Miriam pulled a face. “I don’t know. That’s where my hypothesis fails.”
“And once in here,” Olympias snapped, “the soldiers welcome him with open arms?”
“That’s a real mystery,” Alexander declared. “The assassin has killed four of my soldiers; he takes the key and goes into the vestibule. Now the doors to the shrine are locked from the outside, but they are also barred from within.” He pointed to the doors and the bronze bar hanging down.
“The soldiers inside will only lift that if the password is given by either their officer or the high priestess but we know that, by then, both of them are dead. Moreover, the two soldiers have heard nothing of the violence outside.” He flailed his hands. “Yet the doors are unbarred, the assassin enters, quietly dispatches fighting men, and steals the Crown. How?” he demanded angrily.
“Again, I don’t know,” Miriam declared, her cheeks growing hot with embarrassment. “I can only describe what I think is logical.”
Alexander patted her gently on the shoulder.
“But what now?” Perdiccas asked. “If I accept your conclusion, Miriam, this Oedipus is one and the same as the Oracle spy. He now has the Crown. Why doesn’t he just flee?”
“Oh, he will, eventually,” Miriam agreed. “But not too soon; that would arouse suspicion. True, he has the Crown, but what’s he going to do with it? Now we go back to Sophocles. The playwright went to Athens; his tomb can still be seen outside the city gates.”
“Of course!” Olympias exclaimed. “And in the second play, Oedipus at Colonus, the blinded king goes to Theseus, king of Athens for succor.”
“Demosthenes!” Alexander exclaimed. He began walking up and down, rubbing his hands together as he did whenever he became excited. Now and again he would curl his fingers into a fist.
“He’ll sell the Crown to Demosthenes. Oh, how the Athenians will laugh.”
“That’s why you must act quickly,” Miriam insisted. “Issue a proclamation that we have the Crown.”
“What good will that do?”
“It will cause confusion,” Miriam declared. “I am sure our ironsmiths could fashion a Crown with a red ruby in the center. If our suspicions are correct, if this Oedipus is going to sell the Crown to the Athenians, our action will cause chaos. Demosthenes does not want to buy a fake and proclaim himself a fool throughout the length and breadth of Greece.” Alexander stopped his pacing. He smiled dazzingly at Miriam and then, going forward, wrapped her in a hug. She smelled the sweat from his body-wine mingled with olives.
“You are choking me!” she gasped, although Miriam was more concerned by the viperish look in Olympias’s eyes.
“I always said she was a clever girl,” the queen declared. “Alexander,” she purred, “you really should leave Miriam with me in Pella when you march against Persia.”
“And I’ll be dead within a week,” Miriam whispered.
“Nonsense, Mother!” Alexander stood away but he held on to Miriam’s hand. “Where I go, my companions always follow. Perdiccas, clear up the mess in here! Have the corpses quietly removed! Tell the guards to take an oath. Oh I, know some of them will chatter, but give them a gold piece each and tell them that if they blab, they could end up on crosses.”
“And the beggar?” Perdiccas asked. “Shall two of my lads take him into the trees and cut his throat?”
“No, no please.” Miriam gripped Alexander’s fingers. She could see that Alexander was about to confirm Perdiccas’s order. “Please!” she added, “there’s been enough killing!”
“He’s my prisoner,” Alexander declared. “He’s to be kept in honorable but very comfortable confinement. Mother, I suggest you go back to the camp. Miriam, where’s Simeon?”
“Outside,” Miriam replied. She was going to add that her brother could never stand the sight of blood but she bit her tongue just in time. They went out onto the steps; the corpses had been removed.
“We checked the wine and food, or what was left of it,” Simeon declared. “There’s no sign of any potion or philter. No evidence the guards were drugged.”
Alexander nodded and snapped his fingers at Perdiccas.
“I want this shrine closed.” He paused halfway down the steps. “How could they?” he whispered.
“What?” Miriam asked.
Alexander didn’t reply but, shaking his head, walked down the steps and strode into the grove. Miriam followed. Cretan archers now squatted among the trees; they rose as the king approached.
“Where’s the corpse?” he asked their commander, “the priestess?”
“There’s no corpse, my lord.”
“What?”
“We have searched, sir.”
“Where’s that beggar man?”
“He led us to the spot, sir, but there was no corpse. The earth appears to have been disturbed, kicked and scuffed. Something happened there. Come and see!”
The captain led them to the spot deep in the grove, a small clearing with a spring nearby. The patch of grass where the corpse must have lain had been brushed as if someone had tried to hide all signs of the priestess’s murder. The light was poor; Miriam squatted down. Dried flecks of blood were still visible, and she could see where someone had brought water from the spring to wash away the rest.
“Have the grove searched,” she demanded. “The assassin apparently came back, took the corpse, and hid it elsewhere.” She lifted her head and sniffed the breeze. At first she thought she must be mistaken. She smelled not only the acrid wood smoke but something else, the stench of fat left in a pan over a burning fire.
“In that direction.” She pointed deeper into the trees where the grove stretched beyond the shrine.
“I smelled it, too!” the Cretan replied.
“Didn’t you investigate?” Alexander asked.
“Sir, all of Thebes smells of burning.”
Alexander snapped his fingers and the Cretan hurried off. Alexander squatted down next to Miriam, poking at the earth with his dagger.
“Why burn the corpse?” he murmured. “That’s what’s happened isn’t it, Miriam?”
She agreed.
“But why?” Simeon echoed Alexander’s question.
“I don’t know.”
Alexander got to his feet and, not waiting for them, strode off, following the Cretan into the trees. Miriam, wrapping her cloak more firmly around her, looked at Simeon, shrugged, and followed. The olive grove apparently ran beside the shrine and then around to the back. The deeper they went into the trees, the stronger the offensive stench grew. At last, just behind the temple, the tree line broke and they reached the edge of a small glade. The Cretan commander was standing in a spot where small rocks thrust up from the earth. He was squatting down, hand over his mouth and nose, staring at a great patch of burning black remains. The smoke was still rising in spiraling gray wisps. Miriam approached. The corpse, or what remained of it, lay in a smoldering bed of ash. No distinguishing elements remained. The flesh had shriveled and bubbled; the bones were charred and had snapped.
“She must have been drenched in oil,” the Cretan declared. “Drenched in oil and set afire.” He drew his dagger and, poking through the ash, pushed the tip through the eye socket of the skull and lifted it up. He pointed to the great hole on the side.
“That’s her death wound,” he declared. “Her skull was shattered!”
“That’s why the beggar man met Oedipus,” Miriam declared. “He was going back into the grove to dispose of her corpse.”
The stench was so acrid that Alexander had to pinch his nostrils and walk away.
“Clear up the remains!” he shouted back. “Put them in a jar! The priestesses have a house here, haven’t they?”
“Yes,” Miriam replied.
“Then hand the remains to them.” Alexander went back into the trees, squatted on the fallen log, and put his face in his hands.
“Our killer has been busy,” he murmured. “And it’s my fault. I should have put guards in these trees. I issued a decree. All temples and their sacred groves were to be protected. I just didn’t want any of my men to give offence to the priestesses.”