“And Memnon?” Olympias voice carried. “Poor Memnon! Alexander have you discovered what happened to him?”
“We have that matter in hand, Mother.”
“If it was murder,” Olympias narrowed her eyes, “I want to see the man crucified.” She picked up her wine cup. “Now come, tell me about the shrine of Oedipus and his Crown. I heard rumors during my journey here. Why haven’t you taken it? Where is it?”
Alexander began the lengthy explanation. Everyone else turned to their drinking and conversations. Miriam, whose eyes had grown heavy, leaned her head against her brother’s shoulder and quickly fell asleep.
Jocasta, high priestess and custodian of the shrine of Oedipus, pushed back the stool on which she was sitting and walked to the window. Her chamber stood at the back of the house, overlooking an olive grove. Onto the small curtain wall below, torches had been lashed. Jocasta watched the pool of light intently. She was about to turn away in disappointment when she saw the figure slip out from the shadows and stand in the faint pool of torchlight. The figure moved unsteadily, dragging one foot as if lame. She could see he was dressed in goatskins, a rope girdle around his waist. His hair was shaggy and matted, his features hidden behind a leather mask, a cloth around his eyes. In his right arm swung a knotted club.
“It’s the same every night,” she whispered. “It’s the same as before.” Now she felt a thrill of excitement. The figure drew closer. She could almost feel the eyes glaring through the terrible mask. Jocasta leaned on the windowsill.
“What do you want?” Her lips mouthed the words.
“Mother, I have seen it!”
She turned. Antigone, her eyes heavy with sleep, stood in the doorway.
“I, too, have seen him,” Jocasta snapped. She felt slightly disappointed that a junior priestess had also been given the opportunity to gaze on this mystical figure. Nevertheless, Antigone was her favorite, the daughter she’d never had: a wayward, slightly fey girl, with her dreams and desires to wander by herself. Jocasta turned and stared down. She thought he had gone but there was a movement in the shadows and again he stepped into the pool of light, one hand lifted.
“He’s beckoning you,” Antigone whispered. “Mother, he’s beckoning you!”
Jocasta felt her stomach flutter with excitement. She had her dreams. She had seen omens and into visions of the night but this was real. Again the hand was raised, this time more urgently beckoning her to come.
“I must go!”
“No, Mother!” Antigone gripped her wrist. “It could be some form of trickery.” Jocasta threw off her hand.
Then Jocasta picked up her cloak and wrapped it around herself. She returned the oiled wig to her shaven head, hung the sacred pectoral around her neck, and slipped her feet into her sandals. She sat on the edge of her bed and fastened the thongs.
“You stay here,” she ordered. “Do not tell your sisters! If the god calls, I must respond.” Jocasta blew out the oil lamp and, leaving Antigone standing in the darkness, hurried down the stairs, out through the back entrance, and across the small courtyard. She was about to undo the wicket gate but stopped at the voice, which sounded hollow, sepulchral.
“Come no further!”
“Who are you?” Jocasta whispered into the darkness. She could see nothing. She caught the smell of goatskin.
“Come no further!” the voice ordered, “until I tell you to!” Jocasta was trembling with excitement.
“Who are you?” she urged, “please.”
“I am Oedipus, King of Thebes! Beloved of the gods! I have come to my city and it is wasted. In the shrine my Crown awaits!”
“Will you take it?” Jocasta asked.
“It is mine by right,” the voice replied, “and not the plaything of a Macedonian prince. Come with me, Jocasta!”
She opened the wicket gate but stopped. The pool of light only stretched a little way; beyond, the olive grove was dark. Jocasta felt the cold night wind cool the sweat on her brow and neck.
Was this trickery?
“Come!” the voice ordered.
Jocasta stepped into the darkness. “I can’t see you,” she stammered. A warm hand caught hers and gently pulled her closer.
“Do not be afraid, Mother. We must be gone.”
And Jocasta, thrilling at the voice of her god, followed his dark shape into the trees.
A few hours later the beggar known as Paemon came out of his hiding place among the pile of rocks in the olive grove and walked toward the shrine. Paemon was used to begging in front of the temples of Thebes but all of these were gone. When the city had been stormed, Paemon, who knew the streets and alleyways of Thebes, had fled like the wind. He had escaped the fury of the Macedonian phalanx, the wholesale plunder and looting that had taken place. Indeed, Paemon himself had indulged in some petty pilfering: a cup, some coins, some food. He had sheltered in the groves around the priestesses’ house and had come out to sell his ill-gotten gains to the soldiers who guarded the shrine. They had been kindly enough, giving him coins, scraps of food, bread, cheese, and wine.
Now Paemon felt agitated. He had been roused from his wine-sodden sleep by two people moving through the grove. He watched them go and then he heard what sounded like sobbing, groaning, but he dared not leave his hiding place.
Now, curiosity had gotten the better of him; Paemon trotted like a dog. His bare foot caught on something and he stumbled. Falling headlong he scrambled about. The old woman’s body lay there, her gown torn; the oiled wig had slipped off, revealing the wound, a savage blow that had cracked her skull like an egg. Paemon felt the corpse, cold and stiffening. Those old eyes stared out as if her soul had not gone to Hades but still lurked in the crumbling flesh. Despite the poor light Paemon caught their look of terror.
He peered around. What monstrosity now walked this grove? He looked at his hands. They were sticky with blood. Paemon got to his feet and ran to a nearby spring to wash himself. What could he do? Where could he go? What happened if the soldiers came? Would they arrest him? Would they put him on a cross to hang and writhe for days? The soldiers? Paemon’s tired mind raced. He was innocent. The gods knew he was innocent! The full horror of what had happened dawned on him. The old woman was a priestess. Whoever had killed her was guilty of sacrilege and blasphemy!
Paemon stared up at the lightening sky. The Furies would come, sent by almighty Zeus to pursue the killer to the ends of the earth. Paemon found that he couldn’t stop his teeth from chattering; his sore gums flared in pain. He scratched his crotch. Soldiers, men in armor would throw him about, joking and laughing, before they crucified him. But what about the soldiers in the temples? The captain of the guard was a kind fellow. He’d go there, tell him what he had seen.
Paemon ran, blundering out of the grove and onto the white track. Dawn was now breaking. He ran head down, and so he noticed them: small red blotches. He crouched down, touching one with his fingers. More blood. Paemon’s heart thudded. He heard a sound and turned. The specter standing behind him seemed to have come out of the earth, from the dark halls of Hades. A cloth mask covered his face, around the eyes was a bloody bandage. Some wild animal skin covered his head and draped his body. Was it a goat? A lion? The specter just stood there. Paemon backed away; the specter did not follow, but he brought one hand up. Paemon watched the club, knotted and gnarled. The ghastly figure then held up his other hand, clutching the Iron Crown. The ruby in the center gleaming like a fresh spot of blood in the morning light.