A Murder in Thebes (Alexander the Great 2) (5 page)

Alexander’s fingers drummed on his sword hilt. He
smiled bleakly at her, and Miriam realized that this cunning old priestess had cleverly trapped him. Alexander might be conqueror
of Thebes but now all of Greece would learn whether the Crown of Oedipus was still to be withheld from him.

“T
HERE IS ANOTHER
matter.” Alexander walked determinedly toward Jocasta in an attempt to reassert himself.

“The death of Lysander?” she asked. “My lord king, it had nothing to do with me. Pelliades, leader of the Theban council,
asked me to mediate. I swore sacred oaths that your envoy would be safe. He’d hardly stepped beyond the palisade when the
daggers were drawn.”

The old priestess blinked away the tears.

“I cursed them,” she continued. “I told them that they had broken their most sacred oaths, that the gods would respond. They
just laughed. Pelliades said that you were dead and the power of Macedon shattered.” She lifted one shoulder. “I cursed him;
the rest you know. Lysander’s body was put on a gibbet.” She stared down at the black marble floor.

“And Pelliades?” she asked.

“Dead,” Alexander replied. “Killed with the rest in the final stand beyond the Electra Gate.” He stretched out his hand. “I
may not take the Crown of Oedipus, not yet, but I will take the keys.”

“We have to worship here.” Jocasta’s lower lip trembled. She clasped the pectoral on her chest. “We have to tend the shrine.”

“The officer outside,” Alexander replied kindly, “will hold the keys. He will hand them back whenever you wish.”

The high priestess sighed but took the keys off the girdle around her waist. They were large, their brass heads shaped in
the form of a snake. She thrust them into Alexander’s hand. Alexander gestured for the soldiers to withdraw from the door.
When they did so he stepped closer.

“There’ll be a password. I’ll tell the officer in charge.”

“What is it?” Jocasta asked.

Alexander stared across at the Crown.

“Why,
Oedipus
.” Alexander smiled. He grasped the keys and walked to the door. He went down the steps, Miriam and Simeon following. Alexander
called the officer over.

“Four of you will guard the outside,” he declared. “Leave two others in the shrine itself.” He handed the keys over. “These
are only to be given to the old priestess or to me; the password is
Oedipus
.” He grasped the young man’s arm. “You are well armed?”

“With everything, my lord king: bows, arrows, spears, swords.”

“You have a hunting horn?” Alexander asked.

“No, my lord, but I know where I can get one.”

“If anything untoward happens,” Alexander declared, “sound the alarm.” He stared around at the dark olive trees. “But you
are safe enough. No fighting men remain in Thebes and the Macedonian army guards all the approaches. Eat, sleep, but be vigilant.”
He wagged a finger and smiled.

“You are Meriades, aren’t you?”

“Yes, my lord king.” The young man beamed with pleasure at being recognized.

“Your father was in the guards regiment. He died at Chaeronea. Be worthy of your father’s name.” Alexander spun on his heel
and walked back along the white chalk path. He entered the olive grove, leading Simeon and Miriam deeper into the trees to
a small clearing where he sat down on a stump, staring up at the greenery. He gestured for Miriam and Simeon to sit next to
him. Simeon sighed and looked at his sister. This was one of Alexander’s favorite customs. He loved to walk away from the
throng and the bustle, then sit and talk, turning over some problem. Miriam suspected he daydreamed. A great deal of the time
Alexander was anxious; he even had anxiety attacks, periods of panic when he’d sit tense. Afterward he’d abruptly stir himself
into action, issuing orders, dictating letters so fast the scribes and clerks could hardly keep up with him. He’d charge around
the camp inspecting equipment and munitions, sharp-eyed for failure: a harsh word to a defaulter, lavish praise for those
who pleased him.

“Jocasta does remind me of Mother.” Alexander scratched his head. “The way she walks. Why do women do that?”

“Do what?” Miriam asked.

“They seem to grow taller,” Alexander replied. “All of their spirit seems to come into their eyes when they look down at you
rather disapprovingly. Mother always does that. Even Father confessed he felt frightened whenever Olympias played the royal
Medea.”

“You could take her head,” Simeon replied. “She had a hand in Lysander’s death.”

“Don’t be bloody stupid!” Alexander kicked at Simeon’s knee with his foot. “How my enemies would love that! Alexander, the
lion of Macedon, killer of ancient priestesses! From what I can gather she spoke the truth. Pelliades was a treacherous piece
of work. They simply used her to lure poor Lysander out.”

“But why?” Miriam asked. “Why kill Lysander, gibbet his corpse?”

“They must have truly thought I was dead.” Alexander undid his sword belt and placed it between his feet. “Somehow this spy,
the Oracle, convinced the Theban elders that I and my army had perished in Thessaly. They took their fury and hatred out on
poor Lysander and, by executing him, sent a defiant message to Memnon. He was expected to surrender, to capitulate and withdraw
from the citadel.”

“But he didn’t,” Miriam continued. “He was an old soldier, tough and loyal, but he became wary of this officers. He believed
one of them was a traitor. He locked himself up in his chamber and, if the accepted story is to be believed, committed suicide
by throwing himself out his window. But that’s not the Macedonian way is it? Why didn’t Memnon drink poison or fall on his
sword? How was he dressed?”

“According to reports,” Alexander replied, “he was wearing a cuirass over a leather tunic, he had his marching boots on and
his sword belt strapped about him. Oh yes, he was also wearing his military cloak.”

“And he fell during the middle of the night?”

“Apparently so.”

“But why?” Miriam persisted. “Why should this old soldier dress himself up for war, open the shutters of his window, and throw
himself out in the dead of night? And, before you say it, Simeon,” she poked her brother, “no fabulous tale—about him being
drugged or someone entering through the window—that simply doesn’t make sense. If any assassin had come into that chamber,
Hercules would have torn him apart.” She sighed with exasperation. “We know who was on duty. I like to know where the rest
were?”

“Why?” Simeon asked.

Miriam shrugged. “I don’t know why. On the one hand Memnon’s death looks like suicide, but on the other the
captain was a veteran—tough, used to sieges. Why should he dress himself up in the middle of the night and jump out a window?”

“And yet if he was murdered,” Simeon insisted, “how could someone attack a hardened warrior faithfully guarded by his huge
hunting dog?”

“We’ve got an even more pressing problem.” Alexander lifted his head. “You’ve seen the shrine and the Crown of Oedipus? Can
either of you Israelites devise some subtle stratagem for bringing that Crown fairly into my hands?”

“Oh, just take it,” Simeon grumbled. “You are king, conqueror.”

Alexander chewed on his lower lip. “No, there must be another way. Ah well.” He got to his feet, picked up his sword belt
and slung it over his shoulder. “You don’t believe in any of this, do you?” He helped Miriam to her feet. “The God of Israel
is not confined to temples or shrines. You don’t believe in relics or legends of the past?”

“We have our stories,” Miriam replied, “but our God is in all places.”

“Is he now?” Alexander teased. “I wonder what he thinks about Thebes burning to the heavens? Or about the legends, the ghost
stories? Look around you,” he whispered.

Miriam did so. The trees grew close together, old and gnarled, twisted with age; their branches spread out and interlaced
like old people leaning forward to grasp one another.

“They say Oedipus still walks here. The men are superstitious. They have talked to the Theban captives. Oedipus has been seen
dragging his swollen foot, club in hand, around the streets of Thebes.”

“But didn’t he protect them?” Simeon scoffed.

“No, they said he’d come to wreak vengeance. The Thebans have forgotten the old ways, and I,” he added, “am that vengeance.”

Miriam pulled her cloak about her a little closer. If the truth be known, she didn’t like this devastated city or that strange
shrine, with its painted priestesses, marble floors, fire and snake pits. Miriam wondered if the Iron Crown, with its blood-red
ruby, would trap Alexander, rob him of the fruits of his victory.

“We should be going,” she murmured. “I would like to go back to the citadel. Ask a few more questions.”

Alexander agreed. “I’ll walk you there.” A twig snapped and Alexander whirled round, hand to his sword hilt, but it was only
the two soldiers now tired of waiting on the edge of the grove.

“You’ve been good guard dogs,” Alexander called out, “and the day is drawing on.”

They left the grove and entered the sea of devastation and destruction around the citadel. Alexander’s companions were waiting,
crouched in a circle sharing a wineskin, their war belts on the ground beside them. A short distance away a woman crouched,
her arms around two children who were white-faced and had black rings around their eyes; they gazed in terror at the soldiers.

“What’s this?” Alexander asked.

Miriam’s heart sank at the fear in the woman’s face, at the way the children clung to her—probably some Theban mother who
had hidden in the ruins with her children only to be discovered by the soldiers. But why hadn’t she been dragged off to the
slave pens? Despite her terror, the woman now stood, one hand on the shoulder of each child. She would have been beautiful,
but there was a bruise high on her cheek, and her face was streaked with dirt and ash; her gown and tunic were soiled and
one sandal was missing.

“She’s guilty of murder,” Niarchos the Cretan declared. He gestured across the ruins with his hands. “Some of our lads found
her in the cellar of a house.”

“And?” Alexander asked.

Niarchos put his hands on his hips and clicked his tongue. “Well, the officer who found her was a Boeatian; he roughed her
up a bit.”

“You mean, he raped her?” Miriam asked. “In front of her children?”

Niarchos’s monkeylike face creased into a smile. “You always did have a tart tongue, Miriam; even in the groves of Midas we
felt the lash.”

“With people like you?” Miriam retorted, “no wonder!”

Niarchos just pulled at his oil-drenched hair. Alexander was staring at the woman.

“What happened?” he demanded.

“Well, the Boeatian, after he had his pleasure, wanted to know where her treasure was hidden. She said it was down a well
in the garden at the back of the house.”

The woman was now blinking, her lips moving wordlessly.

“She took him there,” Niarchos continued. “Er, he had been drinking.”

“And she pushed him down, didn’t she?” Alexander finished the story.

“Snapped the bastard’s neck,” Niarchos declared. “The rest of the squadron would have killed her on the spot.” He pointed
to Perdiccas. “But he heard the clamor.” He moved from foot to foot. “What shall we do, my lord king?” he asked sardonically,
“a thousand lashes and into the slave pen, or shall we crucify the bitch as a warning to others?”

Alexander put his hand on Niarchos’s shoulder, his fingers near his neck, and he squeezed. Niarchos winced with pain.

“By all that’s holy! . . .” Alexander used his sacred oath. “She’s a mother Niarchos. The blood lust is over.”

One of the children began to cry. Miriam glanced away. There was a cruel streak in Alexander, and if it surfaced; the woman
and both her children would die.

“For pity’s sake, she killed one of my officers!” Niarchos shouted.

The woman clutched the children closer. “He was drunk,” she declared defiantly. “He was an animal. He deserved to die.” She
gestured at the black sea of ash around them. “You all deserve to die. You are Alexander, lord, king of Macedon. Why not kill
us? The great conqueror, the victor!”

Alexander narrowed his eyes. “You are free to go.”

Niarchos made to object.

“Shut your mouth!” Alexander snapped. “You are free to go! Simeon write out a pass! I’ll seal it myself. Niarchos, that money
pouch! Come on, it’s so heavy you can’t even walk straight!”

The Cretan handed it over. The rest of the officers were now laughing, their mood ever fickle. They knew about Niarchos’s
love of money; he was a brave fighter but he had combed the ruins looking for anything that glittered. Niarchos sullenly handed
it over. Alexander threw it, and the woman deftly caught it.

“My scribe will write out the pass,” Alexander declared. “You will also get new clothes, horses, saddlebags, food, wine, and
a soldier to guide you to wherever you wish to go.” He glanced away. “My blood has cooled. Alexander of Macedon does not make
wanton war on widows and children. And, as for the officer, he shouldn’t have been drunk on duty. He deserved what he got.”

The woman now crouched down to comfort her children. Simeon found a place to sit cross-legged, his writing tray resting on
his thighs. Niarchos was glowering at Alexander, but the king chucked him under the chin.