“Let me go back,” she murmured.
“Miriam, you are talking to yourself!”
“Shut up, brother, I am thinking!” She recalled the different conversations she’d had with the officers, the pages, and Antigone. She recalled Telemachus, defiant yet driven with anguish at what had happened to Thebes. And what was it Telemachus had said about Memnon flying from the top of the tower? But he hadn’t fallen from the top. He’d fallen from his window. So why had Telemachus said that? Why hadn’t he said he’d been pushed? Miriam pulled the piece of silk away from her face and sat up. “Because he did fall from the top!” she shouted.
“Sister, what is the matter?”
“Memnon didn’t fall from his window,” she declared.
“From where, then?”
“Telemachus talked about Memnon flying from the top of the tower. I think it was the only mistake he made, but that’s why he was killed. He could have made other slips, though I am just beginning to wonder how much Telemachus really knew. You see, brother, Memnon’s chamber was locked and guarded, his war dog was with him. No one could go through the door, and, if anyone tried to come through that window, the dog would have attacked and Memnon would have fought for his life.” She paused. “We must turn the problem around. No one came through the window. I now believe Memnon climbed through it, probably with the help of someone else.”
“Where was he going?” Simeon asked.
“He was climbing to the top of the tower!”
“Like a fly?” Simeon teased.
“No, he was being helped. Someone persuaded Memnon to leave that chamber. Someone persuaded Memnon that he was in great danger.”
“Which is why he was dressed?”
“Of course. He climbed the rope and reached the top of the tower.”
“But Memnon would have still struggled.”
“No, brother, Memnon told his war dog to stay silent. He left, climbing the rope, but as he reached the top, the person who was supposed to be helping him, instead of grasping his hand and pulling him over, pushed him away. Memnon, shocked and surprised, fell to his death. The assassin pulled up the rope and disappeared.”
“But who was the assassin?”
“I am not too sure. It’s one of those officers. Simeon, go find the pages!”
Simeon reluctantly agreed. A short while later, he brought a bedraggled Castor and Pollux into the tent. They looked nervous, slightly wary but Miriam assured them all was well. They protested that they’d already answered her questions, but Miriam said it was important so the two pages, sitting on a rather tattered, woollen rug, repeated their earlier conversations about the officers and their private lives, what scandal and gossip existed. After they’d been paid and left, Miriam got up, put a pair of battered boots on and fastened her cloak around her.
“Where are you going?”
“You are coming with me, Simeon. I want you to do exactly what I ask.”
They went out of the tent-Miriam talking, Simeon protesting, but at last he’d agreed. He went down to the quartermaster’s stores and came back. Miriam, meanwhile, had seen the captain of the guard and, with a squad of soldiers behind them, set off for the priestesses’ house. It was cold and growing dark. All those who could had found shelter either in the camp or in the ruins of the city. The olive grove was a popular place, the men sheltering beneath the trees, clustering around camp fires. The air was thick with the odor of sweaty leather and cooking. The priestesses’ house was well guarded but lights in both the lower and upper windows showed that the women had not yet retired. Merope answered their knock and took them into the small dining chamber. Antigone came downstairs, her fingers stained with ink.
“I’ve been making inventories,” she apologized.
“Could you take me to Jocasta’s chamber?” Miriam asked.
Antigone looked surprised.
“Please!” Miriam insisted, “it’s very important!”
Antigone shrugged and went up the stairs. Miriam quickly stepped into the kitchen, where the other priestesses were seated around the wooden table. She asked them a few questions then broke off as Antigone called from the top of the stairs.
“I am sorry,” Miriam apologized, joining her. “I am curious as to where you are all going.”
Antigone had already lit the lamps in Jocasta’s chamber.
“It’s rather warm despite the rain,” Miriam declared. She opened the shutters and stared out. She saw Simeon standing below, dressed in a military cloak. Antigone came behind her and gasped.
“It’s only my brother,” Miriam confided. “But this is where Jocasta stood the night she was killed isn’t it? You were with her, remember?”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
Miriam turned so that her back was to the window.
“You loved Jocasta?”
“Like a mother.” Antigone became wary.
“She was old,” Miriam continued. “My mother died in childbirth, but I tell you this, priestess, I would not have let her go out in the dead of the night to meet a ghoulishly dressed stranger standing under the olive trees.”
“What are you saying?” Antigone’s hands fell to her side. “What are you implying?”
“I just think it’s very strange,” Miriam repeated. “Here you are, Thebes is devastated, a killer on the loose. Jocasta sees this possible killer from her chamber window.”
“But she ignored my advice, she wanted to go,” Antigone broke in. “Jocasta really thought it was Oedipus, or at least a friend.”
“Shouldn’t you have accompanied her? And when she didn’t return, why didn’t you become alarmed? Why not send a messenger to the camp or even gather the others and go looking?”
“But it was common knowledge that Jocasta went out and visited the shrine.”
“At the invitation of a stranger?” Miriam snapped. “There’s a contradiction, Antigone. I asked your sisters downstairs. They thought Jocasta had gone out to the shrine that night. I wager they didn’t know she had left with a stranger; if they had, they would have become alarmed. I just find it overstrange, that you let your so-called mother wander off into the darkness and never turned a hair, at least not until we arrived with the dreadful news.”
“Jocasta was a law unto herself,” Antigone retorted. “She was high priestess.”
“We’ll leave that for the moment.”
Miriam sat down on a stool, Antigone on the cot bed. Miriam noticed that her hand was out, just touching the rim of the bolster.
“You gave me a lovely gift.” Miriam forced a smile. “A piece of blue silk. I could smell your perfume on it. I detected the same fragrance on a table in the citadel, but you didn’t visit there, did you?”
“Of course not!”
“And that page boy who brought the message from the camp yesterday. He claimed to have seen a woman dressed in a cloak similar to the one you wore coming down the steps of the Cadmea. He was intrigued because, although the cloak was a woman’s and the fragrance was certainly not worn by any man, the figure was definitely a male.”
“I’m not responsible,” Antigone’s gaze didn’t waver, “for what went on in the Cadmea.”
“Oh but you are,” Miriam declared. “Do you know, Antigone, that I think you are a killer, a murderess! With your shaven head, your slender form, your doll-like eyes, and, above all, your blunt speech, you could deceive Olympias, that queen of serpents!”
“Are you going to say that I am the Oracle?” Antigone accused. “The spy in the citadel?”
“Everything to its own,” Miriam murmured, “and in its own time. You say you were Pelliades’ niece?”
“Of course.”
“And Pelliades came out here to visit you often?”
“Naturally, I was his kinswoman.”