For the Winner

by Emily Hauser

  ‘Then you should do something about it,’ Iris says. ‘Part the waters, send a beautiful woman to his aid, or – or give him immortal strength.’ She shrugs. ‘The usual strategies.’

  Hera stares at her. ‘A beautiful woman,’ she says, pausing, her head to one side. ‘I like that. We haven’t done it for a while – not since Ariadne, anyway. Hmm. Perhaps we can persuade Aphrodite to send the cupids to visit the daughter of King Aeëtes, Medea …’

  She seats herself upon the bed, deep in thought. Then she rounds on her messenger, eyes narrowed. ‘If Poseidon remains angered, and the seas are rough and the winds blowing from the west, then they cannot sail, even if we help Jason retrieve the Fleece.’

  Iris bows her head. ‘That is true.’

  ‘Then how are we to return Jason to his kingdoms in Greece?’ Hera bursts out. ‘We have guided him halfway across the world, given him fair winds and calm seas, led him to the very threshold of Colchis! Are we to be stopped now by a paltry water-god and that idiot messenger of his?’

  Iris peers at her from beneath her eyelids. ‘You would do well to show Hermes some respect,’ she says softly. ‘He may be only a messenger, but he is a dangerous enemy. And at the moment, I believe, he is throwing in his lot with Zeus.’

  ‘Hermes and Zeus?’ Hera snorts. ‘What do I have to worry about from them?’

  In Zeus’ rooms on the other side of Olympus, the king of the gods is pacing up and down in a remarkable imitation of his wife, knocking aside jars filled with ambrosia and pushing over tables in his rage. Hermes is seated nearby on a stool, munching a mouthful of ambrosia with vigorous enthusiasm and sublimely unperturbed by the wreckage being created around him.

  He finishes chewing, then swallows. ‘Remind me again why you are taking such an interest in this sudden storm? I thought you didn’t care for Jason.’

  Zeus rounds upon him, blinking at Hermes. ‘I don’t!’ he says.

  ‘Ah,’ says Hermes.

  There is a pause.

  ‘In that case,’ Hermes plucks another bunch of ambrosia and pops it into his mouth, ‘I may be being very slow, but why is it that you are upending everything within your chambers with, I might add, a considerable lack of aim?’ He snatches the bowl out of Zeus’ way just in time to save it from tumbling to the floor along with everything else. ‘Just out of curiosity …’

  Zeus begins pacing again, muttering, ‘Atalanta was supposed to outride Jason and the Argonauts to the pass, but with this blasted sea-storm turning all the rivers of Colchis to torrents and blocking the way into the gorge …’

  Hermes is considering the king of the gods with mild interest, his hand suspended over the bowl. ‘Atalanta? The girl from Pagasae? But I thought you promised Hera you would stop interfering in her cause – that, if I remember your words correctly, she would not get her kingdom?’

  ‘Well, I lied, didn’t I?’ says Zeus, shortly.

  ‘Ah,’ Hermes says, a smile half forming upon his lips. ‘That’s interesting.’

  Back in her chambers, the wife of Zeus is still railing against Poseidon. Iris leans against Hera’s carved side table, absently tracing the grain of the wood with her fingertip, her mind also, like the king of the gods, on Atalanta and her return to Greece.

  ‘… and then we won’t have a chance upon the throne,’ Hera finishes.

  Iris looks up. She hasn’t been listening for half an hour at least, but the wonderful thing about being Hera’s messenger is that Hera rarely requires a reply: her disdain of her message-bearer’s station prevents her giving any real weight to Iris’s words.

  Which gives Iris, cunning and resourceful as she is, plenty of time to form her own plans.

  Now she straightens, plucks her golden apple from a fold in her robes and tosses it to the ceiling, then catches it deftly with one hand. She holds it up to the flickering light of the bronze oil-lamps so that the flames reflect from the surface, like a thousand dazzling stars. ‘What if we distract them?’

  Hera rounds on Iris. ‘Distract them? How? And who’s “them”?’

  Iris takes the stalk of the apple between two fingers and twirls it around with her other hand, like a child playing with a top. ‘Poseidon,’ she says, spinning the apple. ‘And Zeus. The two who are most likely to get in our way. And in the meantime I,’ she gestures towards herself, ‘can send Aphrodite’s cupids to Medea, make her fall in love with Jason, and …’ she gives the apple another twirl ‘… she will help him recover the Fleece. Think about it! That way no one will know what you’re doing. You won’t have to raise a finger to help Jason – Medea will do it all for you. And,’ she glimmers a smile at Hera, ‘best of all, you can keep the two of them busy so that the seas are clear for Jason’s return.’

  Hera’s eyes are following the flashing apple. ‘How will you do it?’ she asks, her eyes narrowing.

  ‘All we have to do is find the gods’ greatest weakness and exploit it,’ Iris says. ‘And, luckily, the greatest weakness of the gods is so clear that even Tiresias, the blind prophet, would be able to see it.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  Iris shrugs. ‘Vanity.’

  Hera’s eyes narrow further, so that they are slits in her face. ‘Be careful whom you insult, Iris. There are other goddesses I could choose to be my messenger.’

  ‘Very well. Have another run your errands. But there is no other way to stop Zeus and Poseidon than this.’

  Hera considers her for a moment, her face filled with suspicion, as if she would discover whether Iris is telling the truth or merely bluffing. At last she says, in a voice stiff with disdain, ‘What is it you would suggest?’

  Iris tosses the apple into the air. It spins through the dim room and, as if by instinct, Hera stretches out her hands to catch it. She clutches it to her chest, then holds it up, watching the lamplight sparkle off its golden skin. ‘Set up a contest,’ Iris says. ‘Announce a contest between you, Poseidon and Zeus, with the apple as a prize. The greatest god wins.’ She grins. ‘And while you three battle it out, I will fly over to Aphrodite and persuade her to give the king’s daughter Medea a little puncture wound.’

  Hera’s eyes snap as she stares at the golden apple. When she speaks her voice is sharp, accusing. ‘Where did you get this from?’ She gestures towards the apple with a flick of her eyes.

  ‘A gift,’ Iris says. ‘From—’

  ‘The Muses.’ Hera completes the sentence for her. ‘Yes. I thought as much.’

  The two goddesses exchange a look, Hera’s dark eyes wary, darting, Iris’s expression calm. The silence stretches between them.

  ‘It is something I treasure,’ Iris says, and she spreads her hands, ‘but I am willing to give it up on your behalf, my lady.’

  Hera is silent. Then: ‘I suppose there is something to it,’ she says at last. Iris feels a quiet surge of triumph: she has Hera in the palms of her hands, trapped between her ambition and her pride. ‘I distract Zeus and Poseidon with the contest for the apple and, in the meantime, you and Aphrodite can set Medea to help Jason with the Fleece … Yes … Wait – what are you doing?’

  Iris has picked up an ivory-headed hairpin from Hera’s dressing-table. Bending forwards, she sticks it into the apple’s skin and inscribes upon it two words: TΩI NIKΩNTI.

  ‘For the Winner,’ she says, holding it up to the light to examine it. She shoots a smile towards Hera. ‘I think that will pique their interest – don’t you?’

  PART III

  ANATOLIA

  1260 BC

  … and Kytoros was theirs; they dwelt around Sesamos and built their beautiful homes near the river Parthenios, Kromna, Aigialos, and steep Erythinoi.

  Homer

  Defeat

  Colchis

  The Hour of Daybreak

  The Thirteenth Day of the Month of the Grape Harvest

  Rain was lashing my face, my cheeks, dripping from my soaking hair and pouring down the back of my neck: a sudden storm that had broken without warning. I had paused o
nce to unstring my bow, looping the twisted ox-gut, wrapping it in an oiled cloth and pushing it into the quiver along with the linen strips, wool cloths and dagger I always carried, then fastening it shut to keep it dry. Apart from that I had not stopped. I was cold to my very bones, exhausted to the point of agony, my joints sore and my thighs rubbed raw against the horse’s wet sides. My boots were sodden and filled with water. It was impossible to say if day had yet broken, though I thought, as I squinted through the pouring water, that there seemed to be some slight definition now to the black outlines of the trees around me that there had not been before, and perhaps a pale rim of yellow light just framing the silhouettes of the mountains.

  I narrowed my eyes, thinking balefully of Myrtessa, sheltered and dry in Dedali’s hut. Through the dark storm clouds that surrounded me, I could just make out the bends of the river Phasis in the valley below, its waters churning over the rocks, swollen and black as the sky above. I dug my heels into my horse’s sides, pushing my hair from my face, blinking the water out of my eyelashes. A flash of lightning arrowed down from the sky, flooding the valley with light, and as the drum roll of thunder rumbled across the earth, I saw it at last, through a clearing in the trees: a deep, narrow gorge lined with rocks, half hidden by a cluster of overgrown trees, through which a churning stream was gushing out into the Phasis.

  ‘There!’ I shouted, though there was no one to hear me. ‘Down there!’ I leant forwards and pushed, harder and faster, down the drenched slopes of the mountain, the horse’s hoofs sliding over the soaked leaves, my eyes half closed against the driving rain. And now the trees were clearing and I was out into the valley, flying across the sodden ground. The pass, as Dedali had said, lay on the opposite side of the seething river, and as I galloped closer to the bank it became clear that any fording place there might have been had been swept away by the vicious storms squalling in from the ocean.

  I wheeled my horse around at the bank, his hoofs stamping the drenched earth, looking across at the foaming waters and jagged rocks.

  There was only one way.

  He seemed to sense what I wanted to do. Rearing onto his hind legs he came down, hard, the rug slipping on his wet back so that I had to clutch at his mane to keep my seat, then leapt straight into the frothing waters, plunging first legs and then body into the deep water. Fresh and cold as an icy winter’s day, it closed around my waist, so turbulent that it knocked the breath from my lungs. Quick as I could I slipped the quiver from my shoulders and held it above my head to save it from being soaked. The horse was holding his muzzle above the water, kicking and struggling against the current, and I knotted his mane around my other hand and gripped harder than ever with my thighs so that the muscles screamed with pain. The waters were swirling around us, pulling and tugging, and now we were in the very centre of the current, waves rolling over waves and crashing against the rocks with bursts of white spray. I felt the knife-sharp edges of a rock scrape past me and a burst of pain in my knee but I could not think about that: I could think only of going on. And then, at last, the waters were growing shallower, warmer, and the tug of the current, though still strong, was easier on my legs. I was lifted bodily out of the river, water streaming down my shoulders and sides, as we reached the shallows. The horse splashed across the pebbles, then climbed up onto the muddy, soft banks, shaking his head and sending spray slicing through the downpour.

  I shook the water from my hair, feeling relief flood through me that we had made it to the other side and not been swept away, trying to ignore the chattering of my teeth and the trousers sticking to my thighs. It was certainly growing lighter now: I could see the leaves upon the trees, loaded with raindrops, and the rounded stones that lined the river’s edge.

  ‘Hah!’ I kicked the horse forwards and rode ahead towards the pass, my heart thumping, one hand still holding my quiver and the other on the reins as we galloped. I was two hundred paces from the entrance to the pass … one hundred … fifty …

  And then I heard a piercing, whinnying shriek that cut through the lashing rain and the rumbling thunder of the storm. Another rider! I froze with fear, but even as my numbed thoughts turned towards my bow my horse let out a cry of alarm and bucked in terror, then reared to the sky.

  ‘No! No – no, no—’ I clung to the reins but they slithered through my fingers, clutched at his mane, but the rug was slipping beneath me on his wet back and I had nothing to hold onto. With a desperate cry I fell, still searching for a grip, and was tossed onto my side in the thick, wet mud, my bow clattering as it fell out of the quiver upon the ground. At once I pushed myself to my feet, splattered with muck and drenched, bent to pick up my bow and fumbled in my quiver for my dagger.

  ‘Tel—Atalanta!’

  I heard the sound of two boots dropping to the ground a few paces away, though I could see nothing further than the tip of my dagger.

  I turned, blade pointed straight ahead, fingers shaking. There was something familiar about that voice – and it was speaking Greek. Who could know my name?

  ‘Who are you?’ I demanded.

  No reply.

  ‘Who are you?’ I repeated, into the pounding rain, keeping my arm tensed.

  And then a figure appeared out of the mist and rain beside me, broad-shouldered, looming out of the darkness. I almost dropped my dagger in shock and gasped aloud, water pouring down my face. ‘Hippomenes?’

  He was gasping too and soaking wet, his hair plastered to his head, his face and arms shining with rain, the tunic and cloak sticking tight to his large frame.

  ‘Are you alone?’ I shouted, keeping the blade pointed directly at his forehead. He nodded. ‘Armed?’ He gestured to the sword hanging at his waist then showed his hands, which held the reins of both our horses.

  ‘I mean you no harm,’ he bellowed, through the storm. ‘Let us – seek shelter – before we talk more.’

  I hesitated, still wary.

  ‘You first,’ I called, and followed him, keeping my weapon raised, along the edge of the Phasis and up to a small copse at the base of the mountain slopes that offered some shelter from the pouring rain.

  Hippomenes tied up the horses to the trunk of a nearby fir, then turned to me. He raised his eyebrows at the sharp knife still pointing between his eyes, then unsheathed his sword and tossed it to the ground. ‘There. I am unarmed. Will you lower your dagger now?’

  Very slowly, keeping my hand still tight upon the hilt, I let it fall a little. ‘Why are you here?’ I asked. ‘What happened to Jason and the other Argonauts?’ I doubled my grip on my weapon. ‘Where is the Fleece?’

  As I looked into his eyes the memory came back to me of the last time I had seen him, begging for my life upon the shore of the Phasis river. My voice broke a little as I said, ‘Why should I even trust you?’

  He held up a hand. ‘We have not much time,’ he said. ‘I will tell you all I know, and then you can decide whether to trust me or not. Is that fair?’

  I weighed him up, and his brown eyes stared frankly back into mine. ‘I would not trust a man who had sent me to exile without a chance to explain myself either,’ he said, his voice low. ‘But I ask you, please – trust me now.’

  ‘Very well,’ I said, though I did not lower my blade any further. ‘Go on.’

  He began to pace. ‘Jason has the Fleece,’ he said, ignoring my barely suppressed intake of breath. ‘He stole it, with the help of Medea, princess of the Colchians. She led us to the sanctuary along a hidden path from the other side of the pass two nights ago, left us outside and went in with Jason alone. They came out together with the Fleece. Jason is even now riding with the others as fast as he can, back towards the Argo, which we left at the bay we fled to after the battle.’

  He turned to me. ‘When I thought of returning to Greece without you … My acquiescence to Jason’s sentence dishonoured me. Leaving you behind … I have been imagining you wandering through the forests, hunting deer and sleeping upon the hard earth, wondering where you were, if you
were still alive … I swear to you, I have come to regret deeply the punishment we gave you. To exile you from Greece …’ he pushed the hair back from his forehead ‘… it is worse than death, and you, with your courage, your determination …’ He looked away from me. He was having difficulty expressing himself. ‘You deserved no such thing. I have been waiting for you here for many hours, as long as I dared.’ A smile was just visible at the corners of his lips. ‘I thought that, knowing you, you might find your way to the pass – to the Fleece. And you came.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘It is a lot to ask of you, I know, but,’ he placed a hand upon the bridle of my horse, ‘if we are to overtake Jason and board the Argo back to Greece, we have not a moment to lose. Will you trust me? I vouch,’ he said, bowing his head, ‘for your safety among the Argonauts. They will not harm you if I promise to protect you.’

  He gestured towards me, holding out the reins, his eyes upon mine. ‘Ride with me, Atalanta.’

  I looked up at the sound of my name as the rain hissed down upon the leaves above us and the river tumbled out upon the plain beyond.

  But then I remembered what I had come for, and what I was set to lose.

  What, perhaps, I had already lost.

  ‘Why,’ I said at last, my voice shaking with emotion, ‘would I return to the Argo after all they have done to me? When your leader threatened to kill me, and beat me with his own hands when I attempted to protect a slave? When one of your number tried, brutally and cruelly, to take me by force? When he betrayed me, then brought me and my friend before all of you to see us insulted, threatened, and finally exiled as if we were worse than slaves – though you had treated me as an equal before?’

  I swallowed the bitterness in my voice. ‘I thank you for your concern for me, Hippomenes, but I have no need of your help,’ I said, biting back tears. I thrust the dagger back into my quiver and retied the straps upon the lid. ‘And now, if you please, I will have my horse.’ I snatched the reins from him; swung myself up onto the horse’s back. ‘Go!’ I shouted at my mount, and kicked him hard in the flanks, whipping at the reins.