Trying War

by S. D. Gentill

  Oenone shook her head. “This can only be a curse.”

  The doors to the chamber opened. A line of servants parted and Medea stood before them, as dramatic as the sunset, as cold as the moon. She did not say a word as she walked to Machaon.

  Bending down, she stroked his face before allowing her fingers to trail down his shoulder and across his bare chest as she looked deep into his dark eyes.

  Oenone watched hawkishly.

  Cadmus stared at Medea in awakening horror. “It was you!” he said. “You did this!”

  Medea waved his accusations away. “No, it is not I… is it Machaon?”

  Machaon pulled away from her. “No, it is not you.”

  “Nor is it the gods.” Medea looked curiously at Machaon’s damaged back. “Do you recognise your tormentors, son of Agelaus?”

  Machaon shook his head.

  “Ah, my darling boy, do you not know their names?” Though she did not smile there was an unholy glee in Medea’s voice. “Unceasing Alecto, grudging Megaera and Tisiphone the Avenger. You have caught the unforgiving eyes of the Erinyes.”

  “No.” Hero shook her head frantically. “Machaon did not wrong Pentheselia by taking me from the Amazons… the Erinyes have no quarrel with him.”

  Machaon groaned. They had not told Hero how they had used royal Pentheselia’s bones.

  Cadmus turned on Oenone furiously. “Look what you have done!”

  “Cad…” Machaon tried to calm him.

  “Gods, Mac,” Cadmus said, turning away from Oenone in disgust. “The Erinyes never stop… never!”

  “It is not the Erinyes,” Hero shouted, angry that Cadmus should even suggest so terrible a thing.

  Medea straightened. “Oenone, come. We shall leave your brothers to explain to the child from the Amazons.” She held her hand out for the nymph. “I can mix a salve that may give him some small relief before it gets worse.”

  The princess walked out with Oenone. The servants followed, leaving Hero alone with her brothers.

  She sat down on the bed beside Machaon and took his hand. “Mac, it’s not the Erinyes. Cad doesn’t know what he’s saying. He’s an idiot!”

  Machaon glanced up at Cadmus and Lycon. “Hero, there are some things you should know.” Slowly then, Machaon told his sister how he had desecrated their mother’s bones, bartered her like a bag of salt and surrendered her to the Amazons. His voice was hoarse with grief, and quiet with shame. Before he’d finished Hero begged him to stop. “How could you, Mac? What in the name of the gods have you done?”

  The Erinyes were the most feared and ferocious of all avenging spirits, and they sought out those who betrayed the primordial laws of maternal kinship—they were the curse of the wronged parent, unrelenting and merciless. Hero wept inconsolably. They would torture Machaon into madness, they would hound him to death and, even then, they would not stop.

  Machaon embraced her. “I am sorry, Hero.”

  Lycon spoke steadily, though his eyes held anguish for his brother. “Mac, these dreams you’ve been having… you thought it was Hecate.”

  Machaon closed his eyes as the images came to mind. “There were three faces… so I thought…”

  “What exactly did you see?”

  “Heads wreathed in vipers, skin so thin and pale that I could see the bones within, and eyes that wept red blood… they bark like dogs…”

  A strangled cry escaped Hero’s lips.

  Machaon stopped, smiling faintly. “Not the kind of women I usually dream about.”

  “And when the welts appeared on your back?”

  “They have whips.”

  “When do they come to you?”

  “When I sleep… and just now after we passed the crossroads—they had me completely then.”

  “Can we draw them out?” Cadmus asked. “Then we could face them together. It’ll make the fight even at least.”

  Machaon shook his head. “I don’t think so. The crime was mine… they’ll come to me alone.”

  “What are we going to do?” Hero whispered. She put her small hand on Machaon’s arm. “Aren’t you scared?”

  He had time only to press her hand before Medea returned through the open doors. The princess was attended, this time, only by Oenone. She looked at Hero. “So you are Pentheselia’s daughter.” Medea turned to the sons of Agelaus. “You were wise to hide your true quest from my father, but soon he will know. The Amazons are his allies.”

  “Oenone has been forthcoming then,” Cadmus said, glancing coldly at the nymph.

  Medea laughed. “I have always known Machaon was Pentheselia’s son.”

  She gave Hero a small pot. “Go, tend to your brother. We have not much time.”

  “Time for what?” Cadmus asked.

  “We must leave soon, before my father learns what you have done. I will hold you to your bargain.”

  “What bargain?” Hero asked Machaon as she tentatively smeared the salve on his back. What else had they not told her?

  “This is Medea, Princess of Kolchis,” Machaon replied quietly. “She is coming back with us.”

  “Does she not have her own ships?” Hero whispered.

  “Her father does not wish her to leave.”

  “Mac!” Hero forgot herself in her horror. “We are guests in Aietes’ house… we cannot steal his daughter.”

  “The princess wishes to leave Kolchis,” Cadmus said.

  “As Helen wished to leave Sparta!” Hero returned. “Have you all forgotten what happened when Paris betrayed the trust of his host? Is it not enough that the Erinyes pursue Mac? Will you bring the wrath of Zeus the Thunderer upon us as well?”

  “This is not the same thing, Hero,” Lycon said uncertainly.

  “Of course it is… we cannot take the lady Medea to Troy!”

  Medea looked at her sharply, irritated. “Be still, child. We are not going to Troy… we sail for Attica.”

  “That was not our bargain,” Lycon said, startled. “Our people are in the mountains of what was once the kingdom of Priam.”

  “But the gods gather in Attica,” Medea replied.

  “All the more reason to avoid it I would think,” Cadmus insisted.

  “Only the immortal gods can help Machaon… in Attica you can plead for clemency.” She looked around at all of them. “Or you could go back to Troy and watch your brother be scourged and tormented until he doesn’t know his own name and gouges the eyes from his fevered head.”

  Hero fell onto her knees and clutched the hem of Medea’s long tunic. Machaon sighed and rolled his eyes.

  “Please, my Lady,” she begged, “can you not see that taking you from your father’s house will put us outside the pity of the Pantheon? They will punish all of us, regardless of the Erinyes.”

  Lycon’s eyes narrowed. Hero had a point. “Why would the gods grant Machaon reprieve?” he asked the sorceress.

  Medea shrugged. “Why do the gods do anything? They may take pity, they may take sides or they may simply help you on a whim. It is your brother’s only chance.”

  Machaon shook his head. “We are Herdsmen,” he said. “The Pantheon has never noticed us. We’ll find another way.” He glanced at Medea. “We will keep our bargain, my Lady, and take you to Troy.”

  “Then you will die, and before you die you will long for death.”

  “Mac, maybe we should—” Lycon began, his voice fading as Machaon gasped and clutched the snowy bed linens. Another bloody welt appeared without cause. Machaon closed his eyes, and then opened them quickly.

  “You can see them, can’t you?” Medea challenged. “How long before you are driven mad by the sight?”

  Machaon was silent. His sleep had been tormented since they had first arrived in Aea. Soon he would be exhausted.

  “There must be another way,” he said finally. “The Amazons will come after Hero. In Ida we can hide her, protect her. We will be strangers in Attica.”

  Medea rubbed her arms and her eyes became distant. She paced th
e room like a creature caged, muttering to herself. When she spoke again, her voice was flat and strange. “There is one other way—the Erinyes may be placated with sacrifice.”

  “Well that’s easily done then,” Cadmus said, relieved. “Hero loves to sacrifice; mistress of the pyre is our Hero.”

  “The Erinyes will not be satisfied with your sad offerings of cattle or goats,” Medea snapped, shivering though the chamber was warm. She took Machaon’s face in her supple hands, and held his gaze. She spoke slowly, keeping him in the prison of her unrelenting eyes. “The Erinyes followed me once… and in the end I appeased them with a sacrifice. I slew my children and they were satisfied. Is that what you want, Machaon? To be so desperate, to have your mind so besieged that you would murder those you love most? Who would you sacrifice? Your brothers, the sister for whom you risked so much?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t think you could ever fall so low, do you?” Medea said angrily. She caught sight of the dagger in his belt, and seized it. Cadmus and Lycon rose in alarm. “Arrogant boy! Do you think you would never turn this against your kin?” She held the blade in front of his face. “Is that what you think?” She threw the weapon onto the floor in disgust.

  Lycon stooped to retrieve the dagger. He handed it to Machaon. “It’s what we know.”

  Cadmus folded his arms. “We will go to Attica,” he said. “We’ve been to Hades… how bad could it be?” He glanced at Machaon, and his flippancy slipped. “We cannot do without you, Mac.”

  She produced a casket in which lay drugs and salves, some to bring healing, others to bring death, and placing it upon her knees, she wept.

  Apollonius of Rhodes, Argonautica, Book 3

  BOOK XII

  PREPARATIONS FOR THEIR DEPARTURE FROM the kingdom of Aietes were made urgently. Medea convinced her father that they could best avoid war with the Amazons if the Herdsmen left Kolchis before Eos next donned her dress of gold and rose. She had the hold of the Phaeacian ship stocked well with weapons and supplies for the journey.

  The princess trusted none of her servants with the knowledge that she intended to leave with the Herdsmen, and so she herself secreted onto the vessel the potions and herbs, the tripods and vessels, that were the tools of her craft as a priestess of dark Hecate.

  Oenone tended Machaon with the best of her art and cooled the fire on his back with herbs and honey. She gave him a draught of poppy that put him into a dreamless sleep for a time.

  Lycon held vigil by his brother’s bed, because the Herdsmen now trusted neither the nymph nor Medea. It was Oenone who had exhumed the bones of the Amazonian queen, who had convinced them all that it was the only way to retrieve Hero. Machaon had first seen the Erinyes in Medea’s basin. And now they were sailing to Attica just as the witch decreed. The curse which gripped Machaon appeared inextricably bound to both women. The sons of Agelaus had always faced the world together. It did not suit them that the Erinyes came for Machaon alone.

  Lupa lay with her head on Machaon’s chest, growling protectively from time to time. It seemed to Lycon that the she-wolf knew when the Erinyes were close. It was hard to tell whether she could see them, or whether she simply felt the tightening of Machaon’s chest, the leap of his heart. She guarded him with a fierce maternal love and Machaon slept in peace. Lycon wondered about that. Could the curse of one mother be held at bay by the love of another? He laughed at himself… Lupa was a wolf.

  “I did not wish this.” Oenone’s voice broke his reverie.

  “Mac would never have disturbed Pentheselia,” Lycon replied bitterly. “It was your deed but you are not Pentheselia’s son, so Mac alone shall pay for it.”

  “It was the only way, Lycon. Do you not think that your brother would have been more cruelly tormented by the thought of Hero with the Amazons?”

  Lycon sighed. “I don’t know, Oenone. I thought getting Hero back would be the worst of it.”

  Oenone laughed softly. “I forget sometimes that you are still a boy. Heed me, Lycon, this will be a long fight. Getting Hero back was one thing, but you will need to keep her. The Amazons will not take her loss easily—they will tear apart the world to find her… they are a people in decline, fighting for their very existence.”

  Lycon put his face into his hands. “How are we going to protect her in Attica?”

  “More ably than you can in Troy.” Oenone packed the last of her herbs and needles into a bag which she secured with a silver clasp. “The Amazons will look for you in Troy.”

  “So we can never go home?”

  To that Oenone did not reply. “Rouse your brother, we must go soon.

  THE PHAEACIAN SHIP WELCOMED them with small shudders of excitement. She had been well cared for in the port of Aea, cleaned and oiled, her graceful curved prow adorned with chains of gold.

  “Hello brave ship,” Hero whispered. “I thought I would never see you again.”

  Aietes was carried into the hall of crystal pillars on his throne, amidst lines of masked servants, and the occasional lion. He seemed more amused than angry that they had offended the Amazons.

  “Go now and they may be appeased.”

  Cadmus thanked him for the hospitality he had shown them.

  Aietes dismissed their gratitude. “The new gods protect supplicants,” he said. “I am a son of the titan Helios, who sees all things as he travels across the sky… but we too observe the traditions of hospitality.”

  Cadmus glanced uncomfortably at his brothers. Lycon, afraid Hero’s trembling would give them away, wrapped her into his own cloak as if he merely wished to shield her from the icy air. Of course it was not cold, but fear, that shook Hero. It seemed to her that, in her absence, her brothers had conspired to insult the gods in every imaginable way.

  Medea had already hidden herself in the hold of the ship, inside a chest of furs and gold. The knowledge weighed heavily on Hero.

  But Aietes noted none of it and the living ship of Pan soon made its way out of the canalled fortress and into the flecked waters of the Black Sea.

  “How long do you think it will be before they realise she is gone, Mac?” Cadmus murmured as they stood at the prow listening to Hero at prayer. She beseeched the gods for forgiveness without actually stating their crime. She promised to offer up the most perfect flowers and luscious fruit she could find as soon as they made land.

  Machaon frowned, remembering Medea’s claim that she had slain her own children in sacrifice. He wondered how effective Hero’s flowers would be. The Pantheon seemed to want blood as atonement. “Hopefully we’ll make it beyond the Black Sea before Aietes finds out. Where is Medea?”

  “In the hold with Oenone. It’s best she does not come out onto the deck until we are clear of Kolchian waters.”

  “Maybe we should have refused to take her.”

  “We had little choice, Mac.”

  “I’m not sure the gods will care.”

  Cadmus nodded. “They can be unreasonable.”

  Lycon slid down from atop the mast. Machaon prepared to replace him.

  “No, Mac,” Lycon cautioned him. “You’d better leave the mast to Cad and me.”

  Cadmus agreed. “If the Erinyes find you up there…”

  Machaon turned away. His brothers were right. He could feel the avenging sisters even now. They had put down the whips to whisper in his ear. He could smell the foul stench of their dead breath, feel the grasp of their hands biting into his skin.

  “Mac…” Lycon’s voice was strained. “Are you all right? What can we do for you?”

  Machaon shook his head.

  “What do they say to you?” Cadmus asked.

  “Mostly they curse at me.”

  “Is that all? Hero will do that if you get her going.”

  Machaon laughed. “Yes, that’s all.”

  “Have you tried talking to them?”

  “What would I say?”

  “You could try flattery—it might cheer them up a bit… immortals seem fond of praise.�
��

  Machaon smiled. “I’ll try it.”

  “Mac, come here!” Hero stopped her prayer and motioned him over to her. She commanded him to kneel on the wooden deck. “Cup your hands above your head.”

  Cadmus and Lycon folded their arms and looked on, intrigued.

  “Hey!” Machaon protested as she poured wine into his hands so that the mellow liquid flowed down his arms and soaked his broad chest. “What in Hades are you doing?”

  “Don’t move! ” Hero said as she pushed his hands back over his head. “I’m cleansing you.”

  Cadmus and Lycon started to laugh.

  Hero ignored them, placing her hand on Machaon’s, raising her voice in prayer and now pouring honey.

  “Is this really necessary?” Machaon asked tersely.

  “Not if you’ve become fond of the Erinyes,” Hero snapped. She raised her hands to the sky. “Pentheselia was my mother too, I can cleanse you.”

  So Machaon remained kneeling as Hero sprinkled salt and wine, and piled an offering of barley cakes into a mound.

  “You’re not going to start a fire are you?” Machaon muttered irritably. Hero’s more formal religious devotions usually required sacrificial pyres. “We’re on a boat.”

  “I’ll have to cast the cakes into the sea,” Hero said frowning. “It might not work, but if it doesn’t we can try again when we land.”

  Machaon had had enough. He stood, shaking the wine and honey from his hair. “We will reach Attica in a few days. You can pour whatever you want over me then.”

  I will not leave the bodies of my children with thee; I shall take them with me and inter them in the dominion of Hera. And I curse thee, who betrayed me, and prophesy for thee an evil and bitter end.

  Euripides, Medea

  BOOK XIII

  THE PHAEACIAN CRAFT PLOUGHED THROUGH the wine-dark waves. The Black Sea had released its pull on the hull of the ship when the first storm hit. The clouds marshalled and churned, and Zeus the Thunderer spun his bolts like a golden web in the darkening sky. The sons of Agelaus worked quickly to take down the sail and lash everything else to the bucking deck.