“My lord King, I am Jocasta, chief priestess of the shrine.” She gestured at the other four. “This is Antigone, Merope, Ismene, and Teiresias.”
“All names,” Alexander said, “from the plays of Sophocles.”
The high priestess nodded. “Who we really are is no matter. We serve a god and guard his shrine in what was ‘Thebes, the City of Light.’”
“‘And what am I?’” Alexander replied, “‘the shedder of blood? The doer of deeds unnamed?’”
Miriam recognized the quotation from Oedipus Rex.
“‘Who is this man?’” Jocasta answered, also quoting from the play, “‘the son of Zeus, who needs to destroy?’ Welcome to our temple, Alexander, son of Philip.”
Miriam caught the sarcasm in her voice: Jocasta had pointedly described Alexander as she would any other man, as the son of a human father. Alexander brushed back his hair. “‘Greatest of men,’” he quoted, staring at the Crown, “‘He delved the deepest mysteries! Was admired by his fellow men in his great prosperity. Behold, what a full tide of misfortune swept over that head.’”
“‘And none can be called happy,’” Jocasta finished the quotation, “‘Until that day when he carried his happiness down to the grave in peace.’”
Alexander seemed not to be listening. He knelt on one of the quilted cushions in front of the iron bar, eyes fixed on Oedipus’s Crown. His hands came up, fingers curling, as if he wanted to stretch out and take it immediately. Jocasta came up behind him. The other priestesses, more nervous, clustered about her.
“Behold,” she said in a singsong voice. “Behold, Alexander, king of Macedon: the Crown of Oedipus, king of Thebes, beloved of the gods!”
“Slayer of his father!” Alexander finished. “Lover of his mother!”
“None can wear that Crown except the pure and those touched by a god.”
“I am king,” Alexander retorted. “I am conqueror and victor of Thebes. By divine decree that Crown is mine!”
“Then take it Alexander.” Jocasta’s voice was softly mocking. “What are you going to do? Empty the pit of fire? Crush the serpents under your boot? Unlock the clasps and take the Crown? And who can stop you? An old priestess and her acolytes? How all of Greece will laugh,” she taunted, “at the lion of Macedon.”
Alexander got to his feet, his face flushed. “It cannot stay here.”
“Look, look, Alexander.” Jocasta seized his elbow. “There is the Crown; it rests on top of the pillar. Look at the iron clasps. They can be loosened, the Crown lifted up and brought to your head.”
“How?” Alexander demanded.
Miriam closed her eyes. Alexander’s petulance had come to the fore. The old priestess had cleverly trapped him, like an elderly aunt reproving a recalcitrant nephew. All Alexander had to do was stamp his foot and shout, “I want! I want!” and the picture would be complete. Miriam stared at the pit of fire. It must be at least three to four feet deep and about two yards across. The spikes were ugly and gleaming, and in the dark pit beyond, what horrors existed! She had seen snake pits in the chambers of Olympias, the serpents writhing and coiling so that it seemed as if the whole floor were moving! All to protect that Iron Crown, the ruby in its center glowing like a small ball of fire. It was kept in place by two clasps at the front, like those on a chest, but how could they be pulled down without crossing the pits? Did the priestess have some kind of bridge that could lowered and extended across? And what would it rest against? The fire would burn any wooden structure, and the snakes would strike; even a man wearing thick military boots would be in great danger. So, if it was to be removed, it would have to be by subtlety and cunning rather than brute force. Miriam grasped Alexander’s arm, pinching the skin. The king moved away, walking the edge of the pit, his eyes fixed on the Crown.
“How do you remove it?” he asked.
“That is a mystery, my lord king. If the gods and the shade of Oedipus believe it is yours, the way will be shown to you,” responded the high priestess.
Alexander’s fingers drummed on his sword hilt. He smiled bleakly at her, and Miriam realized that this cunning old priestess had cleverly trapped him. Alexander might be conqueror of Thebes but now all of Greece would learn whether the Crown of Oedipus was still to be withheld from him.
CHAPTER 4
“There is another matter.” Alexander walked determinedly toward Jocasta in an attempt to reassert himself.
“The death of Lysander?” she asked. “My lord king, it had nothing to do with me. Pelliades, leader of the Theban council, asked me to mediate. I swore sacred oaths that your envoy would be safe. He’d hardly stepped beyond the palisade when the daggers were drawn.”
The old priestess blinked away the tears.
“I cursed them,” she continued. “I told them that they had broken their most sacred oaths, that the gods would respond. They just laughed. Pelliades said that you were dead and the power of Macedon shattered.” She lifted one shoulder. “I cursed him; the rest you know. Lysander’s body was put on a gibbet.” She stared down at the black marble floor.
“And Pelliades?” she asked.
“Dead,” Alexander replied. “Killed with the rest in the final stand beyond the Electra Gate.” He stretched out his hand. “I may not take the Crown of Oedipus, not yet, but I will take the keys.”
“We have to worship here.” Jocasta’s lower lip trembled. She clasped the pectoral on her chest. “We have to tend the shrine.”
“The officer outside,” Alexander replied kindly, “will hold the keys. He will hand them back whenever you wish.”
The high priestess sighed but took the keys off the girdle around her waist. They were large, their brass heads shaped in the form of a snake. She thrust them into Alexander’s hand. Alexander gestured for the soldiers to withdraw from the door. When they did so he stepped closer.
“There’ll be a password. I’ll tell the officer in charge.”
“What is it?” Jocasta asked.
Alexander stared across at the Crown.
“Why, Oedipus.” Alexander smiled. He grasped the keys and walked to the door. He went down the steps, Miriam and Simeon following. Alexander called the officer over.
“Four of you will guard the outside,” he declared. “Leave two others in the shrine itself.” He handed the keys over. “These are only to be given to the old priestess or to me; the password is Oedipus.” He grasped the young man’s arm. “You are well armed?”
“With everything, my lord king: bows, arrows, spears, swords.”
“You have a hunting horn?” Alexander asked.
“No, my lord, but I know where I can get one.”
“If anything untoward happens,” Alexander declared, “sound the alarm.” He stared around at the dark olive trees. “But you are safe enough. No fighting men remain in Thebes and the Macedonian army guards all the approaches. Eat, sleep, but be vigilant.” He wagged a finger and smiled.
“You are Meriades, aren’t you?”
“Yes, my lord king.” The young man beamed with pleasure at being recognized.
“Your father was in the guards regiment. He died at Chaeronea. Be worthy of your father’s name.” Alexander spun on his heel and walked back along the white chalk path. He entered the olive grove, leading Simeon and Miriam deeper into the trees to a small clearing where he sat down on a stump, staring up at the greenery. He gestured for Miriam and Simeon to sit next to him. Simeon sighed and looked at his sister. This was one of Alexander’s favorite customs. He loved to walk away from the throng and the bustle, then sit and talk, turning over some problem. Miriam suspected he daydreamed. A great deal of the time Alexander was anxious; he even had anxiety attacks, periods of panic when he’d sit tense. Afterward he’d abruptly stir himself into action, issuing orders, dictating letters so fast the scribes and clerks could hardly keep up with him. He’d charge around the camp inspecting equipment and munitions, sharp-eyed for failure: a harsh word to a defaulter, lavish praise for those who pleased him.