Chapter 72
Medea
“Now you come.” I laughed bleakly. “Now you are here, finally, after everything is lost.”
“Lost?” Jason spat. “You have destroyed it, as you destroy everything.”
Yes, I could smell the scent of ash and fire that clung to him. He must have come from the palace.
Ah, so you are capable of more than bland politeness after all, I thought. Perhaps that passion could have saved our marriage once, if it had been expressed differently at a different time.
Jason might have said more, but at that moment he caught sight of the small bodies draped over the front of the chariot. His
face melted into horror, and a scream tore from his throat. He stumbled forward and reached for them, but to what purpose?
There was nothing he could do; the children were already dead.
“You beast, you lioness,” Jason cried. “You killed your own sons.” He might have charged at me, but my dragons rose up hissing
at his approach.
I recoiled at the accusation. For a single uncanny moment, I saw the scene through Jason’s eyes: the children’s corpses by
my side, my own dress soaked in blood. The conclusion was an obvious one, especially with Glauke gone.
Suddenly I was utterly exhausted, weary to my bones.
What could I say to defend myself? What would it gain me?
The sleepless night of magic and violence had left me worn smooth like a river stone, with no fight remaining in me.
From the shadows, the priestesses chattered fearfully and clung to one another.
In front of me, Jason dragged his nails down his face like a man possessed.
No. Jason would never love me, but he would fear me.
“You were the one who killed them,” I said, standing taller, “by betraying their mother. So call me beast, call me lioness,
but know that this suffering is all your own fault!”
Jason could do nothing but curse at me, spittle flying from his mouth.
By now, those people living closest to the temple had flung open their windows to see what all the shouting was about, only
to freeze in stupefaction at the sight of the dragon chariot. People poured into the temple courtyard to get a better look,
craning their necks. Cries of shock filled the air when they saw the limp forms of the children.
My stomach clenched, and I fought the urge to cringe away or hide. I knew what these people would say and the version of events
that would tumble down the ages attached to the name of Medea. I would not be remembered as the savior of the Argonauts or
the slayer of Talos . . . but as the murderer of my own sons.
“I should have left you in Colchis, barbarian,” Jason snarled. All the eloquence that had won him the loyalty of the Argonauts
was gone; he was reduced to a raving madman.
“If you’d left me in Colchis, you never would have returned to Greece alive,” I replied. “Do you not remember that I saved
your life more than once? I might be a wicked woman, but you are the worst kind of man, because you exalt yourself as blameless
no matter what evil you do.”
Jason would not be pacified. “Better I had died than married you,” he spat.
I shook my head sadly. “No, you will only die when the rotted beam of the Argo strikes your head.”
My words surprised me, emerging fully formed from my unconscious and ringing with the authority of divine prophecy. Magic
stirred within me, awakened after a long slumber, and the sensation was a relief. Jason was temporarily shocked into silence
by my words, and I was struck by how apt it was, how symmetrical of idea, that Jason should meet his end in the rotting carcass
of his own ship.
Jason recovered himself quickly and continued to shout and rage, heedless of the onlookers, though I was no longer listening
to him. Instead, my mind turned to the memory of a day early on in our time in Corinth.
On this day there was a festival procession in honor of the goddess Hera. The goddess’s statue rode on a palanquin, and her
priestesses flanked it carrying incense. Musicians followed, sending tendrils of music into the air. Thessalus was still a
newborn and gurgled happily in my arms as the procession passed by. I remembered thinking how full of colors the world was,
how strong the sun shone here in Greece compared with the light in Colchis. It was springtime, and the scent of flowers filled
the air. Jason wrapped his arm around my shoulders, and in that moment it seemed as though anything was possible. We had survived
the wanderings of the Argo, he and I, and we would survive this as well.
The memory faded. Jason was still shrieking curses, and I marveled at how much he had changed. Together we had defied the
wicked old king Aeetes, but somewhere along the way, Jason had become like him.
“I wanted what I thought you were,” I said softly. “And you wanted what I gave you. A curse, nothing more, that was our time
together.”
Once upon a wine-dark sea, Jason and I promised each other that we would never be like Peleus and Thetis, bickering wrathfully for all to see.
That promise, at least, we were able to keep. We were not like Peleus and Thetis; we were much, much worse.
Time to leave. There was nothing more to be gained here, watching my former husband spluttering in the dirt. I shook out the
reins of the dragon chariot and felt my stomach lurch as it took to the sky.
The temple looked so small from the air, and the forms of the human beings milling around it were like nothing more than ants.
I circled it a few times, pondering my next move. Where do you go after the world ends? How do you carry on when all is lost?
The answer occurred to me in a flash of insight. Yes, of course. All paths led there; all barriers had fallen away. I did
not know if she would receive me, but I had to try.
I turned my chariot toward Mount Geraneia.