Paul Doherty: A Murder in Thebes

“But he wasn’t.” Alexander took up the story.

“No, my lord! He was barely beyond the palisade when the Thebans closed in. From the gatehouse and tower you could see their dagger-work. Two hours later they put up a cross near the stockade; Lysander’s corpse was nailed to it.”

“But the priestess?” Miriam asked.

“She objected,” Demetrius replied. “I believe she spoke the truth. When Lysander was gibbeted, she came forward, her hands extended. She swore by heaven and earth that what the Thebans had done was blasphemous and sacrilegious and that she had had no part in it.”

“Memnon grew worse.” Cleon got to his feet. He took out his dagger and placed it on the table. “Whenever I went into his chamber, . ” He sat down again, “. . Memnon grasped his dagger like this, pulling it out. He believed the spy was one of his officers-indeed, that they were all plotting against him.”

“He’d lost his wits,” Alcibiades drawled. “My lord king, we are Macedonians. I fought at Chaeronea. I would rather die than betray my lord and my companions.”

A growl of approval greeted his words.

“True, true.” Alexander forced a smile. “But there is still a spy here. You say you are Macedonian.” He rubbed his hands together. “But, with the exception of Cleon, all of you have been garrisoned in Thebes for some considerable time. Before I left, before the citadel was besieged, you were allowed to walk through Theban streets, drinking Theban wine, lying with Theban women.”

“You have no proof,” Demetrius spoke up hotly, “of treason!”

“I will get it!” Alexander snapped. “My two good clerks here, the Israelites, they will dig it out. We were talking about Memnon?”

“He stayed in his chamber,” Cleon declared. “He did not wash or shave. He was constantly dressed for battle, Hercules beside him. And then, ten days ago, his body was found at the foot of the tower. He’d either fallen, been pushed, or jumped from his chamber.”

“Why should Memnon commit suicide?” Miriam asked. “Yes, yes, I know his wits may have been disturbed but he was a soldier.”

“Was it murder?” Alexander asked.

“How could it be?” Demetrius cried. “Melitus here was on guard outside his chamber.”

“Is that right?” Alexander asked.

Melitus nodded. “It must have been suicide,” he replied thickly. “The door was bolted and locked on the inside. He had Hercules to guard him. I never heard any sound from the room, nor did Patroclus who took over from me just after midnight. The next morning his corpse was found at the foot of the tower.”

Alexander pushed back his stool and got to his feet.

“Let us see this chamber,” he said.

Demetrius went first. Outside the hall two page boys dressed in ragged tunics were playing in the small entranceway. Alexander went over to look. One of them had a magnet and was seeing how close he had to push it before the iron filings stuck to it.

“You enjoy that?” Alexander asked.

One of the pages looked up, eyes squinting.

“My lord king, it’s a good way of earning money.”

“Money?” Alexander asked.

“They gamble,” Demetrius explained, pushing his way through. “It’s a game popular with the soldiers. Better than dice game of hazard.” He pointed to the twigs laid along the ground.

“There’s a sack of magnets; one is pulled out, and we lay odds as to which twig it must reach before it can attract the iron filings. It’s a popular game in Thebes. The men often played it to while away the boredom of the siege.”

“It takes me back.” Alexander smiled over his shoulder at Miriam. “Do you remember the groves of Midas? And Aristotle lecturing on the property of things? How like attracts like?” He tossed two coins on the floor. “Continue with your betting lads.” He ruffled the hair of one of the pages. “Now, lets see Memnon’s chamber.”

This was at the top of a winding spiral staircase entered by a small recess in the stairwell. The brass-studded door hung slightly ajar, the great key in the lock.

“It shouldn’t be open.” Demetrius drew his sword and kicked the door back.

The great wolfhound was lounging on the floor allowing himself to be stroked by a man who crouched with his back to them. The animal lifted his great shaggy head and growled, his upper lip curling in a display of sharp, white teeth.

“There, there my beauty!” The man turned and smiled.

Miriam recognized Hecaetus, Alexander’s master of spies and keeper of all secrets. A human viper who could curl and twist his way through the court. She was always amazed at how Hecaetus’s foppish appearance could disarm people: his cropped, curly hair; his thin, clean-shaven face; his eyes ever merry; his lips always smiling. The languid way he walked, the rather girlish movement he deliberately cultivated were no different now. He patted the dog and got to his feet, adjusting the green-edged robe thrown over his shoulder.

“My lord king.” He bowed.

“What are you doing here Hecaetus?” Miriam asked.

“Why Miriam, the same as you, searching out my lord’s enemies.” He pushed his head forward. “I was told you were in council, my lord, and were not to be disturbed.” He sighed. “So I came up here and”. . He gestured at the dog who had now risen, brushing against him. “I thought I would make acquaintance with Hercules. Isn’t it a pity that animals can’t talk?”

Alexander walked into the room. He stretched out his hand and the dog approached and licked his fingers. The rest fanned out around him in this austere gray-stone chamber.

“He’s friendly enough,” Alexander observed.

“He always is,” Cleon declared. “He wouldn’t hurt a child.”

“But he protected Memnon?” Miriam asked.

Cleon nodded. “If he thought Memnon was under attack, if you raised your voice or made any threatening gesture, Hercules would change.”

Miriam crouched down. The great war dog was a beautiful animal: iron-gray fur, lean body, long legs. She patted him, feeling the muscle ripple under the smooth soft skin. The hair around his neck was bunched and more coarse, the head perfectly formed. She noticed the powerful jaws. The dog now started licking at her so vigorously that she got to her feet, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. Alexander laughed and stared around the chamber.

“It’s not much, is it?”

Miriam had to agree. A truckle bed in the corner, a chest at the foot of the bed, a large table with a camp chair before it. Some shelves bearing cups and pots, pegs driven into the wall on which to hang belts, armor, and cloaks. In one corner a statue of Aphrodite, small, perfectly carved. Alexander pointed at it.

“Memnon stole that from a house. He called it his good-luck charm.”

Followed by Miriam he went across to the window, nothing more than a wooden square. The shutters had been pulled back. Miriam leaned over and looked down into the cobbled courtyard below. She studied the rough gray-stone walls, the plaster ceiling, the heavy reinforced door. There was no secret passageway into this room.

“What’s above this?” she asked.

“An empty garret, a storeroom,” Demetrius explained. “Memnon kept it locked. He hated anyone going in there.”

“Why?”

“Oh, it’s empty enough,” Cleon replied. “It was a personal foible. Memnon once fought as a mercenary and had to hide in a cellar. He couldn’t stand hearing footsteps above him, it brought back memories.”

“He often told us the tale,” Alcibiades drawled. “He would send us up to check that it was empty, no rat droppings on the floor. It’s nothing more than a dingy loft.”

“How did he die?” Hecaetus wondered.