forgive me—
more than just once, to your sorrow. The law no
more allows
such marriages into barbarian races than it does
between Greeks
and horses, say. If you hope to make your Medeia a
home,
and leave something to your sons, it can hardly be as
a line
of Greeks. If you hope to gain back a pittance of all
she’s wrecked—
it can never be, if I understand Greek law, as Medeia’s husband, father of her sons. — But I’m out of my
depth, of course.”
His laugh was a whimper. “I snatch what appearance
of sense I can
for Kreon’s good.”
Jason said nothing, staring out.
So he remained for a long time, saying nothing.
The slave
chuckled. “It’s a rare thing, such loyalty as yours,
dear man.
She’s beautiful, of course. Heaven knows! And yet a
mind … a mind
like a wolf’s. So it seems from the outside, anyway—
seems to those
who hear the tales. A strange creature to have on
the leash—
or be leashed to, whichever.” His chuckle roused
the dark
in the corners of the room again, a sound like spiders
waking,
the stir of uncoiling sea-beasts dreaming from the
deeps toward land.
“Well, no part of the message, of course. I shouldn’t
have spoken.
Marriage is holy, as they say. What a horror this world
would become
if solemn vows were nothing — whether just or foolish
vows!
Even if there are no gods, or the gods are mad—
as they seem,
and as some of our learned philosophers claim — a
vow’s a vow,
even if we grant that it’s grounded on no more than
human agreement.
Indeed, what would happen to positive law itself
without vows?—
even if vowing is a metaphysical absurdity as it may well be, of course.” The old man grinned,
shook his head.
“—And yet for a man to be locked in a vow his whole
life long—
a marriage vow illegal from the strictly human point
of view,
sworn in the ignorant passion of youth, in defiance
of reason,
and proved disastrous! — ” Ipnolebes closed his
heavy-knuckled
hands on the arm of the chair and, with a rasping sigh, labored up unsteadily out of his seat. Slowly, inches at a time, he eased his way to the stairs.
“Well, so,”
he said. “I’ve delivered the message. Do come,
tomorrow night,
if it seems to you you can do it without impiety. Oh yes — one more thing.” His head swung round.
“There are friends of yours
at the palace, I think. Men from the weirdest corners
of the world.
Merchants, sea-kings.” The old man chuckled, dark as
the well
the stairs went down. “All telling travellers’ tales — he he! Monstrous adventures to light up a princess’ eyes and
awe
a poor old landlubber king. It’ll be like old times!” He peered, smiling, at Jason’s back. “You’ll come,
I hope?”
Jason turned from the window, eyes fixed on Ipnolebes’
beard.
“I’ll help you down. The stairs are steep.” He came
and touched
the slave’s arm and carefully took his weight. “You’ll
come,”
Ipnolebes said, and smiled. Lord Jason nodded, the
barest
flick. “Perhaps.” His eyes did not follow the black-robed
slave
to the gate. The street went dark for an instant; a
whisper of wind.
Medeia, standing in the garden with folded hands,
looked up
and winced. Take care, Hera,” she whispered. She
called the children,
pale eyes still on the sky. “I know your game, goddess.”
On a hill, late that night, in the windswept temple
of Apollo
ringed by towering sentry stones, immemorial keys of a vast and powerful astrolabe, stern heaven-watcher, Jason stood, black-caped. On a gray stone bench nearby a blind man sat, at times a reader of oracles and soothsayer, at times a man of silence. Corinth glittered below like a case of lighted jewels falling tier by tier to the sea. The palace, high and wide, like a jewelled crown at the center of the vast display,
shone
like polished ivory. The harbor was light as dawn
with sails,
the ships of the visiting sea-kings.
“I know pretty well what he’s up to,”
Jason said. “Better than he knows himself, perhaps.” The seer was silent, leaning on the staff of come! wood that served as his eyes. Whether or not he was listening, no one could say. Visions had made his face unearthly, stern cliffs, crags, the pigment blackened as if by fire, the thick lips parched. He was one of those from the
fallen city
of dark-skinned Thebes, old Kadmos’ city: the seer
Teiresias
who learned all the mystery of birth and death when
he saw, with the eyes
of a visionary, the coupling of deadly snakes. Men said he paid in sorrows. Heros Dionysos — majestic lord of the dead, son of Hades, snatched at birth from his
mother’s pyre—
sent curses from under the ground to the man who
had seen things forbidden:
changed Teiresias to a woman for a time, and for
seven generations
refused him the soothing cup, sweet sleep of death. He
was now
in his last age. Jason turned to him, not to see him but to keep from looking at the palace. He began to
pace, frowning,
bringing his words out with difficulty, by violence of will. “I’d win his prize. Terrific match, he’d think. Bold Jason, pilot of the mighty Argo, snatcher of the fleece,
et cetera …
I could do it. Oh, I’m no Telamon, no Orpheus; but I’d serve old Kreon better than he dreams. These
are stupid times,
intermixed bombast and bullshit whipped to a fine fizz. I may be a better man to ride them out than those I thought my betters once, my glorious Argonauts. I never lullabyed bawling seas with my harp, like soft-eyed Orpheus, or tore down walls with my bare hands like Herakles. But I’ve survived my glittering friends—
survived
their finest. Favored by the gods, as they say— Not
that I asked
for that. I no more trust the generosity of gods than I do that of men. I’ve seen how they
twist and turn,
full of ambiguous promises, sly double dealings.
They offer
power, then blast you with a lightning-bolt. Or if gods
are honest,
as maybe they are, their honesty’s filtered by priests
and magicians
who may or may not be frauds. How can man trust
anything, then,
beyond his own poor fallible reason? I keep an eye out, keep my wits. If the gods are with me, good. If not, I stumble on. I play the chancy world like a harp tuned by a half-mad satyr on a foreign isle, finding its secrets out by feel. If the music’s fierce and strange— kinsmen murdered, in my bed a woman from the
barbarous rim
of the world — don’t think I pause, draw back from
the instrument
in horror, shame. I play on, not lifting an eyebrow, fleeing from resolution to resolution.
“So now
I might play Kreon’s lust. — Mine too, Medeia would say. I could smile, ignore her. I’ve bent too much to that
hurricane.
Whose work but hers that I find myself where I am?—