gullies and creeks
to the brim and beyond, all swirling, glittering, — so
down the aisles
of Kreon’s hall, filling each gap between trestle-tables, platters held high, hurtling along like boulders and
driftwood,
silver and gold on the current’s crest, came Kreon’s
slaves.
Their trays came loaded with stews and sauces, white
with steamclouds,
some piled high with meats of all kinds; some trailed
blue flame.
A great Ah! like the ocean drawn back from the pebbles
of the shore
welled through the room. Jason, dark head lowered,
smiled.
The huge Koprophoros snatched like a hungry bear at
food.
They mock me,” he whimpered to the man beside him.
They’ll change their tune!”
The torches flickered. Kreon patted his hands together. When I closed my eyes the sound of their eating was
the faraway roar
of dark waves grinding over boulders — ominous,
mindless.
4
Sunset. She sat in the room that opened on the terrace
and garden
watching the red go out of roses, the red-orange flame drain gradually out of the sky. Leaves, branches of
trees,
flowers that an hour before had been sharp with color,
became
all one, dark figures etched into dusk. Shade by shade they became one tone with the night. From Kreon’s
palace above,
its torchlit walls just visible here and there through gaps in the heavy bulk of oaks, occasional sounds came down, a burst of laughter, a snatch of song, the low boom of table chatter, and now and then some nearer voice, a guard, a servant at the gates — all far away, bell-like, ringing off smooth stone walls and walkways, glancing
off pools,
annulate tones moving out through the arch of
distances.
At times, above more muted sounds, I could hear the
drone
of the female slave, Agapetika, putting the children to
bed,
and sometimes a muttered rebuke from the second of
the slaves, the man.
Medeia sat like marble, expressionless, white hands
clamped
on the arms of her chair. It was as if she were holding
the room together
by her own stillness, a delicate balance like that of the
mind
of Zeus o’ervaulting the universe, enchaining dragons by thought. So she sat for a long time. Then, abruptly, she turned — a barely perceptible shift— and looked at the door, listening. Two minutes passed. The breathlike whisper of sandals came from the
corridor.
After a time, the old woman’s form emerged at the
doorway,
stooped, as heavy as stone, her white flesh liver-spotted, draped from head to foot in cinereal gray, her weight buttressed by two thick canes. The slave looked in,
dim-eyed.
Thank you, Agapetika,” Medeia said.
No answer. But slowly — so slowly I found it hard to
be sure
from second to second whether or not she was still
moving—
the old woman came forward. “Medeia, you’re ill again!” A moan like a dog’s. Medeia got up suddenly, angrily, and went out to stand on the terrace, her back to the slave. Another long silence. The sounds coming
down from the palace
were clearer here, like sounds through wintry fog:
the clatter
of plates, laughter like a wave striking. She said, not
turning,
“It’s a strange sound, the laughter of a crowd when
you’ve no idea
what they’re laughing at.” She turned, sighing. “I’m
fiercely jealous,
as you see. How dare the man go up and have dinner
with the king
and leave me wasting?”
The slave did not smile. “You should sleep, Medeia.
She shook her head, refusing her mistress further
speech.
The lids of the old woman’s eyes hung loose as a
hound’s. She said:
“When you came to Pelias’ city bringing the fleece,
your hand
on Jason’s arm — the beautiful princess and handsome
prince,
lady of sunlight, hero in a coal-dark panther skin— that time too your eyes were ice. Oh, everyone saw it, and a shiver went through us. — And yet you’d saved
him, and he’d saved you,
and nobody there, no matter how old, could recall he’d
seen
a handsomer couple.” She closed her eyes and rocked,
as slow
as a merchant ship sunk low in the water when the wind first fills her sails. She said, ‘Your
face was flushed,
and when Jason moved his hand on your arm, the air
in the room
turned rich, overripe as apples fallen from the tree—
despite
that glacial stillness of eyes. I was heavy with years,
life-sickened
already by then. I saw I must end my days in the service of a lord and lady whose love was a fadge of guilt
and scorn,
a prospect evil enough. And little by little, as the tales of the Argonauts came to our ears, we understood.
Such a passion
as Queen Aphrodite had put on you two was never seen on earth before; not even in Kadmos and Harmonia was such fire seen. But passion or no, he hated you. How could he not? — a princely Akhaian, and you’d
saved his life
by the midnight murder of your own poor trusting
brother! No matter
to Jason that that was your one slim chance. He’d
sooner be dead
than safe and ashamed. Worse yet … Don’t be
surprised, lady,
that I dare to speak these things. I can see how it
drains your cheeks,
the mention of your brother’s murder. No better than
you can I tell
which way your anger will strike, at yourself or me.
You suck in
breath, and I’m shaken with fear — but my fear is more
by far
for you than it is for myself. I’ve seen how you wince
and cry out,
alone. It fills me with dread. You’ll plunge into
madness, Medeia,
hating what couldn’t be helped, wrenching your heart
out in secret,
proud — oh, prouder than any queen living — but even
at the height
of that fierce Aiaian pride, uncertain, doubting you merit the friendship of any but the
Queen of Death.
You’re poisoned, Medeia. Venomed as surely as the ivy
burning
from within. I’d cure you if I could, if I knew how to
force you to hear me.
Think, child of the sun! Think past the bouldered hour that dams the flow of your mind. Lord Jason hated you. Justly, you think? Unselfishly? Is Jason a god? He’d agreed to your plan — agreed for your life’s sake,
not his.
To save your life, the woman who scattered his wits
like a vision—
like the sizzling crepitation of a lightning-bolt— he’d do what he’d never consider to save himself. No
wonder
if after he’d saved what he worshipped, your Jason
gnawed his fists
and hated all sight of what proved his weakness.
— Jason who once
loved honor, trusted his courage. You taught him his
price.”
The slave
was silent awhile. Medeia waited — high cheeks
bloodless.
The slave said softly, “—But time soon changed all that. Not any intentional act of yours, Medeia, nor any act of his. Mere time. We saw how he tensed when you screamed in the pain