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Authors: Paul Doherty
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tough and loyal, but he became wary of this officers. He believed
one of them was a traitor. He locked himself up in his chamber and, if the accepted story is to be believed, committed suicide
by throwing himself out his window. But that’s not the Macedonian way is it? Why didn’t Memnon drink poison or fall on his
sword? How was he dressed?”
“According to reports,” Alexander replied, “he was wearing a cuirass over a leather tunic, he had his marching boots on and
his sword belt strapped about him. Oh yes, he was also wearing his military cloak.”
“And he fell during the middle of the night?”
“Apparently so.”
“But why?” Miriam persisted. “Why should this old soldier dress himself up for war, open the shutters of his window, and throw
himself out in the dead of night? And, before you say it, Simeon,” she poked her brother, “no fabulous tale—about him being
drugged or someone entering through the window—that simply doesn’t make sense. If any assassin had come into that chamber,
Hercules would have torn him apart.” She sighed with exasperation. “We know who was on duty. I like to know where the rest
were?”
“Why?” Simeon asked.
Miriam shrugged. “I don’t know why. On the one hand Memnon’s death looks like suicide, but on the other thecaptain was a veteran—tough, used to sieges. Why should he dress himself up in the middle of the night and jump out a window?”
“And yet if he was murdered,” Simeon insisted, “how could someone attack a hardened warrior faithfully guarded by his huge
hunting dog?”
“We’ve got an even more pressing problem.” Alexander lifted his head. “You’ve seen the shrine and the Crown of Oedipus? Can
either of you Israelites devise some subtle stratagem for bringing that Crown fairly into my hands?”
“Oh, just take it,” Simeon grumbled. “You are king, conqueror.”
Alexander chewed on his lower lip. “No, there must be another way. Ah well.” He got to his feet, picked up his sword belt
and slung it over his shoulder. “You don’t believe in any of this, do you?” He helped Miriam to her feet. “The God of Israel
is not confined to temples or shrines. You don’t believe in relics or legends of the past?”
“We have our stories,” Miriam replied, “but our God is in all places.”
“Is he now?” Alexander teased. “I wonder what he thinks about Thebes burning to the heavens? Or about the legends, the ghost
stories? Look around you,” he whispered.
Miriam did so. The trees grew close together, old and gnarled, twisted with age; their branches spread out and interlaced
like old people leaning forward to grasp one another.
“They say Oedipus still walks here. The men are superstitious. They have talked to the Theban captives. Oedipus has been seen
dragging his swollen foot, club in hand, around the streets of Thebes.”
“But didn’t he protect them?” Simeon scoffed.
“No, they said he’d come to wreak vengeance. The Thebans have forgotten the old ways, and I,” he added, “am that vengeance.”
Miriam pulled her cloak about her a little closer. If the truth be known, she didn’t like this devastated city or that strange
shrine, with its painted priestesses, marble floors, fire and snake pits. Miriam wondered if the Iron Crown, with its blood-red
ruby, would trap Alexander, rob him of the fruits of his victory.
“We should be going,” she murmured. “I would like to go back to the citadel. Ask a few more questions.”
Alexander agreed. “I’ll walk you there.” A twig snapped and Alexander whirled round, hand to his sword hilt, but it was only
the two soldiers now tired of waiting on the edge of the grove.
“You’ve been good guard dogs,” Alexander called out, “and the day is drawing on.”
They left the grove and entered the sea of devastation and destruction around the citadel. Alexander’s companions were waiting,
crouched in a circle sharing a
one of them was a traitor. He locked himself up in his chamber and, if the accepted story is to be believed, committed suicide
by throwing himself out his window. But that’s not the Macedonian way is it? Why didn’t Memnon drink poison or fall on his
sword? How was he dressed?”
“According to reports,” Alexander replied, “he was wearing a cuirass over a leather tunic, he had his marching boots on and
his sword belt strapped about him. Oh yes, he was also wearing his military cloak.”
“And he fell during the middle of the night?”
“Apparently so.”
“But why?” Miriam persisted. “Why should this old soldier dress himself up for war, open the shutters of his window, and throw
himself out in the dead of night? And, before you say it, Simeon,” she poked her brother, “no fabulous tale—about him being
drugged or someone entering through the window—that simply doesn’t make sense. If any assassin had come into that chamber,
Hercules would have torn him apart.” She sighed with exasperation. “We know who was on duty. I like to know where the rest
were?”
“Why?” Simeon asked.
Miriam shrugged. “I don’t know why. On the one hand Memnon’s death looks like suicide, but on the other thecaptain was a veteran—tough, used to sieges. Why should he dress himself up in the middle of the night and jump out a window?”
“And yet if he was murdered,” Simeon insisted, “how could someone attack a hardened warrior faithfully guarded by his huge
hunting dog?”
“We’ve got an even more pressing problem.” Alexander lifted his head. “You’ve seen the shrine and the Crown of Oedipus? Can
either of you Israelites devise some subtle stratagem for bringing that Crown fairly into my hands?”
“Oh, just take it,” Simeon grumbled. “You are king, conqueror.”
Alexander chewed on his lower lip. “No, there must be another way. Ah well.” He got to his feet, picked up his sword belt
and slung it over his shoulder. “You don’t believe in any of this, do you?” He helped Miriam to her feet. “The God of Israel
is not confined to temples or shrines. You don’t believe in relics or legends of the past?”
“We have our stories,” Miriam replied, “but our God is in all places.”
“Is he now?” Alexander teased. “I wonder what he thinks about Thebes burning to the heavens? Or about the legends, the ghost
stories? Look around you,” he whispered.
Miriam did so. The trees grew close together, old and gnarled, twisted with age; their branches spread out and interlaced
like old people leaning forward to grasp one another.
“They say Oedipus still walks here. The men are superstitious. They have talked to the Theban captives. Oedipus has been seen
dragging his swollen foot, club in hand, around the streets of Thebes.”
“But didn’t he protect them?” Simeon scoffed.
“No, they said he’d come to wreak vengeance. The Thebans have forgotten the old ways, and I,” he added, “am that vengeance.”
Miriam pulled her cloak about her a little closer. If the truth be known, she didn’t like this devastated city or that strange
shrine, with its painted priestesses, marble floors, fire and snake pits. Miriam wondered if the Iron Crown, with its blood-red
ruby, would trap Alexander, rob him of the fruits of his victory.
“We should be going,” she murmured. “I would like to go back to the citadel. Ask a few more questions.”
Alexander agreed. “I’ll walk you there.” A twig snapped and Alexander whirled round, hand to his sword hilt, but it was only
the two soldiers now tired of waiting on the edge of the grove.
“You’ve been good guard dogs,” Alexander called out, “and the day is drawing on.”
They left the grove and entered the sea of devastation and destruction around the citadel. Alexander’s companions were waiting,
crouched in a circle sharing a
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