Chapter 66
Medea
Over the next week, Atalanta and I fell into an easy rhythm. Shameful desire did not rear its head again, to my great relief.
In the morning, in the gray light before dawn, I would go to the courtyard, where she could be found smoking some Scythian
hempflower for the pain in her bones. She’d thrust out her chin in greeting when she saw me, and we would start the day as
we ended the previous one, sitting together in the garden, and watching the brilliant colors of sunrise paint themselves across
the sky.
During the daylight hours, she and I walked around the city with the children. I cast a simple glamour over the four of us
so that the eyes of passersby slid away like water, since I wanted nothing to interrupt this time with her, certainly not
unwanted attention from anyone who might recognize her from the now-famous story of the Argo.
The twins loved Atalanta. “That’s the agora!” Pheres yelled. “And that’s where I saw a dead bird once.”
I spread my hands across my reddened cheeks, horrified at their behavior, but Atalanta only chuckled. She bonded with Mermerus
and Pheres easily, the three of them wrestling like puppies. Atalanta spoke to them solemnly, like one adult to another, and
they straightened up to match her.
Seeing Atalanta so gentle with my children made my heart twist. She never wanted children, yet here she was, tender with my boys as if they were her own.
As we walked around Corinth, I realized how little I had seen of my own city. I’d spent most of my time indoors, managing
the household and taking care of first Thessalus and then the twins. Now, as we walked from the agora to the temple of Hera,
I saw how gleaming Corinth was, all white walls and red roofs. And beautiful women everywhere. I’d heard Corinth called the
city of Aphrodite, city of love, but I’d never before had the chance to see it for myself.
Atalanta had never liked cities. I puzzled that she tolerated this one.
In the evening, when Eirene took charge of the children, I sat with Atalanta in the courtyard as the stars appeared in the
sky like fireflies. Servants brought out braziers to light the garden and keep us warm, and I was reminded of the fires along
the beaches during the Argo’s journey. Sometimes I braided Atalanta’s hair as I’d done long ago, relishing the excuse to touch her, only to startle like
a child sneaking treats when Eirene entered the courtyard to ask a question. Atalanta and I laughed like young girls and talked
at length about the things we had seen.
“And do you remember those six-armed men?”
“Yes! And the Harpies who tormented Phineus, poor old man.”
How gilded it all seemed now in memory. How easy to forget the seasickness and oppressive heat, and remember only the grand
adventures.
There were things we did not speak of, swirling vortexes that we danced around.
She did not ask much about Jason, for example, and I did not speak of the impulsive feelings that had come over me the night she arrived.
Neither of us wanted to risk this unlikely peace.
So we spoke of other things, like the past and the people we had known.
Such as Peleus, whose son, Achilles, had distinguished himself in swiftness and strength.
“And did I tell you that Psyche met Achilles?” Atalanta asked. “He had some snotty things to say about me, it seems. Oh, how
Psyche laughed when I told her I beat Achilles’s sorry father in a wrestling match!”
I laughed at this, glad that I’d at least avoided the fate of being married to Achilles, a man so much younger than me and
a boor to boot.
We spoke of Orpheus too. He’d died, Atalanta told me, torn apart by maenads in the mountains. His head was still singing when
they cast it into a stream that ran out to the sea. I pressed a hand to my heart in sorrow, thinking of his beloved Calais,
left to live on without him. And Eurydice, welcoming back her wandering husband in the cold fields of the Underworld.
Orpheus. I had not forgotten his cryptic advice about running after love, even if I had not followed it.
We spoke of Heracles, who had died (so many of our companions from the Argo were dead now, it seemed) from a curse unwittingly inflicted by his new wife. “Hylas would never have allowed such a thing
to happen,” I remarked, and Atalanta agreed.
But before he died, Heracles wrestled Death to a standstill to save a woman who had traded her life for her husband’s.
“Her husband was fated to die, and she volunteered to take his place,” Atalanta told me, having heard the tale from a visiting
bard during her time in Mycenae. “I don’t know why she did that, laying down her life for her husband’s. I did not know it
was possible.” A shadow flickered across Atalanta’s features, then quickly vanished. “When Death came to take her, Heracles
drew him into a headlock. He beat Death so thoroughly that Death fled back along the path of cypresses. The woman’s name was
Alcestis, I think,” she added as an afterthought.
The name snagged on something in my memory. Abruptly I was transported back to an Iolcan courtroom, surrounded by hateful eyes. Recognition snapped into place: Alcestis was one of the daughters of Pelias.
“I know her,” I said haltingly. The silence stretched and grew, heavy with unspoken things. I’d never told Atalanta the details
of Pelias’s death, only that Jason and I had been exiled from Iolcus because of it.
Atalanta was looking at me, head tilted expectantly. There had been distance enough between us, and so much lost time. It
would be easy to change the subject, but I wanted there to be no secrets between her and me. Save for the most necessary ones,
of course.
Hesitantly, I detailed the story of Pelias’s death. When I finished, Atalanta was staring at me in a sideways manner, her
lip curled.
“You tricked his daughters into killing him?” Atalanta said, looking at me as though I were something she’d found stuck to
the bottom of her sandal. “His own daughters?”
“Well, yes,” I huffed, old humiliation rising up once again. For years I’d lived under the burden of guilt, trying to make
apology to Jason for my actions. It was galling to receive censure from Atalanta as well. “No need for me to wield the knife
or spill a drop of Pelias’s blood and risk miasma. Quite clever, really. I thought a hunter like you would recognize that.”
“Not very clever if the court found you guilty in the end,” she pointed out.
I flinched. Atalanta never did coat her words in honey.
“Pelias was a tyrant and a murderer and a usurper,” I insisted. “He deserved his fate.”
“Yes. But his daughters didn’t.”
A sound of frustration tore from my throat. I wanted Atalanta to understand me, as she always had before. “You once told me that a witch is someone who wields power she isn’t supposed to have. Why do you fault me for acting like a witch, when you always knew I was one?”
(I had not been a true witch for some time, but Atalanta didn’t need to know that.)
“This isn’t power, it’s just cruelty,” Atalanta replied. She was sitting with her hands folded, considering the flagstones
once more. “Pelias might have deserved his death, but the girls didn’t deserve to be the instruments of it. It’s cruel, Medea.
You always were cunning, but you were never deliberately cruel.”
Her words made me reel. “It’s no worse than anything the male heroes have done,” I pointed out.
“But it’s no better either. And do you really want to take them as your standard?” Atalanta inquired, indicating the collective with a jerk of her head.
She chewed over her next words. After some deliberation, she said, “It’s something Hypsipyle would have done.”
Hypsipyle, the Lemnian queen who ordered the deaths of all the men and enslaved women on her island. Outrage and fear warred
within me. Outrage at Atalanta’s characterization of my actions, and fear that it might drive her away.
Atalanta did not move. She looked at me, not with judgment but with tender compassion. “You aren’t in Aeetes’s house anymore,
you know,” she said gently. “You don’t have to live by his rules.”
Her soft tone scalded me more than her chiding. Unwilling to consider this line of questioning any further, I announced my
departure for bed.
In the morning, I came out to find Atalanta in the courtyard as usual. Before I could apologize for my comportment the night before, she spoke. “I don’t want to spend time arguing,” she said, studying a patch of dirt near her knees. “I have said my part and will not speak on it further.”
So we set the conflict aside. That day, we brought a lunch out beyond the walls of the city, and I was given a glimpse of
a world that might have been. Atalanta sat with me under the trees, watching Mermerus and Pheres swing sticks at each other.
I laid my head on her shoulder and felt a peace I had never known.
Of course, it did not last.
One morning, a week or so after her arrival, I came into the courtyard to see that Atalanta’s few possessions had been bundled
up neatly, and she wore the same dusty riding leathers as on the day of her arrival. My heart sank.
Atalanta stood next to her bundled possessions, one foot scuffing the dirt. “It is time for me to go,” she said, not meeting
my eyes. “I miss my forests, and I am not meant for the city. But I have enjoyed this time with you very much.”
A mournful cry rose up in my throat, and I bit my lip to stifle it. “You won’t stay here?” I asked.
She shook her head. “This is not my home.”
But it could be, I thought fervently. You could make it your home.
Despite my disappointment, I would not beg. I already knew the futility of it; Atalanta’s stubbornness was quite literally
legendary. She kept her own counsel and moved according to her own unknowable whims, and her mind could not be changed by
outside forces. She had arrived unannounced like a strange breeze, and she would leave the same way. Despite my disappointment,
I would not ruin what I loved most by trying to control her.
“Wait until the boys are awake, at least,” was all I asked.
The twins took Atalanta’s departure hard. Mermerus burst into tears, while Pheres stormed away into the depths of the house. He soon returned, though, and both boys threw their arms around Atalanta. She kissed the tops of their heads, telling them to be good and always listen to their mother.
Then I stood alone with Atalanta beyond the red-yellow-blue door. Her possessions were tied to Kastana’s back, and I had given
her copious food, water, and supplies for the journey, holding nothing back. It pleased me to know that she was well provisioned,
even if she would not stay.
We looked long at each other, and neither of us moved. The wind rustled our clothing, lifting Atalanta’s whitened hair and
causing me to pull my shawl more tightly around myself. Kastana pawed the ground and snorted. The moment stretched on; neither
Atalanta nor I seemed willing to end it.
As in the library so long ago, I was seized with the sudden desire to kiss her.
A foolish thought. I pushed it back down firmly but made a last-ditch attempt to reason with Atalanta. “Are you sure you won’t
stay? The children love you.” To my horror, I felt tears prick my eyes.
Atalanta shook her head, then reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “You left me all those years ago, Medea,”
she said softly. “Is it really so terrible that I should leave you now?”
This was the first time during her visit that either of us referenced her proposal on Crete, and it surprised me. “Well, yes,
it is rather terrible, now that you mention it,” I replied. “But I won’t curtail your freedom.”
Before, Atalanta seemed rather preoccupied. Now, she smiled.
“You know,” she said, searching my face, “Circe once said you never gave anyone else a chance to speak. But I think you have
learned. Learned how to listen.”
“And you were wild as a bear cub when we first met, but now you move through the world with ease,” I said with a bitter laugh. “It wouldn’t have worked out between us, you know. I could never have beaten you in a race.”
“You would never have had to chase me,” Atalanta replied, her expression unreadable. “I wouldn’t have run from you.”
My heart, I realized, was beating quickly.
Before I could ask what exactly that meant, she turned away, pulling herself up on Kastana’s back and nudging the old horse into motion. She started down the road,
then abruptly halted. I wondered if she’d left something behind when she turned around and spoke.
“Mount Geraneia!” Atalanta called out. “That is where my camp is.”
She hesitated for a moment, as if to say more, then whirled around and continued at a steady clip out of the city. The statement—invitation?—baffled
me. Neighbors were stirring at their windows, and I shriveled under the weight of their eyes but held my ground. I watched
Atalanta’s swaying back until she was out of sight, greedy for every last glimpse of her. Then she was gone, leaving me alone
with the morning sunshine and the tears on my cheeks.