teeth … Impossible to say what I mean. He was like
a sign
of the best possible in nature, and his very goodness
made him …
“But enough. Let me think who else there was.
“There was Idmon the seer.
Of all the heroes of Argos, Idmon was the last to come. Like Mopsos, he knew by his own birdlore that for him
the trip
meant death; yet the poor devil came, for his reputation’s
sake.
A coward’s coward, I used to call him. He was terrified at the very idea that he ever might fly in terror.
“From Sparta
Aitolian Leda sent us the mighty Polydeukes, king of all boxers, and Kastor, master of the racing
horse.
She’d borne them as twins in Tyndareos’ palace, and
loved them so well
she swallowed her fear like bitter wine and allowed
them to go
as they wished. No wonder Zeus had loved her, a girl
like that,
and planted in Leda’s womb the most beautiful woman
on earth!
“From Arene the sons of Aphareos came, Lynkeus
and Idas.
They were both brave men and as powerful as bulls—
yet I hesitated
before I’d take them on board. Idas was crazy. He talked pure gibberish at times, and foamed at the mouth.
When sane,
he was quarrelsome, insolent, a chip on his shoulder
as big as a tree.
But Lynkeus wouldn’t have joined without him; and
Lynkeus had
the finest eyesight in the world. As easily as you and I see distant eagles, Lynkeus could see things
underground.
Yet Idas’ vision was keener still, I learned in the end. His beads were of human bone, and his cheek bore
lion scars,
and scorning, shaming, mocking was all he loved; yet
he was not
mad, exactly. Like leopards they watched the world,
those brothers,
though Idas fooled you. The man had the eyes of a
sleeping dragon.
“From Arcadia, Kepheus and Amphidamas came, two
sons of Aleos,
and their older brother Lykourgos sent us his
twelve-foot boy
Ankaios. He had to stay home, himself, to care for
his aging
father — a testy, sly old devil, as we saw for ourselves. The old man didn’t approve of allowing a boy so young to sail with us, whatever his size, and when argument
failed
to sway Ankaios’ father, old Aleos chewed his gums and schemed. Ankaios arrived at the ship in a bearskin,
waving
a two-edged axe in his right hand. His grandfather’d
hidden
his equipment in a corner of the bam, still hoping to
the very last
he’d keep his baby home.
“Augeias also came,
whose father was the sun; and Asterios and Amphion, from Pelles’ city on the cliffs. And Euphemos followed
them,
the fastest runner in the world — the boy Europa,
daughter
of Tityos, bore to Poseidon. He was a man who could run on the rolling waters of the sea so fast his invisible feet weren’t wet by it. — But Zetes and Kalais were faster
in the sky,
the two sons of the North Wind, whom Oreithyia bore to Boreas in the wintry borderland of Thrace. He’d
brought her
from Attica. She was whirling in the dance on the banks
of the Ilissos
when he snatched her from earth and carried her away
to Sarpedon’s Rock,
near the flowing waters of Erginos, where he wrapped
her up
in a dark cloud and raped her. It was an astounding
thing
to watch those sons of hers soar up into the sky,
the sea-blue
eagles’ road! The wings on each side of their ankles
whirred
and spangles of gold burst through like sparks from
the dusky feathers,
and they shot away. Their black locks whipped on their
shoulders and backs,
but their faces were steady as arrowheads in flight.
“The last
we took with us was Argus, gentle old craftsman, sly as Daidalos — but older, richer in ancient lore— a man who remembered secrets most of the gods
had long
forgotten. He was no fighter. In time of war he’d sit bent over, with his lips drawn tight, his blue eyes
violent,
alarmed, as though he’d pierced the forms of the ships
we’d burned,
the white bodies of the dead — had pierced the shapes
of our destruction,
and saw, beyond them, nothing. And yet he forgave
our work,
when breezes had cleaned the air of the stink and smoke,
and we’d laid
the dead away. Old Argus didn’t much care for us, destroyers of filigreed halls and high-prowed ships,
wasters
of goldsmiths’ work, despoilers of cities, the works of
mind.
There were times when that gentle scorn of his — a
sneer, almost—
inclined us to smash his head for him. But we couldn’t,
of course.
We needed him — needed his art, if not that calcifying smile. And Argus came, whatever his distaste, to guard his masterpiece — to guard, perhaps, whatever work he could. And because he was curious. Not death itself would have given the old man pause if he thought he
could learn from it.
For all his nobility of mind he was a man consumed by need to know, need to reduce the universe to facts.
“Such was my crew, or anyway the best of it;
all men of genius, sons of the immortal gods.
“The Argo
was ready, equipped with all that goes into a well-found
ship
when pressing business carries people to sea. We made our way to the shore where the ship lay grumbling,
muttering to herself
to be gone. A crowd of excited townsfolk gathered
around us,
tall men, some of them, some of them fine to see; but set by the best of them all, the Argo’s crew stood out
like stars
in a dark, beclouded sky. If we weren’t a match for
Aietes,
Keeper of the Fleece, then nobody was. As the people
watched us
hurrying along in our armor, one of them said — a
wail—
“Zeus! Pelias has lost his mind! Who’d dare to drive such men as these from Akhaia? If Aietes dares to
refuse
the golden fleece when they ask for it, they can send
up his palace
in flames the same day they land. — But the ship must
get there first.
I’ve heard men say there are dangers beyond what a
god would face.’
The women stood weeping, their hands stretched up
in prayer to the gods
for our safe return. There was one, an old servant that
I knew. Her eyes
bored into me, and she wailed of my mother with
a harsh voice
and a maniac look, pretending she didn’t know me.
I stood
like a child before her, shaken, rooted to the spot.
“ ‘Ye gods,’
she moaned, ‘poor Alkimede! Thank God I’ve got no son! Better for her if she’d long since gone to her lonely
grave,
wrapped head to foot in her winding-sheet, still ignorant of this madman’s expedition!? that Phrixos had sunk in the dark waves where Helle died, and the
monstrous golden
ram still clamped in his legs!? why was Jason—
heartless,
arrogant fool — not born to her dead, to spare her this? She weeps her eyes out, cries and cries in such
black despair
that her sobs come welling too fast for Alkimede to