Paul Doherty - A Murder in Thebes

“Let me go there first,” Miriam requested. “I haven’t washed or changed, but those unfortunates had better be informed of what has happened.” She stared up at the entwined branches; the sky looked threatening with lowering gray clouds. We should be gone from here, she thought. Oedipus, horrors of the night, a devastated city, and a shrine that seems set to sour Alexander’s great victory. She glanced at her brother.

“Simeon, what will you do?”

“He’ll come back with me,” Alexander offered.

Miriam watched them go, listening to the crackle of bracken; then the grove fell silent. She stayed still and listened. No sound of birdsong. Was this place cursed? She had talked so rationally, dismissing all fanciful notions! She swallowed hard. This was a sacred place, to Thebans as well as to all of Greece. A great sacrilege had occurred. And what if Oedipus, that shadow of the night, still lurked among the trees? Miriam grasped her walking cane and hurriedly left the clearing. The Cretan archers were assembled, their captain calling out orders. Miriam approached him and made her request. The fellow nodded.

“Two of my lads will go with you.”

“They must not enter the house,” Miriam declared. “The priestesses will be frightened enough.”

The archers went before her, one of them claiming he knew in which direction the house lay. Miriam had visited the place the day before but she was still glad of the archers’ company. Images teemed in her mind: blood-splattered corpses in the shrine, the blackened, burnt remains of the old priestess. A killer was prowling Thebes, and he had already attacked her, trapping her in Memnon’s chamber. It would only be a matter of time before he struck again. When they reached the priestesses’ house, Miriam told the archers to be vigilant and walked into the courtyard. The door was off its latch. She pushed it open and walked into the sweet-smelling atrium. A young priestess appeared from out of the kitchen. She was dressed in a white linen shift, her feet bare. She wore no wig, and her face looked white and anxious.

“Where’s Mother?” she demanded.

The other priestesses sat in the kitchen, clustered around the table. From the smell, Miriam realized that they had been cooking.

“We were to have a feast today.”

“You are Antigone, aren’t you?”

The young priestess nodded.

“We were to have a feast today.” She continued as if Miriam hadn’t interrupted. “Jocasta said we should celebrate our deliverance.”

“Deliverance from what?” Miriam asked.

The young woman waved her forward.

“Your master Alexander, he has been most kind to us. He has kept his word. The shrine and this house have not been troubled.”

“But you are Thebans, and your city is destroyed.”

“Jocasta thought differently,” Antigone murmured. “When Pelliades killed Lysander and put his corpse upon a cross, Jocasta cursed him. If Alexander had been beaten off by Thebes, who knows what might have happened to us?”

“Why?” Miriam asked.

“Pelliades, leader of the council, was very angry with Jocasta. He accused her of being pro-Macedonian. In the city, so great was the hatred of Alexander that such an accusation carried the death sentence.”

“But you are priestesses?”

“Pelliades wouldn’t have cared. He was ruthless.”

Miriam nodded. She wondered if Hecaetus had any luck among the Theban prisoners. What a pity they couldn’t have laid hands on Pelliades. What a song he would sing, what information he could give. A man who had lost everything might reveal the name of this spy. She looked at the other priestesses and recalled the reason for her visit.

“I’d best come in,” she murmured. “I have something to tell you.”

“You should really wait until Mother returns.”

Miriam took her gently by the elbow and led her into the stone-paved kitchen. She stood at the end of the table.

“What time did Jocasta leave?” she asked.

“It must have been very late last night,” Merope, a middle-aged priestess replied.

“Why?”

“She is high priestess,” Antigone declared. “She may have visited the shrine, sat and prayed there; sometimes she did that.”

“She didn’t visit the shrine,” Miriam declared. “Your shrine has been violated. The Crown has been stolen. And, I am afraid, Jocasta has been killed.”

The priestesses looked at her in stunned silence. Antigone’s hand went to her mouth. She sat like a frightened child. Merope was the first to recover. She sprang to her feet, kicking the stool aside, her face contorted with rage.

“You did that! You and your bloody-handed masters. You’ve murdered Jocasta and stolen the Crown. You’ve committed blasphemy and sacrilege. All of Greece will know!” Her eyes filled with tears. “Jocasta was our friend, our mother. Consecrated to Apollo.” She paused gripping her stomach. “Jocasta was also your friend, a brave woman. She tried to save your envoy Lysander.”

The other women were now weeping. Miriam stood her ground. Merope picked up the stool and sat next to Antigone, putting an arm around her shoulder.

“I swear on my life,” Miriam declared quietly, “by any oath you wish me to take-by Apollo, by land and sky, by the name of my unknown God-Alexander of Macedon had nothing to do with this sacrilege.”

A wail of protest greeted her words.

“No, no listen!” Miriam held her hands out. “I have come here on my own. Two archers stand outside, but they are forbidden to enter. Please!” Her voice rose at their cries of protest. “Please listen to what I say. I can produce proof!”

Merope was about to object but Antigone clutched her wrist.

“Let the Israelite speak,” she declared. “There is no lie in her face or voice. Let us at least listen.”

She gestured to a stool. Miriam sat down and fought to hide her own fear. The thin, slender priestess known as Ismene had brought her hand from beneath the table. She was gripping a knife. Miriam held her gaze.

“An attack on me,” she added, “will achieve nothing. Let me tell you what I know.”

They sat and listened as Miriam began to describe what had happened. The murder of Lysander; the mysterious death of Memnon; the presence of a spy in the Cadmea; the deaths of the sentries; the appearance of Oedipus; and the events of the previous night: the deaths of the Macedonian guards, the violation of the shrine, and the murder of Jocasta. When she had finished, they cried again, but this time more softly, more controlled.

“I speak the truth,” Miriam affirmed.

Ismene threw the knife onto the table. “I accept that you do.”

“So why did Jocasta leave?” Miriam asked.

Antigone replied, telling her what had happened, how this shadowy figure, undoubtedly Oedipus, had been seen around the house on different evenings, standing just beneath Jocasta’s bedroom window. How the old priestess had kept a vigil, waiting for him to come; how last light she had accepted the invitation to go out.

“I thought she was safe,” Antigone concluded. “What could an old priestess fear from the god whose shrine she guarded?”

“But weren’t you anxious,” Miriam asked, “concerned when she didn’t return?”

“No. The Macedonians were friendly. Jocasta spoke most kindly about the guards at the shrine. They called her Mother, did everything to help. The officer, in particular; he was most courteous and kind.” Antigone smiled through her tears. “Jocasta even called him son. I thought she would go there. She often did. It was her second home, the whole purpose of her life. So why should someone kill her? Treat her so barbarously?”

“Tell me,” Miriam said, “did any of you know the password to the temple?”