Paul Doherty: A Murder in Thebes

The priestesses knelt on the dark brocaded cushions specially laid out. Jocasta gazed at the Crown. This was a symbol of Theban might. A sacred place where the generals and leaders of the council took their oaths to defend the city. Only a few weeks ago this shrine had been thronged as the leaders of the revolt, hands outstretched, swore the most binding oaths to free themselves from Macedonian tyranny. Jocasta had been their witness, even though she quietly despaired at their male arrogance; such hubris would surely bring down the anger of the gods. She had not believed the rumors; she believed that Alexander had the makings of greatness. She had quietly warned the leaders of the rashness of their course of action, but who was she? They dismissed her as a garrulous old priestess. True, she’d had her dreams, but what had one called her? A silly Cassandra? They should have believed their Cassandra that Thebes, like Troy, was about to fall. She’d heard of insults shouted at Macedonians from the city walls; she’d also listened to the travelers and merchants who came here to make votive offerings. How Alexander would brook no opposition, determined to prove that he was a better general than his father. Indeed, that he was a god incarnate. Jocasta bowed her head and led the praises to Apollo and the other guardians of Thebes. Her sisters, the other priestesses, answered, but their words were faltering. At the end, Antigone who, despite her youth, was impetuous in her speech, leaned back on her heels.

“Mother what shall we do?” she pleaded. “The Macedonians are in the city.”

“Alexander will spare the shrine,” Jocasta snapped.

“He will take the Crown, Mother,” Antigone declared. “He knows the legends.”

“It can only be worn by the pure of heart,” Jocasta retorted, lifting her head, “and one who is touched and blessed by the gods. If the Crown is to be Alexander’s then it will be Alexander’s.”

“Shall we help him?” another asked. “Mother, shouldn’t we take the Crown and offer it to him?”

“That would be blasphemy and sacrilege,” Jocasta said. “The Crown is removed only once a year, worn by the chief priestess, blessed, and returned. If Alexander wishes it, he must take it according to the ritual.”

“But that would be easy,” Antigone said. “He’ll clear the burning coals and destroy the snakes. He’ll build a bridge across the pits and simply seize it.”

“No, not Alexander.” Jocasta shook her head. “Alexander is dutiful and pious. If the Crown is to be his then he will not take it by force but by ancient custom and human cunning.”

“Then how will it be done?” one of the older priestesses asked. “Mother, shouldn’t you tell us how the Crown of the man god Oedipus can be removed, without danger from, the pits?”

“It’s a temple secret.” Jocasta tried not to sound patronizing. She spread her hands out in prayer and closed her eyes. “This place is sacred,” she intoned. “The Crown is holy. According to legend it can only be worn by he or she whom the gods wish to hold it.”

“And if blasphemy occurs?” Antigone asked.

“According to the legend of Thebes,” Jocasta explained, “if the Crown is taken through blasphemy and sacrilege, Oedipus will return to his city. He will come, carrying his club and shield, and destroy the profane.” She paused.

The temple was so quiet, and she tried to hide her own inner turmoil. Were the other priestesses right? Shouldn’t she curry favor with the conqueror by taking the Crown and offering it herself? She recalled her oath taken so many years before. She was about to repeat this when she heard a terrible pounding on the door outside. She took off the key and handed it to her favorite, Antigone.

“See to it,” she said quietly. “Offer no resistance.”

Antigone got up, sandals slapping on the marble floor. The inner bar on the bronze door was lifted, the outer ones unlocked. A murmur of voices broke the silence.

“Mother.”

Jocasta turned. A man stood in the doorway, in one hand he carried a sword, in the other what looked like a seal. Jocasta could tell from his dress that he was a Macedonian. He walked slowly into the shrine and stood staring about. Jocasta couldn’t see his face because of his helmet but she knew he was studying the pits and the Crown on its pillar. She rose to her feet.

“I am Jocasta, high priestess of the this shrine.”

“And I represent King Alexander and the power of Macedon.”

The officer bowed. He walked back to the door and placed the seal on the floor.

“Show that to all who come. You have nothing to fear!”

Miriam followed Alexander and his entourage up through the Electra Gate and along the highway into the center of Thebes. A gray, dull day. Miriam stared around in horror. She had never visited Thebes but she had heard the stories about this great city. Now it looked as if it had been consumed by fire from heaven. Houses, shops, council chambers, barracks stables, taverns, and storehouses had all been reduced to feathery black ash. Wooden buildings had disappeared. Alexander’s soldiers were now finishing off those built of stone, dragging down walls. The air was thick with dust, smoke, the smell of burning, and the stench of cooked flesh.

“Not one stone left upon another.” Alexander had sworn the ancient oath of destruction against the city. The only people they passed were the occasional priest and priestess, the rest were Macedonian solders combing the ruins for any plunder or for Thebans who may have hidden away in the cellars. Six days had passed since the destruction had ended. The Theban cavalry had fled. The foot soldiers had fought to the last man; then the city had been given over to wholesale destruction. Only the temples and the house of the poet Pindar had been spared, as well as the occasional sacred cypress and olive grove. The survivors had been rounded up. Men, women, and children were marched off to the slave markets. Even Alexander’s hardened commanders, now that their blood had cooled, were quiet in the face of such savage destruction. The king himself looked stricken: his face white, his eyes constantly flickering about. Hephaestion, his close companion and lover, started to speak but Alexander made a cutting movement with his hand. Miriam looked at Simeon; his face was so pallid and sweat-soaked, he would surely vomit. They passed a crossroad, Miriam pulled the cloak up over her nose and mouth. Here the corpses had been collected and burned in a great funeral pyre, and the air still stank from the horrid smoke. In places, the ash was ankle deep on the cobblestones; Miriam was pleased she had worn leather riding boots beneath her tunic. She felt a little nauseous, giddy and she grasped her walking cane more firmly. She bowed her head. She felt ashamed-of Alexander, his army, of what had happened here. It brought back memories of her father’s description of the destruction of Jerusalem.

They crossed a square, past the ruined mansions of the wealthy, and began the climb toward the broken palisades that had once surrounded the Cadmea. The silence was broken only by the sound of their footsteps crunching the ash and the clink of armor from Alexander’s bodyguard. No one dared bring horses here. Fires still burned, sparks shot up, and the stiff hot breeze pricked the flesh. At the top of the hill Alexander stopped and turned.

“Thebes has been destroyed! Leveled to ash! It is my decree.” His face was harsh, reminding Miriam of his father, Philip.

“It is my wish,” he repeated, “that it never be rebuilt. It rose in rebellion against my father and was defeated at Chaeronea. It played a hand in my father’s murder. It rose in rebellion when I was elsewhere. They called me an assassin, a patricide. I did not destroy Thebes. The gods did!”