by Emily Hauser
‘Not a chance.’
‘It’s only right—’
‘– married a trickster and a swindler—’
‘– that my son should sit upon the throne of Pagasae—’
The shouts of the two gods merge, indiscriminate words and threats knocking around the council of the gods.
Iris stands and moves before them, her back to the gap in the clouds. ‘When you’ve quite finished,’ she says.
Zeus and Hera turn to her, their cheeks red with exertion, their expressions revealing that they have forgotten she is there.
‘What?’
‘You have not asked me why I went to the Library of the Muses in the first place.’
‘Why should we care?’ Hera asks, her lip curling. ‘Do you think we have nothing better to do than to worry about your whereabouts, Iris? You should remember who you are and where you came from.’
Iris flinches a little at the casual slight so easily handed out. Then she opens her mouth, ready to deliver her final blow. ‘I came from the loins of a god, Hera, as did you,’ she says. ‘And I went to find out who would get the kingdom.’
Iris watches as Hera’s indignation wrestles with her outrage at Iris’s presumption in entering the Library of the Muses to discover the will of the Fates – which, as every god knows from their earliest birth, is one of the deepest and most primal secrets, held from the gods except, on occasion, from Zeus alone. For a god to seek the twisting and turning of the thread of Fate, without the express permission of the three old crones who spin its fibrous web, is unthinkable. A contravention of the only and most sacred law that ever bound the gods.
A law that the gods break almost daily.
‘You – you can’t do that!’ Zeus stammers, in a feeble attempt to uphold the law and order he personifies. ‘It’s – it’s against the rules! The sacred laws of the gods and … so on.’
‘Never mind that.’ Hera waves aside her husband’s objection, as if it were a troublesome fly. She turns to Iris. ‘Did you find it? The prophecy of Pagasae’s kingship?’
There is something in the emphasis on ‘you’ in Hera’s question that makes Iris raise her eyebrows and has Zeus looking from the messenger to the queen as he puts the pieces together.
‘You’ve already looked, haven’t you?’ he says at last, turning to his wife with an indignant expression. ‘You searched for the fate of Pagasae!’
Hera scoffs at him. ‘As if you did not try to do the same.’
Zeus hesitates. ‘Oh, very well. But you didn’t find out, did you?’
Hera ignores him. ‘You’ve got it, then,’ she says to Iris. ‘What does the scroll say?’ Her eyes are glittering. ‘Whom does it name as the new king of Pagasae?’
Iris gleams a smile at her. ‘No one.’
‘No one?’ Hera’s barely suppressed expression of delight fuses instantly into confusion and anger.
Zeus groans. ‘Oh, no, it isn’t time for that wretched “rule of the people” yet, is it?’
Iris shakes her head. ‘No – no, it’s not that. The scroll says simply …’ she draws a deep breath ‘… that it has already been decided who will take the throne of Pagasae. But it is not the Fates who have determined it.’
There is a moment of silence. Then Hera waves a hand impatiently. ‘What does that mean? The Fates decide everything.’
‘The scroll says that it has been decided by a power higher even than the Fates.’
‘That cannot be,’ Zeus says. ‘Everyone knows that we are the most powerful beings in the world, and that we bow only to the Fates … If there were something more powerful than the Fates, then,’ he glances at his wife, ‘what would we be?’
‘We are gods,’ Hera says, her eyes narrowed as she turns to observe her messenger. ‘There is no one and nothing more powerful than us. You are betraying yourself and your kind, Iris, by suggesting otherwise.’
‘I do not suggest so,’ Iris says. ‘I am merely repeating the words of the Fates, as written in the scroll I found last night.’
‘You are lying!’
‘I am not.’
There is a silence.
Then: ‘Well?’ Hera snaps her fingers. ‘Are we to be told what power it is you are speaking of – if indeed it exists at all – or are you simply going to stand there gawping at us like a fool?’
Iris swallows her anger. Her moment is coming – and soon. She has only a little longer to wait. ‘Choice,’ she says simply.
‘What?’ Hera is looking scornful, Zeus bemused.
‘Choice is the power that overcomes Fate,’ Iris says, her voice strengthening as she goes on. ‘The choice to believe that Fate does not determine destiny. The choice to make the world your own – not because the Fates have decreed it, not because the gods have willed it, but because you, yourself, decide.’
‘What rubbish is this?’ Hera scoffs.
‘Don’t you see?’ Iris asks, and, in spite of herself, she takes a step forwards, her breath coming rather fast. ‘It means that it’s not about Fate, or forcing the mortals to do our will, as we thought. It is about the choices mortals make – a world of freedom, where our destiny is our own, and not determined for us.’ Her eyes shine like twin stars.
‘You sound as if you will become a mortal at any moment,’ Hera observes drily.
‘I would, if I could,’ Iris retorts. ‘There are mortals living upon the earth who are ten, twenty times the gods that we are here.’
Hera starts forwards upon her throne, her expression murderous, but – unexpectedly, as if from nowhere – Zeus lays a hand upon her arm and draws her down to sit again. ‘Sit, Hera. Hear the child out.’
Iris glances towards him. Zeus is looking at her, a curious expression on his face – as if he is remembering some long-forgotten dream from many nights ago, now buried in the mists of memory.
‘We are gods, and gods we will remain. That much I know,’ Iris continues. ‘But we do not have to meddle. We do not have to intervene, like a tiresome puppet-master pulling the strings upon his dolls. All we have to do is to observe the laws of chance – to watch the unfolding of the possibilities that are predicated on the choices that we know mortals will make, because we know their characters. The laws they live their lives by. The people they love.’
Hera’s face is a picture of scepticism and anger. Her mouth is a thin line, and her eyes are flashing dangerously.
‘It’s logic,’ Iris presses on, hardly pausing to breathe – she is getting to it, now. Any moment … ‘What will Iasus do when he finds out Atalanta is his daughter? What will Jason say to persuade him to his suit? How will Lycon try to evade the throne, and how can Iasus force him to do his bidding? Don’t you see?’
Hera’s eyes are narrowed to slits. ‘You are speaking in riddles, Iris, and you know I cannot stand slanted speaking. What does all this mean?’
‘I may be a mere messenger, and I may not know what is fated, but I know the mortals in a way you, Hera, who always interfere to get your way and never stop to listen to what the mortals themselves may choose to do, never have.’
Iris turns on her heel and walks back past the rows and rows of empty seats to the entrance to the council, her robes swishing at her ankles. Then she looks over her shoulder, straight-backed, her eyes gleaming in the light of the rising sun, smiling a triumphant smile. ‘I already know who will win the throne.’
Return to the Palace
Pagasae
The Hour of Music
The Second Day of the Month of Rains
The following morning I stood before the gates of the upper city, my hair washed, oiled and scented with rosemary, my new cloak thrown over one shoulder, my quiver upon my back. I passed well enough for a man, Battus had told me, and when I gave the name Telamon, son of Deucalion, and said that I was to attend the king for his morning audience, the spear-carrying guards ushered me through the gates without comment. I reached up and ran my thumb nervously over the leather cord around my neck, as the squire led me, alon
g the same labyrinthine passage I had walked many months before, to the Great Hall where the king was holding court.
He pushed open the painted double doors that led into it and stepped aside, ushering me forwards. The large chamber greeted me, the same as it had been before, with its towering red-painted columns, polished stone floors and vaulted ceilings, but now the hearth was empty and the pale light of day was filtering down through high-set windows. Nobles and courtiers were grouped around the hall, talking loudly to each other, some clutching clay tablets for petition to the king, others pouches filled with money for redress. All, it seemed, were awaiting their turn to consult with the king, who was once more upon his fleece-lined throne against the far wall, his long fingers tapping its arm, his brow furrowed. I elbowed my way through the crowds, some of them scowling and complaining, others raising their eyebrows and muttering to each other. I caught snatched words as I passed – ‘Where he comes from …’, ‘By his dress he’s a lord at least …’, ‘A stranger to the court?’ – but I ignored them all.
At last, I reached the foot of the king’s throne, and bent myself low to one knee, my head bowed, my heart throbbing so that the medallion leapt against my collarbone. My stomach was filled with a fluttering sensation, and though I opened my lips to speak my mouth was dry and I could say nothing.
I am here – after all this time.
How should I begin? How can I tell him I am his daughter?
I felt the herald’s stare upon me, heard the intake of breath that was intended to dismiss me, to bid me wait my turn among the crowds of nobles come to petition the king’s justice, when King Iasus’ voice broke across him.
‘Let him speak, Copreus.’ I felt a slight stirring of the air past my face as the king moved aside his cloak and leant forwards to address me. ‘What is it that you want?’
I swallowed. Then, as I had anticipated for so long, I looked up, directly into my father’s eyes, and parted my lips to speak. ‘I am no man, my king,’ I said, my voice clear, ringing through the hall. ‘I am a woman, and your daughter.’
For a moment, there was utter silence in the hall as the king stared at me, his eyes as brown and piercing as an eagle’s. Then, as if by command, everyone began to speak at once – at first a low buzz, then mounting to a swarming, hissing swell of gossip, accusation, speculation. But I was gazing only at the king. He was seated still as a hawk poised to swoop upon a hare, his lips drawn together in a thin line.
‘Throw her from the palace,’ he said, his eyes not moving from mine, ‘and have her whipped within a hair’s breadth of her life for her insolence.’
The herald bent forwards, grabbed a handful of my tunic and pulled me roughly to my feet.
But I would not give up, not now that I was here. I balled my fist and drove it with all of my strength, with the desperate force of someone who had everything to lose, into the herald’s belly. He doubled over, wheezing and gasping, and I felt the tension loosen at the neck of my tunic as he released his grip on me.
‘There!’ I shouted, my fingers closing over the medallion, ripping it from my neck so that the clasp broke and throwing it towards the king. The thin golden disc clattered on the stone at his feet, and as I ducked away from the herald, darting sideways to avoid two slaves who were approaching to apprehend me, I saw the king bend to pick it up, saw his fingertips brush the medallion and the dawning comprehension on his face.
‘Stop!’ he commanded.
The slaves backed away at once, their heads bowed low. ‘Come here,’ he said, beckoning to me.
I stood before him, my hands shaking a little at my sides.
‘Do you have any idea,’ he said, his voice a thread of sound that made me shiver with the menace of it, ‘what manner of thing you have here?’ He twisted the disc between his fingers so that its tiny embossed figures caught the light and glinted, as if moving.
I drew my chin up, squaring my shoulders.
‘Your life is already forfeit,’ he said, tapping his fingers again upon the arm of his throne, as if he were bored with me and wished to have me dealt with then and there. ‘You will tell us whence you stole this medallion, and save yourself the pain of a death even more agonizing than that you are already destined to suffer.’
I felt my temper rise at the threat, and my voice returned. ‘I did not steal it,’ I said. ‘It is mine by right.’
‘But of course she is lying!’ one of the lords interjected from behind me.
‘It is mine,’ I repeated, ignoring him. ‘It was found with me upon the slopes of Mount Pelion by my father, a woodworker from Kaladrosos, who delivered me from the mountain’s peak when he came upon me there, abandoned, in the dead of winter.’
I saw King Iasus’ face pale, but his eyes were still hard as gimlets.
‘I came here under the guise of Telamon, son of Deucalion. I excelled at the hunt by Jason’s side. I voyaged to Colchis to win the Golden Fleece and prove myself to you as your daughter and your heir,’ I pressed on, my eyes never leaving the king’s. As I spoke I could feel my courage rising, and a tiny spark of pride ignited in my chest. ‘I have done everything you could have hoped for from a son, and more.’
Silence fell between us. The nobles around the hall were hushed now, as if straining to hear every word of the conversation.
‘And what of the Fleece?’ he asked at last.
‘It transpires – I found—That is to say, I was too late.’ I gritted my teeth. ‘But,’ I looked around the group of lords and nobles, searching for Jason, who did not seem to have appeared in the hall yet, ‘you should know that Jason was unable to keep it either. I swear to you, my king, I did everything within my power to bring it back to you and to prove to you my worth.’
To my surprise, the king laughed aloud and clapped his hands. The sound of merriment echoed hollowly around the silent hall.
‘But of course! A woman’s excuses,’ he said, and the courtiers around him began to laugh, as if all tension had been released. ‘You went on the quest for the Fleece, you say?’ His voice snapped, as cold as a winter frost. ‘Tell me, my lady, what fearsome monsters did you fight upon your quest? What mighty heroes did you slay?’ He pretended to wipe tears of mirth from his eyes upon his cloak.
The herald was grinning, and echoing howls of laughter assailed me on all sides. I felt anger blooming, and my fingers itched to reach behind me for my bow. But then there was a crash of the doors to the hall behind me, and I heard the sound of many booted footfalls ringing out over the stone floor.
I turned slowly upon my heel. Jason, accompanied by a dark-haired woman with hooded eyes, and followed by all the lords from the Argo – my brother Lycon, Meleager, Nestor, Pollux, Laertes, Orpheus, Theseus, Peleus, Bellerophon, all except Hippomenes, I noticed, with a sinking feeling – was striding into the hall, his cloak flying out behind him.
Our eyes met.
‘You! What by Hades—’
In a flash of metal his sword was drawn before him, the long blade glinting in the midst of the crowded hall like a pillar of lightning, and as one the nobles around him drew back. My hand flew to the sword at my waist.
‘My king, this – this woman, she is no better than a treasonous liar and a whore,’ Jason snarled, advancing upon me. I drew my sword, the bronze scraping upon the scabbard, and held it high before me, smiling.
‘Oh, yes?’ I replied. ‘You might wish to ask the king about the medallion he is holding, Jason, before you go any further, and perhaps,’ I gestured with the gleaming tip of my sword towards Meleager, ‘the lord Meleager will tell you how he tried to force himself upon me, before you accuse me of being a whore.’
Jason’s eyes flickered towards Meleager, and in that pause I struck, knocking away his blade and slicing through the shoulder of his tunic with my sword point, the blade nicking the skin. Jason roared with anger, holding his hand up to the wound, which was pricking with blood.
‘You see, Uncle?’ he bellowed, raising his sword higher and advancing toward
s me. ‘You see her insolence? This nobody – this daughter of a pig-farmer – threatens my inheritance, which is mine by right!’
Jason began to attack in earnest, slicing and thrusting, the bronze of his blade flashing through the air. I parried his blows. Around us, the lords circled, muttering, whispering, some shouting words of encouragement, others jeering – and I felt the king’s eyes upon me, like the beady stare of an eagle.
Jason lunged, and as he did so, I twisted to one side, drawing my dagger from my belt with my left hand, thrust forwards with my sword against his blade so that it was driven up towards the hall’s high roof, then raised my dagger and brought it down, hard, to the floor, knocking the weapon from his hand. I sheathed my dagger, bent to pick up his sword and tossed it into the air, catching it by the embossed hilt.
‘I would that you know me at last for who I am, Jason, son of Aeson,’ I said, and I heard my voice echo around the silent throne room.
This is the moment.
This is it.
Slowly I turned to face him, one sword held lightly in each hand, my heart beating hard against my chest. The sunlight slanted down from the high windows of the hall and reflected from the polished tiles of the floor, gilding the surrounding lords in light. I raised myself a little taller.
‘My name is Atalanta, daughter of Iasus, and I challenge you to the throne of Pagasae.’
There was a moment’s silence as Jason and I stared at each other. Jason’s eyes were bulging with rage – he was struggling for words, opening and closing his mouth.
‘That is enough!’
The king’s command rang through the Great Hall, echoing from the vaulted ceiling. We turned, both of us, eyes narrowed, Jason’s hand clutched to the wound on his shoulder. I sheathed my sword and turned Jason’s, point down, to the floor, then leant upon it.
‘There are, quite plainly,’ King Iasus said, as if he would ensure that the whole court heard him, ‘some matters that need to be clarified. First, I wish to announce to the court that Jason did, in fact, capture the Golden Fleece – though, as he informed me last night upon his return, it was stolen from him in an unfortunate incident upon his voyage back to Pagasae. Yet he captured it, my lords, and brought it with him from Colchis. Is that not what the prophecy required? There was no mention,’ he said, his teeth gleaming, ‘of returning the Fleece to Pagasae. Jason has, in my eyes and in the eyes of the gods, fulfilled the prophecy.’