A Murder in Thebes (Alexander the Great 2) (15 page)

“I just think it’s very strange,” Miriam repeated. “Here you are, Thebes is devastated, a killer on the loose. Jocasta sees
this possible killer from her chamber window.”

“But she ignored my advice, she wanted to go,” Antigone broke in. “Jocasta really thought it was Oedipus, or at least a friend.”

“Shouldn’t you have accompanied her? And when she didn’t return, why didn’t you become alarmed? Why not send a messenger to
the camp or even gather the others and go looking?”

“But it was common knowledge that Jocasta went out and visited the shrine.”

“At the invitation of a stranger?” Miriam snapped. “There’s a contradiction, Antigone. I asked your sisters downstairs. They
thought Jocasta had gone out to the shrine that night. I wager they didn’t know she had left with a stranger; if they had,
they would have become alarmed. I just find it overstrange, that you let your so-called mother wander off into the darkness
and never turned a hair, at least not until we arrived with the dreadful news.”

“Jocasta was a law unto herself,” Antigone retorted. “She was high priestess.”

“We’ll leave that for the moment.”

Miriam sat down on a stool, Antigone on the cot bed. Miriam noticed that her hand was out, just touching the rim of the bolster.

“You gave me a lovely gift.” Miriam forced a smile. “A piece of blue silk. I could smell your perfume on it. I detected the
same fragrance on a table in the citadel, but you didn’t visit there, did you?”

“Of course not!”

“And that page boy who brought the message from the camp yesterday. He claimed to have seen a woman dressed in a cloak similar
to the one you wore coming down the steps of the Cadmea. He was intrigued because, although the cloak was a woman’s and the
fragrance was certainly not worn by any man, the figure was definitely a male.”

“I’m not responsible,” Antigone’s gaze didn’t waver, “for what went on in the Cadmea.”

“Oh but you are,” Miriam declared. “Do you know, Antigone, that I think you are a killer, a murderess! With your shaven head,
your slender form, your doll-like eyes, and, above all, your blunt speech, you could deceive Olympias, that queen of serpents!”

“Are you going to say that I am the Oracle?” Antigone accused. “The spy in the citadel?”

“Everything to its own,” Miriam murmured, “and in its own time. You say you were Pelliades’ niece?”

“Of course.”

“And Pelliades came out here to visit you often?”

“Naturally, I was his kinswoman.”

“And you and he would just talk, would you? Is that why a leading Theban councillor came to the shrine, to see his beloved
niece? Or was it something else? Do you know, Antigone, I believe you seduced one of the officers in the citadel. If you painted
your face, lost that reverential look, and donned an oil wig like the women of Egypt wear, you’d be very beautiful, quite
ravishing.”

“I thank you for the compliment,” came the cool reply.

“You seduced one of the garrison officers, a man open to
bribery. He became the Oracle. You told him what to do. Rumors were sweeping Greece that Alexander was dead and the Macedonian
army no more. In Thebes, Pelliades and Telemachus fanned these sparks to a flame, especially when they received confirmation
from a Macedonian officer.”

“So I deceived my uncle?”

“Oh, don’t look so round-eyed, Antigone, you know you really should act in Olympias’s play. The queen would take to you like
she does to one of her vipers. You didn’t really care about Pelliades or the Thebans. And it wasn’t very difficult for your
lover in the citadel to confirm the rumors, started by other Persian spies, that Alexander of Macedon was no more.”

Antigone’s brows knit together.

“But I don’t understand, Israelite. You talked about my uncle’s visits here and yet the spy was in the citadel?”

“That was the transparent beauty of your scheme.” Miriam shifted on her stool. “Until the siege began, the Macedonians were
able to wander where they wished. That’s how you enticed the officer, wasn’t it? A man who came here to see the shrine, susceptible
to your charms and to the wealth and prospects you offered. At first he may have been reluctant, but eventually, like all
traitors, he embraced the whole treason, just as he embraced you, body and soul. You played a very treacherous game. You told
your uncle that one of the garrison had come to the shrine. Oh, you. . .” Miriam shook her head, “. . . you wouldn’t tell
him that he was your lover, no more than you’d reveal that you were a Persian spy, but you would tell him that he’d confessed
to you some dreadful news, that Alexander and his army had been destroyed. Pelliades and Telemachus, eager to throw off Macedonian
rule, would scarcely believe such marvelous news. However, thanks to Persian gold, similar rumors were seeping through all
of Greece, so they accepted it as a truth
revealed by the gods. They would often come out here to see how much more you had learned and you would tell them about the
garrison. How some of the officers were weak but that the two leaders Memnon and Lysander, well, they were Alexander’s men,
body and soul, and they wouldn’t frighten easily.” Miriam paused. Antigone was now watching her like a cat, head down slightly,
glaring at her from under her eyebrows. “Pelliades,” Miriam continued, “encouraged you further; that’s why you used Jocasta
and the priestesses here to open negotiations with the Macedonian in the citadel.”

“But Jocasta was her own person,” Antigone snapped.

“Jocasta loved you,” Miriam retorted. “I could see that. She would do whatever you asked. Go out into the night to meet a
stranger, or act as the broker of peace for your uncle. Now we come to Lysander.” Miriam brushed the hair from her brow. “I
really thought you were telling us the truth behind Lysander’s death, about one of the Theban councillors almost betraying
the identity of the spy in the citadel. It was all a lie. The spy never went into Thebes. He never met Pelliades, Telemachus,
or anyone else. The only person he met,” Miriam pointed across the chamber, “was you, somewhere in the olive grove. He’d come
here disguised as a woman, wouldn’t he? I suppose that was your idea? You lent him the perfume, the paint for his face, the
gray cloak. You told him what to say and what to do. To any onlooker, you’d be two women talking.”

“Do you have proof of all this?” Antigone intervened.

“Logic is better than proof. Antigone, why should a Macedonian officer dress up as a woman to meet Thebans? They’d see through
the disguise and it would afford him little protection. One member of the Macedonian garrison nearly stumbled on the truth:
poor Lysander. One day, by chance, he came into the grove. He glimpsed something extraordinary,
one of his compatriots dressed as a woman, slipping through the trees. Now, Lysander probably dismissed this as some sexual
escapade. He may not even have been sure who the man was. What he didn’t know was that the spy had also glimpsed him. Frightened
about what Lysander might eventually do, you persuaded your uncle to open formal negotiations and entice Lysander out. You
were very persuasive. Pelliades would listen. If you could entice Lysander, even Memnon, out of the citadel and kill both
of them, your spy in the Cadmea would be protected and the others might be persuaded to surrender. In the end, Pelliades had
to accept Lysander alone.”

“But he needn’t have come,” Antigone said softly.

“Oh no, it was very clever,” Miriam declared. “You asked for Memnon and Lysander. Anyone who knows soldiers would realize
that Memnon couldn’t possibly come but would send his lieutenant.”

“And Jocasta swore an oath to guarantee his safety?”

“Another reason for Lysander to come out. Jocasta swore this oath at your insistence. Poor Jocasta was deceived. She had to
die, didn’t she? In time she may have come to reflect, question the advice you had given her. In the end you were successful.
Lysander came out, and once he was through that stockade, he was killed. There was no argument, just brutal murder. Pelliades
was acting on your advice. The garrison had lost an outstanding officer and now they could display his corpse to lower the
morale of the soldiers inside. At the same time, your lover began to play upon poor Memnon’s mind. Memnon, however, was made
of sterner stuff. He didn’t break, so he had to be murdered.”

“And Memnon never knew who the spy was?” Antigone leaned forward.

“It was a skillful piece of treachery,” Miriam declared. “Before the siege ever began, the Oracle told Memnon that
he, in fact, had found a spy among the Thebans, that he was receiving secret information. Memnon, of course, accepted this
and allowed his officer the use of the garret above his chamber so he could dress the part.”

“And you say Memnon accepted this?”

“Of course he would! As commander of the citadel, he’d be deeply interested in collecting information about Thebes.”

“Wouldn’t he tell the others?”

“Why should he? The spy answered to him and when matters turned ugly, just before the siege began, this officer would hint
that he was also hunting a spy among the Macedonian garrison. So, why should Memnon reveal that?”

Antigone smiled, thinking.

“The two of you played the Macedonians and Thebans like musicians would flutes, piping the tune everyone wanted to hear.”

“But Thebes fell,” Antigone declared. She sat farther up on the bed, close to the bolster.

Miriam wondered if she had a dagger concealed, but Simeon was downstairs and the house was surrounded; she did not feel afraid
but satisfied; Antigone’s reaction was proof enough of the accusations leveled against her.

“You didn’t give a fig if Thebes fell,” Miriam replied. “What did it matter to you? But let me hurry on. Thebes did fall.
The Macedonians swept in and the garrison was relieved. Now you had two tasks. To spoil Alexander’s victory as much as possible
and to steal the Crown. First, there was the usual whispering campaign. I suppose the envoys from Corinth and elsewhere became
aware of the gossip. You and your lover dressed as Oedipus, a charade both of you had played before. At night the two of you
would approach lonely sentries. The Macedonian soldier, cold and disgruntled,
encountered this beautiful woman coming out of the night carrying a small jug of wine and some honey cakes. He’d relish the
chance to gossip. Perhaps tease and flirt. You were safe. If any officer approached, you would hide in the shadows till he
passed, and no soldier would confess to being distracted by such a beauty during guard duty.” Miriam paused. Antigone’s head
was back, a faint smile on her face. “The soldier would be off his guard, shield and spear down. He’d hardly hear your lover
come up behind him. And with a swift blow to the head, the man was dead. But that was just a minor part of the drama to dull
Alexander’s victory. Your real intent was to steal the Crown.”

“I didn’t know how the Crown could be removed,” Antigone intervened. “And, even if I did, how could I get through lines of
soldiers?”

“Oh don’t be so coy, Antigone! It was quite easily done. You’d work on Jocasta. She would give you the password. But, there
again, perhaps she didn’t, because it wasn’t really necessary, was it? What we have are a squad of soldiers outside the shrine
of Oedipus. They are truly bored. The shrine is quiet, the olive grove a sea of darkness around them. From the camp they can
hear the sound of revelry as their fellow countrymen celebrate their great victory. They would be slightly resentful. Thebes
was no more. Why should they waste their time guarding a deserted shrine? You played the same game again. If Jocasta could
slip out at night, why not you? You could make up any excuse. You wanted to see that everything was safe. Or to walk through
the trees. Or to take the night air. Why should Jocasta object? The high priestess had been given the solemn word of Alexander
of Macedon that she and all her household were safe. I am speaking the truth, aren’t I?”

Antigone, tight-lipped, just stared back.

“Don’t you object?” Miriam asked.

“I am a priestess,” Antigone replied. “But I do love a good story, Israelite. So far you’ve no evidence.”

“Oh, but I have.” Miriam leaned forward. “More than you know.” And, at last, she saw her opponent’s confidence slip—a quick
blink, a licking of the lips. “He’s told me.”

“You’re a liar! He’d never say.” Antigone’s hand went to her lips.

“Who’d never say, Antigone?”

“I cannot and will not betray myself,” the priestess replied. “You have me tangled, trapping me with words. You come here
with a story and now you are going to allege that I, who did not know the secret, persuaded Macedonian soldiers to let me
through their lines.”

“Ah, yes,” Miriam replied, “so let me tell you about the honey cakes and wine.”

“I
MAGINE
. . .” M
IRIAM FELT
as if she were telling a story to Simeon. “Imagine the soldiers on guard outside the shrine of Oedipus. Suddenly a young
priestess, your good self, comes out of the olive grove. You carry a basket of food and drink, those honey cakes and that
delicious wine you serve your guests. You claim it’s a present from the chief priestess. The soldiers eat and drink and, as
they do so, consume the sleeping potion with which you’ve laced both the drink and the food. I can’t imagine a soldier on
earth who’d refuse such a gift, and what threat could a young priestess pose? They are soon unconscious. Your accomplice then
appears from the trees. The key is taken, you open the main doors of the temple and go into the vestibule.” Miriam paused.
“Now, I don’t know if you used the password, pretending to be Jocasta, or just persuaded the soldiers inside to lift the bar.
After all, if the officer in charge had let you through, why shouldn’t they?” Miriam glanced over her shoulder at the window.
She wondered if Simeon had the sense to leave his post and come into the house.

“Your accomplice hid in the shadows of the vestibule. The front doors of the temple were locked, the soldiers inside would
think their commanding officer had locked you in. They would certainly suspect no danger. Again the gifts were offered. The
potion you gave them would work quickly. In a short while they were asleep, and then you took the Crown.”

“But I didn’t know how to! That was a secret.”

“No. There are two possibilities. First, like me, you could have discovered that the iron bar was the means to remove the
Crown. Second, by that time Jocasta was dead. Her pectoral had been removed, the clasp undone, and what was inside? A piece
of papyrus that revealed the secret? Jocasta’s dream suited your purposes: there would be no question about you slipping out
of your bedchamber. And if anyone had noticed it, in the chaos and turmoil following Jocasta’s death, they would have thought
you’d simply gone looking for her. Anyway, you removed the Crown, and your accomplice, with his club, smashed in the brains
of the soldiers sleeping inside the shrine. You then relocked the door and did the same to the guards outside. You took the
remains of the food and drink you’d brought and fled back to the priestesses’ house. Your accomplice returned to the olive
grove where he burned Jocasta’s corpse before returning to the citadel. No one would have noticed you had left, and until
the theft and Jocasta’s death, Macedonian soldiers were at liberty to wander where they wished.”

“And if what you say is true,” Antigone demanded, “why should I have done all this?”

“Because you’ve got a soul as dead as night! Because you are bored, but above all because you are a Persian spy!”

“That’s nonsense!”

“No, it isn’t. Persian spies are as many as sparrows in a tree. They work throughout Greece, particularly in the principal
cities, places like Thebes and Athens where resistance to Macedonian leadership is the most intense. Persia didn’t care whether
Thebes stood or fell. In fact, Darius would have been delighted that Alexander was provoked into devastating a principal Greek
city. He will be even more pleased when the Crown of Oedipus arrives in Persopolis. How he’ll crow with triumph! How lavish
his rewards will be for this spy who achieved so much, who soured Alexander’s great victory! He could fabricate some story.”
Miriam waved her hand. “How the gods of Greece gave this Crown, which so mysteriously disappeared, to the king of kings in
Persia.”

“Why would the Persians use someone like me?”

“Oh, they probably met you through Pelliades. Priestesses hear all the gossip. They can influence events, especially one like
you who, perhaps, had grown bored with tending a small shrine and living in a house with priestesses you didn’t give a fig
for. The Persians must have been delighted with your work, particularly when you ensnared an officer in the garrison at the
Cadmea.”

“But you have no proof.” Antigone stretched out her hand. “Where is the proof? Who is this accomplice? Where is the gold the
Persians are supposed to have given me?”

“Oh, you’d collect it as you travel,” Miriam replied. “And it would be nothing to what you’d receive in Persia. Alexander
will question you—well, not in person; Hecaetus the Master of the King’s secrets will do that. And then, of course, your accomplice.”

“What, Alcibiades?”

“Oh, no,” Miriam retorted. “He was your protection. I am sure your uncle asked who the spy was. You gave the enigmatic reply,
‘a disciple of Socrates,’ a reference to Alcibiades. A good choice, a man well known for his liking of women’s clothing. Poor
Alcibiades would protect your lover and, at the appropriate time, divert suspicion—”

“From me? I had nothing—”

“From you,” Miriam continued softly. “Your lover did that by slaying the two Cretan archers; he came back to the grove and
caught them unawares. His attack on the house was cunning; he might kill me and end my snooping as well as divert any suspicions
that there was any collusion between himself and a priestess.”

“Give me his name,” Antigone gibed.

“No, why don’t—” Miriam stopped: Antigone had taken a knife from underneath the pillow and was balancing it in one hand.

“What are you going to do?”

“We were talking here,” Antigone replied, “and this secret assassin, this shadow known as Oedipus, came through the open window.”

Miriam got to her feet, rolling her cloak around one arm. In the grove of Midas both girls and boys had been taught to fight,
but she always felt so clumsy. Antigone was now balancing on the balls of her feet, and she held the knife expertly. Miriam
backed to the window.

“Simeon!” she screamed, “up here!”

She picked up a stool and threw it. Antigone sidestepped. It crashed into the wall as Antigone struck, lithe and swift as
a cat. Miriam sidestepped but stumbled. Antigone turned. Miriam caught the hand holding the dagger and desperately struggled
to grasp the other, which was pummeling her stomach and chest. All she had to do was stop the dagger from coming down. Antigone
was strong and agile. Miriam found it hard to press the dagger back. She heard a pounding on the door, the latch rattling
but Antigone must have locked it behind her. The dagger came down. She was aware of Antigone’s glaring eyes but she watched
the blade, feeling the muscle ripple in the wrist. Miriam freed her other arm, smacking the heel of her hand into Antigone’s
chin.
Antigone staggered back. Miriam was now aware of the crashing against the door. Simeon must have arrived with the soldiers.
Antigone stood upright, even as the lock began to splinter. One minute she had the dagger out and the next she turned it,
driving the blade deep into her own heart. All the time her eyes watched Miriam, a faint smile on her lips, even as the blood
bubbles appeared. Miriam stood tense; she found she couldn’t move. Antigone came toward her, one hand out, the other still
grasping the dagger hilt; her eyes rolled up and she crashed to the floor. Miriam crouched down beside her, watching the blood
pump out of her mouth.

The door snapped back on its leather hinges. Simeon was beside her, soldiers milled about. She heard the other priestesses
wailing on the stairs. Simeon put a cloak around her.

“Is she the Oracle?” he asked.

“No, but she was his lover,” Miriam replied. “And tonight’s business isn’t finished. I was foolish to come up here alone.
Very, very foolish.”

Simeon led her downstairs. He wanted to take her into the kitchen but Miriam glimpsed the white faces and staring eyes of
the other priestesses.

“Not here!” she urged.

They went out of the house and across the yard into the olive grove. An officer caught up with them. Miriam was aware of sitting
down beside a camp fire. She laughed softly when honey cakes were passed to her followed by a deep bowl of watered wine. She
couldn’t eat the cakes, but she sipped at the wine. Simeon kept questioning her but it was hard to concentrate. At last the
wine and the heat of the fire made her relax. Secretly she was glad that Antigone had taken that way out. It made things easier,
both for her and for what was to happen in the citadel. She looked up through the branches. The night sky was showing the
first
pinpricks of light. The rain clouds had broken, though rain still dripped through the trees and the ground was damp.

“Simeon, send a message to the citadel! Tell Demetrius and the officers to assemble in the mess hall. This time I want a corps
of guardsmen, in the tower and outside.”

“Will you be all right?”

“Please!” Miriam grasped his hand. “Just do as I ask.”

Two hours later, as the sky lightened, Miriam entered the Cadmea and made her way across to the mess hall. Patroclus, Demetrius,
Melitus, and Cleon were present, sharing a jug of beer and a platter of oat cakes. Miriam sensed that they knew this was important;
the one she suspected looked pale-faced and heavy-eyed, nervous and fidgety. Men from the guards regiment stood around the
hall: grim, stark figures in their bronze armor, the great plumes on their helmets making them bigger, casting long shadows.
Outside, in the courtyard and passageways, other guards stood in silent vigil as Cretan archers patrolled the ramparts. Miriam
took her seat at the head of the table, Simeon sitting on her right; she joined her hands before her and stared at Demetrius.

“First, I’ve come to apologize. I understand that later today Alcibiades’ body will be burned?”

“As befitting a Macedonian hero.”

“Quite so,” Miriam replied. “And I myself will sprinkle incense on the pyre. Alcibiades was a good soldier, a loyal officer.
He was foully murdered by the man we know as the Oracle. But,” she added quickly, “there is not one spy but two. The first,”
she didn’t falter in her story, “is Antigone, a priestess at the shrine of Oedipus. She has been closely questioned by Hecaetus,
and we know who her accomplice is.”

The one she suspected pushed back his stool slightly.

“No one can leave.” Miriam stared at a point on the far wall. “Anyone who attempts to do so will be arrested.”

“In which case,” Demetrius added dryly, “we had best wait and listen to your story, Israelite.”

“There are certain things I cannot tell you, though I’ll be as succinct and as clear as possible. Alcibiades was loyal and
so was Lysander.” She waved her hand. “Forget this nonsense about the woman. The Oracle never met Thebans. Disguised as a
woman, he met the priestess Antigone. So, if they were seen together in the olive grove, people would simply dismiss them
as two priestesses taking a walk. Of course they would meet deep in the grove where no one was supposed to go.”

“Except Lysander,” Demetrius intervened.

“Lysander did go there, and he saw something untoward.” Miriam replied. “But he could make no sense of it. The man he glimpsed
disguised as a woman did not have a reputation for such practices. Perhaps Lysander, as a good officer, discussed the matter
with Memnon?”

“Yes, he would,” Melitus broke in.

“Memnon, however, had an answer,” Miriam declared. “You see, Antigone was a spy for the Persians. She had recruited an officer
here in the citadel. They met secretly. Lysander had noticed this. He may, as I have said, discussed it with Memnon.” Miriam
paused. “And this shows the cunning of our spy. Memnon probably told Lysander that the man he’d glimpsed was meeting a spy
working for the Macedonians, possibly a priestess who could tell them what was happening in the city. Lysander would have
accepted that. However, the Oracle could afford no mistakes. He was probably relieved and pleased that Lysander was later
killed by the Thebans.”

“But you told us earlier that one of the Thebans may have betrayed something.”

“No, no.” Miriam shook her head. “I told you to ignore
that. The Thebans wanted to kill both Lysander and Memnon so that the garrison here would surrender.” Miriam shrugged. “We
all know what happened. Now the Oracle, once Lysander had been removed, tried to unsettle Memnon. First, there was the nonsense
about the ghost of Oedipus. That would certainly cause a shiver, a sense of haunting, particularly on a commander who had
just lost his loyal lieutenant, a commander who had received rumors that Alexander and the Macedonian army had been destroyed,
a commander who was now besieged by Thebans.”

“But Memnon was as tough as a donkey,” Demetrius spoke up.

“Yes, yes he was, but he was also suspicious. He knew there was a spy in the citadel, and his confidant played on these fears,
perhaps raising the specter that one of his officers, or all of them, could be involved in such treason.”

“Yes, that was true,” Demetrius said. “Memnon hardly met us.”

“Now the spy was very astute,” Miriam continued. “He offered to be Memnon’s man, to spy on his colleagues. Memnon accepted
this. After all, the same man had braved his life in recruiting a so-called spy among the Thebans. Before the siege began,
Memnon had allowed this man to disguise himself as a woman in the small garret above his chamber, well away from anyone else’s
view.”