“A ditch full of glowing coals, a row of spikes, and a snake pit?” Miriam asked. “What do they protect?”
“The Iron Crown of Oedipus,” Alexander replied. “It lies on top of a stone plinth. Very ancient,” he whispered. “There is a legend in Thebes that only the pure in heart can wear it; a god-man guilty of no crimes against his parents. It’s guarded by a group of priestesses who take their names from Sophocles’ plays. No one can remove the Crown with anything brought into the shrine. Only the high priestess knows the secret.”
Miriam studied the king’s tired, dusty face. Alexander’s looks were a mirror of his ever-shifting moods. Sometimes he could look so young, even girlish, his hair coiffed and his face painted like some Athenian scholar. At other times he looked older, the skin more drawn, the lips a thin bloodless line, the eyes ringed with shadows. When he laughed Alexander reminded her of Philip. And when he brooded Miriam shivered, for it reminded her of her childhood and of watching Olympias bent over a spinning wheel, crooning softly to herself while she planned the bloody assassination of some rival.
Alexander was clicking his finger against the wine cup. He lifted his head. “You know why I want that shrine saved?”
“You will take the Crown of Oedipus?”
“I want the Crown of Oedipus; I want to put it on my head.” Alexander was almost speaking to himself. “I want the mark of the gods, the acclamation of the people and their affirmation that I am not a patricide.”
“You don’t need that,” Miriam insisted. “Philip’s blood is not on your hands.” She glanced sideways at her brother.
They knew the truth and had shared most of it with Alexander. Philip had been murdered by a crazed guardsman, a former lover, just before Philip himself was going to launch a bloody purge on his family and court. Alexander cocked his head to one side as he heard the sound of trumpets from outside.
“I want to wear that Crown,” he insisted. “I know I’m no patricide, but I want the gods to sanction me.” He grinned. “Just like Achilles.”
“Achilles, Achilles, Achilles!” Miriam exclaimed, “Achilles was your ancestor, but that doesn’t mean you have to be like him in every way!”
“We’ll take Thebes!” Alexander announced, abruptly changing the subject. “I want that shrine saved.”
“It would be a brave man who took on a hundred snakes,” Simeon retorted.
“I also want that business at the Cadmea investigated.” Alexander put the wine cup down, mood changing as he became more businesslike.
“You remember Hecaetus?”
Miriam pulled a face. Everyone in the Macedonian court knew that Hecaetus was Alexander’s spy-assassin-a mincing, lisping fop, more dangerous and venomous than any snake. He and his effete companions were responsible for collecting and sifting information, detecting plots, nipping the poisoned bud of treason before it bloomed full flower.
“How can I forget him!” Miriam retorted. “Once met always remembered.”
Alexander nodded. He picked up his cloak and drew it across his lap.
“Before I marched into Thessaly,” he declared, “I left a force, a garrison in the Cadmea, the citadel of Thebes, under Memnon, one of my most trusted captains. You remember him, with his grizzled beard, always swearing?”
“And always drunk,” Miriam added.
“He was still a good soldier. When I was a boy he used to dangle me on his knee. He made a wooden sword and put a velvet handle on it. I thought it was a gift from the gods. Anyway, Memnon had a lieutenant, another good, ambitious guardsman, Lysander, from Crete. Now, from what I can gather, it seems that the rumors that I had been killed in Thessaly-my army severely mauled-and that mother was facing a serious revolt at Pella were accepted in Thebes as fact not gossip. There was a web of lies. Hecaetus believes that Thebans spread these stories throughout all of Greece.” Alexander made a cutting movement with his hand. “You have seen the effect of such rumors. Thebes is in revolt and the other Greek states have adopted a policy of wait-and-see.”
“You are sure of this?” Miriam asked.
“As sure as I am that Olympias likes spinning,” Alexander caustically replied. “Memnon believed the rumors. He sent Lysander to deal with the Theban leaders and you know what happened to him? He had his throat cut and his corpse was crucified. They erected the cross so that everyone in the citadel could see it. Memnon became frightened. Not of death, but of what was happening. He managed to get a short message out; he claimed that there was a spy in the garrison who was feeding the Thebans all they wanted to know.”
“And this is where Hecaetus comes in?”
“Yes, Hecaetus and his darling boys. They sleep together, you know. Do you realize, Miriam, that Hecaetus claims that you are the only woman he’ll have near him?”
“That’s because I’m flat-chested and my voice is deep,” Miriam joked.
Alexander was studying her, his strange, varicolored eyes scrutinizing her face.
“It’s curious,” he remarked, “isn’t it, Miriam, how he has taken a liking to you. Do you know something about him that I should know?”
Miriam moved restlessly on the cushion.
“Keep to the story, my lord,” she warned. “I’m not your enemy.” Alexander laughed, and leaning forward, he grasped her face between his hands and kissed her lightly on the brow.
“Mother likes you as well, you and Simeon.”
“That’s because we put on plays for her,” Simeon replied. “Like you, she investigated the stories of our people.”
“Ah yes, the warring queens,” Alexander declared. “Anyway, Hecaetus studied Memnon’s message. He was like a boy with a new toy. You see, Hecaetus believes there is a spy in the Cadmea paid by that loud-mouthed demagogue in Athens, Demosthenes, who simply passes on the gold he has received from his Persian paymaster. Hecaetus calls this spy the Oracle, and he would give a bucket of gold to have his head. He believes that the Oracle was a member of the garrison we left in Cadmea. Once I and my army disappeared into the wilderness of Thessaly, the Oracle spun his rumors and lies. Now I know it is not Lysander, as the poor bugger’s dead. Hecaetus even thought it might be Memnon, but then”. . Alexander shrugged, tapping his thumbnail against his teeth.
“Memnon himself was killed,” Miriam added.
“We don’t know what happened,” Alexander declared. “All we’ve learned is that Memnon was either pushed or that he jumped from the tower of the citadel. His body was found in the courtyard below.” Alexander got to his feet and stood in the opening of the tent. His companions and leading generals, Ptolemy, Niarchos, and Hephaestion, caught his gaze and moved to come across. Alexander waved them back and dropped the tent flap.
“I’m going to take Thebes,” he declared. “I’m going to take the Crown of Oedipus and put it on my head. I also want vengeance for Memnon and Lysander. I intend to capture the Oracle and to crucify him for all other traitors to see!”
“My lord.”
Alexander whirled round. Sly-eyed Ptolemy stood in the entrance to the tent. He winked at Miriam.
“The Thebans have sent you a message: a herald and two trumpeters.”
“They wish to surrender?”
“No, no.” Ptolemy swaggered across and gave a mocking bow.
He was taller than Alexander and had close-set eyes that, Miriam thought, were always laughing at everything and everybody. A superb horseman, a brilliant general, Miriam suspected that Ptolemy thought he was Alexander’s equal. There were even rumors that they shared the same blood, Ptolemy being one of Philip of Macedon’s many bastards.
“I’m waiting,” Alexander said. “Ptolemy, you should have been an actor.”
“The Thebans have sent you defiance. They say they’ll not bend the knee to a Macedonian barbarian, especially one who killed his own father.”