Paul Doherty - A Murder in Thebes

“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.