“Jocasta does remind me of Mother.” Alexander scratched his head. “The way she walks. Why do women do that?”
“Do what?” Miriam asked.
“They seem to grow taller,” Alexander replied. “All of their spirit seems to come into their eyes when they look down at you rather disapprovingly. Mother always does that. Even Father confessed he felt frightened whenever Olympias played the royal Medea.”
“You could take her head,” Simeon replied. “She had a hand in Lysander’s death.”
“Don’t be bloody stupid!” Alexander kicked at Simeon’s knee with his foot. “How my enemies would love that! Alexander, the lion of Macedon, killer of ancient priestesses! From what I can gather she spoke the truth. Pelliades was a treacherous piece of work. They simply used her to lure poor Lysander out.”
“But why?” Miriam asked. “Why kill Lysander, gibbet his corpse?”
“They must have truly thought I was dead.” Alexander undid his sword belt and placed it between his feet. “Somehow this spy, the Oracle, convinced the Theban elders that I and my army had perished in Thessaly. They took their fury and hatred out on poor Lysander and, by executing him, sent a defiant message to Memnon. He was expected to surrender, to capitulate and withdraw from the citadel.”
“But he didn’t,” Miriam continued. “He was an old soldier, tough and loyal, but he became wary of this officers. He believed one of them was a traitor. He locked himself up in his chamber and, if the accepted story is to be believed, committed suicide by throwing himself out his window. But that’s not the Macedonian way is it? Why didn’t Memnon drink poison or fall on his sword? How was he dressed?”
“According to reports,” Alexander replied, “he was wearing a cuirass over a leather tunic, he had his marching boots on and his sword belt strapped about him. Oh yes, he was also wearing his military cloak.”
“And he fell during the middle of the night?”
“Apparently so.”
“But why?” Miriam persisted. “Why should this old soldier dress himself up for war, open the shutters of his window, and throw himself out in the dead of night? And, before you say it, Simeon,” she poked her brother, “no fabulous tale-about him being drugged or someone entering through the window-that simply doesn’t make sense. If any assassin had come into that chamber, Hercules would have torn him apart.” She sighed with exasperation. “We know who was on duty. I like to know where the rest were?”
“Why?” Simeon asked.
Miriam shrugged. “I don’t know why. On the one hand Memnon’s death looks like suicide, but on the other the captain was a veteran-tough, used to sieges. Why should he dress himself up in the middle of the night and jump out a window?”
“And yet if he was murdered,” Simeon insisted, “how could someone attack a hardened warrior faithfully guarded by his huge hunting dog?”
“We’ve got an even more pressing problem.” Alexander lifted his head. “You’ve seen the shrine and the Crown of Oedipus? Can either of you Israelites devise some subtle stratagem for bringing that Crown fairly into my hands?”
“Oh, just take it,” Simeon grumbled. “You are king, conqueror.”
Alexander chewed on his lower lip. “No, there must be another way. Ah well.” He got to his feet, picked up his sword belt and slung it over his shoulder. “You don’t believe in any of this, do you?” He helped Miriam to her feet. “The God of Israel is not confined to temples or shrines. You don’t believe in relics or legends of the past?”
“We have our stories,” Miriam replied, “but our God is in all places.”
“Is he now?” Alexander teased. “I wonder what he thinks about Thebes burning to the heavens? Or about the legends, the ghost stories? Look around you,” he whispered.
Miriam did so. The trees grew close together, old and gnarled, twisted with age; their branches spread out and interlaced like old people leaning forward to grasp one another.
“They say Oedipus still walks here. The men are superstitious. They have talked to the Theban captives. Oedipus has been seen dragging his swollen foot, club in hand, around the streets of Thebes.”
“But didn’t he protect them?” Simeon scoffed.
“No, they said he’d come to wreak vengeance. The Thebans have forgotten the old ways, and I,” he added, “am that vengeance.”
Miriam pulled her cloak about her a little closer. If the truth be known, she didn’t like this devastated city or that strange shrine, with its painted priestesses, marble floors, fire and snake pits. Miriam wondered if the Iron Crown, with its blood-red ruby, would trap Alexander, rob him of the fruits of his victory.
“We should be going,” she murmured. “I would like to go back to the citadel. Ask a few more questions.”
Alexander agreed. “I’ll walk you there.” A twig snapped and Alexander whirled round, hand to his sword hilt, but it was only the two soldiers now tired of waiting on the edge of the grove.
“You’ve been good guard dogs,” Alexander called out, “and the day is drawing on.”
They left the grove and entered the sea of devastation and destruction around the citadel. Alexander’s companions were waiting, crouched in a circle sharing a wineskin, their war belts on the ground beside them. A short distance away a woman crouched, her arms around two children who were white-faced and had black rings around their eyes; they gazed in terror at the soldiers.
“What’s this?” Alexander asked.
Miriam’s heart sank at the fear in the woman’s face, at the way the children clung to her-probably some Theban mother who had hidden in the ruins with her children only to be discovered by the soldiers. But why hadn’t she been dragged off to the slave pens? Despite her terror, the woman now stood, one hand on the shoulder of each child. She would have been beautiful, but there was a bruise high on her cheek, and her face was streaked with dirt and ash; her gown and tunic were soiled and one sandal was missing.
“She’s guilty of murder,” Niarchos the Cretan declared. He gestured across the ruins with his hands. “Some of our lads found her in the cellar of a house.”
“And?” Alexander asked.
Niarchos put his hands on his hips and clicked his tongue. “Well, the officer who found her was a Boeatian; he roughed her up a bit.”
“You mean, he raped her?” Miriam asked. “In front of her children?”
Niarchos’s monkeylike face creased into a smile. “You always did have a tart tongue, Miriam; even in the groves of Midas we felt the lash.”
“With people like you?” Miriam retorted, “no wonder!”
Niarchos just pulled at his oil-drenched hair. Alexander was staring at the woman.
“What happened?” he demanded.
“Well, the Boeatian, after he had his pleasure, wanted to know where her treasure was hidden. She said it was down a well in the garden at the back of the house.”
The woman was now blinking, her lips moving wordlessly.
“She took him there,” Niarchos continued. “Er, he had been drinking.”
“And she pushed him down, didn’t she?” Alexander finished the story.
“Snapped the bastard’s neck,” Niarchos declared. “The rest of the squadron would have killed her on the spot.” He pointed to Perdiccas. “But he heard the clamor.” He moved from foot to foot. “What shall we do, my lord king?” he asked sardonically, “a thousand lashes and into the slave pen, or shall we crucify the bitch as a warning to others?”
Alexander put his hand on Niarchos’s shoulder, his fingers near his neck, and he squeezed. Niarchos winced with pain.
“By all that’s holy!. .” Alexander used his sacred oath. “She’s a mother Niarchos. The blood lust is over.”
One of the children began to cry. Miriam glanced away. There was a cruel streak in Alexander, and if it surfaced; the woman and both her children would die.
“For pity’s sake, she killed one of my officers!” Niarchos shouted.
The woman clutched the children closer. “He was drunk,” she declared defiantly. “He was an animal. He deserved to die.” She gestured at the black sea of ash around them. “You all deserve to die. You are Alexander, lord, king of Macedon. Why not kill us? The great conqueror, the victor!”