“Tell them all!” a voice grated. “Tell them that Oedipus has come to Thebes and taken his Crown!”
Paemon turned and fled. He didn’t care now. He must reach the soldiers. He tried to scream but his mouth was dry. He found himself at the foot of the steps. He wiped the sweat from his face and stared round. Something was wrong. The four soldiers lay there, sprawling in pools of blood that was seeping out of the hideous wounds to their heads. Paemon climbed the steps and stared in horror.
“You are dead!” he murmured, “all of you are dead!” He banged on the doors. No answer. He saw the corpse of the young officer and went over to it. The key still hung on his belt. Paemon went to touch it, but, no, he’d seen enough! And, turning, he fled like the wind toward the Macedonian camp.
Miriam was roused by Simeon shaking her shoulder.
“Get up!” he hissed. “Miriam, something dreadful has happened!”
She threw back the rough horse blankets and dressed hurriedly, slipping on sandals, wrapping a cloak around her, pulling up the hood. She splashed water on her face, grabbed an ash cane and followed her brother out of the tent. Alexander was there. Perdiccas was beside him-he was captain of the guard for that day. He grasped a tattered beggar man by the shoulder. The fellow looked as if he were about to swoon with fear; his lined face was red and sweat-soaked. His straggly mustache and beard were drenched with perspiration.
Alexander talked to him soothingly, stroking his hair. Perdiccas released his grip. Alexander took a golden daric out of his purse and held it before the man’s eyes. The man took it, his lips moving wordlessly.
“What are you saying?” Alexander asked.
“Your majesty, your worthiness, some wine and cheese.”
Alexander, though his face looked severe, smiled and nodded at Simeon who went back into the tent, bringing out a wineskin and some cheese in a linen cloth. The man ate these, gnawing at the cheese and drenching his mouth in spurts from the wineskin.
“There,” Alexander took the wineskin from him, “we need you sober.”
A figure loomed out of the morning mist: Olympias, garbed as if she were about to enter Athens in triumph, her hair dressed and pinned with a silver jeweled crown. Her red cloak was of pure wool with a gold fringe, though in her haste, she’d pulled on a pair of army boots.
“I’ve heard the news,” she snapped. “Alexander, what has happened?”
“I don’t know, Mother. But now we are assembled, we’ll all find out.”
Miriam rubbed her face. She wanted to ask questions but she knew Alexander. He hated to waste time in useless banter. Through the morning mist came the clink of armor.
“That’s my lads,” Perdiccas declared. “Every one a guardsman in full armor.” He resheathed his sword. “I also sent some of our Cretans into the grove. I’ve told them to go nowhere near the shrine.”
“The temple?” Olympias gasped.
“This gentleman,” Alexander patted the beggar gently on the shoulder, “has brought us a strange and horrid story. He stumbled across the corpse of a priestess in the grove. I think it’s Jocasta, her head smashed in. He ran for help to the guards at the shrine.”
The beggar man was now nodding. Miriam pushed her way forward.
“What’s your name?”
“Paemon.” He liked this woman. She had a severe face but the eyes were kindly.
“What happened at the shrine, Paemon?”
“I saw Oedipus.”
“Oedipus is dead,” Miriam said gently.
“Then the gods have sent him back. Terrible he was, a bloody rag around his eyes, his face covered by a mask. In one hand he carried a blood-encrusted club, in the other a crown.”
“A crown?” Olympias’s clawlike hands would have grasped Paemon’s shoulder but Miriam gently intervened.
“I ran to the temple,” he gabbled. “They are all dead!”
Alexander was marching away followed by Perdiccas. Miriam grasped Paemon by the arm and hurried after. They went through the camp, now silent except for the cries of the sentries or the occasional soldier wandering about, still recovering from the drinking and feasting of the night before. Fires had burned low. At the edge of the camp, ostlers and grooms were up, heavy-eyed, making their way down to the horse lines. They passed sentries and pickets. Word seemed to have spread: A small crowd of soldiers was now following the guardsmen who had formed a protective ring around the royal party. Perdiccas shouted at them to go away. They crossed the deserted quarter of the city. The tower and walls of the Cadmea could be seen faintly through the mist.
At last they reached the olive grove and then the white path. Paemon pointed to the ground, and Miriam saw the patches of blood. The scene on the temple steps was terrible. The beggar man had described it correctly. All four soldiers sprawled there, great wounds in their heads. Two were armed; others still grasped their wine cups. The young officer was wearing his war belt. He lay there, eyes closed, as if asleep, face white as chalk and streaked with lines of blood. Perdiccas hammered on the doors with the pommel of his sword. Miriam took the key off the belt of one of the officers and opened the doors.
Inside, the vestibule was cold and deserted. Miriam, going ahead, pushed at the bronze doors. They swung open. Inside, the lamps and torches still glowed. An eerie place full of dancing shadows. She glimpsed the bed of charcoal glowing fiery red; then she saw the two guards, dark shapes huddled on the floor. The blood from their split heads snaked out across the gleaming marble. All were armed, but they looked as if they had died without a struggle.
Miriam looked toward the far end of the shrine. The iron clasps were down. The Crown was gone! Alexander swore. Olympias just stood there, her face pale, glaring at that empty pillar as if she had been cheated of something. Perdiccas and Miriam examined the corpses.
“They didn’t even draw sword or dagger,” Perdiccas murmured. “Look, Miriam, there are no wounds, no cuts, nothing.”
Miriam felt the throat of each soldier, the skin was cold and clammy.
“They have been dead for some time,” she said.
She went across to the corner. Here the soldiers’ shields and lances were piled, wine cups and wineskins, linen cloths that contained stale bread, cheese, and bruised grapes. Alexander was still staring speechlessly at the empty pillar. Miriam took a wineskin and poured some into an empty cup. She sniffed and tasted it.
“Why that?” Perdiccas asked. Ever practical, the captain of Alexander’s bodyguards was more concerned about dead soldiers than a missing crown.
Miriam offered him the cup. “I wondered if it was drugged, but?. .”
Perdiccas took it and sipped it. “Cheap and watery!” he replied, handing it back. He smiled thinly. “Niarchos could drink three of those wineskins and still do a dance.”
Helped by Miriam, Perdiccas searched the shrine but they could find nothing amiss. No secret entrances or passageways. She went and crouched before the great rim of the charcoal pit. The fire was still glowing red hot. She stared carefully. She couldn’t see any disturbance.
“What are you doing?” Olympias asked imperiously.
“The Crown is gone,” Miriam replied. “I just wondered if someone had crossed the pits.”
“It would have to be a long plank,” Olympias scoffed.
“I know,” Miriam replied, “and the shrine would reek of burned timber. . Perdiccas!”
“What are you going to do?” Alexander came up beside her.
“I want Perdiccas to clear a path through the charcoal. I want to look into the snake pit.
“Why?” Olympias asked.
But Alexander was already shouting out orders. Perdiccas brought in some of his guards; using their shields and pieces of wood, they sifted the charcoal, throwing the red hot pieces on top of the marble floor. Miriam calculated that the charcoal pit was at least one and a half feet deep. Beneath it lay a thick layer of white dust from previous fires. The shrine began to fill with smoke, which made them cough and made their eyes water. Now and again the soldiers had to break off and go out for fresh air. Meanwhile Perdiccas removed the corpses to the recess, covering them with their cloaks.