Paul Doherty - A Murder in Thebes

“And if what you say is true,” Antigone demanded, “why should I have done all this?”

“Because you’ve got a soul as dead as night! Because you are bored, but above all because you are a Persian spy!”

“That’s nonsense!”

“No, it isn’t. Persian spies are as many as sparrows in a tree. They work throughout Greece, particularly in the principal cities, places like Thebes and Athens where resistance to Macedonian leadership is the most intense. Persia didn’t care whether Thebes stood or fell. In fact, Darius would have been delighted that Alexander was provoked into devastating a principal Greek city. He will be even more pleased when the Crown of Oedipus arrives in Persopolis. How he’ll crow with triumph! How lavish his rewards will be for this spy who achieved so much, who soured Alexander’s great victory! He could fabricate some story.” Miriam waved her hand. “How the gods of Greece gave this Crown, which so mysteriously disappeared, to the king of kings in Persia.”

“Why would the Persians use someone like me?”

“Oh, they probably met you through Pelliades. Priestesses hear all the gossip. They can influence events, especially one like you who, perhaps, had grown bored with tending a small shrine and living in a house with priestesses you didn’t give a fig for. The Persians must have been delighted with your work, particularly when you ensnared an officer in the garrison at the Cadmea.”

“But you have no proof.” Antigone stretched out her hand. “Where is the proof? Who is this accomplice? Where is the gold the Persians are supposed to have given me?”

“Oh, you’d collect it as you travel,” Miriam replied. “And it would be nothing to what you’d receive in Persia. Alexander will question you-well, not in person; Hecaetus the Master of the King’s secrets will do that. And then, of course, your accomplice.”

“What, Alcibiades?”

“Oh, no,” Miriam retorted. “He was your protection. I am sure your uncle asked who the spy was. You gave the enigmatic reply, ‘a disciple of Socrates,’ a reference to Alcibiades. A good choice, a man well known for his liking of women’s clothing. Poor Alcibiades would protect your lover and, at the appropriate time, divert suspicion-”

“From me? I had nothing-”

“From you,” Miriam continued softly. “Your lover did that by slaying the two Cretan archers; he came back to the grove and caught them unawares. His attack on the house was cunning; he might kill me and end my snooping as well as divert any suspicions that there was any collusion between himself and a priestess.”

“Give me his name,” Antigone gibed.

“No, why don’t-” Miriam stopped: Antigone had taken a knife from underneath the pillow and was balancing it in one hand.

“What are you going to do?”

“We were talking here,” Antigone replied, “and this secret assassin, this shadow known as Oedipus, came through the open window.”

Miriam got to her feet, rolling her cloak around one arm. In the grove of Midas both girls and boys had been taught to fight, but she always felt so clumsy. Antigone was now balancing on the balls of her feet, and she held the knife expertly. Miriam backed to the window.

“Simeon!” she screamed, “up here!”

She picked up a stool and threw it. Antigone sidestepped. It crashed into the wall as Antigone struck, lithe and swift as a cat. Miriam sidestepped but stumbled. Antigone turned. Miriam caught the hand holding the dagger and desperately struggled to grasp the other, which was pummeling her stomach and chest. All she had to do was stop the dagger from coming down. Antigone was strong and agile. Miriam found it hard to press the dagger back. She heard a pounding on the door, the latch rattling but Antigone must have locked it behind her. The dagger came down. She was aware of Antigone’s glaring eyes but she watched the blade, feeling the muscle ripple in the wrist. Miriam freed her other arm, smacking the heel of her hand into Antigone’s chin. Antigone staggered back. Miriam was now aware of the crashing against the door. Simeon must have arrived with the soldiers. Antigone stood upright, even as the lock began to splinter. One minute she had the dagger out and the next she turned it, driving the blade deep into her own heart. All the time her eyes watched Miriam, a faint smile on her lips, even as the blood bubbles appeared. Miriam stood tense; she found she couldn’t move. Antigone came toward her, one hand out, the other still grasping the dagger hilt; her eyes rolled up and she crashed to the floor. Miriam crouched down beside her, watching the blood pump out of her mouth.

The door snapped back on its leather hinges. Simeon was beside her, soldiers milled about. She heard the other priestesses wailing on the stairs. Simeon put a cloak around her.

“Is she the Oracle?” he asked.

“No, but she was his lover,” Miriam replied. “And tonight’s business isn’t finished. I was foolish to come up here alone. Very, very foolish.”

Simeon led her downstairs. He wanted to take her into the kitchen but Miriam glimpsed the white faces and staring eyes of the other priestesses.

“Not here!” she urged.

They went out of the house and across the yard into the olive grove. An officer caught up with them. Miriam was aware of sitting down beside a camp fire. She laughed softly when honey cakes were passed to her followed by a deep bowl of watered wine. She couldn’t eat the cakes, but she sipped at the wine. Simeon kept questioning her but it was hard to concentrate. At last the wine and the heat of the fire made her relax. Secretly she was glad that Antigone had taken that way out. It made things easier, both for her and for what was to happen in the citadel. She looked up through the branches. The night sky was showing the first pinpricks of light. The rain clouds had broken, though rain still dripped through the trees and the ground was damp.

“Simeon, send a message to the citadel! Tell Demetrius and the officers to assemble in the mess hall. This time I want a corps of guardsmen, in the tower and outside.”

“Will you be all right?”

“Please!” Miriam grasped his hand. “Just do as I ask.”

Two hours later, as the sky lightened, Miriam entered the Cadmea and made her way across to the mess hall. Patroclus, Demetrius, Melitus, and Cleon were present, sharing a jug of beer and a platter of oat cakes. Miriam sensed that they knew this was important; the one she suspected looked pale-faced and heavy-eyed, nervous and fidgety. Men from the guards regiment stood around the hall: grim, stark figures in their bronze armor, the great plumes on their helmets making them bigger, casting long shadows. Outside, in the courtyard and passageways, other guards stood in silent vigil as Cretan archers patrolled the ramparts. Miriam took her seat at the head of the table, Simeon sitting on her right; she joined her hands before her and stared at Demetrius.

“First, I’ve come to apologize. I understand that later today Alcibiades’ body will be burned?”

“As befitting a Macedonian hero.”

“Quite so,” Miriam replied. “And I myself will sprinkle incense on the pyre. Alcibiades was a good soldier, a loyal officer. He was foully murdered by the man we know as the Oracle. But,” she added quickly, “there is not one spy but two. The first,” she didn’t falter in her story, “is Antigone, a priestess at the shrine of Oedipus. She has been closely questioned by Hecaetus, and we know who her accomplice is.”

The one she suspected pushed back his stool slightly.

“No one can leave.” Miriam stared at a point on the far wall. “Anyone who attempts to do so will be arrested.”

“In which case,” Demetrius added dryly, “we had best wait and listen to your story, Israelite.”