For the Winner

by Emily Hauser

  The sail was growing larger, the ship slowly coming into view as it approached the harbour. I almost laughed aloud as I spotted the golden wings of the eagle at the prow, gleaming in the evening sun. For a moment – one wild moment – I longed to jump down and run to the shore to greet it: to see Peleus again, and Lycon, Phorbas, Laertes, Argus, all of the men I had come to see as comrades-in-arms, friends, even.

  But then I thought of Meleager, and of Jason, and my breathing steadied, my gaze focused.

  Not all of them would welcome you.

  The Argo was within the headlands of the harbour now; I could see the letters of her name upon the hull, the blades of the oars dipping in and out of the sea and swirling the water into a white froth. I checked the strap of the quiver over my shoulder and slipped to the ground, landing in silence on the dry grass beneath. I watched as the oars were drawn onto the deck of the ship, as the thrust of the last stroke carried the Argo forward, as she ploughed up onto the shore, prow first, keel cutting into the pebbles.

  Figures began to leap down into the water and lay their shoulders to the stern, pushing the ship ashore, as we had so many times when we had taken her in to land for the night.

  I took a deep breath.

  Now is the moment.

  There was a clatter as the yard was dropped from the mast and the sail furled. Slaves were calling and leaping down from the ship – some I recognized, others I did not. I could hear Jason shouting orders, his voice unmistakable even amid the noise: breastplates, shields and spears were being thrown onto the shore with a great clanking and clattering and cries of triumph from the men aboard. The traders and fishermen whose boats were tethered along the pier were gathering at the beach, welcoming the heroes home, offering them leather pouches from which I could see several figures drinking.

  I wrapped my hand around the hilt of my sword, fingers shaking.

  But just as I was preparing to step out from my hiding place, to run down and challenge Jason to a duel, I heard raised voices from the beach below, coming closer. I edged back under the canopy of the leaves, straining to hear, one hand still at my waist.

  ‘… tell Iasus?’ That was Laertes, I was sure of it.

  ‘What do you expect I shall say?’ Jason snarled back. ‘That I lost the Fleece?’

  Laertes was panting slightly as he spoke. ‘But if you tell the king it was stolen – that you retrieved it, that it was taken from you – surely that would be enough.’

  I did not hear Jason’s retort. I stood, fixed to the spot, the dappled evening light filtering through the olive leaves shimmering on my skin, my back pressed against the knotted trunk.

  He has lost the Fleece?

  A shiver ran through me. I shook my head, unable to believe what I had just heard. And then the significance of Jason’s words began to sink in.

  He cannot fulfil the prophecy!

  Heat was flooding through me now as the blood pulsed hard in my veins.

  He cannot fulfil the prophecy, I thought again, repeating it over and over. He cannot fulfil it.

  He will not become king.

  The towns of Pelion are saved.

  I could hear the indistinct sounds of Jason’s muttered curses and accusations as he strode up the path to the city, not a hundred paces from where I stood. A branch moved in the breeze, and I caught sight of him, jaw set, hair flying behind him, striding along the track and pushing his way past the pedlars and hawkers who had gathered to see the Argo’s return. I pressed myself against the tree trunk, my spine digging into the bark, keeping my whole body perfectly, absolutely still, barely even breathing, as I watched the rest of the men and their slaves, arms filled with weapons, following Jason towards the city. As the last of the slaves – Melanthius, Nestor’s steward – disappeared behind the trees, I let out a breath and closed my eyes, allowing, for the first time, a small sense of hope to suffuse me.

  Now that Jason does not have the Fleece, we are equals once more.

  My fingertips moved slowly to the medallion around my neck.

  In fact, I thought, I might even have something that he did not.

  I waited a while before following Jason and the lords back up to Pagasae: long enough to ensure I would not run into them, but not so long that entry to the city would be barred to me for the night. I untied my horse and left him grazing among the olive trees upon the shore, swung my cloak over my shoulders to cover the bow and arrows on my back, and slipped in through the gates with a couple of goose-girls bringing their flock back for the night. A tavern near the walls drew my eye, a discreet place with a small shuttered shopfront offering wine from a stone-built counter. I used the pouch with my mother’s coins – almost entirely emptied now – to pay the innkeeper, a plump man with a shiny bald head that he wiped continually with a dirty cloth. He raised his eyebrows as I handed him the money for my room and board, small eyes squinting at my patterned tunic and trousers, the gleaming sword at my waist.

  ‘And another coin,’ I said, reaching to the bottom of the purse, ‘for your silence.’

  I climbed the ladder to the chambers above, a slave following with a platter of meat, bread and wine, and emerged into a narrow corridor. I pushed open the door of the nearest chamber and gestured the slave to place the food and wine upon the table beside the low pallet bed, then thanked him as he turned and left, closing the door behind him. I slung off my bow and quiver and lay down, arms resting behind my head, gazing up at the timbered ceiling. The evening sunlight poured through the open window behind me and turned the floating dust motes to specks of gold. The floor had been scattered with bay leaves, the scent of sweat and herbs mixing upon the air, and the noise from the kitchen below mingled with the chattering of birds.

  I bit my lip, thinking. By now Jason would be at the palace. Yet what I truly needed was a change of clothes and a bath: I had not bathed properly for what seemed like weeks, and if I arrived at the palace smelling and looking like an Anatolian peasant, I would have little chance of convincing the king …

  A knot of mixed fear and excitement twisted in my belly as I thought of what would happen the next day when I told them all, at last, before the whole court, who I was. It was likely – more likely than anything, I thought, remembering how Jason had sent me to exile from the shores of Colchis merely for being a woman – that, without the Fleece, without any proof of my worth except the medallion I wore, the king would throw me from the palace and force me to return to Kaladrosos. Yet I had heard Laertes suggest to Jason that the king might accept his claim. I could not risk King Iasus choosing to make Jason king of Pagasae, though neither he nor I had the Fleece …

  I had not let myself think about what would happen if I did not win the Fleece. Indeed, the days with Hippomenes on our way from Colchis had been so filled with talk and laughter that I had thought less and less of what would happen upon our return as we rode …

  At once, I pushed Hippomenes from my mind and forced myself to face the hard truth.

  What if all this has been for nothing?

  What if the king casts me off once more, and makes Jason king?

  What then?

  I frowned. No, I thought. No. I have waited too long, risked too much, to give up now.

  All I can do is make the choice to try.

  I picked up the bell that lay upon the table beside me and rang it, as if to set the seal upon my determination. A young slave appeared at the door, his face smut-stained. I stood and reached for my money-pouch. ‘What is your name?’

  He swallowed. ‘Battus, my lady.’

  ‘Battus,’ I said, ‘I need to bathe.’ I passed him a coin. ‘A pitcher of hot water, a wash basin and some oil will do. And a man’s clothing – something fit for a noble lord, if you can find it.’ Battus’ eyes widened a little. I lifted the pouch and tipped half of what little I had left into my hand and held it out towards him, seeing his eyes widen even further as they fixed upon the glittering metal. ‘And not a word to anyone – do you understand?’

/>   The boy nodded, his eyes never leaving my hand.

  ‘My thanks to you,’ I said, and dropped the coins into his outstretched palms. ‘I want you back within the hour if you are to earn the rest.’

  Freshly washed and rubbed down with rosemary-scented oil, I felt more myself. I had cut my hair again to my shoulders and was dressed in a fine brown tunic embroidered with blue thread, a dark-blue cloak, a leather girdle and new sandals – the best my money could buy, Battus had assured me. Night had fallen in earnest by this time, and a clay oil-lamp was burning merrily on my table, casting leaping shadows over the wooden walls. Battus had brought back news from the marketplace that the king was planning to summon a council of the lords the following day to welcome Jason on his return.

  ‘Will that be all?’ he asked, at the door. I noticed his eyes lingering upon my tunic, the bow, quiver and sword lying on the floor, his face an unspoken question.

  I nodded and bent to reach into my quiver, producing one of the Anatolian hunting knives from the journey. I passed it to him. He took it with both hands, staring at the bronze and the intricate scenes inlaid upon the blade. ‘For your services to me this night. Who knows? It may even purchase you your freedom.’ I smiled a little, thinking of Myrtessa. ‘But remember,’ I said, my tone suddenly serious, and I laid a hand upon his arm, ‘not a word to anyone.’

  He was turning the knife over and over in his hands. ‘I – I – my thanks to you, my—’ he stammered, then stopped in confusion, unsure what to call me.

  ‘You may call me Atalanta,’ I said, with a smile.

  He grinned, then edged out of the door, holding the knife in both hands as if it were made of the finest ivory.

  I lay back upon the pallet, listening to the creaking of the floorboards as he crossed the corridor, then the fading sound of his footsteps down the ladder to the level below. I blew out the lamp and stared up into the darkness, hearing the grunts and snores of the other inhabitants of the tavern. It was not until the birds were singing in the cypress trees behind the inn, and the walls of my chamber were coloured pale pink and gold with the light of the rising sun that, at last, I drifted into a dream-filled sleep.

  Iris’s Last Message

  Mount Olympus

  Day is breaking upon Earth, and to the east of Mount Olympus, Dawn is spreading her rosy fingers over the horizon, inching her pink-tinged visage into the sky. The view from the spacious arena of the gods’ council upon the mountain top is spectacular. Beneath, the gentle hills and valleys of Olympus’ slopes lead down towards the villages and towns of the mainland – Meliboea, Iolcos, Pagasae, Onchestos – still shrouded in darkness nestled upon their hilltops. In the distance, the sea, swathed in mist now, reflects the rays of the sun in a rainbow of colours. Above, the deep-blue arch of the sky is lit by the fading white curve of the moon and the fiery pinpoint of the Morning Star, while, closer to earth, the constellations of black swallows spiral in and out of the tips of Olympus’ pines, tinged golden by the light of morning.

  Iris makes her way light-footed from the Library of the Muses, her robes rippling behind her in hues of pale pink, green and blue, a papyrus scroll held loosely in her hand. The fountains of the many gardens of Olympus tinkle softly into the silence of dawn, and the dew on the grass beneath her feet is cool. She smiles a little, and walks on, quickening her pace.

  As she reaches the council, with its empty ranks of thrones facing the gap in the clouds that opens to Earth, she spies Hera and Zeus sitting side by side upon their thrones as she knew they would be, leaning forwards, gazing down through the gap in the clouds towards the light-tinted ramparts of the city of Pagasae. They are waiting, she knows. They are waiting for the day to begin – waiting to see who has won this contest for the throne of Pagasae, so many months in the making: Hera’s contender, the handsome prince of Iolcos, or Zeus’ rival, the unwanted daughter of the king. Even as Iris sweeps into the council area and past the rows of vacant thrones placed in serried ranks upon the clouds, she sees, through the pool of clear blue sky ahead, the crowning walls of the city of Pagasae, the columned outbuildings of the palace fringed with oaks, and the small dark tavern by the gates where Atalanta sleeps …

  Iris gives a cough, and Zeus looks around. ‘Ah,’ he says, and rubs his hands. ‘Daughter of Thaumas. Have you come to summon us to our breakfast?’

  Iris grits her teeth at the insult and seats herself beside Zeus. ‘I must talk with you,’ she says, in a low voice.

  Zeus notices the scroll of thick, woven papyrus clutched in her hand. ‘A message for me?’ he says, reaching out for it, but she snatches it away.

  ‘For both of you,’ she says. ‘In fact, I had expected Poseidon to be here too … But perhaps it’s better so.’

  Hera barely moves; only the faint contraction of her eyebrows shows that she is listening.

  Iris draws a deep breath. ‘I went to the Library of the Muses last night,’ she says, into the silence, broken only by the twittering of the swallows around the pines. ‘To the Hall of the Fates. There was a matter – a riddle, in fact – I wanted to solve, and it turns out … well, it turns out I was right.’ She pauses. ‘But I also found something else – something I think will be of great interest to you both.’ She holds out the papyrus and, in spite of themselves, Hera’s and Zeus’ eyes flick towards the scroll.

  ‘I have long considered you mistaken in thinking Atalanta was your own,’ she plunges on, addressing Zeus. ‘And what I have found,’ she brandishes the scroll, ‘confirms my suspicions. Your assumptions were unfounded. Atalanta is a mortal.’

  She turns to look Zeus directly in the eye. ‘She is not your daughter.’

  There is a long silence, broken only by the twittering of the birds and the faint sound of the breeze moving through the pine needles on the slopes below. Zeus’ lips have parted in surprise behind his ringleted beard, his eyes widening as he ponders what she has said. Hera’s eyebrows are knitted, her eyes darting from the scroll in Iris’s hand to Zeus and back again.

  ‘Not – not my daughter?’

  ‘No,’ Iris repeats, unrolling it to produce two scrolls of papyrus folded into each other, written in the neat copy of the Muses, and spreading them upon Zeus’ lap. The first is titled, ‘Atalanta, Daughter of Iasus,’ the second, ‘Lycon, Son of Zeus’.

  ‘She’s Iasus’,’ Iris says, pointing to the flowing script. ‘Lycon, the boy, is yours.’

  Zeus stretches out a hand to take the scrolls and bends down to examine them, but Hera is too quick for him. She snatches them from his hands and scans them quickly, then rolls them up and taps them against her knee in irritation. ‘Why did you not come to me straight away?’ she says. ‘I am your mistress, Iris. You owe your loyalty to me!’

  ‘I am a god, my lady, and I owe my loyalty to no one but myself,’ Iris replies, in a steady voice. ‘Yet, as you see, I did indeed come. You are the first to know. I have told none other.’

  Zeus turns to Iris, ignoring his wife, who has opened her mouth to retort. ‘Lycon?’ he says, furrowing his brows. ‘Who is this Lycon?’

  ‘The prince and heir of Pagasae,’ Iris replies. ‘The king’s son and Atalanta’s twin, though born of a different father, and a poet at heart, not a warrior, though the king would wish him otherwise.’

  ‘What – that foppish blond boy?’ Zeus asks, pointing down to the palace, where Lycon is even now lying asleep upon his cushioned bed, one arm loosely flung over the edge of the frame.

  Iris bows her head. ‘The very one.’

  ‘But he looks nothing like me!’

  The words, so typically vain, so misguided, escape from Zeus’ lips so fast that even he realizes their stupidity by the time they reach his ears. ‘I mean to say,’ he mumbles, ‘I am the god of lightning, the patron of cities, destroyer of empires. I cannot have fathered a – a—’ his tongue seems to labour over the words ‘—a poet,’ he finishes, his face wrinkled in a perfect expression of distaste.

  ‘And Atalanta’s skills
,’ Hera adds, ‘what of those? Her speed, her skill with the bow – no mortal can aim an arrow or run as fast as she does by pure skill alone. It is impossible, Iris. You must have made some mistake. Atalanta is as clearly the child of a god as Lycon is not.’ Her tone is so final, the wave of her hand so regal, that Iris can tell Zeus is halfway to being convinced already.

  ‘And yet it is the truth,’ Iris says, forcing herself to be patient. ‘By the very words of the Fates themselves, Atalanta is the daughter of a mortal. Her prowess with the bow, her swift-footedness – they are her own abilities, achieved by her own merit, her own labour.’ She hears a faint note of pride in her voice and almost smiles as she turns to Zeus. ‘I tell you, it is true. Lycon is your son.’

  She waits for this news to sink in, watches the rage creep over Hera’s face, like the red glow of sunrise, the vague disappointment clouding Zeus’ eyes as he sees he has been playing the game with the wrong dice.

  It is Hera who breaks the silence first. ‘You are here to tell me,’ she asks, her voice as soft as the coat of a Scythian mare, ‘that I have been putting all my efforts into stopping her for nothing?’ Iris winces in expectation of the familiar blast of rage, but it is directed at Zeus instead of herself. ‘She’s not even your bastard?’ Hera shrieks at her husband, voice rising now, dark eyes sparking. ‘You are telling me that all this has been – for nothing?’

  ‘Not for nothing, Hera dear,’ Zeus says, avoiding her eye. ‘You have still won Jason his throne, or as good as. That’s something, is it not? Though …’ he peers down again to Earth and the blond-haired prince, ‘I suppose it is not too late to put forward my own contender.’

  ‘Don’t you dare – don’t you dare even think about putting Lycon on the throne of Pagasae!’ Hera shouts, anticipating him. ‘I have been behind Jason from the very beginning – it was your fault that you backed the wrong challenger.’

  ‘I was as much in the dark as you were, Hera, my dear, and, really, I do think it’s fair that I have my own candidate for the throne.’