THE THUNDER RUMBLES through me as if a thousand horses are stampeding only an arm’s length away. Medea clenches my arm and for a moment I am about to tease her for her fear. This, the woman who slew her brother to save me and the crew from Aeetes, afraid of a thunderclap? But when I turn to her, the jest halts at the tip of my tongue. Sweat has burst out in large droplets on her forehead and her face has gone pale as if the sweat has washed her skin of its color.
“Medea, what is it?” I ask. She grimaces, tries to force the expression into a reassuring smile, but then doubles over in agony. “Medea!”
Just as I register the smell of electricity mixed with the heady perfume of the arbor’s roses, a flash of lightning brightens the agora that had been darkened to a late evening grey under the sudden arrival of the storm clouds.
“Get me inside,” my wife grunts.
I signal Odysseus to help. Making excuses and apologies to the crowd, we follow the line of golden carpet from the agora to the palace. Another grumbling roar from the sky fills my ears. Halfway to the palace, a shock of white light gyrates above us and Medea drops to her knees. When I try to help her up, I struggle against a new weight that has taken over her body. Once to her feet, she cradles her belly. I stagger back. Her belly, that had already grown large in recent weeks, is now swollen to the size of a ripe watermelon. My mind tangles with worry for what might be wrong, but all thought stops when I hear the sound of liquid splattering on the ground beneath her legs. My body freezes.
“Get her inside,” Odysseus orders.
The command instinctively jolts me into action. I swing my heavy wife into my arms. Her nails dig into my shoulder as her screech of pain pierces my ear.
“It’s going to kill me,” she yells once we are inside away from the eyes and ears of the people. The cry echoes off the foyer’s interior dome and I wonder how many outside can hear her agony. My only thought is for my wife to be comfortable, but I know with her newfound weight, I cannot carry her up the stairs. Instead, I force my now shaking legs to take Medea to the atrium. With my muscles screaming to be rid of this extra weight, it takes every effort to be gentle as I place her on the couch that now stands where my parents lay in state only a few months ago. I pause wondering if it might be a bad omen to have her in the very spot where two dead bodies recently rested. I am about to tell her to get up when another of her cries jolts through me as if one of the storms’ streaks of lightning has hit me. I fall to my knees at her side.
“You need a medic. Something is wrong.”
Medea shakes her head. She still pants in ragged whimpers, but the pain seems less intense. “Get Circe. She’s my midwife.”
“No, it’s too soon.” We’ve known each other for only a handful of months, my mind screams. Once again, I think of the countless men Medea bedded before my arrival. Was her promise true that these are my children within her or is she tricking me into giving my name to some stable hand’s seed?
She laughs weakly, her eyes warm with love. “Stop your thoughts. You are no cuckold. Do you think I want to look like a great cow? Circe sped the pregnancy up for me. The children you made are on their way.”
A new anger, protective this time rather than jealous, jerks me to my feet. “You risked their lives, your life, for vanity?”
“It’s a simple spell similar to—” she grunts and grabs my hand, squeezing so tight it feels as if all the bones might snap. “Don’t argue husband. Get Circe now unless you plan to deliver these children on your own.”
“Odysseus, fetch Circe,” I call to my cousin who lingers at the atrium’s entryway. I won’t leave Medea’s side. Odysseus turns to go, but before he can take two steps, Circe strides in, her emerald-toned gown rippling out behind her. She throws Odysseus a coy smile and he trips over his own feet. Giving a short laugh at the fumble, she makes her way to kneel beside her niece.
“I told you it would be soon,” she says stroking Medea’s forehead.
Hera now enters the atrium. Her eyes blaze with fury and she pays no attention to the blushing Odysseus. I rush to the goddess, forgetting to bow or give any gesture of respect in my panic. Another of Medea’s screams jerks my focus away from Hera. When I look back, I realize my mistake and drop to my knees before the goddess.
“Hera, help her,” I plead. Hera remains silent. I lower my gaze to the floor, staring at her gold-painted toes. “Hera, please.”
She touches me on the shoulder and gestures for me to stand.
“I cannot. She is a daughter of a kingdom and she has used magic to make an unnatural pregnancy. She cannot expect the gods to intervene.”
Another cry and this time when I look back, blood streaks my wife’s legs.
“She’s dying.”
Hera’s eyes soften. She has never been cruel to me, so I don’t understand why she appears amused at my worry. “I assure you, she is not. Birth is rarely an easy thing for mortals. Trust me that Circe is highly skilled at midwifery among other things.”
“Is she the best midwife in Illamos Valley?”
Hera pauses as if deciding how to answer.
“She is very knowledgeable and she does love her niece. Your wife is in good hands even if I don’t approve of what those hands do at times. But listen to me.” She takes my chin in her slim hand and makes me look into her gold-flecked eyes; her hold prevents me from glancing back at the grunts of pain coming from the atrium. “I interfered where I should not. This is not my polis and not where my efforts should be diverted to. I am not sorry for helping you because we have stopped Pelias, but I cannot continue to help you. You are on your own. Do you understand?”
I hesitate. I have been through so much in the past months. I have lost friends, I have made enemies, I was unable to save my parents, I have been attacked and threatened by people I only just met. And all that had been with Hera on my side. How might things go without her protection? A boulder of panic drops into my gut as I think of Medea, of my polis. I need Hera now more than ever. But there is nothing for it. No mortal can sway a god to change his or her mind, especially not a mortal so lacking in cleverness such as myself.
“I understand,” I say reluctantly.
“Good,” she says releasing my chin. “Now, get in there. Circe will need your help. Twins are an armful even for the most skilled midwife.”
A scream whirls through the atrium and drives into my core. Without a farewell, I abandon Hera to rush to my wife’s side. Medea sprawls on the couch, panting, sweating, gritting her teeth so hard it makes my own jaw ache.
“You know they’ll say it’s bad luck if you wear the color the poli have assigned to death when giving birth,” Circe says once Medea’s bout of pain eases. She pulls her niece to a seated position and slips off the wine-colored gown then wraps a blanket around my wife’s shoulders. I stare at the discarded gown, at the stains on the lower half.
“Bleeding. She was bleeding,” I say frantically.
“Nothing to fear,” Circe says, her voice lullaby calm as I stand helplessly letting Medea clench my hand when her pains come, shifting her when Circe says to, and wondering how anyone could survive such clear and incessant agony.
“Can’t you just magic them out?” I don’t mean to yell, but I am so frightened by what is happening I can’t hold back the shout.
“Did you magic them in there? Then, no. I can only speed the pregnancy, not make babies appear on one side of the womb at one instant and the other side at the next.”
Despite her snappy tone with me, Circe speaks soothing and encouraging words advising Medea to breathe out at one time and push at another. Every few moments her head ducks between my wife’s legs and emerges again with a concerned expression, but still she insists, “Any moment now.”
Circe tells me to support Medea as we walk around the room. Each time I pass Odysseus, my cousin pats me on the back and offers a reassuring smile. When Medea hunches over in pain I wonder why I can’t just pick her up and shake the babies out. On the fifth circuit around the atrium, my wife lets out a hoarse squeal and I shuffle her to the couch. Circe’s head dips down and comes up with a smile.
“Your children are on their way.”
My throat tightens. I’m not ready for this. I can’t be a father. Not yet. Surely Circe can stop the birth, tell Medea to hold them in until the natural time of pregnancy has passed. I want to flee the atrium, but Medea’s grip on my hand is too tight to escape.
It seems a lifetime of breathing, pushing, squeezing, sweating, and crying before Medea flops back with an exhausted huff and finally releases my throbbing hand. Circe cheers and cajoles, deftly maneuvers something between Medea’s legs and then a wail like an angry bear cub fills the atrium. A moment later, Circe hands me a pink, wrinkled thing bundled in a cloth. I can’t fathom what I’m supposed to do with it as it cries even louder than Medea had.
“A prince,” Circe says before checking my wife again. “This other one is stubborn. Let’s get gravity to help us. Sit her up. Come on, Medea, squat like you’re ready to poo in the woods. Highness, shift some pillows under her to catch Baby. Odysseus, make yourself useful and find me more towels.”
With a son in one arm, I steady Medea with the other. This time the screams are too much to bear. Were my hands not filled with my first-born son, I would take a blade and slice the second baby out of Medea to stop her agony. At the point when I can bear it no longer, when I am ready to run from the room, Medea falls silent and slumps back landing on the couch in a heap. Something squirms on the pillows between her feet. Circe moves quickly to free the baby of its cord, and another cry brings me back to reason.
“Two princes,” Circe says as she hands me another bundle. She helps Medea, who is now weeping, into a more comfortable position on the couch assuring her that the next part will be far easier. I don’t know what afterbirth is, but in short time I receive an unwanted education. After a quick look at the bloody glob I turn away and let Circe take care of matters.
Medea’s eyes linger half-closed with weariness, but she holds her arms out for the babies. Shifting and cradling them into position, she nuzzles both her sons to her breasts. Her face beams with a contented pleasure as her eyes drift shut.
“You should tell your people the good news,” Medea says in a dreamy yet scratchy voice.
“I don’t want to leave your side.” I kneel beside her and kiss her cheek.
“I can bear to be without you for a few moments.” She opens her eyes and looks at the babies with so much love that a stab of jealousy pierces my breast. I want her attention and admiration all for myself, but I shake the childish emotion aside and start for the door of the atrium.
Before I reach the edge of the room, Odysseus steps in. His eyes go to Medea then to me. “I have two sons,” I say.
A brief smile that speaks of congratulations flickers across his lips. I am about to tease him for not bringing Circe her towels, but his smile falls away within a heartbeat. “You also have a summons,” Odysseus says handing me a slip of parchment.
“To where?”
“The Osteria Council. It’s regarding Pelias.”
My eyes scan the message. Frustration and disbelief mounting with each word.
“They demand I leave straight away.” I crumple the letter. “I’ve just been made a father. They can’t expect me to leave.”
“They can.” Odysseus gestures over his shoulder. In the foyer stand two Council guards in plain breastplates looking stern and unwilling to allow a new father’s wishes to delay their duty.
“This can’t be serious. Give me a few days.”
“You will go with us now,” one of the guards says. He places his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Or you will face severe punishment.”
I turn to Medea. She still glows, but concern stains the beauty of her new motherhood. I hurry to her, kneeling beside her.
“I have to go. Will you be alright? I won’t leave if you don’t want me to.”
“You won’t do me any good if you’re arrested. We’ll be fine.” She looks to the babies and again my heart jumps with a smack of jealousy. She glances back to me. “Go on. The sooner you go, the sooner you’ll be back.”
I kiss each of the now sleeping babies on their warm, dark-haired heads that have made a pillow of Medea’s chest. I don’t miss the chance to sneak a kiss on the top of each breast before giving my wife a lengthy kiss goodbye.
“Keep them safe,” I say, trailing my fingers over the babies’ round cheeks before joining the men who wait to escort me north.