Paul Doherty - A Murder in Thebes

“It’s only my brother,” Miriam confided. “But this is where Jocasta stood the night she was killed isn’t it? You were with her, remember?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

Miriam turned so that her back was to the window.

“You loved Jocasta?”

“Like a mother.” Antigone became wary.

“She was old,” Miriam continued. “My mother died in childbirth, but I tell you this, priestess, I would not have let her go out in the dead of the night to meet a ghoulishly dressed stranger standing under the olive trees.”

“What are you saying?” Antigone’s hands fell to her side. “What are you implying?”

“I just think it’s very strange,” Miriam repeated. “Here you are, Thebes is devastated, a killer on the loose. Jocasta sees this possible killer from her chamber window.”

“But she ignored my advice, she wanted to go,” Antigone broke in. “Jocasta really thought it was Oedipus, or at least a friend.”

“Shouldn’t you have accompanied her? And when she didn’t return, why didn’t you become alarmed? Why not send a messenger to the camp or even gather the others and go looking?”

“But it was common knowledge that Jocasta went out and visited the shrine.”

“At the invitation of a stranger?” Miriam snapped. “There’s a contradiction, Antigone. I asked your sisters downstairs. They thought Jocasta had gone out to the shrine that night. I wager they didn’t know she had left with a stranger; if they had, they would have become alarmed. I just find it overstrange, that you let your so-called mother wander off into the darkness and never turned a hair, at least not until we arrived with the dreadful news.”

“Jocasta was a law unto herself,” Antigone retorted. “She was high priestess.”

“We’ll leave that for the moment.”

Miriam sat down on a stool, Antigone on the cot bed. Miriam noticed that her hand was out, just touching the rim of the bolster.

“You gave me a lovely gift.” Miriam forced a smile. “A piece of blue silk. I could smell your perfume on it. I detected the same fragrance on a table in the citadel, but you didn’t visit there, did you?”

“Of course not!”

“And that page boy who brought the message from the camp yesterday. He claimed to have seen a woman dressed in a cloak similar to the one you wore coming down the steps of the Cadmea. He was intrigued because, although the cloak was a woman’s and the fragrance was certainly not worn by any man, the figure was definitely a male.”

“I’m not responsible,” Antigone’s gaze didn’t waver, “for what went on in the Cadmea.”

“Oh but you are,” Miriam declared. “Do you know, Antigone, that I think you are a killer, a murderess! With your shaven head, your slender form, your doll-like eyes, and, above all, your blunt speech, you could deceive Olympias, that queen of serpents!”

“Are you going to say that I am the Oracle?” Antigone accused. “The spy in the citadel?”

“Everything to its own,” Miriam murmured, “and in its own time. You say you were Pelliades’ niece?”

“Of course.”

“And Pelliades came out here to visit you often?”

“Naturally, I was his kinswoman.”

“And you and he would just talk, would you? Is that why a leading Theban councillor came to the shrine, to see his beloved niece? Or was it something else? Do you know, Antigone, I believe you seduced one of the officers in the citadel. If you painted your face, lost that reverential look, and donned an oil wig like the women of Egypt wear, you’d be very beautiful, quite ravishing.”

“I thank you for the compliment,” came the cool reply.

“You seduced one of the garrison officers, a man open to bribery. He became the Oracle. You told him what to do. Rumors were sweeping Greece that Alexander was dead and the Macedonian army no more. In Thebes, Pelliades and Telemachus fanned these sparks to a flame, especially when they received confirmation from a Macedonian officer.”

“So I deceived my uncle?”

“Oh, don’t look so round-eyed, Antigone, you know you really should act in Olympias’s play. The queen would take to you like she does to one of her vipers. You didn’t really care about Pelliades or the Thebans. And it wasn’t very difficult for your lover in the citadel to confirm the rumors, started by other Persian spies, that Alexander of Macedon was no more.”

Antigone’s brows knit together.

“But I don’t understand, Israelite. You talked about my uncle’s visits here and yet the spy was in the citadel?”

“That was the transparent beauty of your scheme.” Miriam shifted on her stool. “Until the siege began, the Macedonians were able to wander where they wished. That’s how you enticed the officer, wasn’t it? A man who came here to see the shrine, susceptible to your charms and to the wealth and prospects you offered. At first he may have been reluctant, but eventually, like all traitors, he embraced the whole treason, just as he embraced you, body and soul. You played a very treacherous game. You told your uncle that one of the garrison had come to the shrine. Oh, you. .” Miriam shook her head, “. . you wouldn’t tell him that he was your lover, no more than you’d reveal that you were a Persian spy, but you would tell him that he’d confessed to you some dreadful news, that Alexander and his army had been destroyed. Pelliades and Telemachus, eager to throw off Macedonian rule, would scarcely believe such marvelous news. However, thanks to Persian gold, similar rumors were seeping through all of Greece, so they accepted it as a truth revealed by the gods. They would often come out here to see how much more you had learned and you would tell them about the garrison. How some of the officers were weak but that the two leaders Memnon and Lysander, well, they were Alexander’s men, body and soul, and they wouldn’t frighten easily.” Miriam paused. Antigone was now watching her like a cat, head down slightly, glaring at her from under her eyebrows. “Pelliades,” Miriam continued, “encouraged you further; that’s why you used Jocasta and the priestesses here to open negotiations with the Macedonian in the citadel.”

“But Jocasta was her own person,” Antigone snapped.

“Jocasta loved you,” Miriam retorted. “I could see that. She would do whatever you asked. Go out into the night to meet a stranger, or act as the broker of peace for your uncle. Now we come to Lysander.” Miriam brushed the hair from her brow. “I really thought you were telling us the truth behind Lysander’s death, about one of the Theban councillors almost betraying the identity of the spy in the citadel. It was all a lie. The spy never went into Thebes. He never met Pelliades, Telemachus, or anyone else. The only person he met,” Miriam pointed across the chamber, “was you, somewhere in the olive grove. He’d come here disguised as a woman, wouldn’t he? I suppose that was your idea? You lent him the perfume, the paint for his face, the gray cloak. You told him what to say and what to do. To any onlooker, you’d be two women talking.”

“Do you have proof of all this?” Antigone intervened.

“Logic is better than proof. Antigone, why should a Macedonian officer dress up as a woman to meet Thebans? They’d see through the disguise and it would afford him little protection. One member of the Macedonian garrison nearly stumbled on the truth: poor Lysander. One day, by chance, he came into the grove. He glimpsed something extraordinary, one of his compatriots dressed as a woman, slipping through the trees. Now, Lysander probably dismissed this as some sexual escapade. He may not even have been sure who the man was. What he didn’t know was that the spy had also glimpsed him. Frightened about what Lysander might eventually do, you persuaded your uncle to open formal negotiations and entice Lysander out. You were very persuasive. Pelliades would listen. If you could entice Lysander, even Memnon, out of the citadel and kill both of them, your spy in the Cadmea would be protected and the others might be persuaded to surrender. In the end, Pelliades had to accept Lysander alone.”