For the Winner

by Emily Hauser

  Argus fell silent, and we rowed on.

  ‘My lord,’ Argus began, an hour or so later, ‘I must speak. It is not wise—’

  But Jason held up his hand to silence the steersman, and I saw at once what had made him do so. We had just turned another bend in the river, and ahead of us, on the sloping flanks of the mountain just before the river’s banks, a city was blazing out of the shadows, torches flaring upon every rampart.

  The slave beating the drum faltered and stopped. Jason pulled his oar out of the water and slid it across his lap. The rest of us followed.

  I peered through the darkness. The city appeared to be built of grey stone, its battlements and gate-towers forbidding in the deep shadows cast by the mountains. A cluster of square towers reached up to the night sky from within its walls, all of different heights and some topped with stone ramparts of their own. Two outer gates were visible, both closed and made of wood, set before a ditch, which seemed to have been dug around the city walls. Guards patrolled the perimeter, bows and quivers filled with arrows, upon their backs.

  ‘They do not appear to welcome visitors,’ Hippomenes said, from his place at the thwart beside Jason, one hand moving to his sword’s hilt.

  Theseus looked up at the sky overhead, scattered with bright stars, pinpricks of light above the jagged peaks. ‘We should wait until dawn,’ he said.

  Nestor’s voice sounded through the darkness: ‘Let us wait until daybreak, Jason. To attempt to beach and approach the city when we have no sense of the lie of the land would be foolish, to say the least.’

  Jason considered for a moment. ‘Very well,’ he said, and I saw him tap his fingers against the smooth handle of his oar. ‘Let us run the ship up on shore here, in this bay, where they cannot see us. We will approach the king with our requests in the morning.’

  I could not hide my surprise. ‘You plan to petition him for the Fleece? You do not intend to take it by force?’

  Jason turned to smile at me, his teeth gleaming in the starlight. ‘Why, we will begin with a request,’ he said. ‘We are Greeks, are we not? And if he does not accept it, then, well …’ He left the threat hanging upon the air.

  I glanced at Hippomenes. He still looked wary, but said nothing.

  We drove the ship’s keel up onto the sand and jumped down into the waters, then settled upon the beach to sleep, side by side for warmth. After a while lying upon my back, looking up through the branches of the fir overhead and unable to sleep, I sat up, drew my cloak over my shoulders and glanced around me. The sky above us was alive with stars scattering the darkness, like raindrops upon a still pool, and the sounds of the river lapping at the shore were soothing, accompanied by the humming of the cicadas in the pine trees. I gazed at the prone, sleeping figures of the men around me. My eyes fell upon Peleus, his sandy eyelashes sweeping his cheek in sleep, one arm flung out beside him. I smiled to myself. Peleus had been a friend from the very first: it was he who had welcomed me aboard the Argo, and who had aided me in the storm when none other would. Argus lay behind him, the only one of the heroes, aside from Peleus, who dared to stand up to Jason, his cloak tucked around his body, snoring gently. There was Hippomenes, broad-backed, a man of few words but with a strong sense of honour, his fingers interlaced over his chest, rising and falling with his breath; Meleager, bold, ardent and careless, rolled upon his side, long hair brushing his shoulders. These, I thought, were heroes indeed: men who fought hard for what they wanted, who lived on little and took pleasure in good wine and the strength of their hands. Men who had become my friends and my companions.

  Will I be able to steal the Fleece from them, when the time comes? I hugged my knees tight into my chest. I have spent so many weeks with them, shared my meals with them, laughed with them side by side and shared my grievances with them when we rowed too far.

  Will I be able to take from them what they have come so far to get?

  And it was with that disconcerting thought that I was left, for many hours, to stare up into the moonless sky and wait for what tomorrow’s embassy might bring.

  As it turned out, the Colchians did not wait for our embassy.

  I awoke the next morning on the sand of the river’s shore, stiff with cold, my cloak over me wet with dew. None of the other lords or the slaves had woken yet, and I pushed myself to my elbows, rubbing my eyes.

  Then I stopped.

  I had heard hoof beats, gentle, unmistakable, on the dawn air. I turned slowly, searching the grassy meadow that extended up the bank behind the bay into a thicket of trees and up to the mountain slopes, looking for a sign of movement. All was still, hushed, the only sounds the rippling waves against the bank and the swishing of the pines in the faint breeze.

  Suddenly an arrow hissed through the air. A thud and a cry of pain. One of the slaves upon the ground, Cedalion, a friend of Myrtessa, was groaning and shrieking, clutching at the arrow that was sticking from his thigh, dark blood leaking out over his tunic, his mouth gaping as he drew long, gasping breaths.

  All at once, the camp was in pandemonium. Arrows were hailing through the air, the lords were staggering to their feet, clutching at weapons, slaves were running, screaming, in all directions.

  ‘Over there!’

  I pointed towards the thicket up ahead. At least fifty horsemen were thundering out of the cover of the trees towards us, appearing like phantoms through the early-morning mist rising up from the forest behind them, each carrying a bow with a quiver of arrows hanging at their side. They rode without bridles, and it was as if they and the horses were of one mind, the horses’ manes flying out behind them as they galloped, like pennants in the wind, and still the arrows showered down upon us thick and fast as the archers shot down the slopes again and again.

  As fast as I could, I leapt to my feet, snatched up my quiver from the ground and fastened my sword-belt around my waist. Heart pounding, I drew my bow, nocked an arrow and took aim, twisting to follow the course of an archer, then loosed it. It flew through the air and struck its target directly between the collarbones. The man choked and fell from his steed. He gave a shattering, unearthly scream as he hit the ground, his legs crumpling beneath him, the arrow snapping in two.

  I stared at what I had done, my hand dropping to my side. The hail of arrows was still falling around me but I was unable to move – I could not have moved even if a horse had come galloping at full force directly towards me. It was as if my limbs were not mine any more, as if my mind had separated from my body at the realization of the terrible deed my hands had done. I had let my arrow fly with as little thought as when I was hunting an animal in the forest – but this was different. This was awful. The man was screaming and writhing. I could see his face, the whites of his eyes, his gaze as he searched for me, wordless. I could hear his gasping breath. I felt bile rise in my throat, my hands shaking.

  Cold began to flood through me, the image of the man falling from his steed imprinted upon my eyes. My vision was clouding and spots flashed here and there. I stumbled a little, and my bow slid towards the ground.

  Do you want to lose Myrtessa? a small voice inside my head said. I blinked, shivered. The words began to penetrate slowly through the fog obscuring my thoughts. Meleager? Peleus? Hippomenes? Do you want to lose them all?

  I tightened my grip upon the bow until my knuckles whitened, and gradually my sight came back into focus.

  You have to do it, to protect yourself and those you love.

  I made myself turn back, repeating their names to myself one after another – Myrtessa, Meleager, Peleus – as I nocked more arrows and let them fly into the air, not allowing myself to think of anything but their names as I fought. Two more Colchians fell to the ground, my arrows piercing their thighs and shoulders, rolling over and over down the slope as their horses whinnied and reared in fright. Missiles were whistling past my ears, I could see Pollux and Laertes crouching beneath their shields, and behind them Hippomenes, weighing a spear in his hand, then hurling it at one of the a
rchers’ steeds, burying the bronze tip deep in the horse’s haunch so that the beast screamed in pain and bucked its rider from its back before collapsing to the ground, eyes rolling. And now they were upon us. I drew Corythus’ sword from my belt, the blade gleaming. A Colchian had leapt from his mount and approached me, a small dagger in his hand. I turned to face him, feinted to the left and he darted aside to miss the blow. Quick as wind I whirled around and lunged forwards, swiping my blade through the air, and felt it slice the man’s sword-arm. He dropped his dagger, howling, clutching at the wound. Dust was rising in the air around us from the horses’ hoofs and I could smell the iron tang of blood. War cries in a language I did not know mixed with shrieks of pain, whether from our enemies or the lords of Greece I did not know …

  I swivelled on the ball of my foot, shivering, forcing myself not to think anything but the names of those I was trying to keep from harm – Hippomenes, Phorbas, Laertes. I spotted Peleus, mouth bleeding, duelling a broad-chested man with shoulder-length hair and thick eyebrows that were coated with sand and dust. As I watched, a second Colchian advanced upon Peleus from behind, and Peleus, who was busy blocking and parrying, his feet flashing over the sand, had not seen him—

  Before the second attacker could so much as raise his sword I had fitted another arrow to my bow and sent it whistling towards him. There was a terrible splitting sound as the arrow tunnelled through the bone of his thigh, the shaft quivering from the impact, and he crumpled, screaming, his blade clattering to the ground beside him.

  ‘My thanks to you, Telamon!’ Peleus called, still parrying and thrusting. He forced his opponent to follow him, darting out of his way, and the man, not watching his feet, tripped on a large rock protruding from the ground. He fell forwards with a crash and Peleus drove his sword downwards into his back, leaning his weight on the hilt.

  ‘Where—’ I began, as another wave of nausea overcame me, searching desperately for Myrtessa’s dark head amid the clouds of sand flying around us. But at that moment a Colchian thundered past me on his horse and leapt from the saddle, drawing his sword with a flash of bronze. I raised my blade to his and we began to duel, sweat flying from my face as I parried and blocked, ducked, feinted to the side to draw him towards me, then lunged forwards. He brought up a dagger with his second hand and managed to knock my blade aside – it sliced his upper arm, opening a deep gash in the muscles, splitting the veins and splattering me with blood. He dropped his sword, howling, and I turned away, trying with all my might to close my ears to the sound as he knelt on the ground, cradling the wound.

  A Greek slave was behind me, crouched to the earth, holding his hands over his head and muttering prayers to the gods in a rapid torrent. I knelt down and recognized him as Melanthius, a slave of Nestor. ‘Have you seen Dolius?’

  He stared at me, eyes wide, mouth still moving in a stream of invocation. I took him roughly by the tunic. ‘Have you seen Dolius?’ I repeated, shouting over the tumult of the battle raging around us.

  He nodded then, teeth chattering, and pointed towards the trees. ‘Escaped – before they came,’ he said. ‘Other slaves – over there – taking shelter.’

  I nodded briefly, taking in the stench of fear upon him. ‘Come with me. You take this.’ I snatched up the shield from the corpse of a Colchian nearby, an arrow sticking from his chest, struck by his own people in the hail of darts flying this way and that over the beach. I tried not to look at his open, glassy eyes. ‘Hold it above your head,’ I instructed Melanthius, showing him how to cover himself with the shield. ‘Now – move!’

  He did not need telling twice. He crept through the groups of duelling men, stepping over dead bodies with a shudder and keeping the shield raised close to his head. A spear clattered into it, denting the centre, and he whimpered but held fast. We proceeded together, I leading the way to the battle’s edge, clearing our path with my sword, Melanthius crouching after me until, at last, sweating and covered with blood and sand, we reached the edge of the skirmish.

  ‘Go!’ I pushed him towards the trees some fifty paces distant, where the group of slaves could just be seen hidden within the shrouding darkness. He mouthed his thanks and ran, the shield held behind him, like a tortoise’s shell upon his back.

  Then, as I turned to move back into the fray, I felt a blinding, searing pain in my left shoulder. A blazing, shuddering scream of torment spread through me as I felt the muscle tear beneath the blade that had struck me, felt the blood spill and leak into the wool of my tunic, hot and sticky. My vision was clouding, I felt weak, dazed, apart from myself, and all I wanted was for this numbness to overtake me entirely, to separate me from the pain and from the body, which was tearing itself apart in agony. Time seemed to slow as I gazed down and, as if through a mist, saw the long, slim shaft sticking from my body and the white-feathered fletching upon the end.

  ‘Ah,’ I said. ‘It was an arrow, after all.’

  And then I collapsed to the ground.

  ‘Telamon. Telamon.’

  Someone was calling my name and slapping my face, cold fingers striking against my cheeks. But it was not my name, was it? Why should I answer them?

  ‘Leave me be. Leave me!’

  ‘Atalanta.’ A softer voice, higher. And they had said my real name.

  My eyes fluttered open.

  Myrtessa came into focus, standing above me, her silhouette framed by the light of a lamp that was sputtering beside her, throwing shadows against the canvas of a tent. The features of her face were blurred in the dreary fog of lifting unconsciousness, but I could see her outline, the linen tunic she was wearing and her wide, frightened eyes.

  I tried to sit up and an agonizing red-hot pain arrowed through my left shoulder. I put my hand to it and felt rough linen bandages there, smelt poppy extract, saffron and bitter rose root. The pain was so strong that I wanted to cry out with it, but I bit my lip, feeling the corners of my eyes burn. ‘What happened?’

  ‘You were hit by an arrow,’ Myrtessa said. Her face was clearer now and I could see the tear-tracks running down her cheeks, her cut lip. She was trembling from head to foot. ‘You were unconscious for hours, and I thought … I thought perhaps …’

  I pushed myself onto one elbow, feeling sand shift beneath me, then looked at the small tent erected around us, draped over two oars buried in the sand and weighted at the edges with several large pebbles. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘We moved downriver after the battle. The Colchians fled,’ Myrtessa said, and as she spoke she seemed to come to herself a little more, ‘after it became clear that they were unable to hold; but it was too dangerous to stay so close to the city when they might send more raiders. We beached the ship here, in a cove. The other slaves and I made tents for the wounded from the old sail of the Argo.’

  ‘And Meleager, Hippomenes, Melanthius, Phorbas?’

  ‘Shaken, but alive.’

  ‘Cedalion? Peleus?’

  ‘Both wounded. Phorbas is attending to them now.’

  I hesitated before asking the most important question of all. ‘And did we – did we lose any?’

  Myrtessa swallowed. ‘We – we lost Castor,’ she said in a small voice.

  A chilling wave of grief crashed over me for Pollux, his brother and his twin, who had been closer to Castor than any brother I had ever seen. ‘How is Pollux taking it?’

  ‘Not well. But he will come to terms with it. And they will see each other again in the Underworld. They have a young sister at home, too, in Sparta – did you know that?’

  I shook my head, then felt a shooting pain down my arm and stopped.

  ‘Helen,’ she said, ‘that is her name, Pollux told me. And now Castor will never see her again.’

  There was a long, grave silence between us. I leant back, and the pain in my shoulder ebbed a little. I glanced down, saw the bandage there, strips of linen tied and knotted over the ruptured skin. ‘Did you …’

  She nodded. ‘I made sure to do it myself, and only here. No on
e saw anything. They do not know.’

  I let out a breath. ‘There is that, at least, then.’ I closed my eyes.

  ‘Shall I leave you?’

  I nodded as much as I could without pain. ‘I should probably get some rest.’ I reached out to her and took her hand. ‘My thanks to you, Myrtessa.’

  She squeezed my hand and stood up. ‘You would have done the same for me. Sleep well, soldier,’ she said, with a faint, tear-stained smile, drew aside the canvas at the front of the makeshift tent and left, footsteps fading away over the sand.

  It was some time later that I woke – when, I was not sure, but the lamps in the tent around me had gone out and it was dark. My shoulder was aching – no longer burning with pain as it had earlier, though when I moved it was bitterly uncomfortable. Perhaps it had been that which woke me.

  I heard footsteps approaching. I tried to sit up, pushing myself up on one elbow.

  ‘Myrtessa?’

  A voice laughed. ‘Who were you expecting? A lady friend, Telamon?’

  A flint was struck close to the entrance to the tent, and an oil-lamp lit. Meleager was standing there, his face shadowed in the dim light, dark red grazes from the day’s battle struck across his left cheek, his shoulder blackened with old blood.

  ‘Meleager!’ I gasped. ‘Why – why are you here?’

  He moved towards me, footsteps soft, and knelt down beside me. ‘You ask why I am here …’ He reached out a hand and ran his fingers through my hair, then suddenly gripped it and tugged so that I was pulled towards him, inhaling sharply with pain. ‘I thought you had died,’ he said, his voice very low, and now that I was close to him I could smell the fusty scent of rich wine on his breath.

  ‘You have drunk too much,’ I said, knocking his hand away and struggling to sit fully, pushing myself a little distance away from him but, still, I did not send him away.

  ‘You are the most beddable boy I have ever seen, Telamon,’ he said.

  I started, felt the pulse begin to race in my veins.

  I let the silence lengthen. ‘You should not talk to me so,’ I said at last, trying to keep my voice even. ‘I accepted your gift, my lord, and I am grateful for your affection, but that is all. That is all there can ever be …’