A Murder in Thebes (Alexander the Great 2) by Paul Doherty Read Free Book Online Page B

papyrus,
     coarse string binding it together; it was tightly knotted and had been carefully sealed.
    “I’ve been through them myself,” said Demetrius. “There’s nothing really, just lists of provisions and arms. A family letter;
     I believe he has a son in the guards regiment at Pella?”
    Miriam put them into her leather writing satchel. Alexander walked carefully around the room. He touched the statue of Aphrodite,
     sat on the bed, then went to the window and stared out.
    “Miriam Bartimaeus,” he spoke absentmindedly, “you will investigate this matter.”
    “My lord!” Hecaetus objected, his voice strident.
    “You, my lovely boy,” Alexander turned, “will search among the Theban prisoners, see if there is anyone who can help us here.”
    “I doubt it!” Hecaetus snapped. “The Thebans who were in power, those members of the army council, are either dead or have
     fled.”
    “Do as I say,” Alexander declared quietly.
    Miriam could see that the king was annoyed that Hecaetus had come to the Cadmea without his permission.
    “Hephaestion, stay here and ensure that all is well with the citadel. Miriam and Simeon, come with me.”
    “My lord, you need a guard,” Hephaestion objected.
    Alexander clapped him on the shoulder.
    “Not here, Hephaestion,” he murmured. “Not any more.”
    They left the citadel. In the end Hephaestion had his way: when Alexander stopped and turned, two hoplites in full armor were
     trailing like shadows behind them. He squinted his eyes against the strengthening sun.
    “Hephaestion worries too much.”
    “Be sensible,” Miriam replied.
    She gazed around at the blackened devastation: whole quarters leveled to the ground, nothing more than steaming ash. Hordes
     of scavengers—kites, hawks, crows, and buzzards—had flown in searching for plunder. The stench was still offensive: smoke
     and the sickly sweet smell of burning flesh. Occasionally the cry of a woman came from the ruins, and soldiers still sifted
     among the ashes. Others sat in groups sharing wineskins.
    “In ten years,” Alexander breathed, “this will be nothing! People will talk of seven-gated Thebes as they do about Troy and
     the palaces of Midas.”
    “Was it necessary?” Miriam asked.
    “It was necessary!” Alexander retorted.
    They walked on a bit farther, passing the occasional cluster of trees that marked some shrine or small temple. Alexander entered
     one of these and stopped to look at the gnarled branches of the olive trees. Miriam was pleased to be in the green coolness
     where the stench of burning was not so strong. Birds still fluttered and sang, it was an oasis of life in this city of the
     dead.
    “Hecaetus may be right,” she remarked. “There must be Thebans still alive who knew what happened, and who might barter for
     their freedom.”
    “Hecaetus didn’t say that,” Alexander retorted. “He said that the search would be a waste of time. Most of the Theban leaders
     are dead. Those who survived have fled.” He glanced at her brother.
    “What do you think happened in the Cadmea?”
    “There’s undoubtedly a traitor,” Simeon replied, hitching his writing bag over his shoulder; he stared curiously through the
     trees at the white path that must lead to the shrine.
    “Miriam?” Alexander asked.
    “I agree.” She played with the clasps on her cloak, wishing they would move on. She felt weak, slightly nauseous from the
     destruction, the burning, the wholesale slaughter, that grim citadel with those soldiers whose moods shifted between insolence
     and fear. Alexander picked up an olive shriveled brown; he squeezed it between his fingers. A barber had cut his hair, but
     apart from the rings on his fingers and the gold-embossed sword hilt, Alexander looked like a young officer from the army
     rather than the conquering victor of Thebes.
    “Mother will be here soon,” he groaned. “She’ll want to see the sights. She’ll also want vengeance for Memnon.”
    “Why