saved them at sea caught fire,
racing from barque to barque like flame through grass;
and above where the moored ships burned,
ash hung white as mist, then slowly settled, a floating
scurf. And now
came the rowing cry, unholy celeusma ringing on the
cliffs, and we shot to seaward,
a third of Aietes’ fleet—five hundred lean-prowed
ships—descending, flaming,
bartizans fallen like collapsed tents, to seek out the
harbor floor. Old Argus
stared back, sooty and sweaty, at the sinking ships,
and his fists
were clenched. ‘Insanity!’ he whispered, but no one
heard.
“As vast
as the sea, numberless as the leaves that fall in autumn
from the beams
of trees, the army of Aietes gathered and rushed to the
shore,
the king in his chariot of fire drawn, swift as the wind,
by the horses
of Helios. Beside him rode Apsyrtus, my brother— Apsyrtus, golden maned, gentle-eyed as a girl. But
already,
driven by gods and the Argonauts, our ship stood far to sea. In a frenzy, Aietes lifted his hands to Helios calling his father to witness the outrage. Then howling,
half mad,
he cursed his people and threatened them one and all
with death
if they failed to lay hands on his daughter; said whether
they found her on land
or captured the ship on the high seas, they must bring
him Medeia,
for Aietes was sworn to be avenged for that monstrous
betrayal. Thus
Aietes thundered. The sun dimmed; the gray earth
shook.
But the Argo sailed on, protected by a wind from Hera.
At once
the Kolchians equipped and launched their remaining
ships—an immense
armada despite all the damage we’d done—and out they
came,
flight on flight of dark swallows, fleeing catastrophe. Hera was determined that Medeia must reach the
Pelasgian land,
bring doom to the house of Pelias. But the Argonauts’
eyes were grim,
their faces stern, for still Lord Jason was strange with
them,
no longer himself.
Then young Orpheus abandoned his shield
and took up, instead, the golden lyre with which he
could tame
not only trees, fish, cattle, but even the grudge-stiff
hearts
of men. Lord Jason looked fierce, but I reached out my
hand to him,
touching the border of his mantle, and he kept his
silence, waiting.
“It was strange music for that desperate time: not
charging rhythms
urging the rowers to out-do themselves, but music as
calm
as the glass-smooth sea untouched by the magical wind
from Hera.
One by one the Argonauts—who, heaving at the oars or proffering shields, had glanced again and again at
Jason,
distrustful, stirred by wordless doubt—grew calmer,
forgetful
of the secret anger they could not themselves
understand. Orpheus
sang of the pride of Zeus and the labor of Hephaiastos, and how Zeus, awakened from his dream, wept. The
lyre fell silent.
Jason stared down, ashamed, yet hardly aware what
his shame
might mean. Aithalides spoke, whose memory never
slept.
‘You cast your eyes to the sky, the shore, and at times,
it seems,
toward us, apprehensive. It’s a trifling slight, though
we should have deserved,
by now, more trust. But for all your care that the
fleece be guarded,
you’ve forgotten the words of Phineus—that we’ll sail
back home
by a different route. Surely his words were not idle,
Jason.
Troubles await us in the route we steer. So the seer
foretold.
Turn your mind from its jealousy to that!’ The son of
Aison,
touched like the rest by the music, showed no anger.
He glanced
in my direction for help. But despite the pursuing fleet and my certain knowledge that I, beyond all the rest,
was the quarry,
I could not advise him. The wind blew steadily,
plunging us on.
He turned to the old seer Mopsos, bedraggled, smiling
like a fool
at some joke. He too was helpless—not a bird in sight.
Then, moved
by a god, or by his lunacy—who can say?—mad Idas crowed like a rooster and lifted one hand from his oar
to flap it
like a wing, to mock the seer. With strange attention,
the old
man watched. And when Idas fell back laughing, the
old man said,
‘It’s true, yes. Ridiculous … but never mind.’ And to
Jason:
‘Imagine a time when the reeling wheel of stars was not yet firm—when one would have looked in vain for the
Danaan race,
for no men lived but the Arcadians, who were there
before even
the moon. Egypt was the corn-rich colony of dawn,
for the sun
arose, in those dim days, from the south. Dark tales
remain,
remembered by migrating birds, old sundials wrong
about time,
as earth tells time—remembered by temples whose holy
gates
are askew by a quarter turn. Old sea-birds speak of it. Birds of the farmyard scoff.’ He paused,
straining to remember. ‘From Egypt, a certain man set
out—
there had been some terrible catastrophe, explosions in
the ocean,
a continent lost—a man set out with a loyal force and made his way through the whole wilderness of
Europe and Asia,
and founded cities as he went. A few, so birds report, survive. I have seen myself old tablets of stone
containing,
allegedly, old maps. On one there’s a river. The priests of the Keltai, old as their oak trees, call it Ister. I can say no more, or nothing but this: If the ancient stream still
flows,
if the ages have left that forgotten seaway navigable, our route lies somewhere to the west.’ No sooner did
his voice cease
than Hera granted us a sign. Ahead of us, a blinding
light
shot westward, down to the horizon. The Argonauts sent
up a shout,
and away, all canvas spread, our black ship sailed.
“One fleet
of Kolchians, riding on a false scent, had left the
Black Sea,
between the Kyanean rocks. The rest, with Apsyrtus in
command,
unwittingly made for Ister, blindly hunting. —But it
was
more than that, I know; was he not my brother? He was
no
devil, sorcerer or not. He had hoped to have no part in capturing me. But the stars at his birth were
unkind to him.
They discovered the river and entered it—his heart full
of dread—
turned at the first of the river’s two mouths, while we
took the second,
and so his fleet outstripped us. His ships spread panic
as they went.
Shepherds g
razing their flocks in the broad green
meadows by the banks
abandoned their charge and fled, supposing the ships
great monsters
risen from the sea, old Leviathan-brooder, for never
before—
or never in many a century—had the Ister been plagued by ships. Apsyrtus’ eyes grew vague. He was of two
minds,
fearing for my life, fearing for his own if he incurred
our father’s
wrath. And so in anguish he set down watchmen as
he passed,
to report, by the blowing of horns or flashing of mirrors,
if we
on the Argo sailed behind him. The message soon
came. In sorrow,
he drew up his fleet as a net.
“Ah, Jason, reasonable Jason!
Had not the moon’s song warned me?—‘my light, my
life-long heartache!’
But reasonable, yes. If the Argonauts, outnumbered as
they were,
had dared to fight, they’d have met with disaster. They
evaded battle
by coming to terms with Apsyrtus. Both sides agreed
that, since
Aietes himself had said they’d be given the golden fleece if Jason accomplished his appointed task, the fleece was
theirs
by right—Apsyrtus would blink their manner of taking
it.
But as for me—for I was the bone of contention
between them—
they must place me in chancery with Artemis, and
leave me alone
till one of the kings who sit in judgment could decide
on the fate
most just—return to my father or flight with the
Argonauts.
“I listened in horror as Aithalides told me the
terms. I paled,
fought down an urge to laugh. Had they still no glimpse
of the darkness
in Kolchian hearts? Could Jason believe that, free of
me,
Apsyrtus would sweetly make way for them—rude
strangers who’d burned
his father’s ships, seduced his sister, set strife between a brother and sister as dear to each other as earth
and sky?
He must carry me home or abandon Kolchis; but once
his sister
was off their Argo, he’d sink that ship like a stone.
—Yet rage
burned hotter by far in my heart than scorn. I trembled,
imagining
the tortures that king, old sky-fire’s child, would devise
for me.
He had loved me well, loved me as he loved his golden
gates,
his gifts from Helios and Ares. No need to talk of reason in Aietes’ pyre of a brain. He’d become a man like the
gods,
like seasons, like a falling avalanche. Not all the earth
could wall out the rage
of the sun’s child, Lord of the Bulls.
“And so I could not rest
till I’d spoken with Jason in private. When I saw my
chance I beckoned,
getting him to leave his friends. When I’d brought him
far enough,
I spoke, and Jason learned to his sorrow what his
captive was.
His mind took it in. No spells, no charms would I use
on him,
though I might by my craft have had all I wished with
ease. Lips trembling,
cheeks white fire, I charged him: ‘My lord, what is this
plan
that you and my brother have arranged for my smooth
disposal? Has all
your triumph fuddled your memory? Have you forgotten
all
you swore before heaven when driven to seek out my
help? Where are
those solemn oaths you swore by Zeus, great god of
suppliants?
Where are the honey-sweet speeches I believed when
I threw away conscience,
abandoned my homeland, turned the high magic of gods
to the work
of thieves? Now I’m carried away, once a powerful
princess, become
your barter, your less-than-slave! All this in return for
my trust,
for saving your hide from the breath of the bulls, your
head from the swords
of giants! And the fleece! Flattered like a goose-eyed
country wench
I granted what should have been sacred, what may be
no more, for you,
than a trophy, a tale for carousing boys—but for me
the demise
of honor, the death of childhood, disgrace of my
womanhood!
I tell you I am your wife, Jason—your daughter, your
sister,
and no man’s whore. And I’m coming with you to
Hellas. You swore
you’d fight for me—fight come what may—not leave
me alone
as you diddle with kings. Jason, we’re pledged to one
another,
betrothed in the sight of gods. Abide by that or draw your dagger and slit my throat, give my love its due.
Think, Jason!
What if this king who judges me should send me to
Kolchis—
supposing—incredibly—that my brother keeps his
word, refrains
from sheathing you all in fire before he drags me home to protect his own poor head from my father’s rage.
Can your mind
conceive the cruelty of my father’s revenge? —As for
yourself,
If the goddess of will, as you say, is your protector—
beware!
When was she kind toward cowardice?’ Raising my
arms and eyes
to heaven, I cried, ‘May the glorious Argonauts reach
not Hellas
but Hell! May the fleece disappear like an idle dream,
sink down
to Erebus! And even in Hades’ realm, may howling
furies
drive false Jason from stone to stone for eternity!’ And then, to Jason: ‘You have broken an oath to the
gods. By your own
sweet standard, Reason, my curses cannot miscarry.
For now,
you’re sure of yourself. But wait. I’m nothing in your
eyes, but soon
you’ll know my power, my favor with the gods. Beware
of me!’
“I boiled with rage. I longed to fill all the ship with
fire,
kindle the planking and hurl my flesh to the flames.
But Jason
touched me, soothing. I had terrified him. ‘Medeia,
princess,
beware of yourself!’ And again that voice, still new to
me,
had uncanny power. ‘You begin with complaints,
appeals, but soon
your own blood’s heat makes a holocaust. Call back
your curses.
It’s not finished yet. Perhaps I may prove less vicious
than you think.
Look. Look around you at the Kolchians’ ships. We’re
encircled by a thousand
enemies. Even the natives are ready to attack us to be rid of Apsyrtus as he leads you home to Aietes.
If we dare
strike out at these hordes, well die to a man. Will it
please you more,
sailing back to your father, if all of us are slaughtered,
and you
are all we leave them as a prize? This truce has given
us time.
We must wait—and plan. Bring down Apsyrtus, and his
force—for all
/>
its banners, its chatter of bugles—will clatter to the
ground like a shed.’
“My eyes widened, believing for an instant. The
next, I doubted.
Was he lying? I was sick with anguish. His look was
impenetrable.
I who moved at ease with the primal, lumbering minds of snakes, who knew every gesture of the carrion crow,
the still-eyed
cat, who knew even thoughts of the moon, stared
humbly, baffled,
at the alien eyes of Jason. It seemed impossible that the golden tongue, those gentle hands, could lie.
Searching
vainly for some sure sign—his hands on my arms—
I felt
a violent surge of love, desire not physical merely, but absolute: desire for his god-dark soul. I whispered: ‘Jason, plan now. Evil deeds commit their victims to responses evil as the deeds themselves. If what you
say
is true—if my brother’s forces will collapse when my
brother falls,
and if that, as you claim, was your hope when you
sealed that heartless truce—
then once again, I can help you. Call Apsyrtus to you. Keep him friendly. Offer him splendid gifts, and when his heralds are taking them away, I’ll speak and
persuade them to arrange
a meeting between us—my brother and myself. They’ll
do it, I think.
They no more wish me sorrow than does my brother.
When we meet,
slay him. I will not blame you for it. The murder’s our
one
last hope.’
“And still Lord Jason’s eyes were impenetrable, studying me. His swordsman’s hands closed tighter on
my arms,
as if horrified. But at last he nodded, the barest flick, revealing no sign of his reasons. My anguish was
greater than before:
on one side, terror that he scorned me for the plan,
seized it merely
as the skillful, methodical killer I knew he was; on
the other,
sorrow for Apsyrtus. He’d thrown me up on his
shoulders as a child,
had shaken snow-apples down for me from hillside
trees.
Despite all that, he would drag me to my father’s
torture rooms.
Was I more cruel? But my mind flinched back. It was
not a question
for reason. There was no possibility of reason, no
possibility
of justice, virtue, innocence, on any side.
“So that,
mind blank, heart pounding in terror and
self-condemnation, I watched
as Jason in his scarlet mantle, all stitched with
bewildering figures,
laid out gifts for Apsyrtus, with the Argonauts’ help.
Black Idas
watched me, smiling to himself, and soon the trap was
set.
I watched Lord Jason debating in his mind the final