A Murder in Thebes

CHAPTER 4

“There is another matter.” Alexander walked determinedly toward Jocasta in an attempt to reassert himself.

“The death of Lysander?” she asked. “My lord king, it had nothing to do with me. Pelliades, leader of the Theban council, asked me to mediate. I swore sacred oaths that your envoy would be safe. He’d hardly stepped beyond the palisade when the daggers were drawn.”

The old priestess blinked away the tears.

“I cursed them,” she continued. “I told them that they had broken their most sacred oaths, that the gods would respond. They just laughed. Pelliades said that you were dead and the power of Macedon shattered.” She lifted one shoulder. “I cursed him; the rest you know. Lysander’s body was put on a gibbet.” She stared down at the black marble floor.

“And Pelliades?” she asked.

“Dead,” Alexander replied. “Killed with the rest in the final stand beyond the Electra Gate.” He stretched out his hand. “I may not take the Crown of Oedipus, not yet, but I will take the keys.”

“We have to worship here.” Jocasta’s lower lip trembled. She clasped the pectoral on her chest. “We have to tend the shrine.”

“The officer outside,” Alexander replied kindly, “will hold the keys. He will hand them back whenever you wish.”

The high priestess sighed but took the keys off the girdle around her waist. They were large, their brass heads shaped in the form of a snake. She thrust them into Alexander’s hand. Alexander gestured for the soldiers to withdraw from the door. When they did so he stepped closer.

“There’ll be a password. I’ll tell the officer in charge.”

“What is it?” Jocasta asked.

Alexander stared across at the Crown.

“Why, Oedipus.” Alexander smiled. He grasped the keys and walked to the door. He went down the steps, Miriam and Simeon following. Alexander called the officer over.

“Four of you will guard the outside,” he declared. “Leave two others in the shrine itself.” He handed the keys over. “These are only to be given to the old priestess or to me; the password is Oedipus.” He grasped the young man’s arm. “You are well armed?”

“With everything, my lord king: bows, arrows, spears, swords.”

“You have a hunting horn?” Alexander asked.

“No, my lord, but I know where I can get one.”

“If anything untoward happens,” Alexander declared, “sound the alarm.” He stared around at the dark olive trees. “But you are safe enough. No fighting men remain in Thebes and the Macedonian army guards all the approaches. Eat, sleep, but be vigilant.” He wagged a finger and smiled.

“You are Meriades, aren’t you?”

“Yes, my lord king.” The young man beamed with pleasure at being recognized.

“Your father was in the guards regiment. He died at Chaeronea. Be worthy of your father’s name.” Alexander spun on his heel and walked back along the white chalk path. He entered the olive grove, leading Simeon and Miriam deeper into the trees to a small clearing where he sat down on a stump, staring up at the greenery. He gestured for Miriam and Simeon to sit next to him. Simeon sighed and looked at his sister. This was one of Alexander’s favorite customs. He loved to walk away from the throng and the bustle, then sit and talk, turning over some problem. Miriam suspected he daydreamed. A great deal of the time Alexander was anxious; he even had anxiety attacks, periods of panic when he’d sit tense. Afterward he’d abruptly stir himself into action, issuing orders, dictating letters so fast the scribes and clerks could hardly keep up with him. He’d charge around the camp inspecting equipment and munitions, sharp-eyed for failure: a harsh word to a defaulter, lavish praise for those who pleased him.

“Jocasta does remind me of Mother.” Alexander scratched his head. “The way she walks. Why do women do that?”

“Do what?” Miriam asked.

“They seem to grow taller,” Alexander replied. “All of their spirit seems to come into their eyes when they look down at you rather disapprovingly. Mother always does that. Even Father confessed he felt frightened whenever Olympias played the royal Medea.”

“You could take her head,” Simeon replied. “She had a hand in Lysander’s death.”

“Don’t be bloody stupid!” Alexander kicked at Simeon’s knee with his foot. “How my enemies would love that! Alexander, the lion of Macedon, killer of ancient priestesses! From what I can gather she spoke the truth. Pelliades was a treacherous piece of work. They simply used her to lure poor Lysander out.”

“But why?” Miriam asked. “Why kill Lysander, gibbet his corpse?”

“They must have truly thought I was dead.” Alexander undid his sword belt and placed it between his feet. “Somehow this spy, the Oracle, convinced the Theban elders that I and my army had perished in Thessaly. They took their fury and hatred out on poor Lysander and, by executing him, sent a defiant message to Memnon. He was expected to surrender, to capitulate and withdraw from the citadel.”

“But he didn’t,” Miriam continued. “He was an old soldier, tough and loyal, but he became wary of this officers. He believed one of them was a traitor. He locked himself up in his chamber and, if the accepted story is to be believed, committed suicide by throwing himself out his window. But that’s not the Macedonian way is it? Why didn’t Memnon drink poison or fall on his sword? How was he dressed?”

“According to reports,” Alexander replied, “he was wearing a cuirass over a leather tunic, he had his marching boots on and his sword belt strapped about him. Oh yes, he was also wearing his military cloak.”

“And he fell during the middle of the night?”

“Apparently so.”

“But why?” Miriam persisted. “Why should this old soldier dress himself up for war, open the shutters of his window, and throw himself out in the dead of night? And, before you say it, Simeon,” she poked her brother, “no fabulous tale-about him being drugged or someone entering through the window-that simply doesn’t make sense. If any assassin had come into that chamber, Hercules would have torn him apart.” She sighed with exasperation. “We know who was on duty. I like to know where the rest were?”

“Why?” Simeon asked.

Miriam shrugged. “I don’t know why. On the one hand Memnon’s death looks like suicide, but on the other the captain was a veteran-tough, used to sieges. Why should he dress himself up in the middle of the night and jump out a window?”

“And yet if he was murdered,” Simeon insisted, “how could someone attack a hardened warrior faithfully guarded by his huge hunting dog?”

“We’ve got an even more pressing problem.” Alexander lifted his head. “You’ve seen the shrine and the Crown of Oedipus? Can either of you Israelites devise some subtle stratagem for bringing that Crown fairly into my hands?”

“Oh, just take it,” Simeon grumbled. “You are king, conqueror.”

Alexander chewed on his lower lip. “No, there must be another way. Ah well.” He got to his feet, picked up his sword belt and slung it over his shoulder. “You don’t believe in any of this, do you?” He helped Miriam to her feet. “The God of Israel is not confined to temples or shrines. You don’t believe in relics or legends of the past?”

“We have our stories,” Miriam replied, “but our God is in all places.”

“Is he now?” Alexander teased. “I wonder what he thinks about Thebes burning to the heavens? Or about the legends, the ghost stories? Look around you,” he whispered.

Miriam did so. The trees grew close together, old and gnarled, twisted with age; their branches spread out and interlaced like old people leaning forward to grasp one another.

“They say Oedipus still walks here. The men are superstitious. They have talked to the Theban captives. Oedipus has been seen dragging his swollen foot, club in hand, around the streets of Thebes.”

“But didn’t he protect them?” Simeon scoffed.

“No, they said he’d come to wreak vengeance. The Thebans have forgotten the old ways, and I,” he added, “am that vengeance.”

Miriam pulled her cloak about her a little closer. If the truth be known, she didn’t like this devastated city or that strange shrine, with its painted priestesses, marble floors, fire and snake pits. Miriam wondered if the Iron Crown, with its blood-red ruby, would trap Alexander, rob him of the fruits of his victory.

“We should be going,” she murmured. “I would like to go back to the citadel. Ask a few more questions.”

Alexander agreed. “I’ll walk you there.” A twig snapped and Alexander whirled round, hand to his sword hilt, but it was only the two soldiers now tired of waiting on the edge of the grove.

“You’ve been good guard dogs,” Alexander called out, “and the day is drawing on.”

They left the grove and entered the sea of devastation and destruction around the citadel. Alexander’s companions were waiting, crouched in a circle sharing a wineskin, their war belts on the ground beside them. A short distance away a woman crouched, her arms around two children who were white-faced and had black rings around their eyes; they gazed in terror at the soldiers.

“What’s this?” Alexander asked.

Miriam’s heart sank at the fear in the woman’s face, at the way the children clung to her-probably some Theban mother who had hidden in the ruins with her children only to be discovered by the soldiers. But why hadn’t she been dragged off to the slave pens? Despite her terror, the woman now stood, one hand on the shoulder of each child. She would have been beautiful, but there was a bruise high on her cheek, and her face was streaked with dirt and ash; her gown and tunic were soiled and one sandal was missing.

“She’s guilty of murder,” Niarchos the Cretan declared. He gestured across the ruins with his hands. “Some of our lads found her in the cellar of a house.”

“And?” Alexander asked.

Niarchos put his hands on his hips and clicked his tongue. “Well, the officer who found her was a Boeatian; he roughed her up a bit.”

“You mean, he raped her?” Miriam asked. “In front of her children?”

Niarchos’s monkeylike face creased into a smile. “You always did have a tart tongue, Miriam; even in the groves of Midas we felt the lash.”

“With people like you?” Miriam retorted, “no wonder!”

Niarchos just pulled at his oil-drenched hair. Alexander was staring at the woman.

“What happened?” he demanded.

“Well, the Boeatian, after he had his pleasure, wanted to know where her treasure was hidden. She said it was down a well in the garden at the back of the house.”

The woman was now blinking, her lips moving wordlessly.

“She took him there,” Niarchos continued. “Er, he had been drinking.”

“And she pushed him down, didn’t she?” Alexander finished the story.

“Snapped the bastard’s neck,” Niarchos declared. “The rest of the squadron would have killed her on the spot.” He pointed to Perdiccas. “But he heard the clamor.” He moved from foot to foot. “What shall we do, my lord king?” he asked sardonically, “a thousand lashes and into the slave pen, or shall we crucify the bitch as a warning to others?”

Alexander put his hand on Niarchos’s shoulder, his fingers near his neck, and he squeezed. Niarchos winced with pain.

“By all that’s holy!. .” Alexander used his sacred oath. “She’s a mother Niarchos. The blood lust is over.”

One of the children began to cry. Miriam glanced away. There was a cruel streak in Alexander, and if it surfaced; the woman and both her children would die.

“For pity’s sake, she killed one of my officers!” Niarchos shouted.

The woman clutched the children closer. “He was drunk,” she declared defiantly. “He was an animal. He deserved to die.” She gestured at the black sea of ash around them. “You all deserve to die. You are Alexander, lord, king of Macedon. Why not kill us? The great conqueror, the victor!”

Alexander narrowed his eyes. “You are free to go.”

Niarchos made to object.

“Shut your mouth!” Alexander snapped. “You are free to go! Simeon write out a pass! I’ll seal it myself. Niarchos, that money pouch! Come on, it’s so heavy you can’t even walk straight!”

The Cretan handed it over. The rest of the officers were now laughing, their mood ever fickle. They knew about Niarchos’s love of money; he was a brave fighter but he had combed the ruins looking for anything that glittered. Niarchos sullenly handed it over. Alexander threw it, and the woman deftly caught it.

“My scribe will write out the pass,” Alexander declared. “You will also get new clothes, horses, saddlebags, food, wine, and a soldier to guide you to wherever you wish to go.” He glanced away. “My blood has cooled. Alexander of Macedon does not make wanton war on widows and children. And, as for the officer, he shouldn’t have been drunk on duty. He deserved what he got.”

The woman now crouched down to comfort her children. Simeon found a place to sit cross-legged, his writing tray resting on his thighs. Niarchos was glowering at Alexander, but the king chucked him under the chin.

“I’ve got a present for you Niarchos.”

The Cretan’s eyes glowed.

“It’s a cup of pure gold.” He put an arm round the Cretan’s shoulders. “Come, let’s drink.” Alexander sauntered off. Niarchos had now regained his good humor, and the rest joined in the banter.

Simeon finished the letter. Miriam made a move toward the woman.

“Thank you.” The woman held a hand up. “But leave me alone. I and my children shall soon be gone from here.”

Miriam turned away and walked up the incline, through the ruined palisade, and into the Cadmea. The place was fairly deserted now. There was no city to guard, no attack expected. Most of the garrison had drifted back toward the main Macedonian camp. Only a few soldiers remained, lounging against the wall, playing dice or sleeping off a day’s drinking. A guard came across; Miriam showed him the royal seal and the man hastily withdrew. The tower was also deserted though in the mess hall Miriam glimpsed the two pages still using the table to play with their magnets. They looked up as she entered.

“Do you have breasts?” one of them called.

“Aye, and a brain,” Miriam retorted. She sat on the stool and watched. They were gambling for coins. One held the magnet, the other pulled out iron filings from a bag and wagered how far they would have to be before the magnet pulled them close. The game did remind her of the lectures in the groves of Midas. Aristotle had been fascinated by magnets. He’d expanded his teaching to talk about the properties of the earth, and did it contain a magnetic force?

“Do you want to wager?” one of the pages abruptly asked.

Miriam got up, closed the door, and came back. She opened her own purse and shook a few coins out onto the table.

“I’d like to ask you some questions.”

The boys immediately ceased their game.

“You are pages of the royal court?”

“Oh no! We are Thebans.”

Miriam looked nonplussed.

“We are orphans,” the elder one said.

“Before things turned sour, Memnon took us in. We don’t know who our father and mother were. We might be Thebans. Someone told us that we were bastards.”

“Do you know what that means?” Miriam asked.

The older one, thin-faced and cheeky, nodded. He looked tough; the younger one was more sly-eyed. Street children, Miriam thought, who hang around soldiers’ camps.

“Anyway, Memnon took us in. He was a crusty old bugger but fair. We cleaned the slops, ran messages.”

“But the Macedonians destroyed your city?” Miriam asked.

“Not our city,” they both chorused.

“What are your names?”

“Memnon called us Castor and Pollux. We asked him why, and he just laughed. We thought he liked bum boys.”

“And?”

“Then we heard one of the serving wenches squealing in his chamber. But you can’t say the same about the rest.”

“His officers?” Miriam queried.

“Bum boys the lot of them,” the elder one said.

“You are?”

“Castor.”

“What do you mean they are bum boys?”

“By Apollo’s cock,” Pollux retorted, using a soldier’s favorite oath, “they were always clinging to each other in the stables or in their chambers. Demetrius and Alcibiades, Melitus and Patroclus. If they were dogs you’d throw a bucket of water over them.”

“They were lovers?”

“We didn’t say that,” Castor declared, his eyes fixed on the coins. “They just like each other’s bottoms.”

Miriam hid a smile. Sodomy amongst the Macedonian soldiers was common; many of them were bisexual. In her youth she had been shocked, but now she glanced away; if the truth were known, she really didn’t care about Macedon or its army. Alexander was different.

“And Cleon?” she asked.

“Oh, he was fair enough Memnon’s man. He protected his captain like an old woman would her solitary chicken.”

“And the night Memnon died?”

“No one knew about it,” Castor replied. “Not till first light and the poor bugger’s body was found at the foot of the tower. I think Patroclus was on guard. Cleon was furious. They had a meeting here in the hall, Patroclus swore he heard nothing from the captain’s chamber.”

“Why do think Memnon died?” Miriam asked.

“He was lonely,” Castor replied. “He thought there was a traitor among his officers. It was common gossip. To be blunt, mistress, everyone was terrified! They thought the Thebans were going to attack, break in, and crucify us as they did poor Lysander.”

Miriam pushed two coins down the table.

“And do you know who the traitor was?”

“It couldn’t have been Cleon or Memnon.”

“Why is that?” Miriam asked the younger one.

“One night Cleon was in his captain’s chamber. I came up with some wine and a bowl of fruit. There were voices raised.”

“And what was said?”

“Cleon was talking to his captain. He agreed there was a traitor in the garrison. Cleon was terrified that this traitor would open the gates and allow the Thebans in. He was begging Memnon to double the guard, which the captain did. Anyone who went near the gate at night would have had an arrow in his gullet. And then Cleon said ‘If they break in, sir, you’ll not let them take me alive? You’ll kill me won’t you?’ Memnon scoffed, but Cleon insisted. I paused on the stairway. I love hearing conversations. Cleon asked Memnon if he had his suspicions about who was the traitor? Memnon said. ‘Whoever it is must be an archer, that’s right!’ Cleon asked why. Memnon replied that he had been on top of the tower late one night and had seen a fire arrow shot from the yard below. It went across the palisade. I thought I had heard enough,” he stammered, “so I brought in the wine.”

“But you left hurriedly?” Miriam asked.

“They closed the door,” the page replied cheekily.

“But you listened at the keyhole?”

“Memnon begged Cleon to discover who the spy was. Cleon agreed, though he said something strange. . ” The page looked at the small pile of coins near Miriam’s elbow. She pushed two across the table.

“Go on,” she said.

“Cleon said that if the assassin struck, he’d strike at Memnon. Cleon thought that the Thebans hoped Memnon would join Lysander; they then would have killed the two principal officers, and the garrison would have surrendered. Memnon agreed. Cleon told him to bar and bolt the door and to stay well armed. ‘They’ll try to kill you here,’ Cleon warned. Memnon pointed to that bloody dog he kept.”

“Where is he now?” Miriam interrupted.

“Oh, he’s been taken into the camp by that other bum boy, the one with dyed hair.”

“Ah, Hecaetus.”

“Yes, that’s right, Hecaetus. Anyway Memnon pointed at that great bloody mastiff and said he would take care of any assassin.”

“What else do you know?”

Both boys shrugged.

Pollux looked toward the window, where the light was beginning to fade.

“We’ll be going now.”

“Where?” Miriam asked.

“Back to the camp; that’s where the best food and wine are kept.”

The pages pushed back the bench, grabbed the coins, and scampered out.

Miriam sat until she heard their voices fade. She sighed and, taking her writing satchel, walked out into the corridor. Now that darkness was falling, she realized what a gloomy, somber place the citadel was. She put her hand out and felt the cold granite walls. It wouldn’t remain long. When Alexander left, this place would be destroyed. She took a pitch torch from its bracket and climbed the steep, spiral staircase. The tower seemed deserted, a ghostly hollow place. She paused on the stairwell and peeked into the chambers. The doors were open, the rooms were ransacked. She went farther up. The door to Memnon’s chamber was ajar; she pushed it open and went in. The air smelled stale-of dog, oil lamp, sweat, and leather. She placed the torch in a holder, and groping in the darkness, found some oil lamps, which she lit.

The shutters were closed. Miriam went to open them but felt a cold draft seeping through the cracks and decided to leave it. She opened the satchel and took out Memnon’s papers; she undid the cord and laid them on the table. In the light of an oil lamp, she began to leaf through the greasy, well-thumbed pieces of papyrus. In her time she had helped Simeon with army records, and these were no different. Typical soldiers’ entries, the writing crude and large. Stores, provisions, arms, a rough drawing of the Cadmea, a votive prayer to Apollo, drafts of orders. She found a copy of a letter Memnon must have intended for his son. Apparently written during the early days of his command of the Cadmea, the letter depicted Memnon as a jovial, bluff man, proud of Alexander’s trust in him, full of advice on how his son was to act. The letter, however, had never been sent. The scribbles of graffiti on the bottom half of the page were interesting. Probably done during the last days of his life, Memnon had written out promises: he would travel to this shrine or that, make votive offerings to the gods if he was safely brought through the present dangers. One phrase, however, was repeated: the name Oedipus, or the literal translation of the ancient Theban king’s name, swollen foot. “I have seen him tonight,” Memnon had scrawled. “I have heard him on the stairs, his club rattling against the wall.”

Miriam went cold. What had Memnon been talking about? The ghost of Oedipus? The accursed king of Thebes dragging himself through this ancient citadel? She continued reading, the same entry was repeated time and again. She found another dirty piece of parchment with the same remarks beneath a crude drawing of Oedipus carrying his club. Miriam raised her head. The citadel was very quiet now. She stared round the chamber.

Was Memnon’s shade here, she wondered? Did the old captain stand in the shadows and peer out at her? Or had he gone to Hades? She grasped her torch and went out to the stairwell. She heard a door close and turned around but there was no other sound. She went up the steps and passed the small garret, its door flung back; she peered in: nothing but a dusty cubicle. She climbed on. The staircase became narrower and led to a wooden door. Miriam raised the latch, and a buffet of cold air made her torch splutter. She went out onto the top of the tower, her feet crunching on gravel deliberately strewn there so that no one could miss their footing. The wind was strong, and Miriam shielded her face. She walked to the edge and stood with one hand resting on the crenellations. She lifted the torch and gazed down. It was now pitch dark. Yet she was aware of the dizzying height. Fires still burned in the city, and beyond, she could see the lights of the Macedonian camp. Memnon must have stood here when he’d seen the fire arrow loosed into the night sky. She once again stared at the ruins of Thebes and repressed a shiver. This was truly a necropolis, a city of the dead. She heard a sound; a group of soldiers were leaving, their torches mere pinpricks of light. Behind her the door to the tower clattered and banged. Miriam went back and, carefully closing the door behind her, went down the steps. She reentered Memnon’s chamber, and her stomach pitched. Someone had been here. The oil lamps had been moved. Her hand went to her girdle and she realized she had brought no weapon. But surely the garrison? Men were still here? She hurried to the chest at the foot of the little truckle bed and opened it. It smelled of stale sweat. She fumbled through the contents and sighed with relief as her fingers clutched a dagger. She pulled this out, threw away the battered sheath, and went to the door.

“Who is there?” she called. Her own voice echoed down the stairwell. She heard a door opening and closing. “Castor, Pollux!”

Someone was coming up the stairs. Her blood chilled, yes she was sure, one foot dragging after the other; something smacked against the stone wall time and again as if a drum were being beaten.

“Who is there?” she called.

“I am the shade of hell!” A voice echoed, hollow, up the steps.

Miriam’s mouth went dry. What could she do? She felt the thickness of the door and stepped back into Memnon’s chamber. The key was gone but she drew the bolts across. Outside, though more faintly, she heard the sound of the intruder, lame foot dragging after him, as he climbed the stairs. The awful drumming against the wall grew louder. Miriam recalled the words about Oedipus, the swollen foot, ancient king of Thebes. And what had Alexander said? That Oedipus’s ghost had been seen in Thebes. The sounds grew nearer. Miriam drew in her breath, grasping the dagger more firmly. The door was tried. A loud rapping and then a crashing, as if someone were beating it with a club. Miriam stood transfixed, torch in one hand, dagger in the other. She heard her name being called but this came from the courtyard below. The crashing grew louder; the door was shaking.

“Who is it?” Miriam screamed. She hurried toward the shutters, pulled off the bar, and threw them open. The cold night air rushed in. Miriam was only aware of that terrible crashing against the door. She turned, dagger in hand, and then the knocking ceased.