Paul Doherty - A Murder in Thebes

“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.”