A Murder in Thebes (Alexander the Great 2) (9 page)

“Tell them all!” a voice grated. “Tell them that Oedipus has come to Thebes and taken his Crown!”

Paemon turned and fled. He didn’t care now. He must reach the soldiers. He tried to scream but his mouth was dry. He found
himself at the foot of the steps. He wiped the sweat from his face and stared round. Something was wrong. The four soldiers
lay there, sprawling in pools of blood that was seeping out of the hideous wounds to their heads. Paemon climbed the steps
and stared in horror.

“You are dead!” he murmured, “all of you are dead!” He banged on the doors. No answer. He saw the corpse of the young officer
and went over to it. The key still hung on his belt. Paemon went to touch it, but, no, he’d seen enough! And, turning, he
fled like the wind toward the Macedonian camp.

Miriam was roused by Simeon shaking her shoulder.

“Get up!” he hissed. “Miriam, something dreadful has happened!”

She threw back the rough horse blankets and dressed hurriedly, slipping on sandals, wrapping a cloak around her, pulling up
the hood. She splashed water on her face, grabbed an ash cane and followed her brother out of the tent. Alexander was there.
Perdiccas was beside him—he was captain of the guard for that day. He grasped a tattered beggar man by the shoulder. The fellow
looked as if he were about to swoon with fear; his lined face was red and sweat-soaked. His straggly mustache and beard were
drenched with perspiration.

Alexander talked to him soothingly, stroking his hair. Perdiccas released his grip. Alexander took a golden daric out of his
purse and held it before the man’s eyes. The man took it, his lips moving wordlessly.

“What are you saying?” Alexander asked.

“Your majesty, your worthiness, some wine and cheese.”

Alexander, though his face looked severe, smiled and nodded at Simeon who went back into the tent, bringing out a wineskin
and some cheese in a linen cloth. The man ate these, gnawing at the cheese and drenching his mouth in spurts from the wineskin.

“There,” Alexander took the wineskin from him, “we need you sober.”

A figure loomed out of the morning mist: Olympias, garbed as if she were about to enter Athens in triumph, her hair dressed
and pinned with a silver jeweled crown. Her red cloak was of pure wool with a gold fringe, though in her haste, she’d pulled
on a pair of army boots.

“I’ve heard the news,” she snapped. “Alexander, what has happened?”

“I don’t know, Mother. But now we are assembled, we’ll all find out.”

Miriam rubbed her face. She wanted to ask questions but she knew Alexander. He hated to waste time in useless banter. Through
the morning mist came the clink of armor.

“That’s my lads,” Perdiccas declared. “Every one a guardsman in full armor.” He resheathed his sword. “I also sent some of
our Cretans into the grove. I’ve told them to go nowhere near the shrine.”

“The temple?” Olympias gasped.

“This gentleman,” Alexander patted the beggar gently on the shoulder, “has brought us a strange and horrid story. He stumbled
across the corpse of a priestess in the grove. I
think it’s Jocasta, her head smashed in. He ran for help to the guards at the shrine.”

The beggar man was now nodding. Miriam pushed her way forward.

“What’s your name?”

“Paemon.” He liked this woman. She had a severe face but the eyes were kindly.

“What happened at the shrine, Paemon?”

“I saw Oedipus.”

“Oedipus is dead,” Miriam said gently.

“Then the gods have sent him back. Terrible he was, a bloody rag around his eyes, his face covered by a mask. In one hand
he carried a blood-encrusted club, in the other a crown.”

“A crown?” Olympias’s clawlike hands would have grasped Paemon’s shoulder but Miriam gently intervened.

“I ran to the temple,” he gabbled. “They are all dead!”

Alexander was marching away followed by Perdiccas. Miriam grasped Paemon by the arm and hurried after. They went through the
camp, now silent except for the cries of the sentries or the occasional soldier wandering about, still recovering from the
drinking and feasting of the night before. Fires had burned low. At the edge of the camp, ostlers and grooms were up, heavy-eyed,
making their way down to the horse lines. They passed sentries and pickets. Word seemed to have spread: A small crowd of soldiers
was now following the guardsmen who had formed a protective ring around the royal party. Perdiccas shouted at them to go away.
They crossed the deserted quarter of the city. The tower and walls of the Cadmea could be seen faintly through the mist.

At last they reached the olive grove and then the white path. Paemon pointed to the ground, and Miriam saw the patches of
blood. The scene on the temple steps was terrible.
The beggar man had described it correctly. All four soldiers sprawled there, great wounds in their heads. Two were armed;
others still grasped their wine cups. The young officer was wearing his war belt. He lay there, eyes closed, as if asleep,
face white as chalk and streaked with lines of blood. Perdiccas hammered on the doors with the pommel of his sword. Miriam
took the key off the belt of one of the officers and opened the doors.

Inside, the vestibule was cold and deserted. Miriam, going ahead, pushed at the bronze doors. They swung open. Inside, the
lamps and torches still glowed. An eerie place full of dancing shadows. She glimpsed the bed of charcoal glowing fiery red;
then she saw the two guards, dark shapes huddled on the floor. The blood from their split heads snaked out across the gleaming
marble. All were armed, but they looked as if they had died without a struggle.

Miriam looked toward the far end of the shrine. The iron clasps were down. The Crown was gone! Alexander swore. Olympias just
stood there, her face pale, glaring at that empty pillar as if she had been cheated of something. Perdiccas and Miriam examined
the corpses.

“They didn’t even draw sword or dagger,” Perdiccas murmured. “Look, Miriam, there are no wounds, no cuts, nothing.”

Miriam felt the throat of each soldier, the skin was cold and clammy.

“They have been dead for some time,” she said.

She went across to the corner. Here the soldiers’ shields and lances were piled, wine cups and wineskins, linen cloths that
contained stale bread, cheese, and bruised grapes. Alexander was still staring speechlessly at the empty pillar. Miriam took
a wineskin and poured some into an empty cup. She sniffed and tasted it.

“Why that?” Perdiccas asked. Ever practical, the captain of
Alexander’s bodyguards was more concerned about dead soldiers than a missing crown.

Miriam offered him the cup. “I wondered if it was drugged, but? . . .”

Perdiccas took it and sipped it. “Cheap and watery!” he replied, handing it back. He smiled thinly. “Niarchos could drink
three of those wineskins and still do a dance.”

Helped by Miriam, Perdiccas searched the shrine but they could find nothing amiss. No secret entrances or passageways. She
went and crouched before the great rim of the charcoal pit. The fire was still glowing red hot. She stared carefully. She
couldn’t see any disturbance.

“What are you doing?” Olympias asked imperiously.

“The Crown is gone,” Miriam replied. “I just wondered if someone had crossed the pits.”

“It would have to be a long plank,” Olympias scoffed.

“I know,” Miriam replied, “and the shrine would reek of burned timber. . . . Perdiccas!”

“What are you going to do?” Alexander came up beside her.

“I want Perdiccas to clear a path through the charcoal. I want to look into the snake pit.

“Why?” Olympias asked.

But Alexander was already shouting out orders. Perdiccas brought in some of his guards; using their shields and pieces of
wood, they sifted the charcoal, throwing the red hot pieces on top of the marble floor. Miriam calculated that the charcoal
pit was at least one and a half feet deep. Beneath it lay a thick layer of white dust from previous fires. The shrine began
to fill with smoke, which made them cough and made their eyes water. Now and again the soldiers had to break off and go out
for fresh air. Meanwhile Perdiccas removed the corpses to the recess, covering them with their cloaks.

At last a small path began to form through the pit, the soldiers banking up the charcoal on either side. Miriam ordered a
shield placed on each side of the banked charcoal, another one in between. She walked tentatively across the makeshift bridge
and felt the blast of heat. At last she reached the edge where the iron spikes jutted up from the marble floor. She quickly
looked over. One glance was enough: a host of snakes writhed there! She hurriedly went back, climbing over the black guard
pole.

“Full of snakes,” she declared.

“Then how was it done?” Alexander exclaimed. “What, it must be over two yards across the charcoal; the spikes and snake pit
cover another four.

“How was it done?” he repeated.

Miriam was mystified. No one could have crossed those pits, not unless they had wings. Alexander crouched beside her, Olympias
behind him, eager to catch every word. Simeon went out to help Perdiccas with the corpses on the temple steps.

“Here we have a shrine,” Alexander began. “Its walls and floor are of marble. The Crown could not be reached by any secret
tunnel or passageway. There’s certainly no way to cross, what, about six yards of dangerous pit? And no one could stretch
over it with a pole or a lance.”

“I thought of that myself,” Miriam murmured.

“No one could fashion a bridge,” Alexander continued. “But that’s only the beginning of the mystery. I have four of my best
guards outside, their brains smashed in. They didn’t even have a chance to draw their swords or offer any resistance. Think
of that, Miriam.”

Miriam closed her eyes. She thought of the soldiers squatting out on the steps. How could anyone approach and kill them in
such a barbaric fashion without the alarm being raised?

“The officer carried a horn.”

Alexander nodded. “If any war party, anything strange occurred, he was under strict orders to sound the alarm, but he didn’t.”

“So they are killed,” Miriam continued. “We don’t know whether their attacker took the keys, but he opens the doors and enters
the shrine. Inside, two more soldiers are waiting. They are veteran guardsmen. Yet they, too, die in the same barbaric way.
The intruder, or intruders,” she added, “then manage to cross the charcoal and the serpent pit, release the clasps, take the
Crown, and walk back through locked doors. . . . The beggar man claimed he saw Oedipus.”

“He must have,” Olympias whispered. “Oedipus has come back to his city!”

“T
HAT IS NONSENSE
!” Alexander exclaimed. “Oedipus is dead!” He sighed. “But I agree, ‘I learn in sorrow upon my head the gods have rendered
this terrible punishment they have struck me down and trod my gladness under foot.’”

“‘Such is the bitter affliction of mortal man.’” Olympias finished the quotation from Sophocles.

“It’s strange,” Miriam interrupted. Both the Queen and her son glanced at her.

“What is it?” Olympias snapped.

“Here we are, in a devastated Thebes,” Miriam continued. “And what is happening? Echoes of Sophocles’ play.”

“Explain,” Alexander insisted.

“Well, the city was founded by the hero Cadmus, whom misfortune had befallen even before the city was established: he was
ravaged by a fierce dragon, which he killed. However, heaven was still against him and the dragon’s teeth were sown on the
site of Thebes. From these sprang a tribe of giants. Now, Oedipus was one of Cadmus’s descendants.” Miriam stared at the empty
pillar. “Oedipus solved the mystery
posed by the Sphinx but ended up killing his father, Laius, and marrying his mother, Jocasta, bringing down the judgment of
the gods.”

“And how does this apply to my son?” Olympias fumed.

“Well, Oedipus has returned. The city is devastated once more. Alexander, in a metaphorical way, has sown dragons’ teeth.
The Sphinx is represented by the riddles surrounding Memnon’s death—the spy in the citadel, the dreadful murders, and the
theft of the Crown.”

“And so what do you suggest?” Alexander asked quietly.

“That we act quickly,” Miriam replied. “Word of this will spread. It will be in Athens within a week. Alexander may have destroyed
Thebes, but Thebes is destroying Alexander. His men are being mysteriously killed, the Crown wrenched from his grasp, the
displeasure of the gods made manifest for all to see.”

Alexander now forgot the Crown as he realized the implications of such propaganda.

“So what do you suggest,” he teased, “woman of Israel?”

“All those who know about this,” Miriam declared, hoping she was saying the right thing, “should be sworn to secrecy: the
guards, everyone. This temple should sealed, the dead quietly buried.”

“Continue,” Alexander demanded.

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Miriam declared, but she looked at the corpses, the blood coursing along the floor, and she repressed
a shiver. “That poor beggar man saw flesh and blood. If Oedipus had been sent by the gods, why should he kill the poor priestess?
Or the soldiers? Why not do something more dreadful, like call fire from heaven? A true immortal,” she gibed, “could pass
through marble walls and take the Crown.”

“You don’t take our legends seriously, do you?” Olympias, arms crossed, sauntered toward her. “You think
they are children’s fables. My son called you a woman of Israel, you with your hidden God, whose name cannot be mentioned!”

Miriam looked over Olympias’s shoulder at Alexander, who had a warning look in his eyes. Olympias’s face was full of rage,
not at Miriam but at being cheated of the Crown. And, as was her wont, Olympias vented her rage on anyone and everyone around
her.

“Yes, I think your stories are legends and fables,” Miriam replied quickly, “but behind them are hidden truths; that is what
we have here. Truth and lies. The truth is that Alexander conquered Thebes, which rose in rebellion.”

Olympias’s face softened. “And?”

“The lie is that someone wants to mock that victory. I don’t think it’s Oedipus’s wraith or specter but flesh and blood. He
is here to weaken Alexander’s victory, to snatch a great prize from his hands. The theft and murders committed in the shrine
are somehow connected to the death of Lysander and Memnon’s fall from the tower.”

“The Oracle?” Alexander asked.

“Yes, the Oracle. But I cannot see how he works. I discovered, my lord, that Memnon thought he had seen the shade of Oedipus
in the citadel, yet two of his lieutenants saw him beyond the walls.”

“Treachery?” Olympias asked. “Hidden doors and passages?”

“No,” Miriam shook her head. “The citadel was well-fortified and guarded. Now this Oracle, dressed as Oedipus, terrorizes
lonely sentries on the outskirts of the Macedonian camp. Tell me, my lord, imagine yourself as a sentry on the lonely heath
land, a mile away from the camp. Someone approaches you.”

“I’d call out to him to stop.”

“But these don’t,” Miriam insisted.

“It could have been done by stealth.”

Perdiccas had come back into the temple, and was standing behind her.

“One sentry, perhaps,” Miriam replied. “Even two, but three or four? And the sentries here? If they’d seen someone approach
they’d have issued a challenge. If the officer had thought it was threatening, he would have immediately raised the alarm,
but that didn’t happen.”

“What are you implying?” Perdiccas snapped. “Some form of bribery and corruption among my men?”

“No, no, Perdiccas, don’t stand on your honor,” Alexander declared. “Miriam is trying to reach a conclusion.”

“It’s not much of one,” she confessed. “But the murderer of these soldiers came alone. They saw him as a friend; therefore,
he must be a Macedonian.”

“Agreed.” Alexander kicked at a pile of cold charcoal ash. “But,” he continued, “let’s say a Macedonian did approach the temple
steps. He’s welcomed by an officer and three guardsmen, the best my regiment can provide. What happens then? Does he start
running about with a club? He may kill one but how can he slay three others and face no opposition?”

Miriam pulled a face. “I don’t know. That’s where my hypothesis fails.”

“And once in here,” Olympias snapped, “the soldiers welcome him with open arms?”

“That’s a real mystery,” Alexander declared. “The assassin has killed four of my soldiers; he takes the key and goes into
the vestibule. Now the doors to the shrine are locked from the outside, but they are also barred from within.” He pointed
to the doors and the bronze bar hanging down.

“The soldiers inside will only lift that if the password is given by either their officer or the high priestess but we know
that, by then, both of them are dead. Moreover, the
two soldiers have heard nothing of the violence outside.” He flailed his hands. “Yet the doors are unbarred, the assassin
enters, quietly dispatches fighting men, and steals the Crown. How?” he demanded angrily.

“Again, I don’t know,” Miriam declared, her cheeks growing hot with embarrassment. “I can only describe what I think is logical.”

Alexander patted her gently on the shoulder.

“But what now?” Perdiccas asked. “If I accept your conclusion, Miriam, this Oedipus is one and the same as the Oracle spy.
He now has the Crown. Why doesn’t he just flee?”

“Oh, he will, eventually,” Miriam agreed. “But not too soon; that would arouse suspicion. True, he has the Crown, but what’s
he going to do with it? Now we go back to Sophocles. The playwright went to Athens; his tomb can still be seen outside the
city gates.”

“Of course!” Olympias exclaimed. “And in the second play,
Oedipus at Colonus
, the blinded king goes to Theseus, king of Athens for succor.”

“Demosthenes!” Alexander exclaimed. He began walking up and down, rubbing his hands together as he did whenever he became
excited. Now and again he would curl his fingers into a fist.

“He’ll sell the Crown to Demosthenes. Oh, how the Athenians will laugh.”

“That’s why you must act quickly,” Miriam insisted. “Issue a proclamation that we have the Crown.”

“What good will that do?”

“It will cause confusion,” Miriam declared. “I am sure our ironsmiths could fashion a Crown with a red ruby in the center.
If our suspicions are correct, if this Oedipus is going to sell the Crown to the Athenians, our action will cause chaos. Demosthenes
does not want to buy a fake and proclaim
himself a fool throughout the length and breadth of Greece.” Alexander stopped his pacing. He smiled dazzingly at Miriam and
then, going forward, wrapped her in a hug. She smelled the sweat from his body—wine mingled with olives.

“You are choking me!” she gasped, although Miriam was more concerned by the viperish look in Olympias’s eyes.

“I always said she was a clever girl,” the queen declared. “Alexander,” she purred, “you really should leave Miriam with me
in Pella when you march against Persia.”

“And I’ll be dead within a week,” Miriam whispered.

“Nonsense, Mother!” Alexander stood away but he held on to Miriam’s hand. “Where I go, my companions always follow. Perdiccas,
clear up the mess in here! Have the corpses quietly removed! Tell the guards to take an oath. Oh I, know some of them will
chatter, but give them a gold piece each and tell them that if they blab, they could end up on crosses.”

“And the beggar?” Perdiccas asked. “Shall two of my lads take him into the trees and cut his throat?”

“No, no please.” Miriam gripped Alexander’s fingers. She could see that Alexander was about to confirm Perdiccas’s order.
“Please!” she added, “there’s been enough killing!”

“He’s my prisoner,” Alexander declared. “He’s to be kept in honorable but very comfortable confinement. Mother, I suggest
you go back to the camp. Miriam, where’s Simeon?”

“Outside,” Miriam replied. She was going to add that her brother could never stand the sight of blood but she bit her tongue
just in time. They went out onto the steps; the corpses had been removed.

“We checked the wine and food, or what was left of it,” Simeon declared. “There’s no sign of any potion or philter. No evidence
the guards were drugged.”

Alexander nodded and snapped his fingers at Perdiccas.

“I want this shrine closed.” He paused halfway down the steps. “How could they?” he whispered.

“What?” Miriam asked.

Alexander didn’t reply but, shaking his head, walked down the steps and strode into the grove. Miriam followed. Cretan archers
now squatted among the trees; they rose as the king approached.

“Where’s the corpse?” he asked their commander, “the priestess?”

“There’s no corpse, my lord.”

“What?”

“We have searched, sir.”

“Where’s that beggar man?”

“He led us to the spot, sir, but there was no corpse. The earth appears to have been disturbed, kicked and scuffed. Something
happened there. Come and see!”

The captain led them to the spot deep in the grove, a small clearing with a spring nearby. The patch of grass where the corpse
must have lain had been brushed as if someone had tried to hide all signs of the priestess’s murder. The light was poor; Miriam
squatted down. Dried flecks of blood were still visible, and she could see where someone had brought water from the spring
to wash away the rest.

“Have the grove searched,” she demanded. “The assassin apparently came back, took the corpse, and hid it elsewhere.” She lifted
her head and sniffed the breeze. At first she thought she must be mistaken. She smelled not only the acrid wood smoke but
something else, the stench of fat left in a pan over a burning fire.

“In that direction.” She pointed deeper into the trees where the grove stretched beyond the shrine.

“I smelled it, too!” the Cretan replied.

“Didn’t you investigate?” Alexander asked.

“Sir, all of Thebes smells of burning.”

Alexander snapped his fingers and the Cretan hurried off. Alexander squatted down next to Miriam, poking at the earth with
his dagger.

“Why burn the corpse?” he murmured. “That’s what’s happened isn’t it, Miriam?”

She agreed.

“But why?” Simeon echoed Alexander’s question.

“I don’t know.”

Alexander got to his feet and, not waiting for them, strode off, following the Cretan into the trees. Miriam, wrapping her
cloak more firmly around her, looked at Simeon, shrugged, and followed. The olive grove apparently ran beside the shrine and
then around to the back. The deeper they went into the trees, the stronger the offensive stench grew. At last, just behind
the temple, the tree line broke and they reached the edge of a small glade. The Cretan commander was standing in a spot where
small rocks thrust up from the earth. He was squatting down, hand over his mouth and nose, staring at a great patch of burning
black remains. The smoke was still rising in spiraling gray wisps. Miriam approached. The corpse, or what remained of it,
lay in a smoldering bed of ash. No distinguishing elements remained. The flesh had shriveled and bubbled; the bones were charred
and had snapped.

“She must have been drenched in oil,” the Cretan declared. “Drenched in oil and set afire.” He drew his dagger and, poking
through the ash, pushed the tip through the eye socket of the skull and lifted it up. He pointed to the great hole on the
side.

“That’s her death wound,” he declared. “Her skull was shattered!”

“That’s why the beggar man met Oedipus,” Miriam declared. “He was going back into the grove to dispose of her corpse.”

The stench was so acrid that Alexander had to pinch his nostrils and walk away.

“Clear up the remains!” he shouted back. “Put them in a jar! The priestesses have a house here, haven’t they?”