A Murder in Thebes (Alexander the Great 2) (4 page)

“What about his papers?” Miriam asked. “As commander of the Cadmea, he must have kept records?”

“I seized them immediately,” Demetrius explained. He went across to the chest, opened it, and took out a roll of papyrus,
coarse string binding it together; it was tightly knotted and had been carefully sealed.

“I’ve been through them myself,” said Demetrius. “There’s nothing really, just lists of provisions and arms. A family letter;
I believe he has a son in the guards regiment at Pella?”

Miriam put them into her leather writing satchel. Alexander walked carefully around the room. He touched the statue of Aphrodite,
sat on the bed, then went to the window and stared out.

“Miriam Bartimaeus,” he spoke absentmindedly, “you will investigate this matter.”

“My lord!” Hecaetus objected, his voice strident.

“You, my lovely boy,” Alexander turned, “will search among the Theban prisoners, see if there is anyone who can help us here.”

“I doubt it!” Hecaetus snapped. “The Thebans who were in power, those members of the army council, are either dead or have
fled.”

“Do as I say,” Alexander declared quietly.

Miriam could see that the king was annoyed that Hecaetus had come to the Cadmea without his permission.

“Hephaestion, stay here and ensure that all is well with the citadel. Miriam and Simeon, come with me.”

“My lord, you need a guard,” Hephaestion objected.

Alexander clapped him on the shoulder.

“Not here, Hephaestion,” he murmured. “Not any more.”

They left the citadel. In the end Hephaestion had his way: when Alexander stopped and turned, two hoplites in full armor were
trailing like shadows behind them. He squinted his eyes against the strengthening sun.

“Hephaestion worries too much.”

“Be sensible,” Miriam replied.

She gazed around at the blackened devastation: whole quarters leveled to the ground, nothing more than steaming ash. Hordes
of scavengers—kites, hawks, crows, and buzzards—had flown in searching for plunder. The stench was still offensive: smoke
and the sickly sweet smell of burning flesh. Occasionally the cry of a woman came from the ruins, and soldiers still sifted
among the ashes. Others sat in groups sharing wineskins.

“In ten years,” Alexander breathed, “this will be nothing! People will talk of seven-gated Thebes as they do about Troy and
the palaces of Midas.”

“Was it necessary?” Miriam asked.

“It was necessary!” Alexander retorted.

They walked on a bit farther, passing the occasional cluster of trees that marked some shrine or small temple. Alexander entered
one of these and stopped to look at the gnarled branches of the olive trees. Miriam was pleased to be in the green coolness
where the stench of burning was not so strong. Birds still fluttered and sang, it was an oasis of life in this city of the
dead.

“Hecaetus may be right,” she remarked. “There must be Thebans still alive who knew what happened, and who might barter for
their freedom.”

“Hecaetus didn’t say that,” Alexander retorted. “He said that the search would be a waste of time. Most of the Theban leaders
are dead. Those who survived have fled.” He glanced at her brother.

“What do you think happened in the Cadmea?”

“There’s undoubtedly a traitor,” Simeon replied, hitching his writing bag over his shoulder; he stared curiously through the
trees at the white path that must lead to the shrine.

“Miriam?” Alexander asked.

“I agree.” She played with the clasps on her cloak, wishing they would move on. She felt weak, slightly nauseous from the
destruction, the burning, the wholesale slaughter, that grim citadel with those soldiers whose moods shifted between insolence
and fear. Alexander picked up an olive shriveled brown; he squeezed it between his fingers. A barber had cut his hair, but
apart from the rings on his fingers and the gold-embossed sword hilt, Alexander looked like a young officer from the army
rather than the conquering victor of Thebes.

“Mother will be here soon,” he groaned. “She’ll want to see the sights. She’ll also want vengeance for Memnon.”

“Why is that?” Miriam asked.

“When father divorced her just before his . . .” He
blinked, “. . . well, just before his death, he asked his drinking companions what they thought. Of course, they all agreed.
Memnon was standing on guard duty. ‘Memnon,’ my father shouted, ‘what do you think?’ Memnon bawled back, ‘That you are a bloody
fool.’” Alexander smiled and shook his head. “Well, you know father, he bellowed with laughter. He even asked Memnon if
he’d
like to marry Olympias; that’s when the old soldier really warmed the cockles of my mother’s heart. ‘Men like me,’ he replied,
‘mere mortals, do not marry goddesses.’ Mother sent him a ring. A pledge of eternal friendship. And, as you know, Miriam,”
he hitched up his military cloak for it had turned cold, “when mother gives an oath for life or death, she keeps it. I don’t
think . . .” he threw the shriveled olive on the ground and squashed it under his foot, “. . . Memnon committed suicide. He
was an old soldier, he wouldn’t have had the imagination.”

“But you saw the room,” Simeon objected. “The walls, the ceiling, the floor were of stone. The door would need a battering
ram!”

“The assassin could have entered by the window,” Alexander said weakly.

“Oh, come!” Simeon grasped his dagger hilt. “I’m a clerk, I’m a scribe, my lord, but even a mouse like me would fight. Did
Memnon, one of your father’s heroes, just sit there and allow someone to pick him up and throw him through a window? ‘Oh,
good morning,’ Memnon must have said, ‘what are you doing here?’ ‘I’ve come to kill you, throw you out the window.’”

“And there’s the dog,” Miriam added. “He may be friendly but I doubt he would just sit there. If it turned nasty he could
be savage; Hercules has the strength and cunning of a panther.”

“Ah, well.” Alexander moved a ringlet of hair from Miriam’s brow. “Investigate this matter but, remember, they don’t like
you, Miriam. Aye, and don’t tell me it’s because you’re flat-chested with a deep voice. They’ve heard of my two Israelites
spies. Do you know that mother wanted to keep you at Pella. To protect her? Would you have liked that, Miriam? Sitting by
Olympias while she spins that bloody wheel of hers?” He made to brush by her but Miriam stood her ground.

“If you want to send us back, my lord . . .”

“Oh don’t be stupid, I’m only teasing. You, Ptolemy, Niarchos, and Simeon were all with me when I was at the academy in the
groves of Midas. I wonder what Aristotle is going to write when he hears about my destruction of Thebes.”

“The Athenians and the rest demanded that it be leveled.”

“Ah yes, Athens. Strange isn’t it, that there are so many connections between Thebes and Athens? In the legend, Oedipus fled
to Athens. Sophocles died in Athens, his tomb is near the city gates. But come, let’s see the shrine.”

They left the olive grove and took the white chalky path. Miriam looked around; the two soldiers still followed them. They
turned a corner. Miriam stopped and gasped. The temple or shrine was small, of white stone; the trees around it heightened
the atmosphere of serenity and coolness, it was as if Thebes still lived. Four soldiers lounged on the steps, an officer and
three guardsmen. They scrambled to their feet as Alexander approached, desperately strapping on war belts, looking for shields
and lances.

“Oh, for the love of Mother,” Alexander bawled, “what do you think I am, a Theban war party?”

The captain threw his belt away and came down the steps. He genuflected and kissed Alexander’s ring.

“Everything is in order here?”

“Yes, my lord,” the soldier replied, getting up. He glanced at Miriam and Simeon then back along the path to where the two
soldiers stood.

“They are inside, my lord.”

“Who are?”

“The priestesses, sir. They have been here most of the time.”

“They haven’t been hurt?”

“Of course not, my lord. Two of my lads are in the vestibule.”

“And the keys?” Alexander asked.

“The old bi— . . . the high priestess refused to hand them over.”

“Ah,” Alexander sighed; he rubbed his eyes. “I’ve got a feeling Jocasta and Mother would get on very well.”

They walked up the steps through the half-opened doors. Alexander paused to admire the club-bearing statue of Oedipus and
the graceful form of Apollo the hunter. The soldiers inside were busy playing dice; they, too scrambled to their feet.

“Are the doors locked?” Alexander asked.

Miriam stared at the huge bronze-plated doors.

“I think the old woman has barred it behind her,” the soldier replied. “She said animals were not allowed in the shrine.”

Alexander walked up, drew his sword, and hammered. There was a faint sound of footsteps, of a bar being raised. The door was
opened by a pale-faced and frightened young priestess dressed in white.

“You are not allowed in here.” She stumbled on the words.

“I am Alexander of Macedon, and I go where I wish!”

“Then enter, Alexander of Macedon!” a voice called out.

The young priestess moved aside. Miriam followed the king into the shrine.

She was aware of marble walls and floor, a white stuccoed ceiling. No ornaments, just niches in the walls where oil lamps
glowed in pure alabaster jars. A wall recess to the side and, at the far end, glowing in the light of the sun whose rays shot
like spears through the narrow windows, a long white pillar, an Iron Crown on top. Only then did she become aware of the two
pits: The one around the pillar was simply a dip in the floor but she saw the glowing charcoal, the spikes at the far end.
The women, who stood in line near a black iron bar that ran along the rim of the charcoal pit, were dressed from head to toe
in white linen. Miriam glimpsed leather sandals, rings on fingers, a gold armlet. One of the women came forward, pulling back
her cowl. Her wig was oil-drenched, her face old and raddled and coated in thick white paint, her eyes ringed with black kohl.
Despite her age the woman carried herself with a certain majesty, her old eyes scrutinizing Alexander. She stopped and bowed.

“My lord King, I am Jocasta, chief priestess of the shrine.” She gestured at the other four. “This is Antigone, Merope, Ismene,
and Teiresias.”

“All names,” Alexander said, “from the plays of Sophocles.”

The high priestess nodded. “Who we really are is no matter. We serve a god and guard his shrine in what was ‘Thebes, the City
of Light.’”

“‘And what am I?’” Alexander replied, “‘the shedder of blood? The doer of deeds unnamed?’”

Miriam recognized the quotation from
Oedipus Rex
.

“‘Who is this man?’” Jocasta answered, also quoting from the play, “‘the son of Zeus, who needs to destroy?’ Welcome to our
temple, Alexander, son of Philip.”

Miriam caught the sarcasm in her voice: Jocasta had pointedly described Alexander as she would any other man, as the son of
a human father. Alexander brushed back his hair. “‘Greatest of men,’” he quoted, staring at the Crown, “‘He delved the deepest
mysteries! Was admired by his fellow men in his great prosperity. Behold, what a full tide of misfortune swept over that head.’”

“‘And none can be called happy,’” Jocasta finished the quotation, “‘Until that day when he carried his happiness down to the
grave in peace.’”

Alexander seemed not to be listening. He knelt on one of the quilted cushions in front of the iron bar, eyes fixed on Oedipus’s
Crown. His hands came up, fingers curling, as if he wanted to stretch out and take it immediately. Jocasta came up behind
him. The other priestesses, more nervous, clustered about her.

“Behold,” she said in a singsong voice. “Behold, Alexander, king of Macedon: the Crown of Oedipus, king of Thebes, beloved
of the gods!”

“Slayer of his father!” Alexander finished. “Lover of his mother!”

“None can wear that Crown except the pure and those touched by a god.”

“I am king,” Alexander retorted. “I am conqueror and victor of Thebes. By divine decree that Crown is mine!”

“Then take it Alexander.” Jocasta’s voice was softly mocking. “What are you going to do? Empty the pit of fire? Crush the
serpents under your boot? Unlock the clasps and take the Crown? And who can stop you? An old priestess and her acolytes? How
all of Greece will laugh,” she taunted, “at the lion of Macedon.”

Alexander got to his feet, his face flushed. “It cannot stay here.”

“Look, look, Alexander.” Jocasta seized his elbow. “There is the Crown; it rests on top of the pillar. Look at the iron clasps.
They can be loosened, the Crown lifted up and brought to your head.”

“How?” Alexander demanded.

Miriam closed her eyes. Alexander’s petulance had come to the fore. The old priestess had cleverly trapped him, like an elderly
aunt reproving a recalcitrant nephew. All Alexander had to do was stamp his foot and shout, “I want! I want!” and the picture
would be complete. Miriam stared at the pit of fire. It must be at least three to four feet deep and about two yards across.
The spikes were ugly and gleaming, and in the dark pit beyond, what horrors existed! She had seen snake pits in the chambers
of Olympias, the serpents writhing and coiling so that it seemed as if the whole floor were moving! All to protect that Iron
Crown, the ruby in its center glowing like a small ball of fire. It was kept in place by two clasps at the front, like those
on a chest, but how could they be pulled down without crossing the pits? Did the priestess have some kind of bridge that could
lowered and extended across? And what would it rest against? The fire would burn any wooden structure, and the snakes would
strike; even a man wearing thick military boots would be in great danger. So, if it was to be removed, it would have to be
by subtlety and cunning rather than brute force. Miriam grasped Alexander’s arm, pinching the skin. The king moved away, walking
the edge of the pit, his eyes fixed on the Crown.

“How do you remove it?” he asked.

“That is a mystery, my lord king. If the gods and the shade of Oedipus believe it is yours, the way will be shown to you,”
responded the high priestess.