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 animaclass="underline" 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.
“It must have been suicide,” Alexander declared. He went across the room and tapped the great bolt on the door. “How did you get in? I mean, this has not been forced!”
“Memnon’s corpse was found just after dawn,” Demetrius explained. “We came up here; well, you’ve seen the door-it would take a siege to batter it down. So we went up to the tower, tied a rope around one of the battlements and lowered down one of the Cretans, an archer. The shutters were open; he slipped into the room. It’s almost as you find it now: the bolts were drawn, the key turned in the lock. Hercules was lying on the floor asleep. We gave the archer some meat so the dog proved to be no trouble. He pulled back the bolts, turned the key, and we came in.”
“What about his papers?” Miriam asked. “As commander of the Cadmea, he must have kept records?”
“I seized them immediately,” Demetrius explained. He went across to the chest, opened it, and took out a roll of 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.