Medea (13 page)

'Confess!' screamed the king. He was purple, and Trioda whispered to a slave to prepare the draught for apoplexy. He was working himself into another fit.

'Lord, we did not plot your downfall,' said Cytisoros, the eldest son of Phrixos. 'Not I, and not my brother Argeos or my brother Phrontis or my little brother Melanion.'

'You are the sons of the stranger,' snarled the king. 'You are foreigners, bearing foreign seed.'

'Lord, we would not harm you,' said Argeos.

'Who, then?'

Cytisoros made a fatal error. He did not speak, but he looked aside at Aegialeus, and the king caught the look. I have never heard human voice rise to such a shriek.

'You dare to accuse my own son; the son of my loins?'

Cytisoros backed away from the incandescent king.

'No, Lord…' he stammered.

'Exile!' Aetes called for his counsellors, and they ran into the room, tablets at the ready. 'I cannot kill you, sons of the stranger, for you are my kin, after this my own son. But you shall leave my kingdom. I will give you a ship and you shall leave - all of you. Forever.'

'Lord, give us leave to say goodbye to our mother, your daughter,' begged Cytisoros. He was shocked, but he was still thinking.

I could not bear to look at the renewed smirk on the mouth of my despicable half-brother. It was desperately unfair. The king was making the wrong decision. I stirred, but Trioda caught my wrist.

'The errors of men are not ours to mend, daughter of Hekate,' she instructed.

'But he's exiling the wrong ones!' I protested.

'He's a man,' said Trioda in a vicious undertone. 'Of course he's wrong.'

I was forced to stand and watch as Phrixos' sons, with whom I had played as a child, were marked with red paint to signify that they were exiles. Chalkiope, my sister, was brought in to receive their farewells. She wept painfully, crying out on my father that he was mad, so that he struck her across the face and the slaves carried her away.

Then my playmates were gone, and I could not avoid looking at Aegialeus. He was sitting at the king's feet. Aetes' old, veined hand rested on his curly black hair and he was as smooth and self-assured as a wolf.

He was smiling that smug smile, and I felt sick.

 

It was just before dusk on the next day that Trioda announced that I was to travel with the Scythians for the spring and summer.

It was not unknown for Hekate's priestesses to travel with the nomadic, or royal, Scyths. They did not camp, except for the winter, and they travelled on many roads where the sacred places were unattended. Every ten years or so, one of the daughters of the Dark Mother would go along on the circuit with the tribes, to clean and re-sanctify the temples and altars, to advise on medicine and to learn, for a priestess is always learning, until Hekate gathers her to her bosom.

Trioda was sending me to keep me out of my half-brother's grasp, and I was grateful.

I had no opportunity to speak with my father, and Chalkiope would not confide in me, even when I went to tend her bruised face. I gathered my belongings - precious few - and called Kore and Scylla. Trioda took me to the Scythian camp. We walked in amongst the noisy, colourful crowd and for the first time I felt different in my black robes.

'Little Scyth,' said a voice from above me. A woman sitting comfortably on a wagon tossed one plait back across her shoulder and grinned. I groped in my memory. I felt a strong hand, and remembered the street.

'Lady,' I replied. 'It is a long time since I ran under the hoofs of your horse!'

'You travel with us, priestess?' she asked, and I nodded.

'Excellent,' she said. 'Ride with me, if you can. My name is Anemone,' she added, as Trioda dragged me onward by the sleeve.

We bowed before a fat man, slouched on a pile of cushions in the corner of a sumptuous tent which stank of curdled milk. I had seen him before. He was the Scythian king, Idanthyrsus. His bulk did not preclude his excellent horsemanship, and he was reputed to have three wives - though that may have just been gossip. The Scythians were little known in Colchis, and out of ignorance comes fantasy. He was very dark of skin, with long hair arranged in two plaits, and was hung with gold jewellery. Like most Scyths, he had a broad face, with high, flat cheekbones, a wide nose, and eyes so black that their expression was impossible to read.

'Princess,' he nodded to me. 'Trioda. This is your acolyte?'

'Full priestess now, and very acute.' Trioda was even more short of speech than usual. 'You travel the usual way?'

'The usual way, yes. Unless you have some seeing for us?'

'Fair weather and good fortune,' said Trioda, spitting out the words as though she was cursing, not blessing. 'But if Medea returns unvirgin, then disaster and plague.'

'The women will care for her,' he said. 'She cannot take a man until she kills an enemy in battle - and that is not likely to happen. She will return to you as virgin as she is now. Come here, Princess.'

I approached him warily. His hand shot out and pinched my breast. It hurt. I struck the hand away. He chuckled, revealing rotten teeth in a cracked mouth.

'She's virgin enough,' he said. Trioda bristled.

'I wish to ride with Anemone,' I announced haughtily. The king raised his eyebrows.

'You have made a powerful friend in a short time, priestess,' he said, and made a sign which might have been to ward against evil. 'By all means, Princess Medea. If Anemone will have you, you may ride with her.'

The dogs accompanied me out of the tent. Once in the open, Trioda dusted me down with her hard hand, then gave me a bag of medicines.

'Remember your teaching,' she chided. 'Do nothing until you must, then act surely and swiftly. The goddess will aid you. Preserve your maidenhood against all force; rather die a maiden than live dishonoured. But in that case make sure that you take your attacker with you to Hekate's judgement. Speak politely to all women, they are your sisters, however strange their ways are. I will see you at the end of autumn, daughter.' She did not kiss me. She turned and walked away.

I stood clutching the leather bag, feeling a little at a loss - she could at least have told me that she wished me well - when a lazy voice at my elbow commented, 'Old witch. Come along, sister. Anemone sent me to guide you, guessing that Trioda would just leave you. This way,' said a young woman, taking my arm.

I was minded to resent her dismissal of my mistress like that, but she smiled at me. Her teeth were like seeds in her red mouth, and she had a wealth of beautiful chestnut hair. Kore and Scylla leapt up on her, licking her face. The dog's confidence decided me. Whoever she was, I liked her.

'I am Iole,' said the young woman, following a twisting path through a maze of caravans and tents. The Scyths live in wagons, which are drawn by oxen or horses. They are lofty, with wide axles, difficult to overturn. They stretch thick hides over high lattice-work sides, making a kind of upturned basket. In them they travel long distances, taking their houses with them like snails. Each Scythian lives alone. The men have their own wagons, and the women theirs. The children live with whichever parent has time to look after them. They are a warlike people, and are much feared.

They are also averse to washing and not given to hygiene, possibly because water is scarce in the desert and they do not stay in one place for long. The camping ground was filthy with slops and droppings of animals and humans. I was glad we were leaving on the morrow. I gathered up my robe and picked my way through, trying to listen to what Iole was saying. Kore and Scylla, overawed by all the new smells, kept close to me and did not reply to challenges from the Scythian hunting dogs.

'The last priestess who came with us hated Scythian ways,' she said, avoiding a woman who was washing a recalcitrant child in a shallow dish.

'Indeed?' I said.

'She thought we were all barbarians. But Anemone says you are a Scyth in Colchian skin, so she is pleased that you are coming.' Iole turned the corner of a wagon and passed a naked man. He was sitting on the edge of his wagon and mending his breeches. Iole did not give him a second look and I tried not to stare. We skirted an uneasy mare who was suckling her foal.

'Who is Anemone?' I asked, recognising the painted wagon on which the woman had been perched when she had first hailed me. It was patterned with stripes and spots in various colours, mostly red and orange and yellow.

'She's the priestess of Ares, our own god, and the wife of the king,' said Iole.

I halted. When the woman appeared, I bowed. She waved her hand amiably and then extended it so that I could climb aboard. She was very casual, for a queen.

'Priestess,' she greeted me. 'Sling up that bundle, Iole. Good. Now, little Scyth, we shall have some drink, and you shall settle into Scythian ways which, as you will have seen, are more relaxed than the ways of the court of Aetes. How is he, by the way? Still having fits?'

'He has banished the sons of Phrixos,' I said, ducking under the woven hanging to come into the wagon.

It was dim inside. The hides which kept out the weather were not visible. The inside of the basket was hung with patterned cloth, cleverly painted with little horsemen and the animals they hunted: deer with elaborate antlers, oxen and boar. On the walls hung weapons, several bows and full quivers. A basket held clothes, and a pile of carpets and blankets made the queen's bed. It was close and comfortable, after the glare and the dust outside, and I sank down on the bed. Scylla and Kore flanked me, sitting close and nervous, ears back.

Anemone sat down opposite me. She was wearing breeches of light deerhide and a leather corselet over a linen tunic. Her feet were bare. Her necklace of gold coins chimed as she moved. She was very exotic to a princess who had worn black garments since the cradle.

'Drink,' she instructed, handing me a wooden cup. I sipped. It was strange but refreshing, tasting a little like fermented apple juice. 'That's kermiss,' she added, 'mare's milk. So, banished Chalkiope's sons, has he? Yet I would have said the threat came closer from his own heart.'

'Possibly,' I murmured. She gave me a sharp look.

'Wait until we know each other better, Princess,' she said and smiled. 'Meanwhile, we leave in the morning. I must go to the king directly, but I shall be back soon, and Iole will keep you company. She has no man yet - we really need a battle, or some of our young women will die maidens.'

I felt that travelling with the Scythians was going to be very interesting.

 

I wandered down with Herakles and Hylas to look at the ship.

I was tongue-tied with shame at not having recognised the hero about whom I had heard so many stories. In daylight, the cured skin across his broad shoulders was certainly a lion's hide, or what had once been a lion's hide. It had been slept on and dragged through thorns and wetted in both salt and river water many times since Herakles had stripped it from its owner's body. The golden mane was grey with dust.

The hero was also much weathered. He trod heavily, as though he were weary, but his eyes were alert and today he was delighted. One of the Iolkos chidren had raced up and shyly presented him with a miraculous shell, which the divers had found while hunting octopus. It was spiky, blue-green and iridescent, and Herakles carried it in his big hands as though it was a crown. By contrast Atalante, at his side, was full of the joy of youth. Her step was springy and light. Her feet seemed to float above the earth, and she moved like a dancer. Herakles seemed pleased to be with us, and Hylas was delighted. He shook his head, so that ringlets of ebony hair fell across his slim neck, and exclaimed 'Isn't she beautiful? Greetings, Argos! How long until she is seaworthy?'

'Soon enough,' grunted the old man. 'You'll be saying farewell to your breakfast soon enough, son of Dropion.'

Argo
- swift - looked alarmingly fragile. The ribs stood up, half-fleshed now as the shipwrights attached the pine planks fresh cut from the slopes of Centaurs' Mountain to the graceful bones of the vessel. But she seemed small, no longer than twenty paces from bow to stern, and perhaps five across. The keel had received its ram, which smooths the water as the ship moves, creating an area of calm on either side for the rowers. I stretched, flexing my hands, hoping my strength would be sufficient for the task ahead.

'Greetings,' said Lynkeos. He was brotherless. 'I've given Idas the slip - he's playing some drinking game. I don't think your uncle Pelias is very pleased at having us all in his palace,' he commented. 'Those heroes are hard on the crockery and furnishings. Idmon has come with me.'

He introduced a dark, thin, intense man, dressed in the saffron robes of a seer. He had the strangest eyes I have ever seen in a living man. They were perfectly blank. No emotion showed on Idmon's gaze. He bowed politely and we returned the courtesy. Hylas smiled his sweetest at Idmon, got no response, and pouted.

Idmon lifted one hand and whistled. It was a high, shrill, ugly sound, but it produced results. Out of the sky a huge white bird dropped, the one which the men of Iolkos call
Peregrinator
, Wanderer. Men see it sometimes - I had seen it myself - s
tadia
out to sea, hovering over the pathless ocean. It is an omen of storms, but the fishermen say it brings the fortunate breeze, being a child of Zephyros, the west wind, most kindly of the four brothers. The wingspan of this bird was greater than the outstretched arms of a man, but it bent its regal head and wicked beak as though it was listening to what Idmon said as it sat on his shoulder, cruel talons gripping through the yellow cloth. I heard the word 'Colchis'. The bird flapped suddenly, as though alarmed, and nearly lifted the seer into the air, but it soon calmed, allowing him to caress its snowy head, and he finished his sentence. We could not understand the words. I do not speak, as Idmon did, the language of the bird people.

He lifted his hand and the
peregrinator
gained height, circling us twice before it flew out to sea. Argos, still clutching his adze, knelt down at Idmon's feet and asked in an awed whisper, 'Master, what omen for this my ship?'