A Murder in Thebes (Alexander the Great 2) (2 page)

“A ditch full of glowing coals, a row of spikes, and a snake pit?” Miriam asked. “What do they protect?”

“The Iron Crown of Oedipus,” Alexander replied. “It lies on top of a stone plinth. Very ancient,” he whispered. “There is
a legend in Thebes that only the pure in heart can wear it; a god-man guilty of no crimes against his parents. It’s guarded
by a group of priestesses who take their names from Sophocles’ plays. No one can remove the Crown with
anything brought into the shrine. Only the high priestess knows the secret.”

Miriam studied the king’s tired, dusty face. Alexander’s looks were a mirror of his ever-shifting moods. Sometimes he could
look so young, even girlish, his hair coiffed and his face painted like some Athenian scholar. At other times he looked older,
the skin more drawn, the lips a thin bloodless line, the eyes ringed with shadows. When he laughed Alexander reminded her
of Philip. And when he brooded Miriam shivered, for it reminded her of her childhood and of watching Olympias bent over a
spinning wheel, crooning softly to herself while she planned the bloody assassination of some rival.

Alexander was clicking his finger against the wine cup. He lifted his head. “You know why I want that shrine saved?”

“You will take the Crown of Oedipus?”

“I want the Crown of Oedipus; I want to put it on my head.” Alexander was almost speaking to himself. “I want the mark of
the gods, the acclamation of the people and their affirmation that I am not a patricide.”

“You don’t need that,” Miriam insisted. “Philip’s blood is not on your hands.” She glanced sideways at her brother.

They knew the truth and had shared most of it with Alexander. Philip had been murdered by a crazed guardsman, a former lover,
just before Philip himself was going to launch a bloody purge on his family and court. Alexander cocked his head to one side
as he heard the sound of trumpets from outside.

“I want to wear that Crown,” he insisted. “I know I’m no patricide, but I want the gods to sanction me.” He grinned. “Just
like Achilles.”

“Achilles, Achilles, Achilles!” Miriam exclaimed, “Achilles
was your ancestor, but that doesn’t mean you have to be like him in every way!”

“We’ll take Thebes!” Alexander announced, abruptly changing the subject. “I want that shrine saved.”

“It would be a brave man who took on a hundred snakes,” Simeon retorted.

“I also want that business at the Cadmea investigated.” Alexander put the wine cup down, mood changing as he became more businesslike.

“You remember Hecaetus?”

Miriam pulled a face. Everyone in the Macedonian court knew that Hecaetus was Alexander’s spy-assassin—a mincing, lisping
fop, more dangerous and venomous than any snake. He and his effete companions were responsible for collecting and sifting
information, detecting plots, nipping the poisoned bud of treason before it bloomed full flower.

“How can I forget him!” Miriam retorted. “Once met always remembered.”

Alexander nodded. He picked up his cloak and drew it across his lap.

“Before I marched into Thessaly,” he declared, “I left a force, a garrison in the Cadmea, the citadel of Thebes, under Memnon,
one of my most trusted captains. You remember him, with his grizzled beard, always swearing?”

“And always drunk,” Miriam added.

“He was still a good soldier. When I was a boy he used to dangle me on his knee. He made a wooden sword and put a velvet handle
on it. I thought it was a gift from the gods. Anyway, Memnon had a lieutenant, another good, ambitious guardsman, Lysander,
from Crete. Now, from what I can gather, it seems that the rumors that I had been killed in Thessaly—my army severely mauled—and
that mother was facing a serious revolt at Pella were accepted in Thebes
as fact not gossip. There was a web of lies. Hecaetus believes that Thebans spread these stories throughout all of Greece.”
Alexander made a cutting movement with his hand. “You have seen the effect of such rumors. Thebes is in revolt and the other
Greek states have adopted a policy of wait-and-see.”

“You are sure of this?” Miriam asked.

“As sure as I am that Olympias likes spinning,” Alexander caustically replied. “Memnon believed the rumors. He sent Lysander
to deal with the Theban leaders and you know what happened to him? He had his throat cut and his corpse was crucified. They
erected the cross so that everyone in the citadel could see it. Memnon became frightened. Not of death, but of what was happening.
He managed to get a short message out; he claimed that there was a spy in the garrison who was feeding the Thebans all they
wanted to know.”

“And this is where Hecaetus comes in?”

“Yes, Hecaetus and his darling boys. They sleep together, you know. Do you realize, Miriam, that Hecaetus claims that you
are the only woman he’ll have near him?”

“That’s because I’m flat-chested and my voice is deep,” Miriam joked.

Alexander was studying her, his strange, varicolored eyes scrutinizing her face.

“It’s curious,” he remarked, “isn’t it, Miriam, how he has taken a liking to you. Do you know something about him that I should
know?”

Miriam moved restlessly on the cushion.

“Keep to the story, my lord,” she warned. “I’m not your enemy.” Alexander laughed, and leaning forward, he grasped her face
between his hands and kissed her lightly on the brow.

“Mother likes you as well, you and Simeon.”

“That’s because we put on plays for her,” Simeon replied. “Like you, she investigated the stories of our people.”

“Ah yes, the warring queens,” Alexander declared. “Anyway, Hecaetus studied Memnon’s message. He was like a boy with a new
toy. You see, Hecaetus believes there is a spy in the Cadmea paid by that loud-mouthed demagogue in Athens, Demosthenes, who
simply passes on the gold he has received from his Persian paymaster. Hecaetus calls this spy the Oracle, and he would give
a bucket of gold to have his head. He believes that the Oracle was a member of the garrison we left in Cadmea. Once I and
my army disappeared into the wilderness of Thessaly, the Oracle spun his rumors and lies. Now I know it is not Lysander, as
the poor bugger’s dead. Hecaetus even thought it might be Memnon, but then” . . . Alexander shrugged, tapping his thumbnail
against his teeth.

“Memnon himself was killed,” Miriam added.

“We don’t know what happened,” Alexander declared. “All we’ve learned is that Memnon was either pushed or that he jumped from
the tower of the citadel. His body was found in the courtyard below.” Alexander got to his feet and stood in the opening of
the tent. His companions and leading generals, Ptolemy, Niarchos, and Hephaestion, caught his gaze and moved to come across.
Alexander waved them back and dropped the tent flap.

“I’m going to take Thebes,” he declared. “I’m going to take the Crown of Oedipus and put it on my head. I also want vengeance
for Memnon and Lysander. I intend to capture the Oracle and to crucify him for all other traitors to see!”

“My lord.”

Alexander whirled round. Sly-eyed Ptolemy stood in the entrance to the tent. He winked at Miriam.

“The Thebans have sent you a message: a herald and two trumpeters.”

“They wish to surrender?”

“No, no.” Ptolemy swaggered across and gave a mocking bow.

He was taller than Alexander and had close-set eyes that, Miriam thought, were always laughing at everything and everybody.
A superb horseman, a brilliant general, Miriam suspected that Ptolemy thought he was Alexander’s equal. There were even rumors
that they shared the same blood, Ptolemy being one of Philip of Macedon’s many bastards.

“I’m waiting,” Alexander said. “Ptolemy, you should have been an actor.”

“The Thebans have sent you defiance. They say they’ll not bend the knee to a Macedonian barbarian, especially one who killed
his own father.”

Ptolemy paused and licked his lips, enjoying the fury in Alexander’s face. “They bid you to pack your tents and retreat.”

“Anything else?” Alexander stepped back. “Anything else, Ptolemy?”

“The men are getting restless.”

“Are they now?”

Alexander seized his cloak and threw it over his shoulder. “Miriam you should watch this battle. Pray to your invisible God.
Go out and look at the walls of Thebes. I swear, by all that’s holy, that you will not see them again.” He almost pushed Ptolemy
aside as he strode out of the tent. Miriam heard his shouts, followed by the increased bustle in the camp, the braying of
war horns and trumpets.

“We should be careful,” Simeon murmured. “If the Thebans break through . . .”

Miriam punched him playfully on the shoulder.

“Alexander has never, and will never, lose a battle.” She
gazed around the tent and sniffed the sour air. Getting to her feet, she picked up her sword belt. The leather was worn, the
scabbard scuffed but the short, broad Macedonian sword was sharp and bright. She pushed it back into the sheath and slung
the belt over her shoulder.

“I’ll defend you Simeon,” she teased, “but I’m not staying here.”

They went out into the camp. Soldiers were strapping on armor. A troop of Thessalian cavalrymen thundered by. Cretan archers
clustered together, jabbering in their strange tongue; their stout quivers were stocked with arrows, and long horn bows were
slung across their backs. Officers swaggered about, canes in hand, pushing and shoving men into position. Of Alexander and
his commanders, there was no sign. The Macedonian camp was on the brow of a hill. Down below, the plain was now hidden by
a great cloud of white dust as the main divisions marched down to their arranged positions. Now and again Miriam caught a
flash of armor, a colored banner, a swirling cloak. The camp became quiet. Only pages, servants, clerks, and scribes were
left, as unit after unit hurried after the main divisions. Simeon seized Miriam’s arm and pointed farther up the hill, where
it rose sharply toward an overhanging promontory.

“We’ll get a better view there.”

Miriam hurried after him. She felt rather ridiculous—her dress was cumbersome, the scabbard she had so dramatically slung
over her shoulder was bruising her. The soldiers called out crudely.

“Do you want me to carry that for you?”

“I’ve got a better sword than that,” another bawled, “long and sharp with a firm point!”

Miriam made an obscene gesture with her fingers and hurried after Simeon. They climbed the hill, the pebble shale shifting
under their feet. They grasped onto bushes and the
long coarse grass; at last they reached the top where they found others—clerks, camp followers, servants, grooms, and ostlers—also
thronging about, staring down at the plain below. Miriam pushed her way to the front and gasped in astonishment.

The dust cloud had lifted. In the distance soared the great walls of seven-gated Thebes; its turrets, towers, and battlements
were fearsome. From the walls rose great plumes of smoke where the townspeople had prepared braziers and bronze pots of fire
against an attempt to scale the walls: however, the main activity was the two armies now facing each other on the plain below.
The Thebans were arranged in a curving line before the main Electra Gate. On their flanks was the cavalry and, between these,
great bronze-clad phalanxes ten or twelve lines deep. The Theban gibe had prompted Alexander into action for rolling across
the plain to meet them was the Macedonian Army. In the center were the footmen with their long lances, shields locked together,
helmets glittering in the sun, horse plumes nodding in the strong breeze.

From where they stood, they could hear the faint cries of officers. Miriam watched spellbound. She couldn’t make out individuals
but she knew Alexander would be in the center, marching with his companions like any common foot soldier. The tactics employed
by both sides were the same as those used at any battle between Greek states: phalanxes of footman against phalanxes of footmen.
The two sides were supposed to clash, savage hand-to-hand fighting would ensue. One side would waver and flee the field, yet
Miriam knew that this would be different. Alexander had taken the military manuals and torn them up. She had seen that in
Thessaly: where foot soldiers were not supposed to go, Alexander would take them. Tactics that would horrify any other commander
were used at a moment’s notice. Surprise
and cunning were no strangers to Alexander but here in the open, in this great dusty plain before Thebes? Miriam watched,
grasping her brother so tightly that he winced as her nails dug into his wrist.

“You are hurting me, Miriam!”

“Wait,” she said. “Something is about to happen.”

The Theban line had also begun to move—marching toward the Macedonians to break their impetus before they charged. Abruptly
the Macedonian line changed. Trumpets rang out, banners rose and dipped. The Macedonian army began to turn on its axis. Instead
of meeting the Thebans head-on, they were now moving toward the Thebans’ right flank. At the same time the Macedonian line
began to lengthen.

“They are going to outflank them,” Simeon explained. “They are going to push the Thebans back on each other. Roll the line
up.”

Confusion had broken out among the Thebans. They were unused to this. In warfare, line was supposed to meet line, not shift
and turn. The Theban ranks became staggered. Miriam spied gaps, then the armies clashed. Great clouds of dust rose. The sound
of trumpets and war horns was broken by faint screams and shouts.

“Can you see what’s happening?” she shouted.

A sharp-eyed ostler was peering through the dust.

“Some of the Thebans are breaking!” he shouted. “They are fleeing back to the postern gate. It’s been left open and undefended.”

I
N
T
HE
C
ADMEA
, the great gray stone citadel that overlooked the city of Thebes, the spy and assassin whom Hecaetus called the Oracle pulled
a military cloak about his shoulders setting the hood firmly around his face. He tapped the hilt of the sword he had taken
from the armory and hurried up the steps onto the curtain wall overlooking the city. Other members of the garrison were assembled
there, shouting and gesticulating. The spy gazed down the rocky escarpment. The great palisade built by the Thebans so as
to hem them in was now deserted. The sound of hideous battle came from the city.

“Alexander has broken in!” a voice shouted. “The king is here!”

Discussion and debate broke out. Should the garrison help or stay in the citadel? There was no Memnon or Lysander to impose
order. The spy smiled to himself; that was his doing. What did it matter if Thebes fell? He looked down at the courtyard where
the rest of the garrison was
milling about. Some were dressed in half-armor, others totally unprepared.

“I can see plumes of smoke!” someone shouted. “They are setting fire to the houses!”

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.

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.