I’M HUMMING ONE of Orpheus’s tunes as I watch dawn’s light brighten the harbor far below the window of the guest chamber. When they wake, Odysseus and Phrixus give me a chastising look.
“You look much too happy a man to have heeded my advice,” Phrixus says. Even I don’t miss the tinge of jealousy on his tongue.
“I stuck to your advice, and yours,” I say to Odysseus. “I did not bed Medea and she has instructed me on how to survive this day.”
“Then why do you look so pleased?”
“And why were you back so late?” Paris teases.
“Think what you want. I’ve told you the truth. Orpheus, keep your harp tuned, there may be a song in this when I’m done.” I slip my tunic over my head and belt it, patting the pouch where the treasures from Medea are stored. Despite what is ahead of me, a strange joviality dances through me this morning. The day is already bright and unseasonably warm and I’m grateful to Apollo for keeping away the rain clouds that normally plague this area.
“Don’t worry, cousin,” Odysseus says putting an arm around my shoulder. “You’ll find a blind woman someday who won’t be too frightened of your face to bed you. Speaking of bedding, Paris, what did you get up to last night?”
“About three of the servants and two ladies from the Colchian nobility. Despite her king, Colchis is a very welcoming kingdom.”
“Gods I miss Penelope,” Odysseus sighs.
Once the men and I make our way down the series of ladder-steep stairs that lead from Colchis Castle’s guest quarters to the common hall, Aeetes meets us with as much warmth as if we are long-lost friends. It’s amazing how much kinder this king is when he hopes to see me dead within the next few hours.
Trying not to seem obvious, I scan Aeetes’s retinue of black-garbed guards and peacock-hued courtiers in search of Medea’s face. She is nowhere to be seen and this rattles the cheer and confidence I’d woken with. Could she merely be sleeping in after the late night or can she not bear to see me be sent to my death? Or, I think menacingly, perhaps last night she had simply been playing some part her father put her up to? I fumble with the pouch at my waist wondering whether there is truth or trickery behind Medea’s potions, plans and charms.
“Shall we?” Aeetes asks as if inviting us into the dining hall to join him in another sumptuous feast.
I nod and touch my hand to my vigile charm. Aeetes’s guards shift with heavy steps to form a wall around me. With the rest of my audience trailing behind, the guards march me outdoors to an arena beyond the castle grounds. By the standards of the poli, the Colchian arena is a small one, large enough for a few gladiator bouts, but certainly not for chariot races. Two metal crates about half the size of the cargo carriages pulled by the Osterian train stand a man’s height apart at the far end of the arena. Bone-jarring sounds of hooves stamping and massive bodies thrashing against the crates’ metal walls echo across the arena as the beasts inside fight for freedom. My belly gives a betraying gurgle of nerves. These will be the bulls Medea mentioned. What foolishness it had been to think they would be docile beasts like the pampered creatures from the kingdom of Minoa.
At the opposite corner of the arena a plow rests in the dirt. A shiver of nerves vibrates through me. Somehow, I have to get those irritated beasts lashed to this tool or my companions and I are doomed. The crew will fight, but how can eleven men expect to hold out against the force of a kingdom that has done nothing but train to defend themselves? As each of my companions offers me their wishes of luck, I find myself unable to meet their eyes knowing it will be my fault if they end up dead or enslaved before this day is over.
The thought stops me. There is no reason to do this, no reason to risk their lives. I cannot succeed in a series of tasks that are deliberately designed to be impossible. Surely Aeetes must have some sense of diplomacy. He cannot enslave some of the top-ranking men from Osteria – many of whom are children of the gods – and think he will get away with it.
I am about to give in, to surrender myself in exchange for the crew’s freedom, when something pulls my gaze to the highly decorated royal seats perched above the arena. My heart races when I see Medea and I beg her with my mind to look my way, to give me some sign of promise. Aeetes steps in front of me. Aby, the lithe Prince of Colchis who looks nothing like his burly father, stands by the king’s side looking at me, his eyes filled with worry.
“Looking for something?” Aeetes asks.
Thankfully, Odysseus has told me what excuses to make to apply the salve without raising Aeetes’s suspicion. I take a deep breath and close my eyes before opening them again to look at the king.
“Praying to Dionysus. If you don’t mind,” I pat my belt pouch, “we Illamosians have a ritual to our god before we go into battle.”
Aby watches me from behind the king and I wonder if he knows of Medea’s plan as he smiles a relieved grin and his eyes sparkle. They are deep brown like Medea’s, but unlike hers that are full of cynical cunning, his hold only open warmth. I instantly like the prince although I’ve yet to speak with him. Aeetes gives an amused smirk along with a scoffing snort. “Do what you must, god lover, but be quick about it.”
Aby pauses briefly to wish me luck and shake my hand. He then follows the king to an interior stairway to the royal seat that is on a level high enough to give a clear view of the entire arena. As soon as they enter the stairwell and disappear from view, I watch Medea. Even when I remove my tunic to apply the salve, when I think she will at least glance down to see me naked, she is lost in conversation with the maid Kirista. I give up any hope of her looking my way and nearly all hope that the salve is anything more than one of the many lotions Osterian women use to fight the effects of aging.
Still, some hope for Medea’s sincerity lingers and I spread the salve to cover my entire body as Medea instructed. As I wipe the rain-scented substance over my buttocks and groin, Aeetes, now in his plush seat, shouts, “Having one last wank before you die? Is that how the gods ask to be honored?” My cheeks burn red and I refuse to look at Medea, but then she laughs and my head jerks up to see her giggling with Kirista. I know now I am an idiot who has been tricked by a woman far cleverer than myself. I will die the fool my father thinks me to be.
I barely get the lid of the jar closed before Aeetes gives a shout and the doors of the crates drop open. Two of the largest bulls I have ever seen charge out. Not only do their hooves shake the earth underneath me, but flames burst from their nostrils with each breath as if their bodies are bellows stoking some internal fire.
I can’t move. No matter how much I command them to move, my legs refuse to obey until the bulls are nearly on me. The sound of Aeetes shouting, “Kill him” stirs me and I spin to one side. The bulls barrel past me then pull up short in confusion. I can think of no way to defeat the beasts without sword or bow, but tales of the kingdom of Minoa where men dance on the backs of bulls trickle into my mind. It has been a few years, but I hope my muscles still recall their training with Chiron.
A masculine scream that must belong to Aby jolts me back to the moment. A bull charges straight at me. I duck and roll. I’m fast enough to avoid a direct hit, but the second bull whips around faster than I can scramble to my feet. The animal tears past me. As it does, its pulsing nostrils blaze a flame directly at me.
I expect pain and grit my teeth waiting for the agony. This is it, death by bullish fire. I urge my crew to run now while Aeetes and the guards are distracted by the sight of my body crackling on the arena floor.
But no pain comes. Medea’s salve has worked.
I spin to one side as a bull rushes by. His flames lick at me without harm. Emboldened by the thought of Medea’s help and my immunity to the bulls’ worst weapon, I don’t back away as the animals charge back and forth. Instead I twirl aside and occasionally leap over their backs much to the crowd’s pleasure. The great beasts, already stressed from being in the crates, tire more quickly than I would have expected. Their fearsome attacks turn into frustrated lumbering and eventually the bulls do nothing but stand, snorting flames of frustration. Keeping an eye on the two beasts that could still kill me by crushing me into the arena wall, I approach the bulls to collect the chains from my pouch that lies under my discarded tunic. I allow their flames to bathe me and notice only a slight increase of warmth on my skin. My groin tightens and I force aside the worry of what would happen if I missed covering a patch of that delicate skin with the protective balm.
One bull makes a weak charge as I near him, but I vault over the lowered head and onto the creature’s back. The animal turns a circle as if trying to determine where his victim has gone. I straddle the bull, wrap my arm as far around its neck as possible, and loop one of the chains around his thick horns. The moment the chain is on, the beast stops his movements and lets out a placid moo. Using my legs as if he’s a horse, I guide the bull to its companion then climb from one to the other. Keeping hold of the first chain, I slip the second chain around the other bull’s horns. Making a circuit of the arena with my two huge steeds, I wave to the now cheering crowd. When I near the royal seats, Medea still won’t look my way and instead busies herself with needlework. This strikes me harder than I would have imagined, but I push aside my disappointment and wave triumphantly. The gesture brings a flash of annoyance to Aeetes’s face, but when my eyes meet his, he raises a wine cup in a toast then leans back with a cruel sneer on his lips. He knows what is coming. I do hope I can ruin the show he expects to see. The thought brings to mind something Medea was to have left me to complete the final task. I’ve now made a full circuit of the arena and have seen nothing but the crates, the plow and plenty of arena dirt. My moment of triumph quickly recedes to agonizing worry.
I must continue though. I will not give Aeetes the satisfaction of backing down. I will at least put up the best fight I can for the freedom of my friends. I ride the bulls toward the plow and, trying to remember Medea’s instructions of how the harnesses fit, I eventually get the creatures hooked in. Guiding the plow, I work deep furrows into the sandy dirt of the arena floor. The sun climbs to its midday height and, despite the bulls’ complacency and the almost meditative repetitiveness of the chore, I sweat with the effort. As the beasts plod forward, they kick up dirt that clings to my salve-sticky skin, but I don’t dare wipe myself clean for fear of the fiery bath they could give me if I were to lose control of them.
I end my plowing back at the bulls’ crates where the bag of dragons’ teeth – seeds that are not truly seeds – waits for me. The bulls snort as I pass in front of them and this time I feel the heat of their flames more intensely than before. The salve is sweating off but I cannot dwell on that. I loop the chains around the handles of the crates and pick up the bag. My gut clenches. Medea has promised a weapon would be in the arena for me to use against what will sprout from the seeds, but there is no sign of it.
Starting at the far end of the arena I reach into the bag. Medea warned me to grab the seeds carefully, but for some reason I think the salve might protect against other injuries besides burns. I am wrong and pull out my hand to find tiny slashes across my fingers and palm. Dragons’ teeth never dull, I remind myself as I dip my hand in to extract a handful of teeth. Some are conical and sharply pointed; others are like flat triangles with serrated edges. Regardless of the shape, they are made for tearing flesh and, despite taking an extra dose of caution, I earn several wounds from these vile seeds of Aeetes.
I drop the first row of seeds into their furrow at a casual pace. The first two tasks haven’t taken as long as Medea had predicted and I am certainly in no hurry to see the seeds sprout. I turn to start on the second row wondering what Aeetes must be thinking, how deep must his scowl be by now and, if I look at him, will he give a cocky toast this time? My curiosity drives my gaze up to the box, dropping seeds as I go. But rather than hone in on the king, my eyes immediately land on Medea. She finally deigns to look at me. With a thud in my chest, a smile starts up my lips, but the stern expression she casts on me dampens my delight. She twitches her chin with a jutting nod, clearly urging me to hurry. I pretend not to notice but when I do look at Aeetes, he leans back into the cushions of his seat grinning in what can only be described as triumph.
My attention turns to the first furrow. A hard lump sticks in my throat at the sight.
Already the soil bulges, rumbling like water getting ready to boil. When a bony hand reaches out grasping at the air, I nearly drop all the seeds to flee what is emerging from the ground. But something, some sense grips my mind. Even if I defeat the creatures Medea has warned me about, if I do not plant all these seeds, Aeetes could declare my tasks incomplete and make slaves of us all. It is the image of my companions in chains that propels me along the rows scattering the seeds into the plowed furrows as I pass. From the box comes the grating sound of Aeetes cackling.
Once back to the bulls I climb onto their backs and use them as stepladders to scramble onto the top of the crates from where I can observe the arena. Half of my newly plowed field has already issued forth a band of monstrosities. The things are nothing more than skeletons with strips of dried flesh clinging to bones. Where eyes should be are glowing orbs that blaze white hot. These eyes have been poorly fitted to the socket and roll about like eerie dice in a skull-shaped gaming cup. From their necks hang charms, at their waists rest scabbards for the short swords that are already in their hands, to their calves are strapped daggers. My body hollows at the recognition of what these creatures are: Osterian vigiles.
These must be some form of damned soldiers who have been roused from the depths of Hades’s Chasm. Where did Aeetes get such seeds? I have no time to ponder the issues of black market goods as the second half of the field springs into action. The vigiles fumble for a while as if deciding on rank and order, but a lifetime of training sets them quickly to right. Already some have honed in on me and the bulls; they sense the living flesh all residents of the Chasm crave. Grunts then guttural words gurgle from their lipless mouths. I can’t understand the words, but it is clear from their new focus on me that they will soon be swarming the crates. A few might fall victim to the bulls’ fire before learning to keep their distance from the beasts, but the bulls can only guard one edge of the crate I have trapped myself on.
Panic lingers only a finger’s distance away as I cling to reason. My eyes dart over the arena. Where is the weapon Medea had promised? So, this is how her and her father have planned their show – give the courtiers some decent entertainment by taking me to the final task, giving me a few tastes of success, and then watching me die at the hands of these monsters that will strip the flesh from my bones as they try to quell their insatiable hunger. I dare to take my eyes off the swarm of skeletal vigiles.
As my gaze sweeps up to the royal box, expecting to see the gloating in Medea’s and Aeetes’s eyes, my line of sight passes over the other crate. My heart nearly bursts and I curse myself for my doubt. There it is; the weapon Medea swears will work. It doesn’t look like much but it is all I have unless I can mount the bulls and use their fire to send this army back to the bowels of the Chasm. But, as they stand panting from their efforts, I know I cannot push the exhausted beasts any further. Unlike them, rather than tiring me, the excitement of my morning has filled me with the boisterous energy men find in the midst of battle
The skeletal vigiles have organized themselves. Their attention isn’t on me, but the bulls. The prospect of such a large meal so easily gained has them smacking what is left of their desiccated lips. The bulls may have wanted to kill me, but like most Osterians, I cannot bear the sight of any animal’s cruel death. I have to get to Medea’s weapon to save them. I hold no doubt that I can leap to the other crate. The distance is not great and should present no challenge. After all, it is no wider than the creek behind the palace in Illamos Valley. Even before training with Chiron, as a boy I never missed landing on the far shore and, after only a few tries, I could make the leap without even getting a toe wet.
I take three steps back then run forward, launching myself with full confidence that I will clear the gap.
Unfortunately, the Colchian arena is nothing like the woods behind Salemnos palace. With the searing sun beating down on me I’m slickened with my coating of sweat and salve. My foot slips as I take off and my body slams against the side of the crate as I narrowly catch the lip of its roof. Pain sears through the wounds in my hands. Using all my strength and forcing myself not to look at the army whose grunting orders sound nearer with every heartbeat, I hold tight as I pull myself up. Just as I’ve hauled myself up enough to swing one leg up onto the crate’s roof, one of the vigiles – dear gods I hope it is only one – grabs my dangling ankle. I bring my free leg back down and kick out hard, cracking the skull of my attacker with my bare foot. Not looking back, I scramble to the rock Medea has left for me and then clutch my only weapon as if it were some talisman from the gods.
“Who left that there?” Aeetes shouts, anger rumbling his voice.
The boulder I hold is slightly larger than the ball used in pallecan – the Osterian game where players try to toss a ball into a basket set half a giant’s height in the air. I want to hoist the rock up, toss it and be done, but the army is now focused entirely on me. According to Medea, they can’t witness me throwing the stone. I need a distracted group to make the ruse work. But these creatures that now drool over my scent, have all their rolling orbs fixed on their prospective meal. Just when I think I will have to throw the rock and hope for the best, a high keening fills the air – a hawk’s cry.
The vigiles grit their teeth and throw their hands to the holes where ears should be. White orbs wobble in gaping eye sockets looking to the sky for the source of annoyance. I don’t look up. Although I briefly wonder why the ears of the dead are so affected by a raptor’s call, I only care that the bird has come. Their attention drawn away from me, I hurl the rock at the center of the group as if aiming for the pallecan basket.
Two skulls crack when the stone crashes into them. But nothing more happens.
My heart sinks.
Medea had sworn the rock would be enough to kill them all. I have done what she said and now only two of my hundred or so attackers have been stopped in their hunger-driven advance toward me. I have no other weapon. So it was a trick. But why so elaborate? Why not simply supply me with a false salve?
My thoughts turn to Phrixus and his worry that the dog had been cut to pieces before it died. Perhaps Phrixus has the correct measure of Medea’s cruelty. At least she has given her courtiers a good show. I glance over the edge of the crate to the bulls. If I can ride them and escape the arena, I could plead for my crew’s release once the guards catch me. I prepare to leap when my attention is jerked away by the clang of sword hitting sword.
The monsters have turned their attention away from the empty sky and onto one another. Accusatory grunts that sound something like “who” and “traitor” huff from raspy throats. Other sounds of denial and disbelief and then anger over the insults are followed by the group clashing against each other in full battle. Although relief washes over me, my legs tremble. Before I lose my balance, I ease myself into a seated position and watch from the roof of crate. The courtiers will indeed get their show.
Before us, a fearsome although enjoyable fight takes place. The soldiers are ferocious but there being no blood and no guts, there is no gore. It’s like a well-staged play. The battlefield dwindles to fifty, then to ten, and then to two who circle one another. Without warning, the two remaining vigiles grab each other by the forearm. With swords extended in their free hands, they pull themselves together, driving their blades through what would have been their bellies had they any flesh. When these two collapse, the bones of all the fallen vigiles vanish in a puff of dust.
My companions, who have been under the guards’ watch at the lowest level of the arena’s seats, erupt with a volley of cheers. I stand – my legs still shaky from excitement but sturdy enough – and climb down to gather up my tunic. I look to Medea whose face glows with admiration. I force back a smile, enjoying the feel of being admired and applauded. How could I have doubted her? Her brother notices the look and prods Medea at her waist causing her to laugh. Aeetes looks back to his children, but Aby only applauds with bored, polite claps while Medea feigns more fascination in a string dangling from the tapestry lining the royal box than in the action in the arena.
Aeetes turns his attention back to me. I keep my face straight, only by biting my lip to hide my joy when Medea blows me a kiss. When I bow low to the king, I find myself grinning at the ground, my happiness and relief as impossible to hold back as the tide of the Western Sea. The scowling man gives a few reluctant claps then thrusts up from his seat and climbs down the steps with Aby and Medea following a respectful distance behind. By the time Aeetes reaches me, his mood appears to have brightened.
“Such entertainment.” He claps his arm around my shoulder steering me away from being able to see Medea. “We’ll have another feast to celebrate your victory.”
Despite his age, Aeetes is heavily muscled. As politely as I can, I slip from under the king’s beefy arm and step back a couple paces while giving a bow of deference. I angle myself to be able to see Medea again and when I glance up from my bow she pretends to bring food to her mouth while shaking her head. I bow again giving myself time to wonder what Odysseus would do in this situation. I must find a politic way to keep myself from being poisoned without causing offense or suspicion.
“You give too much honor, Your Highness,” I say as I rise to my full height. “But by your law we would overstay our welcome if we remain another night.”
A flicker of anger dances over Aeetes’s face, but is quickly replaced by a meek look of regret. “Such a shame because I’m afraid I can only take the pelt from the dragon at dawn’s first light. I had planned to present you with your reward in the morning.”
Odysseus, the guards still near him, now approaches us. His smile beams but his eyes are filled with concern. For once I am thankful for his intrusion; I only have to delay the king a few more moments before Odysseus’s wit will get me out of this tangle.
“Then by your majesty’s leave,” I say, “my men I and will sleep on my ship. That way you won’t appear to be inconsistent in your laws.”
I know Aeetes can say nothing to this without losing face. He cannot force us to stay in his house without appearing weak by breaking his own rule. Odysseus joins our tense little group and gives a respectful nod of his head, but does not bow to the king.
“Very well, but you will attend the feast.” The king produces a smile but his eyes remain harsh.
Odysseus steps forward.
“Thank you again, Majesty. I didn’t hear, my cousin may have mentioned already, but today is our god’s day. The prince has honored the all the gods with his victory in your arena and now we must worship and pay them thanks.”
I thank Odysseus and the Twelve that, with all of Osteria’s gods, demigods and minor deities, any day might be some day of worship.
“Well,” Aeetes says with a haughty chortle. “We have our own rituals in Colchis. All deals must be sealed with a toast. I do hope you partake in a cup wine when I hand over the pelt in the morning.”
There can be no getting around this. I wonder if the salve can be swallowed to protect me from poison.
“Thank you, of course I will,” I say stiffly. “I will be looking forward to it after a dry night of worship.”
“You poli dwellers and your gods. Do you really think a night of quiet fasting will make them love you more?”
“They allowed me to survive these tasks. It’s hard to question that.”
Aeetes looks me up and down. A sneer of disgust mars his face.
“You’re filthy. You will at least accept the use of my bathhouse. Surely your rituals can’t prevent you from cleaning yourself.”
I accept his offer knowing I will ensure Castor and Pollux remain outside the bath house while Odysseus guards the inside.
Once Aeetes’s guards march us to the baths, Odysseus dismisses the women who are there to assist. Aeetes passes him a questioning glance.
“Another silly polis rule: Celibacy on certain gods’ days.” Aeetes snorts and shakes his head in derision before turning on his heel, his guards following after. Odysseus waits until they are out of ear shot to add, “And we all know even the tiniest woman can turn a stirgil into neck-slicing blade. You’ve gotten this far, cousin, no sense in taking chances just so you can get worked over by bath slaves. Now, I’ve seen enough of your nudity for one day. If you don’t mind, I’ll wait outside with the twins.”
I thank Odysseus and then strip. My skin is a map of lines drawn by sweat making its way through a mud of salve and dusty arena dirt. I drizzle oil on my body and use a stirgil to scrape away the grime as thoroughly as possible before slipping into the heated bathwater. The lack of sleep last night and the day’s trials bring a wave of exhaustion over me. My eyes drift shut.
A woman’s voice whispering my name breaks through the fog of the baths. I force my boulder-heavy eyelids open and am certain I must be dreaming. Medea is beside me. She kisses me and I feel the touch of her lips throughout my body. I don’t resist. What reason do I have to resist a dream? Neither the twins nor Odysseus would have let her or anyone through without alerting me. I allow myself to fall into the safety of the fantasy. I bend to kiss her breasts as she brushes her lips against my neck then my ear. Shivers surge through me despite the heat of the water. I slip my hand between her thighs.
“Not now,” she says pushing my hand away, but my groin strains to replace my exploring digits. “My father is not going to give you the pelt.”
I still yearn for this dream of satisfaction, but her words distract me from the urgency. I decide to let the dream play its course. I kiss her left breast and she doesn’t protest. “He has agreed.” I kiss the right breast. “In front of witnesses.”
She sighs with pleasure, but then lifts my head holding me by the chin to make me listen.
“Witnessing matters little in this kingdom where drachars can quickly change memories. In the morning he will seize your ship. You and your men will be taken as slaves.”
“Do you need a slave?” I ask with a coy grin. My fingers trail along her abdomen.
“If enslaved I doubt you will get to stay here.” She stops my hand before it can trail down any further. “You’ll probably be sold to the Califf Lands to get you away from any Osterian sympathy.”
“But I need the pelt. I can’t have come all this way to fail in the final moment. I’ve succeeded.”
I move her hand from my chin and lean in to kiss her. This imaginary Medea kisses me deeply and I’m eagerly hoping the dream’s conversation will end and something more satisfying will begin. But she breaks away. “You have succeeded. But there are two more tests Aeetes has failed to tell you about: actually getting the pelt from my father and getting out of Colchis. You won’t fail if you allow me onto your ship tonight. Do you trust me?”
A stab of guilt hits me. With every event of this day I have doubted her, mistrusted her, expected death from her trickery. But it never came. “After today I’d have to.” I kiss the pleased smile on her lips. Gods, she feels real. Damn Herc’s advice, this woman has saved my life, she is now saying she can save my polis, and she is naked alongside me. What harm is there now in taking her? And besides, I chide myself. This is just a dream. Isn’t it? My head is as fogged as a fall morning in Salemnos. Holding Medea by the waist, I lift her on top of me. She straddles me, but shifts back just out of reach of my intention.
“Not now,” she says with a teasing giggle. “Will you let me help you? I will need to come to the ship. I know some sailors can be superstitious about having women on board.”
“I’ll inform the men to be on the lookout for you,” I say wishing this dream would reach its climax.
“Even Phrixus?”
“He warned me about you.”
“Phrixus,” Medea says with a dismissive scoff. “I loved him and thought he loved me. I was stupid.”
“I would never make you feel stupid.” I slip my arms around her waist and part her lips with my tongue.
Just as I think she might shift herself onto me, Medea whispers, “Remember to let them know I’m coming.”
“You drowning in there?” Odysseus asks from somewhere far beyond my dream.
The sound of my cousin’s voice jerks me from the fantasy. I open my eyes. Medea is not here. She isn’t in the room. The stiffness between my legs pulses in time with my cousin’s pounding on the door and I slap the water in frustration. “I’m alive,” I shout, then pull myself out of the heated water and jump into the icy pool nearby.
* * *
On board the ship, time drags as a slim moon climbs and weaves around the stars. I cannot relax or remain still. Not because I fear an attack, not – I lie to myself – because I hope at any moment to see Medea, but because Orpheus has not been seen since late evening. I try to play cards with the men, but my restless mind won’t stop. Every few moments I glance up hoping to see him loping his way down the path that leads from the castle to the harbor. At the back of my mind I wonder if I should tell Perseus or my cousin that Medea will be coming, but then push the idea from my head telling myself I have had too much sun for one day if I am foolish enough to make reports based on dreams.
“Any sign of him yet?” Odysseus asks, joining me in my vigil at the railing.
“No. Could he be playing for the courtiers? He should have told us if he was planning on doing so. He would have, don’t you think?”
“No, his harp’s there wrapped in his blanket.”
My heart hangs like a stone in my chest – a stone that bashes against my sternum when Paris slips up behind me.
“Looking for Orpheus?” he asks. I nod. “I told him about the serving girl, maybe he’s playing her tonight.”
“No,” Odysseus says. “His head is full of that girl from Doliones, the wood nymph. What’s her name again? Eurydice?”
“So he fancies some Dol servant, nothing to stop him from bedding a Colchian one,” Paris says.
“Some men lose their heads for a woman and no other will find it for them,” Odysseus says wistfully. “I think our Orpheus is one of those men. He may want to be an engineer, but at heart he’s a musician. He’d probably follow his love into the Chasm if he had to.”
“Are we speaking of Orpheus or yourself?” Paris asks.
Before Odysseus can begin what I expect will be a long speech about Penelope, I spot two figures wending their way down the harbor’s steep path.