For the Winner

by Emily Hauser

  I forced myself to open my eyes and pushed myself up to stand, heart pounding, throat constricted. There is nothing you can do now. You cannot leave, or Jason will have you killed, and that will benefit no one, your family least of all.

  I clenched my fists at my sides, trying to prevent the tears rolling down my cheeks. You will simply have to find a way to return to Kaladrosos before Jason gets there, to return to protect your home. I shook my head, willing myself to regain self-control, and was just about to force myself to join Theseus, Laertes, Hippomenes and the other lords gathered around the fire when I noticed someone else.

  Prince Lycon, who was usually so inseparable from the Thracian noble Orpheus, was sitting alone further along the shore, a few paces from the waves, his lyre held cradled in his arms, plucking at the strings as he gazed out to sea. I hesitated, glancing around for Myrtessa, but she was laughing with the slaves, sharing bread and olives and wine. She would not miss me. I started out over the shore, the flat pebbles smooth beneath my sandals.

  ‘My prince,’ I said, as I approached him, ‘I hope I am not disturbing you.’

  His eyes had a distant, unfocused look, as if he had been immeasurably far away and was only now recalled to his surroundings. After a while he said, ‘Lord Telamon, is it not?’ He gestured to the shore beside him.

  I seated myself, removing my cloak and spreading it over the stones, my hands still shaking a little. Prince Lycon continued to strum at the strings of the lyre. It was a haunting tune, sweet but with an ineffable sadness. It had something of an Anatolian strain. I took his distraction as an excuse to look him over properly for the first time.

  I felt a wave of disappointment as I realized that, close to, my brother was nothing like me. His straw-blond hair was dishevelled, curling at the ends. He had a full, soft mouth, his jaw jutting slightly forwards, and dark eyes with the same distant melancholy I had heard in the song. His fingers were long, delicate as he plucked at the strings. I looked away, a shiver shooting down my spine.

  What if Neda and Myrtessa were wrong? How can this fair-haired, soft-skinned young man be my brother?

  Have I made a terrible mistake?

  ‘What can you tell me of your father?’

  The question was out of my mouth before I had even properly considered it. He looked at me, startled.

  I cleared my throat and lowered my voice, hastening to correct my mistake. ‘That is to say, my prince, I meant – what is there that I should know of the king of Pagasae? I am new to the lands of Thessaly, and I would know all I can of my benefactors.’

  His expression softened. He inclined his head and plucked again at the strings, with gentle, caressing strokes. ‘What is it you would know?’ he asked.

  I paused, wondering if I dared say it. ‘I heard tell,’ I said, my voice a little unsteady, ‘from the other lords that you once had a sister. That your father left her on the mountain to die.’ I pressed my hands tight together in my lap, knuckles white, trying not to hold my breath, to look as if I were merely a young lord from Crete with no interest in the affairs of Pagasae.

  Lycon nodded. ‘What you heard is true. I never knew her.’

  ‘Do you …’ I gazed down at my fingers ‘… do you think that what he did was right?’

  ‘No,’ Lycon said, with something of a sigh. ‘But my father is the king, and what he commands is law. A sceptred ruler is granted his kingdom by the favour of the gods. It is for us to obey him.’

  Indignation rose within me, and my gaze snapped up to confront his. ‘A king is a mortal like any other – it does not exempt him from committing unjust deeds!’ I picked up a stone and threw it over the water. ‘For King Iasus, and for Jason – both of them – kingship is merely an excuse to exercise cruelty. I do not believe the gods wish for such things. I think the gods love every mortal who walks upon the earth, noble or slave, man or woman, king or poet, for our deeds, not our wealth, or our occupations.’

  I paused, breathing hard, wondering whether I had gone too far, but Lycon smiled faintly.

  ‘Those in the palace who knew my mother say that she, too, was ever arguing with my father, begging more justice for his people, until she died. Indeed,’ he took me by the chin and bent close to gaze at me, ‘I see something of her portraits in you – the set of your mouth and,’ he turned my face up, ‘the colour of your eyes is just the same.’

  I bit my lip, hanging on his every word, terrified that I might be discovered and yet longing for him to go on. Perhaps it is true after all … Unconsciously, I moved my fingers to my chest, felt the thin round circle of the golden medallion hanging at my collarbone, the leather thong around my neck.

  Lycon looked away. ‘Forgive me, Telamon, I am unused to being so far from home. And not a day goes by that I do not think of my mother, and wish I could have known her.’

  I let out my breath slowly. ‘I miss my mother and my home too,’ I said, and I meant both of them: my family in Kaladrosos, and in Pagasae – my friends Neda, Philoetius and Hora – and perhaps now, my brother, too. Warmth for him kindled in my breast as I picked up another pebble and skimmed it over the surface of the sea. It leapt a few times across the silken water, then plunged into the waves with a faint splash.

  ‘You are an unusual man, Telamon.’

  I nodded, half wanting to smile at the irony of his words, half saddened by how little he knew. I wished I could confide in someone, but knew how much I risked if I did.

  Lycon bent forwards to lay the lyre across his knees, and as he did so, I noticed something I had not seen before: a leather cord around his neck and, just visible above his tunic, a sliver of something round – something gold …

  The medallion … The one Neda said she had seen …

  My heart began to race, my mind filled suddenly with a whirl of thoughts. It is true, then!

  He is my brother!

  And then, with another jolt of terror and excitement: I am, indeed, the daughter of the king!

  My pulse pounded in my throat at this final proof – at last! – after all the doubt of the days before, and I was about to open my mouth to say something, though what, I hardly knew, when—

  ‘Who did you say your father was?’

  I stared at him, appalled. I could not remember the name Myrtessa and I had practised …

  What was it?

  ‘Deucalion,’ I said, relief flooding through me. ‘Deucalion, son of Minos of Knossos, in Crete.’

  ‘Well, son of Deucalion,’ Lycon said, and he smiled properly for the first time, ‘I would welcome more of your company. It is not often that I meet men like you in my father’s court.’

  Winds of Change

  Kytoros, Anatolia

  The Hour of Offerings

  The Twenty-seventh Day of the Month of the Harvest

  After two weeks’ slow progress – for the winds were slack and we had lost many oars in the storm on the Propontis – we at last put into the port of Kytoros on the northern shores of Anatolia, in the territory of the Kaskaeans. Jason, determined to reach the Fleece at any cost, had refused to put in at the harbour towns of Sesamos and Aigialos to re-equip the Argo and mend her broken mast. But Argus had now demanded in no uncertain terms that we put in at port and barter some of our wine in return for wood, rope and canvas to repair the ship – or else, as he put it, we would all soon be sailing with the Nereids at the bottom of the ocean.

  Jason had, at last, agreed.

  The harbour of Kytoros was ringed by sheer wooded cliffs and a looming mountain on one side, from which we later learnt the port town took its name. The sea eddied around the twin headlands that enclosed the mouth of the bay, but within the harbour the water was calm and still, moving glassily over the stones beneath, and the warm breeze carried to us the scent of boxwood. Several fishing skiffs were bobbing upon the shallow waters, and a couple of low-bellied merchants’ vessels were drawn up on land. To sailors who had been sitting at their benches for several weeks, hands blistered, backs sore, tunics dr
enched with sweat and legs cramped from days at sea, it was as good as the Isles of the Blessed.

  I leapt down into the sea and splashed to shore, throwing the cool water over my head and shoulders, hearing the cheers and splashes behind me as the other lords and their slaves followed suit. I collapsed, panting, upon the sand, my tunic damp around my thighs and clinging to the skin, my chest rising and falling as I regained my breath. I felt a movement beside me and saw Meleager drop to the ground, his gold-brown hair crusted with salt, the smooth lines of his jaw and collarbone outlined in the sun. He turned to me and smiled, intimate as a lover. His eyes flickered over my face to rest upon my lips. My skin tingled in answer to his unspoken question, and his brief half-smile as if he knew what I was thinking, and all the while I was lost in those clear hazel eyes, almost gold in the sunlight …

  ‘Meleager?’

  Hippomenes was standing over us, broad shoulders blocking out the sun. I gasped at his sudden appearance and pushed myself up to sit, my hand shielding my eyes. Meleager did the same.

  ‘What do you want, Hippomenes?’

  Hippomenes jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘It’s not what I want, it’s what he wants,’ he said, and I assumed by ‘he’ that he meant Jason. ‘We’re to go up to the town and scout out where we might find materials for the ship’s repairs, while the others remain here and assess the damage. They’ll send a couple of slaves behind us bearing a message with what they need.’

  ‘Is there such a hurry?’ Meleager asked, lying down again upon the sand and squinting up at Hippomenes. ‘We have only just arrived.’

  Hippomenes shrugged. ‘It’s Jason’s orders,’ was all he said.

  ‘And who else is to go?’

  ‘You, me, Peleus and, if he will consent to come,’ he added, rather awkwardly, ‘I thought I might ask Telamon to accompany us, too.’

  I hid my smile at his gesture of friendship, extended rather hesitantly after what must have seemed my ill-mannered rejection of his offer of the slave-girl, Thalia. ‘With pleasure,’ I said. He extended his hand to help me to my feet, but I pushed myself up without his aid and cocked my head at him with a grin. He raised his eyebrows and gave his hand instead to Meleager, who took it and stood with a groan.

  ‘By the gods, I am sore,’ Meleager complained, rubbing at the taut, slim muscles from his neck down to his shoulders, then the muscles of his upper arm, kneading the skin.

  ‘We are all sore, Meleager,’ Peleus said, striding up towards us and clapping Meleager upon the back. ‘You had better become accustomed to it, for we have many weeks ahead of us yet, and more, if we do not get the ship mended soon. Hippomenes, Telamon,’ he said, bowing to each of us. ‘I have brought a couple of slaves to carry some samples of the wine for bartering.’

  I looked over his shoulder and saw Myrtessa approaching, with several others, each carrying a pouch filled with wine. I exchanged a smile with her.

  ‘Shall we be on our way, then?’ Peleus said, glancing up at the sun.

  The town of Kytoros was a little way up from the harbour, set upon a small hill that overlooked the bay. We climbed the winding path that scaled the steep cliffs ringing the harbour and crossed a plateau edged by scrubby, boxwood-covered hills. The afternoon sun beat down upon the backs of our necks and we were sweating by the time we passed through the gates into the small, winding streets of the town, the stench of straw and horse droppings in our noses, the clatter of pots and pans and the laughter of children in our ears. There were so many merchants and traders bustling around the alleys that we were barely noticed: hawkers from Masa with dark olive skin, local fishermen carrying trays around their necks filled with fish, Egyptian slaves bearing two-handled jars of wine on their heads, and priests dressed all in white. Myrtessa was struggling to keep hold of the heavy leather pouch in the bustle of the streets, her hands slippery with sweat from the climb, and I moved over to take it from her. She flashed me a grateful smile.

  ‘What are we looking for?’ I asked, falling in step with Hippomenes.

  He gestured to a slave, Hantawa, a tall, imposing man with curling dark hair, an Anatolian by birth who had been sold into slavery and had risen through Bellerophon’s household to become his steward. He was striding ahead, leading the way through the narrow alleys and pushing past merchants dangling golden chains from their fingers or foisting painted clay cups upon us. ‘Hantawa has spoken with a local tradesman, who tells us there is a carpenter’s workshop not far from here. Wood we can forage from the forests, but drills and saws, mallets and pegs for fitting the planks together – not to mention the canvas required for the sail – well, that we must barter for.’ He motioned towards the pouch of wine I was carrying. ‘That was kind of you,’ he said, ‘to take it from the slave.’

  I said nothing, but I smiled up at him and, after a moment, he returned it.

  ‘You come from Boeotia, do you not?’ I asked him.

  He nodded and bent beneath a sign hanging over the street above a baker’s shop. ‘From Onchestos – yes. My father rules the city.’

  ‘And what do you do, then, in Onchestos?’ I asked. ‘If you are a lord, but do not rule.’

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Visit the farms on the plain, along the fertile valley that leads from Lake Copais down to the city of Thebes. I help them with the ploughing, drive the oxen along the furrows, or take the rods to the olive groves to beat down the fruit.’

  I looked over his broad frame, his sturdy, wide palms. ‘I could see you as a farmer,’ I said, tilting my head to one side. ‘In a straw hat and with a stick in one hand, you would look quite the part.’

  He nodded, quite serious. ‘I enjoy it. Being upon the fields. Putting my strength to the spade or the plough, then resting quiet at night beneath the stars after some good wine.’ He caught my eye and laughed. ‘I must sound like a regular Boeotian country lad to you, coming from Crete, with your palaces and your dances and your bullfights.’

  I stared at him for a moment, then looked quickly away. In truth I had been thinking not of Crete, but of my father’s house – the apple trees in our orchard, the goat tied to his pole, the comforting smell of the chopped woodpiles in autumn and the sweet scent of the blossoms in spring. I felt a tug of terrible sadness mixed with fear, remembering Jason’s words: And not only king of Iolcos! I will rule Pagasae, Makronita and Kaladrosos, Lechonia and Aphussos. I will burn all the towns of Pelion, raze them to the ground …

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I said, but I did not return his smile. ‘Yes. Quite.’

  I was saved any more discussion in this vein, for at that very moment Peleus, who was walking before us, called back, ‘Hippomenes! Telamon! We’ve found the place.’ We followed him around a corner and down an even smaller alleyway, if that were possible. The air was clouded at once with sawdust and the dry, sweet smell of wood shavings. The shop was small but with a wide open front that led directly onto the street, and the carpenter within, though he spoke no Greek, was soon conversing rapidly with Hantawa, gesturing with open hands. Peleus stepped inside and began bargaining through Hantawa for the tools and materials we would need to repair the Argo, while Hippomenes, Meleager, Myrtessa, the other slaves and I hung back by the entrance to the shop.

  ‘I am parched with thirst,’ Meleager announced, after an hour or so of such bargaining, loosening the tie of the tunic around his neck. ‘Telamon, what say you and I go in search of a fountain?’

  Peleus turned. ‘You should all go,’ he said. ‘This will take a while longer, and Jason should be told that we have a man to supply us. Tell my lord,’ Peleus looked at Hantawa, who nodded, ‘that he will send the tools we ask for, with several slaves and axes to fell the trees, upon his ox cart in return for ten jars of the wine we offered him. The cart should be at the harbour by dawn tomorrow.’ Peleus stepped further into the little shop, and began pointing to various hammers, chisels and saws, bartering with Hantawa in rapid Greek.

  Hippomenes nodded. ‘Our thanks to you, Peleus.’

&nb
sp; We took a different way back to the city gates, through the marketplace. It was a broad open space covered with cobblestones, hawkers displaying their wares on wooden stands shaded from the sun with linen, or spread out on cloths upon the ground. I lingered a little over the wares, fingering the smooth clay cups painted black and red with exquisite scenes of lion hunts, handling daggers with weighted bronze handles incised with circular patterns, eyeing plump cherries displayed in woven baskets. At the opposite end of the market, closest to the street that would take us back to the gate where we had entered, there was a small fountain carved from limestone with a jet of water gushing from the spout. After Meleager and Hippomenes had drunk their fill I leant forwards and took several draughts, feeling it burn my dry throat, splashing a little on the front of my tunic and wetting my eyelashes and hair. I hardly cared: the cool, free-running water was delightful after several weeks of wine.

  When at last I was done I turned to find Meleager standing behind me.

  In his hands he was holding a delicate one-handled cup, one of those I had seen earlier upon the stalls, a scene of a dog chasing a young stag painted upon it in bright red, surrounded by spirals, as if the hunt were taking place in an undergrowth filled with curling leaves.