A Murder in Thebes (Alexander the Great 2) (8 page)

“Rumors are sweeping the army,” Patroclus declared. “The men don’t like the city; it reeks of death. They want Alexander to
march away.”

“But not before he’s taken that bloody Crown!” Alcibiades groaned.

“Are you all right, Miriam?” Simeon stood in the doorway, pale-faced and heavy-eyed.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.”

“Are there any more questions, mistress?” Demetrius got to his feet. “We still have duties to perform.”

“What will the king do with this citadel?” Miriam asked.

“When we march, he will burn it. Gut it with fire.”

Miriam thanked them and, picking up her writing satchel, joined Simeon in the passageway outside.

“Did you discover anything new?”

“Hush.” Miriam pressed a finger against his lips. “Not here, Simeon.”

She led him up the stairs and into Memnon’s chamber. The shutters were still open; the room was freezing so she hurriedly
closed them. Simeon went out, got a torch, and tried to light the charcoal brazier. Miriam sat on the edge of the bed and
watched him. At last Simeon was successful. The charcoal glowed red. He pulled the brazier over and sat beside it.

“Two more guards have been found,” he declared, “their heads staved in. What do you think it portends?”

“I’d like to say its Oedipus,” Miriam retorted. “That the old king has come back to curse the destroyers of his city. But,
I don’t believe in ghosts, Simeon. It’s human trickery.”

“Why?”

“Alexander is the Conqueror of Thebes.” Miriam paused. “Yes, he has shown how he will deal with rebels but our noble king
always likes a challenge. Never since the Spartan war has a Greek city been leveled with such cruel barbarity. Oh, all of
Greece will hail him, as victor and captain-general. They’ve got little choice; Alexander’s boot is firmly on their necks!
We all know what’s going to happen next. Alexander is going to march to the Hellespont. He’ll demand that some Greek states
send troops and that Athens send its navy. Those war triremes will be essential for any attack on Persia.”

“You should have been a general, Miriam.”

“Brother, I sit and listen to Niarchos and Perdiccas argue with Alexander about tactics and strategy. Which ships should go
first? What formation should be adopted? Alexander is like a dog with a bone; he knows that, once he crosses the Hellespont,
he must leave a united and quiet Greece behind him. Now there are many who will whisper behind their hands that the destruction
of Thebes was a mistake. How Alexander is guilty of hubris and will rightly incur the wrath of the gods. They will look for
some sign.”

“The Crown of Oedipus?”

“Precisely. If Alexander takes it by force then Greece will say he has lost divine favor; meanwhile these stories about a
lame-footed specter killing Macedonian soldiers will make the story more juicy, the scandal more alluring.”

“So it’s the work of the Oracle? This master spy here in the citadel who passed secrets to the Thebans?”

Miriam scratched the side of her head. “I think so. But there’s the rub. There’s no secret entrance or passageway here. The
citadel is built on a rock. It would be a hard nut
to crack. I suspect Alexander will have some trouble destroying it.” She held out her hands. “On the one hand, we have Memnon
babbling about the shade of Oedipus within the citadel. On the other, we have two of his officers claiming they saw the same
specter beyond the walls. The obvious conclusion, the force of logic, as Aristotle would put it, indicates this must be a
ghost. How else can he move through thick brick walls and heavily guarded gates? Or wander around the camp at the dead of
night and kill Macedonian veterans?”

“But you don’t believe in ghosts?” Simeon grinned.

“No, I don’t. I would like to know why the same specter trapped me in this chamber last night? Above all, I would like to
know why dear old Memnon, who had about as much imagination as his dog and twice as much courage, should dress in full battle
gear, clasp his sword around him, and throw himself out of this tower at the dead of night. Just think, Simeon.” She pointed
to the door. “No one could come through there.” She banged her foot on the hard ground. “Or through the floor, or the roof,
the walls while the window, well, we’ve reflected on that.” She glanced at Simeon. “Old Memnon would have drawn his sword.
Hercules would have launched an attack. They would have heard the outcry in Thebes. I wish Aristotle were here,” she added.
She got to her feet and raised her hand languidly.

“My dear,” she mimicked the foppish but brilliant philosopher, “it’s all a matter of logic.” She minced up and down, one hand
on her hip. Simeon laughed.

“Don’t laugh, Simeon. You only show your stupidity! This is the problem. You can’t find a solution,” her voice became even
more languid, “because you are looking at it, my dear boy, the wrong way.” Miriam relaxed and clapped her hands together.

“And then there’s the Crown,” Simeon said impishly. “All
the camp knows about Alexander’s outburst last night. How he nearly pinned Niarchos with a spear, how you intervened and said
there was a way.” He rubbed his stomach. “Is there one, dear sister? Alexander was bleary-eyed this morning, but he was all
full of it: ‘Miriam will have an answer,’ he declared.”

“And I can imagine what his companions said.”

“Oh yes, they all began to chant: ‘Miriam will have an answer! Miriam will have an answer!’ Niarchos has already laid a wager
with Perdiccas that you have got nothing of the sort; Perdiccas has accepted it.”

Miriam went and looked out the window. Two soldiers were emptying the stores and placing them on a cart. She could hear their
laughter on the breeze. She recalled the shrine of Oedipus, the Iron Crown resting in the clasps on the stone pillar, the
bed of fiery charcoal, the spikes, and the dark shadowy pit where serpents writhed.

“Do you have any ideas, brother? You are always the more practical one?”

“There must be a way. The high priestess removes the Crown at certain times. We could bribe her?”

“Not someone like Jocasta,” Miriam declared. “She’s the sort who would rather die than give up her secrets. She is full of
the mysteries, proud of what she guards.”

“What about a long pole?” Simeon offered.

“It would have to be a very long one,” Miriam countered, “but go on.”

“You’d stretch it across, knock down the iron clasps, loop the Crown and pull it up toward you.”

“It would have to be a very long pole,” Miriam repeated. “And I don’t think it could be done. I can’t see how the clasps are
pulled loose.”

“Well, it might be possible. Why don’t we try?” Simeon asked. “And what about those grappling hooks?” he added.
“You know, the sort sailors use when they try to come to grips with an enemy ship?”

“No. It would be like taking a hammer to smash a nut. Go down to the stores, Simeon. See if you can find one of those long
sarissas the phalanx men carry. Let us visit our reverend Jocasta.”

Miriam found it strange to leave the destruction of Thebes and enter the cool olive grove around the shrine. The sweet scent
of leaves, the bittersweet tang of their fruit brought back memories of the groves around Pella, the Macedonian capital. The
shrine itself was deserted. Three soldiers and their officer were squatting on the steps. The officer rose as Miriam and Simeon
approached; he watched in amusement Simeon’s difficulty with carrying the long spear.

“It takes years of practice,” he declared, coming down the steps. “Put it down, man, you’ll do someone an injury.”

Simeon dropped it gratefully on the white chalk path. The soldier loosened his neck cloth and wiped the sweat off this throat.

“Before you begin mistress, I know who you are.” He gestured toward the door and tapped the great bronze key that hung on
his belt. “You can’t go in.”

“On the king’s orders?”

“Mistress, the king’s orders are quite explicit. I am to allow no one in unless they are accompanied by the priestess. I and
three lads are on guard outside; the other two are in the shrine itself. We take turns.” He hawked and spat. “I’m glad to
be out here. Have you heard the stories?”

“We’ve heard them,” Miriam declared. “What do you mean about two being inside?”

“Well, we are here,” the officer explained. “I have the key to the vestibule. Beyond the bronze doors are two of my lads;
they have locked themselves in the shrine. I did the dawn watch this morning. It’s a sinister, eerie place, that charcoal
glowing in the middle of the floor, the spikes like dragons’ teeth coming to bloom. I thought the snakes were simply a bluff
but I saw three, long and slimy, slithering out.”

“And the priestess Jocasta?” Miriam asked.

“She comes down here as do the others, with faces painted, eyes darkened.”

“Where do they live?” Miriam asked.

The captain pointed to his left. “The grove runs deep; follow the path round. They have a house there.”

Miriam thanked him and followed his directions. The path snaked between the trees and brought them into a large glade or clearing.
At the far end was a typical family house: red-tiled roof, white walls with a small courtyard in front, bound by a wooden
palisade. The gate was open. Miriam glimpsed chickens and a goat tethered to a post. The courtyard was empty as she entered.
In the middle was a shrine to some unknown god and beneath it a large tank to collect and store rainwater. The small porter
lodge was empty, but smoke curled up from a hole in the roof at the back. Miriam smelled cooking odors, cheese and spices
that made her mouth water. She looked around.

“Not even a guard dog,” she muttered.

Jocasta appeared in the doorway. The old priestess’s face was clean of paint and she had hurriedly pulled a hood across her
balding head. She glanced at the sarissa or lance that Simeon carried, and her age-seamed face crinkled into a smile.

“I can guess why you are here,” she called out. “Do come over. You, young man, I think you had better leave the lance outside;
you might do yourself or someone else a damage.”

She led them into the main room of the house. The floor was tiled in black and white, a small brazier had been lit; there
were tables, a couch, chairs, and some Samian earthenware pots along the wall.

“My sisters are in the kitchen or in their chambers above.” She saw that Miriam was distracted by the beautiful piece of linen
pinned to the wall just inside the door: hoplites surrounded a king in his chariot who was talking to a dark-haired man whose
right foot was bandaged and whose left hand held a club.

“That’s Oedipus,” she explained, “meeting his father, Laius—a simple accident that led to murder.”

Miriam stared at the painting. The Oedipus depicted here was not frightening: a young man, his black hair curled and oiled.

“I did that,” Jocasta spoke up, “when I was young, but now my eyes fade. I cannot execute the stitches as well as I should.
Sit down! Sit down!”

She made them sit side by side on the couch and hurried out. She brought back two bowls of barley pottage, some bread soaked
in wine, and figs covered in goat cheese. She put this on the table and served them herself, passing out the food in small
wooden dishes. She sat quietly and watched them eat. Miriam did so quickly, rather embarrassed by the way the old priestess
just sat and stared at them.

“You said you knew why we were here.”

“You’ve come to ask me about the removal of the Crown?”

Miriam nodded.

“And you brought that wooden lance.” She smiled. “It is not long enough and, even if it was, you couldn’t possibly wield it
over such a long distance. I’d be frightened that you’d totter onto the charcoal.” Her face became severe. “Nor do you know
the ritual: the Crown cannot be removed by any tool or weapon brought into the shrine. Such an action would be blasphemous.”

“Why can’t you tell us?” Simeon demanded, “how it can be removed?”

The old priestess’s face grew even harder.

“Young man, there are ceremonies and rituals; the Crown of Oedipus is a sacred relic. If the gods wish Alexander to wear it,
the gods will reveal it. And, as for your ridiculous pole, you’ll either do yourself damage or possibly wreck the shrine.”
She saw Miriam staring up at the black beams. “Our house was spared,” she murmured, “as was the shrine. A Macedonian officer
told us not to worry and Alexander has kept his promise. However,” she added softly, “I cannot help him in this matter.”

“Do you believe that the shade of Oedipus now prowls the deserted city?” Miriam asked. “You’ve heard the stories?”

“Oh, yes,” Jocasta said. “But it’s not his shade. It’s the old king himself.”

Miriam got to her feet. “How do you know this?”

“I have seen him myself. Here among the olive groves, just standing, staring up at the house.”

“You’ve seen him?” Simeon exclaimed.

“It’s no shade or ghost,” Jocasta added triumphantly, “but Oedipus himself! Who knows, he may even claim the Crown himself?”

Miriam was about to answer when there was a sound of footsteps outside, a woman’s voice raised. Jocasta gestured at them to
remain. She left and immediately came back. “It appears your king needs you back at his camp,” she declared. “His mother,
Queen Olympias, is about to arrive.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But he was blind!” Aristander moaned.

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

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

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

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

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

“We have that matter in hand, Mother.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Mother, I have seen it!”

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

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

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

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

“I must go!”

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

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

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

“Come no further!”

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

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

“Who are you?” she urged, “please.”

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

“Will you take it?” Jocasta asked.

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

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

Was this trickery?

“Come!” the voice ordered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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