on the white pillar at the far end of the room. On its sharpened end was the Crown of Oedipus, the sacred relic of Thebes. The Crown was of gray iron, small in circumference but broad-rimmed. In the center a blood-red ruby glowed. It was fixed to the post with iron clasps. Jocasta smiled and touched the sacred pectoral around her neck. Only she, the chief priestess, knew how these clasps could be removed. She stared at the charcoal pit that glowed behind the black iron curtain bar; a sea of fire, it gave a blast of heat stirred up by the drafts blowing in from under the door. Beyond that was a small rim of marble, spiked, as if dozens of spears jutted up from under the floor; behind these, around the pillar that bore the Crown, the snake pit, which teemed with venomous vipers specially collected from the hills around Thebes. The snakes could curl in the darkness and slither away beneath the floor but they never left the pit.

The priestesses knelt on the dark brocaded cushions specially laid out. Jocasta gazed at the Crown. This was a symbol of Theban might. A sacred place where the generals and leaders of the council took their oaths to defend the city. Only a few weeks ago this shrine had been thronged as the leaders of the revolt, hands outstretched, swore the most binding oaths to free themselves from Macedonian tyranny. Jocasta had been their witness, even though she quietly despaired at their male arrogance; such hubris would surely bring down the anger of the gods. She had not believed the rumors; she believed that Alexander had the makings of greatness. She had quietly warned the leaders of the rashness of their course of action, but who was she? They dismissed her as a garrulous old priestess. True, she’d had her dreams, but what had one called her? A silly Cassandra? They should have believed their Cassandra that Thebes, like Troy, was about to fall. She’d heard of insults shouted at Macedonians from the city walls; she’d also listened to the travelers and merchants who came here to make votive offerings. How Alexander would brook no opposition, determined to prove that he was a better general than his father. Indeed, that he was a god incarnate. Jocasta bowed her head and led the praises to Apollo and the other guardians of Thebes. Her sisters, the other priestesses, answered, but their words were faltering. At the end, Antigone who, despite her youth, was impetuous in her speech, leaned back on her heels.

“Mother what shall we do?” she pleaded. “The Macedonians are in the city.”

“Alexander will spare the shrine,” Jocasta snapped.

“He will take the Crown, Mother,” Antigone declared. “He knows the legends.”

“It can only be worn by the pure of heart,” Jocasta retorted, lifting her head, “and one who is touched and blessed by the gods. If the Crown is to be Alexander’s then it will be Alexander’s.”

“Shall we help him?” another asked. “Mother, shouldn’t we take the Crown and offer it to him?”

“That would be blasphemy and sacrilege,” Jocasta said. “The Crown is removed only once a year, worn by the chief priestess, blessed, and returned. If Alexander wishes it, he must take it according to the ritual.”

“But that would be easy,” Antigone said. “He’ll clear the burning coals and destroy the snakes. He’ll build a bridge across the pits and simply seize it.”

“No, not Alexander.” Jocasta shook her head. “Alexander is dutiful and pious. If the Crown is to be his then he will not take it by force but by ancient custom and human cunning.”

“Then how will it be done?” one of the older priestesses asked. “Mother, shouldn’t you tell us how the Crown of the man god Oedipus can be removed, without danger from, the pits?”

“It’s a temple secret.” Jocasta tried not to sound patronizing. She spread her hands out in prayer and closed her eyes. “This place is sacred,” she intoned. “The Crown is holy. According to legend it can only be worn by he or she whom the gods wish to hold it.”

“And if blasphemy occurs?” Antigone asked.

“According to the legend of Thebes,” Jocasta explained, “if the Crown is taken through blasphemy and sacrilege, Oedipus will return to his city. He will come, carrying his club and shield, and destroy the profane.” She paused.

The temple was so quiet, and she tried to hide her own inner turmoil. Were the other priestesses right? Shouldn’t she curry favor with the conqueror by taking the Crown and offering it herself? She recalled her oath taken so many years before. She was about to repeat this when she heard a terrible pounding on the door outside. She took off the key and handed it to her favorite, Antigone.

“See to it,” she said quietly. “Offer no resistance.”

Antigone got up, sandals slapping on the marble floor. The inner bar on the bronze door was lifted, the outer ones unlocked. A murmur of voices broke the silence.

“Mother.”

Jocasta turned. A man stood in the doorway, in one hand he carried a sword, in the other what looked like a seal. Jocasta could tell from his dress that he was a Macedonian. He walked slowly into the shrine and stood staring about. Jocasta couldn’t see his face because of his helmet but she knew he was studying the pits and the Crown on its pillar. She rose to her feet.

“I am Jocasta, high priestess of the this shrine.”

“And I represent King Alexander and the power of Macedon.”

The officer bowed. He walked back to the door and placed the seal on the floor.

“Show that to all who come. You have nothing to fear!”

Miriam followed Alexander and his entourage up through the Electra Gate and along the highway into the center of Thebes. A gray, dull day. Miriam stared around in horror. She had never visited Thebes but she had heard the stories about this great city. Now it looked as if it had been consumed by fire from heaven. Houses, shops, council chambers, barracks stables, taverns, and storehouses had all been reduced to feathery black ash. Wooden buildings had disappeared. Alexander’s soldiers were now finishing off those built of stone, dragging down walls. The air was thick with dust, smoke, the smell of burning, and the stench of cooked flesh.

“Not one stone left upon another.” Alexander had sworn the ancient oath of destruction against the city. The only people they passed were the occasional priest and priestess, the rest were Macedonian solders combing the ruins for any plunder or for Thebans who may have hidden away in the cellars. Six days had passed since the destruction had ended. The Theban cavalry had fled. The foot soldiers had fought to the last man; then the city had been given over to wholesale destruction. Only the temples and the house of the poet Pindar had been spared, as well as the occasional sacred cypress and olive grove. The survivors had been rounded up. Men, women, and children were marched off to the slave markets. Even Alexander’s hardened commanders, now that their blood had cooled, were quiet in the face of such savage destruction. The king himself looked stricken: his face white, his eyes constantly flickering about. Hephaestion, his close companion and lover, started to speak but Alexander made a cutting movement with his hand. Miriam looked at Simeon; his face was so pallid and sweat-soaked, he would surely vomit. They passed a crossroad, Miriam pulled the cloak up over her nose and mouth. Here the corpses had been collected and burned in a great funeral pyre, and the air still stank from the horrid smoke. In places, the ash was ankle deep on the cobblestones; Miriam was pleased she had worn leather riding boots beneath her tunic. She felt a little nauseous, giddy and she grasped her walking cane more firmly. She bowed her head. She felt ashamed-of Alexander, his army, of what had happened here. It brought back memories of her father’s description of the destruction of Jerusalem.

They crossed a square, past the ruined mansions of the wealthy, and began the climb toward the broken palisades that had once surrounded the Cadmea. The silence was broken only by the sound of their footsteps crunching the ash and the clink of armor from Alexander’s bodyguard. No one dared bring horses here. Fires still burned, sparks shot up, and the stiff hot breeze pricked the flesh. At the top of the hill Alexander stopped and turned.

“Thebes has been destroyed! Leveled to ash! It is my decree.” His face was harsh, reminding Miriam of his father, Philip.

“It is my wish,” he repeated, “that it never be rebuilt. It rose in rebellion against my father and was defeated at Chaeronea. It played a hand in my father’s murder. It rose in rebellion when I was elsewhere. They called me an assassin, a patricide. I did not destroy Thebes. The gods did!”

He glared at Timeon, the Athenian delegate, and beside him at Aristarchus, the representative from Corinth.

“Let the word go out,” Alexander said quietly. “All of Greece is to be united under Macedon. All the world is to see the glory and power of our might. Yea,” he stared at the skies, “even to the ends of the earth.”

“If the gods destroyed Thebes,” Hephaestion spoke quickly, “then all of Greece was party to it.” He glanced out of the corner of his eye at the Athenian delegate.

Timeon-a small, thickset man with a balding pate, a luxuriant mustache and beard, watery eyes, and a bulbous nose-blinked and forced a smile. Hephaestion was reminding everyone that Thebes had rebelled not only against Macedon but against the League with Corinth. The League, too, had voted for Thebes’ destruction, recalling stories of how Thebes had helped Xerxes and his Persians during the Great War, citing all its other petty infidelities and treacheries. Alexander had used the League to legitimize the destruction, but in the end, he’d simply delivered a stark warning to all of Greece. Alexander was their captain-general. Any revolt would be ruthlessly crushed.

Alexander took a breath, rubbed his face, and walked on through the palisade built by the Thebans to hem in his garrison in the Cadmea. He stopped at a cross thrust in the rocky earth. He touched the wood still stained with Lysander’s blood.

“I have avenged him,” Alexander murmured. “I’ll avenge all who died here.” He gestured at Simeon and Miriam. “Follow me! You, too, Hephaestion. The rest of you,” he gave a lopsided smile, “show our delegates around Thebes. Let them see how a city burns.”

Alexander walked on up the rocky path, through the gatehouse and into the courtyard of the Cadmea.

The garrison was assembled in full armor, breastplates and shields gleaming. Their officers stood in front of them, their helmets, adorned with bright horsehair plumes, held under their arms. Alexander’s mood changed as it always did when he moved among soldiers. He walked slowly along the ranks, stopping to chat and joke, slipping silver coins into the men’s hands. He clasped them by the shoulder and kissed them on the brow, calling them his companions and friends, praising them for their valor in holding Cadmea against a hostile Thebes. The soldiers responded: guffaws of laughter broke out as Alexander shared some private joke. Miriam noticed he had no words for the officers. These four were left standing in front, eyes ahead. Alexander gave them no order to relax or stand at ease. When he had finished his inspection, Alexander simply clicked his fingers. The men were dismissed and the four officers followed Alexander up into the tower along a stone-vaulted corridor and into what must be their mess hall. Tables stood around the room. These and the floor had been carefully scrubbed and washed. Servants had laid out bread, cheese, meats, bowls of fruit, and a jug of watered wine. Unceremoniously Alexander sat on a bench and gestured for the others to join him. He took a bunch of grapes from the bowl and began to pop them into his mouth, like a child, cheeks bulging as he slowly chewed. He nodded at Hephaestion who ordered the officers to introduce themselves. All four were Macedonians, grizzled veterans who had fought in Philip’s armies. Patroclus was the youngest: blond-haired, one eye half closed due to an old wound, front teeth missing, nose slightly broken. He reminded Miriam of a boxer. Alcibiades was thin and swarthy-faced; his hair was cropped close to his head and he wore a brass ring in one earlobe. Slightly foppish, Miriam thought, with an ornamental bracelet that he kept shaking. Demetrius was gray-haired, cruel-faced, with sharp, deep-set eyes, and a thin nose above thick lips. He kept scratching at a scar that ran from the top of his right ear down beneath his chin. The fourth, Miletus, was bald, fleshy-faced; his eyes were almost hidden in rolls of fat; he had pursed lips and was clean shaven. He reminded Miriam of a eunuch, an impression greatly enhanced by his rather high-pitched voice. Nevertheless, despite their appearance, Miriam recognized that all four were skilled fighting men, though now very nervous. Alexander had praised the defence of the citadel against the Thebans but they must have expected to be closely questioned on what had happened to cause the deaths of two favorite officers, Lysander and their commander Memnon.

Alexander finished the grapes. He filled the cups himself, chattering about the citadel, how thick its walls, and idly wondering if the tower they now occupied had been built during the time of Oedipus. The soldiers replied perfunctorily. Alexander leaned back, tapping his hands on the table.

“There’s someone missing, isn’t there?” He winked down the table at Simeon, who had already taken out a sheet of papyrus, ink, and stylus; where ever Alexander went, he always insisted on keeping some record of what was said, particularly his own pronouncements.

“There’s someone absent, isn’t there?” he repeated.

“I’m here, my lord.”

They all turned. The thin young man who stood in the doorway, moved nervously from foot to foot, scratching his black hair, rubbing his hands together.

“Come in! Come in!” Alexander smiled. He leaned forward. “You are Cleon? Memnon’s aide-de-camp?”

The young man nodded. “Yes, my lord,” he stammered.

“I was at the jakes, my stomach. .” He chewed the corner of his lip nervously. “I apologize.”

“Dysentery is no respecter of persons,” Alexander laughed. “Come on, sit down, but don’t drink the wine or eat the fruit.” He pushed the bread basket forward. “Take some of that and a little honey in water mixed with candle grease. It might not taste too pleasant but it will bind the bowels. Now you’ve got the ingredients.”

Cleon sat on the bench opposite Miriam and nodded.

“Well, come on, man,” Alexander declared. “Repeat it.”

Cleon did, his harsh Macedonian voice slightly stumbling as he listed the king’s own recipe for the cure of diarrhea. His reply caused a little laughter. The four officers relaxed. They picked up their cups and sipped. Hephaestion rose and closed the door, bringing down the bar.

“I won’t detain you long,” Alexander began. “My two good friends here, clerks and scribes Miriam and Simeon Bartimaeus, have my authority to continue this inquiry and question you closely.”

“A woman.” Miletus’s lip curled. “An Israelite?”

“Mother likes her,” Alexander replied.

Miletus’s face fell as he thought of Olympias.

“Good.” Alexander sipped from his own cup. “Outside, Thebes burns! It is no more. I left you along with Memnon and Lysander to hold this citadel and keep and eye on the city. You held the citadel but what happened to the city?” His face became grave. “Above all what happened to my commanders? Just what occurred while I was chasing barearsed Thessalians through the forest?”

The officer looked at Demetrius, apparently their leader. He slurped greedily from his goblet.

“I’m waiting,” Alexander snapped.

“It’s as you say, my lord.” Demetrius glowered down the table. Miriam recalled that among the Macedonians kingly rank and status was no defence against blunt speech.

“You went off chasing your Thessalians and we poor buggers were left in Thebes. Now, at first. . nah. .” He scratched his chin. “No, from the very beginning they hated us, though they didn’t move against us for weeks. Two of our lads went out to the brothels; they have not been seen since. After that, Memnon became more cautious. He allowed us to bring in stores and whores but he forbade any of us to leave the citadel. The Thebans responded; they built the stockade, sealing us in.”

“Even though we were at peace?” Hephaestion asked.

“The Thebans said it was for our own protection. Then the stockade was replaced by a stouter, higher one. You’ve seen the remains. Memnon and Lysander objected. After two weeks of siege, they went out to meet representatives of the Theban council.”

Alexander looked at Cleon. “Were you there?” he asked.

“Yes, Memnon, Lysander, and myself. Usually.” Cleon rubbed his stomach. “We kept well away from the palisade. Memnon even gave orders to shoot any who approached it since it was not unknown for the Thebans to try and jab a sword or spear through the slats.”

Miriam watched Simeon’s stylus racing over the smooth piece of papyrus, using a code only he could decipher.

“Anyway,” Cleon sighed, “it was a shouting match. Memnon and Lysander were in full armor. The Thebans jeered at them, asked if they were frightened. Memnon demanded to know why the palisade had been built. ‘For your own protection,’ the Thebans replied; then bricks were hurled over the palisade.”

“I’ve never seen our old commander move so fast,” Alcibiades lisped. “He and Lysander fair scurried back.”

“So would you, you wine-soaked fop!” Cleon shouted.

Alcibiades colored, his hand dropping to the dagger in his belt.

“That’s enough, boys,” Alexander murmured. “Then what happened?”

“Memnon became anxious, withdrawn,” Patroclus replied, his voice abrupt. He beat his knuckles on the table. “He met us all in here. He said that he didn’t like the mood of the Thebans. During the exchange of insults, the Thebans had. .”

“What?” Alexander asked impatiently.

“I was there,” Cleon blustered. “My lord king, the Thebans seemed to know all about us and the fortress, as if they had a spy, someone sending them secret messages.”

“What did they know?” Miriam asked before she could stop herself. The soldiers looked down the table at Alexander.

“I’d have asked the same question,” he said languidly.

“They knew everything,” Demetrius declared, “including about the two soldiers we’d recently lost; they’d slipped out under the cover of darkness but the Thebans had been waiting for them.”

“And you?” Alexander asked.

“I agreed with my commander,” Demetrius retorted. “Old Memnon was right; there’s a spy in the Cadmea.” He gazed bleakly round the table.

“And, as far as I am concerned, he’s still here!”