I DO NOT want to stop in Portaceae. Why would I? In Colchis this downtrodden polis of Hera has always been rumored to be little more than a crumbling backwater. From tales I have heard, I expect the streets of Portaceae City to be littered with starving children, to witness buildings falling in on families and to hear more cries from beggars than vendors. But when I lift the hatch and climb to the deck of the ship, I am greeted by a city thriving under active construction, a dockside brimming with ships’ crews that unload goods that are swiftly bargained for by merchants. Children may cry, but they are attention-seeking cries that quickly change to laughter, not the mewling wails of hunger that seem to never cease in Colchis.
The fog that surrounded us since leaving Colchis Bay has lifted and I can see the myriad of greens decorating the landscape beyond the city proper. On a hill looking over the city, a gleaming white building stands like a beacon. I can’t help but stare and wonder what other misconceptions Colchians hold of the poli and kingdoms of Osteria. Does Minos truly make love to his bulls? Do the women of Amazonia really bed men and then eat their flesh? Do the Bendrians actually think they control the sun?
My thoughts are interrupted when Jason twines his warm fingers with mine and leads me to the port where he introduces me to a giant of a woman, appropriately named Maxinia, and a man with horrible red hair. I don’t care if this man is Jason’s friend and the leader of this polis; I have never trusted the oracles and, by an extent, do not trust any person with the red hair that every oracle bears. The oracles believe they speak with the gods’ tongues as if the gods can’t speak for themselves. After the introduction, the red-haired man continues his conversation with Odysseus who frequently darts his eyes my way. A chill that has nothing to do with this morning’s frigid easterly breeze travels up my spine.
From the port, Jason and I follow Maxinia down the steps that lead to the river bank where cool water laps at my toes. I expect to be told to strip. Any cleansing ritual in Colchis would have the supplicants bared, but perhaps Portaceans are prudish because when I start to unclasp the brooches that secure my gown at the shoulder, the big woman stays my hand.
“That won’t be necessary.” She looks at me as if she can read the thoughts in my mind. That I want to strip bare before these men, especially the crew. That I want to flaunt before them that Jason has won more than one prize in Colchis. That for their disdain of me, I long for them to spend a restless night with images of me flitting through their dreams. “Hold out your arms.”
Jason lets go of my hand and we both hold out arms. I tense. The position reminds me too much of being a girl in my father’s court. Any wrongdoing and I would have to hold out my arms in just this way as my father whipped a stick over my knuckles. Lowering my arms would earn me another round of whacks, so I learned to endure the agony even as my limbs trembled with the desire to tuck away my hands.
But there is no pain in this. The priestess drizzles oil over our extended limbs. We are told to work the oil over our arms and hands that have done deeds to offend the gods. As we do so, the priestess blathers an incantation. I force myself not to roll my eyes. I wonder how hard Circe would laugh at this pretend magic. Still, from the scent, the color and the luxurious smoothness, I can tell this is quality oil. Even if I don’t believe it will do any good other than to keep the bickering, petty gods happy, I revel in how wonderful this ritual will leave my skin feeling.
Attendants, young women wearing brown robes, take stirgils and scrape them along our biceps, triceps, forearms, hands and fingers. After each pass of the flat blade, they flick the collected oil into a single spot on the ground.
When the attendants finish, the priestess covers the oil in wine poured from a peacock-shaped urn, recites another incantation in the name of Hera and then declares us cleansed. My skin tingles from the oil and the scraping and does indeed feel cleaner than it has in days. I briefly wonder if they might wash my hair as well, then bite my lip to stifle my laughter.
These are foolish thoughts, but I must allow them. I will not let Odysseus or this priestess or any of these people see my dark mood threatening to storm. Helen. Another Glauce who believes she can take my lover away. My gut flinches at the thought of Jason and another woman together. But the wedding is not today or even tomorrow. There is time yet to make him mine.
I’m interrupted from my musings by warning shouts that race along the dockside. My head jerks to Jason who stares at something in the river. Following his line of sight, I see six black ships pulling into the harbor. With frightening speed, they encircle the Argoa and the spot along the river where Jason and I stand. Rows of men form up along the ships’ decks with arrows at the ready.
From the ships I hear the names Jason and Medea being spoken by angry voices. Not that I carried any doubt upon seeing those dark vessels, but the heavy accent of my kingdom filling the men’s words sears in the certainty that my father’s navy has found us. I know our navy is manned by only the most skilled sailors, but how had the Colchian ships kept out of sight the entire way? The fog. Damn the gods. The same fog that hid us from our enemies also prevented us from seeing them in their pursuit. Before Jason and I can move, a mass of Colchian soldiers repel from one of the ships and into the river. They churn the water with fast strokes as they swim until they reach waist-deep water. Once the soldiers’ feet can touch bottom, their swords ring out in unison as they march toward us.
Along the harbor, a line of centaurs forms up. The sight of them drives more fear into me than the Colchian ships. Centaurs are menacing creatures that enjoy nothing more than drinking and killing humans. Or is this just another Colchian wives’ tale? These centaurs do not seem drunk nor filled with blood lust, or at least not uncontrollable blood lust. They look ready to kill, but only in defense.
In the river, the Portacean boats that had prevented the Argoa’s passage have been uncoupled and now move to surround the Colchian ships. The red-haired man issues commands urging everyone to hold fire and to explain themselves. The wading Colchian soldiers near the beach Jason and I are on. Their honed weapons and harsh eyes staring through black helmets do not speak of negotiation. And I know quite well how fast and accurate they are with their swords. Even if no arrow is fired from the ships, Jason and I would be dead before the Portacean vigiles could take two steps to save us.
I can think of only one way to stop them.
“Priestess, marry us,” I say, grabbing Jason’s oil-softened hand. Jason tries to pull away, but I hold tighter. “Can you?”
“Medea,” Jason protests with a begging tone to his voice, “I cannot marry you. I thought you—”
“You will not live to keep that promise to Helen if you don’t wed me. Priestess, can you marry us?”
“I can if both parties are willing.” Maxinia says, eyeing Jason. He does not understand that I do not do this out of a desperate attempt to snare him, but to save him. I cannot watch him be slaughtered by my father’s men for my deed. I take his jaw in my free hand and lift his head to look at me.
“If you marry me you will be Prince of Colchis. They cannot kill you. It would be treason.”
“They seem ready enough to kill the Princess of Colchis,” Jason says with a nervous laugh.
“I am now my father’s only heir. They would not dare kill me. They will be under order to capture me and to kill you. I would rather be dead than to live without you. If you marry me, if they know I’m carrying the future King of Colchis in my belly, it would be treason to kill you. Priestess?” My voice snaps like a whip.
Jason meets Maxinia’s eye and gives a slight nod.
To no surprise, Maxinia does not have with her a marriage cloth, the ceremonial band that wraps along the hands of the bride and groom to bind their union. Instead, she uses the only cloth available: a rag one of the attendants used to wipe the stirgils. Jason and I clasp one another’s wrists. Maxinia winds the greasy fabric over our forearms and hands as she intones the marriage blessing. The soldiers still approach, still brandish their weapons, but their movements are hesitant as if the men are confused and unsure what to do next.
Maxinia unwinds the cloth saying, “And though this material be easily removed, never shall the bond sealed beneath it be broken.”
Like a triumphant victor, I hold up Jason’s hand. And I do feel victorious. I have won his life. I have won him from this Helen. “Bow Colchians, bow to your prince,” I call to the men wading toward us. I place my other hand on my belly and look up to the archers on the ship. “And to your future king.”
The wading soldiers hesitate but their falter lasts only a moment. The front row of soldiers, now in calf-deep water, sheath their weapons and lower to one knee with heads bowed. The men on the ships also bow their heads. My blood courses, pulses, thuds through my veins. Pride surges through me that my wits have stopped this attack. I lower Jason’s hand and turn to face my husband who keeps a wary eye on the Colchians in the water. I hope to see the same happiness and joy that is bubbling in me, but I do not. His face is blank, stunned. He looks as if he has done a thing out of necessity, a wrong thing. When he notices me eyeing him, he quickly breaks into a smile and bends to kiss me and wrap his arms around me. Another rush of prideful joy washes over me. The kiss, the embrace carry no regret, only passion. When he pulls away from my lips, his eyes are filled with precisely the amount of admiration and love I would want my husband have for me.
“My genius wife,” he whispers.
I grin at him then turn to address the soldiers. I indicate them to rise.
“Go home. Tell Aeetes he has a new heir and that his line has been secured. Inform him that I request Jason of Illamos Valley be named rightful heir to Colchis. Tell him I have guaranteed the future of Colchis.”
As if under a trance, the men turn to wade back to the ships. Despite what I told my husband, I know with full certainty that if my father had been in command of those ships, if he had not been home mourning Aby, I would not have gotten away with such a bold move. He would have killed me on the spot, married or not, pregnant or not. But soldiers do not think for themselves. They follow the orders of the brashest and boldest. I have proven to them I am both.