Chapter 53
Medea
Even as my hand rubbed gentle circles on Jason’s back, I burned with anger. It was an outrage beyond bearing to be robbed
of our prize at this late date, to have sacrificed so much only to end up empty-handed.
There was no reasoning with Pelias, of that I was certain. If he was anything like Aeetes, he would never consent to hear
me. No, there had to be some other way, some witchcraft I could work. Over the next few days, I pondered what it might be.
I landed on my answer when I came upon Jason sitting alone in a dark room one afternoon. Immediately I went to open the shutters
and let the sunlight in, but he came up to lay a gentle hand on mine, shaking his head.
“We must keep them closed,” he said, “lest assassins find a way inside.”
My heart exploded with rage.
Not at Jason, no, but at the wicked man who made my husband cower here in darkness at midday. My fury was reserved for Pelias
and his followers, who not only denied Jason his throne but directly threatened our family’s future.
Assassins, in a pig’s eye!
At that moment, I decided that Pelias would die, and in the most ignominious manner possible.
Poison was too good for him. He was a traitor, and I knew how to deal with traitors, having learned in the gardens of the Colchian palace when I watched prisoners being burned alive in the bronze bulls.
Chalciope instructed me further when she used the blades of others to bring down our monstrous father.
As I wrapped my arms around my husband and comforted him, a plan slowly took shape in my mind. Something awful and magnificent,
and so audacious it made me tremble. But there was nothing I would not sacrifice for Jason, no part of myself I would not
be willing to lose.
And I already knew that everything worth having was paid for in blood.
Jason had asked for my help, and I would not stint on giving it. Yes, I would shape myself into his shield and sword, becoming
exactly what he needed. It would have to be done with the utmost care, no margin for error. Hiring an assassin of my own was
out of the question. Only decisive action would ensure our futures—Jason’s, mine, and those of our unborn children.
Later that night, after Jason had gone to sleep, I stood in front of the bronze mirror and looked at the woman reflected there.
“Here is what you will do,” I said to her, severing myself from my actions, becoming a you rather than an I.
Here, now, is what you will do.
First come the preparations. You cast a glamour on yourself, taking on the appearance of an old woman. It reminds you briefly
of Hekate, but you will not waste another thought on your absent mother.
You drape yourself in the finest clothing you possess—not very luxurious, since you are still newly arrived in Iolcus, but enough to give a look of otherworldliness.
You take censers of incense and dangle them from your hands, causing wisps of smoke to rise.
You include some of the same herbs you used on the beach with Talos—hempflower, aconite—but add fragrant sandalwood to intoxicate the senses.
You chant loudly in the Colchian tongue, which nobody here knows, to enhance your aura of mystery as you walk down the Iolcan streets.
Soon you are escorted before the king, who squints at you from his high throne. Pelias is a pathetic old man animated by the
fire of greed, much the same as Aeetes. The stain of miasma hangs over him, and you recall that he killed his own brother,
Jason’s father, Aeson. Pelias lives a cursed life, a shrunken one, subject to shadows and vague disappointments. It will be
a mercy to put an end to it.
You tell Pelias that you are a wonder-worker and priestess of Artemis Hekate. This briefly evokes the bittersweet memory of
Atalanta, but you push it away. You cannot afford to think of her right now.
To the king, you claim that among your abilities is the power to rejuvenate the body, a capacity granted to you by the goddess
of the waxing and waning moon. To demonstrate, you bring forth a waterskin and wash away the illusion of great age that adorns
you, revealing a young woman’s face.
Pelias does not recognize you because he has never met Medea, Jason’s wife. These Greeks have the unfortunate habit of shutting
their women up in the house like fine pottery. But now this backward custom serves your purpose.
On the throne, Pelias leans forward as if to pounce, hungry for the possibility of rejuvenation. It is just as you thought;
he fears death and debility, as all tyrants do. They have spent their lives crushing the weak and fear nothing more than becoming
weak themselves.
You tell Pelias that the gods have seen fit to bless him, and they have chosen his daughters as the instrument of this blessing.
His renewal will not be so simple as merely washing with holy water; he must be immersed in it, no part left out.
Pelias’s daughters are summoned from their chambers and ushered blinking into the courtyard where you have readied your tools. A cauldron is propped up, an old ram tethered beside it. And though the women cannot see it, a young ram is hidden inside the cauldron, hobbled to keep it still.
Sacrifice is necessary for rejuvenation, you explain. Rebirth is a bloody business. He must be immersed in the sacred cauldron,
no part left out.
You draw the elderly ram’s head back and slit its throat. Then you begin to cut, piece by piece, as the daughters of Pelias
look on in wordless shock.
You deposit the dismembered ram into the cauldron, then chant a string of nonsense words and throw incense on the fire. Taking
advantage of the smoke, you untether the lamb and let it dash off in a panic. To the daughters of Pelias, the elderly ram
appears to leap out of the cauldron after becoming young again.
The women are utterly silent. You falter for a moment, wondering if they have seen through your ruse. But then they fall over
themselves with eagerness, bursting with questions, and you have all the answers.
Here is how you restore your father’s youth, you tell them. Here is the magic cauldron, which restores strength and youth. Harden your hearts to the task, for you are the daughters of
a king. You have seen it already with the ram. Go on, do your duty.
Obediently, the young women rush out of the courtyard. You do not see them do it, but you can imagine the scene. The daughters
of Pelias will haul their aging father from his bed, long tendons standing out under his thin skin like tent poles. Pelias
goes with them willingly, remembering the words of the priestess.
At least until he sees the knives.
There is a trial.
Guards grab you on your way out of the palace, clutching your wrists and hauling you backward. You didn’t reckon with Pelias’s daughters recovering so swiftly from their shock and hunting for you, but here you are.
The court is housed in a lofty rotunda, the jury made up mostly of old men. Everywhere around you there are eyes: the disapproving
eyes of the court and the prosecutors; the tear-stained eyes of the daughters of Pelias. They are citizen women and can speak
in their own defense, while you, a foreign woman, cannot even open your mouth.
Everywhere around you there are eyes, and beside you is Jason. Your only comfort, your sole ally in this sea of hostility,
but he will not quite look at you, and he moves his hand away when you try to take it in yours.
Eventually the sentence comes down: banishment. The court cannot exactly find you guilty of murder, but neither can you be
allowed to remain in the city.
Next to you, Jason buries his face in his hands. You learn too late that Iolcan law recognizes the husband and wife as one
person, her identity subsumed to his. A ruling against you affects him too. You will go into exile together.
The court further declares that Acastus, the son of Pelias, will ascend the throne in Jason’s place.
You and Jason are given one night—one single night—to pack all your worldly goods. As soon as you return to your little rented
house and close the door, Jason gives vent to a cry of anguish, falling to his knees. And the flimsy wall you have constructed
between who you are and what you must do collapses.
I am Medea again, simply Medea, kneeling beside my husband and trying to keep him from clawing his face in near-mortal grief.
“You,” he spits, the venom in his voice rocking me back on my heels. I’ve never seen him this angry, and never, ever want to again. “You’ve ruined everything, you’ve tarnished my name forever. I’ll never sit on the throne of my father, and it is all your fault.”
Tears burn my eyes, threatening to choke me. I am aware of my own mewling, pitiful voice, saying, “But this was what you wanted,
Jason. What you asked me to do. You told Aeetes that the world was finished with old men like him, and all I did was show
Pelias the same.”
“I never wanted this!” Jason howls.
I wonder if he will hit me, though I’ve never seen him strike anyone before. Instead, he simply buries his face in his hands.
After a time, he speaks, calm but cold. “Medea,” he says, not looking at me, “I can’t be married to a woman who does such
things. I can’t have a wife who humiliates me like this.”
Terror drenches me like seawater. Is he sending me away, like his mother commanded? Where will I go? I have no home to return
to, no friends or family to shelter with. Atalanta is gone, back in her forests. I have gambled all I have on Jason; to lose
him now is to lose everything.
No no no. I will file down my teeth, cut my claws. Domesticate myself into the perfect wife. Anything to avoid the horror
of abandonment.
In a flurry of weeping, I fall at his feet. “I will be a good wife, Jason, I promise. I’ll keep your home and raise your children.
And I will never ever do magic again unless you command it.”
His hand rests on my head. His fingers, clawlike, twine in my hair. “Do you swear it?”
Startled out of my tears, I look up at him. His beautiful hazel eyes seem to have aged a thousand years since this morning.
I see what he is asking of me and what I must do to make things right.
My magic is my self. But I see now, as if through Jason’s eyes, how fearful it is, how unnatural.
At its basest level, magic is an act of violence against the world, breaking the bones of reality and reshaping them as I choose.
Turning little green snakes into dragons, conjuring illusions, reading the future in the livers of birds—of course Jason fears it. Who wouldn’t?
Once, Jason brought me to an isle west of the setting sun in order to restore my magic. Now, I lay it like a beating heart
on the altar of our marriage and try not to count the cost. “I will never do magic again unless at your command. I swear this.”
The finality of it closes over me like the sealed door of a tomb.
Jason seems pleased, or at least mollified, and rises to begin preparations for our journey. I remain on the floor, aching
with all I have given up.
But it is not for myself alone that I make this sacrifice. After the night in the cave on Phaeacia, a spark has taken root
in my womb, growing steadily. A child, Jason’s child, to be born in exile but loved all the same.