A Murder in Thebes (Alexander the Great 2) (14 page)

Miriam, rather embarrassed, thanked her. Antigone helped fold it up.

“Where will you go?” Simeon asked.

Antigone shrugged. “Athens, one of the cities. My sisters have friends, relatives in Greece. You Macedonians will march away,”
she blinked back the tears, “and in a year Thebes will be nothing but weed-choked ruins.” She smiled. “Why have you come?”

“I have a pass to enter the shrine of Oedipus,” Miriam explained. “I would like you to accompany me there.”

Antigone stepped back, hand to her throat. “Must I?” she asked. “The shrine is empty. Jocasta is dead, the Crown gone. It
has nothing for me but painful memories.”

“You don’t have to,” Miriam countered. “But just for a short while? I’ll explain later.”

Antigone agreed. She told the other priestesses, took her cloak from the peg, and followed Miriam and Simeon out of the house
into the courtyard. At the gate the soldiers were holding back Castor, teasing and taunting him. The young page, red-faced
was holding his own, and the air was rich with his jeers. Miriam hurried ahead. The soldiers goodnaturedly let Castor through.

“What’s the matter,” asked Miriam, “has Alcibiades been found?”

Castor shook his head.

“No, mistress, not that. I bear orders from the king. Tomorrow morning Queen Olympias will stage her play,
Oedipus
. It is the king’s wish,” Castor winked, “that all be present.”

Miriam groaned. Castor smiled mischievously.

“Alexander said his most beloved of mothers was insistent on that.”

“Of course. She would,” Miriam responded. “There’s nothing that Olympias likes better than an audience.”

The boy’s eyes strayed to where Antigone and Simeon were standing behind her. He narrowed his eyes and gnawed at his lips.

“Is that all?” Miriam asked.

“Ah, no.” Castor’s eyes become pleading. “I have one favor, mistress. When the army marches, will you take us with you? We
can cook, clean, sew . . .”

“Aye, and lie and steal!” Simeon intervened.

Castor lifted his hand, middle finger extended to make an obscene gesture, but then thought differently about it.

“I’ll think about it,” Miriam declared. “Now go back to the camp. Tell my lord king that I will be there.”

Castor sped off. He ran the gauntlet of jeers and shouts from the guards. Just before he disappeared into the trees, Castor
stopped, bent down, pulled up his tunic, and showed his bare arse to the soldiers. That was followed by another obscene gesture,
then Castor disappeared into the olive grove.

“A lad of spirit,” Antigone observed.

She followed Miriam out the gate and into the trees. “I’ve heard you mention Alcibiades. Wasn’t he one of the officers in
the Cadmea?”

“He’s disappeared,” Miriam explained. “Some people think he’s the spy responsible for the theft of the Crown. Why, did you
know him?”

Antigone shook her head.

They reached the path and walked up to the shrine. Antigone pulled the cowl of her cloak over her head and kept her face down.
She seemed nervous around the guards lounging on the steps. Their officer brusquely examined the pass.

“Do you want us to accompany you?” he asked.

The officer was in full armor. His great Corinthian helmet
with its blood-red plume made him look like a giant, eyes glittering behind the metal rims.

“No.” Miriam thanked him. “Just open the doors. Lock us inside.”

The officer agreed. The outer and inner doors were opened then closed behind them. The shrine was dark, cold, and empty. Antigone
crouched in the corner while Miriam examined the pits. The charcoal had been raked out and, beyond the spikes, lay nothing
more than a stinking trench.

“What happened to the snakes?” Antigone called out.

“Alexander hates them,” Simeon replied. “I suspect they were raked out and put in sacks.”

“They were sacred,” Antigone countered.

“Not to Alexander,” Miriam snapped. She walked up to the pillar and looked at the metal clasps. They had been intricately
made by some blacksmith many years earlier. They were hinged. One part was riveted to the pillar; the other could swing backward
and forward. There were three clasps in all; at the back of the pillar protruded a wooden peg on which the Crown had rested.
Miriam scrutinized this carefully. She walked back, taking care when she crossed the row of spikes dividing the two pits.

“It’s nothing more than a dirty chamber, is it?” Antigone declared, getting to her feet. “The glory and the power are gone.”

Miriam knelt and stared at the pillar.

“Antigone,” she pleaded, “can’t you help us? Didn’t Jocasta ever tell you how the Crown could be removed?”

“It was a secret,” the priestess replied, “handed down from one high priestess to another.”

Miriam sat, the iron bar with its protruding plate at the end nestling against her waist.

“Tell me,” she said, “the Crown was removed on certain occasions?”

“Aye, on great feasts no more than two, three times a year.” Antigone replied absentmindedly.

“So.” Miriam made herself comfortable. She grasped the iron bar; it was cool in her sweaty grasp. “The high priestess came
in here by herself?”

“Yes,” Antigone replied. “Everyone else would wait outside. Once she was ready, Jocasta would unlock the bronze doors and
release the bar. The doors would swing open. Everyone would file in, and Jocasta would hold up the Crown. Whatever the occasion
was, the taking of oaths or pledges, the leaders of the council would touch the Crown held by Jocasta with the tips of their
fingers. When the ceremony was over they would retire.”

“Was the Crown heavy?” Simeon asked.

“Oh, no,” Antigone replied, “it looked much heavier than it was. In fact, it seemed very light.”

“But where was the secret kept,” Simeon persisted, “I mean, if the high priestess died suddenly?”

“I don’t know,” Antigone confessed. “You saw the pectoral that Jocasta wore; that was her symbol of office.”

Miriam stared down at the floor. She recalled that awful, half-burned cadaver. “The pectoral wasn’t there!” she murmured.
“When Jocasta was killed, I am sure the pectoral was gone!”

“Perhaps her killer took it,” Antigone replied, “or the soldier who found the corpse?”

“No, no he wouldn’t have taken it,” Miriam countered. “Such looting would mean crucifixion.” Miriam moved and, as she did,
felt a tug, as if the dagger in the sash around her waist had been pulled. She moved away from the iron bar.

“What on earth?” She took the dagger out and crouched down. She pushed the blade close to the iron plate on the end of the
bar; the dagger stuck to it.

“Simeon, here, look!”

Her brother hastened across. She did it again, the dagger stuck hard against the side of the plate.

“It’s a magnet,” Miriam declared, springing to her feet. She crouched down on hands and knees, moving along the iron bar.
The clasps that held it to iron stands riveted into the ground were not soldered fast and could be pulled back. Miriam, assisted
by Simeon, now pulled these loose and lifted the bar up. It was as long as one of the great pikes carried by the guards regiment
in battle and, like them, surprisingly light.

“It’s hollow,” Simeon exclaimed.

Miriam lowered the pole; it swayed precariously in her hand. She recalled how soldiers managed their pikes in battle. She
turned slightly sideways and, coming to the edge of the charcoal pit, lowered the pole. At first she was clumsy but eventually,
helped by Simeon and watched by round-eyed Antigone, they lowered the pole so that the magnet at the end caught the iron clasps.
These were easily pulled back. She tried each one.

“The clasps are well oiled,” she murmured. “They come away, and because of the wooden peg at the back, the Crown would remain
firm.” She thrust the pole into Simeon’s hand, went across, placed her dagger on top of the pillar, and going back, lowered
the pole again. The magnet caught the dagger. She lifted this up, pulling the pole back as if it were a piece of rope, and
with a cry of triumph, she snatched the dagger from the end. She turned, face bright.

“That’s how it was done! That’s the secret! Using the plate on the end of the pole you can release the clasps and then, with
the magnet, simply lift the Crown off!”

“It’s even easier than that.” Simeon examined the iron
plate, pointing to how it tapered to a sharp end. “If you are unsure of the magnet, you can use this to prize the clasp loose
and then hook up the Crown.”

“That’s how it was done,” Miriam exclaimed. “The high priestess kept to the ritual; she did not bring anything into the shrine.”

Antigone stared, mouth half open in surprise.

“Jocasta knew that,” Simeon confirmed, “but the one who stole the Crown. How would he know?”

“The pectoral,” Miriam declared. “That’s why the assassin burned Jocasta’s corpse. He wasn’t trying to hide any sign of torture
but to disguise the fact that he had taken the pectoral. Don’t you remember?” Miriam continued excitedly, “the pectoral had
a pendant in the center.”

“Of course,” Antigone added, “it must have been some form of locket that contained instructions on how to remove the Crown.”

“In the end the secret wasn’t so hard to figure out,” Miriam declared. “It’s just that we never realized that the iron guardrail
was really a rod, with a hook and magnet on the end.” She laughed. “It was more a puzzle than a mystery.”

“Yet you are no further to reclaiming the Crown!”

“No, I’m not,” Miriam replied. “And, for all I know, it may now be many miles from Thebes.” She heard a rapping on the door.
“Lift the bar,” she urged.

Antigone did so. “Come in!” she called.

The officer entered, helmet cradled under his arm.

“Mistress Miriam, Demetrius is outside. He has something to show you.”

Miriam followed him out. Demetrius was holding the bridle of a horse; across its back, covered with a bloody, dirty sheet,
was the corpse of a man. Miriam glimpsed a blood-stained
head on one side and the military boots dangling down over the other.

“You were right.” Demetrius cheeks were tear-stained. “It didn’t take us very long.”

Miriam went down and lifted the corpse’s head. A deep gash gouged one side where the skull had been staved in; the rest of
the face was covered in dust.

“We found the horse about eight miles from Thebes,” Demetrius exclaimed, coming around. “It was off the main highway, cropping
some grass. There was no sign of Alcibiades.”

“Wouldn’t the assassin have driven the horse away?” Simeon asked.

“He would have tried,” Demetrius explained, “but it’s a cavalry mount. It would always return to where its rider had left
it.”

“So how did you find Alcibiades?”

“We searched through a rocky outcrop. We found bloodstains, signs of a newly dug grave.” Demetrius gently touched the corpse.
“I’m taking you back to the Cadmea,” he murmured, his face tight. His eyes had a wild angry look.

“He was no traitor, Israelite. He was a soldier, a good companion. He would get drunk, and, yes, he had his weaknesses, but
he was a brave Macedonian. I won’t hear differently. I’ll build a funeral pyre; he deserves a hero’s end.”

“Do that,” Miriam replied. She clasped Demetrius’s hand. “He was no traitor. He was probably lured out to some meeting and
then killed.” She looked up at the lowering sky and felt the rain on her face. “But don’t build the pyre tonight,” she murmured,
“we are going to be drenched. Tomorrow perhaps.” Miriam thanked Antigone and, followed by Simeon, took the path through the
olive grove back toward the camp.

“You now believe Alcibiades was innocent?” Simeon asked.

“I do.” Miriam paused. “I am sorry for Demetrius. He has lost a lover and the rain will prevent a funeral pyre.” She smiled
at Simeon. “But look on the bright side: at least Olympias will not be able to stage her play!”

T
HE RAIN FELL
in sheets, drenching the camp; it seemed as if the heavens themselves were stretching down to complete the picture of devastation
around Thebes. Miriam sat in her tent half listening to the heralds postponing the play that was supposed to take place the
following morning. She looked at Castor standing before her.

“You are sure?”

“Mistress, as I am that I am standing here. The staircase was dark but the cloak the man was wearing was very similar to the
one that that priestess wore.”

“But it was not the priestess herself?”

“Oh, no,” the boy said hurriedly. “But I remember that it was thick and gray, the edges trimmed with red stitches.”

Miriam glanced at Simeon.

“Very observant,” her brother replied. “That’s what Antigone was wearing but such cloaks are fairly common.”

Miriam gave the boy a coin and watched him go out, splashing in the mud.

“Brother, pass me Antigone’s gift.”

Simeon tossed it across. Miriam pressed it against her face and sniffed carefully. She could detect nothing, so she unrolled
it. Near the middle, where it had been draped around the priestess’s throat, she sniffed again.

“Brother, here! Smell this; can you catch a fragrance?”

Simeon took the cloth and sniffed at it. “A slight one,” he said, “of perfume.”

Miriam took it back and sat holding the piece of silk.

“Everything is wrong,” she murmured. She recalled Antigone squatting in the temple, watching them make their discovery; the
table in the garret above Memnon’s chamber and the fragrance she had detected there.

“But that’s impossible!” she exclaimed.

“What is?” Simeon demanded.

“I smelled some perfume on a table in the Cadmea. It’s the same as on this piece of silk.”

“Perfumes are common,” Simeon replied, “as are cloaks. You don’t think Antigone is the Oracle, do you?”

“No.” Miriam shook her head. “I’ve spoken to virtually everyone who used that tower. Never once were any of the priestesses
seen in the citadel. But, it is a coincidence.”

“Antigone couldn’t kill a man,” Simeon declared.

“No, no she couldn’t.”

The flap was pulled back and Alexander, accompanied by Hecaetus, slipped into the tent. The king shook himself like a dog
and sat on Simeon’s bed, staring across at Miriam. He had lost his look of exhaustion; the skin around his eyes was smooth.
He wiped the rain from his face.

“I’m so glad the weather’s broken,” he declared. “It’s kept Mother in her tent. She hates the rain. She even talks of going
back to Pella sooner than she’d planned. Hecaetus, would you like to go with her?”

“Don’t threaten me, my lord. You know I would be
dead within a month. Olympias would kill me just for the sport of it.”

Alexander laughed.

“Mother hates rain.” He leaned forward. “Her face gets wet, the paint runs, and she hates to look old. That’s why she stopped
campaigning with Father and why we moved to Pella. There’s supposed to be less rainfall there. Miriam, I want you to pray
to your known God that it rains until the army marches. Yap! Yap! Nag! Nag! Anyway, I received your message about the Crown.”

Miriam told him what she had discovered. Alexander sat, fingers to his lips, listening attentively. When she finished, he
stretched toward her and gripped her hand.

“You were always better at logic than I. I never dreamed that black iron bar was the solution. However, it won’t bring back
the Crown. It won’t capture the Oracle, and Memnon’s blood, as well as Lysander’s, still cries to the gods for vengeance.”

“Does it really matter?” Simeon asked. “Soon the army will move; Demosthenes has fled from Athens. You are undisputed captain-general
of Greece.”

Alexander clapped his hands.

“You are right. What happened here will soon be forgotten. Until I cross the Hellespont. Then Demosthenes will scurry back
to Athens.” His face grew tight. “And do what he is very good at—whisper, gossip, gossip! Say that Alexander is cursed! That
the removal of the Crown was a sign of the gods’ anger toward me! So, I want that Crown! I want the Oracle crucified!”

“This spy . . .” Miriam turned to Hecaetus. “Before all this began, you knew there was a spy in the Cadmea?”

“I knew for two reasons,” the master of spies replied languidly. “First, the rumors in Thebes itself. Second, we intercepted
a letter from Demosthenes to his Persian paymasters.”

“What did it say?” Miriam demanded angrily.

Hecaetus closed his eyes and swallowed hard.

“The actual quotation was, ‘So you have been informed that there’s a spy in the Cadmea to harm Macedon’s interests?’”

“Why didn’t you tell me this?”

“I did tell you, in as many words!”

“Say it again.”

Hecaetus repeated the phrase.

“So, the spy could be working for anyone: Demosthenes, the Persians, as well as the Thebans?”

“So it appears to me. Anyway,” Hecaetus added crossly, “it’s the same thing. Thebes relies on Athens, and Athens relies on
Persian gold.”

“But bear with me.” Miriam held her hand up. “This was a letter from Demosthenes to the Persians?”

“Yes.”

“And he is repeating information received from the Persians?”

“I suppose so.”

“And why do you call him the Oracle?”

“It’s a word Demosthenes uses in the next sentence, ‘This Oracle,’” Hecaetus closed his eyes, “‘could be of more value than
the one at Delphi.’”

“So,” Miriam persisted, “the spy could be working for the Persians?”

“Of course.”

“But who would have informed the Persians?”

Hecaetus blinked.

“What are you saying?” Alexander asked. He loosened the tight strap on one of his sandals and rubbed the top of his foot against
his leg. He cocked his head sideways, a common mannerism whenever he was puzzled.

“It’s possible,” Miriam replied, “that one of the garrison
simply opened negotiations with Persia. However, that’s very dangerous; he would probably have had to use someone in Thebes,
or even more perilous, someone in Athens.”

“And the more people know, the more dangerous it is.”

“Naturally.”

“So?”

“There is another alternative.”

“You mean?” Hecaetus broke in, “Persia already had a spy here, who, in turn, bribed a member of our garrison?”

“It’s a possible interpretation of Demosthenes’ letter.”

“And?” Alexander asked.

Miriam heaved a sigh.

“And nothing, my lord; that’s as far as I can go. But, I beg one favor. Have the soldiers on the shrine and at priestesses’
house doubled. Tell the officers to be most vigilant. The priestesses are not to leave.”

“I can’t very well stop them.” Alexander got to his feet. “I gave them my word that they would be protected and given safe
passage.”

“It’s raining,” Miriam replied. “Surely, my lord, priestesses cannot travel in such weather?”

Alexander came back and ruffled her hair.

“Let me know what happens, and by the way, Miriam, hide that piece of blue silk. If mother sees, it she’ll want it.”

Hecaetus would have stayed but Miriam insisted that she wanted to be alone. When her visitors had gone, she picked up the
blue silk, lay down on the bed, and laid it across her face. She used to do this when she was a child. Different colors meant
different worlds. She’d make up stories or pretend the piece of cloth was a magic mirror that would let her see her mother
or Jerusalem. Now she saw the Cadmea, that grim citadel, and its lonely tower. Outside the Thebes had ringed it: Lysander’s
corpse was rotting on the cross. Memnon was hiding in his chamber, wondering if he was hearing
ghosts. And that garret above. The figure on the stairs dressed as a woman. Lysander squatting in the courtyard, surprised
at what he had seen. Images were jumbled in her mind. She couldn’t make sense of them, and even if she did, what sort of proof
could she offer? Every line she followed had proved futile.

“Let me go back,” she murmured.

“Miriam, you are talking to yourself!”

“Shut up, brother, I am thinking!” She recalled the different conversations she’d had with the officers, the pages, and Antigone.
She recalled Telemachus, defiant yet driven with anguish at what had happened to Thebes. And what was it Telemachus had said
about Memnon flying from the top of the tower? But he hadn’t fallen from the top. He’d fallen from his window. So why had
Telemachus said that? Why hadn’t he said he’d been pushed? Miriam pulled the piece of silk away from her face and sat up.
“Because he did fall from the top!” she shouted.

“Sister, what is the matter?”

“Memnon didn’t fall from his window,” she declared.

“From where, then?”

“Telemachus talked about Memnon flying from the top of the tower. I think it was the only mistake he made, but that’s why
he was killed. He could have made other slips, though I am just beginning to wonder how much Telemachus really knew. You see,
brother, Memnon’s chamber was locked and guarded, his war dog was with him. No one could go through the door, and, if anyone
tried to come through that window, the dog would have attacked and Memnon would have fought for his life.” She paused. “We
must turn the problem around. No one came through the window. I now believe Memnon climbed through it, probably with the help
of someone else.”

“Where was he going?” Simeon asked.

“He was climbing to the top of the tower!”

“Like a fly?” Simeon teased.

“No, he was being helped. Someone persuaded Memnon to leave that chamber. Someone persuaded Memnon that he was in great danger.”

“Which is why he was dressed?”

“Of course. He climbed the rope and reached the top of the tower.”

“But Memnon would have still struggled.”

“No, brother, Memnon told his war dog to stay silent. He left, climbing the rope, but as he reached the top, the person who
was supposed to be helping him, instead of grasping his hand and pulling him over, pushed him away. Memnon, shocked and surprised,
fell to his death. The assassin pulled up the rope and disappeared.”

“But who was the assassin?”

“I am not too sure. It’s one of those officers. Simeon, go find the pages!”

Simeon reluctantly agreed. A short while later, he brought a bedraggled Castor and Pollux into the tent. They looked nervous,
slightly wary but Miriam assured them all was well. They protested that they’d already answered her questions, but Miriam
said it was important so the two pages, sitting on a rather tattered, woollen rug, repeated their earlier conversations about
the officers and their private lives, what scandal and gossip existed. After they’d been paid and left, Miriam got up, put
a pair of battered boots on and fastened her cloak around her.

“Where are you going?”

“You are coming with me, Simeon. I want you to do exactly what I ask.”

They went out of the tent—Miriam talking, Simeon protesting, but at last he’d agreed. He went down to the quartermaster’s
stores and came back. Miriam, meanwhile,
had seen the captain of the guard and, with a squad of soldiers behind them, set off for the priestesses’ house. It was cold
and growing dark. All those who could had found shelter either in the camp or in the ruins of the city. The olive grove was
a popular place, the men sheltering beneath the trees, clustering around camp fires. The air was thick with the odor of sweaty
leather and cooking. The priestesses’ house was well guarded but lights in both the lower and upper windows showed that the
women had not yet retired. Merope answered their knock and took them into the small dining chamber. Antigone came downstairs,
her fingers stained with ink.

“I’ve been making inventories,” she apologized.

“Could you take me to Jocasta’s chamber?” Miriam asked.

Antigone looked surprised.

“Please!” Miriam insisted, “it’s very important!”

Antigone shrugged and went up the stairs. Miriam quickly stepped into the kitchen, where the other priestesses were seated
around the wooden table. She asked them a few questions then broke off as Antigone called from the top of the stairs.

“I am sorry,” Miriam apologized, joining her. “I am curious as to where you are all going.”

Antigone had already lit the lamps in Jocasta’s chamber.

“It’s rather warm despite the rain,” Miriam declared. She opened the shutters and stared out. She saw Simeon standing below,
dressed in a military cloak. Antigone came behind her and gasped.

“It’s only my brother,” Miriam confided. “But this is where Jocasta stood the night she was killed isn’t it? You were with
her, remember?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

Miriam turned so that her back was to the window.

“You loved Jocasta?”

“Like a mother.” Antigone became wary.

“She was old,” Miriam continued. “My mother died in childbirth, but I tell you this, priestess, I would not have let her go
out in the dead of the night to meet a ghoulishly dressed stranger standing under the olive trees.”

“What are you saying?” Antigone’s hands fell to her side. “What are you implying?”