Chapter 9
Jason
The morning of the Argo’s departure, Jason surveys the heroes who have joined his cause, glowing with pride. His Argonauts, his crew.
His gaze rests on each man, picking him out of the milling crowd near the boat. There is Peleus, first among the Argonauts,
whom Jason met on his recent visit to Mount Pelion. Peleus came to Chiron with his infant son, Achilles, seeking sanctuary
from some threat he would not name. When he heard of Jason’s quest, Peleus pledged himself at once as a member of the crew,
though Jason still isn’t sure if this was a gambit to avoid infant care.
Peleus. The name gave Jason an uneasy lurch at first, being so similar to that of his wicked uncle. A chance cognate. But
this handsome young man is as different from the usurping Pelias as it is possible to be, with his high cheekbones and coppery
hair that shines in the sun.
There is Orpheus the singer, who can soothe wild beasts with his lyre.
And near him is Heracles, the great hero.
Heracles is not the glorious figure Jason expected from the stories; rather, the old hero is like a ruined temple, his great shoulders folded in and his beard unkempt.
Only the lion skin slung across his shoulders marks him as the legend he is.
It gives off a musky odor, unwashed and badly tanned to begin with.
Next to Heracles is his young companion, Hylas, who tends his every need with both utter dedication and sharp rebukes.
It was Hylas who convinced Heracles to go on this voyage in the first place.
I’m too old for things like that, Heracles said.
You’re too old to live like this! Hylas retorted.
So Heracles joined Jason’s cause, and after that all the rest were like stalks of ripe wheat falling into Jason’s hands. Castor
and Polydeuces, sons of the Spartan queen Leda and (it is said) the god Zeus himself. Calais and Zetes, sons of the north
wind, who inherited from their father the remarkable ability to fly through the air like fish through water. Tiphys the helmsman,
adept at the Phoenician method of navigating by the fixed stars.
And others, so many others. Ancaeus with his great axe, and hot-tempered Idas, and Mopsus the Lapith, famous for his battles
against the centaurs. Autolycus, a shape-shifter and son of Hermes, who first came upon Jason in the shape of a black wolf,
knocking him to the ground. Autolycus laughed at Jason’s terror but joined his crew nonetheless.
Now there is brave Meleager, and Atalanta too, but the less said about her, the better. Even the unpleasant circumstances
of Atalanta’s arrival cannot bring down Jason’s high spirits. Nothing can, not today, when everyone from the city has come
to gasp and admire the heroes and the ship that the goddess gave him. They are about to depart for Colchis, and nothing can
make Jason feel small.
Until he sees his mother.
The milling mass of Iolcan townspeople part, and standing there is Alcimede.
Jason has not spoken to her for many months.
When he returned with news of his divine quest, but regrettably without the head of Pelias, his mother resolutely refused to speak to him, turning her face aside whenever he tried to address her.
This continued for the long weeks that Jason spent gathering his crew.
But now Alcimede approaches him, taking his hands in hers.
The years have carved deep lines in her face and whitened her hair, though determination still burns brightly in her eyes.
Jason wonders when he grew to be so much taller than her; she still looms so large in his mind.
Alcimede reaches up to cup Jason’s cheek. “You are my only son. I will never have another.” Her head tilts. “You look so much
like your father sometimes.”
The words make Jason feel as though a boulder has landed on his chest. Jason wonders if Alcimede will say she loves him. He
cannot remember, in all his years, his mother saying something like that to him. He finds he craves it like air in his lungs.
“Come back with the Golden Fleece, or else wrapped in it as your funeral shroud,” Alcimede finishes. Then she leaves, cutting
her way through the crowd. None of the onlookers have heard a word of what she said, and they smile indulgently at what looks
like a tender farewell between mother and son.
As the Argo pushes off into the water, Jason finds himself occupied by his mother’s parting words. He stares blankly at the glittering
expanse of the water. When he turns back, he sees that the entire crew of the Argo has gathered, and that they are looking at him.
Of course. He is their leader, and they will be wanting guidance.
Jason’s hands open and close like the mouths of the bivalves clustered along the shore, and his courage vanishes like dawn.
His mouth has gone dry, and suddenly the divine blessing of Hera, the Queen of Heaven, feels very far away.
Jason understands that it is necessary for him to establish his authority; already he has noticed the crew looking to Heracles for guidance, and this cannot stand.
The humiliation with the spear girl, Atalanta of Arcadia, did not help matters.
She glares at him from her perch on the rail, and it is clear that she has not forgiven Jason for the crime of trying to spare her the hazards of the voyage.
What can he say? What words will unite this fractious assembly?
Jason looks at his Argonauts, and for the first time he really sees them. They are, with a few notable exceptions, the untried
and the second sons, with talents too large for the tiny kingdoms in which they found themselves. Some of them might be demigods,
but a demigod is only another type of bastard.
There’s a reason they’ve undertaken a dangerous journey for uncertain gain and great personal risk. They are hungry for glory,
his men, and they have staked their hopes on him. Jason must give them something to believe in. He must show them that he
understands.
“Oh, my Argonauts,” Jason begins, his voice ringing from the mast. “It is not my greatness that fuels this journey—it is yours.
I do this not for myself alone but to show that an exile can rise. I have a vision of a world in which every voice will be
heard and justice prevails. When I take the Golden Fleece and ascend to the throne, I will make this world a reality.
“The way will not be easy, for we sail to dark and dangerous lands. Fear dwells in your hearts. I understand this, because
I am afraid as well.”
Murmurings from the crowd; men are not supposed to talk like this, to admit to fear. Yet Jason’s words compel the Argonauts’
attention, and they lean forward, listening keenly.
“Every night I am afraid,” Jason continues, “spending wretched hours obsessing over these worries. However great your fear is, mine is greater still, multiplied fiftyfold. Because where each of you worries for himself alone, I worry for every one of you. I don’t care a whit about my own life but only for yours.
Here is what I want, even more than the Fleece: to bring each one of you safely home to Greece. ”
Cheers ring out through the air, and Jason allows himself a little smile. He gambled on candor and idealism, and his wager
paid off. The speech is good, the cadence pleasing, the rhetorical flourishes well received. The crew is transformed, their
faces glowing with the light of purpose—for the most part.
Here and there are pockets of dissent. Like Idas, whom Jason has overheard referring to him jokingly as Jason Amechanos—Jason
the Helpless. And Atalanta, who sits with her chin on her hand and watches him with the cold light of contempt in her eyes.