time.”
“They haven’t been hurt?”
“Of course not, my lord. Two of my lads are in the vestibule.”
“And the keys?” Alexander asked.
“The old bi— . . . the high priestess refused to hand them over.”
“Ah,” Alexander sighed; he rubbed his eyes. “I’ve got a feeling Jocasta and Mother would get on very well.”
They walked up the steps through the half-opened doors. Alexander paused to admire the club-bearing statue of Oedipus and
the graceful form of Apollo the hunter. The soldiers inside were busy playing dice; they, too scrambled to their feet.
“Are the doors locked?” Alexander asked.
Miriam stared at the huge bronze-plated doors.
“I think the old woman has barred it behind her,” the soldier replied. “She said animals were not allowed in the shrine.”
Alexander walked up, drew his sword, and hammered. There was a faint sound of footsteps, of a bar being raised. The door was
opened by a pale-faced and frightened young priestess dressed in white.
“You are not allowed in here.” She stumbled on the words.
“I am Alexander of Macedon, and I go where I wish!”
“Then enter, Alexander of Macedon!” a voice called out.
The young priestess moved aside. Miriam followed the king into the shrine.
She was aware of marble walls and floor, a white stuccoed ceiling. No ornaments, just niches in the walls where oil lamps
glowed in pure alabaster jars. A wall recess to the side and, at the far end, glowing in the light of the sun whose rays shot
like spears through the narrow windows, a long white pillar, an Iron Crown on top. Only then did she become aware of the two
pits: The one around the pillar was simply a dip in the floor but she saw the glowing charcoal, the spikes at the far end.
The women, who stood in line near a black iron bar that ran along the rim of the charcoal pit, were dressed from head to toe
in white linen. Miriam glimpsed leather sandals, rings on fingers, a gold armlet. One of the women came forward, pulling back
her cowl. Her wig was oil-drenched, her face old and raddled and coated in thick white paint, her eyes ringed with black kohl.
Despite her age the woman carried herself with a certain majesty, her old eyes scrutinizing Alexander. She stopped and bowed.
“My lord King, I am Jocasta, chief priestess of the shrine.” She gestured at the other four. “This is Antigone, Merope, Ismene,
and Teiresias.”
“All names,” Alexander said, “from the plays of Sophocles.”
The high priestess nodded. “Who we really are is no matter. We serve a god and guard his shrine in what was ‘Thebes, the City
of Light.’”
“‘And what am I?’” Alexander replied, “‘the shedder of blood? The doer of deeds unnamed?’”
Miriam recognized the quotation from
Oedipus Rex
.
“‘Who is this man?’” Jocasta answered, also quoting from the play, “‘the son of Zeus, who needs to destroy?’ Welcome to our
temple, Alexander, son of Philip.”
Miriam caught the sarcasm in her voice: Jocasta had pointedly described Alexander as she would any other man, as the son of
a human father. Alexander brushed back his hair. “‘Greatest of men,’” he quoted, staring at the Crown, “‘He delved the deepest
mysteries! Was admired by his fellow men in his great prosperity. Behold, what a full tide of misfortune swept over that head.’”
“‘And none can be called happy,’” Jocasta finished the quotation, “‘Until that day when he carried his happiness down to the
grave in peace.’”
Alexander seemed not to be listening. He knelt on one of the quilted cushions in front of the iron bar, eyes fixed on Oedipus’s
Crown. His hands came up, fingers curling, as if he wanted to stretch out and take it immediately. Jocasta came up behind
him. The other priestesses, more nervous, clustered about her.
“Behold,” she said in a singsong voice. “Behold, Alexander, king of Macedon: the Crown of Oedipus, king of Thebes,
“They haven’t been hurt?”
“Of course not, my lord. Two of my lads are in the vestibule.”
“And the keys?” Alexander asked.
“The old bi— . . . the high priestess refused to hand them over.”
“Ah,” Alexander sighed; he rubbed his eyes. “I’ve got a feeling Jocasta and Mother would get on very well.”
They walked up the steps through the half-opened doors. Alexander paused to admire the club-bearing statue of Oedipus and
the graceful form of Apollo the hunter. The soldiers inside were busy playing dice; they, too scrambled to their feet.
“Are the doors locked?” Alexander asked.
Miriam stared at the huge bronze-plated doors.
“I think the old woman has barred it behind her,” the soldier replied. “She said animals were not allowed in the shrine.”
Alexander walked up, drew his sword, and hammered. There was a faint sound of footsteps, of a bar being raised. The door was
opened by a pale-faced and frightened young priestess dressed in white.
“You are not allowed in here.” She stumbled on the words.
“I am Alexander of Macedon, and I go where I wish!”
“Then enter, Alexander of Macedon!” a voice called out.
The young priestess moved aside. Miriam followed the king into the shrine.
She was aware of marble walls and floor, a white stuccoed ceiling. No ornaments, just niches in the walls where oil lamps
glowed in pure alabaster jars. A wall recess to the side and, at the far end, glowing in the light of the sun whose rays shot
like spears through the narrow windows, a long white pillar, an Iron Crown on top. Only then did she become aware of the two
pits: The one around the pillar was simply a dip in the floor but she saw the glowing charcoal, the spikes at the far end.
The women, who stood in line near a black iron bar that ran along the rim of the charcoal pit, were dressed from head to toe
in white linen. Miriam glimpsed leather sandals, rings on fingers, a gold armlet. One of the women came forward, pulling back
her cowl. Her wig was oil-drenched, her face old and raddled and coated in thick white paint, her eyes ringed with black kohl.
Despite her age the woman carried herself with a certain majesty, her old eyes scrutinizing Alexander. She stopped and bowed.
“My lord King, I am Jocasta, chief priestess of the shrine.” She gestured at the other four. “This is Antigone, Merope, Ismene,
and Teiresias.”
“All names,” Alexander said, “from the plays of Sophocles.”
The high priestess nodded. “Who we really are is no matter. We serve a god and guard his shrine in what was ‘Thebes, the City
of Light.’”
“‘And what am I?’” Alexander replied, “‘the shedder of blood? The doer of deeds unnamed?’”
Miriam recognized the quotation from
Oedipus Rex
.
“‘Who is this man?’” Jocasta answered, also quoting from the play, “‘the son of Zeus, who needs to destroy?’ Welcome to our
temple, Alexander, son of Philip.”
Miriam caught the sarcasm in her voice: Jocasta had pointedly described Alexander as she would any other man, as the son of
a human father. Alexander brushed back his hair. “‘Greatest of men,’” he quoted, staring at the Crown, “‘He delved the deepest
mysteries! Was admired by his fellow men in his great prosperity. Behold, what a full tide of misfortune swept over that head.’”
“‘And none can be called happy,’” Jocasta finished the quotation, “‘Until that day when he carried his happiness down to the
grave in peace.’”
Alexander seemed not to be listening. He knelt on one of the quilted cushions in front of the iron bar, eyes fixed on Oedipus’s
Crown. His hands came up, fingers curling, as if he wanted to stretch out and take it immediately. Jocasta came up behind
him. The other priestesses, more nervous, clustered about her.
“Behold,” she said in a singsong voice. “Behold, Alexander, king of Macedon: the Crown of Oedipus, king of Thebes,
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