Jason and Medeia (41 page)

Yet Circe knew,

shrewd on the habits of devils and men. And yet in part she forgave me, for pity. She touched my hair, watching the flicker of the fire in it, remembering things.

‘Then Circe said: Poor wretch, you have

contrived, it seems, the unhappiest of home-comings. You cannot escape for long your father's wrath, I think. The wrongs you have done him are intolerable, and

surely he'll soon

reach Hellas to have his revenge for your brother's

murder. However,

since you are my suppliant and niece, I'll not increase

your sorrows

by opposing your wishes through any active enmity. But leave my halls. Companion the stranger, whoever

he is,

this foreign prince you've chosen in your father's

despite. And do not

kneel to me at my hearth in the hope of my own

forgiveness,

though I've granted you, as I must, the ritual of Zeus.

If your peace

depends upon Circe's love, you will find no peace.'

With that,

smiling past us, solemn eyes unfathomable, she left us to find our way out however we might.

I wept,

my anguish and terror measureless. Then Jason touched my hand, raised me to my feet, and led me from the

hall. And so

in part the demands of Zeus were satisfied. The gods had forgiven, though Circe had not. Yet soon came

reason for hope

that the curse was at least much weakened. If Circe's

heart was stone,

not all our kind was so cruel. Or so it seemed to me, weighing the curse in my mind, on the watch for

omens.

“In the gray

Karaunian sea, fronting the Ionian Straits, there lies a rich and spacious island, border of the kingdom of

the living

and the dead—the isle of the Phaiakians, whose oarless

barques

transport men, silent and swift as dreams, from the

flicker of shadows

to the sweaty labor of day. There, after months and

sorrows,

the
Argo
touched. The king, with all his people, received

us

with open arms. They sent up splendid thank-offerings, and all the island feted us. The joyful Argonauts mingled with the crowds and enjoyed themselves like

heroes come home

to their own island. But the Joy was brief, for the fleet

of Kolchians

who'd passed from the Black Sea through the Kyanean

Rocks arrived

at the wide Phaiakian harbor and sent stern word to the

king

demanding that I be returned to my father's house at

once,

without any plea or parley. Should the king refuse, they

promised

reprisals bitter enough, and more when Aietes came. Wise and gentle Alkinoös, king of the Phaiakians, restrained their furious bloodlust and dealt for terms.

“Thus even

at the front door of Hellas, my hopes were dashed again, for a prospect even more dread than capture by my

brother had arisen:

capture by Kolchians hostile to me—hostile to all mankind after endless scavenging months on the sea.

I appealed

to Jason's friends repeatedly, and to Alkinoös' wife Arete, touching her knees with my hands. ‘O Queen, be gracious to your suppliant,' I begged; ‘prevent these

Kolchians

from bearing me back to my father. If you're of the

race of mortals,

you know how the noblest of emotions can lead to ruin.

Such was

my case. My wits forsook me—though I do not repent

it. I was

not wanton. I swear by the sun's pure light, I never

intended

to run from my beautiful home with a race of foreigners, much less commit crimes worse. For those I have paid,

my lady,

startled awake in the dead of night by memory-

shrinking

from my new lord's touch, unjustly suspecting disgust in

him.

I was a princess, lady, in a kingdom that stretched out

half the width

of the world—the colony of the sun. I was initiate to the mysteries of fire, could speak with the moon,

knew life and death,

sterility, conception; I was served by nuns sufficient to

throng

this whole wide isle of the Phaiakians. And now am

nothing,

a hunted criminal, exiled, condemned to death. Have

mercy!

Soften the heart of your lord, and may the high gods

grant you

honor, children, and the joy of life in a city untouched by dissension or war forever.' Such was my tearful

appeal

to Arete.

“But I spoke less timorously to the Argonauts,

besieging each of them in turn: ‘You, O illustrious dare-devil lords—you and the help I gave you in your

troubles—

you alone are the cause of my affliction. Through me

the bulls

were yoked, and the harvest of earthmen reaped.

Thanks to me alone

you're homeward bound, and with the golden fleece you

sought. Oh, you

can smile, looking forward to joyful reunions. But for

me, your warprize,

nothing remains. I'm a thing despised, a wanderer in the hands of strangers. Remember your oaths!—

and beware the fury

of the suppliant betrayed. I seek no asylum in temples

of the gods,

no sanctuary in forts. I have trusted in you alone. I look up in terror for help, but your hearts are flint.

Do you feel

no shame when you see me kneeling to a foreign queen?

You were ready

to face all Kolchis' armies and snatch that fleece by

force,

before you had
seen
those armies. Where's all your

daring now?

“The Argonauts tried to calm me, reassure me. But

their eyes

were evasive, I saw. I shook with fear. A deadly despair had come over them, it seemed to me—a wasting

disease

of the will. They had heard the insinuations of the

sirens, had seen

friends die, and they knew still more must die. They

had sailed through the channel

of Skylla and Kharybdis and had begun to grasp the

meaning of adventures

past—or the absence of meaning in them. No fire was

left

but the wild furnace of my own heart.

“Night came at last

and sleep descended on our company. But I did not

sleep.

My heart sang pain and rage, and tears flooded from

my eyes

and my Heliot mind hurled fire at the ships of the

Kolchians,

and fire at the Argonauts' heads and the heads of the

Phaiakians,

and fire at the sing-song moon. But the queen of

goddesses

blocked my magic. They slumbered on.

‘That night in the palace

King Alkinoös and Arete his queen had retired to bed as usual. As they lay in the dark, in the hearing of

ravens,

they spoke of the Kolchian demand. Arete, from the

fullness of her heart,

said this to the king: ‘My lord, I beg you for my sake

to side

with the Argonauts, and save this poor unhappy girl from Aietes' wrath. The isle of Argos lies near at hand; the people are neighbors. Aietes lives far away; we

know only

his name. And this: Medeia is a woman who has

suffered much.

When she told me her troubles she broke my heart. She

was out of her mind

when she gave that man the magic for the bulls. And

then, as we sinners

so often do, she tried to save the mistake by another. But I hear this Jason has solemnly sworn in the sight

of Zeus

that he'll marry her. My love, let no decision of yours force Aison's son to abandon his promise to heaven.

What right

have fathers to claim their daughters' love as the gods

claim man's?

Behold how Nykteus brought the lovely Antiope to

sorrow—

Nykteus of Thebes, that midnight monarch whose

daughter's beauty

outshone the moon's, so that Helios himself was in love

with her.

Behold how Danaë suffered perpetual darkness in a

dungeon

because of her father, though Zeus himself was in love

with her

and sought her deep in the earth, in the shape of a

driving rain.

Behold how Ekhetos drove great brazen spikes in his

daughters'

eyes. Old men are mad, my lord. It is hardly love that moves them, whatever their howls. Love sends out

ships to search

new mysteries, not haul back miscreant hearts, bind

love

in chains.'

“Alkinoös was touched by his wife's appeal.

He said:

‘I could, I think, repel the Kolchians by force of arms, siding with the
Argo
for Medeia's sake. But I'd think

twice

before I dared to defy just sentence from Zeus. Nor

would

I hurry to scoff at Aietes, as it seems you'd have me do. There lives no king more mighty. Far away as he is,

he could bring

his armies and crack us like nuts. I must therefore

reach a decision

the whole world and the gods above will acknowledge

as wise.

I'll tell you my whole intent. If Medeia is still a virgin, I'll direct the Akhaians to return her to her father. But

if she and Jason

have married, I'll refuse to separate them. Neither

will I give,

if she carries a child in her womb, that child to an

enemy.'

Thus spoke the king of the Phaiakians, and at once

fell asleep.

But Arete, pondering the wisdom of his words, rose

silently

and hurried through the halls of the palace to find her

herald. She said:

‘Go swiftly to Jason, and advise him as I shall say.'

And she told

the king's decision. And swift as a shadow the

Phaiakian went.

He found the Argonauts keeping armed watch in the

harbor near town,

and he gave them the message in full.

“At once, and with no debate,

the Argonauts set about the marriage rites. They mixed

new wine

for the immortal gods, led sheep to the altar that Argus

built—

so curiously fashioned that it seemed to be sculpted

from a single stone,

though its gem-bright parts were innumerable, and the

removal of any

would bring all its glory to ruin—and with their swords

they slew

the sheep. And before it was dawn, they made the

marriage bed

in a sacred grove. The swift-winged sons of the wind

brought flowers

from the rims of the world, and Euphemos, racing on

the sea, called nymphs

who came bringing gifts of coral and priceless pearl.

The heroes

famous for strength—Koronos, Telamon and Peleus, and mighty Leodokos, and Phlias, son of Dionysos,

and lean

Akastos, whose heart was like a bull's—surrounded

the altar in a ring,

guarding the bride and groom and the old seer Mopsos,

in white,

from the attack of the Kolchians or demons from under

the earth, dark friends

of Helios. And behold, in the sky, snow white in the rays of the yet-horizoned sun, there appeared an eagle, sign of Zeus, so that none might carp in future days that the

marriage

was false, being made by necessity. They spread on the

bed

the golden fleece as a bridal sheet, and to Orpheus' lyre, the Argonauts sang the hymeneal at the door of the

chamber,

and the nymphs of the tide sang with them. And thus

the son of Aison

and I, Medeia, were married.

‘Then dawn's eyes lit the land,

old Helios red as a coal; and lightly, his hand on my

arm,

Lord Jason slept, at peace. Not I.

‘The streets now rang,

the whole Phaiakian city astir. On the far side of the island, the Kolchians were also awake. And

Alkinoös

went to them now, as promised, to give his decision

in the case.

He carried in his hand the staff of Judgment, the golden staff with which he gave out, impartially, justice among the Phaiakians. And with him throng on throng of Phaiakian noblemen came in procession,

armed.

Crowds of women meanwhile poured from the city to

view

the wide-famed Argonauts; and when they learned our

joyful news

they spread it far and wide, and all Phaiakia came to celebrate. One man led in the finest ram of his flock; another brought a heifer that had never

toiled; still others

brought bright, two-headed jars of wine. And far and

wide

the smoke of offerings coiled up blinding the sun.

There were golden

trinkets, embroidered robes, small animals in cages—

and still

the Phaiakians kept coming. There were casques of

chalcedony

and mottled jade, and figures of ebony, and ikons of gold with emerald eyes. There were baskets, carpets, bowls,

weapons,

there were songs not heard since the First Age—mute

Phlias danced—

and for seven days more they came, those gentle

Phaiakians.

“And as for Alkinoös, from the moment he gave his

judgment

and learned soon after of the marriage, he stood

intransigent.

He couldn't be shaken by threats or oaths, and he

refused to dread,

beyond the displeasure of Zeus, Aietes' enmity. When the Kolchians saw that their case was hopeless,

they remembered the vow

of Aietes, and feared to return to him. More humble

now,

they craved the king's asylum. Alkinoös granted it. I wept for joy, all danger past. I was sure I would soon be home. I looked at Jason—that beautiful, gentle