“YOU WHAT?” ODYSSEUS blurts when I tell him of the deal I’ve made with Aeetes. We are in one of the guest rooms of the palace. However, I do have to wonder what manner of host requires his guests to sleep five to a room. Orpheus, Odysseus, Phrixus and Paris will be my chamber mates this night, although I last saw Paris following a serving girl into the kitchens while Orpheus stayed behind to play for the courtiers.
“I agreed,” I say. I will not defend my actions to him. He is not King of Illamos Valley yet and I refuse to feel the need to consult him in everything I do.
“You have to know that nutcase has some trick up his sleeve.” Odysseus lets out a frustrated grunt as he turns in a circle while gripping his head as if it might pop off without the extra restraint. A sense of foolishness washes over me. He is right. I have no head for strategy. It should have been Odysseus sitting next to Aeetes at dinner, but as Prince of Illamos Valley, it would have been rude for me to insist my cousin take the place next to Colchis’s ruler. My head thrums with the thought that perhaps my father is right, maybe Odysseus should be heir.
“It’s the only way to get the pelt,” I say in my defense.
“I should have sat with you. I could have advised you instead of rambling on to—”
“To whom?”
“Medea.” Odysseus claps his hands and joy brightens his face as he plops down onto a bed. “She couldn’t take her eyes off you even when Paris was flirting with her. She’s the key.”
“I don’t know,” I say, backing away from Odysseus’s enthusiasm. “Herc Dion advised me to keep my distance from any woman until this is over.”
“This is an exception.” He leaps from the bed, too excited to remain stationary. “She’s not a woman; she’s a tool. Phrixus, could she help us, would she? She has to know how to get the pelt.”
“She’s clever, but I would avoid getting mixed up with her.”
I know the look on my cousin’s face too well. He is too pleased with his own plan to be swayed by Phrixus’s hesitation or my protests. He speaks to us both, a determined look on his face as he whips around a chair, swings his leg over it and drops into the seat while gripping the back rest.
“Look, I didn’t miss that scowl on her face when Aeetes slighted her on our arrival. I know that look. I’ve seen it on Penelope’s face more than once when a merchant has addressed me rather than her. Medea, who obviously has eyes for you, will be looking for a way to get even. We could use that to our advantage.”
Odysseus says this as if everything running through his head should be perfectly clear to me and Phrixus.
“Not being introduced is not the same as helping a stranger walk away with your father’s most prized possession,” I say.
“He’s right, Odysseus. You don’t know Medea. There’s no doubt she could be helpful, but you’d be wise to be wary. There’s something dark woven into her beauty. You want to keep her on your good side, but sometimes she makes it so you don’t know which side that is,” Phrixus says and then settles into a frayed wicker chair in a far corner, his face grim in the room’s dim candlelight.
“You sound like you know something about her,” I say.
“We were lovers. I made a suggestion she didn’t agree with and I woke the next morning to find my favorite hunting dog slaughtered and delivered to me in a box.”
“That is dark,” I say slowly, glancing to Odysseus who still looks eager and full of his own cleverness.
“You can’t be certain it was her,” he says. “The giants could have done it.”
Even I know this is ridiculous logic. Odysseus wants no impediment to his scheme and will grasp at pieces of hay to make it happen.
Phrixus sits at the edge of his chair. The pain of the memory written clearly on his face. “Before the dog was cut to pieces – gods, I hope it was before – he was strangled with an undergarment I had given her. It was still around his throat when I lifted the lid.” He shivers despite the warmth of the evening then offers a laugh that carries no hint of humor. “I thought the box contained a pair of boots I’d left in her bedchamber.”
“You never brought this up to Aeetes?” I ask.
“What? That I had been bedding his daughter behind his back? Aeetes may not see Medea for her true potential, but that doesn’t stop him from being as possessive of her as he is with everything else. I received the delivery the day she left to train with her Aunt Circe. When she returned I thought of bringing the matter up, but she has made it clear she wants nothing to do with me; whenever I try to approach her it’s as if I bounce off a wall of her rage. When Glauce told me she was pregnant, I started having nightmares of what Medea might do if she found out. Images of my newborn delivered to me dead in a box haunt my sleep.”
“Then move,” Odysseus says in a glib tone. He is clearly not affected by Phrixus’s distress. For all his cleverness, my cousin can be single-minded and will want to get moving on his plan, not linger over tales of angry lovers, dogs, and boots.
“You understand this family little. I am one of the few people who know how to get through the Colchis Gates even without the flag signal. How long do you think it would be before my family was hunted down by that paranoid old bugger?”
We fall silent. Odysseus paces the narrow room, muttering his own ideas to himself. I shift on my feet, as usual, uncertain what to do. Aeetes’s tasks sounded so simple when he mentioned them at the feast. Now, they seem as impossible as making flowers bloom along the shores of the Styx or of quenching my thirst with a mug of water from the Western Sea. I do need help. Unfortunately, I don’t think Odysseus can bluff me through this.
“So,” I say, my voice cutting through the tension in the room with an excess of false cheer, “should I or should I not seek help from the daughter?”
“It’s a distasteful option, but I think it’s your only one,” concedes Phrixus. “Even if the tasks are as easy as you make them sound, Aeetes will find some way to keep you from reaching that pelt. Ask for her help, but keep your head about you and don’t succumb to her charms. Medea is best kept at a distance. Once she gets her claws in you, you won’t escape without a lifetime of scars.”
* * *
The courtiers linger, consuming all they can from the pantry and cellars of Colchis Castle, leaving me to spend a lengthy few hours waiting until the castle has settled down before heading along the passages that Phrixus has said will take me to Medea’s rooms. In an alcove I hear rustling and freeze against the wall. It was stupid of me not to realize the alcoves make perfect places for guards to stand their watch. My heart thuds in my ears as I inch along the damp, stone wall. How am I to get past the alcove? If I knew the castle better I would be able to find another way to Medea’s room, but my only option now is to feign drunkenness and pretend I’ve gotten lost looking for the garderobe. Just as I am about to reveal myself, ready to stumble and slur my way past the guard, moaning giggles come from the alcove. They mix with the rustling of fabric and a woman sighs, “Paris.” I grin and skirt past the recessed area, but am unable to keep my eyes from peering in. A fine gown of emerald green Tillacean lace trailing from the alcove proves Paris has moved up in rank from his serving girls during the night’s revels.
After three more turns and one short backtrack, I find what I hope is Medea’s door. I hesitate then knock as lightly as possible. After several moments during which I swear I can hear guards’ voices just around the corner, a maid peeks out the door, her eyelids droopy as if she’s been disturbed from sleep. She barely acknowledges me before peering down the hall.
“I need to speak to your lady,” I say.
The maid glances behind her and then again down the hall past me. “She didn’t say to expect anyone.”
“I’m here to ask a favor,” I say, wishing the girl would stop scanning the area over my shoulder. Her caution sends fingers dancing along my spine as if someone lurks close by waiting to seize me. Over the maid’s shoulder I see the outline of a woman coming toward us.
“Kirista, who—?” Medea stops and her eyes open wide at the sight of me. A hand flies up to preen her hair and my eyes follow the line of her arm to her breasts that are outlined by her sheer nightdress. Realizing where my gaze has landed, my eyes dart back to meet hers. I expect her to be offended, to tell me to leave immediately, but she only offers an alluringly shy smile. My heart drops to my gut. I can’t do this.
As a prince who is toned from vigile training and duty, I have had my share of admirers. I know the look of those searching merely for bedsport and those who long to attach themselves to me. The latter, the look of hopeful expectancy is the same look on Medea’s face. It is a look of longing that makes me want to back away, return to my room and face Aeetes’s challenges on my own. I may not be the cleverest of men, but I know if she helps me, it will be with hope for something more. Something as a man betrothed since childhood I cannot give her. I cannot use her emotions for my gain.
Just as all these thoughts tumble in on me, an image of my men as Colchian slaves fills my mind. My crew relies on me. Surely they must have expected some danger on this journey, probably they even looked forward to it, but they also expected to return to their poli as free men of Osteria. I cannot let guilt over hurting a woman’s feelings or turmoil over using her admiration to my advantage stop me from my duty to protect my friends and my polis.
I need to think more like Paris who has no qualms about making women love him, using them for his needs and then leaving them without their being angered or hurt over the fling. I need to sway Medea to help me by making her believe I want her in the same way she clearly wants me. I have to stir her desire without rousing her suspicion. I am about ready to invite myself in when an image of a dog cut to fit in a box wipes away my resolve. How I wish it was Odysseus this woman had fallen for. Odysseus could outtalk and outwit his way through any challenge.
“He says he wants a favor,” the maid says, “but I thought you said no one—”
“You may go to your room, Kirista. I’m sure the prince has a reason for coming so late. Come in.” She steps back and gestures me into the room. The maid gives me a knowing smirk before slipping into a side chamber.
Medea’s room glows warm with candlelight. At the center stands a large bed and I can’t stop my mind from wondering what she does for bedsport to need such a spacious bed. The possibilities stir me, but I force down my arousal with the thought of what happened to Phrixus’s dog. To avoid looking at the bed, I stride over to the far edge of the room. Along the wall where windows look out to Colchis Bay stands a work bench stocked with books, glass, grinding stones and items I don’t have names for. I step over to the bench, observe the equipment and realize what it means. When I turn back to speak to Medea, she is barely an arm’s length from me. I remind myself not to look at the curves the sheer gown barely conceals.
“You made the looking glass,” I say with a catch in my throat.
“Yes, designed it, cut the glass, shaped it, polished it, set it and my father takes the credit. But you didn’t come here to explore my work table.” She is so close, I could reach for her and pull her to me. Her eyes, dancing with the flicker of the candlelight, seem to plead with me to do just that before darting to her toes. A moment later she glances up at me through her lashes. The look is shy, unsure. It is a look that makes me want to hold her; it is a look I must resist. I angle myself back to the table, feigning interest in a stoppered bottle that I begin to fiddle with.
“Orpheus would love this stuff. He’s quite skilled at the harp, but longs to be an engineer.” I hear myself speaking too fast and don’t know why I am rambling on about Orpheus, but the words continue to tumble out. “Left to his own devices, he’d have this entire castle lit with solar panels in a month’s time.”
Medea puts her hand over mine. I can smell the musky fragrance she must put on after she bathes. The smell makes me think of her emerging from a pool of steaming water, of her nipples hardening as she steps into chilled air. She eases the bottle from my hand and sets it aside, out of my reach. My hand pulls away from the table to smooth the back of my tunic.
“I’m sure you didn’t come here to talk about electricity.”
The way she looks at me, as if I am the only man who has ever delighted her eyes, draws me in. In my head I chant, “Dog, dog, dog” to keep from kissing her, hoisting her in my arms and bedding her. It works and I find myself able to turn away from her magnetic gaze to glance out the window.
“I have a favor to ask,” I say as if striking a bargain with an agora vendor. “A favor that would require your disloyalty.”
“You want me to help you with the tasks my father set you.”
“How did you know about that?” The surprise turns me away from the view and back to her.
“Words move swiftly here in Colchis. In fact, I’ve known for some time what my father intends.”
“Will you then?”
Medea steps in so close that if someone saw us, the person would think we were young lovers trying to get as near as possible while remaining chaste. I breathe in her warm, enchanting scent. The idea of slipping into the baths with her rushes over me. I blink hard as if that will reset my mind. When I open my eyes again Medea is looking at me expectantly as if her stare alone can drive the suggestion of whatever it is she wants me to do or say into my head. When I don’t move, when I don’t speak, she unfastens her nightdress. It pools to the floor as she reaches up to kiss me.
I back away from her just as our lips touch. I can’t do this. I am no Paris. I can’t use her like this. She has to help me, but without this expectation for something more. If she hopes helping me will make me love her, that is not my fault, but I will do nothing to encourage it. I bend down and shimmy the fabric up over Medea’s body, cursing my resolve as my eyes scan every part of her. I fumble with the ribbons at her shoulders as I tie the nightdress in place.
“No,” I say. “I didn’t come here for that.”
She steps back. Her face floods with disappointment and self-doubt. A pang of guilt hits me. “I—It’s not you. You’re—” I gesture toward her body and raise my eyebrows to indicate approval.
“No, I understand. I just thought—” Self-consciousness gives her voice an awkward halting tone. She stops talking as if unsure whose voice has come out of her mouth. I hate myself. No vigile training could prepare me for this. Should I bed her? Is that what she wants? For me to pleasure her and then allow me to wheedle secrets from her? Somehow the thought makes me pity her for wanting me. What have I done to make this woman attach herself to me so readily?
“You’re beautiful. I can’t imagine not wanting you,” I say as I take her hand. She looks up at me, the admiration in her eyes is tinged with scorn. I know that look, the look of a woman who doubts the sincerity of man’s words, but at the same time desperately wants them to be true. I brush my fingers along her chin, guiding her to look into my eyes. Odysseus’s words ring in my head: This woman is a tool. A tool that can help restore my place in Illamos Valley and keep my men from enslavement. “But I can’t be distracted from this task. I think you know how it is trying to impress a father. Yours ignores you, keeps you under his thumb when you seem like a woman who could fly on her own wings; mine thinks I’m an idiot and that I’m not worthy to rule. If you help me I can prove my father wrong and you can really annoy yours.” She laughs at this and the sound fills me with a sense of warmth toward her. “I can’t lose my polis. I hope you are willing to help me.” I lower my hand from her chin and brush it along the smooth thickness of her raven dark hair. She holds my gaze and something stirs in me. Not lust, although there is a hefty dose of that bubbling within, but a feeling of how good it feels to be admired. Suddenly, I can imagine being with her just to experience more of that feeling.
I cup her head in my hand and bend to kiss her. Only a light kiss, the kiss of a man too unsure of his self-control to resist going further, but the jolt it sends through me is enough to drive away the guilt over what I am doing. She will help me because she thinks she loves me. She will help me because she thinks it will make me love her in return. She will help me and be left in sorrow when I and the crew rush back to Illamos Valley with her father’s greatest treasure. But I cannot dwell on these thoughts. I kiss her again, brushing her lips lightly with mine as I speak.
“Help me, Medea. Please.”
“Anything,” she says and takes me by the hand to her worktable. “But we don’t have much time,” she says, her voice suddenly professional, like a medic prescribing a course of treatment. “I’ve worked out what must be done to get you through the tasks. It’s not hard, but you should have come sooner so I could explain in more detail. I had wanted to come to you, but, well, I know you share a room with Phrixus.” She pauses and seems about to say more on this, but instead declares, “Still, we should have time if we start now.” She lets go of my hand to rummage through a wooden casket crammed full of jars. She holds one out to me and I take it, the marble it is carved from feels shockingly cool after the warmth of her skin. “You’ll need this first for the bulls. You are aware they breathe fire, aren’t you?”
I stare at her dumbly. Aeetes never mentioned anything about his bulls spouting fire from their nostrils. My shoulders slump and something begins pounding behind my eyes. Medea places her hand over mine. Her face shows no sign of giving in.
“Don’t worry,” she says, her voice full of reassurance. “This salve will protect you as long as you cover your entire body with it.”
When she slips her hand off mine, I open the jar. It contains a large dollop of ivory-toned cream that smells like summer rain. Before I can ask how a salve can protect me from fire, she is showing me two gold strands. Thin, delicate chains like the kind women weave through their hair.
“Without their fire stopping you, you should be able to harness the bulls with these.”
I hesitate to take them. She seems wise, but could she be mad? “These couldn’t control even the tamest bull.”
“They’re not just any chains,” she says. “For all his disdain of god lovers, my father loves to collect anything of the Twelve. When I saw these for the first time, I thought my father had been tricked, but Circe has verified their authenticity. These chains are charmed, crafted by Hephaestus himself. Hephaestus hoped to use them to entangle Aphrodite, to hold her, and to control her. They would have worked too, but he didn’t want a wife who was forced to love him. He wanted her to come to him on her own.” She pauses, casts me a shy glance and then resumes her lecture as she explains how to attach the chains to the bulls and then the bulls to the plow. “The chains will give you full control over the bulls.”
She holds out the chains again and I extend my hand for them. She unravels one chain into my palm. It is so light and smooth it feels like trying to hold water. When she passes me the second chain, I close my fingers around hers and lean in for another kiss.
“No chains needed,” I say and enjoy the flush that blooms on her cheeks. Her eyes scold me as if I’m a student not minding his lessons.
“The plowing and sowing are simple labors. The rows don’t have to be perfectly straight and, with the bulls’ strength and speed, you should finish the plowing by midday. The only concern at that point is minding the seeds as you sow them. Reach into the bag carefully. Dragons’ teeth never dull.”
Other than learning which leaves not to wipe with to avoid a blistered backside, my education and interests have never extended into botany. I assume dragon’s teeth must be some type of plant.
“And do you have a magic scythe to cut the crop down?”
“It’s not plants that will come up, if that’s what you think.” Medea looks at me, her face stony with concern, and I instantly regret my flippant tone.
“What then?”
“An army,” she says, as if this should be obvious.
“An army? How am I supposed to get through an entire army by myself before nightfall? Gods, I’ll be killed before they’ve all sprouted.”
I hang my head in despair. I should bed Medea now and enjoy my last night alive, or at least my last night as a free man.
She grabs my jaw in her hands and forces me look at her. “The army is stupid, you are not. At least not with me to advise you.”
She tells me how I can outwit the army; it’s a plan so simple I can hardly believe it will work, but with Medea’s confidence I dare to think it might.
“You’re a genius.” I kiss her again allowing myself a small taste of her tongue before pulling away from her lips. “Your father greatly underestimates you. You are alluring and clever. Any man would be lucky to be yours.” Our next kiss lasts a little longer, explores a little deeper, but Medea is the one who breaks off this time.
“You need your rest and you won’t find it here. I’ll see you at the arena in a few hours. And one other matter, when you win the pelt—” I am about to contradict her surety in my success, but she holds up a hand to stop my words. “When, not if, you obtain it, do not accept any food or drink from my father. He surely doubts your ability to complete his tasks, but Aeetes always thinks of every possibility. He will poison you to keep his prize.”
“Why wait? He could have just killed us tonight and been done with it,” I say, my head pounding as the army of doubt marches back in.
“Aeetes takes pride in his little retinue of courtiers. And those courtiers primarily come to the castle because it is the only place in Colchis where they can have fine foods and wines. If he poisoned you at dinner tonight, do you think they would show up at his table again? Left alone, my father would be nothing more than a hermit on a lonely bay. He likes to think himself as important as any other ruler in Osteria. He wouldn’t dare ruin that when he hopes to get a good piece of entertainment from you on the morrow. Now, back to your room and don’t forget anything I’ve told you.”
As I wander back to my chamber, I recite to myself all I must do and the order in which I must do it. I fear forgetting some tiny detail and hope this recitation – the same way I learned the capitals of the poli and their patron gods during my schooling with Chiron – will scratch the words into my memory.
By the time I return to the bedchamber, I have almost made a song of the tasks, a grim song, but a memorable one. Inside the room Odysseus and Orpheus compete with one another for the loudest snore, Paris has finally made his way to his own bed, and Phrixus murmurs a name in his sleep that sounds more like Medea than Glauce. I know I need to sleep. Even with Medea’s guidance, I will need to be rested and alert, but rather than fall into slumber, my song rings through my head and my thoughts linger on Medea.