Paul Doherty: A Murder in Thebes

He glared at Timeon, the Athenian delegate, and beside him at Aristarchus, the representative from Corinth.

“Let the word go out,” Alexander said quietly. “All of Greece is to be united under Macedon. All the world is to see the glory and power of our might. Yea,” he stared at the skies, “even to the ends of the earth.”

“If the gods destroyed Thebes,” Hephaestion spoke quickly, “then all of Greece was party to it.” He glanced out of the corner of his eye at the Athenian delegate.

Timeon-a small, thickset man with a balding pate, a luxuriant mustache and beard, watery eyes, and a bulbous nose-blinked and forced a smile. Hephaestion was reminding everyone that Thebes had rebelled not only against Macedon but against the League with Corinth. The League, too, had voted for Thebes’ destruction, recalling stories of how Thebes had helped Xerxes and his Persians during the Great War, citing all its other petty infidelities and treacheries. Alexander had used the League to legitimize the destruction, but in the end, he’d simply delivered a stark warning to all of Greece. Alexander was their captain-general. Any revolt would be ruthlessly crushed.

Alexander took a breath, rubbed his face, and walked on through the palisade built by the Thebans to hem in his garrison in the Cadmea. He stopped at a cross thrust in the rocky earth. He touched the wood still stained with Lysander’s blood.

“I have avenged him,” Alexander murmured. “I’ll avenge all who died here.” He gestured at Simeon and Miriam. “Follow me! You, too, Hephaestion. The rest of you,” he gave a lopsided smile, “show our delegates around Thebes. Let them see how a city burns.”

Alexander walked on up the rocky path, through the gatehouse and into the courtyard of the Cadmea.

The garrison was assembled in full armor, breastplates and shields gleaming. Their officers stood in front of them, their helmets, adorned with bright horsehair plumes, held under their arms. Alexander’s mood changed as it always did when he moved among soldiers. He walked slowly along the ranks, stopping to chat and joke, slipping silver coins into the men’s hands. He clasped them by the shoulder and kissed them on the brow, calling them his companions and friends, praising them for their valor in holding Cadmea against a hostile Thebes. The soldiers responded: guffaws of laughter broke out as Alexander shared some private joke. Miriam noticed he had no words for the officers. These four were left standing in front, eyes ahead. Alexander gave them no order to relax or stand at ease. When he had finished his inspection, Alexander simply clicked his fingers. The men were dismissed and the four officers followed Alexander up into the tower along a stone-vaulted corridor and into what must be their mess hall. Tables stood around the room. These and the floor had been carefully scrubbed and washed. Servants had laid out bread, cheese, meats, bowls of fruit, and a jug of watered wine. Unceremoniously Alexander sat on a bench and gestured for the others to join him. He took a bunch of grapes from the bowl and began to pop them into his mouth, like a child, cheeks bulging as he slowly chewed. He nodded at Hephaestion who ordered the officers to introduce themselves. All four were Macedonians, grizzled veterans who had fought in Philip’s armies. Patroclus was the youngest: blond-haired, one eye half closed due to an old wound, front teeth missing, nose slightly broken. He reminded Miriam of a boxer. Alcibiades was thin and swarthy-faced; his hair was cropped close to his head and he wore a brass ring in one earlobe. Slightly foppish, Miriam thought, with an ornamental bracelet that he kept shaking. Demetrius was gray-haired, cruel-faced, with sharp, deep-set eyes, and a thin nose above thick lips. He kept scratching at a scar that ran from the top of his right ear down beneath his chin. The fourth, Miletus, was bald, fleshy-faced; his eyes were almost hidden in rolls of fat; he had pursed lips and was clean shaven. He reminded Miriam of a eunuch, an impression greatly enhanced by his rather high-pitched voice. Nevertheless, despite their appearance, Miriam recognized that all four were skilled fighting men, though now very nervous. Alexander had praised the defence of the citadel against the Thebans but they must have expected to be closely questioned on what had happened to cause the deaths of two favorite officers, Lysander and their commander Memnon.

Alexander finished the grapes. He filled the cups himself, chattering about the citadel, how thick its walls, and idly wondering if the tower they now occupied had been built during the time of Oedipus. The soldiers replied perfunctorily. Alexander leaned back, tapping his hands on the table.

“There’s someone missing, isn’t there?” He winked down the table at Simeon, who had already taken out a sheet of papyrus, ink, and stylus; where ever Alexander went, he always insisted on keeping some record of what was said, particularly his own pronouncements.

“There’s someone absent, isn’t there?” he repeated.

“I’m here, my lord.”

They all turned. The thin young man who stood in the doorway, moved nervously from foot to foot, scratching his black hair, rubbing his hands together.

“Come in! Come in!” Alexander smiled. He leaned forward. “You are Cleon? Memnon’s aide-de-camp?”

The young man nodded. “Yes, my lord,” he stammered.

“I was at the jakes, my stomach. .” He chewed the corner of his lip nervously. “I apologize.”

“Dysentery is no respecter of persons,” Alexander laughed. “Come on, sit down, but don’t drink the wine or eat the fruit.” He pushed the bread basket forward. “Take some of that and a little honey in water mixed with candle grease. It might not taste too pleasant but it will bind the bowels. Now you’ve got the ingredients.”

Cleon sat on the bench opposite Miriam and nodded.

“Well, come on, man,” Alexander declared. “Repeat it.”

Cleon did, his harsh Macedonian voice slightly stumbling as he listed the king’s own recipe for the cure of diarrhea. His reply caused a little laughter. The four officers relaxed. They picked up their cups and sipped. Hephaestion rose and closed the door, bringing down the bar.

“I won’t detain you long,” Alexander began. “My two good friends here, clerks and scribes Miriam and Simeon Bartimaeus, have my authority to continue this inquiry and question you closely.”

“A woman.” Miletus’s lip curled. “An Israelite?”

“Mother likes her,” Alexander replied.

Miletus’s face fell as he thought of Olympias.

“Good.” Alexander sipped from his own cup. “Outside, Thebes burns! It is no more. I left you along with Memnon and Lysander to hold this citadel and keep and eye on the city. You held the citadel but what happened to the city?” His face became grave. “Above all what happened to my commanders? Just what occurred while I was chasing barearsed Thessalians through the forest?”

The officer looked at Demetrius, apparently their leader. He slurped greedily from his goblet.

“I’m waiting,” Alexander snapped.

“It’s as you say, my lord.” Demetrius glowered down the table. Miriam recalled that among the Macedonians kingly rank and status was no defence against blunt speech.

“You went off chasing your Thessalians and we poor buggers were left in Thebes. Now, at first. . nah. .” He scratched his chin. “No, from the very beginning they hated us, though they didn’t move against us for weeks. Two of our lads went out to the brothels; they have not been seen since. After that, Memnon became more cautious. He allowed us to bring in stores and whores but he forbade any of us to leave the citadel. The Thebans responded; they built the stockade, sealing us in.”