For the Winner

by Emily Hauser

  ‘Telamon.’

  I pushed my sweaty hair out of my eyes with my forearm and squinted up into the sunlight. Hippomenes was standing before me. He was not wearing his cloak, merely a simple blue tunic threaded with purple and a belt around his waist. His arms were bare, well-muscled, like the arms of the woodsmen who had lived in Kaladrosos: knotted and crossed with veins that pressed up against the skin, sinews hardened by many hours spent with the axe or the sword. He held out a hand, and I noticed the coarse skin beneath the fingers, clear and unbroken.

  ‘Hippomenes,’ I panted, making another stroke to the beat of the drum, trying to mask my grimace of pain. ‘What brings you here?’

  Without a word, he stepped over the bench and pulled the oar from my hands, sat down beside me and made the next stroke with powerful ease, the muscles of his arms tensing beside me, the rhythm of his body sturdy and swift.

  ‘What—?’

  ‘Go,’ he said, shrugging me off as if I were a slave.

  ‘But I—’

  ‘Go,’ he repeated.

  I looked down at my hands. One of the blisters had opened and was bleeding, and I could feel my arms trembling. I glanced towards the hold beneath the raised deck at the back of the ship, thinking of bandages dipped in salt water to ease my wounds and wine for my parched throat. I stood up and climbed, legs shaking, over my thwart, back to the bench behind, making my way towards the stern. Then I turned, determined to make sure he knew I was not a weakling, that I was capable of this. ‘I did not—’

  But Hippomenes was not listening. He was already pulling the oar with swift, steady strokes, his arms moving to the rhythm of the drum.

  As I walked away, squeezing through the rowers and stepping over benches, I heard him say, ‘He should be at home tending his fields in Crete.’

  The voice of Peleus answered him, ‘We may have overestimated him, Hippomenes – that much I will grant you. Though I do not understand your unfounded dislike of the boy.’

  ‘He is swift with a bow, true, but he has not the strength of a man,’ Nestor added from behind.

  I turned aside, the corners of my eyes burning with tears of shame. I almost wanted to answer back to them, but I was so exhausted, and my hands were riddled with pain – so, head bowed, filled with anger and humiliation, I made my way instead to the stern of the Argo to bandage my bleeding wounds.

  ‘Wait, Telamon.’

  I turned, my hands shaking, vision blurred with tears. I felt a hand – cool and gentle – upon my arm. I wiped my eyes upon the shoulder of my tunic. ‘Meleager?’

  He drew in his oar, leaving only the blade projecting, and got to his feet to stand beside me. His eyes were gazing down into mine, his brows drawn together in concern. ‘They should not have said such things.’

  I shook my head. ‘No, no, they were right. I cannot do it. I should never have—’

  He raised his hand and stroked my cheek with a finger, very lightly. I looked up at him, the blood rushing to my cheeks, an unexpected, irresistible pulse of desire flooding me at his touch. His lips were so close I could see the sweat glistening in the fine brown hair of his beard, and I found myself wondering what it would feel like to be caressed by those lips, to have his hands in my hair, his fingertips tracing the curves of my back down, down and then further …

  I looked away.

  Do not be a fool, Atalanta. Remember why you are here – on a hero’s quest, not to fall for the first man who looks at you with lust in his eyes.

  Remember – he thinks you are a man.

  I felt the heat in my cheeks subside, but his finger lingered, cool, pressed against my skin, his eyes bearing down upon mine.

  And if he desires you – as a man? a voice within my head whispered. What then?

  Meleager placed both his hands on either side of my temples and leant forwards and kissed me, very lightly, upon the top of my head. I felt my whole body thrill, impossibly, irresistibly, at the brush of his lips upon my hair. The lord Pollux, who was seated on the thwart to Meleager’s left, let out a whistle, and a couple of the nobles laughed and catcalled from behind. I looked away quickly, filled with confusion and embarrassment, but Meleager’s expression did not falter.

  ‘Take care of yourself, Telamon,’ he said, and though I knew we were being watched I could not help it: I felt my gaze drawn back to him. His eyes flickered down to my blistered hands and lingered there, making my heart thud so hard that I could feel the leather cord of the medallion quivering upon my collarbone beneath my tunic. ‘You have such beautiful hands. It would be a shame to see them harmed.’

  And with a smile and a slight bow, he turned on his heel and walked away.

  Later that day I was seated at the ship’s stern with the others who were taking rests from rowing. A few days before, Argus had persuaded Jason to reduce our crew so that we might alternate on and off the benches, to allow us to recover a little of our strength for the journey ahead. Hippomenes had refused to allow me to return to my oar, however much I protested: he himself worked through the day, not stopping for rest at all, and I was left to huddle by the stern brooding upon my shame. By good fortune, however, Myrtessa and an older slave, Phorbas, whom she had befriended, were also allotted a rest not long after I left my bench, so we were conversing together, crouched just beneath the stern deck beside the stowage, out of sight and sharing a pouch of wine to quench our thirst. I had bound Phorbas’ hands, which were pockmarked with blisters and bleeding freely; he was a steward, charged with managing his master’s slaves and balancing his accounts, and was unused to much physical exertion.

  The conversation reached a lull, and I stretched up to peer over the edge of the raised deck above. Jason was there, pacing the boards above us, restless and irritable, striding past Argus where he stood guiding the steering oar, his eyes upon a cluster of storm clouds gathering upon the horizon, trailing a veil of rain in their wake and growing larger as they blew across the sky, billowing, darkening.

  ‘My lord Jason,’ I heard Argus say. ‘I know you do not approve of letting the men rest—’

  ‘It is not about approving, Argus,’ Jason said, in clipped tones. ‘It is about the storm you see approaching. If we do not make time, we shall be out on the open sea before it hits. I do not want the Argo harmed – nothing that will slow my progress to the Fleece.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ Myrtessa whispered, but I hushed her and cast a significant look up to the deck above us.

  ‘That is all very well,’ I heard Argus respond, ‘but if the men’s hands are so sore that they cannot row, it will do us little good, no matter how soon we make harbour, for we shall not be able to leave again tomorrow. I saw Phorbas’ hands – he’s Peleus’ steward, you know – and they were quite raw with blisters all over the palms and—’

  ‘What do I care for slaves?’ Jason’s voice was growing louder. I shrank back, gesturing to Phorbas to duck his head.

  ‘But if they cannot row any longer—’

  ‘If they cannot row, we shall toss them overboard to see if they can swim.’

  Argus hesitated. ‘But, my lord—’

  ‘No, Argus. I have had enough of your attempts to overrule me. The slaves will go back to work. You!’ To my horror, I heard the sound of his sandals approaching closer across the deck, then felt his shadow fall across the three of us, where we sat huddled together. I struggled to my feet. He was pointing at Phorbas, his grey eyes cold with malice. ‘Get up and row.’

  Phorbas was almost forty years of age, slightly rotund in the belly and with the hair greying at his temples. He took hold of the railing to pull himself to stand. I saw him wince with pain. ‘My lord, please,’ he said, his eyes filling with tears. ‘A little more rest, I beg you.’

  Jason’s eyes hardened. ‘To work, slave.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Silence! I will not be defied!’ Jason’s face was reddening, a vein pulsing upon his temple.

  Phorbas held up his damaged hands in a gesture of suppli
cation. ‘I beg of you, my lord …’

  ‘What are those?’

  His eyes were upon the linen bandages, taken from the supplies we had loaded upon the ship when we left Pagasae.

  ‘I can explain,’ I said, moving forwards.

  ‘Quiet,’ Jason said, his eyes darting towards me, then back to Phorbas. His voice grew quiet with menace. ‘Did you steal those, slave?’

  Phorbas shook his head, muttering, ‘No, my lord, I—’

  ‘You dared to take what was not rightfully yours from your betters?’

  I stared at Jason. ‘Those supplies were brought for all the crew, nobles and slaves alike!’

  ‘Take them off,’ he said, ignoring me. The sky was darkening above us with a deep layer of grey clouds. The wind was whipping the waves into momentary peaks, then calm again. I could feel the breeze blowing sea spray against my cheeks, and the taste of salt was growing stronger in my mouth.

  ‘W-what?’

  ‘Take them off!’

  Cringing, Phorbas obeyed, unravelling the strips of linen to reveal his bloodied hands. There was another blast of wind, stronger now, and the sail filled, making the ropes creak, pulling the boat into the waves and sending spray shooting up the ship’s sides.

  ‘Hold out your hands.’

  Phorbas extended them forwards. Jason loosened his leather belt, then untied it, bringing it slithering through one hand, his mouth slightly parted, his breathing ragged. He raised the belt above his head, and Phorbas squeezed his eyes shut—

  ‘No!’

  I pushed Phorbas aside. ‘No, Prince Jason,’ I said, breathing hard. I held my hands forwards, palms up, feeling the blisters stretch. ‘I wish to be punished in his place. I took the bandages. It was my fault. Beat me instead.’

  Jason’s lip curled in contempt. ‘You are an even greater fool than I thought, Telamon.’

  I met his gaze and held it, challenging him. It was the first time I had spoken to him directly since our meeting on the shores of Peparethos, and I felt myself shudder to look again into those wintry grey eyes, and remember how they had shone in the darkness as he had described burning my home, torturing my family. ‘Do it.’

  The waves were peaking into rolling hills of water so that the ship’s prow dipped and fell, dipped and fell, like a child’s cot, rocked by the fingers of the gods. Phorbas, his face crumpled with relief, mouthed to me, My thanks to you, Telamon, and fell to clutch at the ship’s side with Myrtessa.

  ‘My lord Jason …’ Argus called out in a warning tone, both hands tugging upon the steering oar, which was beginning to veer out of control.

  But Jason was bringing the leather strap up, up above his head, and in the crack that followed, as it met my bare skin with a stinging, resounding slap, Argus’ words were drowned. I sucked in my cheeks and bit them, determined not to cry as Jason hit me, again, and again, and again, his eyes alight with a strange, fierce joy, and my hands were glowing with pain, the blisters cracked and bleeding down my wrists and forearms …

  ‘That is enough!’

  I felt someone wrest me aside. I looked up, dazed with pain, and saw Argus – pointing not at me but at the clouds covering the sky, blotting out the sun and pounded by the wind into a furling mass. ‘Will you put this whole ship and its crew at risk for your pride?’

  Jason paused, panting. He looked overboard towards the waves, which were working themselves up into dark, roiling walls of water. A low rumble of thunder shivered through the air and the ship pitched forwards, setting the boards of the hull creaking.

  The storm was coming.

  Jason tossed aside his belt and strode down the ship, shouting orders. ‘Bank your oars,’ he bellowed at the rowers. I ran from the stern deck towards the mast, cradling my burning hands, and slipped slightly on the wood, wet from the light rain that was already falling in a sheer mist from the sky. I reached out for the rope of the backstay to steady myself.

  ‘Telamon,’ Myrtessa gasped, making her way unsteadily towards me, clutching at the leather tholes that held the oars for support as her feet slid beneath her. ‘What – what should I do?’

  ‘Keep close by me,’ I said, and fumbled to untie the sheets, twin ropes that attached the mainsail to the side of the ship, smearing the rush-woven cords with blood from my hands. I looked around. Myrtessa was crouching there, clinging to the leather loop of one of the oars as the swell of the waves carried us up, up, then plunged us down into the raging sea, her eyes tight shut.

  ‘I am afraid,’ she said, her voice very thin.

  ‘Then do something!’ I called. I threw her one of the sheets and started trying to coil it around my elbow, slipping and sliding on the wet planks as the ship pitched from side to side and clutching at the beams for support. Several of the slaves were hanging onto the ship’s side, crying out prayers to Poseidon, and Phorbas was vomiting into the sea.

  ‘Argus – can you steer her into the waves?’ I heard Nestor shout, bending low to hold onto the thwarts as he fought his way towards the steering deck. The wind was howling around the ship now in tearing, screaming blasts, the sky darkened to the indiscriminate blackness of deepest night. A fork of lightning split the air ahead, blinding white, followed instantly by a rumbling growl of thunder, and then the rain was falling hard, so dense it was like a wall of water pouring upon us.

  ‘I am doing all I can!’ I heard Argus call back from the stern. He had both arms wrapped around the steering oar and was clearly fighting with all his might to keep the prow pointing forwards into the storm. A massive wave curled and crashed over the bow, drenching us in salt water. ‘Poseidon has cursed us!’

  ‘We have to – reef the sail!’ I gasped to the men around me, and saw Hippomenes nod, his hair plastered to his head in the torrent pouring from the heavens. He ran to the backstay, slipping and sliding, and started to try to undo it. I saw the muscles of his forearms straining as he pulled at the knot.

  ‘It’s no use!’ he called after a moment. ‘The rope is soaked through – I can’t untie it!’

  I squinted upwards as a flash of lightning tore through the air, illuminating the yardarm fixed high up the mast, the sail flapping wildly in the howling winds.

  ‘There’s no time!’ I shouted back. ‘If we cannot lower the yard we will have to climb the mast and reef the sail – any longer and the ship will heel!’

  He nodded, rain dripping from his nose as he ran back towards us. I gestured to Myrtessa and, one after another, Hippomenes, then Myrtessa and I climbed the slippery wooden pegs fixed into the mast up towards the yardarm, water streaming into our eyes, my lacerated hands screaming in pain, the ship creaking as she rocked back and forth on the plunging waves, the wind whistling in our ears. We had reached the yard now, and as the prow dipped up again Myrtessa reached out to me, trembling, and I grasped her hand briefly, trying with all my might to maintain my grip upon the slimy wood. I checked my foothold upon the mast, firmed my grip with my elbow around the yardarm, then reached with my free hand and began to pull the sail up by handfuls. Hippomenes on the other side was doing the same, and Myrtessa beside me was fumbling at the sheets, her face pale, wiping her wet hair out of her eyes, then throwing the ropes across to me and Hippomenes to secure the canvas. The sky split open again above us and another foaming white wave crashed overboard. There was a groan from the Argo as she plunged downwards and then, as she broke into another wave, a colossal snapping noise. A rope flew towards us from the prow, flying loose through the wind, whipping back and forth, and the mast rocked dangerously. One of the cables that supported it had snapped.

  ‘One of the forestays has broken!’ I bellowed to Myrtessa and Hippomenes. ‘We have to get down!’

  Myrtessa’s eyes were wide and the corner of her mouth was trembling. The mast swayed again, and I redoubled my hold on the yardarm. ‘Dolius – get down!’

  Myrtessa clung to the linen of the sail as she sought with her toes for the footholds down the mast. Then, at last, she was out of sight in the ra
in-drenched darkness.

  ‘Hippomenes – you next!’

  He had climbed so far out along the yardarm that he was over the roiling, foaming sea, clutching at the last of the sail, which was flapping wildly out of his reach, one of the sheet-ropes Myrtessa and I had untied whistling back and forth through the air.

  ‘Hippomenes!’

  I squinted through the curtain of rain. There was a sudden terrible tearing sound from the prow, a creaking of wood and rope. The second forestay was breaking. With one last, desperate look at Hippomenes I swung myself onto the mast and shimmied down it – and not a moment too soon. With a dreadful crack the second forestay, the last of the ropes supporting the mast, whipped up from the prow. I leapt the last few paces as the mast shuddered in the mast-box and then, with an awful, final inevitability, Hippomenes still clinging to the yardarm, like a limpet to a rock, it wavered and fell sideways, keeling over the ship’s side into the sea with a terrible, reverberating thud of breaking wood, and a final crash of sea spray.

  All at Sea

  The Ocean

  The Hour of the Stars

  The Fourteenth Day of the Month of the Harvest

  ‘Hippomenes!’

  I clung to the ship’s edge as we pitched and tossed, desperately scanning the leaden surface of the sea for a head bobbing on the surface. At last I saw him.

  ‘There!’ I shouted, pointing through the blackness. ‘There!’