fondness,
shared isolation that I felt. I put my arms around her as a miser closes his arms, half in joy, half in fear,
around
his treasure sacks — as a king walls in his city, or a
mother
her child. As the raging sun reaches for the pale-eyed, vanishing moon, so Medeia’s burning
heart
reached for my still, coiled mind; as the moon reforms
the light
of the sun, abstracts, refines it, at times refuses it,
yet lives by that light as memory lives by harsh deeds
done,
or consciousness lives by the mindless fire of sensation,
so I
locked needs with Medeia, not partner, as I was with
Hypsipyle,
but part. She returned the embrace, ferocious: a wild
off-chance.
Thus as Helios’ wrath withdrew we staked our claims, all our curses smouldering still in our blood.
“And so we came at last by the will of the deathless
gods to Akhaia.
18
“It wasn’t easy, sharing the rule with senile Pelias.
All real power in the kingdom was mine. It was not for
love
of the stuttering, wrinkled old man that Argus devised
the palace
that made us the envy of Akhaia, or built the waterlocks that transformed barrenness to seas of wheat, or built,
above,
the shining temple to Hera that soared up tower on
tower,
mirrored by lakes, surrounded by majestic parks. It was
not
for love of Pelias that Orpheus brought in the mysteries of Elektra to Argos, and made our city of Iolkos chief of the sacred cities of the South. Nor was it for him
that Phlias
created the great dance of Heros Dionysos, which
brought us glory
and wealth and favor of the god of life and death. I
shared
all honors with Pelias, though I’d changed his kingdom
of pigs and sheep
to a mighty state; and I did not mind the absurdity
of it.
And yet he was thorn, a hedge of thorn, and I might
have been glad to be rid of him.
I could move the assembly by a few words to
magnificent notions—
things never tried in the world before. I could have
them eating
from my hand, and then old Pelias would rise, wrapped
head to foot
in mufflers and febrile opinions. His numerous chins
a-tremble,
blanched eyes rolling, the tip of his nose bright red, like
a berry
in a patch of snow, he’d stutter and stammer,
slaughterer of time,
and in the end, as often as not, undo my work with a
peevish
No. Nor was he pleased, God knows, to share the rule with me. He hadn’t forgotten the oracle that warned,
long since,
that he’d meet his death by my hand. He couldn’t decide,
precisely,
whether to hate and fear me outright — whatever my
pains
to put him at ease — or feign undying devotion,
avuncular
pride in my glorious works. At times he would snap like
a mongrel,
splenetic, critical of trifles — insult me in the presence
of the lords.
I was patient. He was old, would eventually die. His
barbs were harmless,
as offensive to all who heard them as they were to me.
My cousin
Akastos would roll his eyes up, grinding his teeth in fury at his father’s ridiculous spite. I would smile, put my
hand on Akastos’
arm, say, ‘Never mind, old friend.’ It drew us closer, his shame and rage at his bumbling father’s stupidity. He had, himself, more honor with the people than his
father had,
having sailed to the end of the world with us — a
familiar now
of Orpheus, Leodokos, and the mighty brothers Peleus and Telamon. He’d become, through us, a friend of the hoary centaur Kheiron, and come to
know
the child Akhilles, waxing like a tower and handsome as
a god.
What had Akastos to do with a snivelling, whining old
man,
Akastos who’d stood at the door of Hades, listened to
the Sirens,
braved the power of Aietes and the dangerous Kelts?
The old man
hinted that after his death Akastos should follow him as my fellow king. It was not in the deal; I refused.
Akastos
was furious — not at me. And now he seldom came to the palace, bitterly ashamed. He remained with
Iphinoe, at home,
or travelled with friends, supporting their courtships
or wars.
“At times Pelias would drop his peevishness, put on, instead, a pretense of cowering love. He’d sit with his head to
one side,
lambishly timid, and he’d ogle like a girl, admiring me. ‘Noble Jason,’ he’d call me, with lips obscenely wet, and he’d stroke my fingers like an elderly homosexual, his head drawn back, as if fearing an angry slap. His
desire
to please, in such moods, was boundless. He couldn’t
find honors enough
to heap on me. He gave me gifts — his ebony bed (my father’s, in fact), jewels, the sword of Atlantis—
but with each
gift given, his need — his terror of fate — was greater
than before.
In the end he gave me the golden fleece itself as proof that all he owned was mine, I need not murder him. He was mad, of course. I had no intention of murdering
him.
And still he cringed and crawled, all bootlicking love.
That too
I tolerated, biding my time.
“Not all on Argos shared or understood my patience. On the main street, on the day of the festival of Oreithyia — our chariot
blocked
by the milling, costumed crowd — a humpbacked
beggarwoman
in fetid rags, a shawl hiding all but her hawkbill nose and piercing eyes — a coarse mad creature who sang
old songs
in a voice like the carrion crow’s and stretched out
hands like sticks
for alms — leaped up at sight of me, raging, ‘Alas for
Argos,
kingless these many years! Thank God I’m sick with
age
and need not watch much longer this shameful travesty! We had here a king to be proud of once, a man as
noble beside these pretenders
as Zeus beside two billygoats!
That king and his queen had a son, you think? He
produced what seemed one—
an arrogant, cowardly merchantry-swapper with no
more devotion
than a viper. The father’s throne was stolen — boldly,
blatantly—
his blood cried out of the earth, cried out of the beams
and stones
of the palace for revenge. The son raised never a finger.
And the mother,
poor Alkimede, my mistress once, was driven from her
home
to lodgings fit for a swineherd. There she lived with
her boy,
as long as he’d stay. It was none too long. For all her
pleas,
for all the great sobs welling from her heart, he must
leave her helpless,
friendless in a world where once she’d stood as high as any in Akhaia.? shameless! Shame on shame he heaped on her: not on his own but in foul collusion with the very usurper who seized that throne, he must
sail to the shores
of barbarians, and must bear off with him on his mad
expedition
the finest of Akhaia’s lords! Few enough would return,