Paul Doherty - A Murder in Thebes

“Say it again.”

Hecaetus repeated the phrase.

“So, the spy could be working for anyone: Demosthenes, the Persians, as well as the Thebans?”

“So it appears to me. Anyway,” Hecaetus added crossly, “it’s the same thing. Thebes relies on Athens, and Athens relies on Persian gold.”

“But bear with me.” Miriam held her hand up. “This was a letter from Demosthenes to the Persians?”

“Yes.”

“And he is repeating information received from the Persians?”

“I suppose so.”

“And why do you call him the Oracle?”

“It’s a word Demosthenes uses in the next sentence, ‘This Oracle,’” Hecaetus closed his eyes, “‘could be of more value than the one at Delphi.’”

“So,” Miriam persisted, “the spy could be working for the Persians?”

“Of course.”

“But who would have informed the Persians?”

Hecaetus blinked.

“What are you saying?” Alexander asked. He loosened the tight strap on one of his sandals and rubbed the top of his foot against his leg. He cocked his head sideways, a common mannerism whenever he was puzzled.

“It’s possible,” Miriam replied, “that one of the garrison simply opened negotiations with Persia. However, that’s very dangerous; he would probably have had to use someone in Thebes, or even more perilous, someone in Athens.”

“And the more people know, the more dangerous it is.”

“Naturally.”

“So?”

“There is another alternative.”

“You mean?” Hecaetus broke in, “Persia already had a spy here, who, in turn, bribed a member of our garrison?”

“It’s a possible interpretation of Demosthenes’ letter.”

“And?” Alexander asked.

Miriam heaved a sigh.

“And nothing, my lord; that’s as far as I can go. But, I beg one favor. Have the soldiers on the shrine and at priestesses’ house doubled. Tell the officers to be most vigilant. The priestesses are not to leave.”

“I can’t very well stop them.” Alexander got to his feet. “I gave them my word that they would be protected and given safe passage.”

“It’s raining,” Miriam replied. “Surely, my lord, priestesses cannot travel in such weather?”

Alexander came back and ruffled her hair.

“Let me know what happens, and by the way, Miriam, hide that piece of blue silk. If mother sees, it she’ll want it.”

Hecaetus would have stayed but Miriam insisted that she wanted to be alone. When her visitors had gone, she picked up the blue silk, lay down on the bed, and laid it across her face. She used to do this when she was a child. Different colors meant different worlds. She’d make up stories or pretend the piece of cloth was a magic mirror that would let her see her mother or Jerusalem. Now she saw the Cadmea, that grim citadel, and its lonely tower. Outside the Thebes had ringed it: Lysander’s corpse was rotting on the cross. Memnon was hiding in his chamber, wondering if he was hearing ghosts. And that garret above. The figure on the stairs dressed as a woman. Lysander squatting in the courtyard, surprised at what he had seen. Images were jumbled in her mind. She couldn’t make sense of them, and even if she did, what sort of proof could she offer? Every line she followed had proved futile.

“Let me go back,” she murmured.

“Miriam, you are talking to yourself!”

“Shut up, brother, I am thinking!” She recalled the different conversations she’d had with the officers, the pages, and Antigone. She recalled Telemachus, defiant yet driven with anguish at what had happened to Thebes. And what was it Telemachus had said about Memnon flying from the top of the tower? But he hadn’t fallen from the top. He’d fallen from his window. So why had Telemachus said that? Why hadn’t he said he’d been pushed? Miriam pulled the piece of silk away from her face and sat up. “Because he did fall from the top!” she shouted.

“Sister, what is the matter?”

“Memnon didn’t fall from his window,” she declared.

“From where, then?”

“Telemachus talked about Memnon flying from the top of the tower. I think it was the only mistake he made, but that’s why he was killed. He could have made other slips, though I am just beginning to wonder how much Telemachus really knew. You see, brother, Memnon’s chamber was locked and guarded, his war dog was with him. No one could go through the door, and, if anyone tried to come through that window, the dog would have attacked and Memnon would have fought for his life.” She paused. “We must turn the problem around. No one came through the window. I now believe Memnon climbed through it, probably with the help of someone else.”

“Where was he going?” Simeon asked.

“He was climbing to the top of the tower!”

“Like a fly?” Simeon teased.

“No, he was being helped. Someone persuaded Memnon to leave that chamber. Someone persuaded Memnon that he was in great danger.”

“Which is why he was dressed?”

“Of course. He climbed the rope and reached the top of the tower.”

“But Memnon would have still struggled.”

“No, brother, Memnon told his war dog to stay silent. He left, climbing the rope, but as he reached the top, the person who was supposed to be helping him, instead of grasping his hand and pulling him over, pushed him away. Memnon, shocked and surprised, fell to his death. The assassin pulled up the rope and disappeared.”

“But who was the assassin?”

“I am not too sure. It’s one of those officers. Simeon, go find the pages!”

Simeon reluctantly agreed. A short while later, he brought a bedraggled Castor and Pollux into the tent. They looked nervous, slightly wary but Miriam assured them all was well. They protested that they’d already answered her questions, but Miriam said it was important so the two pages, sitting on a rather tattered, woollen rug, repeated their earlier conversations about the officers and their private lives, what scandal and gossip existed. After they’d been paid and left, Miriam got up, put a pair of battered boots on and fastened her cloak around her.

“Where are you going?”

“You are coming with me, Simeon. I want you to do exactly what I ask.”

They went out of the tent-Miriam talking, Simeon protesting, but at last he’d agreed. He went down to the quartermaster’s stores and came back. Miriam, meanwhile, had seen the captain of the guard and, with a squad of soldiers behind them, set off for the priestesses’ house. It was cold and growing dark. All those who could had found shelter either in the camp or in the ruins of the city. The olive grove was a popular place, the men sheltering beneath the trees, clustering around camp fires. The air was thick with the odor of sweaty leather and cooking. The priestesses’ house was well guarded but lights in both the lower and upper windows showed that the women had not yet retired. Merope answered their knock and took them into the small dining chamber. Antigone came downstairs, her fingers stained with ink.

“I’ve been making inventories,” she apologized.

“Could you take me to Jocasta’s chamber?” Miriam asked.

Antigone looked surprised.

“Please!” Miriam insisted, “it’s very important!”

Antigone shrugged and went up the stairs. Miriam quickly stepped into the kitchen, where the other priestesses were seated around the wooden table. She asked them a few questions then broke off as Antigone called from the top of the stairs.

“I am sorry,” Miriam apologized, joining her. “I am curious as to where you are all going.”

Antigone had already lit the lamps in Jocasta’s chamber.

“It’s rather warm despite the rain,” Miriam declared. She opened the shutters and stared out. She saw Simeon standing below, dressed in a military cloak. Antigone came behind her and gasped.