A Murder in Thebes (Alexander the Great 2) (6 page)

“I’ve got a present for you Niarchos.”

The Cretan’s eyes glowed.

“It’s a cup of pure gold.” He put an arm round the Cretan’s shoulders. “Come, let’s drink.” Alexander sauntered
off. Niarchos had now regained his good humor, and the rest joined in the banter.

Simeon finished the letter. Miriam made a move toward the woman.

“Thank you.” The woman held a hand up. “But leave me alone. I and my children shall soon be gone from here.”

Miriam turned away and walked up the incline, through the ruined palisade, and into the Cadmea. The place was fairly deserted
now. There was no city to guard, no attack expected. Most of the garrison had drifted back toward the main Macedonian camp.
Only a few soldiers remained, lounging against the wall, playing dice or sleeping off a day’s drinking. A guard came across;
Miriam showed him the royal seal and the man hastily withdrew. The tower was also deserted though in the mess hall Miriam
glimpsed the two pages still using the table to play with their magnets. They looked up as she entered.

“Do you have breasts?” one of them called.

“Aye, and a brain,” Miriam retorted. She sat on the stool and watched. They were gambling for coins. One held the magnet,
the other pulled out iron filings from a bag and wagered how far they would have to be before the magnet pulled them close.
The game
did
remind her of the lectures in the groves of Midas. Aristotle had been fascinated by magnets. He’d expanded his teaching to
talk about the properties of the earth, and did it contain a magnetic force?

“Do you want to wager?” one of the pages abruptly asked.

Miriam got up, closed the door, and came back. She opened her own purse and shook a few coins out onto the table.

“I’d like to ask you some questions.”

The boys immediately ceased their game.

“You are pages of the royal court?”

“Oh no! We are Thebans.”

Miriam looked nonplussed.

“We are orphans,” the elder one said.

“Before things turned sour, Memnon took us in. We don’t know who our father and mother were. We might be Thebans. Someone
told us that we were bastards.”

“Do you know what that means?” Miriam asked.

The older one, thin-faced and cheeky, nodded. He looked tough; the younger one was more sly-eyed. Street children, Miriam
thought, who hang around soldiers’ camps.

“Anyway, Memnon took us in. He was a crusty old bugger but fair. We cleaned the slops, ran messages.”

“But the Macedonians destroyed your city?” Miriam asked.

“Not our city,” they both chorused.

“What are your names?”

“Memnon called us Castor and Pollux. We asked him why, and he just laughed. We thought he liked bum boys.”

“And?”

“Then we heard one of the serving wenches squealing in his chamber. But you can’t say the same about the rest.”

“His officers?” Miriam queried.

“Bum boys the lot of them,” the elder one said.

“You are?”

“Castor.”

“What do you mean they are bum boys?”

“By Apollo’s cock,” Pollux retorted, using a soldier’s favorite oath, “they were always clinging to each other in the stables
or in their chambers. Demetrius and Alcibiades, Melitus and Patroclus. If they were dogs you’d throw a bucket of water over
them.”

“They were lovers?”

“We didn’t say that,” Castor declared, his eyes fixed on the coins. “They just like each other’s bottoms.”

Miriam hid a smile. Sodomy amongst the Macedonian soldiers was common; many of them were bisexual. In her youth she had been
shocked, but now she glanced away; if the truth were known, she really didn’t care about Macedon or its army. Alexander was
different.

“And Cleon?” she asked.

“Oh, he was fair enough Memnon’s man. He protected his captain like an old woman would her solitary chicken.”

“And the night Memnon died?”

“No one knew about it,” Castor replied. “Not till first light and the poor bugger’s body was found at the foot of the tower.
I think Patroclus was on guard. Cleon was furious. They had a meeting here in the hall, Patroclus swore he heard nothing from
the captain’s chamber.”

“Why do think Memnon died?” Miriam asked.

“He was lonely,” Castor replied. “He thought there was a traitor among his officers. It was common gossip. To be blunt, mistress,
everyone was terrified! They thought the Thebans were going to attack, break in, and crucify us as they did poor Lysander.”

Miriam pushed two coins down the table.

“And do you know who the traitor was?”

“It couldn’t have been Cleon or Memnon.”

“Why is that?” Miriam asked the younger one.

“One night Cleon was in his captain’s chamber. I came up with some wine and a bowl of fruit. There were voices raised.”

“And what was said?”

“Cleon was talking to his captain. He agreed there was a traitor in the garrison. Cleon was terrified that this traitor would
open the gates and allow the Thebans in. He was begging Memnon to double the guard, which the captain did. Anyone who went
near the gate at night would have had an arrow in his gullet. And then Cleon said ‘If they
break in, sir, you’ll not let them take me alive? You’ll kill me won’t you?’ Memnon scoffed, but Cleon insisted. I paused
on the stairway. I love hearing conversations. Cleon asked Memnon if he had his suspicions about who was the traitor? Memnon
said. ‘Whoever it is must be an archer, that’s right!’ Cleon asked why. Memnon replied that he had been on top of the tower
late one night and had seen a fire arrow shot from the yard below. It went across the palisade. I thought I had heard enough,”
he stammered, “so I brought in the wine.”

“But you left hurriedly?” Miriam asked.

“They closed the door,” the page replied cheekily.

“But you listened at the keyhole?”

“Memnon begged Cleon to discover who the spy was. Cleon agreed, though he said something strange. . . .” The page looked at
the small pile of coins near Miriam’s elbow. She pushed two across the table.

“Go on,” she said.

“Cleon said that if the assassin struck, he’d strike at Memnon. Cleon thought that the Thebans hoped Memnon would join Lysander;
they then would have killed the two principal officers, and the garrison would have surrendered. Memnon agreed. Cleon told
him to bar and bolt the door and to stay well armed. ‘They’ll try to kill you here,’ Cleon warned. Memnon pointed to that
bloody dog he kept.”

“Where is he now?” Miriam interrupted.

“Oh, he’s been taken into the camp by that other bum boy, the one with dyed hair.”

“Ah, Hecaetus.”

“Yes, that’s right, Hecaetus. Anyway Memnon pointed at that great bloody mastiff and said he would take care of any assassin.”

“What else do you know?”

Both boys shrugged.

Pollux looked toward the window, where the light was beginning to fade.

“We’ll be going now.”

“Where?” Miriam asked.

“Back to the camp; that’s where the best food and wine are kept.”

The pages pushed back the bench, grabbed the coins, and scampered out.

Miriam sat until she heard their voices fade. She sighed and, taking her writing satchel, walked out into the corridor. Now
that darkness was falling, she realized what a gloomy, somber place the citadel was. She put her hand out and felt the cold
granite walls. It wouldn’t remain long. When Alexander left, this place would be destroyed. She took a pitch torch from its
bracket and climbed the steep, spiral staircase. The tower seemed deserted, a ghostly hollow place. She paused on the stairwell
and peeked into the chambers. The doors were open, the rooms were ransacked. She went farther up. The door to Memnon’s chamber
was ajar; she pushed it open and went in. The air smelled stale—of dog, oil lamp, sweat, and leather. She placed the torch
in a holder, and groping in the darkness, found some oil lamps, which she lit.

The shutters were closed. Miriam went to open them but felt a cold draft seeping through the cracks and decided to leave it.
She opened the satchel and took out Memnon’s papers; she undid the cord and laid them on the table. In the light of an oil
lamp, she began to leaf through the greasy, well-thumbed pieces of papyrus. In her time she had helped Simeon with army records,
and these were no different. Typical soldiers’ entries, the writing crude and large. Stores, provisions, arms, a rough drawing
of the Cadmea, a votive prayer to Apollo, drafts of orders. She found a copy of a letter Memnon must have intended for his
son. Apparently
written during the early days of his command of the Cadmea, the letter depicted Memnon as a jovial, bluff man, proud of Alexander’s
trust in him, full of advice on how his son was to act. The letter, however, had never been sent. The scribbles of graffiti
on the bottom half of the page were interesting. Probably done during the last days of his life, Memnon had written out promises:
he would travel to this shrine or that, make votive offerings to the gods if he was safely brought through the present dangers.
One phrase, however, was repeated: the name
Oedipus
, or the literal translation of the ancient Theban king’s name, swollen foot. “I have seen him tonight,” Memnon had scrawled.
“I have heard him on the stairs, his club rattling against the wall.”

Miriam went cold. What had Memnon been talking about? The ghost of Oedipus? The accursed king of Thebes dragging himself through
this ancient citadel? She continued reading, the same entry was repeated time and again. She found another dirty piece of
parchment with the same remarks beneath a crude drawing of Oedipus carrying his club. Miriam raised her head. The citadel
was very quiet now. She stared round the chamber.

Was Memnon’s shade here, she wondered? Did the old captain stand in the shadows and peer out at her? Or had he gone to Hades?
She grasped her torch and went out to the stairwell. She heard a door close and turned around but there was no other sound.
She went up the steps and passed the small garret, its door flung back; she peered in: nothing but a dusty cubicle. She climbed
on. The staircase became narrower and led to a wooden door. Miriam raised the latch, and a buffet of cold air made her torch
splutter. She went out onto the top of the tower, her feet crunching on gravel deliberately strewn there so that no one could
miss their footing. The wind was strong, and Miriam shielded her face. She walked to the edge and stood with one hand resting
on
the crenellations. She lifted the torch and gazed down. It was now pitch dark. Yet she was aware of the dizzying height. Fires
still burned in the city, and beyond, she could see the lights of the Macedonian camp. Memnon must have stood here when he’d
seen the fire arrow loosed into the night sky. She once again stared at the ruins of Thebes and repressed a shiver. This was
truly a necropolis, a city of the dead. She heard a sound; a group of soldiers were leaving, their torches mere pinpricks
of light. Behind her the door to the tower clattered and banged. Miriam went back and, carefully closing the door behind her,
went down the steps. She reentered Memnon’s chamber, and her stomach pitched. Someone had been here. The oil lamps had been
moved. Her hand went to her girdle and she realized she had brought no weapon. But surely the garrison? Men were still here?
She hurried to the chest at the foot of the little truckle bed and opened it. It smelled of stale sweat. She fumbled through
the contents and sighed with relief as her fingers clutched a dagger. She pulled this out, threw away the battered sheath,
and went to the door.

“Who is there?” she called. Her own voice echoed down the stairwell. She heard a door opening and closing. “Castor, Pollux!”

Someone was coming up the stairs. Her blood chilled, yes she was sure, one foot dragging after the other; something smacked
against the stone wall time and again as if a drum were being beaten.

“Who is there?” she called.

“I am the shade of hell!” A voice echoed, hollow, up the steps.

Miriam’s mouth went dry. What could she do? She felt the thickness of the door and stepped back into Memnon’s chamber. The
key was gone but she drew the bolts across. Outside, though more faintly, she heard the sound of the intruder,
lame foot dragging after him, as he climbed the stairs. The awful drumming against the wall grew louder. Miriam recalled the
words about Oedipus, the swollen foot, ancient king of Thebes. And what had Alexander said? That Oedipus’s ghost had been
seen in Thebes. The sounds grew nearer. Miriam drew in her breath, grasping the dagger more firmly. The door was tried. A
loud rapping and then a crashing, as if someone were beating it with a club. Miriam stood transfixed, torch in one hand, dagger
in the other. She heard her name being called but this came from the courtyard below. The crashing grew louder; the door was
shaking.

“Who is it?” Miriam screamed. She hurried toward the shutters, pulled off the bar, and threw them open. The cold night air
rushed in. Miriam was only aware of that terrible crashing against the door. She turned, dagger in hand, and then the knocking
ceased.

“M
IRIAM
! M
IRIAM
!” S
IMEON
called. “What is the matter?”

She moved to the door. Was it Simeon? she thought. Or someone mimicking his voice?

“Go away,” she called.

“Miriam Bartimaeus, it’s your brother. I was concerned about you.”

She drew back the bolts. Simeon stood there on the stairwell; behind him she could make out the shadowy outlines of two soldiers.

“Miriam, what is the matter?”

She backed into the room, throwing the dagger onto the bed.

“There was someone else,” she declared, “someone with a lame foot. He came up the stairs. He was banging at the door.” She
brushed by him; outside, the soldiers were smirking.

“It’s a mausoleum of ghosts,” one of them remarked. “Mistress, there’s no one here.”

“I know what I heard and saw,” Miriam retorted. She
stared down the stairwell. Of course, it could have been a ghost. But, then again, if the intruder had heard her brother calling
her name, he could have slipped down the stairs into another chamber and, when Simeon and the guards passed, slipped quietly
out.

“How many are here?”

She went back into the room.

“Just the three of us. I was in the camp,” Simeon replied. “Alexander asked where you were? I realized the soldiers had come
in from the citadel. I asked these two to follow me. We found the Cadmea deserted; we’d passed the last of the guards on the
road. I saw the shutter open and glimpsed the light.”

Miriam closed the door and sat down on a stool.

“There was someone here,” she whispered, “and I don’t think they meant me well.” She then described what she had read in Memnon’s
manuscript. Simeon whistled under his breath.

“The specter of Oedipus!” he joked. His face became serious; he stared owl-eyed at his twin sister. She was so different from
him, tall and resolute. Simeon liked the comforts of life. He felt at home in the writing office, sifting through parchments,
drafting letters, listening to the gossip, reveling in the excitement that always surrounded Alexander. Miriam, that determined
look on her thin face, was always wandering off to places where she shouldn’t.

“Come on,” he urged. “You haven’t eaten. Let’s leave this benighted place. Alexander is holding a banquet.”

By the time they reentered the camp, the revelry had already begun. They were stopped by cavalry patrols and sentries in the
iron ring Alexander had placed round his sprawling camp. Alexander was cautious. A small portion of the Theban army, including
the cavalry, had escaped.
Alexander was wary of the silent assassin, or the madman who might try his luck in delivering one blow, one knife thrust.

They found the king in a banqueting tent, a huge pavilion of costly cloths, now turned into a drinking hall. All around, shaped
in a horseshoe, were small banqueting tables, cushions, and other costly chairs and stools looted from hundreds of Theban
homes. Torches burned brightly on lashed poles or spears thrust into the ground. Huge pots full of burning charcoal sprinkled
with incense provided warmth. The tent flaps were open allowing the cold night air to waft away the smoke.

Alexander lounged at the top of the tent on a makeshift couch, his household companions on either side. Perdiccas, Hephaestion,
Niarchos, Ptolemy, and the principal commanders of the different corps. Food was being served: lamb, beef dressed in different
sauces, great platters of stone-ground white bread, bowls of fruit. A makeshift banquet but the unwatered wine was copious
and flowed freely. A page led them to a table on Alexander’s right. The king lifted his head. He had bathed, his hair was
cut and oiled, his face closely shaven. In the torchlight Alexander’s face had a burnished look. Miriam smiled and winked.
Alexander loved to imitate the appearance of a god and now he posed as a victorious one. He had deliberately donned his dress
armor; a gold-wrought breastplate, where snakes writhed and turned; silver armlets on his wrists; a thick military cloak fastened
around his neck by a silver clasp.

“Greetings, Miriam, health and prosperity! And you Simeon?” He drank from the cup and went back to whisper to Hephaestion.

Miriam groaned. “It’s going to be a long night,” she whispered.

Dancing girls, accompanied by a dispirited group of musicians
were ushered in, but the revelers were not interested in dancing or music. Some of the guests started throwing scraps of food
at them. Alexander clapped his hands and wearily dismissed the dancers. His commanders were intent on eating and drinking
their fill, reveling in their victory, boasting of their own prowess. And, of course, the toasts began.

“To Alexander, lion of Macedon! To Alexander, captain-general of Greece! To Alexander, conqueror of Persia!”

Miriam leaned back on her cushions and smiled across at Eurydice, Ptolemy’s mistress, a beautiful, olive-skinned young woman
with oil-drenched ringlets framing her perfectly formed face. Her gray eyes had a glazed look, and there was a petulant cast
to her mouth.

“She’s like us,” Simeon whispered. “She’d prefer to be elsewhere.”

Miriam absentmindedly agreed. She was settling down, slowly drinking her cup of very watered wine. Alexander was now in full
flow.

“We will wait for Mother,” he declared, “and then take counsel.”

“Not return to Macedon?” Perdiccas asked.

Alexander shook his head. “We shall not return to Macedon,” he slurred, “until we have marched in glory through Persia. By
the spring we shall be across the Isthmus. I shall sacrifice to Achilles among the ruins of Troy.”

“Oh no!” Miriam whispered, “not Achilles!”

“And then,” Alexander lurched to his feet, swaying tipsily, cup in hand, “we will march to the ends of the earth.”

His triumphant shout was greeted by roars of approval. Alexander sat down.

“For those who wish to,” he smiled, “you may retire! But those who drink can stay!”

Some of the women left, followed by some of the lesser
commanders who had duties to carry out. Miriam excused herself, but Simeon said he would stay. She put down the cup, slipped
out of the tent, and stood allowing the night breezes to cool her. She collected her writing satchel from the groom she had
left it with and made her way back to the tent she shared with Simeon.

The camp was noisy, fires glowing in every direction. Soldiers staggered about, but officers dressed in full armor and horsehair-plumed
helmets, kept good order with stout ash canes. Soldiers lurched up from the campfires and staggered toward her. When they
recognized who she was, they mumbled apologies and slipped quietly away. The camp followers were doing a roaring trade in
different tents and bothies and she could hear the hasty, noisy sound of lovemaking. Somewhere soldiers were singing a raucous
song. From another place she heard the piping tunes of flutes. Horse neighed. Servants hurried through with bundles on their
backs. Miriam looked up. The sky was clear, the stars more distant than in the hills of Macedon. She recalled Alexander’s
words. He would never go back there. She wondered about his boast to march to the ends of the earth. Sometimes Alexander,
in his cups, would talk of leading his troops to the rim of the world, of creating an empire dominated by Greece that would
make the world gasp in surprise. He wants to be greater than Philip, she thought; he wants to outshine him in every way.

She pulled back the flap of her tent and went in. Someone had lit the oil lamp on the table; it still glowed weakly. She picked
up the scrap of parchment lying beside it. She made out the letters in the poor light.

“Doomed, oh lost and damned! This is my last and only word to you for ever!”

Miriam’s heart quickened. She fought hard to control her trembling. She recognized the quotation from Sophocles
and recalled the mysterious intruder outside that lonely chamber in the Cadmea. She was being warned, and if Simeon hadn’t
come? She sat down on the thin mattress that served as a bed.

“Miriam.” She started. Hecaetus poked his head through the tent flap, smiling sweetly at her like a suitor come to pay court.

“You shouldn’t crawl around at night, Hecaetus. It doesn’t suit you!” she snapped.

“May I come in? I have a visitor.”

“I can’t very well stop you.”

Hecaetus entered. He pulled his great cloak more tightly.

“It’s so cold,” he moaned. “Why doesn’t Alexander march somewhere warm, where the sun always shines. By the gods, where is
he?” He went back and pulled up the tent flap. “Come on man,” he said pettishly, “the lady’s tired and I’m for my bed.”

The man who lumbered in was small and thickset; a scrawny mustache and beard hid the lower part of his face. His hair was unkempt
and oil-streaked. He moved awkwardly, nervously staring around the tent.

“This is Simothaeus.” Hecaetus made the man sit. “He’s a soldier, served under Memnon. Come on. Do you want some wine?” Hecaetus
spoke to the man like some disapproving aunt. The man shook his head, eyes fixed on Miriam. She smiled and he grimaced in
a show of broken teeth. Hecaetus sat between them and patted the man’s bony knee.

“Simothaeus likes drinking, and he’s been rejoicing at his king’s victory. Do you want some wine, Miriam?”

“I drank enough in the king’s tent.”

“Yes, I’m sure you did.” Hecaetus’s womanish face became petulant. “Always the servant, never the guest.” He
waved his hand foppishly. “Alexander needs me but never invites me to drink with him.”

“He knows you are a skilled hand at poisons.”

Hecaetus, eyes crinkled in amusement, wagged a finger. “You are very naughty, Miriam; I only remove the king’s enemies.”

“Or those who get in your way. Do I get in your way, Hecaetus?”

“I am the king’s searcher-out of secrets,” Hecaetus replied defensively. “But no, my dear, I like you. I’ve watched those
eyes of yours, sharp and shrewd. You mean me no ill. You don’t mock me like the others do.”

“And your friend Simothaeus?” Miriam asked.

“Well I’ve spent the day . . .” Hecaetus began. He waved his hands; the fingernails were gaudily painted. “Some of these soldiers
are such bitches,” he lisped. “You share a cup of wine with them and they want their hand in your crotch. And no, I don’t
enjoy it. They are far too rough; not like my boys.” Hecaetus turned and looked over his shoulder.

Miriam knew all about Hecaetus’s “boys”: effete but courageous; where their master went, they always followed. It would be
a foolish soldier, indeed, who tried to take liberties with Hecaetus.

“Do you want to bring your boys in here?” Miriam asked. “Though it could get rather crowded.”

“Don’t be such a minx!” Hecaetus mewed like a cat. He patted her hand. “You are far too hard, Miriam; I am your friend, I
always will be. We should share what we know, shouldn’t we?”

Miriam stared at the light-blue eyes so innocent, so child-like. How many men, she wondered, had he trapped with that pleading
slightly hurt look?

“I’m waiting Hecaetus.”

“Oh, go on!” Hecaetus tapped Simothaeus on the shoulder. “I spent the whole day, Miriam, drinking with him and his companions,
and they couldn’t tell me a thing. But then Simothaeus, in that dark dim area he calls his brain, remembered something very
important.” He fished beneath his cloak, brought out his purse, and shook two coins into the palm of his hand.

“Go on, Simothaeus.”

“I was on guard duty.” The man spoke like an actor who had repeated his lines time and again but really didn’t understand
the importance of them. “Yes, I was on guard duty.”

Hecaetus sighed noisily.

“Old Memnon came out of the courtyard. He was slightly tipsy. He was dressed in full armor, hand on the hilt of his sword.”

“When was this?” Hecaetus interrupted. “Tell the lady.”

“Why, the day before he fell from the tower. It was late in the afternoon. We had heard rumors that the king and the Macedonian
army were marching on Thebes. Most of the men were celebrating. Memnon came over to me. He gripped me by the shoulder and
asked my name. ‘Simothaeus,’ I replied, ‘my father tilled the land north of Pella.’”

“And?” Hecaetus asked testily.

“The captain was a hard bugger, but he was blunt. ‘Simothaeus,’ he said, ‘whatever Hades and the Thebans throw at us, we will
stand fast, we will welcome our king into the citadel.’ Then he leaned closer. ‘You are going to see all of Thebes burn!’”

“Did he say anything else?” Miriam asked.

Simothaeus shook his head.

“Right,” Hecaetus said testily. “Here is a coin, Simothaeus. Go and get as drunk as the other pigs.”

The soldier lumbered out of the tent.

“Do you see the importance of Simothaeus’s evidence?” Hecaetus asked, raising his eye brows. “Here we have old Memnon supposedly
drunk and brooding in his chamber, his mind has turned and he attempts to fly like Icarus from his tower.”

“But it doesn’t make sense,” Miriam interrupted. “In the last days of the siege, a Macedonian army was marching on Thebes
though, even then,” she added, “didn’t the Thebans think Alexander had been killed and that the troops were being led by one
of his generals?” She held her hand up. “But true, true Hecaetus, I follow your drift. Memnon expected to be relieved, so
why commit suicide?”