Pelias!
We have heard it said that by your command old trees
that bear
no fruit can be given such vigor of youth that their
boughs are weighted
to the ground again. If there’s any syllable of truth in
that,
and if what you do for trees you can do for a man, then
think
of the shame and sorrow of Pelias, once so noble!
Whatever
you ask for this great kindness we’ll gladly pay. Though
not
as wealthy as those you may once have known in
gold-rich Kolchis,
with its floors of mirroring brass, we three are
princesses
as rich as any in Akhaia, and gladly we’ll pay all we
have
for love of our heart’s first treasure.’ Medeia was pale
and trembling.
They could hardly guess, if they saw, her reason. She
rose without a word
and crossed to the window and the night. They waited.
The thing they asked
was not beyond her power. Nor was it beyond the
power
of another talented witch, should she refuse. She
breathed
with difficulty. The daughters of Pelias stretched their
arms
beseeching her mercy. The youngest ran to her and
kneeled beside her
clasping her knees. ‘Have pity, Medeia.’ The queen stood
rigid.
Her head was on fire; familiar pain groped upward
from her knees.
At last she whispered,’ I must think. Return to me
tomorrow night.’
And so they left her. She threw herself on the bed
headlong,
blinded, tied up in knots of pain. She wept for Apsyrtus, for Kolchis, for her long-lost handmaidens. She wept
for the child
betrayed by the goddess of love to a land of foreigners. She slept, and an evil dream reached her.
“The following night when the daughters of Pelias returned to her, she
promised to help them.
They’d need great courage, she said, for the remedy was
dire. They promised.
She gave them herbs and secret incantations. When
the foolish princesses
left her room, she crept, violently ill, from the palace and fled to the mountains, her teeth chattering, her
muscles convulsing.
Vomiting, moaning, breathing in loud and painful
gasps,
she crawled to the old stone table of Hekate and danced
the spell
of expiation for betrayal of the witch’s art.
“On the night of Pelias’ birthday, the palace was a-glitter with
torches, and all
the noblest lords of Argos were present for the annual
feast.
The old man kept himself hidden — some senile whim,
we thought,
and thought no more about it, believing he’d appear, in
time.
There were whispers of a great surprise in the offing.
We laughed and waited.
We gathered in the gleaming, broad-beamed hall, lords and ladies in glittering attire, Medeia beside me, wan, shuddering with chills, yet strangely beautiful. I
remembered
the glory of Aietes as first I saw him, and the dangerous
beauty
of Circe, with her green-gold eyes. Then a nimble of
kettledrums,
the jangle of klaxons and warbling pipes, and like lions
tumbling
from their wooden chutes, in came the slaveboys bearing
trays—
great boats of boar, huge platters of duckling and
pheasant and swan—
a magnificent tribute to Pelias’ glory and the love of
his people.
Trays came loaded with stews and sauces, white with
steamclouds,
and trays filled with ambled meat. Then came — the
princesses rose—
the crowning dish, a silver pancheon containing, we
found
when we tasted it, a meat so exotic no man in the
palace,
whatever his learning or travels, would dare put a
name on it.
We dined and drank new wine till the first light of
dawn. And still
no sign of Pelias. The princesses, strangely excited,
their ox-eyes
lighted by more than wine, I thought, assured us he was
well.
And so, at the hour when shepherds settle on pastures
become
invulnerable to predators, shielded by Helios, the guests turned homeward, and we of the palace
moved, heavy-limbed,
to bed. We slept all day, Medeia on my arm, trembling. When the cool-eyed moon rose white in the trees, I
awakened, thinking,
aware of some evil in the house. I went to the room of
the children.
They were sleeping soundly, the slave Agapetika
beside them. I turned back,
troubled and restless, molested by the whisper of a
fretful god.
The moment I returned to our room, the princesses’
screams began.
Medeia lay gazing at the moon, calm-eyed. I stared at
her.
They’ve learned that Pelias is dead,’ she said. The same
instant
the door burst open, and a man with a naked sword
leaped in,
howling crazily, and hurtled at Medeia. I caught him
by the shoulder,
my wild heart pounding, and threw him off balance—
in the same motion
snatching my sword from its clasp by the headboard and
striking. He fell,
his head severed from his body. Now the room was
clamoring with guards,
babbling, shouting, the children and slaves in the
hallway shrieking,
the room a-sway in the stench of blood. I snatched up
the head
to learn who’d struck at us. For a long moment I stared
at the face,
scarlet and dripping, the eyes wide open. Then someone
said,
‘Akastos!’ and I saw it was so. While the palace was
still in confusion,
we fled — snatched the children, our two oldest slaves,
and, covered by darkness,
sought out the seaport and friends; so made our escape.
“So ended my rule of the isle of Argos. For all our glory once, for all my famous deeds, my legendary wealth, I became an exile begging asylum from town to town. I became a man dark-minded as Idas, whimpering in anger at the
gods,
glancing back past my shoulder in fear. For a time I lost all power of speech — I, Jason of the Golden Tongue. The child of Aietes was baffled by the troubles befallen
us.
Why had we fled? Was I not the true, the rightful king
of Argos, Pelias a usurper, as all men knew? Had I not done deeds no king of Argos had done before me?—
not only
capture of the fleece, but temples, waterlocks, rock-firm
law?
Like a mute, more crippled than stuttering Pelias, I
rolled my tongue
and strained at the cords of my throat, but sound
refused me. When I closed
my eyes, I saw Akastos. Though I travelled from temple
to temple,
no priest alive could assoil me.
“And then one morning, groaning, the walls of my skull on fire with evils, I found I could
say
his name. Akastos! Akastos, forgive me! I felt no flood of peace, no sudden sweet purgation. But I learned a
truth:
I’d loved him, and I learned I was right in my rule of
Argos. Yet right
to escape, save Medeia from the citizens’ rage. I’d made
Medeia
promises. For love of me she had left her home, the protection of kinsmen, and managed the murder of