by Emily Hauser
I looked directly into our host’s eyes, my heart beating rather fast. ‘We are here to ask you of the fabled Golden Fleece, in the hope that someone may know where it is kept and how to win it. I do not,’ I said quickly, seeing the shift in her expression, ‘seek the Fleece for the riches that it brings, but to save my home and my people from a most cruel ruler, foretold as it is in prophecy.’
The old woman stood and lifted a poker from beside the fire, then rustled it in the ashes.
‘My name,’ she said at last, ‘is Dedali.’ She looked aside at me, her dark eyes glowing like coals, the blue edging of her tunic glimmering. ‘I am the priestess of this village, and I travelled to the oracle at Delphi where I learnt to speak your language. And I advise you not to seek the Fleece.’
‘So you know of it? You know of the Fleece?’ I leant forwards, heart leaping.
The old woman surveyed me through heavy-lidded eyes. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know of the Fleece. Indeed, it is so well guarded, so impossible to reach, that King Aeëtes cares not if all of Colchis knows where it is kept. You cannot know how many lords and princes have come to this land, each dreaming of capturing the Fleece. And each has been killed by the king’s guards, their armour stripped from their bodies and taken to the king’s treasury, their corpses left as carrion for the birds.’
I opened my mouth to speak, but she said, ‘You must understand me.’ Her voice was serious, her expression grave, and as she spoke, with the twisting, curling smoke of the fire rising between us and the polished wooden beads at her ears shining in the soft light, it was as if her words were conjuring the very scene before my eyes. ‘This is no mere tale. I have seen them, for as a priestess of Arinniti I am bidden to the temple of Zayu for the holy feasts each year. Corpses lining the valley, skeletons where the bones shine white in the summer heat and ravens circle overhead. This is the fate of all who attempt to steal the Fleece.’ She eyed me. ‘And if kings with battle-hardened armies have failed, how will you, a young girl with no armour, succeed?’
There is truth in what she says. I shuddered at the thought of the valley of death she had described. But I pressed on. ‘I can only try, can I not?’ I said, with an attempt at a smile. ‘And I swear to you, I seek the Fleece only to protect my home. Surely that makes me different from the others who sought it only for their greed.’
She let out a breath, eyeing me beadily. In the silence the fire sputtered and the child shifted on Myrtessa’s lap.
Time passed, but I held her gaze, hardly daring to breathe, willing her to tell me what she knew.
‘Very well,’ she said at last, throwing up her hands, making the beads at her ears rattle. ‘The goddess knows I do not wish to see you killed like the rest, yet there is a god-given determination in you that I think will never let you rest till you recover the kingdom of which you speak.’
I bowed my head, and Myrtessa at my feet laughed and glanced up towards me, bouncing the little boy up and down upon her knees. ‘That is true enough, is it not, Atalanta?’
The child giggled and clapped his hands. Dedali frowned as she plucked at her tunic and settled herself on a stool beside me. ‘Well,’ she said, her brows contracting again. ‘What is it you would know?’
‘Where to find the Fleece, and how best to journey there from here,’ I said at once. ‘And how it is guarded,’ I added, ‘if you are able to tell me.’
The old woman closed her eyes. ‘The Fleece,’ she said, and opened them with a sigh, as if she had told this story too many times with too much loss, ‘is the sacred golden covering of the holy image of Zayu in the form of a ram, woven from ten thousand threads of gold, and of a worth that exceeds all the king’s treasury and more. It is kept in the most sacred temple of Zayu, within the valley of a tributary of the Phasis river, a day’s journey on horseback from here, hidden between the steepest cliffs. The passage to the temple from the Phasis’ banks must be made on foot, for the way is too steep for a horse to traverse. Each year the priests of this land travel far and wide to the sanctuary to worship the gods, yet even I have not seen the Fleece, for it is kept in the innermost sanctuary of Zayu’s temple, ringed by a hundred guards armed with swords and spears – the best in the land – and five hundred archers lie posted along the pass, hidden upon the crags above the temple where they may strike down within moments an intruder with their darts.’ She leant forwards and placed a hand over mine. ‘Go home,’ she said softly. ‘Leave the Fleece to others. You are too young to die.’
‘Who says that I shall die?’
She gazed a while into my stubborn face. Then, to my surprise, she chuckled. ‘Ah, the spirit of Atimite indeed runs strong in you,’ she said. After a moment, she pressed her hands upon her knees and pushed herself to stand with a small groan. The younger woman ran towards her to help, but she shooed her away.
‘Come,’ she said, and she plucked a torch from the wall and lit it in the hearth, then led me to the front door and out towards the rear of the house. She disappeared around the back, towards a lean-to shed, and I made to follow her, when—
‘Wait – Atalanta!’
It was Myrtessa. She hung at the corner of the hut, fingers scraping the rough walls, her feet crunching on the leaves scattered around the path.
‘Think of what you are doing! Hippomenes said he would kill you if he ever saw you again! Can we not … can we not stay here, at least for a while? What do you owe to Pagasae and Kaladrosos?’
I gazed at her, watching the shadows from the fire within play across her features. ‘Nothing,’ I said, raising my eyebrows, ‘except the lives of the family I love, and the freedom of all their people.’
Myrtessa paused, and I saw her expression shift. ‘I – I wish to stay.’
The words hung on the cool night air. I stared at her. ‘You wish to stay?’ I repeated. ‘Here?’
She shrugged one shoulder and walked towards me, taking my hand. ‘This is your journey, Atalanta,’ she said gently. ‘Mine finishes here – I can feel it.’
She inclined her head, unwilling to meet my eye. ‘Dedali said, when she whispered to me, that the goddess had told her I should remain. She asked me if I would be willing to serve the goddess as an initiate. And I have accepted.’
Her cheeks were still glowing from the fire’s heat, and I sensed the determination in her, accompanied by a calm I had not noticed before. I knew suddenly, as she did, that she was meant to stay here, and that she would be happy.
‘I do not wish to leave you alone,’ she said, her words tumbling over one another, ‘but in Pagasae I am not … Here, I can …’ She gestured towards the brand upon her wrist, wordless. ‘I am not a slave here,’ she finished. ‘I hope you can understand.’
I nodded. The memory of Myrtessa, dark-eyed, laughing and wilful, pulling me from the crowd in Pagasae those many months ago, rose to my mind, and I swallowed, wanting to tell her not to stay, to come with me … ‘I shall miss you,’ I said, a lump rising in my throat as I blinked the tears from my eyes. ‘My dear friend.’
‘I shall miss you too, Atalanta,’ she said. She enveloped me in her arms and embraced me tightly.
Dedali appeared again around the corner of the house. ‘Daughter of Iasus?’
We broke apart.
‘May the gods be with you, Atalanta,’ Myrtessa said softly. ‘I shall pray for your safe return to Pagasae.’
I nodded, unable to speak, squeezed her hand, then turned away, my eyes blurred with tears, towards the bright halo of light that surrounded Dedali’s torch. I glanced over my shoulder as we turned the corner to the back of the house, but Myrtessa was already gone.
Dedali led me, ducking, into a covered shed whose roof leant against the back of the main dwelling, where two high-necked horses were stabled. I shook my head to clear my eyes of tears, trying to ignore the hollowness in my chest and the dryness in my throat, and instead took a deep, steadying breath, inhaling the scent of warm hay – trying not to think of Myrtessa, settling down to start her new
life within Dedali’s hut.
You have to think of Pagasae and Kaladrosos, I reminded myself. Think of Neda, Philoetius and Lycon – think of your family. Remember the justice Jason dealt to the slave you saw upon the street, and to Phorbas. You must remember them, too.
And Myrtessa will be happy here.
‘He is yours,’ Dedali said, recalling me to the here and now, clicking her tongue to one of the two horses who stood before me, a fine chestnut that was stamping his hoofs and snorting in the night air. A simple woven rug and a leather bridle hung on a wooden peg upon the wall. ‘But I would advise you to stay the night with us and leave for the pass at dawn. These forests are treacherous at night and the riding is rough.’
I turned to her, and the question was out of my lips before I had even thought it. ‘Why are you helping me?’ I asked. ‘I mean,’ I struggled to correct myself, ‘you advised me against going after the Fleece. Why, now, are you assisting me?’
She smiled, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes creasing. ‘Perhaps it is because I see the spirit of the gods in you, or perhaps Arinniti herself is watching over you.’ She raised one hand to the darkened sky. ‘Who can tell the ways of the divine beings who live upon the Kaukasos peaks? But I ask you again: will you not stay the night?’
I shook my head and held out my hand to take hers, feeling a deep rush of gratitude to the stranger who had given my cherished friend a home, and who was aiding me now.
‘I am indebted to you for your kindness, Dedali,’ I said, and I meant it. I would be sad to leave this warm sanctuary upon the mountain slopes. ‘And I pray the gods I may one day be able to return the favours you have done me. But I must leave now. I have not a moment to lose.’
An image swam into my mind of Jason and his crew sailing up the Phasis, storming the city of Colchis and demanding the location of the Fleece, rowing swiftly down the river towards the valley, oars dipping and pulling, perhaps even at this very moment …
I felt my pulse rise, and Dedali must have seen the colour in my cheeks because she smiled a little. I took the rug from her and threw it over the horse’s back, then vaulted up into the seat and pulled up my tunic to sit above my trousers, securing my quiver upon my back. Dedali fixed the bridle straps, then threw me the reins, and I pulled my steed around to face the slopes of the mountain falling away towards the village below, its few dwellings lit with flickering torches, then into darkness. ‘Which way to the valley of which you spoke?’
‘Ride until you reach the river,’ Dedali said, pointing down towards the plain, which was lit in silvers and greys by the bright-shining moon and the stars scattering the heavens, like the sun’s rays glinting upon water. ‘Then follow it east by the stars, until you find the tributary that runs from the north through a deep gorge edged with steep rocks at either side. Dismount there and follow the smaller river on foot. You will find the sanctuary beyond. Then only the gods can help you.’
‘And what of the horse? How may I return him to you?’
She waved away the question. ‘He will know his way back.’
I pulled on my steed’s reins, wincing a little as the wound on my left shoulder strained, and he reared, his hoofs towering to the night sky.
‘My thanks to you, Dedali,’ I called to her. It felt glorious to be upon a horse again, for all the dull pain from my wound, and I kicked him forwards, longing to feel the wind through my hair, to gallop as hard and fast as I could. I began to race down the path towards the village, the clear beams of the moon edging the branches and trunks of the trees in silver. ‘May the gods repay you for your kindness to me this night.’
And Lady Artemis, I muttered a prayer, turning my eyes to the heavens, lady of the moon and the hunt, light my way.
I dug my heels in harder, mud flying from the horse’s hoofs. The trees flashed past as I galloped down the mountainside, focused on one thought and one thought alone: Get to the pass before Jason.
Poseidon Awakes
Mount Olympus
It has been nearly eighty days since Poseidon, god of the sea, and Hermes, god of thieving, fell asleep upon the floor in the Library of the Muses. Eighty days of perfect weather, Iris thinks, as she riffles through the pile of scrolls on the shelf before her. Eighty days of halcyon seas and clear blue skies. Eighty days of cloudless views upon the jewel-bright islands dotting the ocean, and the tiny ships with their fluttering white sails cruising in and out of port. She gives a little inward sigh, and searches on.
The night sky is dark as ink, visible through the open colonnade that faces one wall of the Hall of the Fates. Around the figure of Iris, bent forwards slightly as she pulls down, unfurls and reads one scroll after another, the Muses are walking to and fro holding lamps, some collecting scrolls of papyrus from the nightingales who have flown here from the caverns of the Fates in the Underworld, others copying them, their reed brushes swishing gently in the silence.
Iris glances up from her search to look at Poseidon and Hermes, who are still slumped face forward upon the marble floor in the corner. She has been sent here on Hera’s orders, of course, commanded to be there when the two gods awake, to make sure the situation does not get out of hand.
But that does not mean she cannot do a little searching of her own.
And there is something in particular that Iris is looking for tonight. That she has been looking for, in fact, for quite some time.
It takes a little while for Poseidon to wake, then a little longer for him to realize where he is. Iris can almost see the dawning comprehension on his face as he looks around him, sees the stirring figure of Hermes prone at his side, and the events of a few months before slowly come back to him: how Alcimede, Jason’s mother, chose Zeus instead of him; how he tried to destroy her son’s ship in a storm; how, when he failed, he came to the Library of the Muses, searching for Jason’s fate; how meddlesome Hera and her irritating messenger had found him there and—
Poseidon’s head snaps up.
‘Worked it out at last, have you?’ Iris asks him, stepping out of the shadows.
Poseidon almost knocks over the inlaid wooden chair set at the desk beside him as he leaps to his feet, and Hermes starts up at the noise, eyes wide, looking left and right.
‘You!’ Poseidon splutters. He picks up the goblet from the table and sniffs it, then throws it away. It clatters over the floor, bumping into the ankles of one of the Muses who picks it up and replaces it on a nearby table with a disapproving look. ‘Waters of the Styx! I knew it! How long—’
Iris folds her arms. ‘Nearly eighty days.’
‘Eighty!’ Poseidon’s chest is heaving, his face turning a deep red. ‘And Jason?’
‘Arrived in Colchis.’
Poseidon gives a roar of rage, like the rumbling of thunder over the sea in a storm. ‘You—’ He starts forwards as if to pick Iris off the floor by her robes and slam her against one of the shelves of scrolls, but she darts to one side. Hermes scrambles to his feet as Poseidon, purple now with rage, balls his fist and punches at Iris, who ducks. His knuckles meet instead with a shelf of papyrus rolls, which totters gently and then, with a resounding crash, slides to the floor, sending scraps of mortal fates spilling out over the shiny marble. Poseidon swears and turns back to Iris, his palm raised, roaring with anger …
And across the ocean, from the furthest islands of the Hesperides all the way to where the shores of the Black Sea turn towards the north and the river Phasis pours its waters into the ocean, the still, calm surface of the sea begins to roil, surging and seething, though there is no breath of wind upon the air. Clouds – thick, dark storm clouds – roll across the land of Colchis and cast it in shadow, making the goatherds look up to the skies and mutter a prayer before they turn back towards their homes, driving their anxious flocks before them, the birds twittering from the tops of the pines. A rumble of thunder breaks over the sea, and then the wind begins to blow: a westerly wind, the Zephyr that drives ships away from Greece to the very ends of the earth; not a
springtime breeze, which rustles blades of grass beneath the feet of nymphs, but a howling, blistering gale, a roaring scream of wind that breaks the firs upon the mountains, sending them crashing to the forest floor, and whips the surface of the ocean into a furious swell that pounds the rocky shores of Colchis with foaming spray.
Heavy clouds of rain billow down the mountain slopes, turning the sky dark as night, as Atalanta pushes her steed on through the dense forests, though her trousers are sticking to her skin and her fingers are slipping on the reins.
The Argonauts, stumbling back towards their ship, bow their heads against the water pouring from the skies and hug their arms around their soaking robes, slipping over rocks, wading through mountain streams, which have turned from dried-out creeks to torrents of foaming water, as lightning splits the sky overhead.
And Jason wonders what he has done to earn the enmity of the gods.
Not long after, Iris is to be found in Hera’s lamplit bedchamber, the stars glittering down through the opening in the roof, following Hera with her eyes as she paces up and down the marble floors.
‘The gods have taken their sides,’ Iris announces, as her mistress rounds a corner and paces furiously back across the room. ‘There is nothing we can do about it now. Zeus,’ she says, and ticks the names off on her fingers, ‘for Atalanta—’
Hera rounds on her. ‘He promised me he would cease to interfere.’
Iris raises her eyebrows. ‘And you trust him to keep that promise?’
Hera says nothing.
‘You,’ Iris continues, as Hera begins to pace once more, ‘for Jason.’ She holds up a finger on the other hand. ‘And against Jason, Poseidon.’
‘It is not Poseidon I care about!’ Hera explodes at last. ‘It is Jason, and his retrieval of the Fleece. And at the moment,’ she looks down through the roiling grey clouds towards Colchis and glowers as darkly as the storm clouds, ‘he and his Argonauts are in danger of being drowned before they even reach the sanctuary of Zeus.’