Paul Doherty - A Murder in 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.

“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.”