A Murder in Thebes (Alexander the Great 2) (7 page)

“See, Miriam, I am willing to share what I discover.”

“But how did Memnon know that?” Miriam asked. “How did he know that a Macedonian army was marching to his relief? After all,
the Thebans had him tightly controlled.”

Hecaetus grinned. “They may have spies in the citadel but I had spies in Thebes. Arrows can go both ways. So, Miriam” . .
. He played with the bracelet on his wrist, “. . . tell me what you have discovered. One of my pretty boys saw you return
to camp. You looked agitated.”

Miriam told Hecaetus everything. Her visit to the citadel, Memnon’s manuscripts, and the attack on her. Hecaetus, eyes half
closed, heard her out.

“It’s strange,” he mused. “Rumors are sweeping the camp that Oedipus’s shade has been seen. I just wish the king would take
that bloody Crown and march away from here. But he’s such a showman. He should have been an actor on the stage. In fact, he
is, and all of Greece is the audience. He’s taken Thebes by storm, and now he wants some god to come down from Olympus and
hand the Crown to him.”

“These spies of yours . . .” Miriam began. She was wary of talking to Hecaetus about Alexander. She didn’t trust the
man as far as she could spit but she didn’t want him to be her enemy.

“Oh a few merchants, tinkers, travelers.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“I am looking for a lovely boy, by the name of Meleager. He was a scribe in the service of the Theban council. He was close
to their leader Pelliades.”

“But he has disappeared?”

“Yes, Miriam, the boy has gone, vanished. He may have fled, he may be in hiding, or he may be one of the corpses lying beneath
that sea of ash once called Thebes.” Hecaetus paused, head half-cocked, listening to the sounds of the camp. “I tell you this,
Miriam, I don’t think Memnon jumped. He was murdered, but how or why, well that’s a mystery.” He got to his feet. “I’m going
to continue searching for Meleager. He could well be in one of the slave pens. He can protest about how much he helped Macedon,
but in the eyes of Alexander’s soldiers, one Theban’s like another.” He leaned down and kissed Miriam on the top of her head,
and pointing to the piece of parchment bearing the quotation from Sophocles, he said, “If I were you, young woman, I would
walk very carefully.”

And then he was gone. Miriam picked up the piece of parchment and stared at it. Was it to frighten her?

“No,” she exclaimed. She was supposed to show this to Alexander! The king was as brave as a lion in battle but, like Philip,
highly superstitious, wary of omens, portents, and warnings.

“Miriam.”

She turned, startled. Simeon was crouched in the mouth of the tent.

“It’s busier here,” she quipped, “than anyplace in the camp.”

Simeon just blinked and crawled in on all fours.

“I don’t feel well,” he murmured. “They are drinking fit to burst.”

“You are an Israelite,” Miriam retorted. “Never try to imitate Macedonians in their cups.”

Simeon got to his feet. Miriam took a jug of water and quickly prepared an herbal drink.

“It will settle your stomach. You should be asleep.”

Simeon shook his head. “The king wants me back at his tent.”

“Oh no.” Miriam groaned.

“It’s the Crown of Oedipus. He also wants you.” He stumbled on his words. “Well, you’d best come.”

Alexander’s banqueting tent was not as stately as when she had left. The ground littered was with scraps of food. Tables and
chairs were overturned. Two of his commanders were lying flat out, snoring like pigs. The musicians and dancing girls had
fled. Alexander had changed the seating arrangements. He had moved his couch farther down the tent—one arm around Niarchos,
the other round Perdiccas. At the far end he had set up a makeshift pillar, a huge wooden stake planted in the ground, with
iron clasps on it. These had been bent and held a crown Alexander must have taken from his treasury. He had laid out cloaks
in front of the stake to imitate the pits in the shrine; now he was challenging everyone, all comers, to remove the crown
without standing on the cloaks. Miriam groaned and closed her eyes. Alexander flush-faced and bright-eyed, was shouting abuse
at Hephaestion, who stood before the cloaks staring blearily at the crown. Alexander staggered over, put his arm around Hephaestion’s
shoulder and kissed him on the cheek.

“You are supposed to be a bloody engineer!” he bawled in his ear. “How do you get that crown off that bloody pillar
without standing on the cloaks? Remember . . .” Alexander lifted one finger up as he swayed backward and forward. He blinked.

“What must I remember?”

“He must take the crown off,” Niarchos yelled, “without touching the cloaks. One’s a fire, one’s a snake pit, and in between
them is a row of spikes. Nor must he use anything brought into the shrine.”

Hephaestion blinked owlishly at his king and stared at the wooden stake.

“I could go outside,” he said, “go around the tent, lift the flap, and take it.”

The rest of the company roared with laughter. Alexander caught Miriam’s eyes.

“Come on Israelites!” he gestured. He went and took Niarchos aside. “Sit down Miriam, you are the only sober man among us!”

His quip raised a few sniggers. Miriam blushed slightly. She had heard the secret jokes about her being more man than woman.
Alexander must have seen the hurt in her eyes as he squatted down beside her.

“I’m sorry,” he slurred, “but it all started when I told them about our visit this morning. And do you know, not one of these
drunken buggers can give me any advice.”

Miriam stared at the red cloaks that stood for the burning charcoal, the spear in between that stood for the spikes, and the
long cloak of blue that represented the snake pit. She had been so frightened about what had happened in the citadel that
she hadn’t given any thought to this problem. Niarchos had now sprung to his feet. He yelled at one of the bodyguards to bring
him a long lance or pike, but when he did so, Niarchos realized that it was far too short to reach. Alexander sat, gnawing
his fingernails.

“There must be a way,” he muttered, “to take that crown.”

“Do it by force?” Perdiccas clinked his cup against that of the king. “Burn the temple and take it by force.”

“And all of Greece will see that.”

The speaker at the far end of the semicircle stood up. Miriam recognized Timeon, the Athenian delegate.

“My lord Alexander, if you take it by force, all of Greece will know of it.”

“Thank you, Timeon.” Alexander forced a weak smile. “And before you leave, I’ll have words with you . . .” he scowled, “about
the traitor Demosthenes.”

“He is no longer in Athens,” Timeon declared. “He has fled; we do not know where. All of Greece now has its eyes on Thebes.”

Miriam gripped Alexander’s wrist. She could feel him beginning to tremble with anger. One of those terrible rages that swept
him, particularly when he was deep in his cups. What had begun as a drunken joke was now turning ugly. She looked along the
line of Alexander’s commanders for a sober face, but they were all drunk. Some were half asleep, others were now glaring at
the Athenian envoy. Niarchos, stung by Timeon’s hidden taunts, walked along the cloaks. He forced back the metal clasps on
either side of the crown, took it off, and tipsily put it on his head.

“That’s the way we take Crowns in Macedon!” he yelled at the Athenian. “We just move in and take them!”

“Of course,” Timeon purred, “whether it’s Macedon or anywhere else.”

His remark stilled the clamor and noise in the tent. Alexander sprang to his feet. He ran and picked up the spear that separated
the different-colored cloaks. Miriam thought his anger was directed at Timeon but it was Niarchos he confronted.

“You stupid Cretan bastard!”

Niarchos stared fearfully back. Alexander brought the
spear up. Miriam jumped to her feet, ran forward, and caught his arm.

“My lord king,” she cried, “you know this is only a charade. Niarchos acts the fool. Don’t reveal our secret.”

Alexander’s arm remained tense.

“Put it down,” she whispered. “Alexander, put it down!” She felt his arm relax.

“Miriam is right.” Alexander stuck the spear into the earth.

“What do you mean?” Timeon, eager to create more trouble, stepped forward.

“We know how to remove the Crown of Oedipus, but it will take time.” Miriam blurted the words out before she could stop. “Yes,
I swear by the holy name of the God of Israel, that it will not be by force but by human cunning and divine favor. Alexander
of Macedon shall wear the Iron Crown of Thebes!”

A murmur of approval broke out from the king’s companions. Timeon look puzzled. Niarchos came forward. Alexander grasped him
by the shoulder and kissed him on each cheek.

“Do that again,” he whispered, “and I’ll have your bloody head.” And with one arm around Niarchos and the other around Miriam,
Alexander staggered back to his cushions. He wiped his flushed, sweat-soaked face with a wet rag and clapped his hands.

“The night is still young.”

Servants came in bringing more bowls of food and fresh jugs of wine. Alexander deliberately turned his back on Miriam and
began to tease Hephaestion. Only when he was sure his guests were diverted did he turn back.

“You know what you’ve done, Miriam?”

“I know what you would have done,” she hissed. “You showed all Greece that a Macedonian could not solve a
problem. And, in the presence of the envoys, you almost killed one of your generals. Alexander, when you drink, keep your
hands away from your weapons.”

“I thought Niarchos was going to pee himself,” Alexander grinned.

“So would anyone,” Miriam countered.

“Do you know how to remove the Crown?” Alexander taunted.

“No!” Miriam hissed. “But if my lord . . .”

“My lord king.”

Miriam looked around. A captain of the guard had entered the tent—one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other covered in
blood.

“My lord king you’d best come now.”

“What is it?” Alexander slurred.

“Three guards have been killed.”

All drunkenness seemed to disappear. The king sprang to his feet, snapping his fingers for the others to join him. A cart
stood outside the royal tent. Three corpses, foot soldiers, sprawled there splattered with blood. Alexander took a pitch torch
from one of the escorts and moved closer. The side of each man’s head looked as if it had been smashed in by some war ax or
club.

“The men were out on picket duty,” the captain explained. “To the south on country roads. I went to check that all was well
but couldn’t find them. I thought they had gone drinking or even slipped back into the camp; I found one of the shields, then
the corpses, as well as this!”

Alexander took the small scroll and handed it to Miriam.

“Doomed,” she read out aloud. “Oh, lost and damned! This is my last and only word to you. For ever!”

“I received the same.” She handed it back. “Earlier this evening; it’s a quotation . . .”

“I know,” Alexander broke in, “from Sophocles.” Alexander
strode away from his companions, now gathering round the cart; he gestured at Miriam and the captain to follow.

“There’s something else isn’t there, man?”

The captain nodded, his face pale and sweaty under the great Corinthian helmet.

“When I crouched down to examine one of the corpses, I heard a whistling. I looked up. In the moonlight I glimpsed a figure
on top of small hill. In one hand he carried a club.”

“And when he walked,” Miriam intervened, “he had a limp?”

The captain nodded. “I hurried toward him, but by the time I reached the top, he’d disappeared into the night. The men are
now saying that we have been visited and punished by the shade of Oedipus.”

Alexander sobered up. It was as if he hadn’t touched a drop of wine; there was a thin, mean twist to his lips, his eyes were
hard and unblinking.

“I conquered Thebes,” he declared. “And now they are going to argue that Oedipus has conquered me. Perdiccas,” he shouted,
“I want officers to check all the pickets and sentries. Send out cavalry patrols at first light! Scour the countryside for
any Thebans. Miriam come with me.”

They walked out of earshot of the rest.

“I’m begging you, Miriam.” Alexander held her wrists tightly.

“What my lord?”

“To get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow morning do two things: hunt down the Oracle and find a way for me to secure that bloody
Crown!”

M
IRIAM RETURNED TO
the citadel just after dawn, ruefully realizing she had broken Alexander’s first request because her sleep had been plagued
by dreams and nightmares. It was a cold gray morning, and a mist had seeped in over the charred remains of Thebes, reminding
Miriam of some image of Hades with the black and twisted timbers, the ankle-deep ash, the occasional smoldering fire. She
found some of the soldiers had drifted back to the citadel, and drew some comfort from their presence. She had to kick her
heels while a servant went looking for Memnon’s five principal officers. Cleon was the first to arrive, bright-eyed and clean-shaven.
He insisted that Miriam join him for breakfast. He took her to the mess hall and brought out two dishes of fragrantly smelling
meat and some rather stale bread, for which he wryly apologized, and a jug of beer.

“It’s Theban,” he declared, “but it tastes fresh and tangy. Best thing to clean the mouth in the morning.” He sat on a bench
opposite and offered Miriam a napkin. The meat was
hot to the touch. Miriam had to blow on it as well take hasty sips of beer.

“You are a good cook,” she teased. “You’ll make someone a wonderful husband.”

“Captain Memnon was a stickler,” Cleon replied between mouthfuls. “He said he had starved enough during sieges and had eaten
his fill of army rations. So, in a place like this, he would demand all the luxuries.”

“Was he a good officer?” Miriam asked.

“Excellent. Loyal, brave. A kindly man, I never saw him hit anyone. Oh, he could curse and he’d rant, but unlike his dog,”
Cleon grinned, “his bark was infinitely worse than his bite!”

“Did he know that Alexander was marching on Thebes?”

“Yes, we all did,” Cleon replied. “Shortly before Memnon was found at the foot of the tower.”

“And Memnon was happy with this news?”

“He said he had it on good report, though he was still worried that Alexander had been killed. He was also terrified that
the Thebans might suddenly launch a surprise attack and take the citadel before the Macedonian army arrived.”

“And that was possible?” Miriam asked.

“Yes certainly! If the spy among us had opened the gates, we would have been massacred.”

“And why didn’t that happen?”

Cleon narrowed his eyes and wiped his fingers on the napkin.

“To have achieved that the Thebans would have had to mass behind the palisade. Our guards would have seen them.”

“Was there a guard at the top of the tower when Memnon died?”

“No.” Cleon shook his head. “It’s far too high; it only serves as a lookout post during the day. Our sentries were on the
ramparts along the curtain wall.”

“I am sorry for my interruptions,” Miriam apologized. “You were talking about a sudden attack.”

“The Thebans would have had to mass,” Cleon declared. “And that would have become apparent. The spy or traitor, whoever it
was, would have had to open a gate. Now, the citadel has two gates, the main one you came through this morning and a small
postern door.”

“And both were closely guarded?”

“Oh, yes. Footmen in full armor, archers; the garrison was on full alert. If the Thebans had broken in they would have shown
no mercy.” He cleaned the bowl with a piece of bread and popped the bread into his mouth. “And don’t forget that the spy or
traitor would have been worried. If the Thebans had broken in they wouldn’t have known friend from foe; he might have been
killed along with the rest.”

“And Memnon’s state of mind?” she asked.

“He was very anxious, worried.” Cleon’s voice dropped to a whisper. “He really did believe the spy was one of his officers.”

“Not you?” Miriam asked.

“The Thebans have no love for me!”

“Then, who?” Miriam asked.

“I don’t know.” Cleon shook his head. “I really don’t. You see, Miriam . . .” He pushed the bowl away. “All of us could be
described as secretive or lonely men.”

“What do you mean?”

“We were in a siege. Tension in the Cadmea was palpable. We all tried to look for some refuge for ourselves. One person would
go off here, another there.”

“But did you see anything suspicious?”

“Nothing.” Cleon made a cutting movement with his hand.

“But Memnon did?”

“He might have, though he never mentioned it to me. All
he could talk about was the traitor. Someone who knew the strength of our garrison.” Cleon licked his lips. “He did become
a little suspicious toward me.”

“Why?” Miriam asked.

“Memnon had two great fears. One was the spy, but the other?”

“Was a mutiny?” Miriam asked.

“Yes, a mutiny. Memnon was concerned that his officers, would believe that the Macedonian army had been destroyed and killed.
And that they might murder him and open negotiations with Thebes for some sort of honorable surrender.”

“So this worry could have caused him to commit suicide?”

Cleon picked up the napkin and dabbed at his mouth. He smiled at Miriam from under his eyebrows.

“I would like to say yes. I would like to put my hand on some sacred object and swear that Captain Memnon’s mind was turned,
that his wits were as wandering as flies in summer. But that wouldn’t be the truth. I don’t think Captain Memnon committed
suicide.” He leaned his arms on the table. “But only the gods know how he was murdered.”

“I ask the same question myself.”

Miriam started and turned. Alcibiades stood in the doorway. He sauntered across, picked up a piece of stale bread, and sat
on the bench next to Cleon. He had been drinking, and his eyes were red-rimmed, his pale face sweaty; the tunic he wore still
bore stains from the previous night’s feasting. He scratched his unshaven cheek.

“Don’t worry. I am going to have a bath.”

Cleon wrinkled his nose. “And not before time,” he whispered.

Alcibiades playfully nudged him back but his eyes held Miriam’s. She saw the malevolence, the sneering look.

“You don’t like me, do you?” she asked.

She moved the writing satchel from the table on to the bench beside her.

“It’s not that, my dear. I just don’t like women in general. And I don’t like those who come snooping into men’s affairs.”
He chewed noisily on the bread, deliberately opening his mouth so Miriam would look away.

“Do you like Israelites?” Miriam asked.

“You are the first I have met. So, no.”

“Hush,” Cleon intervened, “she’s from the king’s writing office.”

“I couldn’t give a donkey’s fart where she’s from!” Alcibiades retorted. “I am a Macedon, I can speak my mind. I was loyal
to Philip and I’ll be loyal to his son. I have marched through freezing snow. I have had the sun burn my arse! I have stood
in battle line with the rest and I’ve never retreated.” He turned and spat the bread out of his mouth onto the floor. “I was
a loyal officer of the garrison.” His voice became strident. “As is Cleon and the others! I saw no treachery. We should be
rewarded not treated with suspicion.”

“I fully agree.” Demetrius, clapping his hands, came in with Patroclus and Melitus. They bowed sardonically at Miriam and
then wandered into the kitchen looking for food. They came back talking noisily about the feast the night before—like boys
in a school room determined to antagonize their master through dumb insolence rather than direct insults. They sat on the
bench, scraping their bowls with their fingers, slurping beer from their cups.

Miriam sat patiently. She had been raised among men like these, coarse but brave. Soldiers who believed women had a certain
place in the scheme of things but it certainly wasn’t in their mess hall asking questions. Nevertheless, beneath all their
bluster, they had a deep personal loyalty to the Macedonian crown. She was here on Alexander’s orders,
and by their very presence, they were acknowledging that. Demetrius cleaned his bowl, running his tongue round the rim.

“Well, mistress, you sent for us? More questions, eh?”

“More questions,” Miriam replied. “But I assure you, they won’t take long.”

She asked the same questions she’d asked of Cleon, and they responded in similar vein. They were terrified of a Theban surprise
attack. Memnon was surly and withdrawn. He was personally worried about Alexander but relieved at the approach of the Macedonian
army. He feared a mutiny and, in the last days before the Macedonian attack, kept to himself. Of all the men, he seemed to
trust Cleon the most; they also declared that it was difficult to accept that a man like Memnon would commit suicide.

“So, why did you put a guard on his door?” Miriam asked. “I mean, the night he died, two of you took turns?”

“It was to reassure the old bugger!” Alcibiades drawled. “We were his officers. We had pledged loyalty.”

“And you heard nothing untoward that night?”

“Not a flea’s fart,” Melitus declared.

Miriam rolled the goblet between her hands. The men were politely attentive but she caught a look of sardonic amusement in
Alcibiades’ eyes.

I am making no progress, she thought, and they know it.

“Tell me how Memnon was dressed,” she said.

“I have told you, in battle drill.”

“He was wearing a sword?”

“Yes, he was.”

“Did anyone see him fall?”

“No one,” Cleon replied. “We heard and saw nothing. You must remember, apart from fires and lights on the gates, the citadel
was in darkness.”

“But surely,” Miriam persisted, “even when a man commits
suicide, he very rarely falls to his death without a scream or a yell?”

“He may have screamed,” Alcibiades retorted. “We are simply saying we heard nothing.”

The way he said, “we” pricked suspicion in Miriam’s mind. Was it possible that all four, even all five, were conspirators?
But that didn’t answer how they would have managed to get through a locked door, take an old veteran, silence his dog, and
throw him through a window. Memnon would have fought for his life; he would have shouted and screamed.

“Who took his food up that night?” Miriam asked.

“I did,” Alcibiades declared. He blinked. “And before you say it, Mistress . . .”

“Say what?”

“That the wine or food could have contained a potion.”

“How do you know it didn’t?” Miriam asked. “I am not,” she added hastily, “saying you are responsible.”

“The food was prepared in the kitchen,” he explained.

“Alcibiades took it up.”

“I was there,” Demetrius added. “We knocked on the door. The dog growled. This must have been early in the evening. Memnon
opened the door, took the bowl and cup, then locked and bolted himself in.”

“And how do you know it wasn’t drugged?”

“Because when we entered the chamber,” Demetrius answered, “the food and the wine had been untouched; everyone who was there
saw that, not just us.”

“But he must have been hungry.” Miriam said.

“Yes, that’s what I thought,” Cleon replied. “However, earlier that day he had come down to the mess hall here; he was rather
sullen and withdrawn but he ate well.”

“And the ghost story?” Miriam asked, quickly changing the subject.

“The ghost story?” Cleon asked.

“Oedipus,” Miriam explained. “Didn’t Memnon say he had heard or seen the shade of Oedipus in the citadel?”

“Yes, and in the week before he died,” Demetrius declared, “he complained that sometimes he’d hear a man with a lame foot
climbing the stairs, the sound of a club being struck against the brickwork.”

“And?”

“None of us saw anything.” Demetrius turned to his companions. “Did we?”

They all shook their heads.

“You must remember,” Cleon declared, “that sometimes Memnon was the only one in the tower; during the day we had our own duties
to carry out, while before the siege began, we could go where we wished.”

“Didn’t Memnon go out into Thebes?”

“Never! It was too dangerous.”

“So this ghost could have been a figment of Memnon’s imagination?”

“No,” Demetrius snapped, “we didn’t say that. We have heard, mistress, what happened last night in the camp. In fact, I saw
. . .” He blew his cheeks out. “Well, both Melitus and I saw something.” He looked shamedfacedly at his companion.

“One night we were on guard duty.” Melitus took up the story. “I was on the parapet walk. Now beyond the stockade the Thebans
had set up, we always glimpsed torchlight, camp fires. One night Demetrius called me over; a figure was standing in the glow
from a fire. He was tall, long-haired; you could make out the outline; in his hand he carried a club. The rest of his body
was shrouded in a cloak but when he moved it was with a limp. We watched him for some time.”

“You didn’t loose an arrow?” Miriam asked.

“Why should we? He posed no threat. And we didn’t wish to antagonize the Thebans any more than we had to.”

“So,” Miriam mused, “we have Memnon believing he hears the shade of Oedipus in the citadel. You also see him in the wasteland
between the citadel and the city; meanwhile, the same creature, specter, ghost, whatever, may have been responsible for the
death of the camp guards last night.”