Paul Doherty - A Murder in Thebes

“Do you have any ideas, brother? You are always the more practical one?”

“There must be a way. The high priestess removes the Crown at certain times. We could bribe her?”

“Not someone like Jocasta,” Miriam declared. “She’s the sort who would rather die than give up her secrets. She is full of the mysteries, proud of what she guards.”

“What about a long pole?” Simeon offered.

“It would have to be a very long one,” Miriam countered, “but go on.”

“You’d stretch it across, knock down the iron clasps, loop the Crown and pull it up toward you.”

“It would have to be a very long pole,” Miriam repeated. “And I don’t think it could be done. I can’t see how the clasps are pulled loose.”

“Well, it might be possible. Why don’t we try?” Simeon asked. “And what about those grappling hooks?” he added. “You know, the sort sailors use when they try to come to grips with an enemy ship?”

“No. It would be like taking a hammer to smash a nut. Go down to the stores, Simeon. See if you can find one of those long sarissas the phalanx men carry. Let us visit our reverend Jocasta.”

Miriam found it strange to leave the destruction of Thebes and enter the cool olive grove around the shrine. The sweet scent of leaves, the bittersweet tang of their fruit brought back memories of the groves around Pella, the Macedonian capital. The shrine itself was deserted. Three soldiers and their officer were squatting on the steps. The officer rose as Miriam and Simeon approached; he watched in amusement Simeon’s difficulty with carrying the long spear.

“It takes years of practice,” he declared, coming down the steps. “Put it down, man, you’ll do someone an injury.”

Simeon dropped it gratefully on the white chalk path. The soldier loosened his neck cloth and wiped the sweat off this throat.

“Before you begin mistress, I know who you are.” He gestured toward the door and tapped the great bronze key that hung on his belt. “You can’t go in.”

“On the king’s orders?”

“Mistress, the king’s orders are quite explicit. I am to allow no one in unless they are accompanied by the priestess. I and three lads are on guard outside; the other two are in the shrine itself. We take turns.” He hawked and spat. “I’m glad to be out here. Have you heard the stories?”

“We’ve heard them,” Miriam declared. “What do you mean about two being inside?”

“Well, we are here,” the officer explained. “I have the key to the vestibule. Beyond the bronze doors are two of my lads; they have locked themselves in the shrine. I did the dawn watch this morning. It’s a sinister, eerie place, that charcoal glowing in the middle of the floor, the spikes like dragons’ teeth coming to bloom. I thought the snakes were simply a bluff but I saw three, long and slimy, slithering out.”

“And the priestess Jocasta?” Miriam asked.

“She comes down here as do the others, with faces painted, eyes darkened.”

“Where do they live?” Miriam asked.

The captain pointed to his left. “The grove runs deep; follow the path round. They have a house there.”

Miriam thanked him and followed his directions. The path snaked between the trees and brought them into a large glade or clearing. At the far end was a typical family house: red-tiled roof, white walls with a small courtyard in front, bound by a wooden palisade. The gate was open. Miriam glimpsed chickens and a goat tethered to a post. The courtyard was empty as she entered. In the middle was a shrine to some unknown god and beneath it a large tank to collect and store rainwater. The small porter lodge was empty, but smoke curled up from a hole in the roof at the back. Miriam smelled cooking odors, cheese and spices that made her mouth water. She looked around.

“Not even a guard dog,” she muttered.

Jocasta appeared in the doorway. The old priestess’s face was clean of paint and she had hurriedly pulled a hood across her balding head. She glanced at the sarissa or lance that Simeon carried, and her age-seamed face crinkled into a smile.

“I can guess why you are here,” she called out. “Do come over. You, young man, I think you had better leave the lance outside; you might do yourself or someone else a damage.”

She led them into the main room of the house. The floor was tiled in black and white, a small brazier had been lit; there were tables, a couch, chairs, and some Samian earthenware pots along the wall.

“My sisters are in the kitchen or in their chambers above.” She saw that Miriam was distracted by the beautiful piece of linen pinned to the wall just inside the door: hoplites surrounded a king in his chariot who was talking to a dark-haired man whose right foot was bandaged and whose left hand held a club.

“That’s Oedipus,” she explained, “meeting his father, Laius-a simple accident that led to murder.”

Miriam stared at the painting. The Oedipus depicted here was not frightening: a young man, his black hair curled and oiled.

“I did that,” Jocasta spoke up, “when I was young, but now my eyes fade. I cannot execute the stitches as well as I should. Sit down! Sit down!”

She made them sit side by side on the couch and hurried out. She brought back two bowls of barley pottage, some bread soaked in wine, and figs covered in goat cheese. She put this on the table and served them herself, passing out the food in small wooden dishes. She sat quietly and watched them eat. Miriam did so quickly, rather embarrassed by the way the old priestess just sat and stared at them.

“You said you knew why we were here.”

“You’ve come to ask me about the removal of the Crown?”

Miriam nodded.

“And you brought that wooden lance.” She smiled. “It is not long enough and, even if it was, you couldn’t possibly wield it over such a long distance. I’d be frightened that you’d totter onto the charcoal.” Her face became severe. “Nor do you know the ritual: the Crown cannot be removed by any tool or weapon brought into the shrine. Such an action would be blasphemous.”

“Why can’t you tell us?” Simeon demanded, “how it can be removed?”

The old priestess’s face grew even harder.

“Young man, there are ceremonies and rituals; the Crown of Oedipus is a sacred relic. If the gods wish Alexander to wear it, the gods will reveal it. And, as for your ridiculous pole, you’ll either do yourself damage or possibly wreck the shrine.” She saw Miriam staring up at the black beams. “Our house was spared,” she murmured, “as was the shrine. A Macedonian officer told us not to worry and Alexander has kept his promise. However,” she added softly, “I cannot help him in this matter.”

“Do you believe that the shade of Oedipus now prowls the deserted city?” Miriam asked. “You’ve heard the stories?”

“Oh, yes,” Jocasta said. “But it’s not his shade. It’s the old king himself.”

Miriam got to her feet. “How do you know this?”

“I have seen him myself. Here among the olive groves, just standing, staring up at the house.”

“You’ve seen him?” Simeon exclaimed.

“It’s no shade or ghost,” Jocasta added triumphantly, “but Oedipus himself! Who knows, he may even claim the Crown himself?”

Miriam was about to answer when there was a sound of footsteps outside, a woman’s voice raised. Jocasta gestured at them to remain. She left and immediately came back. “It appears your king needs you back at his camp,” she declared. “His mother, Queen Olympias, is about to arrive.”

In the end, Olympias did not arrive until just before dusk. Alexander had been almost beside himself with preparations. The camp was cleared, particularly the principal path to his pavilions and the small park containing the shrine to his favorite god. A guard of honor was prepared dressed in bronze cuirasses; white-and-red-leather kilts; burnished greaves; shields polished until they caught the light; and great Corinthian helmets that concealed most of the face, their red horsehair plumes thick and luxuriant. Rank after serried rank was drawn up. Alexander had a dais prepared, draped in purple and gold, to receive the woman whom he publicly called the best of mothers. Privately he confided to Miriam that Olympias charged too a heavy rent for his nine-months stay in her womb.