A Murder in Thebes

CHAPTER 3

Demetrius’s remarks caused consternation; his fellow officers had been taken unawares.

“If you have suspicions,” Patroclus snapped, “name them!”

“He tells the truth.” Cleon spoke up. His voice was so loud that it calmed the dissension. Cleon’s eyes filled with tears. “Memnon believed this. He claimed the Thebans had a spy in the citadel.”

“Did he say who?” Alexander asked.

“No.” Cleon shook his head. “He never openly voiced his suspicions.” He smiled. “Well, my lord king, you know Memnon. If he spoke three sentences it was surprising.”

“Old Memnon was as thrifty with his words as a miser is with gold,” Alexander agreed. “But continue, Cleon.”

“Memnon spoke to me on a number of occasions. They were more grunts than speeches. The Thebans know too much,” he declared. “They know about our stores, our men!”

“If there was a spy,” Miriam broke in, “how on earth would he communicate with the enemy?”

The patronizing smile that spread across Demetrius’s face told her she had made a mistake.

“An arrow fired at night,” Cleon kindly explained. “A message wrapped around the shaft. It could be easily done. There are parts of the citadel where an archer could loose and not be seen. The arrow would clear the stockade.” He shrugged. “And the Thebans would know everything.”

“I’m confused.” Miriam smiled apologetically. She brought her hands together.

“You were besieged in the citadel?”

“Yes!”

“For how long?”

“About two months, until news of Macedon’s advance ended all rumors.”

“So,” Miriam thanked Demetrius with her eyes, “during that time, the spy must have acted secretly.”

“Of course!”

“But, by then, the damage was done surely? The rumors had begun, the Thebans were in revolt.”

“Ah, I see.” Demetrius scratched his head. “Yes, before the siege began, we had about six to eight weeks of relative freedom.”

“Ah yes, my supposed death.” Alexander asked, “The rumors about a catastrophe in Thessaly-these changed everything?”

“The Thebans became more arrogant.” Demetrius rubbed his face. “Crowds would stand by the stockade. They’d jeer, shout, throw bricks. One day a herald approached under flag of truce. Memnon went upon to the gatehouse and asked what he wanted. The herald said that news had come to Thebes. That you, my lord king, had been trapped in a gully in the mountains of Thessaly. That you, Hephaestion, Perdiccas had all been killed. That the army was routed during a revolt in Pella.”

“But surely,” Hephaestion broke in, “you must have thought he was bluffing?”

“Memnon said as much,” Cleon replied. He stared around at his companions. “You were all there. Memnon started laughing. The herald went away and Memnon held a meeting here.”

“He wasn’t laughing, then.” Melitus spoke up, his fat jowls quivering. “You see, my lord king, how did the Thebans know that Hephaestion and Perdiccas were with you? How did they know that your mother was ruler of Pella?”

“Continue.” Alexander now cupped his face in his hands, his eyes half closed.

“The following day,” Demetrius continued, “the herald returned; he brought a Thessalian with him who described, in great detail, your death and defeat. The herald was more courteous. He pointed out that if you were dead and the Macedonian army defeated, the League of Corinth was dissolved. Thebes could withdraw its loyalty and we should leave the citadel.” He paused and Stared at Cleon.

“From that moment,” the aide-de-camp continued the story, “Captain Memnon became depressed, more withdrawn than ever. He stayed in his chamber drinking, talking to Hercules.”

Simeon raised his head. “Hercules?”

“His great hunting mastiff. He adored Memnon. Where the captain went, Hercules always followed. If Hercules didn’t like someone, they wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near the captain.”

“Lysander took over most of Memnon’s duties,” Demetrius explained.

“He said that we should accept the Theban’s offer to negotiate, to try and establish what was really happening. Memnon agreed; he sent Lysander out alone.”

“That’s not true,” Patroclus interrupted. He pointed at Cleon.

“You offered to go?” Miriam asked.

Cleon nodded. “But Memnon would have nothing to do with it. You see. .” He looked questioningly at her. “Miriam?”

She replied, “My name is Miriam Bartimaeus.”

Cleon bowed deferentially. “My lady, my father is Macedonian but my mother is Theban. Her family always supported my lord king; twenty years ago my parents were murdered on a visit to Thebes. Our whole family was marked for destruction because of its loyalty to King Philip.”

“So Memnon ruled against you going out?” Miriam asked.

“Yes, he did.” Demetrius picked up the wine jug and filled his goblet. “We were all concerned. However, the herald returned under a flag of truce. He was accompanied by the high priestess from the shrine of Apollo, which houses the Crown of Oedipus. What was her name?” he asked. “Ah yes, Jocasta. She came dressed in her oil-soaked wig, her face painted white, black rings of kohl under her eyes. She gave solemn and sacred promises that Lysander would be treated properly.”

“But he wasn’t.” Alexander took up the story.

“No, my lord! He was barely beyond the palisade when the Thebans closed in. From the gatehouse and tower you could see their dagger-work. Two hours later they put up a cross near the stockade; Lysander’s corpse was nailed to it.”

“But the priestess?” Miriam asked.

“She objected,” Demetrius replied. “I believe she spoke the truth. When Lysander was gibbeted, she came forward, her hands extended. She swore by heaven and earth that what the Thebans had done was blasphemous and sacrilegious and that she had had no part in it.”

“Memnon grew worse.” Cleon got to his feet. He took out his dagger and placed it on the table. “Whenever I went into his chamber, . ” He sat down again, “. . Memnon grasped his dagger like this, pulling it out. He believed the spy was one of his officers-indeed, that they were all plotting against him.”

“He’d lost his wits,” Alcibiades drawled. “My lord king, we are Macedonians. I fought at Chaeronea. I would rather die than betray my lord and my companions.”

A growl of approval greeted his words.

“True, true.” Alexander forced a smile. “But there is still a spy here. You say you are Macedonian.” He rubbed his hands together. “But, with the exception of Cleon, all of you have been garrisoned in Thebes for some considerable time. Before I left, before the citadel was besieged, you were allowed to walk through Theban streets, drinking Theban wine, lying with Theban women.”

“You have no proof,” Demetrius spoke up hotly, “of treason!”

“I will get it!” Alexander snapped. “My two good clerks here, the Israelites, they will dig it out. We were talking about Memnon?”

“He stayed in his chamber,” Cleon declared. “He did not wash or shave. He was constantly dressed for battle, Hercules beside him. And then, ten days ago, his body was found at the foot of the tower. He’d either fallen, been pushed, or jumped from his chamber.”

“Why should Memnon commit suicide?” Miriam asked. “Yes, yes, I know his wits may have been disturbed but he was a soldier.”

“Was it murder?” Alexander asked.

“How could it be?” Demetrius cried. “Melitus here was on guard outside his chamber.”

“Is that right?” Alexander asked.

Melitus nodded. “It must have been suicide,” he replied thickly. “The door was bolted and locked on the inside. He had Hercules to guard him. I never heard any sound from the room, nor did Patroclus who took over from me just after midnight. The next morning his corpse was found at the foot of the tower.”

Alexander pushed back his stool and got to his feet.

“Let us see this chamber,” he said.

Demetrius went first. Outside the hall two page boys dressed in ragged tunics were playing in the small entranceway. Alexander went over to look. One of them had a magnet and was seeing how close he had to push it before the iron filings stuck to it.

“You enjoy that?” Alexander asked.

One of the pages looked up, eyes squinting.

“My lord king, it’s a good way of earning money.”

“Money?” Alexander asked.

“They gamble,” Demetrius explained, pushing his way through. “It’s a game popular with the soldiers. Better than dice game of hazard.” He pointed to the twigs laid along the ground.

“There’s a sack of magnets; one is pulled out, and we lay odds as to which twig it must reach before it can attract the iron filings. It’s a popular game in Thebes. The men often played it to while away the boredom of the siege.”

“It takes me back.” Alexander smiled over his shoulder at Miriam. “Do you remember the groves of Midas? And Aristotle lecturing on the property of things? How like attracts like?” He tossed two coins on the floor. “Continue with your betting lads.” He ruffled the hair of one of the pages. “Now, lets see Memnon’s chamber.”

This was at the top of a winding spiral staircase entered by a small recess in the stairwell. The brass-studded door hung slightly ajar, the great key in the lock.

“It shouldn’t be open.” Demetrius drew his sword and kicked the door back.

The great wolfhound was lounging on the floor allowing himself to be stroked by a man who crouched with his back to them. The animal lifted his great shaggy head and growled, his upper lip curling in a display of sharp, white teeth.

“There, there my beauty!” The man turned and smiled.

Miriam recognized Hecaetus, Alexander’s master of spies and keeper of all secrets. A human viper who could curl and twist his way through the court. She was always amazed at how Hecaetus’s foppish appearance could disarm people: his cropped, curly hair; his thin, clean-shaven face; his eyes ever merry; his lips always smiling. The languid way he walked, the rather girlish movement he deliberately cultivated were no different now. He patted the dog and got to his feet, adjusting the green-edged robe thrown over his shoulder.

“My lord king.” He bowed.

“What are you doing here Hecaetus?” Miriam asked.

“Why Miriam, the same as you, searching out my lord’s enemies.” He pushed his head forward. “I was told you were in council, my lord, and were not to be disturbed.” He sighed. “So I came up here and”. . He gestured at the dog who had now risen, brushing against him. “I thought I would make acquaintance with Hercules. Isn’t it a pity that animals can’t talk?”

Alexander walked into the room. He stretched out his hand and the dog approached and licked his fingers. The rest fanned out around him in this austere gray-stone chamber.

“He’s friendly enough,” Alexander observed.

“He always is,” Cleon declared. “He wouldn’t hurt a child.”

“But he protected Memnon?” Miriam asked.

Cleon nodded. “If he thought Memnon was under attack, if you raised your voice or made any threatening gesture, Hercules would change.”

Miriam crouched down. The great war dog was a beautiful animal: iron-gray fur, lean body, long legs. She patted him, feeling the muscle ripple under the smooth soft skin. The hair around his neck was bunched and more coarse, the head perfectly formed. She noticed the powerful jaws. The dog now started licking at her so vigorously that she got to her feet, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. Alexander laughed and stared around the chamber.

“It’s not much, is it?”

Miriam had to agree. A truckle bed in the corner, a chest at the foot of the bed, a large table with a camp chair before it. Some shelves bearing cups and pots, pegs driven into the wall on which to hang belts, armor, and cloaks. In one corner a statue of Aphrodite, small, perfectly carved. Alexander pointed at it.

“Memnon stole that from a house. He called it his good-luck charm.”

Followed by Miriam he went across to the window, nothing more than a wooden square. The shutters had been pulled back. Miriam leaned over and looked down into the cobbled courtyard below. She studied the rough gray-stone walls, the plaster ceiling, the heavy reinforced door. There was no secret passageway into this room.

“What’s above this?” she asked.

“An empty garret, a storeroom,” Demetrius explained. “Memnon kept it locked. He hated anyone going in there.”

“Why?”

“Oh, it’s empty enough,” Cleon replied. “It was a personal foible. Memnon once fought as a mercenary and had to hide in a cellar. He couldn’t stand hearing footsteps above him, it brought back memories.”

“He often told us the tale,” Alcibiades drawled. “He would send us up to check that it was empty, no rat droppings on the floor. It’s nothing more than a dingy loft.”

“How did he die?” Hecaetus wondered.

“It must have been suicide,” Alexander declared. He went across the room and tapped the great bolt on the door. “How did you get in? I mean, this has not been forced!”

“Memnon’s corpse was found just after dawn,” Demetrius explained. “We came up here; well, you’ve seen the door-it would take a siege to batter it down. So we went up to the tower, tied a rope around one of the battlements and lowered down one of the Cretans, an archer. The shutters were open; he slipped into the room. It’s almost as you find it now: the bolts were drawn, the key turned in the lock. Hercules was lying on the floor asleep. We gave the archer some meat so the dog proved to be no trouble. He pulled back the bolts, turned the key, and we came in.”

“What about his papers?” Miriam asked. “As commander of the Cadmea, he must have kept records?”

“I seized them immediately,” Demetrius explained. He went across to the chest, opened it, and took out a roll of papyrus, coarse string binding it together; it was tightly knotted and had been carefully sealed.

“I’ve been through them myself,” said Demetrius. “There’s nothing really, just lists of provisions and arms. A family letter; I believe he has a son in the guards regiment at Pella?”

Miriam put them into her leather writing satchel. Alexander walked carefully around the room. He touched the statue of Aphrodite, sat on the bed, then went to the window and stared out.

“Miriam Bartimaeus,” he spoke absentmindedly, “you will investigate this matter.”

“My lord!” Hecaetus objected, his voice strident.

“You, my lovely boy,” Alexander turned, “will search among the Theban prisoners, see if there is anyone who can help us here.”

“I doubt it!” Hecaetus snapped. “The Thebans who were in power, those members of the army council, are either dead or have fled.”

“Do as I say,” Alexander declared quietly.

Miriam could see that the king was annoyed that Hecaetus had come to the Cadmea without his permission.

“Hephaestion, stay here and ensure that all is well with the citadel. Miriam and Simeon, come with me.”

“My lord, you need a guard,” Hephaestion objected.

Alexander clapped him on the shoulder.

“Not here, Hephaestion,” he murmured. “Not any more.”

They left the citadel. In the end Hephaestion had his way: when Alexander stopped and turned, two hoplites in full armor were trailing like shadows behind them. He squinted his eyes against the strengthening sun.

“Hephaestion worries too much.”

“Be sensible,” Miriam replied.

She gazed around at the blackened devastation: whole quarters leveled to the ground, nothing more than steaming ash. Hordes of scavengers-kites, hawks, crows, and buzzards-had flown in searching for plunder. The stench was still offensive: smoke and the sickly sweet smell of burning flesh. Occasionally the cry of a woman came from the ruins, and soldiers still sifted among the ashes. Others sat in groups sharing wineskins.

“In ten years,” Alexander breathed, “this will be nothing! People will talk of seven-gated Thebes as they do about Troy and the palaces of Midas.”

“Was it necessary?” Miriam asked.

“It was necessary!” Alexander retorted.

They walked on a bit farther, passing the occasional cluster of trees that marked some shrine or small temple. Alexander entered one of these and stopped to look at the gnarled branches of the olive trees. Miriam was pleased to be in the green coolness where the stench of burning was not so strong. Birds still fluttered and sang, it was an oasis of life in this city of the dead.

“Hecaetus may be right,” she remarked. “There must be Thebans still alive who knew what happened, and who might barter for their freedom.”

“Hecaetus didn’t say that,” Alexander retorted. “He said that the search would be a waste of time. Most of the Theban leaders are dead. Those who survived have fled.” He glanced at her brother.

“What do you think happened in the Cadmea?”

“There’s undoubtedly a traitor,” Simeon replied, hitching his writing bag over his shoulder; he stared curiously through the trees at the white path that must lead to the shrine.

“Miriam?” Alexander asked.

“I agree.” She played with the clasps on her cloak, wishing they would move on. She felt weak, slightly nauseous from the destruction, the burning, the wholesale slaughter, that grim citadel with those soldiers whose moods shifted between insolence and fear. Alexander picked up an olive shriveled brown; he squeezed it between his fingers. A barber had cut his hair, but apart from the rings on his fingers and the gold-embossed sword hilt, Alexander looked like a young officer from the army rather than the conquering victor of Thebes.

“Mother will be here soon,” he groaned. “She’ll want to see the sights. She’ll also want vengeance for Memnon.”

“Why is that?” Miriam asked.

“When father divorced her just before his. .” He blinked, “. . well, just before his death, he asked his drinking companions what they thought. Of course, they all agreed. Memnon was standing on guard duty. ‘Memnon,’ my father shouted, ‘what do you think?’ Memnon bawled back, ‘That you are a bloody fool.’” Alexander smiled and shook his head. “Well, you know father, he bellowed with laughter. He even asked Memnon if he’d like to marry Olympias; that’s when the old soldier really warmed the cockles of my mother’s heart. ‘Men like me,’ he replied, ‘mere mortals, do not marry goddesses.’ Mother sent him a ring. A pledge of eternal friendship. And, as you know, Miriam,” he hitched up his military cloak for it had turned cold, “when mother gives an oath for life or death, she keeps it. I don’t think. .” he threw the shriveled olive on the ground and squashed it under his foot, “. . Memnon committed suicide. He was an old soldier, he wouldn’t have had the imagination.”

“But you saw the room,” Simeon objected. “The walls, the ceiling, the floor were of stone. The door would need a battering ram!”

“The assassin could have entered by the window,” Alexander said weakly.

“Oh, come!” Simeon grasped his dagger hilt. “I’m a clerk, I’m a scribe, my lord, but even a mouse like me would fight. Did Memnon, one of your father’s heroes, just sit there and allow someone to pick him up and throw him through a window? ‘Oh, good morning,’ Memnon must have said, ‘what are you doing here?’ ‘I’ve come to kill you, throw you out the window.’”

“And there’s the dog,” Miriam added. “He may be friendly but I doubt he would just sit there. If it turned nasty he could be savage; Hercules has the strength and cunning of a panther.”

“Ah, well.” Alexander moved a ringlet of hair from Miriam’s brow. “Investigate this matter but, remember, they don’t like you, Miriam. Aye, and don’t tell me it’s because you’re flat-chested with a deep voice. They’ve heard of my two Israelites spies. Do you know that mother wanted to keep you at Pella. To protect her? Would you have liked that, Miriam? Sitting by Olympias while she spins that bloody wheel of hers?” He made to brush by her but Miriam stood her ground.

“If you want to send us back, my lord. .”

“Oh don’t be stupid, I’m only teasing. You, Ptolemy, Niarchos, and Simeon were all with me when I was at the academy in the groves of Midas. I wonder what Aristotle is going to write when he hears about my destruction of Thebes.”

“The Athenians and the rest demanded that it be leveled.”

“Ah yes, Athens. Strange isn’t it, that there are so many connections between Thebes and Athens? In the legend, Oedipus fled to Athens. Sophocles died in Athens, his tomb is near the city gates. But come, let’s see the shrine.”

They left the olive grove and took the white chalky path. Miriam looked around; the two soldiers still followed them. They turned a corner. Miriam stopped and gasped. The temple or shrine was small, of white stone; the trees around it heightened the atmosphere of serenity and coolness, it was as if Thebes still lived. Four soldiers lounged on the steps, an officer and three guardsmen. They scrambled to their feet as Alexander approached, desperately strapping on war belts, looking for shields and lances.

“Oh, for the love of Mother,” Alexander bawled, “what do you think I am, a Theban war party?”

The captain threw his belt away and came down the steps. He genuflected and kissed Alexander’s ring.

“Everything is in order here?”

“Yes, my lord,” the soldier replied, getting up. He glanced at Miriam and Simeon then back along the path to where the two soldiers stood.

“They are inside, my lord.”

“Who are?”

“The priestesses, sir. They have been here most of the time.”

“They haven’t been hurt?”

“Of course not, my lord. Two of my lads are in the vestibule.”

“And the keys?” Alexander asked.

“The old bi-. . the high priestess refused to hand them over.”

“Ah,” Alexander sighed; he rubbed his eyes. “I’ve got a feeling Jocasta and Mother would get on very well.”

They walked up the steps through the half-opened doors. Alexander paused to admire the club-bearing statue of Oedipus and the graceful form of Apollo the hunter. The soldiers inside were busy playing dice; they, too scrambled to their feet.

“Are the doors locked?” Alexander asked.

Miriam stared at the huge bronze-plated doors.

“I think the old woman has barred it behind her,” the soldier replied. “She said animals were not allowed in the shrine.”

Alexander walked up, drew his sword, and hammered. There was a faint sound of footsteps, of a bar being raised. The door was opened by a pale-faced and frightened young priestess dressed in white.

“You are not allowed in here.” She stumbled on the words.

“I am Alexander of Macedon, and I go where I wish!”

“Then enter, Alexander of Macedon!” a voice called out.

The young priestess moved aside. Miriam followed the king into the shrine.

She was aware of marble walls and floor, a white stuccoed ceiling. No ornaments, just niches in the walls where oil lamps glowed in pure alabaster jars. A wall recess to the side and, at the far end, glowing in the light of the sun whose rays shot like spears through the narrow windows, a long white pillar, an Iron Crown on top. Only then did she become aware of the two pits: The one around the pillar was simply a dip in the floor but she saw the glowing charcoal, the spikes at the far end. The women, who stood in line near a black iron bar that ran along the rim of the charcoal pit, were dressed from head to toe in white linen. Miriam glimpsed leather sandals, rings on fingers, a gold armlet. One of the women came forward, pulling back her cowl. Her wig was oil-drenched, her face old and raddled and coated in thick white paint, her eyes ringed with black kohl. Despite her age the woman carried herself with a certain majesty, her old eyes scrutinizing Alexander. She stopped and bowed.

“My lord King, I am Jocasta, chief priestess of the shrine.” She gestured at the other four. “This is Antigone, Merope, Ismene, and Teiresias.”

“All names,” Alexander said, “from the plays of Sophocles.”

The high priestess nodded. “Who we really are is no matter. We serve a god and guard his shrine in what was ‘Thebes, the City of Light.’”

“‘And what am I?’” Alexander replied, “‘the shedder of blood? The doer of deeds unnamed?’”

Miriam recognized the quotation from Oedipus Rex.

“‘Who is this man?’” Jocasta answered, also quoting from the play, “‘the son of Zeus, who needs to destroy?’ Welcome to our temple, Alexander, son of Philip.”

Miriam caught the sarcasm in her voice: Jocasta had pointedly described Alexander as she would any other man, as the son of a human father. Alexander brushed back his hair. “‘Greatest of men,’” he quoted, staring at the Crown, “‘He delved the deepest mysteries! Was admired by his fellow men in his great prosperity. Behold, what a full tide of misfortune swept over that head.’”

“‘And none can be called happy,’” Jocasta finished the quotation, “‘Until that day when he carried his happiness down to the grave in peace.’”

Alexander seemed not to be listening. He knelt on one of the quilted cushions in front of the iron bar, eyes fixed on Oedipus’s Crown. His hands came up, fingers curling, as if he wanted to stretch out and take it immediately. Jocasta came up behind him. The other priestesses, more nervous, clustered about her.

“Behold,” she said in a singsong voice. “Behold, Alexander, king of Macedon: the Crown of Oedipus, king of Thebes, beloved of the gods!”

“Slayer of his father!” Alexander finished. “Lover of his mother!”

“None can wear that Crown except the pure and those touched by a god.”

“I am king,” Alexander retorted. “I am conqueror and victor of Thebes. By divine decree that Crown is mine!”

“Then take it Alexander.” Jocasta’s voice was softly mocking. “What are you going to do? Empty the pit of fire? Crush the serpents under your boot? Unlock the clasps and take the Crown? And who can stop you? An old priestess and her acolytes? How all of Greece will laugh,” she taunted, “at the lion of Macedon.”

Alexander got to his feet, his face flushed. “It cannot stay here.”

“Look, look, Alexander.” Jocasta seized his elbow. “There is the Crown; it rests on top of the pillar. Look at the iron clasps. They can be loosened, the Crown lifted up and brought to your head.”

“How?” Alexander demanded.

Miriam closed her eyes. Alexander’s petulance had come to the fore. The old priestess had cleverly trapped him, like an elderly aunt reproving a recalcitrant nephew. All Alexander had to do was stamp his foot and shout, “I want! I want!” and the picture would be complete. Miriam stared at the pit of fire. It must be at least three to four feet deep and about two yards across. The spikes were ugly and gleaming, and in the dark pit beyond, what horrors existed! She had seen snake pits in the chambers of Olympias, the serpents writhing and coiling so that it seemed as if the whole floor were moving! All to protect that Iron Crown, the ruby in its center glowing like a small ball of fire. It was kept in place by two clasps at the front, like those on a chest, but how could they be pulled down without crossing the pits? Did the priestess have some kind of bridge that could lowered and extended across? And what would it rest against? The fire would burn any wooden structure, and the snakes would strike; even a man wearing thick military boots would be in great danger. So, if it was to be removed, it would have to be by subtlety and cunning rather than brute force. Miriam grasped Alexander’s arm, pinching the skin. The king moved away, walking the edge of the pit, his eyes fixed on the Crown.

“How do you remove it?” he asked.

“That is a mystery, my lord king. If the gods and the shade of Oedipus believe it is yours, the way will be shown to you,” responded the high priestess.

Alexander’s fingers drummed on his sword hilt. He smiled bleakly at her, and Miriam realized that this cunning old priestess had cleverly trapped him. Alexander might be conqueror of Thebes but now all of Greece would learn whether the Crown of Oedipus was still to be withheld from him.