A Murder in Thebes (Alexander the Great 2) (11 page)

Miriam opened the door and stared out. The officer was arranging a guard around the house. She closed the door and leaned
against it, a tingle of excitement in her stomach. She had finally discovered a loose thread.

“And you have no idea,” she asked, “what this councillor said?”

Antigone looked as if she was going to shake her head.

“Please!” Miriam went and knelt before her. “Pelliades has gone. Thebes is a desert. It’s no longer now a question of just
Macedon. Jocasta’s murder must be avenged.”

Antigone put her face in her hands.

“I did ask Pelliades. He was furious at the councillor. Oh, they didn’t care very much about Lysander, but their spy in the
Cadmea was very valuable. If I remember correctly, the councillor jokingly referred to the spy as
a woman
.”

“A woman?” Miriam exclaimed.

“That’s what he said. It apparently meant something to Lysander. According to Pelliades, Lysander became pale. He actually
spat out, ‘That treacherous bitch!’ ” She spread her hands. “That’s all I can tell you.”

Miriam went and opened the door. She called across to the officer and asked him to send a message to the Cadmea demanding
that the officers Demetrius, Patroclus, Melitus, Alcibiades, together with Cleon, meet her in the mess hall.

“May I have an escort as well?” she added.

“Of course the officers are ready. And by the way, mistress, my men have scoured the woods, and they can find no trace of
the attacker.”

“And his weapons?” Miriam asked.

“As I have said, no trace.”

Miriam thanked him and closed the door. Antigone still sat at the foot of the stairs, arms crossed, rocking gently backward
and forward. Miriam caught her by the arm and helped her to her feet. “You’re safe,” she reassured her. “Alexander will not
lift his hand against you.” Miriam walked Antigone away from where the others, now much calmer, sat in the kitchen peering
out. “Antigone, I trust you. Is there anything else you can tell me?”

Antigone’s dark-green eyes shifted.

Miriam continued, “The other priestesses, could they have been involved in Jocasta’s death? Let me explain. Someone is able
to move around the Macedonian camp.”

“They were all in the house when that man attacked.”

“No, no,” Miriam declared, “what happens if there’s a killer, and a woman, one of the priestesses, is working with him?” Miriam
flinched at the hardness in Antigone’s eyes. “I have helped you. I have confided in you and for that you have my thanks and
Alexander’s protection.”

Antigone’s face softened. “I apologize,” she murmured, “but the Crown is gone, the shrine is violated. What happens to us
now?”

Miriam patted her on the shoulder. “Alexander will take care of you. There are other temples, other shrines that could use
your skills. I beg you to reflect further on what I have said. Is there anything else you can tell me? Be prudent.” She stepped
away. “And do not leave this house.”

Miriam made her farewells and reached the Cadmea just after noon. During her walk back she could see that Alexander
had acted vigorously. The revelry in the camp had been cut short. Soldiers and archers now patrolled the olive groves. An
entire corps had been deployed around the shrine. At the citadel the garrison had been strengthened, the men standing to arms.
Officers and heralds were moving about, proclaiming that no Macedonian was to wander by himself. Any stranger who approached
an outpost must be recognized as an enemy. She found Demetrius and the rest waiting for her in the mess hall, lounging on
benches; this time there were no grins or sly jokes. They soon assembled around the main table.

“I can see that you have heard the news.” She bit her tongue.

“What news?” Alcibiades lisped.

“The dead guards?” Cleon asked.

“And the other business?” Demetrius snapped.

“What other business?” Miriam demanded.

“Oh, we have heard gossip, rumor. Something happened at the Oedipus shrine.”

“I have not come to talk about that. Is it possible to have some watered wine, food? I haven’t eaten since last night.”

Cleon hurried off to the kitchen. He brought back a small bowl of watered wine, cut-up bread, a small pot of honey, and some
rather wizened apples.

“It’s the best I can do,” he apologized.

Miriam thanked him. She nibbled at the food and sipped at the wine.

“I have learned two things,” she said, clearing her mouth. “First, before matters became tense in Thebes, you were allowed
to wander the city at will?”

“Of course,” Demetrius replied. “Beer shops, wine booths, the pleasure of the brothels. You know soldiers, Miriam, no commander
likes to keep them cooped up like chickens. But, as I told you, the rumors started, two of our
lads disappeared. Memnon ordered us back into the citadel and then the palisade was built.”

“But you could go where you wanted before things turned sour?”

“Oh, yes,” he agreed.

“What’s the second thing?” Melitus asked.

“Ah!” Miriam put the wine bowl down. “I know why Lysander died. I honestly think,” Miriam continued, “the Theban council
simply wanted to get you out of the Cadmea and well away from Thebes. There was no secret plan to massacre you. They simply
wanted you out and their citadel back. Now, in the negotiations between the Thebans and Lysander one of the councillors made
a terrible mistake. He referred to their spy as ‘that woman.’ Now apart from the servant girls, there was no high-ranking
lady or wife of an officer. Yes?” She studied their faces quickly and caught the flicker in Alcibiades eyes. “However, Lysander
seemed to know exactly what this councillor was talking about. He reacted. The Thebans realized their spy had been betrayed—”

“—So Lysander was killed.” Cleon finished the sentence.

“I suspect,” Miriam declared, “that the councillor was referring to a man. I ask you now, on behalf of the king, insulting
though this epithet is, why should Lysander become alarmed?” Miriam could tell that the officers were alarmed by what she
had said. Alcibiades blushed, Demetrius became agitated. “I’m an Israelite,” she declared. “I am not Macedonian. However,
I have lived at Philip’s court. The old king was killed by Pausanias, one of his bodyguards. Pausanias, how can I put it?”

“He liked dressing up as a woman,” Patroclus scoffed. “It was well known. And you are right, Israelite, there are a number
of Macedonian officers who sometimes dye their finger nails, paint their faces, and curl their hair.” He leaned across the
table. “In doing so they only imitate their betters.”

“You are referring to the king?” Miriam asked.

“It has been known,” Patroclus declared. “And I have seen Hephaestion at feasts and banquets.”

Miriam knew he spoke the truth. Alexander and his companions, particularly when in their cups, were known to imitate the rather
effete fashions popular in Athens.

“We are not talking about the king or his companions,” she replied heatedly, “but a spy responsible for the slaughter of Lysander
and possibly the death of Memnon and other heinous crimes against the king.”

“We cannot help you,” Demetrius intervened. “True insults are traded, gossip is passed round. But I’ve never heard any of
my companions here called a woman, or seen any of them dressed as or act such a part. Indeed,” he gibed, “we are as mannish
as you are!”

Miriam colored at the insult.

“There’s no need for that.” Alcibiades spoke softly.

Demetrius wouldn’t hold Miriam’s gaze. He gestured with his hand.

“No, mistress, there isn’t. I apologize. But we have been besieged in this citadel; we held it for the king. Now we are being
accused of being spies and killers.”

“There is one thing.” Patroclus, like Cleon, had remained calm, either because he had nothing to fear or because he could
hide his agitation well.

“I never told any one of this,” he declared, “because at the time it didn’t make sense. It was before the siege began. Or,
as you put it mistress, before matters turned sour. We all became lonely and wanted to meet a friendly face as well as grasp
a pair of juicy tits or firm, round buttocks. The Cadmea is not the most hospitable place. So we used to stroll down to the
city. The Thebans were not happy with our presence but they tolerated us and took our silver. One day Lysander came back.
He was slightly drunk. It was late in
the evening. He squatted in the courtyard, eating bread and talking to some of the men about his adventures in a pleasure
house in the city. How the Theban women were like cats and that he had the scars to prove it. The men drifted away. I went
and sat beside him. We got to talking. Lysander, well, he was in his cups; he turned to me and said, ‘Patroclus, have you
ever wanted to dress like a woman? I mean, not like the court fops or dandies, but in women’s clothing, sandals—actually pretend
you are one?’ ‘No,’ I replied, ‘Why?’ ‘On my journey back from the city,’ Lysander replied, ‘I didn’t think it was possible,
but one of our comrades is a woman.’ ‘Who?’ I asked.” Patroclus stared down at the tabletop.

“And?” Miriam asked.

“Well, Lysander was an officer. He became embarrassed and said he shouldn’t spread such gossip. At the time I agreed and walked
away.”

“You never told anyone about that?” Demetrius demanded.

“I didn’t think it was important.”

“Can you remember the day?” Miriam asked.

Patroclus put his head in his hands and, muttering to himself, began to count back the days.

“You know why I ask? Was there a duty roster?” Miriam demanded.

Demetrius was about to object.

“There must be,” Miriam declared. “Where is it now?”

“When Alexander arrived and the city was taken . . .” Demetrius wouldn’t meet her gaze, “. . . all such papers were handed
over to the scribes in the treasury. They’ll have it.”

“Is there anything else?” Miriam got to her feet. All five just stared at her, so Miriam thanked them for the food and their
cooperation. She left the hall, went out into the courtyard,
and stopped. Hecaetus and his boys were there, crouching. At their feet, thick ropes bound around him, was a bedraggled, bloody-faced
prisoner. Hecaetus minced forward.

“Pelliades may be dead.” He turned with a theatrical gesture. “But look, Israelite, whom we have found!”

“Hecaetus, you should have been on the stage.”

“That’s what Olympias said. She wants me to take part in her play! Now, aren’t I a clever boy? This is Telemachus.”

H
ECAETUS SNAPPED HIS
fingers and the prisoner was hustled up into the tower. He was youngish, mousy-haired, with a wispy beard and mustache. He
was wounded and scarred from head to toe. Miriam didn’t know if this was the work of Hecaetus’s “lovely boys” or because the
man had likely spent days in hiding.

“A patrol picked him up,” Hecaetus smirked, “on the road north. He was mixing with some refugees.”

Telemachus opened his mouth; Miriam recoiled at his bloody gums.

“We’ve tried to make him talk,” Hecaetus declared. “So far, he’s said nothing, but there are dungeons here. We could spend
weeks skinning him alive.” He grabbed the man’s hair and yanked back his head. “Or we could start breaking his limbs one by
one; then he’ll talk.”

Telemachus looked hunted, wearied, yet Miriam saw a defiance in his eyes. Here was a man at the heart of the Theban councils;
he knew the Macedonians would have little compassion for him.

“I doubt if you’ll break him easily.” Miriam hid her sympathy. “How do you know it’s Telemachus?”

Hecaetus shouted at one of his men, who brought across a leather bag.

“A few trinkets, some money, and a letter sealed by Pelliades just before the city fell. Apparently our good Telemachus was
to slip out of the city and carry the good fight to another part of Greece.” He grabbed the man’s beard and viciously tugged
at it. “Demosthenes eh? Go trotting to that bald-pated demagogue!” Hecaetus was beside himself with pleasure. “The king will
be so pleased. I am sure he’ll want to meet you personally, either here or pinned to a cross.”

Telemachus brought his head back and spat, the spittle hitting Hecaetus on the cheek. Alexander’s master of secrets smacked
Telemachus in the face, then kicked him viciously in the stomach. The Theban sagged, groaning and retching.

“I don’t think Alexander will wish to see him like this,” Miriam declared.

Hecaetus’s brows drew together.

“He’s a prisoner,” Miriam continued. “Thebes has fallen, the blood has cooled. Hecaetus, I don’t think Telemachus . . .” She
pushed back the prisoner’s head and caught the young Theban’s stare. “I don’t think this man will break because you punch
and kick him.” She patted him gently and stepped away. “Of course, you could take him to the dungeons, but if he dies, he’s
no use.”

Hecaetus was wiping his cheeks on one of his lovely boys’ cloaks.

“Bring him to the hall,” Miriam ordered.

Hecaetus was about to object.

“Please!” Miriam added. “And I will tell you all I have learned.”

“I know about the shrine,” Hecaetus said peevishly. “And the deaths.”

“Yes, but I know more,” Miriam teased, “and I thought we were going to share Hecaetus, share and share alike, eh?”

Hecaetus agreed. Telemachus was brought into the mess hall as the officers were preparing to leave. When Hecaetus proudly
declared that this was Telemachus, Demetrius lunged at him but was held back by Hecaetus’s men.

“You’d best leave,” Miriam declared quietly. “And Demetrius, I’d like a guard around the hall.”

“My boys will also be there,” Hecaetus declared.

He dragged Telemachus to a stool and sat him down. Miriam went into the kitchen. Her stomach curdled at the shabby, rather
fetid place; she mixed some water and wine, took it back to the hall, and cleaned Telemachus’s face and hands. The Theban
thanked Miriam with his eyes. She then brought him a cup of beer and held it to his lips. The man winced as he leaned forward,
the cords binding his arms to his body cutting into his skin. Miriam picked up a knife and, despite Hecaetus’s protests, cut
the ropes. The Theban relaxed. Miriam handed the knife to Hecaetus, sat on a corner of the bench, and stared at the Theban.

“Drink the beer,” she ordered.

Telemachus sipped at it.

“Why, mistress? Do you want me drunk?”

“No, Theban, I want you alive. My name is Miriam Bartimaeus. I am of Alexander’s council, as is our good friend Hecaetus,”
she added hurriedly. “I want to question you.”

“I have heard of you, Israelite. You were supposed to have died with Alexander.”

“Thessaly was very cold and hard.” Miriam half smiled. “But we survived, as Thebes now knows.”

“There’s no one left to know,” Telemachus gibed. “My
whole family has gone—my wife . . .” His eyes filled with tears. “Our two children died in the flames. My mother was apparently
killed as she fled. God knows where my sisters and brothers are.”

“And Pelliades?” Miriam asked.

“Killed in the rear guard that tried to hold the Electra Gate. Most of the council perished there.”

“He tells the truth,” Hecaetus intervened. “Their bodies were recognized.”

“And why didn’t you die with them?” Miriam asked.

“When the army broke,” Telemachus replied, “Pelliades sealed my commission. He told me to get out of Thebes and reach Demosthenes.”

“Why?”

“To continue the opposition against the Macedonian tyrant. I hid out in the woods. I thought it was safe.” He shrugged. “You
know the rest.”

“Why did you besiege the Macedonian garrison?” Miriam asked.

Telemachus took another sip of beer and wetted his chapped lips. He then gargled, swilling it round his sore mouth, and spat
it on the floor.

“We really believed Alexander was dead, that the vultures were picking the bones of his army.”

“And your spy in the Cadmea told you that this was the truth?”

Telemachus just stared back.

“Why did you kill Lysander?” Miriam persisted.

“He was a Macedonian.”

“More than that!” Miriam looked at Hecaetus and winked. “One of your council said something about this spy whom we now call
the Oracle; he called him, ‘that woman.’” She ignored Hecaetus’s sharp hiss of breath but glimpsed the shift in Telemachus’s
eyes.

“Who was the spy?” she asked quietly.

Telemachus took another sip of beer.

“Listen to me,” Miriam urged. “If you tell us, you have my word, by all that is holy, that Alexander of Macedon will have
your wounds bathed, give you fresh clothing, gold and silver and a pass to travel wherever you wish. You could find your sisters,
your family, begin life again elsewhere. Thebes is destroyed. It is all finished here.”

“Or you can die,” Hecaetus interrupted. “You can spend a few days with my boys.” He pushed past Miriam, his face close to
the prisoner. “What’s your arse like Telemachus? Do you know what it’s like to hang from a cross?”

“If I ever get my freedom,” Telemachus replied quietly, “I’ll come back and kill you Hecaetus.”

Miriam intervened before the war of words led to blows.

“We knew all your names.” Telemachus vented the hatred seething within him. “Alexander, Perdiccas, the Israelites! You were
all dead, that’s what our spy told us.” He grinned. “And can’t you find him yet?”

“Please.” Miriam studied the Theban shrewdly and her heart sank. Outside, this man’s city was a sea of devastation. Alexander
had told her how the Thebans hated Macedonian rule, so would Telemachus break? Help his conquerors? The men who had slaughtered
his family, his wife and children? Perhaps Hecaetus was right, and bribery and soft promises would achieve nothing. Telemachus
sipped from the cup.

“We took care of your spies, Hecaetus, those sprinkled about the city. All killed!”

Hecaetus’s face stiffened.

“That’s why you’ll never find their bodies,” Telemachus gibed. “We took them out beyond the city gates. We buried them alive.”

Miriam jumped to her feet as Hecaetus grabbed a knife. Her cries, the crashing of the bench caught the attention of
those outside. The door was flung open. Demetrius’s and Hecaetus’s men swarmed into the room. Miriam now had her body between
Telemachus and his captor. She looked over her shoulder. Hecaetus was white-faced, lips drawn back, teeth bared.

“Demetrius, pull him away!”

“What is this?” Cleon asked.

“Hecaetus!” Miriam seized his hand carrying the knife. “Hecaetus,” she whispered, “he is trying to provoke you. He wants a
quick easy death.”

“Then give it to him!” Demetrius declared. “We know who Telemachus is. Lysander was our companion. Let’s blind him like Oedipus!”

“Take him out and crucify him in the same places as Lysander!” Alcibiades shouted.

“Why don’t you?” Telemachus sneered. “I hold your lives in my own hand. Is one of you the spy? Eh? Is it you Alcibiades?”

His words created instant silence. Miriam realized how clever he was: Telemachus had quoted a name without looking at the
man.

“Or Demetrius?” Telemachus looked at the ceiling. “Or Melitus? Or Patroclus? One of you was in our pay.”

The officers stopped mouthing their curses and stared at this prisoner. He had neatly turned the tables on them.

“You knew all our names,” Demetrius scoffed. “The council in Thebes did. Every one in the garrison from Memnon down to the
stable boys. Don’t threaten us!”

“Ah, yes,” Telemachus smirked, “and we must not forget dear Memnon trying to fly from the top of his tower! You can take me
out and crucify me,” he taunted, “but I’ll die screaming one of your names. Perhaps two. Alexander of Macedon will always
wonder who the real spy was!”

“Take him away,” Miriam urged. “Hecaetus, don’t hurt
him! Take him downstairs, keep him in a store room closely guarded, never by himself.”

Alexander’s master of spies was going to object.

“He should be taken from here,” she urged. “The king himself must see him.”

Hecaetus nodded at two of his men. Telemachus’s hands were grasped and bound behind him, he was shoved from the hall, Hecaetus
following.

“We are in great danger,” Demetrius murmured. He picked up the knife and threw it angrily onto the table. He glanced pleadingly
at Miriam.

“He’s going to confess nothing. I wager, mistress, he’ll try to cause much chaos and confusion before Alexander tires of him
and nails him to a piece of wood. He threatens us all.”

“I know.” Miriam rubbed her eyes. “He could mislead us deliberately.” She stared at the door. But something had happened here.
Her mind was too tired to grasp it. Was it what the officers had said? Telemachus or Hecaetus? She brushed by the men and
went out into the courtyard. The day was drawing on, the weak sun was beginning to set. Hecaetus joined her.

“Share and share alike, Israelite.”

Miriam led him away to a bench propped against the yard wall; she told him everything that had happened and what she had learned.
Hecaetus sat, arms crossed, head bowed, now and again whistling between his teeth.

“You’ve learned a great deal Miriam.” He patted her hand. “And I’m sorry for what happened in there. But I had some lovely
boys left in Thebes.” His eyes filled with tears. “Merry lads, all of them gone. They knew the risk, but to be buried alive.”
He got to his feet wiping his eyes.

“Let’s take the bastard into the camp!”

“Do you think he’ll talk?” Miriam asked.

“No, I don’t,” Hecaetus retorted. “Telemachus is a brave man who hates Macedonians. If he talks it will be a web of lies and
deceit. We’ll never know the truth; he will only muddy the waters.” He chucked Miriam under the chin with his fingers. “You
are not fit for camp life, Israelite. Your face is pale and the dark rings under your eyes are not paint.” Hecaetus shouted
across at one of his men to bring the horses.

Grooms led these around, harnessed and ready. Telemachus was bundled up onto one of them. Hecaetus helped Miriam onto a gentle
palfrey beside the prisoner, and with Hecaetus’s men around her, they left the citadel. Darkness was falling. Miriam noticed
how many of the fires had now gone out. Thebes was nothing but a wide sweep of ruins, broken walls, blackening stonework,
and over all hung the dreadful stench of death. She glanced sideways at Telemachus. He was fighting back tears.

“Nothing,” he whispered. “There’s nothing left! A terrible price, Israelite? A warning to all Greece, eh?”

Miriam didn’t reply but grasped her reins more tightly. She wanted to be back in the camp. She wanted to be away from Thebes.
Above all, she couldn’t bear the horror-stricken look in this man who was certainly doomed to a hideous death. Darkness enveloped
them. Ahead the fires of the camp rivaled the stars now breaking clear in the velvet blackness above them. Miriam became aware
of how silent this devastated city had become. Time and time again the Macedonian soldiers had combed it, looking for items
of plunder that their predecessors had overlooked. Now it was a place of ghosts, of shades wandering from the shadows of Hades
looking for their homes, signs of their former lives. Telemachus had his head down and was quietly sobbing at the full horror
and degradation of what had happened.

Miriam recalled her father’s lamentations over Jerusalem. She had never seen the holy city, but her father used to tell her
about the temple, the incense-filled courtyards, the streets, olive gardens, and cypress groves. About how the invader had
brought it all low by fire and sword, reducing her people and culture to nothing but a sea of ash. The exiles had now returned.
Miriam had vowed that one day she would join them, go to the holy place, and pray for her parents. She and Simeon had often
discussed it though not in detail. She glanced sideways and wondered what Alexander would do to Telemachus. Suddenly a bright
light caught her eye and she whirled round. They were passing what had once been a narrow alleyway in the poor quarter of
Thebes; from the ruins a torch was tossed. It landed in their midst, creating chaos and consternation. Hecaetus shouted orders,
horses whinnied and reared. Thankfully, Miriam was on the other side and she was able to steady her docile mount. She heard
a sound like the whirr of a hunting hawk swooping from its perch. One of Hecaetus’s men threw his arms up and screamed. Something
whipped by her face; there was a loud cry followed by a moan. She turned her horse around. Some of the riders had dismounted.
One of Hecaetus’s men was lying on the road, his face visible in the pool of light thrown by the pitch torch. He was dead,
eyes open, blood pouring out of his mouth. Miriam quickly dismounted, using her horse as a shield. An assassin was on the
loose! Hecaetus’s men were already drawing swords, running toward the ruins. Her horse moved and she saw Telemachus; the arrow
had caught him deep in the chest. He lay, his head half buried in a mound of ash. She scrambled over to the corpse. In a way
she was relieved. Telemachus must have died instantly, the stout, feathered Cretan arrow having pierced him directly in the
heart.