Paul Doherty: A Murder in Thebes

“The Thebans have sent you a message: a herald and two trumpeters.”

“They wish to surrender?”

“No, no.” Ptolemy swaggered across and gave a mocking bow.

He was taller than Alexander and had close-set eyes that, Miriam thought, were always laughing at everything and everybody. A superb horseman, a brilliant general, Miriam suspected that Ptolemy thought he was Alexander’s equal. There were even rumors that they shared the same blood, Ptolemy being one of Philip of Macedon’s many bastards.

“I’m waiting,” Alexander said. “Ptolemy, you should have been an actor.”

“The Thebans have sent you defiance. They say they’ll not bend the knee to a Macedonian barbarian, especially one who killed his own father.”

Ptolemy paused and licked his lips, enjoying the fury in Alexander’s face. “They bid you to pack your tents and retreat.”

“Anything else?” Alexander stepped back. “Anything else, Ptolemy?”

“The men are getting restless.”

“Are they now?”

Alexander seized his cloak and threw it over his shoulder. “Miriam you should watch this battle. Pray to your invisible God. Go out and look at the walls of Thebes. I swear, by all that’s holy, that you will not see them again.” He almost pushed Ptolemy aside as he strode out of the tent. Miriam heard his shouts, followed by the increased bustle in the camp, the braying of war horns and trumpets.

“We should be careful,” Simeon murmured. “If the Thebans break through. .”

Miriam punched him playfully on the shoulder.

“Alexander has never, and will never, lose a battle.” She gazed around the tent and sniffed the sour air. Getting to her feet, she picked up her sword belt. The leather was worn, the scabbard scuffed but the short, broad Macedonian sword was sharp and bright. She pushed it back into the sheath and slung the belt over her shoulder.

“I’ll defend you Simeon,” she teased, “but I’m not staying here.”

They went out into the camp. Soldiers were strapping on armor. A troop of Thessalian cavalrymen thundered by. Cretan archers clustered together, jabbering in their strange tongue; their stout quivers were stocked with arrows, and long horn bows were slung across their backs. Officers swaggered about, canes in hand, pushing and shoving men into position. Of Alexander and his commanders, there was no sign. The Macedonian camp was on the brow of a hill. Down below, the plain was now hidden by a great cloud of white dust as the main divisions marched down to their arranged positions. Now and again Miriam caught a flash of armor, a colored banner, a swirling cloak. The camp became quiet. Only pages, servants, clerks, and scribes were left, as unit after unit hurried after the main divisions. Simeon seized Miriam’s arm and pointed farther up the hill, where it rose sharply toward an overhanging promontory.

“We’ll get a better view there.”

Miriam hurried after him. She felt rather ridiculous-her dress was cumbersome, the scabbard she had so dramatically slung over her shoulder was bruising her. The soldiers called out crudely.

“Do you want me to carry that for you?”

“I’ve got a better sword than that,” another bawled, “long and sharp with a firm point!”

Miriam made an obscene gesture with her fingers and hurried after Simeon. They climbed the hill, the pebble shale shifting under their feet. They grasped onto bushes and the long coarse grass; at last they reached the top where they found others-clerks, camp followers, servants, grooms, and ostlers-also thronging about, staring down at the plain below. Miriam pushed her way to the front and gasped in astonishment.

The dust cloud had lifted. In the distance soared the great walls of seven-gated Thebes; its turrets, towers, and battlements were fearsome. From the walls rose great plumes of smoke where the townspeople had prepared braziers and bronze pots of fire against an attempt to scale the walls: however, the main activity was the two armies now facing each other on the plain below. The Thebans were arranged in a curving line before the main Electra Gate. On their flanks was the cavalry and, between these, great bronze-clad phalanxes ten or twelve lines deep. The Theban gibe had prompted Alexander into action for rolling across the plain to meet them was the Macedonian Army. In the center were the footmen with their long lances, shields locked together, helmets glittering in the sun, horse plumes nodding in the strong breeze.

From where they stood, they could hear the faint cries of officers. Miriam watched spellbound. She couldn’t make out individuals but she knew Alexander would be in the center, marching with his companions like any common foot soldier. The tactics employed by both sides were the same as those used at any battle between Greek states: phalanxes of footman against phalanxes of footmen. The two sides were supposed to clash, savage hand-to-hand fighting would ensue. One side would waver and flee the field, yet Miriam knew that this would be different. Alexander had taken the military manuals and torn them up. She had seen that in Thessaly: where foot soldiers were not supposed to go, Alexander would take them. Tactics that would horrify any other commander were used at a moment’s notice. Surprise and cunning were no strangers to Alexander but here in the open, in this great dusty plain before Thebes? Miriam watched, grasping her brother so tightly that he winced as her nails dug into his wrist.

“You are hurting me, Miriam!”

“Wait,” she said. “Something is about to happen.”

The Theban line had also begun to move-marching toward the Macedonians to break their impetus before they charged. Abruptly the Macedonian line changed. Trumpets rang out, banners rose and dipped. The Macedonian army began to turn on its axis. Instead of meeting the Thebans head-on, they were now moving toward the Thebans’ right flank. At the same time the Macedonian line began to lengthen.

“They are going to outflank them,” Simeon explained. “They are going to push the Thebans back on each other. Roll the line up.”

Confusion had broken out among the Thebans. They were unused to this. In warfare, line was supposed to meet line, not shift and turn. The Theban ranks became staggered. Miriam spied gaps, then the armies clashed. Great clouds of dust rose. The sound of trumpets and war horns was broken by faint screams and shouts.

“Can you see what’s happening?” she shouted.

A sharp-eyed ostler was peering through the dust.

“Some of the Thebans are breaking!” he shouted. “They are fleeing back to the postern gate. It’s been left open and undefended.”

In the Cadmea, the great gray stone citadel that overlooked the city of Thebes, the spy and assassin whom Hecaetus called the Oracle pulled a military cloak about his shoulders setting the hood firmly around his face. He tapped the hilt of the sword he had taken from the armory and hurried up the steps onto the curtain wall overlooking the city. Other members of the garrison were assembled there, shouting and gesticulating. The spy gazed down the rocky escarpment. The great palisade built by the Thebans so as to hem them in was now deserted. The sound of hideous battle came from the city.

“Alexander has broken in!” a voice shouted. “The king is here!”

Discussion and debate broke out. Should the garrison help or stay in the citadel? There was no Memnon or Lysander to impose order. The spy smiled to himself; that was his doing. What did it matter if Thebes fell? He looked down at the courtyard where the rest of the garrison was milling about. Some were dressed in half-armor, others totally unprepared.

“I can see plumes of smoke!” someone shouted. “They are setting fire to the houses!”