Jason
Of all the people Jason expects to see lounging in the courtyard of his home, Atalanta is surely the last. And yet there she is, long legs tucked up on the bench, shooting Jason baleful looks in his own garden. As ifhewere the interloper, not her. Jason quickly leaves.
But he runs into Atalanta the next day too, in the hallway. Jason peels back his lips in what he hopes is a warm smile.
“How lovely to see you, Atalanta,” he says. “May I ask what brought you here?”
“Visiting a friend,” she replies.
Jason softens. “I didn’t know you considered me a friend.”
“I meant Medea.”
The words feel like a slap. Of course. Of course it isn’t him. He remembers a few instances of Medea and Atalanta engaged in conversation during the journey of theArgoand even recalls asking the huntress to look after his future wife, but he never knew they were so close. Perhaps it’s the tendency of women to stick together.
Nursing the sting of her words, Jason stares at Atalanta.Why did you save me in the Libyan desert, reaching out your hand when I started to fall?he wonders.Why do that, only to push me back down again?
“Why do you dislike me so much?” he asks aloud. It’s a rude question, but Atalanta is always rude, so why shouldn’t he get to be too? Jason relishes the chance to speak directly without polite allusions and half-truths.
“You barred my way on the ship,” Atalanta replies, her expression steely, “and covered for your friend Peleus when he harassed me. You said you wanted to make a world of justice, but really you want a world for yourself. You do not deserve half of what has been given to you.”
Her words pierce Jason like spears. With her gray eyes and proud bearing, Atalanta should seem like a mortal image of Athena, goddess of war and strategy. But there is nothing in her of that civilized divinity.
“I did what you asked,” Jason says stiffly. He remembers Atalanta’s instructions in Libya, to take care of Medea, to look after her. Perhaps the two of them were always better friends than he knew.
“Did you?” Atalanta’s voice is cold, her stare implacable. “Did you really?”
Jason’s mouth falls open at this outrage. He has given Medea everything she could ever want: a large, luxurious house; servants; three beautiful sons. He has been a good husband, possibly a better one than Medea deserves.
“Have you ever done or wanted anything for yourself,” Atalanta adds, “or simply because someone else told you to?”
Anger fills him. How dare she speak to him like this?! Jason is the king’s advisor; Atalanta is nothing. Only a barbarian woman from the woods, largely useless on theArgo’s journey, nearly dying the time she tried to tackle Talos. She has accomplished nothing at all, and now she is old.
He will not waste words on one such as her. Jason always idealized her, but in truth, Atalanta is nothing to aspire to at all.
In a way, it is because of Atalanta that Jason first meets Creusa.
When Jason goes to the palace, not wishing to run into Atalanta again, King Creon corners him.
“Jason!” Creon calls in his booming voice, laying a hand on Jason’s shoulder. “Just the man I hoped to see. I’ve been meaning to invite you to dinner with my family.”
Jason is startled by the intimacy of the invitation. Among the Greeks, the family home is a sacred space, not to be intruded upon by strangers. When Jason hesitantly remarks upon this, the king laughs and slaps him on the back. “But youarefamily, Jason!”
Dinner is sumptuous: oysters with vinegar, followed by roast lamb in a wild mushroom sauce. Not to mention all the bread and fine wine one can hold. Jason indulges himself; he rarely eats so well at home, since Medea has never quite mastered the art of cooking. Even now that they can afford hired help, his poor dear wife doesn’t know how to properly supervise a kitchen.
Jason glances up at the other faces around the table. Creon’s wife, Glauke, is younger than her husband, perhaps of an age with Jason himself, around her late thirties. Glauke is quiet and demure, mostly looking down at her plate.
Creon’s daughter, on the other hand, is lively as a flame. She is about fourteen years old, and her name is Creusa, the feminine version of the king’s own. She has Creon’s small nose and oval face, the same cast of cheek and jaw in female form. The hair that has gone silver on her father’s head is still spun gold on hers, and Jason can see the influence of the king in the way she commands the room.
“I heard you were the leader of the Argonauts,” Creusa says to him, tilting her head becomingly. “Please, let me know if I have the tale of your journey right.”
Creusa recites one of the bardic versions of theArgo’s journey, which differs in several respects from the events that actually occurred. In this variant, the bronze bulls in Colchis become living bulls who shoot fire from their eyes, and Jason forces them to plow the earth.
It is disconcerting to hear such a confident recollection of events that never actually happened. But Jason long ago learned that it is best not to correct other people’s exaggerations of his accomplishments. He reminds Creusa that in addition to yoking the bulls, he also fought the dragon’s-tooth warriors who sprung up from the ground.
At first, Jason is intrigued by the young woman; by the end of dinner, he is enraptured. Creusa is witty and lovely, every inch the well-mannered daughter of her father and mother. She is so beautiful, so fresh and carefree, that his eyes cannot help lingering on her smooth skin.
Of course, Jason is carefully circumspect in his behavior; Creusa is still a young girl, and they are in her father’s house. But Creusa’s interest in him is like water in a drought. It has been so long since Jason enjoyed himself like this. In Creusa’s presence, color seeps back into his world. The stars have aligned, and all the gods and good spirits of the land have conspired to bring the two of them together.
