Chapter 64
Medea
For a long time, I held Atalanta. Until her weeping ceased, and the stars began to appear in the blue-black square of sky
visible from the courtyard.
She was the one to let go first, wiping tears on her sleeve as her eyes slid away from me to look out at the night garden.
I held myself stiffly, surreptitiously brushing away my own tears.
“You are welcome here,” I said. “For as long as you like.” For the rest of your days, even, I did not add. That would be much, much too forward, especially after such a tender moment.
Atalanta nodded curtly. “I will return to my forests eventually. But I would like to stay here for a while.”
“There is a guest bed,” I added, somewhat nervously, “in the women’s quarters—”
“I will sleep here,” Atalanta said, looking up at the walls of the courtyard, “under the open sky. Walled houses feel like
tombs to me. All I ask is that you give me a few blankets.”
A slow smile crossed my face. “So it will be like old times, when we sailed with the Argo and slept wrapped in blankets on the cold earth?”
“Well, not exactly. You won’t be next to me, after all.”
I sat up straighter. Memories flooded my mind: days and nights spent on the rolling deck of a ship or the hard ground. The
enveloping warmth of Atalanta’s body, curled around mine.
The softness of a kiss, never repeated, but never forgotten either.
“I will have blankets brought out to you,” I said, leaping up abruptly. “Good night!”
Safe within the house, I sagged against a wall and marveled at my lack of decency. My friend had just told me about the death
of her husband, with whom she’d finally found happiness, and here I was thinking about kissing her! Utterly shameless.
Most of the time I could convince myself that my feelings about Atalanta were simply yearning for the days of the Argo, when anything at all might happen and life was not so narrow as it would become. Now, my senses full of the forest scent
of her, I saw how tenuous this fiction was. If anything, my memories of the Argo were precious because they contained Atalanta, not the other way around.
Not that it mattered. Twenty years had passed since her confession on the beach on Crete, and it was all too clear that I
had been replaced in Atalanta’s affections by her husband and son. This was no surprise, and besides, I had my own obligations
as a wife and mother. But the idea made my heart heavy all the same.
In time, I regained control of myself and ordered a servant to bring out blankets to the courtyard for Atalanta, then retired
to my own bed. For variety, I elected to sleep in the marital bed rather than my usual one in the lonely women’s quarters.
I was surprised to find Jason there.
He lifted his head, peering at me above the blankets. This was unusual; most often, he spent his nights at the palace, where
King Creon had rooms set aside for his use. “I did not know that you and Atalanta were so close,” he remarked as I climbed
under the sheets.
Jason’s words prompted a spike of fear, but I reminded myself hurriedly that nothing I’d done tonight was lacking in decorum.
All Jason had seen was a meeting between old female friends, a perfectly respectable occurrence.
Certainly, it was not as though I had been caught embracing some strange man.
“I suppose the Argo lends itself to lasting friendships,” I replied, and rolled over. It amazed me how little Jason knew of my interior life.
Then again, there was much I did not know of his.
Though I tried to sleep, it was as if an electric current ran in my veins. My heart beat faster as images danced before my
eyes: gray eyes, tawny hair, strong clavicles, and well-muscled biceps. That panther-like form, pressed tight to mine, scented
with the fragrance of lost forests.
A fire raced over my skin, and heat rose in me. Desire, that gift of Eros, returned after so many years.
And for someone other than my lawful husband, a shameful thing. I flushed with embarrassment, remembering that the Greeks
described Desire as an archer, sending his flaming shafts into unwilling hearts. An attractive idea, since it abdicated the
individual from all responsibility for these inconvenient feelings. Yet heat continued to build, years of repression seeking
an outlet. I wanted Atalanta, even if she no longer wanted me.
Well, maybe there was still a way to salvage this. Perhaps I could vent my passions along proper channels. I kissed Jason
awake, finding him puzzled but obliging.
The sex was awkward and over quickly, and to my consternation did little to still my agitation. As I lay in the darkness,
sweat drying on my thighs, I realized it was this that felt like an infidelity—coupling with my husband, the man I’d lived with for years.
I’d never stopped being Medea the traitor, it seemed. My heart was faithful to no one, least of all myself. I rolled over
and tried in vain to sleep.