Chapter 71
Medea
Corinth in the hours before dawn was almost preternaturally still, the sky an unearthly pale blue in the east. A cat crept
across the street, but otherwise nothing stirred.
How strange it was, I thought as the temple of Hera drew into view, that I should have no great attachment to this goddess.
As a married woman I should have been one of her natural devotees, but Hera had always belonged to Jason. It was strange that
my husband had such a fanatical devotion to the wife of Zeus when he possessed so little regard for his own.
The temple compound was quiet, the priestesses still asleep. As I made my way through the courtyard and into the eerily empty
sanctuary, the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. It was quiet, too quiet. An absolute silence reigned, one that any
mother would recognize. An ominous silence, like a yawning mouth.
And somewhere, the sound of weeping.
I began to run.
When I turned the corner and looked into the sanctuary, I was confronted with a scene out of a nightmare. There were my sons
Mermerus and Pheres, wrapped in their cloaks and snuggled together on the floor. They’d tried to snatch some sleep in the
early hours of the morning, but it was clear they would never wake again.
Blood pooled on the floor around them, and their limbs were held at unnatural angles. A scream tore from my throat, rending the uncanny quiet, and I ran to them.
No no no. My beautiful sons, my boys. There are times when the mind peels away from the existing world, like an injured fingernail
from its bed. Someone had taken a sharp edge to them, perhaps an axe or a knife, and hacked. A moan emerged from my throat
as I held my sons’ bodies to my chest, careless of the blood staining my dress.
A sound caught my attention.
A woman was sitting nearby, her back against the wall. Her knees were pulled up against her chest, her face buried in her
arms. Her clothing was finely made but scorched by flames, and it took me a moment to place her. This was Glauke, Creon’s
wife.
On the ground next to her was a sword, coated in blood.
Glauke lifted her head. When she saw me, her face changed, contorting into a gorgon rictus of hate. “You,” she spat. “Witch,
you killed them. My daughter, my husband. I know you set the fire, because it licked up the stone and behaved like no natural
thing.” There was no trace of the mousy woman who’d been like a shadow by her husband’s side on the palace steps. Now, she
seemed more like a tigress.
Glauke kicked the sword, sending it spinning toward me in a smear of red. “There it is, Medea. A son for a daughter, a son
for a husband. You have wiped out my line, and I have destroyed yours. Now do what you have come to do.”
I could not bring my sons back to life, not with all my witchcraft. But I could snatch up the sword and advance on Glauke,
intent on my revenge. To her credit, she did not cringe and hide like a coward but faced death head-on, teeth bared—how I
myself would face my death, had our roles been reversed.
My thoughts spiraled outward. Of all the creatures that think and breathe, truly women are the most unfortunate.
Hard-pressed into marriage and forced to submit to it utterly, even offering the indignity of a dowry for the privilege.
Afterward there is no freedom, because while a husband can escape into his public duties, his wife is confined to the house.
Next is childbirth, and truly, I’d still rather stand in the line of battle three times than undergo the ordeal of the birthing stool once.
And then this: the loss of a child, and the ruin left after a husband’s death or desertion.
Glauke stared up at me, her face smeared with ash. She too had once been a young bride in a new city, fearful and alone. Perhaps
she had come from a faraway land like me and had to learn the customs of a foreign place. Certainly she’d given birth to her
daughter in agonizing labor just as I had delivered my sons. The difference between us shrunk and disappeared.
We were mirrors of each other, Glauke and I, both of us having lost everything. The arm holding the sword slowly lowered.
Besides, as Atalanta would have said herself, killing Glauke would not bring my sons back.
The sword fell from my hands. Solidarity must be chosen, and in that moment, I made my choice.
“Leave,” I snarled, “or I really will kill you. The throne is empty, and Corinth is yours now. The people are fearful and
will rally around a strong queen. But every year, you will ensure that the temple of Hera holds rites to honor my slaughtered
sons. Go, and live with what you have done.”
The rank hatred in Glauke’s face faded, though she eyed me distrustfully, her hair hanging in wild curls around her face.
“I’ll honor the children,” she said, brushing off her skirts as she rose to her feet. The bloodied sword was on the ground
between us; though she might have picked it up and run me through, for some reason she did not. “But I won’t thank you for
sparing me. You must also live with what you’ve done.”
“I never expected your thanks.” I drew myself up, conducting myself in a manner befitting the daughter of the goddess of witchcraft and crossroads. “Now leave!”
Glauke ran into the growing dawn.
Water mingled with blood as I washed the bodies of my sons, swirling pink and dripping onto the ground by the temple well.
A task no mother should ever have to perform, a horror from which the mind fled.
I wept as I worked, sometimes singing snatches of lullabies. How small the children were, and quieter than they had ever been
in life. I tried to wash the blood from Mermerus’s dark hair, to seal up the gaping wound that had stolen his life.
By now, dawn was shimmering on the horizon and the priestesses of Hera were awake. They fluttered at the edges of my vision,
murmuring to one another. A knot of priestesses tried to approach me, but I screamed at them and they scattered.
The sun peered over the horizon, filling the world with a gradually increasing light. A golden ray fell into the temple courtyard,
and a figure stepped out of it.
Aeetes.
My father.
My eyes adjusted to the brilliance. No, this was not Aeetes, who was long dead by now, though the family resemblance was strong.
This one’s skin shone as if gilded, and his beard looked spun from gold. His hair, tightly curled, formed a corona around
his head.
The Golden Fleece, I thought feverishly. The true Golden Fleece, on the head of he who is the progenitor of my line.
For this was not Aeetes but Helios, my grandfather and the god of the sun.
“Hail, Medea,” Helios called out, his voice echoing with divine majesty. “The gods see what you have suffered, and we offer this token of our condolences.”
Helios indicated something nearby: a chariot, every part made of shining gold from podium to draught pole to front rail. The
thin-spoked wheels were designed like a sunburst. But all this paled before the creatures harnessed to it.
Dragons, the Colchian kind, sinuous and yellow as sunlight. They writhed against their yoke, waving crests like those of roosters,
eager to make their way into the sky. The sight of them brought back a distant memory: my own dragon, made from a little green
snake and set free on the same day I myself left Colchis.
As if reading my thoughts, Helios said, “The bones of Xanthippus lie among the crags of the Caucasus Mountains. But he lived
a long life and fathered many offspring. These are two of them.”
“Why the chariot?” I asked, dumbfounded.
Why bring me a chariot when my sons lie dead at my feet? I did not say. Why not act earlier and intervene before they were killed? Why come to me in this, my darkest hour, and offer nothing more
than a form of transportation?
Why appear to me and not to Aeetes, who always longed to meet you?
Helios shifted awkwardly. “Well, the gods despise oath breakers, so it stands to reason that we should uplift those who have
suffered the breaking of those oaths made to them, especially one so distinguished by her deeds . . .”
Helios continued to speak, though I did not listen. I understood that his actions had nothing to do with sympathy for the
betrayal I’d suffered or admiration for my act of mercy toward Glauke.
He was afraid.
It seemed absurd at first. After all, I was a mortal, and he, an eternal god. But I’d already proven myself to possess power
rivaling divine magic, with ruthlessness to match.
Even the gods shrank back from the anger of Medea. Even the all-shining sun wanted to stay on my good side.
When I was a child, I worshipped the gods; as a young woman, I thought I would take my place among them someday at my mother’s
side. Now, I despised them with my whole heart. For the gods there was no good or evil, only strong and weak. They did not
care about what I had done, only that I had the strength to do it. I had earned their favor—temporarily, anyway—by placing
myself among the strong.
But what good was the esteem of those who loved me only when I was powerful? Why should I become a being so out of touch that
I’d offer a glorified wagon to a grieving mother?
His task accomplished, Helios was gone in a flash of light, leaving me alone with the bodies of my children and the sun chariot.
One of the dragons looked at me and made a chirrup of inquiry. From the fringes of the temple, I heard the priestesses whispering.
Time to leave this place. Tenderly, I loaded my sons’ bodies into the chariot, only to be interrupted by a shout.
“Medea!”
I whirled around to see Jason striding toward me.