“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 is that?” Miriam asked.
“When father divorced her just before his. .” He blinked, “. . well, just before his death, he asked his drinking companions what they thought. Of course, they all agreed. Memnon was standing on guard duty. ‘Memnon,’ my father shouted, ‘what do you think?’ Memnon bawled back, ‘That you are a bloody fool.’” Alexander smiled and shook his head. “Well, you know father, he bellowed with laughter. He even asked Memnon if he’d like to marry Olympias; that’s when the old soldier really warmed the cockles of my mother’s heart. ‘Men like me,’ he replied, ‘mere mortals, do not marry goddesses.’ Mother sent him a ring. A pledge of eternal friendship. And, as you know, Miriam,” he hitched up his military cloak for it had turned cold, “when mother gives an oath for life or death, she keeps it. I don’t think. .” he threw the shriveled olive on the ground and squashed it under his foot, “. . Memnon committed suicide. He was an old soldier, he wouldn’t have had the imagination.”
“But you saw the room,” Simeon objected. “The walls, the ceiling, the floor were of stone. The door would need a battering ram!”
“The assassin could have entered by the window,” Alexander said weakly.
“Oh, come!” Simeon grasped his dagger hilt. “I’m a clerk, I’m a scribe, my lord, but even a mouse like me would fight. Did Memnon, one of your father’s heroes, just sit there and allow someone to pick him up and throw him through a window? ‘Oh, good morning,’ Memnon must have said, ‘what are you doing here?’ ‘I’ve come to kill you, throw you out the window.’”
“And there’s the dog,” Miriam added. “He may be friendly but I doubt he would just sit there. If it turned nasty he could be savage; Hercules has the strength and cunning of a panther.”
“Ah, well.” Alexander moved a ringlet of hair from Miriam’s brow. “Investigate this matter but, remember, they don’t like you, Miriam. Aye, and don’t tell me it’s because you’re flat-chested with a deep voice. They’ve heard of my two Israelites spies. Do you know that mother wanted to keep you at Pella. To protect her? Would you have liked that, Miriam? Sitting by Olympias while she spins that bloody wheel of hers?” He made to brush by her but Miriam stood her ground.
“If you want to send us back, my lord. .”
“Oh don’t be stupid, I’m only teasing. You, Ptolemy, Niarchos, and Simeon were all with me when I was at the academy in the groves of Midas. I wonder what Aristotle is going to write when he hears about my destruction of Thebes.”
“The Athenians and the rest demanded that it be leveled.”
“Ah yes, Athens. Strange isn’t it, that there are so many connections between Thebes and Athens? In the legend, Oedipus fled to Athens. Sophocles died in Athens, his tomb is near the city gates. But come, let’s see the shrine.”
They left the olive grove and took the white chalky path. Miriam looked around; the two soldiers still followed them. They turned a corner. Miriam stopped and gasped. The temple or shrine was small, of white stone; the trees around it heightened the atmosphere of serenity and coolness, it was as if Thebes still lived. Four soldiers lounged on the steps, an officer and three guardsmen. They scrambled to their feet as Alexander approached, desperately strapping on war belts, looking for shields and lances.
“Oh, for the love of Mother,” Alexander bawled, “what do you think I am, a Theban war party?”
The captain threw his belt away and came down the steps. He genuflected and kissed Alexander’s ring.
“Everything is in order here?”
“Yes, my lord,” the soldier replied, getting up. He glanced at Miriam and Simeon then back along the path to where the two soldiers stood.
“They are inside, my lord.”
“Who are?”
“The priestesses, sir. They have been here most of the time.”
“They haven’t been hurt?”
“Of course not, my lord. Two of my lads are in the vestibule.”
“And the keys?” Alexander asked.
“The old bi-. . the high priestess refused to hand them over.”
“Ah,” Alexander sighed; he rubbed his eyes. “I’ve got a feeling Jocasta and Mother would get on very well.”
They walked up the steps through the half-opened doors. Alexander paused to admire the club-bearing statue of Oedipus and the graceful form of Apollo the hunter. The soldiers inside were busy playing dice; they, too scrambled to their feet.
“Are the doors locked?” Alexander asked.
Miriam stared at the huge bronze-plated doors.
“I think the old woman has barred it behind her,” the soldier replied. “She said animals were not allowed in the shrine.”
Alexander walked up, drew his sword, and hammered. There was a faint sound of footsteps, of a bar being raised. The door was opened by a pale-faced and frightened young priestess dressed in white.
“You are not allowed in here.” She stumbled on the words.
“I am Alexander of Macedon, and I go where I wish!”
“Then enter, Alexander of Macedon!” a voice called out.
The young priestess moved aside. Miriam followed the king into the shrine.
She was aware of marble walls and floor, a white stuccoed ceiling. No ornaments, just niches in the walls where oil lamps glowed in pure alabaster jars. A wall recess to the side and, at the far end, glowing in the light of the sun whose rays shot like spears through the narrow windows, a long white pillar, an Iron Crown on top. Only then did she become aware of the two pits: The one around the pillar was simply a dip in the floor but she saw the glowing charcoal, the spikes at the far end. The women, who stood in line near a black iron bar that ran along the rim of the charcoal pit, were dressed from head to toe in white linen. Miriam glimpsed leather sandals, rings on fingers, a gold armlet. One of the women came forward, pulling back her cowl. Her wig was oil-drenched, her face old and raddled and coated in thick white paint, her eyes ringed with black kohl. Despite her age the woman carried herself with a certain majesty, her old eyes scrutinizing Alexander. She stopped and bowed.