Chapter 18
Medea
In the reaches of the early morning when nothing stirs, I stood outside the room where Jason was being held. Clutching the
two amphorae in my hands, I fought to keep my nervousness in check. Walking through walls was not very difficult once you
got the gist of it, but bringing something along was more complex. I was still finding the limits of my witchcraft, testing
my magic like unfamiliar wings.
Even more intimidating was what I intended to do on the other side of the door: put my future in the hands of a stranger.
But I had no choice, if I wanted any future at all.
I’d spoken to Chalciope earlier that evening, when she’d come to my chambers and told me that Father would die tomorrow. She
spoke without emotion, as though saying there would be rain in the morning.
“So soon?” I asked, startled.
“Haste serves us, lest Aeetes move to cut down my sons upon their return,” Chalciope explained. “But, Medea, there is something
I must ask of you. Please, protect Jason. Whatever happens tomorrow, give him the Golden Fleece and see him safely back to
his ship. He returned my sons to me and I will be forever grateful.”
“I’ll protect Jason with my life,” I promised.
“And . . . there is something else.” Taking Chalciope’s hands in mine, I explained what I meant to do.
She wept and threw her arms around me, but I think in truth she was not displeased to see me go.
No rival claimant for the throne; no strange little sister to deal with.
The memory faded and I returned to myself, standing in the hallway. Time to make my move. Taking a deep breath, I stepped
through the locked door. The air was warm on the other side, laced with the scent of burning braziers. I sighed with relief
when I saw that I had not, in fact, left my clothing on the other side of the wall. The two amphorae were still in my hands
too.
In front of me was Jason.
He was still awake despite the late hour, staring at me wide-eyed. He had hazel eyes, I noticed, and they were very beautiful.
“My name is Medea,” I said in Greek, trying to keep the quaver out of my voice. “And I have come to save your life.”
Jason
He isn’t afraid.
This is perhaps the most surprising part of his current circumstances. He has been imprisoned by the Colchian king, with the
threat of unknown death looming over him, and yet Jason does not panic. Fear lives a few inches above his skin. He washes
his face and offers prayers to the gods. To Hera especially, who has gotten him out of every terrible situation he’s been
in so far.
This is why Jason is startled, but not shocked, when the girl appears in his chambers.
He remembers her from the royal reunion—the one wearing the purple dress.
But now he is able to get a better look at her.
She has wide cheeks tapering to a narrow chin, a sprinkling of freckles over a strong nose.
Small, beautifully shaped lips, and black ringlets of hair that fall around her face.
But her golden eyes, the inheritance of all the sun’s children, unsettle him.
They are direct and fierce, like the eyes of a lioness.
Her name is Medea, she says, and she has come to save him. “Do you know of my father’s bronze bulls?” she asks, setting down
one of the amphorae.
Jason replies that he doesn’t.
“Count yourself lucky,” she says darkly. “They are my father’s favored means of execution. Great hollow casts of bulls, their
bellies large enough to fit a man. A fire is kindled beneath, and the unfortunate is burned alive. The bulls sing because
of a cunning apparatus that renders the victim’s screams into sonorous music.”
A lingering, roasting death. Jason shudders at the thought of it.
“But you will not die,” the girl Medea declares as she sets down the other amphora. “Take this,” she says, indicating the
smaller jar. “Rub it on your skin, leaving no part out. It will protect you against fire. And here is an infusion in water,
for soaking your clothes so they do not burn away.” She gestures at the second amphora.
Jason stares at her, uncomprehending.
Medea sighs deeply. She uncorks the smaller bottle, rubbing its contents over her arm. There is a brazier in the corner of
the room. Medea approaches it and shoves her arm into the burning embers up to the elbow.
Jason cannot help crying out, but there is no scream of pain from the girl nor scent of burning flesh. When Medea takes her
arm from the brazier, it is unmarred.
“Do you believe me now?” she asks, a trace of amusement in her voice. “I am a priestess of Hekate and a witch. I can shield
against fire, and create illusions, and perform transformations. And I am very good at potions.”
Colchis is the land of witches, and now one of them is offering herself to him. Jason is astonished. But nothing in this world
is ever given freely.
“What do you want?” he asks.
“Take me with you when you go,” Medea says in a rush. Her hands catch the hem of her sleeve, worrying it between her fingers.
“I’ll save you from the bronze bulls, and I’ll help you escape. All I ask is that you look after me and make me your wife.”
Your wife. Jason’s mind comes alive with questions, projections, annotated lists of why this is a bad idea. A marriage alliance is a
major decision, not one to be made the night before one’s possible execution. A man has obligations to a wife, in the eyes
of both humanity and the gods. Besides, it is highly irregular for a girl to give herself away in marriage.
Jason wonders what his mother would think of all this.
But Medea offers a peerless dowry: his life and freedom. And it is true that the gods work in mysterious ways. Perhaps Hera
is acting through this girl to save him once again.
“Please,” Medea begs, and Jason is stunned to see tears in her golden eyes. She falls to her knees before him. “Please, you
don’t know what it’s like living here. Help me. Take me from this place like Theseus brought Ariadne out of the labyrinth.”
Jason seems to recall that the story of Theseus and Ariadne did not have a happy ending, and indeed, the girl blanches as
soon as she speaks. But that does not dim her determination.
“Promise to make me your wife, and I will bring you the Golden Fleece,” Medea says.
That settles it. How can Jason do otherwise, seeing the desperation in those tear-filled eyes? How can he do anything besides
swear by Hera, the Queen of Heaven, that he will take Medea away from this place? How can he not fold Medea in his arms and
hold her as she weeps with relief?
Practicality as well as tender compassion drives him. Jason wants the Fleece. And he has just met the one person who can give
it to him.