Medea (28 page)

I had never seen such beautiful eyes. They were grey, but the actual tint was hard to define; the light in a shallow stream, perhaps, flecked with gold. Clear eyes like water. There was a quality of innocence about this warrior. He looked at me for a while and then said, 'Lady?'

'Lord?' I replied in Achaean, the language he was speaking.

'Where am I?' he asked simply. 'What has happened?'

'You came to rescue the Scythians, Lord, and saved our lives by killing the painted men, the Androphagi. You are in the wagon of the queen of the Scyths. I am Medea, and I will tend you.'

'Am I wounded?' He tried to sit up, grunted, and lay down again. I was reassured. At least this man felt pain.

Not that he would continue to feel it, after I had applied some numbing ointment and administered my willow-bark and poppy draught, of course. I did this and he lay peaceably under my hands, though I must have hurt him afresh.

'The leg wound is fairly serious,' he commented, assessing his body as a Scyth assesses a horse she is minded to purchase. 'Arrow, was it?'

'Yes. It was deep and across the bone, and some of the muscle is cut. I have stitched it and if you lie still it may knit.'

'You are young to be so knowledgeable,' he mused, not even flinching as I changed the crusted bandages. I liked his voice. It was deep and clear, like a bell. 'Ah, of course. The lady Medea, eh? You must be princess of Colchis. Why are you here with the Scyths?'

'I am travelling to the shrines, Lord. I am a priestess of Hekate.'

'Someone has taught you well,' he said sleepily. 'Your hands are quick and sure. I am in your debt, Lady, and the debt of all women.'

'Lord, who are you?' I asked. '
Kallinikos
just means 'Beautiful in Victory' in Achaean. But the Scyths say that you are a folk-tale and I have never seen anyone fight like you did.'

'I am the servant of women, Hera's man. They call me Herakles,' he said simply, and fell asleep.

 

The Scyths burned their dead on a great pyre. We wailed and tore our hair, chanting the names of the dead. Then the ashes were sifted and pounded for any fragment of bone, and scattered into the air. A wind came up and blew the ash away. The Scythians have no tombs but Scythia itself.

Herakles slept, on and off, for seven days. We talked when he was awake. He told me that he had lost a boy, Hylas, whom he loved and who was under his protection, and that he had run mad for a time - he did not know how long. Around the fire at night, the Scyths had told me tales of this Herakles. The goddess had tested him by sending battle-rage, in which he had slain his own children. Then he had undertaken great labours, even descending to the Achaean underworld to haul forth the guardian of the dead, a three-headed dog called Cerberus. I asked him about his labours.

'Eurystheus set me harder and harder tasks,' he told me, lying back in the fleeces and sipping the pain-killing infusion. Even after two days, he was sitting up and seemed to have no fever. 'He hoped that each one would kill me, but I could not die. I woke, you see, Princess, in my own house, and piled at my feet were the dead bodies of my sons, and I did not want to live, but the goddess would not let any creature slay me. Wound me, certainly. This,' he traced a long puckered scar down one thigh, 'was the Erimanthean boar. I brought it back alive. This was the Hydra.' Round scars like cupping marks ran down his side. 'One of the Stymphalian birds made this,' he showed me a scar which cut through his hair beside his temple. 'But nothing was allowed to kill me.'

'I am a priestess of the Mother, that same lady who tries you, Herakles,' I said. I had to convince him to try my cure, and therefore needed to explain my credentials, or he would refuse the
lithos,
faithful to his goddess' will. 'In the temple an old woman came to me, and told me of a cure for battle-madness. I have compounded it for you.'

'The old woman - did you know her?' he asked. A small light of hope had been lit in the beautiful trout-stream eyes.

'No, Lord, she was a stranger. A bent woman in black robes, with a hood over her hair.' This was perfectly true.

'Hera has approved me,' he murmured. The great hands clasped together. Kore, who was lying with her head on his chest, pricked up her ears.

'Here it is, lord Herakles.' He took the round stone and looked at it. It had a faintly greasy feel, for it was compounded of wax and the correct herbs, melted and poured into a mould.

'How does it work?'

'When you feel the rage coming on you, saviour of the Scyths, put the stone into your mouth and hold it there while you say a prayer to your lady. Then you will feel the madness ebb. Do not swallow it. It can be used again and again; the potency will fade very slowly, and if you need another, come to Colchis and ask for Medea and I will compound it afresh. Put it back into this leather pouch which the grateful Scyths have made for you. There is little we can give you, lord Herakles, for the gift of our lives, since you will not take treasure or women or men, but allow us to give you this.'

'At last,' he whispered. Then he sat up, heedless of his healing wounds, and laid both gnarled hands with wincing delicacy on my shoulders. He drew me forward and kissed me, on the forehead, on both cheeks, and then very gently on my mouth.

Then he lay back and closed his eyes, and I saw that he was weeping.

I left him with Scylla and Kore, who had always comforted me.

 

When he had recovered enough to walk, leaning on a staff and my shoulder, he sat down at the Scythian fires and listened to their stories. Sometimes, if they begged, he would tell of his labours and of strange encounters in the world, but he was not really interested in tales of battle and death.

The Scythian children, who sat at his feet, quickly found that they could buy some of his attention with pretty or strange objects; stones shaped like shells, flowers, odd animals or insects.

I came upon Herakles the
Kallinikos
sitting unaffectedly on a rug on the ground, his hands cupped around something which chirped.

'It's hatched untimely, and its parents have abandoned it,' he said, opening his horny palms to show me a featherless bird. It was the ugliest little creature I had ever seen. It consisted of an oversize beak and oversize claws, held together with a little bag of naked yellow skin. It opened the beak and chirped, gaping.

'I can understand that,' I said.

'It will be a beautiful bird when it grows a little and finds some clothing,' he said smiling. 'The children brought it to me.'

And he wove a little basket for the bird and fed it more dotingly than its mother would have. It ate meat, and the children were kept hard at work finding insects to keep up with its ravenous appetite.

Herakles himself healed cleanly and easily. The flesh slid together and knitted, leaving a flat scar, another to join the patchwork leather garment which was his body. I heard the children singing a little song one afternoon, as we lazed in the cool shade and waited for the sun to go down.

Red wasp to green wasp said,

'Look, under that bush.

There's a man sleeping,

Careless of wounds.

Come down, brother,

Let's fill our bellies.'

Green wasp to red wasp said,

'Brother, you are joking,

Do you know who that is

Sleeping in the sun?

That's Herakles, brother

One they call leather-bum,

You'll break your sting

If you try to eat that.'

 

Herakles heard them and laughed.

By the time the little bird had grown feathers - and it was a fine creature, as he had said, that speckled one the Scyths call sky-hawk, and so tame that it took food from his hand - he was healed. He came to me one dawn, walking without a limp, the sky-hawk sitting on his shoulder.

'I thank you for your care, Medea, Princess of Colchis,' he said. I took his hand. Kore and Scylla whined.

'I will never see you again, Lord, but I have enjoyed your wisdom and your company,' I said, with perfect truth.

'Yet me may meet again. For your care, Lady, and for your healing, I am your servant. If you need me, Lady Medea, call for me, and if I am still in the world, I will come.'

Then he walked away into the woods, dressed as always in the dusty lion skin, and I was sure I would never see him again.

 

There was only one thing more we could do for King Phineas, and Akastos did it. The son of Pelias was an expert herdsman, and took me and Admetos with him as he went to talk to the people of the little village nearest to Phineas' hermitage.

I had not spoken much to Akastos since he came on board against his father's wishes. He was not tall, but stocky and strong, and I had heard his oar-mates laughing at his wit. He was dark, as was his cousin Admetos, and now both faces were solemn, indicating that they had come to talk to the
demos
about something very important. I wondered what it was.

'Men of Thynia,' he began. 'I am Akastos of Iolkos, and this is my cousin, Admetos, and our shipmate, Nauplios. You have heard of the terrible curse inflicted on Phineas the prophet?'

Bald heads nodded. The
demos
of this village was composed of ten men, no more. No women, of course, were visible. These men made all the decisions which needed to be made about the fate of the community.

Their spokesman quavered, 'We knew that the harpies were eating his food, good food, too, which we brought him every day. But what could we do, lords? Gods are gods and are not to be disobeyed.'

Akastos nodded, ponderously.

"But now a new prophecy has been made. Phineas' long punishment is over. His table will be set up before his own house. There you will bring his food, for the harpies will no longer molest him. In thanksgiving for the attention of the gods, and to honour him, I am sure that this
demos
will want to make the lord Phineas a present.'

The old men looked resigned. 'Of course, Lords,' they agreed.

'I will not ask for your women,' said Akastos. 'Nor for your oxen or your sheep. I do not ask for your sons, men of Thynia, nor for your horses or donkeys or goats.'

The
demos
looked at each other in relief. Akastos had named all the important possessions of any village.

'But I will ask for one thing, which will make a valuable present,' he said.

Akastos named his wish, and the demos brought out a selection. I sat down as the discussion ranged over birth, parentage, talents, skills and docility. Akastos knew all about his subject, and Admetos rejected several candidates, sipping at terracotta cups of very good local wine as the words flowed. Both of them knew that one cannot hurry peasants, and they must be allowed to proceed at their own pace. A farmer will even bargain with the gods, they say in Iolkos.

About the time of the emptying of the market-place, one was chosen, the deal concluded and suitable offerings made. And with the fervent and relieved good wishes of the village we carried it back to the beach, where Argo was resupplied and ready to leave as soon as the wind changed.

Telamon, Ancaeas and Oileus had carried the great table between them down to the sea and scoured it clean, scraping off a generation of droppings. Then they had hauled it up the beach to the small stone house in which the old king lived and set it up outside, under his vine. Argos had built him a bench out of driftwood. The house contained some cups and platters, and Melas was serving Phineas roasted meat, white bread and olives, as we came along with our present.

Phineas was superlatively clean. He shone. His beard and hair were as flossy as new wool. His black prophet's robe had dried, and he also wore Oileus' cloak, which that abashed hero had given to the old king. It was a fine, if faded, red.

Phineas ate very slowly, as though he was seated at one of the sacramental meal, when the Orpheans dine with the gods.

 

We sat in the sand and watched him. Melas, who was quick, had learned that he must continue to speak, so that Phineas would feel comfortable with someone behind him. The boy was talking about Iolkos and his father's building of the great ship
Argo,
and Phineas took another mouthful of roasted sheep and smiled.

For some reason his smile made my eyes prick with tears.

When Phineas could not eat any more, Melas collected the dishes and laid them under the cover which Argos had also made, a box-shaped wooden construction which would keep the flies off until Phineas wished to dine again. His wine was kept cool in a big red clay water-pot next to the table.

Akastos and Admetos, carrying our gift, knelt at Phineas' feet and put it into his lap.

He recoiled when he touched a live thing, then the old thin hands came down caressingly when he realised that he was touching fur, not feathers.

'Lord, we have brought a companion. We know that you prefer to live alone, nor would we trust any child of that village to stay with you,' said Akastos, grinning.

'But here is a companion who will never leave you. You have no sight, King Phineas, but he will be your eyes, keener than a man's. He will eat from your hand, Lord, but he will not foul your table. This in memory of
Argo
and the quest for the Golden Fleece,' said Admetos, and the puppy scaled the king's chest and licked his neck, wagging its stump of a tail and whimpering with delight.

'He is of the race of the sheep-dogs, bred for valour and intelligence,' said Akastos. 'Not a hunting or a war-dog, but one who is used to men and has lived close for many generations. He will lie down on your hearth, lord, and his breathing will lull your sleep, for he will watch and bark if any come to you.'

'Blessings uncounted be upon you,' whispered Phineas. 'I shall call him Argo,' he added, and Argo the puppy barked and nibbled at the king's ear, while we went back to
Argo
the ship and clambered aboard.

The last we saw of King Phineas, he was sitting on his bench in front of his house, weeping into Argo's fluffy fur, while the small dog licked his face.