by David Vann
Smaller huts continuing in every direction, bits of land eaten bare by goats. Hard to know how many people might live here, but a crowd come down to the shore.
The Argo barely moving at the end, because the sail is down and the men keep turning to look and wave and shout. Jason at the bow holding the golden fleece above his head in both hands, old sheep’s hide shrunken in the sun, dirty brown, with very little gold dust remaining. But the sun has not yet fallen, so it must sparkle, at least, and should be enough to fool those who want to believe.
Medea on the stern, forgotten along with the helmsmen. Sluggish drift, the men skillful to slide the prow gently onto sand.
The Argonauts landed, epic voyage complete, hopping over the sides, splashing through water and laughing as they’re tackled by their women and kinsmen. Everyone gathered here, except the king. Medea doesn’t see anyone who could be Pelias. Waiting in the citadel above. Now that Jason has returned with the fleece, Pelias is supposed to give him the throne, but why would any king do that? He’ll be thinking now of some new plan, some new test or delay or complication, he and all who depend upon him.
Wailing, screams of grief. One woman collapsing at the shore, held up by others. Her eyes closed and mouth open, some terrible utterance that won’t be completed. Medea had forgotten the Argonauts who died fighting Cyzicus. Other women wailing now, and men. Shouts of anger and despair. Their loved ones gone and no sign left. No bodies returned, nothing to bury. Funerals taken away. They struggle toward the Argo, as if the bodies might be there, and are held back, thrashing in the water. Grief always this, some movement toward nothing. And others still laughing, still celebrating.
No ceremony here. Nothing to clarify. No king come down to the beach, Jason no leader to say words for the fallen. He’s busy showing off the fleece. He thinks he’ll be installed on the throne today.
Medea the only soul left on the Argo, watching everything. She would intervene, because her own fate is locked to Jason’s, but it’s already too late. Jason political but also too young, too pleased with himself and his fleece, too hungry to be praised and loved.
26
Strangely quiet that first night. Lamentation and celebration but dispersed across several hillsides, into separate homes, as if all have returned simply from a few days of fishing. Medea and Jason led to rooms in the lower citadel. Stone floors, not dirt, but small and almost empty, three chambers connected and with almost no light. Low ceilings, filling quickly with smoke from torches.
A table in one of the rooms. Jason lays the fleece there, unwanted, unclaimed. He sits on a bench, his back against the wall, and stares at the ceiling. Quiet in here, bare sound of flame and nothing more. Wearing his red mantle still.
Medea sits on a low bench along the opposite wall, not far away, and watches him. His chest rising, slow exhales. His head slipping back, mouth open.
Thudding of her own heart. All the world shrinking around her, brought too close. The terrible sense of the two of them, only the two of them, in this room.
He doesn’t look at her, only at the ceiling, rough and pitted, shadow and light, movement that never forms.
Say something, she finally says.
I’m sorry, he says, folding his arms and slumping, still not looking at her. I thought there’d be more.
He stares at his feet for another eternity. Stone floor unswept.
Well there will be more, she says. We’ll have a wedding, there’ll be a temple to Hekate, Pelias will have to give you the throne.
Yeah, he says.
You have to make these things true.
Jason says nothing.
The air hot and still. Medea feels as if she can’t breathe. The ceiling so low, one chamber in a tunnel, only one exit.
Jason stands. I’m going to sleep.
He walks into the next room and she follows. There’s a basin in the corner. He removes his sandals, cups water onto his feet, washing them. No drain, the water simply left on their floor. Sound of spattering against stone, flat and far away and disconnected.
The room big enough only for this basin and a bed. Almost no floor remaining. The bed rough pallets covered in linen, musty smelling. The linen feels damp to her hand.
Jason takes off the mantle, finishes undressing, washes himself slowly, methodically, as if in sleep already. Faced away from her, toward the corner.
When he’s finished, he holds up the small cup for her. Snuff out the torch when you’re done, he says, and he walks to the bed, three steps away, and lies down wet.
She stands there with the cup in this bare room and can’t believe this is her life. But what can she do? It doesn’t make sense to do anything except undress and wash herself. The water cold, a relief in this hot air. Washing with only her hand. No different than living in a cave. Her bare body in torchlight, the rest of the world gone. Even her skin seems not to be hers, looks foreign, dirty and dark from the sun, sore spots everywhere from sleeping on rope and rocks, and much thinner, bones close to the surface. This is all she has now.
She lies down beside him and feels the water evaporating from her skin, sucked by dry air. Mosquitos biting. Smaller things crawling in the bedding. She never thought she’d think of the Argo as a better place, but she does now.
She turns on her side, puts an arm over Jason’s chest. More comfortable, at least, than lying on wood, and closer to him.
Rise and fall of his breath, the heat of him, and she’s able to calm. The air closed in, but she tries not to think about it, tries not to think about their cave. Jason sleeps like a stone, a kind of anchor.
In the morning, he’s gone, and the day is filled with attendants, preparations for a great feast. She’s bathed and then waits, dressed and then waits, her hair arranged and then waits. So many hands touching her, something she hasn’t experienced since Colchis. The indifference of slaves. Touching her but absent, gone somewhere else, leaving her always alone, even when surrounded. She doesn’t see Jason again until evening.
Wearing that red-and-purple mantle, despite the heat, and carrying the golden fleece. The two of them walk together to a large terrace. Iolcans gathered on all sides below, watching. Hundreds of Jason’s people, and he looks like them. Same wide cheeks. Sent away as a baby, returned once before, now returned again. Pelias wanted him dead. Medea doesn’t see any love for Jason. These people mute, only watching.
Jason turns his back to them, takes Medea’s hand and they walk up enormous stone stairs. His hand shaking. White stone expanse, radiating heat. Only the two of them making this crossing.
Columns at the top of the stairs, a portico on another large terrace, and they walk through, spearmen lining either side. Pelias could have them killed easily.
At the far end of the portico, entrance to the throne room, massive stones that could not have been moved by men. As they enter, an enormous hearth at the center, raised, surrounded by four pillars that hold up the ceiling. Open center to this ceiling, for smoke and light. Pelias seated along a wall in plain view, surrounded by frescoes on the wall and floor, so that he is a dozen kings at once, with shield and spear, killing enemies, hunting, visited by goddesses. Golden king, shimmering on every side. Jason’s fleece pale and shabby by comparison.
Pelias beckons, and they walk closer. Jason holds the fleece before him, a kind of shield as he approaches his uncle.
Bearded king, like all kings, face hidden, no longer a man but something else, closer to a god, mostly unseen. Holding a great spear of ash and bronze wrapped in gold. An attendant beside him holding the golden helmet and shield. This could be her father.
Medea wants to kill. She could take his spear and drive it through him. But she’d be dead before she could watch him die. Guards on all sides, ready. She’ll have to wait for another time.
You are Medea, he says.
Yes.
You have killed your own brother, cut him into pieces, betrayed your father the king.
Yes.
Pelias smiles. And Ja
son. You have brought me something?
Jason holds out the golden fleece, dark sheepskin in this dim light.
Am I to believe that is the golden fleece?
It is, taken from Aeetes.
And how were you able to take it?
Jason looks at Medea. I had to yoke a pair of fire-breathing bulls.
Oh, Pelias says.
And sow the teeth of a serpent, teeth that grew into an army of earthborn men.
Pelias laughs. How did that army not kill you?
Jason looks again at Medea. I bathed in the river and dug a pit, away from all others. I sacrificed a ewe on a pyre and poured honey to Hekate, and when I walked away I didn’t turn back, even when I heard the hellhounds.
Sensible, Pelias says.
At dawn, I steeped a charm from Medea in water, and anointed my body and my weapons.
And no spear from the earthborn men was able to pierce you?
I cast a stone in their midst when they rose up. They fought over that stone, slaying each other.
How did you know to do that?
Medea told me.
Well, Medea has been useful.
Yes, Jason says.
And what about the dragon guarding the golden fleece?
Medea put it to sleep.
Pelias laughs and keeps laughing, loud in this chamber.
Well, he finally says. We should have taken the fleece long ago. Great Aeetes apparently was willing to give it to anyone.
I betrayed my father for this fleece, Medea says.
Yes, I know. And butchered your brother. You’ve been very useful. If only you could have been here to prevent our tragedies.
What tragedies are those? Jason asks.
You were gone so long we thought the Argo was lost. We thought you had sunk, and your father Aeson was so distraught he drank poison.
Spear points of the guards already at Jason’s chest, holding him back.
My brother was weak, Pelias says. Always weak. He was buried somewhere below, where there is no light, and fed very little, and his wife gone and one of his sons gone, but still if he wanted to be king, he should have acted like a king.
What about my brother Promachus? Where is he?
Your little brother drank poison too. I didn’t see it, but that’s what I’m told.
I’ll kill you.
That’s what I’ve been warned. One sandal. Flimsy for a prophecy, but there it is. Pelias sits forward on the edge of his throne, leans closer to Jason. They told me you were stillborn. Did you know that? Your mother had women gather all around and weep because you were dead at birth. And it turns out this is true. You were stillborn.
Where is my mother?
Fucking some centaur, last I heard. Chiron, who raised you. If I believed in centaurs, though, I’d be in trouble, wouldn’t I? I might even believe a sheepskin could have some strange power. So what was it like to be raised by a centaur? Do you run differently?
Jason’s head low.
I’d like to see you run, to see whether you leap like a horse, to see whether you have hooves.
Pelias’ men press forward with their spears, make Jason back away.
Run, Pelias says.
The spear points draw blood, Jason forced to turn and flee. More guards coming from the walls, penning him in, and these two spears advancing from behind. He can do nothing but run in a circle around the great hearth, young fabled king in the days before he is king, mantle flying out behind him, driven on by a wicked uncle. A story that won’t be told, the humiliation. The soldiers behind are clever, their spear points coming in under the mantle and making small cuts on his back until Jason is in full flight.
Leap, Pelias yells. Jason does seem to leap whenever a spear cuts. Pelias laughing. Use your hooves, Jason. Your mother is getting away. There’s still time. You could still have her, just like everyone else, every man and beast.
Jason no different from an animal, eyes wild, trapped, lungs and legs failing.
Stop, Medea shouts.
A great howl of laughter from Pelias. Stop she says. Okay. We’ll stop for Medea. Because she has commanded.
His men return to their places, and Jason collapses to the floor panting.
Medea raises her arms, rolls her eyes back, chants to Hekate.
Ah, Hekate. You think I’m worried about Hekate? I’m the son of Poseidon.
She hears him walk closer and feels the slap, hard, that knocks her to the side.
I am the daughter of Aeetes, she says. Granddaughter of Helios and priestess of Hekate.
You are a whore and a slave. He gestures for his men. They come take her by the arms, pick her up kicking and twisting. Another man then at each leg and she’s held aloft, limbs spread, helpless.
Hekate will rot you from the inside. Your guts will boil and come out your mouth in your own blood.
Vicious, Pelias says. But look at you now. I can do anything I like. Because I am king. You don’t seem to understand the power of a king. I can rape you and make my men stand in exactly that position all night, still holding you there, and come rape you again in the morning. I can do this until you die. You can scream, and everyone in Iolcus can hear, and still I can do whatever I want. I can cut small pieces away from you and feed them to my soldiers and people while you watch. I can make them eat, and I can make you watch. I can say Poseidon demands it. I am his son, son of the sea god.
Medea would laugh, remind him that all kings claim this, remind him of the long generations that have come before, but she can see Pelias believes. Not in gods, not in Poseidon, but in power. He believes absolutely that his power is without limit, and he is capable of anything. His face close to hers now, hoping, ready and wanting to invent some new cruelty, something to eclipse all he has done before, and he would use her body for this.
I’m sorry, she says quietly. I understand now.
27
Pelias at the feast. Drinking wine, welcoming the Argonauts, shouting inanities, ripping at pieces of meat. Jason and Medea mute to one side, and just behind them, dozens of guards in the throne room, holding shields and spears, ready. This large terrace, columns and a view out to the sea. Long tables, guests and slaves.
The chair he sits in carved of oak, high backed, broad and raised. King above these other kings. Gray-black hair, pitted face dark, hidden by his beard. Rough large hands in fists, voice louder than any other. Wearing the skin of a lion, brought from some other land. Golden helmet set on the table before him, gold-wound spear at his side.
The fleece on the table, also, waiting, and finally Pelias stands. All Iolcans instantly quiet. Argonauts still shouting and laughing, but then they turn and see him and are quiet too.
Argonauts, he says. My guests. Welcome. Feast and drink and have whatever you want. You have brought my nephew back safely, and I will never forget that.
Pelias looks at the Argonauts, remains silent, lets each of them remember the prophecy and consider what they’ve done in returning Jason here.
He raises his hand and guards pour from the throne room, line up in ranks behind him, an even larger contingent arising from the broad stone staircase at the end of the terrace. They surround the guests on all sides, spear and shield and war helmet, then all is quiet again.
Pelias walks slowly around the table where he sits with Jason and Medea, his daughters and other family and court, stands in front and picks up the fleece in one hand, holds it high.
This is the skin of a sheep, he says. A simple skin. It has a bit of gold dust on it, gold which is easily removed or easily added. He scratches with a finger at the hide then holds up that finger to show the gold. Dust, he says.
He brings the fleece to the first table of guests, hands it to them. Each of you, hold this fleece, scratch off a bit of gold.
Pelias returns to stand before Jason, points at him. My nephew claims he has returned with the golden fleece, just as his father Aeson before him tried to claim my throne. Jason would have it now.
He le
ts his arm drop to his side. Argonauts, he says. Kings in your own lands. Do any of you have brothers or nephews? He walks out among the tables. Would you like me to come to your home and stand at the side of your nephew as he asks for your throne? As he hands over a sheepskin sprinkled with a bit of gold dust and tries to call himself king?
Pelias raises both arms in the air, and his guards step closer on all sides, their spears lowered. The Argonauts remain seated. They are without shield or spear or helmet. They’ve already feasted and had too much wine. Pigs brought to slaughter.
A spear through each of you now. It would be easy. Or I can wait. Your lands are not far away. I can sail there on the Argo with my men whenever I hear of this nephew or brother or even some commoner who would challenge you. No son of a god but only a goatherd or a potter who would be king, and I can help him take your throne. Why can’t any common fuck be king?
Pelias waves his arm and his men step away, spears upright.
Jason had a common birth. Aeson, his father, also had a common birth. We share a mother. But my father is Poseidon, weather god of the sea, ancient god. A god who shaped the world. And he shapes it still. He wants there to be a king. So he fucked my mother and made me to be king. Not Aeson, my common half brother, who has since proved his birth and his lack even of a will to live, by drinking poison along with another of his weak sons. And not Jason, who tries to trick his way onto my throne.
Pelias points to the sea. If I am killed, waves will form so great that each of your cities and peoples will be torn away, destroyed, vanished as if you had never been. That is my birthright. The return of the great flood if I’m slain. The anger of Poseidon come again. You don’t want to anger my father, and you don’t want to anger me.
He walks back around the table to his throne. Argonauts, he says. You see the sun beside us, over the far hills, low. You have until it sets. Get in your small fishing boats and go back to your huts. If you’re still here when the sun touches, you’re dead.