Paul Doherty - A Murder in Thebes

“Of course,” Antigone added, “it must have been some form of locket that contained instructions on how to remove the Crown.”

“In the end the secret wasn’t so hard to figure out,” Miriam declared. “It’s just that we never realized that the iron guardrail was really a rod, with a hook and magnet on the end.” She laughed. “It was more a puzzle than a mystery.”

“Yet you are no further to reclaiming the Crown!”

“No, I’m not,” Miriam replied. “And, for all I know, it may now be many miles from Thebes.” She heard a rapping on the door. “Lift the bar,” she urged.

Antigone did so. “Come in!” she called.

The officer entered, helmet cradled under his arm.

“Mistress Miriam, Demetrius is outside. He has something to show you.”

Miriam followed him out. Demetrius was holding the bridle of a horse; across its back, covered with a bloody, dirty sheet, was the corpse of a man. Miriam glimpsed a blood-stained head on one side and the military boots dangling down over the other.

“You were right.” Demetrius cheeks were tear-stained. “It didn’t take us very long.”

Miriam went down and lifted the corpse’s head. A deep gash gouged one side where the skull had been staved in; the rest of the face was covered in dust.

“We found the horse about eight miles from Thebes,” Demetrius exclaimed, coming around. “It was off the main highway, cropping some grass. There was no sign of Alcibiades.”

“Wouldn’t the assassin have driven the horse away?” Simeon asked.

“He would have tried,” Demetrius explained, “but it’s a cavalry mount. It would always return to where its rider had left it.”

“So how did you find Alcibiades?”

“We searched through a rocky outcrop. We found bloodstains, signs of a newly dug grave.” Demetrius gently touched the corpse. “I’m taking you back to the Cadmea,” he murmured, his face tight. His eyes had a wild angry look.

“He was no traitor, Israelite. He was a soldier, a good companion. He would get drunk, and, yes, he had his weaknesses, but he was a brave Macedonian. I won’t hear differently. I’ll build a funeral pyre; he deserves a hero’s end.”

“Do that,” Miriam replied. She clasped Demetrius’s hand. “He was no traitor. He was probably lured out to some meeting and then killed.” She looked up at the lowering sky and felt the rain on her face. “But don’t build the pyre tonight,” she murmured, “we are going to be drenched. Tomorrow perhaps.” Miriam thanked Antigone and, followed by Simeon, took the path through the olive grove back toward the camp.

“You now believe Alcibiades was innocent?” Simeon asked.

“I do.” Miriam paused. “I am sorry for Demetrius. He has lost a lover and the rain will prevent a funeral pyre.” She smiled at Simeon. “But look on the bright side: at least Olympias will not be able to stage her play!”

The rain fell in sheets, drenching the camp; it seemed as if the heavens themselves were stretching down to complete the picture of devastation around Thebes. Miriam sat in her tent half listening to the heralds postponing the play that was supposed to take place the following morning. She looked at Castor standing before her.

“You are sure?”

“Mistress, as I am that I am standing here. The staircase was dark but the cloak the man was wearing was very similar to the one that that priestess wore.”

“But it was not the priestess herself?”

“Oh, no,” the boy said hurriedly. “But I remember that it was thick and gray, the edges trimmed with red stitches.”

Miriam glanced at Simeon.

“Very observant,” her brother replied. “That’s what Antigone was wearing but such cloaks are fairly common.”

Miriam gave the boy a coin and watched him go out, splashing in the mud.

“Brother, pass me Antigone’s gift.”

Simeon tossed it across. Miriam pressed it against her face and sniffed carefully. She could detect nothing, so she unrolled it. Near the middle, where it had been draped around the priestess’s throat, she sniffed again.

“Brother, here! Smell this; can you catch a fragrance?”

Simeon took the cloth and sniffed at it. “A slight one,” he said, “of perfume.”

Miriam took it back and sat holding the piece of silk.

“Everything is wrong,” she murmured. She recalled Antigone squatting in the temple, watching them make their discovery; the table in the garret above Memnon’s chamber and the fragrance she had detected there.

“But that’s impossible!” she exclaimed.

“What is?” Simeon demanded.

“I smelled some perfume on a table in the Cadmea. It’s the same as on this piece of silk.”

“Perfumes are common,” Simeon replied, “as are cloaks. You don’t think Antigone is the Oracle, do you?”

“No.” Miriam shook her head. “I’ve spoken to virtually everyone who used that tower. Never once were any of the priestesses seen in the citadel. But, it is a coincidence.”

“Antigone couldn’t kill a man,” Simeon declared.

“No, no she couldn’t.”

The flap was pulled back and Alexander, accompanied by Hecaetus, slipped into the tent. The king shook himself like a dog and sat on Simeon’s bed, staring across at Miriam. He had lost his look of exhaustion; the skin around his eyes was smooth. He wiped the rain from his face.

“I’m so glad the weather’s broken,” he declared. “It’s kept Mother in her tent. She hates the rain. She even talks of going back to Pella sooner than she’d planned. Hecaetus, would you like to go with her?”

“Don’t threaten me, my lord. You know I would be dead within a month. Olympias would kill me just for the sport of it.”

Alexander laughed.

“Mother hates rain.” He leaned forward. “Her face gets wet, the paint runs, and she hates to look old. That’s why she stopped campaigning with Father and why we moved to Pella. There’s supposed to be less rainfall there. Miriam, I want you to pray to your known God that it rains until the army marches. Yap! Yap! Nag! Nag! Anyway, I received your message about the Crown.”

Miriam told him what she had discovered. Alexander sat, fingers to his lips, listening attentively. When she finished, he stretched toward her and gripped her hand.

“You were always better at logic than I. I never dreamed that black iron bar was the solution. However, it won’t bring back the Crown. It won’t capture the Oracle, and Memnon’s blood, as well as Lysander’s, still cries to the gods for vengeance.”

“Does it really matter?” Simeon asked. “Soon the army will move; Demosthenes has fled from Athens. You are undisputed captain-general of Greece.”

Alexander clapped his hands.

“You are right. What happened here will soon be forgotten. Until I cross the Hellespont. Then Demosthenes will scurry back to Athens.” His face grew tight. “And do what he is very good at-whisper, gossip, gossip! Say that Alexander is cursed! That the removal of the Crown was a sign of the gods’ anger toward me! So, I want that Crown! I want the Oracle crucified!”

“This spy. .” Miriam turned to Hecaetus. “Before all this began, you knew there was a spy in the Cadmea?”

“I knew for two reasons,” the master of spies replied languidly. “First, the rumors in Thebes itself. Second, we intercepted a letter from Demosthenes to his Persian paymasters.”

“What did it say?” Miriam demanded angrily.

Hecaetus closed his eyes and swallowed hard.

“The actual quotation was, ‘So you have been informed that there’s a spy in the Cadmea to harm Macedon’s interests?’”

“Why didn’t you tell me this?”

“I did tell you, in as many words!”