John Gardner - Jason and Medeia

behind

my hands, pretending to consider his words, and by

force of will

as great as I’d used when I talked with Aietes, Lord

of the Bulls,

I closed the assembly for the day. We would speak of

the matter again.

“That night, standing by the balustrade, I thought

about murder,

my heart bubbling like a cauldron. My wrath was

absurd, of course.

I would win. I had no doubt of that. But the wrath was

there.

I did not hide it — least of all from Medeia. I half resolved in my mind to depose the old man at once,

without talk

or ritual. But in the end, I fought him on the floor of

the assembly,

as usual, polite, eternally reasonable, revealing my anger to no one, or no one but Medeia.

That was

my error, of course. The lady of spells had schemes

afoot.

“It seems the old man’s daughters had learned

of Medeia’s skill

and had come to her. Pitifully, timid heads hanging,

eyes streaming,

their long white fingers interlaced in lament, they

begged for her help.

They spoke of the figure their father cut once — how all

Akhaia

had honored him — and how, now, crushed by tragic

senescence,

he was less than a shadow of his former self. The eldest

wept,

grovelling, reaching to Medeia’s knees. ‘O Queen,’ she

wailed,

‘child of Helios, to whom all the secrets of death and

life

are plain as the seasons to the rest of us, have mercy on

Pelias!

We have heard it said that by your command old trees

that bear

no fruit can be given such vigor of youth that their

boughs are weighted

to the ground again. If there’s any syllable of truth in

that,

and if what you do for trees you can do for a man, then

think

of the shame and sorrow of Pelias, once so noble!

Whatever

you ask for this great kindness we’ll gladly pay. Though

not

as wealthy as those you may once have known in

gold-rich Kolchis,

with its floors of mirroring brass, we three are

princesses

as rich as any in Akhaia, and gladly we’ll pay all we

have

for love of our heart’s first treasure.’ Medeia was pale

and trembling.

They could hardly guess, if they saw, her reason. She

rose without a word

and crossed to the window and the night. They waited.

The thing they asked

was not beyond her power. Nor was it beyond the

power

of another talented witch, should she refuse. She

breathed

with difficulty. The daughters of Pelias stretched their

arms

beseeching her mercy. The youngest ran to her and

kneeled beside her

clasping her knees. ‘Have pity, Medeia.’ The queen stood

rigid.

Her head was on fire; familiar pain groped upward

from her knees.

At last she whispered,’ I must think. Return to me

tomorrow night.’

And so they left her. She threw herself on the bed

headlong,

blinded, tied up in knots of pain. She wept for Apsyrtus, for Kolchis, for her long-lost handmaidens. She wept

for the child

betrayed by the goddess of love to a land of foreigners. She slept, and an evil dream reached her.

“The following night when the daughters of Pelias returned to her, she

promised to help them.

They’d need great courage, she said, for the remedy was

dire. They promised.

She gave them herbs and secret incantations. When

the foolish princesses

left her room, she crept, violently ill, from the palace and fled to the mountains, her teeth chattering, her

muscles convulsing.

Vomiting, moaning, breathing in loud and painful

gasps,

she crawled to the old stone table of Hekate and danced

the spell

of expiation for betrayal of the witch’s art.

“On the night of Pelias’ birthday, the palace was a-glitter with

torches, and all

the noblest lords of Argos were present for the annual

feast.

The old man kept himself hidden — some senile whim,

we thought,

and thought no more about it, believing he’d appear, in

time.

There were whispers of a great surprise in the offing.

We laughed and waited.

We gathered in the gleaming, broad-beamed hall, lords and ladies in glittering attire, Medeia beside me, wan, shuddering with chills, yet strangely beautiful. I

remembered

the glory of Aietes as first I saw him, and the dangerous

beauty

of Circe, with her green-gold eyes. Then a nimble of

kettledrums,

the jangle of klaxons and warbling pipes, and like lions

tumbling

from their wooden chutes, in came the slaveboys bearing

trays—

great boats of boar, huge platters of duckling and

pheasant and swan—

a magnificent tribute to Pelias’ glory and the love of

his people.

Trays came loaded with stews and sauces, white with

steamclouds,

and trays filled with ambled meat. Then came — the

princesses rose—

the crowning dish, a silver pancheon containing, we

found

when we tasted it, a meat so exotic no man in the

palace,

whatever his learning or travels, would dare put a

name on it.

We dined and drank new wine till the first light of

dawn. And still

no sign of Pelias. The princesses, strangely excited,

their ox-eyes

lighted by more than wine, I thought, assured us he was

well.

And so, at the hour when shepherds settle on pastures

become

invulnerable to predators, shielded by Helios, the guests turned homeward, and we of the palace

moved, heavy-limbed,

to bed. We slept all day, Medeia on my arm, trembling. When the cool-eyed moon rose white in the trees, I

awakened, thinking,

aware of some evil in the house. I went to the room of

the children.

They were sleeping soundly, the slave Agapetika

beside them. I turned back,

troubled and restless, molested by the whisper of a

fretful god.

The moment I returned to our room, the princesses’

screams began.

Medeia lay gazing at the moon, calm-eyed. I stared at

her.

They’ve learned that Pelias is dead,’ she said. The same

instant

the door burst open, and a man with a naked sword

leaped in,

howling crazily, and hurtled at Medeia. I caught him

by the shoulder,

my wild heart pounding, and threw him off balance—

in the same motion

snatching my sword from its clasp by the headboard and

striking. He fell,

his head severed from his body. Now the room was

clamoring with guards,

babbling, shouting, the children and slaves in the

hallway shrieking,

the room a-sway in the stench of blood. I snatched up

the head

to learn who’d struck at us. For a long moment I stared

at the face,

scarlet and dripping, the eyes wide open. Then someone

said,

‘Akastos!’ and I saw it was so. While the palace was

still in confusion,

we fled — snatched the children, our two oldest slaves,

and, covered by darkness,

sought out the seaport and friends; so made our escape.

“So ended my rule of the isle of Argos. For all our glory once, for all my famous deeds, my legendary wealth, I became an exile begging asylum from town to town. I became a man dark-minded as Idas, whimpering in anger at the

gods,

glancing back past my shoulder in fear. For a time I lost all power of speech — I, Jason of the Golden Tongue. The child of Aietes was baffled by the troubles befallen

us.

Why had we fled? Was I not the true, the rightful king

of Argos, Pelias a usurper, as all men knew? Had I not done deeds no king of Argos had done before me?—