Paul Doherty - A Murder in Thebes

They shook their heads.

“And before you ask,” Ismene spoke up, “we didn’t know how the Crown could be removed; that was a secret passed from one high priestess to another.”

“Are you sure?” Miriam asked.

“By the land and the sky,” Antigone retorted, “I cannot tell you. Nor can any of my sisters.”

“What will happen now?” Ismene asked.

Miriam explained that Alexander wished to keep the matter as secret as possible. That they still had hopes of trapping the murderer and that they were not to leave the house.

“You will be well looked after,” Miriam added reassuringly. “The king is firm on this matter. It is to be kept secret until it is resolved.”

Miriam got up, walked to the door, and stared out. The grove did not look so green and peaceful now, but dark and threatening. She couldn’t see the archers and she realized that it would take some time for Alexander to muster a guard and send them out to protect this place. Antigone joined her.

“What is the matter?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Miriam replied. She scratched her head.

“Show me where Jocasta saw Oedipus.”

Antigone led her out of the house and around to the back. The small wicket gate was unlatched. Miriam went through and stood at the edge of the wood. She could see no marks in the soil. She looked around. The house was built in a clearing surrounded on all sides by the olive grove; the trees clustered thick and close. Jocasta, she thought, must have gone willingly but then, deeper in the woods, the mysterious stranger must have struck.

“A place of death.” Antigone spoke Miriam’s thoughts. “This used to be so different.”

Miriam looked around at her.

“The citizens of Thebes called this the women’s place. Before the troubles started, few men came here except when the oath was to be taken and the Crown removed. Now it is a place of the sword, of violent men.” Antigone drew close and grasped Miriam’s hand. “Who was it?” she asked. “Why did he come every night and stare up at Jocasta’s room?” She pointed to the window, the shutters were still flung back.

“I don’t know,” Miriam replied, “but I suspect that our killer is a cunning and devious man. His presence every night was comforting. Jocasta would have been pleased. Perhaps she thought she was seeing a vision, some form of reassurance from the gods. A promise that, though Thebes had fallen, the shrine would remain. Anyway, once the killer gained Jocasta’s confidence, it was easy to entice her down. However he did not want her, but only the secret she held.”

Miriam was about to continue when she heard a scream, like the shriek of a bird, from the front of the house. She hastened around, Antigone behind her. The front door was open. Ismene had apparently walked out across the yard to the edge of the olive grove. Now she came back, her hands covered in blood.

“They are dead!” she screamed. “The guards you brought! They are both dead!”

Miriam rushed by her. Forgetting any sense of danger, she crossed the yard to the edge of the clearing. The Cretan archers lay a few paces apart, blood seeping out from the terrible wounds in their skulls.

Miriam heard a crackling amidst the trees. Someone was lurking, staring out from the tangled greenery. She caught a movement, a figure stepping out from behind one of the thick, gnarled trees. She turned and ran, pushing the priestesses ahead of her through the door of the house and slamming it behind her. Miriam brought down the bar, screaming at the others to shut the windows. No sooner was this done than something thudded against the shutters, and wisps of smoke curled into the house. Miriam had been in enough sieges to know what was happening. Their assailant was in the trees. He had lit a fire, taken the Cretan’s weapons, and was now loosening fire arrows at the house. She murmured a prayer of thanks that the building was of stone, its roof of red tiles. But what would happen if there was more than one attacker? If they tried to force the door? Was this the horrid-shaped Oedipus who had already caused such bloody chaos? Or was it a roaming party of Theban soldiers? The priestesses were frantic with anxiety. Miriam shouted at them to keep silent, and she told Antigone to wash the blood from Ismene’s hands. What was happening was a result of foolishness and naïveté. Alexander had ravaged the city of Thebes but that damned grove, with its tortuous paths, had not been guarded. From the top of the stairs Antigone screamed. Another fire arrow had hit a shutter on the upper floors. Others followed. Smoke curled in, thick gray wisps as the dry wood caught fire. Miriam noticed water jars in the kitchen. Some were too heavy to move but she scooped water into jugs and cups; the others did likewise thereby drenching the shutters from within. Ismene was beside herself with fear, sitting at the foot of the stairs, hands waving, feet stamping, shrieking like a child. Antigone ran to her, slapping her hard on both cheeks before hugging her close and crooning sweet sounds into her ear like a mother would her child.

“Do you have any weapons?” Miriam asked. “A sword, a spear?” She coughed as the smoke caught in her nostrils and throat.

“Nothing but kitchen knives,” Antigone replied.

Miriam noticed the peephole in the front door, a slat of wood that could be pulled aside. She opened this carefully and peered out. The forest edge looked deserted. She was about to sigh in relief until she noticed wisps of smoke along the far wall. She stared in horror as a figure, terrible to behold, stood up. He was dressed in wild skins, a mask over his face. She could see that his hands and wrists were stained in blood but that he was no ghost or specter. With his great horn bow he loosed another fire arrow. What did he hope to achieve? Miriam hastily closed the shutter as the arrow hit the door. She ordered the priestesses to drench this with water and she reopened the shutter. Miriam could see nothing untoward. Then the figure came up again, arrow notched, but this time he paused, looking behind him as if he had heard some sound. The bow was hastily dropped. Miriam closed the shutter and went to sit with the rest as they huddled at the bottom of the stairs. She heard shouts, the clink of armor. She grasped a knife from the kitchen table and opened the shutter. Macedonians had arrived: guardsmen in their plumed helmets, shields and spears in their hands, but the officer directing them looked confused. He could see that the house had been under attack and he was vainly searching for the assailant. Miriam opened the door.

“Over here!” she called.

The officer hurried forward, wiping his sweat-soaked brow on the back of his wrist. He recognized Miriam.

“What is the matter, mistress? We’ve seen the corpses of two Cretans. They were killed in the same way as the sentries around the camp, skulls staved in, brains and blood spilling out.”

“We were attacked,” Miriam replied, “by whomever it was that killed the Cretans.” She pointed at the charred shutters, the still-smoldering doors. “Though no real harm has been done,” she forced a smile, “my legs still tremble and my stomach is pitching.”

The officer turned around shouting orders.

“Weren’t there soldiers in the grove?” Miriam asked.

The guards officer shook his head.

“There’s a rumor,” he declared, “that something happened at the shrine. Perdiccas ordered the guards and archers stationed there back to camp to take an oath.”

Miriam pulled a face. Of course, that was what Alexander had decided earlier. In fact, she had recommended it. The assailant must have discovered this and exploited the gap between the soldiers leaving and fresh ones arriving. Yet how had he killed those archers? Such men were fierce fighters? They wouldn’t have given their lives easily.