A Murder in Thebes (Alexander the Great 2) (3 page)

“I am Jocasta, high priestess of the this shrine.”

“And I represent King Alexander and the power of Macedon.”

The officer bowed. He walked back to the door and placed the seal on the floor.

“Show that to all who come. You have nothing to fear!”

Miriam followed Alexander and his entourage up through the Electra Gate and along the highway into the center of Thebes. A
gray, dull day. Miriam stared around in horror. She had never visited Thebes but she had heard the stories about this great
city. Now it looked as if it had been consumed
by fire from heaven. Houses, shops, council chambers, barracks stables, taverns, and storehouses had all been reduced to feathery
black ash. Wooden buildings had disappeared. Alexander’s soldiers were now finishing off those built of stone, dragging down
walls. The air was thick with dust, smoke, the smell of burning, and the stench of cooked flesh.

“Not one stone left upon another.” Alexander had sworn the ancient oath of destruction against the city. The only people they
passed were the occasional priest and priestess, the rest were Macedonian solders combing the ruins for any plunder or for
Thebans who may have hidden away in the cellars. Six days had passed since the destruction had ended. The Theban cavalry had
fled. The foot soldiers had fought to the last man; then the city had been given over to wholesale destruction. Only the temples
and the house of the poet Pindar had been spared, as well as the occasional sacred cypress and olive grove. The survivors
had been rounded up. Men, women, and children were marched off to the slave markets. Even Alexander’s hardened commanders,
now that their blood had cooled, were quiet in the face of such savage destruction. The king himself looked stricken: his
face white, his eyes constantly flickering about. Hephaestion, his close companion and lover, started to speak but Alexander
made a cutting movement with his hand. Miriam looked at Simeon; his face was so pallid and sweat-soaked, he would surely vomit.
They passed a crossroad, Miriam pulled the cloak up over her nose and mouth. Here the corpses had been collected and burned
in a great funeral pyre, and the air still stank from the horrid smoke. In places, the ash was ankle deep on the cobblestones;
Miriam was pleased she had worn leather riding boots beneath her tunic. She felt a little nauseous, giddy and she grasped
her walking cane more firmly. She bowed her head. She felt ashamed—of Alexander, his
army, of what had happened here. It brought back memories of her father’s description of the destruction of Jerusalem.

They crossed a square, past the ruined mansions of the wealthy, and began the climb toward the broken palisades that had once
surrounded the Cadmea. The silence was broken only by the sound of their footsteps crunching the ash and the clink of armor
from Alexander’s bodyguard. No one dared bring horses here. Fires still burned, sparks shot up, and the stiff hot breeze pricked
the flesh. At the top of the hill Alexander stopped and turned.

“Thebes has been destroyed! Leveled to ash! It is my decree.” His face was harsh, reminding Miriam of his father, Philip.

“It is my wish,” he repeated, “that it never be rebuilt. It rose in rebellion against my father and was defeated at Chaeronea.
It played a hand in my father’s murder. It rose in rebellion when I was elsewhere. They called me an assassin, a patricide.
I did not destroy Thebes. The gods did!”

He glared at Timeon, the Athenian delegate, and beside him at Aristarchus, the representative from Corinth.

“Let the word go out,” Alexander said quietly. “All of Greece is to be united under Macedon. All the world is to see the glory
and power of our might. Yea,” he stared at the skies, “even to the ends of the earth.”

“If the gods destroyed Thebes,” Hephaestion spoke quickly, “then all of Greece was party to it.” He glanced out of the corner
of his eye at the Athenian delegate.

Timeon—a small, thickset man with a balding pate, a luxuriant mustache and beard, watery eyes, and a bulbous nose—blinked
and forced a smile. Hephaestion was reminding everyone that Thebes had rebelled not only against Macedon but against the League
with Corinth. The League, too, had voted for Thebes’ destruction, recalling stories of
how Thebes had helped Xerxes and his Persians during the Great War, citing all its other petty infidelities and treacheries.
Alexander had used the League to legitimize the destruction, but in the end, he’d simply delivered a stark warning to all
of Greece. Alexander was their captain-general. Any revolt would be ruthlessly crushed.

Alexander took a breath, rubbed his face, and walked on through the palisade built by the Thebans to hem in his garrison in
the Cadmea. He stopped at a cross thrust in the rocky earth. He touched the wood still stained with Lysander’s blood.

“I have avenged him,” Alexander murmured. “I’ll avenge all who died here.” He gestured at Simeon and Miriam. “Follow me! You,
too, Hephaestion. The rest of you,” he gave a lopsided smile, “show our delegates around Thebes. Let them see how a city burns.”

Alexander walked on up the rocky path, through the gatehouse and into the courtyard of the Cadmea.

The garrison was assembled in full armor, breastplates and shields gleaming. Their officers stood in front of them, their
helmets, adorned with bright horsehair plumes, held under their arms. Alexander’s mood changed as it always did when he moved
among soldiers. He walked slowly along the ranks, stopping to chat and joke, slipping silver coins into the men’s hands. He
clasped them by the shoulder and kissed them on the brow, calling them his companions and friends, praising them for their
valor in holding Cadmea against a hostile Thebes. The soldiers responded: guffaws of laughter broke out as Alexander shared
some private joke. Miriam noticed he had no words for the officers. These four were left standing in front, eyes ahead. Alexander
gave them no order to relax or stand at ease. When he had finished his inspection, Alexander simply clicked his fingers. The
men were dismissed and the four officers followed Alexander up
into the tower along a stone-vaulted corridor and into what must be their mess hall. Tables stood around the room. These and
the floor had been carefully scrubbed and washed. Servants had laid out bread, cheese, meats, bowls of fruit, and a jug of
watered wine. Unceremoniously Alexander sat on a bench and gestured for the others to join him. He took a bunch of grapes
from the bowl and began to pop them into his mouth, like a child, cheeks bulging as he slowly chewed. He nodded at Hephaestion
who ordered the officers to introduce themselves. All four were Macedonians, grizzled veterans who had fought in Philip’s
armies. Patroclus was the youngest: blond-haired, one eye half closed due to an old wound, front teeth missing, nose slightly
broken. He reminded Miriam of a boxer. Alcibiades was thin and swarthy-faced; his hair was cropped close to his head and he
wore a brass ring in one earlobe. Slightly foppish, Miriam thought, with an ornamental bracelet that he kept shaking. Demetrius
was gray-haired, cruel-faced, with sharp, deep-set eyes, and a thin nose above thick lips. He kept scratching at a scar that
ran from the top of his right ear down beneath his chin. The fourth, Miletus, was bald, fleshy-faced; his eyes were almost
hidden in rolls of fat; he had pursed lips and was clean shaven. He reminded Miriam of a eunuch, an impression greatly enhanced
by his rather high-pitched voice. Nevertheless, despite their appearance, Miriam recognized that all four were skilled fighting
men, though now very nervous. Alexander had praised the defence of the citadel against the Thebans but they must have expected
to be closely questioned on what had happened to cause the deaths of two favorite officers, Lysander and their commander Memnon.

Alexander finished the grapes. He filled the cups himself, chattering about the citadel, how thick its walls, and idly wondering
if the tower they now occupied had been built
during the time of Oedipus. The soldiers replied perfunctorily. Alexander leaned back, tapping his hands on the table.

“There’s someone missing, isn’t there?” He winked down the table at Simeon, who had already taken out a sheet of papyrus,
ink, and stylus; where ever Alexander went, he always insisted on keeping some record of what was said, particularly his own
pronouncements.

“There’s someone absent, isn’t there?” he repeated.

“I’m here, my lord.”

They all turned. The thin young man who stood in the doorway, moved nervously from foot to foot, scratching his black hair,
rubbing his hands together.

“Come in! Come in!” Alexander smiled. He leaned forward. “You are Cleon? Memnon’s aide-de-camp?”

The young man nodded. “Yes, my lord,” he stammered.

“I was at the jakes, my stomach . . .” He chewed the corner of his lip nervously. “I apologize.”

“Dysentery is no respecter of persons,” Alexander laughed. “Come on, sit down, but don’t drink the wine or eat the fruit.”
He pushed the bread basket forward. “Take some of that and a little honey in water mixed with candle grease. It might not
taste too pleasant but it will bind the bowels. Now you’ve got the ingredients.”

Cleon sat on the bench opposite Miriam and nodded.

“Well, come on, man,” Alexander declared. “Repeat it.”

Cleon did, his harsh Macedonian voice slightly stumbling as he listed the king’s own recipe for the cure of diarrhea. His
reply caused a little laughter. The four officers relaxed. They picked up their cups and sipped. Hephaestion rose and closed
the door, bringing down the bar.

“I won’t detain you long,” Alexander began. “My two good friends here, clerks and scribes Miriam and Simeon Bartimaeus, have
my authority to continue this inquiry and question you closely.”

“A woman.” Miletus’s lip curled. “An Israelite?”

“Mother likes her,” Alexander replied.

Miletus’s face fell as he thought of Olympias.

“Good.” Alexander sipped from his own cup. “Outside, Thebes burns! It is no more. I left you along with Memnon and Lysander
to hold this citadel and keep and eye on the city. You held the citadel but what happened to the city?” His face became grave.
“Above all what happened to my commanders? Just what occurred while I was chasing barearsed Thessalians through the forest?”

The officer looked at Demetrius, apparently their leader. He slurped greedily from his goblet.

“I’m waiting,” Alexander snapped.

“It’s as you say, my lord.” Demetrius glowered down the table. Miriam recalled that among the Macedonians kingly rank and
status was no defence against blunt speech.

“You went off chasing your Thessalians and we poor buggers were left in Thebes. Now, at first . . . nah . . .” He scratched
his chin. “No, from the very beginning they hated us, though they didn’t move against us for weeks. Two of our lads went out
to the brothels; they have not been seen since. After that, Memnon became more cautious. He allowed us to bring in stores
and whores but he forbade any of us to leave the citadel. The Thebans responded; they built the stockade, sealing us in.”

“Even though we were at peace?” Hephaestion asked.

“The Thebans said it was for our own protection. Then the stockade was replaced by a stouter, higher one. You’ve seen the
remains. Memnon and Lysander objected. After two weeks of siege, they went out to meet representatives of the Theban council.”

Alexander looked at Cleon. “Were you there?” he asked.

“Yes, Memnon, Lysander, and myself. Usually.” Cleon rubbed his stomach. “We kept well away from the palisade.
Memnon even gave orders to shoot any who approached it since it was not unknown for the Thebans to try and jab a sword or
spear through the slats.”

Miriam watched Simeon’s stylus racing over the smooth piece of papyrus, using a code only he could decipher.

“Anyway,” Cleon sighed, “it was a shouting match. Memnon and Lysander were in full armor. The Thebans jeered at them, asked
if they were frightened. Memnon demanded to know why the palisade had been built. ‘For your own protection,’ the Thebans replied;
then bricks were hurled over the palisade.”

“I’ve never seen our old commander move so fast,” Alcibiades lisped. “He and Lysander fair scurried back.”

“So would you, you wine-soaked fop!” Cleon shouted.

Alcibiades colored, his hand dropping to the dagger in his belt.

“That’s enough, boys,” Alexander murmured. “Then what happened?”

“Memnon became anxious, withdrawn,” Patroclus replied, his voice abrupt. He beat his knuckles on the table. “He met us all
in here. He said that he didn’t like the mood of the Thebans. During the exchange of insults, the Thebans had . . .”

“What?” Alexander asked impatiently.

“I was there,” Cleon blustered. “My lord king, the Thebans seemed to know all about us and the fortress, as if they had a
spy, someone sending them secret messages.”

“What did they know?” Miriam asked before she could stop herself. The soldiers looked down the table at Alexander.

“I’d have asked the same question,” he said languidly.

“They knew everything,” Demetrius declared, “including about the two soldiers we’d recently lost; they’d slipped out under
the cover of darkness but the Thebans had been waiting for them.”

“And you?” Alexander asked.

“I agreed with my commander,” Demetrius retorted. “Old Memnon was right; there’s a spy in the Cadmea.” He gazed bleakly round
the table.

“And, as far as I am concerned, he’s still here!”

D
EMETRIUS
’
S
R
EMARKS CAUSED
consternation; his fellow officers had been taken unawares.

“If you have suspicions,” Patroclus snapped, “name them!”

“He tells the truth.” Cleon spoke up. His voice was so loud that it calmed the dissension. Cleon’s eyes filled with tears.
“Memnon believed this. He claimed the Thebans had a spy in the citadel.”

“Did he say who?” Alexander asked.

“No.” Cleon shook his head. “He never openly voiced his suspicions.” He smiled. “Well, my lord king, you know Memnon. If he
spoke three sentences it was surprising.”

“Old Memnon was as thrifty with his words as a miser is with gold,” Alexander agreed. “But continue, Cleon.”

“Memnon spoke to me on a number of occasions. They were more grunts than speeches. The Thebans know too much,” he declared.
“They know about our stores, our men!”

“If there was a spy,” Miriam broke in, “how on earth would he communicate with the enemy?”

The patronizing smile that spread across Demetrius’s face told her she had made a mistake.

“An arrow fired at night,” Cleon kindly explained. “A message wrapped around the shaft. It could be easily done. There are
parts of the citadel where an archer could loose and not be seen. The arrow would clear the stockade.” He shrugged. “And the
Thebans would know everything.”

“I’m confused.” Miriam smiled apologetically. She brought her hands together.

“You were besieged in the citadel?”

“Yes!”

“For how long?”

“About two months, until news of Macedon’s advance ended all rumors.”

“So,” Miriam thanked Demetrius with her eyes, “during that time, the spy must have acted secretly.”

“Of course!”

“But, by then, the damage was done surely? The rumors had begun, the Thebans were in revolt.”

“Ah, I see.” Demetrius scratched his head. “Yes, before the siege began, we had about six to eight weeks of relative freedom.”

“Ah yes, my supposed death.” Alexander asked, “The rumors about a catastrophe in Thessaly—these changed everything?”

“The Thebans became more arrogant.” Demetrius rubbed his face. “Crowds would stand by the stockade. They’d jeer, shout, throw
bricks. One day a herald approached under flag of truce. Memnon went upon to the gatehouse and asked what he wanted. The herald
said that news had come to Thebes. That you, my lord king, had been trapped in a gully in the mountains of Thessaly. That
you, Hephaestion, Perdiccas had all been killed. That the army was routed during a revolt in Pella.”

“But surely,” Hephaestion broke in, “you must have thought he was bluffing?”

“Memnon said as much,” Cleon replied. He stared around at his companions. “You were all there. Memnon started laughing. The
herald went away and Memnon held a meeting here.”

“He wasn’t laughing, then.” Melitus spoke up, his fat jowls quivering. “You see, my lord king, how did the Thebans know that
Hephaestion and Perdiccas were with you? How did they know that your mother was ruler of Pella?”

“Continue.” Alexander now cupped his face in his hands, his eyes half closed.

“The following day,” Demetrius continued, “the herald returned; he brought a Thessalian with him who described, in great detail,
your death and defeat. The herald was more courteous. He pointed out that if you were dead and the Macedonian army defeated,
the League of Corinth was dissolved. Thebes could withdraw its loyalty and we should leave the citadel.” He paused and Stared
at Cleon.

“From that moment,” the aide-de-camp continued the story, “Captain Memnon became depressed, more withdrawn than ever. He stayed
in his chamber drinking, talking to Hercules.”

Simeon raised his head. “Hercules?”

“His great hunting mastiff. He adored Memnon. Where the captain went, Hercules always followed. If Hercules didn’t like someone,
they wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near the captain.”

“Lysander took over most of Memnon’s duties,” Demetrius explained.

“He said that we should accept the Theban’s offer to negotiate, to try and establish what was really happening. Memnon agreed;
he sent Lysander out alone.”

“That’s not true,” Patroclus interrupted. He pointed at Cleon.

“You offered to go?” Miriam asked.

Cleon nodded. “But Memnon would have nothing to do with it. You see . . .” He looked questioningly at her. “Miriam?”

She replied, “My name is Miriam Bartimaeus.”

Cleon bowed deferentially. “My lady, my father is Macedonian but my mother is Theban. Her family always supported my lord
king; twenty years ago my parents were murdered on a visit to Thebes. Our whole family was marked for destruction because
of its loyalty to King Philip.”

“So Memnon ruled against you going out?” Miriam asked.

“Yes, he did.” Demetrius picked up the wine jug and filled his goblet. “We were all concerned. However, the herald returned
under a flag of truce. He was accompanied by the high priestess from the shrine of Apollo, which houses the Crown of Oedipus.
What was her name?” he asked. “Ah yes, Jocasta. She came dressed in her oil-soaked wig, her face painted white, black rings
of kohl under her eyes. She gave solemn and sacred promises that Lysander would be treated properly.”

“But he wasn’t.” Alexander took up the story.

“No, my lord! He was barely beyond the palisade when the Thebans closed in. From the gatehouse and tower you could see their
dagger-work. Two hours later they put up a cross near the stockade; Lysander’s corpse was nailed to it.”

“But the priestess?” Miriam asked.

“She objected,” Demetrius replied. “I believe she spoke the truth. When Lysander was gibbeted, she came forward, her hands
extended. She swore by heaven and earth that what the Thebans had done was blasphemous and sacrilegious and that she had had
no part in it.”

“Memnon grew worse.” Cleon got to his feet. He took out his dagger and placed it on the table. “Whenever I went into his chamber,
. . .” He sat down again, “. . . Memnon grasped his dagger like this, pulling it out. He believed the spy was one of his officers—indeed,
that they were all plotting against him.”

“He’d lost his wits,” Alcibiades drawled. “My lord king, we are Macedonians. I fought at Chaeronea. I would rather die than
betray my lord and my companions.”

A growl of approval greeted his words.

“True, true.” Alexander forced a smile. “But there is still a spy here. You say you are Macedonian.” He rubbed his hands together.
“But, with the exception of Cleon, all of you have been garrisoned in Thebes for some considerable time. Before I left, before
the citadel was besieged, you were allowed to walk through Theban streets, drinking Theban wine, lying with Theban women.”

“You have no proof,” Demetrius spoke up hotly, “of treason!”

“I will get it!” Alexander snapped. “My two good clerks here, the Israelites, they will dig it out. We were talking about
Memnon?”

“He stayed in his chamber,” Cleon declared. “He did not wash or shave. He was constantly dressed for battle, Hercules beside
him. And then, ten days ago, his body was found at the foot of the tower. He’d either fallen, been pushed, or jumped from
his chamber.”

“Why should Memnon commit suicide?” Miriam asked. “Yes, yes, I know his wits may have been disturbed but he was a soldier.”

“Was it murder?” Alexander asked.

“How could it be?” Demetrius cried. “Melitus here was on guard outside his chamber.”

“Is that right?” Alexander asked.

Melitus nodded. “It must have been suicide,” he replied thickly. “The door was bolted and locked on the inside. He had Hercules
to guard him. I never heard any sound from the room, nor did Patroclus who took over from me just after midnight. The next
morning his corpse was found at the foot of the tower.”

Alexander pushed back his stool and got to his feet.

“Let us see this chamber,” he said.

Demetrius went first. Outside the hall two page boys dressed in ragged tunics were playing in the small entranceway. Alexander
went over to look. One of them had a magnet and was seeing how close he had to push it before the iron filings stuck to it.

“You enjoy that?” Alexander asked.

One of the pages looked up, eyes squinting.

“My lord king, it’s a good way of earning money.”

“Money?” Alexander asked.

“They gamble,” Demetrius explained, pushing his way through. “It’s a game popular with the soldiers. Better than dice game
of hazard.” He pointed to the twigs laid along the ground.

“There’s a sack of magnets; one is pulled out, and we lay odds as to which twig it must reach before it can attract the iron
filings. It’s a popular game in Thebes. The men often played it to while away the boredom of the siege.”

“It takes me back.” Alexander smiled over his shoulder at Miriam. “Do you remember the groves of Midas? And Aristotle lecturing
on the property of things? How like attracts like?” He tossed two coins on the floor. “Continue with your betting lads.” He
ruffled the hair of one of the pages. “Now, lets see Memnon’s chamber.”

This was at the top of a winding spiral staircase entered by a small recess in the stairwell. The brass-studded door hung
slightly ajar, the great key in the lock.

“It shouldn’t be open.” Demetrius drew his sword and kicked the door back.

The great wolfhound was lounging on the floor allowing himself to be stroked by a man who crouched with his back to them.
The animal lifted his great shaggy head and growled, his upper lip curling in a display of sharp, white teeth.

“There, there my beauty!” The man turned and smiled.

Miriam recognized Hecaetus, Alexander’s master of spies and keeper of all secrets. A human viper who could curl and twist
his way through the court. She was always amazed at how Hecaetus’s foppish appearance could disarm people: his cropped, curly
hair; his thin, clean-shaven face; his eyes ever merry; his lips always smiling. The languid way he walked, the rather girlish
movement he deliberately cultivated were no different now. He patted the dog and got to his feet, adjusting the green-edged
robe thrown over his shoulder.

“My lord king.” He bowed.

“What are you doing here Hecaetus?” Miriam asked.

“Why Miriam, the same as you, searching out my lord’s enemies.” He pushed his head forward. “I was told you were in council,
my lord, and were not to be disturbed.” He sighed. “So I came up here and” . . . He gestured at the dog who had now risen,
brushing against him. “I thought I would make acquaintance with Hercules. Isn’t it a pity that animals can’t talk?”

Alexander walked into the room. He stretched out his hand and the dog approached and licked his fingers. The rest fanned out
around him in this austere gray-stone chamber.

“He’s friendly enough,” Alexander observed.

“He always is,” Cleon declared. “He wouldn’t hurt a child.”

“But he protected Memnon?” Miriam asked.

Cleon nodded. “If he thought Memnon was under attack, if you raised your voice or made any threatening gesture, Hercules would
change.”

Miriam crouched down. The great war dog was a beautiful animal: iron-gray fur, lean body, long legs. She patted him, feeling
the muscle ripple under the smooth soft skin. The hair around his neck was bunched and more coarse, the head perfectly formed.
She noticed the powerful jaws. The dog now started licking at her so vigorously that she got to her feet, wiping her cheek
with the back of her hand. Alexander laughed and stared around the chamber.

“It’s not much, is it?”

Miriam had to agree. A truckle bed in the corner, a chest at the foot of the bed, a large table with a camp chair before it.
Some shelves bearing cups and pots, pegs driven into the wall on which to hang belts, armor, and cloaks. In one corner a statue
of Aphrodite, small, perfectly carved. Alexander pointed at it.

“Memnon stole that from a house. He called it his good-luck charm.”

Followed by Miriam he went across to the window, nothing more than a wooden square. The shutters had been pulled back. Miriam
leaned over and looked down into the cobbled courtyard below. She studied the rough gray-stone walls, the plaster ceiling,
the heavy reinforced door. There was no secret passageway into this room.

“What’s above this?” she asked.

“An empty garret, a storeroom,” Demetrius explained. “Memnon kept it locked. He hated anyone going in there.”

“Why?”

“Oh, it’s empty enough,” Cleon replied. “It was a personal foible. Memnon once fought as a mercenary and had to hide in a
cellar. He couldn’t stand hearing footsteps above him, it brought back memories.”

“He often told us the tale,” Alcibiades drawled. “He would send us up to check that it was empty, no rat droppings on the
floor. It’s nothing more than a dingy loft.”

“How did he die?” Hecaetus wondered.

“It must have been suicide,” Alexander declared. He went across the room and tapped the great bolt on the door. “How did you
get in? I mean, this has not been forced!”

“Memnon’s corpse was found just after dawn,” Demetrius explained. “We came up here; well, you’ve seen the door—it would take
a siege to batter it down. So we went up to the tower, tied a rope around one of the battlements and lowered down one of the
Cretans, an archer. The shutters were open; he slipped into the room. It’s almost as you find it now: the bolts were drawn,
the key turned in the lock. Hercules was lying on the floor asleep. We gave the archer some meat so the dog proved to be no
trouble. He pulled back the bolts, turned the key, and we came in.”