A Murder in Thebes

CHAPTER 6

Miriam returned to the citadel just after dawn, ruefully realizing she had broken Alexander’s first request because her sleep had been plagued by dreams and nightmares. It was a cold gray morning, and a mist had seeped in over the charred remains of Thebes, reminding Miriam of some image of Hades with the black and twisted timbers, the ankle-deep ash, the occasional smoldering fire. She found some of the soldiers had drifted back to the citadel, and drew some comfort from their presence. She had to kick her heels while a servant went looking for Memnon’s five principal officers. Cleon was the first to arrive, bright-eyed and clean-shaven. He insisted that Miriam join him for breakfast. He took her to the mess hall and brought out two dishes of fragrantly smelling meat and some rather stale bread, for which he wryly apologized, and a jug of beer.

“It’s Theban,” he declared, “but it tastes fresh and tangy. Best thing to clean the mouth in the morning.” He sat on a bench opposite and offered Miriam a napkin. The meat was hot to the touch. Miriam had to blow on it as well take hasty sips of beer.

“You are a good cook,” she teased. “You’ll make someone a wonderful husband.”

“Captain Memnon was a stickler,” Cleon replied between mouthfuls. “He said he had starved enough during sieges and had eaten his fill of army rations. So, in a place like this, he would demand all the luxuries.”

“Was he a good officer?” Miriam asked.

“Excellent. Loyal, brave. A kindly man, I never saw him hit anyone. Oh, he could curse and he’d rant, but unlike his dog,” Cleon grinned, “his bark was infinitely worse than his bite!”

“Did he know that Alexander was marching on Thebes?”

“Yes, we all did,” Cleon replied. “Shortly before Memnon was found at the foot of the tower.”

“And Memnon was happy with this news?”

“He said he had it on good report, though he was still worried that Alexander had been killed. He was also terrified that the Thebans might suddenly launch a surprise attack and take the citadel before the Macedonian army arrived.”

“And that was possible?” Miriam asked.

“Yes certainly! If the spy among us had opened the gates, we would have been massacred.”

“And why didn’t that happen?”

Cleon narrowed his eyes and wiped his fingers on the napkin.

“To have achieved that the Thebans would have had to mass behind the palisade. Our guards would have seen them.”

“Was there a guard at the top of the tower when Memnon died?”

“No.” Cleon shook his head. “It’s far too high; it only serves as a lookout post during the day. Our sentries were on the ramparts along the curtain wall.”

“I am sorry for my interruptions,” Miriam apologized. “You were talking about a sudden attack.”

“The Thebans would have had to mass,” Cleon declared. “And that would have become apparent. The spy or traitor, whoever it was, would have had to open a gate. Now, the citadel has two gates, the main one you came through this morning and a small postern door.”

“And both were closely guarded?”

“Oh, yes. Footmen in full armor, archers; the garrison was on full alert. If the Thebans had broken in they would have shown no mercy.” He cleaned the bowl with a piece of bread and popped the bread into his mouth. “And don’t forget that the spy or traitor would have been worried. If the Thebans had broken in they wouldn’t have known friend from foe; he might have been killed along with the rest.”

“And Memnon’s state of mind?” she asked.

“He was very anxious, worried.” Cleon’s voice dropped to a whisper. “He really did believe the spy was one of his officers.”

“Not you?” Miriam asked.

“The Thebans have no love for me!”

“Then, who?” Miriam asked.

“I don’t know.” Cleon shook his head. “I really don’t. You see, Miriam. .” He pushed the bowl away. “All of us could be described as secretive or lonely men.”

“What do you mean?”

“We were in a siege. Tension in the Cadmea was palpable. We all tried to look for some refuge for ourselves. One person would go off here, another there.”

“But did you see anything suspicious?”

“Nothing.” Cleon made a cutting movement with his hand.

“But Memnon did?”

“He might have, though he never mentioned it to me. All he could talk about was the traitor. Someone who knew the strength of our garrison.” Cleon licked his lips. “He did become a little suspicious toward me.”

“Why?” Miriam asked.

“Memnon had two great fears. One was the spy, but the other?”

“Was a mutiny?” Miriam asked.

“Yes, a mutiny. Memnon was concerned that his officers, would believe that the Macedonian army had been destroyed and killed. And that they might murder him and open negotiations with Thebes for some sort of honorable surrender.”

“So this worry could have caused him to commit suicide?”

Cleon picked up the napkin and dabbed at his mouth. He smiled at Miriam from under his eyebrows.

“I would like to say yes. I would like to put my hand on some sacred object and swear that Captain Memnon’s mind was turned, that his wits were as wandering as flies in summer. But that wouldn’t be the truth. I don’t think Captain Memnon committed suicide.” He leaned his arms on the table. “But only the gods know how he was murdered.”

“I ask the same question myself.”

Miriam started and turned. Alcibiades stood in the doorway. He sauntered across, picked up a piece of stale bread, and sat on the bench next to Cleon. He had been drinking, and his eyes were red-rimmed, his pale face sweaty; the tunic he wore still bore stains from the previous night’s feasting. He scratched his unshaven cheek.

“Don’t worry. I am going to have a bath.”

Cleon wrinkled his nose. “And not before time,” he whispered.

Alcibiades playfully nudged him back but his eyes held Miriam’s. She saw the malevolence, the sneering look.

“You don’t like me, do you?” she asked.

She moved the writing satchel from the table on to the bench beside her.

“It’s not that, my dear. I just don’t like women in general. And I don’t like those who come snooping into men’s affairs.” He chewed noisily on the bread, deliberately opening his mouth so Miriam would look away.

“Do you like Israelites?” Miriam asked.

“You are the first I have met. So, no.”

“Hush,” Cleon intervened, “she’s from the king’s writing office.”

“I couldn’t give a donkey’s fart where she’s from!” Alcibiades retorted. “I am a Macedon, I can speak my mind. I was loyal to Philip and I’ll be loyal to his son. I have marched through freezing snow. I have had the sun burn my arse! I have stood in battle line with the rest and I’ve never retreated.” He turned and spat the bread out of his mouth onto the floor. “I was a loyal officer of the garrison.” His voice became strident. “As is Cleon and the others! I saw no treachery. We should be rewarded not treated with suspicion.”

“I fully agree.” Demetrius, clapping his hands, came in with Patroclus and Melitus. They bowed sardonically at Miriam and then wandered into the kitchen looking for food. They came back talking noisily about the feast the night before-like boys in a school room determined to antagonize their master through dumb insolence rather than direct insults. They sat on the bench, scraping their bowls with their fingers, slurping beer from their cups.

Miriam sat patiently. She had been raised among men like these, coarse but brave. Soldiers who believed women had a certain place in the scheme of things but it certainly wasn’t in their mess hall asking questions. Nevertheless, beneath all their bluster, they had a deep personal loyalty to the Macedonian crown. She was here on Alexander’s orders, and by their very presence, they were acknowledging that. Demetrius cleaned his bowl, running his tongue round the rim.

“Well, mistress, you sent for us? More questions, eh?”

“More questions,” Miriam replied. “But I assure you, they won’t take long.”

She asked the same questions she’d asked of Cleon, and they responded in similar vein. They were terrified of a Theban surprise attack. Memnon was surly and withdrawn. He was personally worried about Alexander but relieved at the approach of the Macedonian army. He feared a mutiny and, in the last days before the Macedonian attack, kept to himself. Of all the men, he seemed to trust Cleon the most; they also declared that it was difficult to accept that a man like Memnon would commit suicide.

“So, why did you put a guard on his door?” Miriam asked. “I mean, the night he died, two of you took turns?”

“It was to reassure the old bugger!” Alcibiades drawled. “We were his officers. We had pledged loyalty.”

“And you heard nothing untoward that night?”

“Not a flea’s fart,” Melitus declared.

Miriam rolled the goblet between her hands. The men were politely attentive but she caught a look of sardonic amusement in Alcibiades’ eyes.

I am making no progress, she thought, and they know it.

“Tell me how Memnon was dressed,” she said.

“I have told you, in battle drill.”

“He was wearing a sword?”

“Yes, he was.”

“Did anyone see him fall?”

“No one,” Cleon replied. “We heard and saw nothing. You must remember, apart from fires and lights on the gates, the citadel was in darkness.”

“But surely,” Miriam persisted, “even when a man commits suicide, he very rarely falls to his death without a scream or a yell?”

“He may have screamed,” Alcibiades retorted. “We are simply saying we heard nothing.”

The way he said, “we” pricked suspicion in Miriam’s mind. Was it possible that all four, even all five, were conspirators? But that didn’t answer how they would have managed to get through a locked door, take an old veteran, silence his dog, and throw him through a window. Memnon would have fought for his life; he would have shouted and screamed.

“Who took his food up that night?” Miriam asked.

“I did,” Alcibiades declared. He blinked. “And before you say it, Mistress. .”

“Say what?”

“That the wine or food could have contained a potion.”

“How do you know it didn’t?” Miriam asked. “I am not,” she added hastily, “saying you are responsible.”

“The food was prepared in the kitchen,” he explained.

“Alcibiades took it up.”

“I was there,” Demetrius added. “We knocked on the door. The dog growled. This must have been early in the evening. Memnon opened the door, took the bowl and cup, then locked and bolted himself in.”

“And how do you know it wasn’t drugged?”

“Because when we entered the chamber,” Demetrius answered, “the food and the wine had been untouched; everyone who was there saw that, not just us.”

“But he must have been hungry.” Miriam said.

“Yes, that’s what I thought,” Cleon replied. “However, earlier that day he had come down to the mess hall here; he was rather sullen and withdrawn but he ate well.”

“And the ghost story?” Miriam asked, quickly changing the subject.

“The ghost story?” Cleon asked.

“Oedipus,” Miriam explained. “Didn’t Memnon say he had heard or seen the shade of Oedipus in the citadel?”

“Yes, and in the week before he died,” Demetrius declared, “he complained that sometimes he’d hear a man with a lame foot climbing the stairs, the sound of a club being struck against the brickwork.”

“And?”

“None of us saw anything.” Demetrius turned to his companions. “Did we?”

They all shook their heads.

“You must remember,” Cleon declared, “that sometimes Memnon was the only one in the tower; during the day we had our own duties to carry out, while before the siege began, we could go where we wished.”

“Didn’t Memnon go out into Thebes?”

“Never! It was too dangerous.”

“So this ghost could have been a figment of Memnon’s imagination?”

“No,” Demetrius snapped, “we didn’t say that. We have heard, mistress, what happened last night in the camp. In fact, I saw. .” He blew his cheeks out. “Well, both Melitus and I saw something.” He looked shamedfacedly at his companion.

“One night we were on guard duty.” Melitus took up the story. “I was on the parapet walk. Now beyond the stockade the Thebans had set up, we always glimpsed torchlight, camp fires. One night Demetrius called me over; a figure was standing in the glow from a fire. He was tall, long-haired; you could make out the outline; in his hand he carried a club. The rest of his body was shrouded in a cloak but when he moved it was with a limp. We watched him for some time.”

“You didn’t loose an arrow?” Miriam asked.

“Why should we? He posed no threat. And we didn’t wish to antagonize the Thebans any more than we had to.”

“So,” Miriam mused, “we have Memnon believing he hears the shade of Oedipus in the citadel. You also see him in the wasteland between the citadel and the city; meanwhile, the same creature, specter, ghost, whatever, may have been responsible for the death of the camp guards last night.”

“Rumors are sweeping the army,” Patroclus declared. “The men don’t like the city; it reeks of death. They want Alexander to march away.”

“But not before he’s taken that bloody Crown!” Alcibiades groaned.

“Are you all right, Miriam?” Simeon stood in the doorway, pale-faced and heavy-eyed.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.”

“Are there any more questions, mistress?” Demetrius got to his feet. “We still have duties to perform.”

“What will the king do with this citadel?” Miriam asked.

“When we march, he will burn it. Gut it with fire.”

Miriam thanked them and, picking up her writing satchel, joined Simeon in the passageway outside.

“Did you discover anything new?”

“Hush.” Miriam pressed a finger against his lips. “Not here, Simeon.”

She led him up the stairs and into Memnon’s chamber. The shutters were still open; the room was freezing so she hurriedly closed them. Simeon went out, got a torch, and tried to light the charcoal brazier. Miriam sat on the edge of the bed and watched him. At last Simeon was successful. The charcoal glowed red. He pulled the brazier over and sat beside it.

“Two more guards have been found,” he declared, “their heads staved in. What do you think it portends?”

“I’d like to say its Oedipus,” Miriam retorted. “That the old king has come back to curse the destroyers of his city. But, I don’t believe in ghosts, Simeon. It’s human trickery.”

“Why?”

“Alexander is the Conqueror of Thebes.” Miriam paused. “Yes, he has shown how he will deal with rebels but our noble king always likes a challenge. Never since the Spartan war has a Greek city been leveled with such cruel barbarity. Oh, all of Greece will hail him, as victor and captain-general. They’ve got little choice; Alexander’s boot is firmly on their necks! We all know what’s going to happen next. Alexander is going to march to the Hellespont. He’ll demand that some Greek states send troops and that Athens send its navy. Those war triremes will be essential for any attack on Persia.”

“You should have been a general, Miriam.”

“Brother, I sit and listen to Niarchos and Perdiccas argue with Alexander about tactics and strategy. Which ships should go first? What formation should be adopted? Alexander is like a dog with a bone; he knows that, once he crosses the Hellespont, he must leave a united and quiet Greece behind him. Now there are many who will whisper behind their hands that the destruction of Thebes was a mistake. How Alexander is guilty of hubris and will rightly incur the wrath of the gods. They will look for some sign.”

“The Crown of Oedipus?”

“Precisely. If Alexander takes it by force then Greece will say he has lost divine favor; meanwhile these stories about a lame-footed specter killing Macedonian soldiers will make the story more juicy, the scandal more alluring.”

“So it’s the work of the Oracle? This master spy here in the citadel who passed secrets to the Thebans?”

Miriam scratched the side of her head. “I think so. But there’s the rub. There’s no secret entrance or passageway here. The citadel is built on a rock. It would be a hard nut to crack. I suspect Alexander will have some trouble destroying it.” She held out her hands. “On the one hand, we have Memnon babbling about the shade of Oedipus within the citadel. On the other, we have two of his officers claiming they saw the same specter beyond the walls. The obvious conclusion, the force of logic, as Aristotle would put it, indicates this must be a ghost. How else can he move through thick brick walls and heavily guarded gates? Or wander around the camp at the dead of night and kill Macedonian veterans?”

“But you don’t believe in ghosts?” Simeon grinned.

“No, I don’t. I would like to know why the same specter trapped me in this chamber last night? Above all, I would like to know why dear old Memnon, who had about as much imagination as his dog and twice as much courage, should dress in full battle gear, clasp his sword around him, and throw himself out of this tower at the dead of night. Just think, Simeon.” She pointed to the door. “No one could come through there.” She banged her foot on the hard ground. “Or through the floor, or the roof, the walls while the window, well, we’ve reflected on that.” She glanced at Simeon. “Old Memnon would have drawn his sword. Hercules would have launched an attack. They would have heard the outcry in Thebes. I wish Aristotle were here,” she added. She got to her feet and raised her hand languidly.

“My dear,” she mimicked the foppish but brilliant philosopher, “it’s all a matter of logic.” She minced up and down, one hand on her hip. Simeon laughed.

“Don’t laugh, Simeon. You only show your stupidity! This is the problem. You can’t find a solution,” her voice became even more languid, “because you are looking at it, my dear boy, the wrong way.” Miriam relaxed and clapped her hands together.

“And then there’s the Crown,” Simeon said impishly. “All the camp knows about Alexander’s outburst last night. How he nearly pinned Niarchos with a spear, how you intervened and said there was a way.” He rubbed his stomach. “Is there one, dear sister? Alexander was bleary-eyed this morning, but he was all full of it: ‘Miriam will have an answer,’ he declared.”

“And I can imagine what his companions said.”

“Oh yes, they all began to chant: ‘Miriam will have an answer! Miriam will have an answer!’ Niarchos has already laid a wager with Perdiccas that you have got nothing of the sort; Perdiccas has accepted it.”

Miriam went and looked out the window. Two soldiers were emptying the stores and placing them on a cart. She could hear their laughter on the breeze. She recalled the shrine of Oedipus, the Iron Crown resting in the clasps on the stone pillar, the bed of fiery charcoal, the spikes, and the dark shadowy pit where serpents writhed.

“Do you have any ideas, brother? You are always the more practical one?”

“There must be a way. The high priestess removes the Crown at certain times. We could bribe her?”

“Not someone like Jocasta,” Miriam declared. “She’s the sort who would rather die than give up her secrets. She is full of the mysteries, proud of what she guards.”

“What about a long pole?” Simeon offered.

“It would have to be a very long one,” Miriam countered, “but go on.”

“You’d stretch it across, knock down the iron clasps, loop the Crown and pull it up toward you.”

“It would have to be a very long pole,” Miriam repeated. “And I don’t think it could be done. I can’t see how the clasps are pulled loose.”

“Well, it might be possible. Why don’t we try?” Simeon asked. “And what about those grappling hooks?” he added. “You know, the sort sailors use when they try to come to grips with an enemy ship?”

“No. It would be like taking a hammer to smash a nut. Go down to the stores, Simeon. See if you can find one of those long sarissas the phalanx men carry. Let us visit our reverend Jocasta.”

Miriam found it strange to leave the destruction of Thebes and enter the cool olive grove around the shrine. The sweet scent of leaves, the bittersweet tang of their fruit brought back memories of the groves around Pella, the Macedonian capital. The shrine itself was deserted. Three soldiers and their officer were squatting on the steps. The officer rose as Miriam and Simeon approached; he watched in amusement Simeon’s difficulty with carrying the long spear.

“It takes years of practice,” he declared, coming down the steps. “Put it down, man, you’ll do someone an injury.”

Simeon dropped it gratefully on the white chalk path. The soldier loosened his neck cloth and wiped the sweat off this throat.

“Before you begin mistress, I know who you are.” He gestured toward the door and tapped the great bronze key that hung on his belt. “You can’t go in.”

“On the king’s orders?”

“Mistress, the king’s orders are quite explicit. I am to allow no one in unless they are accompanied by the priestess. I and three lads are on guard outside; the other two are in the shrine itself. We take turns.” He hawked and spat. “I’m glad to be out here. Have you heard the stories?”

“We’ve heard them,” Miriam declared. “What do you mean about two being inside?”

“Well, we are here,” the officer explained. “I have the key to the vestibule. Beyond the bronze doors are two of my lads; they have locked themselves in the shrine. I did the dawn watch this morning. It’s a sinister, eerie place, that charcoal glowing in the middle of the floor, the spikes like dragons’ teeth coming to bloom. I thought the snakes were simply a bluff but I saw three, long and slimy, slithering out.”

“And the priestess Jocasta?” Miriam asked.

“She comes down here as do the others, with faces painted, eyes darkened.”

“Where do they live?” Miriam asked.

The captain pointed to his left. “The grove runs deep; follow the path round. They have a house there.”

Miriam thanked him and followed his directions. The path snaked between the trees and brought them into a large glade or clearing. At the far end was a typical family house: red-tiled roof, white walls with a small courtyard in front, bound by a wooden palisade. The gate was open. Miriam glimpsed chickens and a goat tethered to a post. The courtyard was empty as she entered. In the middle was a shrine to some unknown god and beneath it a large tank to collect and store rainwater. The small porter lodge was empty, but smoke curled up from a hole in the roof at the back. Miriam smelled cooking odors, cheese and spices that made her mouth water. She looked around.

“Not even a guard dog,” she muttered.

Jocasta appeared in the doorway. The old priestess’s face was clean of paint and she had hurriedly pulled a hood across her balding head. She glanced at the sarissa or lance that Simeon carried, and her age-seamed face crinkled into a smile.

“I can guess why you are here,” she called out. “Do come over. You, young man, I think you had better leave the lance outside; you might do yourself or someone else a damage.”

She led them into the main room of the house. The floor was tiled in black and white, a small brazier had been lit; there were tables, a couch, chairs, and some Samian earthenware pots along the wall.

“My sisters are in the kitchen or in their chambers above.” She saw that Miriam was distracted by the beautiful piece of linen pinned to the wall just inside the door: hoplites surrounded a king in his chariot who was talking to a dark-haired man whose right foot was bandaged and whose left hand held a club.

“That’s Oedipus,” she explained, “meeting his father, Laius-a simple accident that led to murder.”

Miriam stared at the painting. The Oedipus depicted here was not frightening: a young man, his black hair curled and oiled.

“I did that,” Jocasta spoke up, “when I was young, but now my eyes fade. I cannot execute the stitches as well as I should. Sit down! Sit down!”

She made them sit side by side on the couch and hurried out. She brought back two bowls of barley pottage, some bread soaked in wine, and figs covered in goat cheese. She put this on the table and served them herself, passing out the food in small wooden dishes. She sat quietly and watched them eat. Miriam did so quickly, rather embarrassed by the way the old priestess just sat and stared at them.

“You said you knew why we were here.”

“You’ve come to ask me about the removal of the Crown?”

Miriam nodded.

“And you brought that wooden lance.” She smiled. “It is not long enough and, even if it was, you couldn’t possibly wield it over such a long distance. I’d be frightened that you’d totter onto the charcoal.” Her face became severe. “Nor do you know the ritual: the Crown cannot be removed by any tool or weapon brought into the shrine. Such an action would be blasphemous.”

“Why can’t you tell us?” Simeon demanded, “how it can be removed?”

The old priestess’s face grew even harder.

“Young man, there are ceremonies and rituals; the Crown of Oedipus is a sacred relic. If the gods wish Alexander to wear it, the gods will reveal it. And, as for your ridiculous pole, you’ll either do yourself damage or possibly wreck the shrine.” She saw Miriam staring up at the black beams. “Our house was spared,” she murmured, “as was the shrine. A Macedonian officer told us not to worry and Alexander has kept his promise. However,” she added softly, “I cannot help him in this matter.”

“Do you believe that the shade of Oedipus now prowls the deserted city?” Miriam asked. “You’ve heard the stories?”

“Oh, yes,” Jocasta said. “But it’s not his shade. It’s the old king himself.”

Miriam got to her feet. “How do you know this?”

“I have seen him myself. Here among the olive groves, just standing, staring up at the house.”

“You’ve seen him?” Simeon exclaimed.

“It’s no shade or ghost,” Jocasta added triumphantly, “but Oedipus himself! Who knows, he may even claim the Crown himself?”

Miriam was about to answer when there was a sound of footsteps outside, a woman’s voice raised. Jocasta gestured at them to remain. She left and immediately came back. “It appears your king needs you back at his camp,” she declared. “His mother, Queen Olympias, is about to arrive.”