For the Winner

by Emily Hauser

  ‘I care nothing for the Fates!’ Hera interrupts, bringing her fist down upon a nearby rock, which shakes with the force of the blow. ‘What I want to know is, how am I to be rid of her?’ She flicks aside her robes and seats herself upon the rock. ‘I already have Mycenae, Sparta and Argos,’ she says, still breathing rather hard, her eyes turned to the south-western horizon and the high walls of Mycenae, the palace of Sparta and the broad green plains of Argos.

  ‘A worthy crowd of cities for any goddess.’ Artemis nods. ‘I myself —’

  ‘Atreus of Mycenae sacrifices to me three times daily. Tyndareus of Sparta has set up a temple in my honour, and Diomedes of Argos leads festivals every month in my name,’ Hera continues, ignoring Artemis. ‘But it is not enough.’

  Aphrodite raises her eyebrows. ‘You would want more cities as your own?’

  Hera shrugs. ‘Of course,’ she says. ‘You have often heard me say that Zeus neglects his cities. He leaves the mortals completely to their own devices, as if they were capable of looking after themselves! But I care for them. I watch over the kingdoms of Mycenae and Sparta and Argos as a benevolent goddess, in return for their worship of me. All I want is for Iolcos and Pagasae to have a patron deity who cares for them, too.’

  ‘And I suppose you don’t mind their pretty princes, either,’ Aphrodite interjects, sliding her eyes sideways in Hera’s direction.

  Artemis coughs. ‘And all the sacrifices – the smoke sent up to heaven in your name.’

  Hera gives her a dignified smile. ‘I suppose I wouldn’t.’

  A silence comes over the four goddesses, broken only by the soft slapping of water against the pool’s edges and the gentle chirping of the cicadas in the pines.

  ‘And Atalanta comes into this how?’ Iris asks at last, speaking for the first time.

  Hera shrugs. ‘Atalanta is the daughter of the king, his first-born before Prince Lycon, and as such would be the rightful heir to Pagasae.’

  ‘Ah,’ Artemis says, her expression clearing, as if she has just understood something. She presses her fingertips to her temples and glances up at Hera. ‘Ah. Jason. That’s the connection, isn’t it?’

  Hera nods once. ‘The connection between the cities of Pelion, yes.’ She pauses, as if weighing up how much to tell them. Then she leans towards Artemis, her tone confiding, eyes bright: ‘Who was it, do you think, who made sure that Jason was driven from Iolcos and commanded by Pelias to bring back the Golden Fleece to recover his kingdom? Which, with my help, he will achieve. Who was it who ensured that, ousted from Iolcos, he is forced to stay with his uncle in Pagasae, thus proving to him – and the people – what an able king he will be? And finally,’ her mouth curls into a smile, ‘who was it who gave the priests in my sanctuary in Perachora a prophecy, commanding that the heir to the king of Pagasae will bring back a mythical treasure of gold from the very ends of the earth?’ She takes a deep breath. ‘Which means—’

  ‘Which means,’ Artemis finishes for her, ‘that when Jason retrieves the Fleece, he will have won not only the kingdom of Iolcos but that of Pagasae too.’ She shoots Hera a look of grudging admiration, as at a player at dice who has just cast the winning throw. ‘You will unite the cities of Pelion once again under Jason, and bind him to you at a single stroke.’

  Hera glimmers a smile at her stepdaughter. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I will. The citadels of Mycenae, Sparta, Argos, Iolcos and Pagasae – the foremost kingdoms of Greece – all under my care, making sacrifices to me.’ The look of contentment slips from her features. ‘And I swear by the waters of the Styx, I shall be rid of Atalanta.’

  ‘Peace, Hera,’ Iris interjects softly. ‘You forget, you are a goddess and she is but human.’

  Another smile curls Hera’s lips, and her shoulders relax. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Yes, that is true. You are right, Iris.’

  ‘Does Zeus know?’ Artemis asks, swirling her feet so that the water eddies around her ankles.

  ‘Know what?’

  Artemis rolls her eyes. ‘Does my father know you’re favouring Jason?’

  Hera reaches up to the orange-gold clouds that are floating just above the peak and makes herself a soft golden towel, which she lays at the water’s edge.

  ‘No,’ she says at last. ‘No, he doesn’t.’ She settles herself beside Iris and Artemis, one foot dangling in the water. ‘But what Zeus doesn’t know would fill a library, and,’ she glances archly at Artemis, ‘it hasn’t hurt him yet, has it?’

  ‘Is she there?’

  Zeus is hiding behind a rock nearby, his hair tousled, his robe creased and scented with the unmistakable lingering perfume of a woman. Hermes peeks out from behind an olive tree.

  ‘Yes,’ he hisses at Zeus. ‘Her and the whole gang – Artemis, Aphrodite and, of course, Iris.’ He rolls his eyes.

  Zeus glares at his messenger, then glances up to his palace. The winding path to the entrance passes directly beside the pool where his wife is bathing, and there is no chance that he can creep past unnoticed.

  ‘Why did we have to land here?’ he hisses at Hermes. ‘Why didn’t we go further up?’

  ‘I didn’t know they were here, did I?’ Hermes replies, peering around the tree again. ‘Oh, wait!’

  ‘What?’ Zeus asks urgently.

  ‘Aphrodite just got out of the pool … Yes … Oh, my! Will you look at that!’

  There is a pause as the two gods tilt their heads to one side and stare at the figure of Aphrodite in admiration. Then Zeus shakes his head, like a dog trying to get water out of its ears. ‘Hermes!’ he whispers. ‘I haven’t got time for this! I must get back into the palace before Hera comes home!’

  ‘Right-oh,’ Hermes says, but he takes a moment longer, his eyes still lingering, before he tears himself away and looks at Zeus. ‘What was that? Oh, yes. The palace. I think this is a back-entrance situation, yes?’

  ‘Anything! Just get me in!’

  Hermes nods. ‘Very well. This way …’ He leads Zeus out from the rock and down onto a narrow, stony path, lined with prickly thorn bushes, that circles beneath the pool and skirts the mountain peak.

  ‘You’re sure she can’t see me?’ Zeus hisses, clutching at his robes and shuffling along the narrow path. ‘Ow!’ He winces as a thorn pricks his shin. ‘I think I prefer the normal way in!’

  ‘Yes, well,’ Hermes says, his voice a remarkable imitation of Athena’s when she is at her primmest and most proper. ‘You shouldn’t have secret assignations, then, should you?’

  Zeus snorts. ‘You’re one to preach. In any case, you know what would happen if I told her. The last time she found me sneaking out on her she destroyed the city of Ur. What am I supposed to do?’

  Hermes considers. ‘Well,’ he says, in the tone of a judge balancing the verdict, ‘I suppose the safest route, all things considered, would be not to cheat on her at all.’ He flashes a wicked grin at his father and winks.

  ‘And what else are we supposed to do to keep ourselves entertained for all eternity than set the mortals to fight with each other, to watch over those we favour –’

  ‘Atalanta, apparently, in your case,’ Hermes interrupts him, ‘although I still don’t see why.’

  ‘– and to lie with them when we can?’

  Hermes cocks his head to one side, then grins and gives Zeus an elaborate bow, as if conceding the point. And with this irrefutable show of logic, the father of the gods and his messenger set off again, back towards the palace.

  The Heir Returns

  Pagasae

  The Hour of the Setting Sun

  The Twentieth Day of the Month of Sailing

  ‘But I don’t understand,’ I said, looking from Neda to Myrtessa, then to Philoetius, my thoughts a whirl of confusion. ‘The symbol of the king?’

  ‘Hush! Not in here!’

  Myrtessa and Neda laid their hands on my arms and half pushed, half dragged me through the open door of the kitchen into a smaller side room that adjoined it. It was a pantry, built of mud bric
ks with a small window at one end that let in a little light. Wooden shelves were stacked against the walls, heaped with dried herbs and salted meats wrapped in linen. Strings of onions and garlic hung from the ceiling, and rushes were strewn underfoot to keep the air cool and dry. Myrtessa pushed me down onto a stool, and they all three stood in front of me, Philoetius looking between Neda and Myrtessa, clearly sharing my bewilderment.

  ‘What is it, by all the gods?’ I said angrily, attempting to stand up, but Neda pushed me down again, both hands on my shoulders.

  ‘Listen,’ she said, and at the tone of her voice I stopped struggling. ‘I was a slave in the palace before I came to Lord Corythus’, wasn’t I? I was a handmaid in the royal chambers. I lay with the king when he wanted me. He sold me when he took no more interest in me – and I came here.’ She shrugged, as if this were a normal way of life. ‘But I’ve seen that sign before.’ She took a deep breath. ‘On King Iasus’ seal-ring.’

  I stared at their pale faces. ‘What of it? So I was born to a slave of the king’s, just like you—’

  ‘No, you were not,’ she interrupted me. ‘This is the king’s personal emblem – the symbol of his family. He would give it to none other than his kin. There is only one other medallion like it, and I have seen it around the neck of Prince Lycon – the king’s son.’

  I paused to take in the full absurdity of what she had said. Then I let out a laugh. ‘You cannot be serious!’

  ‘I assure you she is,’ Myrtessa said.

  I looked from Myrtessa to Neda, then to Philoetius, who was staring at Neda as if he had just realized something. ‘You are playing with me!’ I said. ‘It is not possible! How could I—’

  ‘Listen to me,’ Myrtessa said, kneeling upon the rushes next to me and taking my hand, her eyes fixed upon mine. ‘Were you ever told, in that faraway village of yours, that Prince Lycon once had a sister?’

  I shook my head slowly.

  There was a pause, as the three slaves exchanged looks.

  ‘What of it?’

  Neda settled down upon the floor beside Myrtessa, knees tucked into her chest. ‘Eighteen years ago, the queen was about to give birth.’ Neda was speaking steadily, clearly, her brown eyes boring into mine as if willing me to memorize every word. Myrtessa and Philoetius were silent, barely breathing, the atmosphere in the room tense as a taut bowstring. ‘I remember the swell of my mistress’s belly, though I was only a child-slave in the queen’s chambers, the pride and excitement of the kingdom of Pagasae as they awaited an heir to the throne at last. And the look on the king’s face when the messenger came to him and told him that there were two children and the first-born was a girl.’ She took a deep breath. ‘None of the priests had predicted such a thing. They had all prophesied a single heir, a prince fit to rule the kingdom. Declaring that all he needed was a son to continue his line, the king acknowledged Lycon and ordered the girl banished, exposed upon the peak of Mount Pelion, in the middle of winter.’

  I was staring at her now, my eyes never leaving hers.

  ‘Queen Clymene died shortly after giving birth, and the prince remained in the palace with his father but grew up sickly and small, choosing to read poetry rather than to fight in battle. When Jason returned to the city, what other solution could there be? There was no other heir to be had, for Prince Lycon would never have been able to retrieve the Fleece, and the king’s only other child had been exposed upon the rocks as a child and left to perish. Everyone thought she had died.’

  Myrtessa nodded. ‘Until now.’

  Something very painful was happening inside my chest. I felt as if I had been hammering all my life against a bolted door, and now someone had slid aside the bar and I had tumbled into the darkened passageway beyond. I did not know what lay ahead – only that there was no way of turning back.

  ‘My father,’ I swallowed, ‘told me that he came upon me on the mountain.’ I paused, remembering the image of swirling snow and ice hanging from the trees. ‘In winter.’

  Myrtessa stood up and stepped back. ‘Atalanta,’ she said, her expression serious. ‘You are the daughter of the king.’

  My heart was beating so hard that my chest could barely contain it. I was taking fast, shallow breaths as if I were running from a wild beast through the forests. What had I expected? I had thought perhaps to be the child of a noble, fathered upon a slave, or a merchant’s daughter, the youngest of the children and too costly to be kept. But the daughter of a king – a king who had abandoned me to die for the crime of not being the son he had wished for? I felt the same chasm of loneliness as I had in Kaladrosos, a gaping hole in my stomach gnawing at my flesh. Declaring that all he needed was a son to continue his line, the king acknowledged Lycon and ordered the girl banished …

  Tears sprang to my eyes but I forced them back. He did not want me. My own father ordered me to die simply because I was not a man.

  I looked up at the three of them. ‘I am the king’s daughter …’ I said, my voice faltering. ‘The king’s …’

  Can it really be true?

  A light began to flicker, slowly, in the darkness of my mind.

  The true heir to the kingdom of Pagasae will bring to the city a treasure of gold, spoken of in myth, hidden at the very ends of the earth.

  Slowly, all I had heard these past few days in Pagasae began to come together in my head, as if it were a pattern set for me by the gods, a twisted labyrinth through which I had been stumbling and had suddenly come upon the key …

  The search for the heir to Pagasae … the quest for the Golden Fleece …

  The king’s own daughter …

  I am the king’s own daughter …

  The light was growing stronger, bolder, glowing, lighting the way ahead, like a guttering lamp upon a stone-flagged path in the dark.

  ‘Atalanta?’ Neda said, stepping forwards hesitantly. ‘Are – are you well?’

  Suddenly, I stood up.

  Neda and Philoetius backed away.

  ‘Atalanta …’ Myrtessa began.

  But I ignored her. I strode past all three back into the kitchen, pulling at the band that Myrtessa had wrapped around my hair to keep it in its elegant style and shaking my head, letting my hair fall down over my shoulders. I reached down beside the ovens and lifted up my bow and quiver.

  ‘Atalanta, what are you doing?’

  Myrtessa, Neda and Philoetius had come after me. They were staring at me, eyes round as clay drinking cups.

  I took the quiver by its strap and slung it over my shoulder, the bow stave tapping the back of my head. ‘What do you think I am doing? I am going to prove I am as worthy to be the king’s child and heir as any son.’ I turned to the three of them, breathing hard, every nerve in my body trembling with determination for what I was about to do, determination to show them all what I was capable of – what a mistake they had made in believing I was anything less than a man.

  ‘I am going on the quest for the Golden Fleece.’

  Myrtessa caught up with me in the corridor leading away from the kitchens. ‘Wait – Atalanta!’ she called, laying a hand on my arm. ‘Think for a moment!’ She lowered her voice to a clipped whisper. ‘Do you not think you are being hasty? Why do you not go to the king, now, show him your medallion, and tell him who you are?’

  I glanced up and down the corridor. Slaves were pushing past us, running to and from the kitchens, their arms filled with pots and linens; at the other end, I spotted Corythus’ steward, conspicuous with his dark-red tunic and staff, reprimanding a slave who had smashed a pitcher of oil, the golden liquid spreading over the tiles between the sherds.

  ‘In here!’ I pulled Myrtessa into a small alcove set into the wall, where the dark leaves of a laurel shrub afforded some shelter from prying eyes. I slid behind it, pressing myself against the cool plaster of the wall, and felt Myrtessa creep in beside me, the sleeves of her tunic brushing my skin, her breath warm upon my face. ‘You ask why I do not go to the king,’ I whispered. ‘Have you forgotte
n the prophecy from the gods which you yourself told me? King Iasus clearly attaches a high importance to the oracle, for why else would he have inscribed it upon stone? If I do not fulfil it, will he not have yet another reason to disbelieve me? And,’ I pressed on, as Myrtessa opened her mouth to interrupt me, ‘even if the king accepted my claim to be his child without the Fleece, why would he wish for a daughter now, any more than before? How can I know he would not hound me from the city once more for being a woman? No.’ I shook my head, still peering warily through the leaves for any sign that we might have been seen. ‘I must prove my worth.’

  Myrtessa hesitated, and I could see that she was struggling to find some other reason to persuade me to stay. I pursed my lips, leaving unspoken perhaps the greatest reason of all to go after the Golden Fleece, a silent, desperate desire: to fight, to journey to uncharted lands, to sail far beyond Greece and use my hard-won skills with the bow to survive every passing danger. To show what I was capable of. To excel upon a quest, and prove that I am worthy.

  There was a long pause as Myrtessa eyed me and I stared back at her, jaw set with determination. I could be as stubborn as an ox when I wanted to be, a quality that I knew had tested my mother’s patience.

  ‘Oh, very well,’ Myrtessa snapped, crossing her arms over her chest and setting the leaves of the laurel tree quivering, as if in a slight breeze. ‘Very well! But you cannot go after the Fleece as you are!’ Her eyes swept over the rough tunic she had lent me, the gentle curve of my breasts rising beneath the material, my slender arms, my long chestnut hair sweeping my waist. She snorted quietly. ‘Do you truly think that Jason will allow you to join his voyage as a woman?’

  I hesitated. In truth I had hardly thought beyond my thrilling realization that I was meant to go upon the quest; that perhaps, even, it had been a path laid out for me by the gods. I shivered. ‘I had thought to go alone …’