A Murder in Thebes

CHAPTER 7

In the end, Olympias did not arrive until just before dusk. Alexander had been almost beside himself with preparations. The camp was cleared, particularly the principal path to his pavilions and the small park containing the shrine to his favorite god. A guard of honor was prepared dressed in bronze cuirasses; white-and-red-leather kilts; burnished greaves; shields polished until they caught the light; and great Corinthian helmets that concealed most of the face, their red horsehair plumes thick and luxuriant. Rank after serried rank was drawn up. Alexander had a dais prepared, draped in purple and gold, to receive the woman whom he publicly called the best of mothers. Privately he confided to Miriam that Olympias charged too a heavy rent for his nine-months stay in her womb.

A squadron from the cavalry was sent out-the best horsemen in the army-along with musicians and standard bearers, to greet the queen. At last she entered the camp in a blare of trumpets and with men flanking her chariot on either side.

“Just look at her!” Alexander whispered. “By all that’s holy! Just look at her! For Olympias, everything has to be dramatic; Mother never changes.”

Miriam stared down at the lustrous chariot pulled by two white horses, their harness and strapping of burnished gold. The chariot itself was ceremonial-plated with silver, a gold rail along its high top. Olympias now clutched this with one hand, the other raised in salute. As she passed, the guardsmen clashed their spears against their shields and sang a poem of praise. Olympias was dressed in purple-and-gold robes over a snow-white tunic. Her reddish hair shiny, thick; the silver crown on her forehead was gold, encrusted with the most precious jewels: her beautiful, imperious face was hidden behind a silver mask that covered all but her eyes and mouth.

“Oh no,” Alexander groaned, “she’s in one of her Medea moods. The ‘tragic queen’ returns to Thebes.” He pushed back his own cloak, stepped off the dais, and helped his mother out of her chariot. She bowed, almost a nod, and then let her son escort her onto the dais to receive the acclamation of the army. She did this, smiling, one hand raised, and all the time talking quickly to Alexander.

“That chariot’s bloody uncomfortable!” she hissed. “I nearly fell off the damn thing! I want it mended!”

“There’s nothing wrong with the chariot Mother!” Alexander snapped. “It’s built to go along smooth paths, not rocky ground!”

“Don’t contradict me,” Olympias retorted. “And don’t scowl, Alexander; I’ve told you before, it reminds me of Philip.”

Alexander forced a smile. Once the acclamation was over Olympias was led off the dais and into the pavilion. Simeon, Miriam, and the other companions followed. Olympias was given a seat of honor. Alexander on her right, Hephaestion on her left. Olympias now removed her silver mask and looked daggers at her son, her sea-gray eyes blazing with fury, her beautiful smooth face twitching in annoyance.

“She hates Hephaestion,” Miriam whispered to Simeon, “and Alexander knows that.”

The servants brought in wine bowls and water jugs. The cooks had surpassed themselves; animals had been hunted and killed and the fresh meat dressed in sauces. Each dish was presented first to Olympias but she was more interested in the silver-and-gold plate and cups looted from Theban treasuries.

“Don’t worry Mother,” Alexander rubbed his hands and stared round the tent, “I’ve put your portion aside to take back to Pella. When are you going?”

“I’ve just arrived,” Olympias hissed. She picked up a cup and admired the pattern around the rim. “Don’t be insolent, Alexander. I came to see Thebes but you’ve burned it. I also brought my troupe of actors.”

The grin faded from Alexander’s face. Olympias rolled back the sleeve of her gown.

“I have decided,” she declared for all the tent to hear, “to stage the great trilogy of Sophocles-Oedipus the King, Oedipus at Colonus, and Antigone. In the first two I will play Jocasta, in the third Antigone. Ah, Miriam.” She smiled dazzlingly down as the Israelite desperately tried to hide behind her brother. “You are an actress. You and your brother. You are both to join. I’ve heard about the play you put on, about the stories and traditions of your people. Niarchos, stop smirking; you can be Cleon. Perdiccas you can be Haemon. And of course,” she glanced over her shoulder at Aristander, her old necromancer, “you can be Teiresias, the soothsayer.”

“But he was blind!” Aristander moaned.

“If you don’t play your part well, I will personally arrange that!” Olympias rapped. “Now, son, let us eat, and tell me all that has happened to you.”

The evening remained tense. Alexander’s companions always felt wary when Olympias was near. Sharp of eye, tart of tongue, and quick of wit, Olympias could be as vicious as one of her vipers. As the feast went on, she shifted from one mood to another. Miriam quietly confessed to Simeon that she could sit and watch Olympias all evening, provided she didn’t have to sit too close. Sometimes Olympias was a tearful mother complaining about Alexander’s officers back in Pella. Other times she was flirtatious, a young girl, or a doting mother with her only son, and when this didn’t work, she became imperious, snapping out orders or poking Alexander’s chest.

“I still miss your father.” She now moved to the role of mourning queen.

The tent fell silent. No one dared say the truth: When Philip was alive he and Olympias had fought like cat and dog. Now Philip had gone to the gods, and his new wife, whom Olympias regarded as a deadly rival, had disappeared together with her baby son. Miriam caught the watery eyes of Aristander. Only he and she knew about that terrible graveyard behind the palace in the old capital of Aegae. The secret crypt and graves in which Olympias’s victims had been quietly and secretly buried.

“And Memnon?” Olympias voice carried. “Poor Memnon! Alexander have you discovered what happened to him?”

“We have that matter in hand, Mother.”

“If it was murder,” Olympias narrowed her eyes, “I want to see the man crucified.” She picked up her wine cup. “Now come, tell me about the shrine of Oedipus and his Crown. I heard rumors during my journey here. Why haven’t you taken it? Where is it?”

Alexander began the lengthy explanation. Everyone else turned to their drinking and conversations. Miriam, whose eyes had grown heavy, leaned her head against her brother’s shoulder and quickly fell asleep.

Jocasta, high priestess and custodian of the shrine of Oedipus, pushed back the stool on which she was sitting and walked to the window. Her chamber stood at the back of the house, overlooking an olive grove. Onto the small curtain wall below, torches had been lashed. Jocasta watched the pool of light intently. She was about to turn away in disappointment when she saw the figure slip out from the shadows and stand in the faint pool of torchlight. The figure moved unsteadily, dragging one foot as if lame. She could see he was dressed in goatskins, a rope girdle around his waist. His hair was shaggy and matted, his features hidden behind a leather mask, a cloth around his eyes. In his right arm swung a knotted club.

“It’s the same every night,” she whispered. “It’s the same as before.” Now she felt a thrill of excitement. The figure drew closer. She could almost feel the eyes glaring through the terrible mask. Jocasta leaned on the windowsill.

“What do you want?” Her lips mouthed the words.

“Mother, I have seen it!”

She turned. Antigone, her eyes heavy with sleep, stood in the doorway.

“I, too, have seen him,” Jocasta snapped. She felt slightly disappointed that a junior priestess had also been given the opportunity to gaze on this mystical figure. Nevertheless, Antigone was her favorite, the daughter she’d never had: a wayward, slightly fey girl, with her dreams and desires to wander by herself. Jocasta turned and stared down. She thought he had gone but there was a movement in the shadows and again he stepped into the pool of light, one hand lifted.

“He’s beckoning you,” Antigone whispered. “Mother, he’s beckoning you!”

Jocasta felt her stomach flutter with excitement. She had her dreams. She had seen omens and into visions of the night but this was real. Again the hand was raised, this time more urgently beckoning her to come.

“I must go!”

“No, Mother!” Antigone gripped her wrist. “It could be some form of trickery.” Jocasta threw off her hand.

Then Jocasta picked up her cloak and wrapped it around herself. She returned the oiled wig to her shaven head, hung the sacred pectoral around her neck, and slipped her feet into her sandals. She sat on the edge of her bed and fastened the thongs.

“You stay here,” she ordered. “Do not tell your sisters! If the god calls, I must respond.” Jocasta blew out the oil lamp and, leaving Antigone standing in the darkness, hurried down the stairs, out through the back entrance, and across the small courtyard. She was about to undo the wicket gate but stopped at the voice, which sounded hollow, sepulchral.

“Come no further!”

“Who are you?” Jocasta whispered into the darkness. She could see nothing. She caught the smell of goatskin.

“Come no further!” the voice ordered, “until I tell you to!” Jocasta was trembling with excitement.

“Who are you?” she urged, “please.”

“I am Oedipus, King of Thebes! Beloved of the gods! I have come to my city and it is wasted. In the shrine my Crown awaits!”

“Will you take it?” Jocasta asked.

“It is mine by right,” the voice replied, “and not the plaything of a Macedonian prince. Come with me, Jocasta!”

She opened the wicket gate but stopped. The pool of light only stretched a little way; beyond, the olive grove was dark. Jocasta felt the cold night wind cool the sweat on her brow and neck.

Was this trickery?

“Come!” the voice ordered.

Jocasta stepped into the darkness. “I can’t see you,” she stammered. A warm hand caught hers and gently pulled her closer.

“Do not be afraid, Mother. We must be gone.”

And Jocasta, thrilling at the voice of her god, followed his dark shape into the trees.

A few hours later the beggar known as Paemon came out of his hiding place among the pile of rocks in the olive grove and walked toward the shrine. Paemon was used to begging in front of the temples of Thebes but all of these were gone. When the city had been stormed, Paemon, who knew the streets and alleyways of Thebes, had fled like the wind. He had escaped the fury of the Macedonian phalanx, the wholesale plunder and looting that had taken place. Indeed, Paemon himself had indulged in some petty pilfering: a cup, some coins, some food. He had sheltered in the groves around the priestesses’ house and had come out to sell his ill-gotten gains to the soldiers who guarded the shrine. They had been kindly enough, giving him coins, scraps of food, bread, cheese, and wine.

Now Paemon felt agitated. He had been roused from his wine-sodden sleep by two people moving through the grove. He watched them go and then he heard what sounded like sobbing, groaning, but he dared not leave his hiding place.

Now, curiosity had gotten the better of him; Paemon trotted like a dog. His bare foot caught on something and he stumbled. Falling headlong he scrambled about. The old woman’s body lay there, her gown torn; the oiled wig had slipped off, revealing the wound, a savage blow that had cracked her skull like an egg. Paemon felt the corpse, cold and stiffening. Those old eyes stared out as if her soul had not gone to Hades but still lurked in the crumbling flesh. Despite the poor light Paemon caught their look of terror.

He peered around. What monstrosity now walked this grove? He looked at his hands. They were sticky with blood. Paemon got to his feet and ran to a nearby spring to wash himself. What could he do? Where could he go? What happened if the soldiers came? Would they arrest him? Would they put him on a cross to hang and writhe for days? The soldiers? Paemon’s tired mind raced. He was innocent. The gods knew he was innocent! The full horror of what had happened dawned on him. The old woman was a priestess. Whoever had killed her was guilty of sacrilege and blasphemy!

Paemon stared up at the lightening sky. The Furies would come, sent by almighty Zeus to pursue the killer to the ends of the earth. Paemon found that he couldn’t stop his teeth from chattering; his sore gums flared in pain. He scratched his crotch. Soldiers, men in armor would throw him about, joking and laughing, before they crucified him. But what about the soldiers in the temples? The captain of the guard was a kind fellow. He’d go there, tell him what he had seen.

Paemon ran, blundering out of the grove and onto the white track. Dawn was now breaking. He ran head down, and so he noticed them: small red blotches. He crouched down, touching one with his fingers. More blood. Paemon’s heart thudded. He heard a sound and turned. The specter standing behind him seemed to have come out of the earth, from the dark halls of Hades. A cloth mask covered his face, around the eyes was a bloody bandage. Some wild animal skin covered his head and draped his body. Was it a goat? A lion? The specter just stood there. Paemon backed away; the specter did not follow, but he brought one hand up. Paemon watched the club, knotted and gnarled. The ghastly figure then held up his other hand, clutching the Iron Crown. The ruby in the center gleaming like a fresh spot of blood in the morning light.

“Tell them all!” a voice grated. “Tell them that Oedipus has come to Thebes and taken his Crown!”

Paemon turned and fled. He didn’t care now. He must reach the soldiers. He tried to scream but his mouth was dry. He found himself at the foot of the steps. He wiped the sweat from his face and stared round. Something was wrong. The four soldiers lay there, sprawling in pools of blood that was seeping out of the hideous wounds to their heads. Paemon climbed the steps and stared in horror.

“You are dead!” he murmured, “all of you are dead!” He banged on the doors. No answer. He saw the corpse of the young officer and went over to it. The key still hung on his belt. Paemon went to touch it, but, no, he’d seen enough! And, turning, he fled like the wind toward the Macedonian camp.

Miriam was roused by Simeon shaking her shoulder.

“Get up!” he hissed. “Miriam, something dreadful has happened!”

She threw back the rough horse blankets and dressed hurriedly, slipping on sandals, wrapping a cloak around her, pulling up the hood. She splashed water on her face, grabbed an ash cane and followed her brother out of the tent. Alexander was there. Perdiccas was beside him-he was captain of the guard for that day. He grasped a tattered beggar man by the shoulder. The fellow looked as if he were about to swoon with fear; his lined face was red and sweat-soaked. His straggly mustache and beard were drenched with perspiration.

Alexander talked to him soothingly, stroking his hair. Perdiccas released his grip. Alexander took a golden daric out of his purse and held it before the man’s eyes. The man took it, his lips moving wordlessly.

“What are you saying?” Alexander asked.

“Your majesty, your worthiness, some wine and cheese.”

Alexander, though his face looked severe, smiled and nodded at Simeon who went back into the tent, bringing out a wineskin and some cheese in a linen cloth. The man ate these, gnawing at the cheese and drenching his mouth in spurts from the wineskin.

“There,” Alexander took the wineskin from him, “we need you sober.”

A figure loomed out of the morning mist: Olympias, garbed as if she were about to enter Athens in triumph, her hair dressed and pinned with a silver jeweled crown. Her red cloak was of pure wool with a gold fringe, though in her haste, she’d pulled on a pair of army boots.

“I’ve heard the news,” she snapped. “Alexander, what has happened?”

“I don’t know, Mother. But now we are assembled, we’ll all find out.”

Miriam rubbed her face. She wanted to ask questions but she knew Alexander. He hated to waste time in useless banter. Through the morning mist came the clink of armor.

“That’s my lads,” Perdiccas declared. “Every one a guardsman in full armor.” He resheathed his sword. “I also sent some of our Cretans into the grove. I’ve told them to go nowhere near the shrine.”

“The temple?” Olympias gasped.

“This gentleman,” Alexander patted the beggar gently on the shoulder, “has brought us a strange and horrid story. He stumbled across the corpse of a priestess in the grove. I think it’s Jocasta, her head smashed in. He ran for help to the guards at the shrine.”

The beggar man was now nodding. Miriam pushed her way forward.

“What’s your name?”

“Paemon.” He liked this woman. She had a severe face but the eyes were kindly.

“What happened at the shrine, Paemon?”

“I saw Oedipus.”

“Oedipus is dead,” Miriam said gently.

“Then the gods have sent him back. Terrible he was, a bloody rag around his eyes, his face covered by a mask. In one hand he carried a blood-encrusted club, in the other a crown.”

“A crown?” Olympias’s clawlike hands would have grasped Paemon’s shoulder but Miriam gently intervened.

“I ran to the temple,” he gabbled. “They are all dead!”

Alexander was marching away followed by Perdiccas. Miriam grasped Paemon by the arm and hurried after. They went through the camp, now silent except for the cries of the sentries or the occasional soldier wandering about, still recovering from the drinking and feasting of the night before. Fires had burned low. At the edge of the camp, ostlers and grooms were up, heavy-eyed, making their way down to the horse lines. They passed sentries and pickets. Word seemed to have spread: A small crowd of soldiers was now following the guardsmen who had formed a protective ring around the royal party. Perdiccas shouted at them to go away. They crossed the deserted quarter of the city. The tower and walls of the Cadmea could be seen faintly through the mist.

At last they reached the olive grove and then the white path. Paemon pointed to the ground, and Miriam saw the patches of blood. The scene on the temple steps was terrible. The beggar man had described it correctly. All four soldiers sprawled there, great wounds in their heads. Two were armed; others still grasped their wine cups. The young officer was wearing his war belt. He lay there, eyes closed, as if asleep, face white as chalk and streaked with lines of blood. Perdiccas hammered on the doors with the pommel of his sword. Miriam took the key off the belt of one of the officers and opened the doors.

Inside, the vestibule was cold and deserted. Miriam, going ahead, pushed at the bronze doors. They swung open. Inside, the lamps and torches still glowed. An eerie place full of dancing shadows. She glimpsed the bed of charcoal glowing fiery red; then she saw the two guards, dark shapes huddled on the floor. The blood from their split heads snaked out across the gleaming marble. All were armed, but they looked as if they had died without a struggle.

Miriam looked toward the far end of the shrine. The iron clasps were down. The Crown was gone! Alexander swore. Olympias just stood there, her face pale, glaring at that empty pillar as if she had been cheated of something. Perdiccas and Miriam examined the corpses.

“They didn’t even draw sword or dagger,” Perdiccas murmured. “Look, Miriam, there are no wounds, no cuts, nothing.”

Miriam felt the throat of each soldier, the skin was cold and clammy.

“They have been dead for some time,” she said.

She went across to the corner. Here the soldiers’ shields and lances were piled, wine cups and wineskins, linen cloths that contained stale bread, cheese, and bruised grapes. Alexander was still staring speechlessly at the empty pillar. Miriam took a wineskin and poured some into an empty cup. She sniffed and tasted it.

“Why that?” Perdiccas asked. Ever practical, the captain of Alexander’s bodyguards was more concerned about dead soldiers than a missing crown.

Miriam offered him the cup. “I wondered if it was drugged, but?. .”

Perdiccas took it and sipped it. “Cheap and watery!” he replied, handing it back. He smiled thinly. “Niarchos could drink three of those wineskins and still do a dance.”

Helped by Miriam, Perdiccas searched the shrine but they could find nothing amiss. No secret entrances or passageways. She went and crouched before the great rim of the charcoal pit. The fire was still glowing red hot. She stared carefully. She couldn’t see any disturbance.

“What are you doing?” Olympias asked imperiously.

“The Crown is gone,” Miriam replied. “I just wondered if someone had crossed the pits.”

“It would have to be a long plank,” Olympias scoffed.

“I know,” Miriam replied, “and the shrine would reek of burned timber. . Perdiccas!”

“What are you going to do?” Alexander came up beside her.

“I want Perdiccas to clear a path through the charcoal. I want to look into the snake pit.

“Why?” Olympias asked.

But Alexander was already shouting out orders. Perdiccas brought in some of his guards; using their shields and pieces of wood, they sifted the charcoal, throwing the red hot pieces on top of the marble floor. Miriam calculated that the charcoal pit was at least one and a half feet deep. Beneath it lay a thick layer of white dust from previous fires. The shrine began to fill with smoke, which made them cough and made their eyes water. Now and again the soldiers had to break off and go out for fresh air. Meanwhile Perdiccas removed the corpses to the recess, covering them with their cloaks.

At last a small path began to form through the pit, the soldiers banking up the charcoal on either side. Miriam ordered a shield placed on each side of the banked charcoal, another one in between. She walked tentatively across the makeshift bridge and felt the blast of heat. At last she reached the edge where the iron spikes jutted up from the marble floor. She quickly looked over. One glance was enough: a host of snakes writhed there! She hurriedly went back, climbing over the black guard pole.

“Full of snakes,” she declared.

“Then how was it done?” Alexander exclaimed. “What, it must be over two yards across the charcoal; the spikes and snake pit cover another four.

“How was it done?” he repeated.

Miriam was mystified. No one could have crossed those pits, not unless they had wings. Alexander crouched beside her, Olympias behind him, eager to catch every word. Simeon went out to help Perdiccas with the corpses on the temple steps.

“Here we have a shrine,” Alexander began. “Its walls and floor are of marble. The Crown could not be reached by any secret tunnel or passageway. There’s certainly no way to cross, what, about six yards of dangerous pit? And no one could stretch over it with a pole or a lance.”

“I thought of that myself,” Miriam murmured.

“No one could fashion a bridge,” Alexander continued. “But that’s only the beginning of the mystery. I have four of my best guards outside, their brains smashed in. They didn’t even have a chance to draw their swords or offer any resistance. Think of that, Miriam.”

Miriam closed her eyes. She thought of the soldiers squatting out on the steps. How could anyone approach and kill them in such a barbaric fashion without the alarm being raised?

“The officer carried a horn.”

Alexander nodded. “If any war party, anything strange occurred, he was under strict orders to sound the alarm, but he didn’t.”

“So they are killed,” Miriam continued. “We don’t know whether their attacker took the keys, but he opens the doors and enters the shrine. Inside, two more soldiers are waiting. They are veteran guardsmen. Yet they, too, die in the same barbaric way. The intruder, or intruders,” she added, “then manage to cross the charcoal and the serpent pit, release the clasps, take the Crown, and walk back through locked doors. . The beggar man claimed he saw Oedipus.”

“He must have,” Olympias whispered. “Oedipus has come back to his city!”