She made them sit side by side on the couch and hurried out. She brought back two bowls of barley pottage, some bread soaked in wine, and figs covered in goat cheese. She put this on the table and served them herself, passing out the food in small wooden dishes. She sat quietly and watched them eat. Miriam did so quickly, rather embarrassed by the way the old priestess just sat and stared at them.
“You said you knew why we were here.”
“You’ve come to ask me about the removal of the Crown?”
Miriam nodded.
“And you brought that wooden lance.” She smiled. “It is not long enough and, even if it was, you couldn’t possibly wield it over such a long distance. I’d be frightened that you’d totter onto the charcoal.” Her face became severe. “Nor do you know the rituaclass="underline" the Crown cannot be removed by any tool or weapon brought into the shrine. Such an action would be blasphemous.”
“Why can’t you tell us?” Simeon demanded, “how it can be removed?”
The old priestess’s face grew even harder.
“Young man, there are ceremonies and rituals; the Crown of Oedipus is a sacred relic. If the gods wish Alexander to wear it, the gods will reveal it. And, as for your ridiculous pole, you’ll either do yourself damage or possibly wreck the shrine.” She saw Miriam staring up at the black beams. “Our house was spared,” she murmured, “as was the shrine. A Macedonian officer told us not to worry and Alexander has kept his promise. However,” she added softly, “I cannot help him in this matter.”
“Do you believe that the shade of Oedipus now prowls the deserted city?” Miriam asked. “You’ve heard the stories?”
“Oh, yes,” Jocasta said. “But it’s not his shade. It’s the old king himself.”
Miriam got to her feet. “How do you know this?”
“I have seen him myself. Here among the olive groves, just standing, staring up at the house.”
“You’ve seen him?” Simeon exclaimed.
“It’s no shade or ghost,” Jocasta added triumphantly, “but Oedipus himself! Who knows, he may even claim the Crown himself?”
Miriam was about to answer when there was a sound of footsteps outside, a woman’s voice raised. Jocasta gestured at them to remain. She left and immediately came back. “It appears your king needs you back at his camp,” she declared. “His mother, Queen Olympias, is about to arrive.”
CHAPTER 7
In the end, Olympias did not arrive until just before dusk. Alexander had been almost beside himself with preparations. The camp was cleared, particularly the principal path to his pavilions and the small park containing the shrine to his favorite god. A guard of honor was prepared dressed in bronze cuirasses; white-and-red-leather kilts; burnished greaves; shields polished until they caught the light; and great Corinthian helmets that concealed most of the face, their red horsehair plumes thick and luxuriant. Rank after serried rank was drawn up. Alexander had a dais prepared, draped in purple and gold, to receive the woman whom he publicly called the best of mothers. Privately he confided to Miriam that Olympias charged too a heavy rent for his nine-months stay in her womb.
A squadron from the cavalry was sent out-the best horsemen in the army-along with musicians and standard bearers, to greet the queen. At last she entered the camp in a blare of trumpets and with men flanking her chariot on either side.
“Just look at her!” Alexander whispered. “By all that’s holy! Just look at her! For Olympias, everything has to be dramatic; Mother never changes.”
Miriam stared down at the lustrous chariot pulled by two white horses, their harness and strapping of burnished gold. The chariot itself was ceremonial-plated with silver, a gold rail along its high top. Olympias now clutched this with one hand, the other raised in salute. As she passed, the guardsmen clashed their spears against their shields and sang a poem of praise. Olympias was dressed in purple-and-gold robes over a snow-white tunic. Her reddish hair shiny, thick; the silver crown on her forehead was gold, encrusted with the most precious jewels: her beautiful, imperious face was hidden behind a silver mask that covered all but her eyes and mouth.
“Oh no,” Alexander groaned, “she’s in one of her Medea moods. The ‘tragic queen’ returns to Thebes.” He pushed back his own cloak, stepped off the dais, and helped his mother out of her chariot. She bowed, almost a nod, and then let her son escort her onto the dais to receive the acclamation of the army. She did this, smiling, one hand raised, and all the time talking quickly to Alexander.
“That chariot’s bloody uncomfortable!” she hissed. “I nearly fell off the damn thing! I want it mended!”
“There’s nothing wrong with the chariot Mother!” Alexander snapped. “It’s built to go along smooth paths, not rocky ground!”
“Don’t contradict me,” Olympias retorted. “And don’t scowl, Alexander; I’ve told you before, it reminds me of Philip.”
Alexander forced a smile. Once the acclamation was over Olympias was led off the dais and into the pavilion. Simeon, Miriam, and the other companions followed. Olympias was given a seat of honor. Alexander on her right, Hephaestion on her left. Olympias now removed her silver mask and looked daggers at her son, her sea-gray eyes blazing with fury, her beautiful smooth face twitching in annoyance.
“She hates Hephaestion,” Miriam whispered to Simeon, “and Alexander knows that.”
The servants brought in wine bowls and water jugs. The cooks had surpassed themselves; animals had been hunted and killed and the fresh meat dressed in sauces. Each dish was presented first to Olympias but she was more interested in the silver-and-gold plate and cups looted from Theban treasuries.
“Don’t worry Mother,” Alexander rubbed his hands and stared round the tent, “I’ve put your portion aside to take back to Pella. When are you going?”
“I’ve just arrived,” Olympias hissed. She picked up a cup and admired the pattern around the rim. “Don’t be insolent, Alexander. I came to see Thebes but you’ve burned it. I also brought my troupe of actors.”
The grin faded from Alexander’s face. Olympias rolled back the sleeve of her gown.
“I have decided,” she declared for all the tent to hear, “to stage the great trilogy of Sophocles-Oedipus the King, Oedipus at Colonus, and Antigone. In the first two I will play Jocasta, in the third Antigone. Ah, Miriam.” She smiled dazzlingly down as the Israelite desperately tried to hide behind her brother. “You are an actress. You and your brother. You are both to join. I’ve heard about the play you put on, about the stories and traditions of your people. Niarchos, stop smirking; you can be Cleon. Perdiccas you can be Haemon. And of course,” she glanced over her shoulder at Aristander, her old necromancer, “you can be Teiresias, the soothsayer.”
“But he was blind!” Aristander moaned.
“If you don’t play your part well, I will personally arrange that!” Olympias rapped. “Now, son, let us eat, and tell me all that has happened to you.”
The evening remained tense. Alexander’s companions always felt wary when Olympias was near. Sharp of eye, tart of tongue, and quick of wit, Olympias could be as vicious as one of her vipers. As the feast went on, she shifted from one mood to another. Miriam quietly confessed to Simeon that she could sit and watch Olympias all evening, provided she didn’t have to sit too close. Sometimes Olympias was a tearful mother complaining about Alexander’s officers back in Pella. Other times she was flirtatious, a young girl, or a doting mother with her only son, and when this didn’t work, she became imperious, snapping out orders or poking Alexander’s chest.
“I still miss your father.” She now moved to the role of mourning queen.
The tent fell silent. No one dared say the truth: When Philip was alive he and Olympias had fought like cat and dog. Now Philip had gone to the gods, and his new wife, whom Olympias regarded as a deadly rival, had disappeared together with her baby son. Miriam caught the watery eyes of Aristander. Only he and she knew about that terrible graveyard behind the palace in the old capital of Aegae. The secret crypt and graves in which Olympias’s victims had been quietly and secretly buried.