Paul Doherty: A Murder in Thebes

The Oracle stared across at the great high tower of the citadel, which housed the officer’s chambers. The windows were all shuttered, a grim, stark place though one where good work had been done. Darius III in Persepolis would be pleased, and the Persian bankers in Argos and Corinth would put aside more silver and gold. He could play this game as long as he wanted, do as much damage as he could, and leave, whenever he wished, with his heart’s desire, the love and light of his life.

The Oracle walked down the steps, across the dusty yard, and into the tower: a great square four-storied building. Some people said it had been built when Oedipus was king. The spy stopped, scuffing the dust with his thonged sandal. Oedipus! He knew what Alexander would do if he took Thebes. He’d protect the shrines, particularly the small one in the olive groves that contained the Iron Crown of Oedipus. Would Alexander seize this for himself? Or would that be seen as sacrilege? And what about the harsh-faced Jocasta, the high priestess, she who had negotiated a truce when the news of Alexander’s alleged death had swept through the city? The spy leaned against a wall and crossed his arms. Jocasta was old, and that stern face! Those black eyes gleaming beneath the oiled wig she wore over her balding head. The Oracle had been informed that Jocasta would not give up the Crown lightly. It had been in Thebes for hundred of years, so why surrender it to a Macedonian upstart?

The spy rubbed his mouth. He’d be glad to be out of the citadel, to taste a little wine, eat good food. He was eager to plot the escape of both himself and his beloved. He walked up the stairs. On the second floor, he paused outside Memnon’s chamber. The old, grizzled captain had spent his last days there. The spy touched the latch; it was locked. From behind the heavy wooden door he heard the dead captain’s mastiff, Hercules, whine mournfully. He should not disturb him. There were shouts from below; the spy turned and hurried back down the winding staircase. The courtyard was now a hive of activity. Soldiers were arming, eager to break out and join the plundering. Sharp-eyed scouts on the walls claimed they could already see Macedonian banners. The spy made his decision. When the gates were opened he would slip out and mingle with the rest. As for the Crown of Oedipus? How much, he wondered, would Alexander’s enemies pay to have their hands on that?

Jocasta led her priestesses up the white, chalk path that wound through the shadowy olive grove surrounding the sacred shrine of Oedipus. Jocasta moved purposefully. Despite her age she wielded her staff, pulling herself forward. She must get to the shrine! She must be there when the Macedonians broke through. She touched the sacred pectoral resting against her chest, a thick gold crown in its center, then stopped so abruptly that the other priestesses bumped into each other. She gazed at them sharply, dressed from head to toe in white robes, the oiled wigs on their shaven heads slightly askew, their faces dusty and sweat-streaked.

“You should not be worried,” she announced. “The Macedonians will not hurt the shrine or its worshipers. But we must be there. We must guard our sacred place.”

“Mother. .” The youngest, Antigone, pushed herself forward. “Mother, we have heard stories. Houses are burning, women and children are being dragged off. The cavalry has fled while the foot soldiers are left unprotected.” Tears arose in her eyes.

“We all have kin, menfolk in the army,” Jocasta declared tartly. “Soldiers fight and die. Priests and priestesses pray. We each have our place and we must be in ours.”

She hurried on. They turned the corner. Jocasta’s heart sank. The six guards who manned the sacred doors were gone.

“Cowards,” she hissed.

She climbed the crumbling steps, steadying herself on one of the pillars around which ivy tightly curled. The portico was rather shabby and dusty. Jocasta took the keys that hung on her belt and inserted one into the door. She turned it and the door swung open. Jocasta stepped into the darkness and sighed. It was cold but still smelled fragrantly of incense and the salted, perfumed water they used to purify themselves. They now did this hurriedly-dipping fingers into the stoups of holy water and sprinkling themselves before taking small pinches of salt, which they rubbed between their hands and around their lips. Jocasta pulled the white linen hood over her wig. She joined her hands, fingers pointing upward, and tried to compose herself. She turned and bowed to the statue of Oedipus, it was of white marble, though now cracked and dusty with age. The body was sinewy, that of a soldier-one hand holding a club, the other a shield. His bandaged eyes gazed toward the bronze doors that shielded the shrine. Jocasta stared up at the face. Was this really the likeness of Oedipus? The fleshy cheeks, the jutting lips, and prominent nose? Was this the man-god who had married his mother and killed his father, and yet, if Sophocles was to be believed, still had the courage and favor of the gods to confront such sins?

Jocasta, followed by the other priestesses, moved across the dark vestibule to the small shrine of Apollo, the hunter. The high priestess gazed up. The god’s features were smooth, girlish, the hair neatly massed, falling down around his brow and ears. The sculptor had dressed Apollo in a simple chiffon and hunting boots, a girdle slung round the slim waist. In one hand a bow, in the other an arrow. Jocasta’s eyes filled with tears. A true god’s face! She had been brought here by her own mother, and though she had never confessed it, had fallen in love with this statue. It represented the brother she had always wanted, the husband she so vainly pined for, and the son she. . Jocasta clutched her stomach. Her womb was shriveled, her breasts merely dry sacks of skin. She watched the oil lamps in the niches dance from the draft that seeped through the open door.

“We must lock it,” she declared.

The two priestesses hurried off. The door was closed. Jocasta inserted the key and turned the lock, which had been intricately and cunningly wrought by a locksmith hired by the temple. The priestesses then made themselves ready and moved toward the inner shrine. The bronze doors were unlocked and opened. The priestesses stood on the threshold behind Jocasta and gazed into the sacred place of their city. All was in order. The black marble floor glinted in the light from the alabaster oil lamps located in niches around the white marble walls. Jocasta bowed her head. She intoned: “How great are you, oh Lord Apollo!” / Mighty in war, mighty in peace! / And you, Oedipus, true son of Thebes! / Be with us at this dangerous hour!”

As if in answer to her prayer, the sun, which had slipped behind the clouds, now moved out, and its rays came through the narrow window, bathing the shrine in light. Jocasta moved slowly forward, eyes fixed on the white pillar at the far end of the room. On its sharpened end was the Crown of Oedipus, the sacred relic of Thebes. The Crown was of gray iron, small in circumference but broad-rimmed. In the center a blood-red ruby glowed. It was fixed to the post with iron clasps. Jocasta smiled and touched the sacred pectoral around her neck. Only she, the chief priestess, knew how these clasps could be removed. She stared at the charcoal pit that glowed behind the black iron curtain bar; a sea of fire, it gave a blast of heat stirred up by the drafts blowing in from under the door. Beyond that was a small rim of marble, spiked, as if dozens of spears jutted up from under the floor; behind these, around the pillar that bore the Crown, the snake pit, which teemed with venomous vipers specially collected from the hills around Thebes. The snakes could curl in the darkness and slither away beneath the floor but they never left the pit.