Then I stood alone with Atalanta beyond the red-yellow-blue door. Her possessions were tied to Kastana’s back, and I had given her copious food, water, and supplies for the journey, holding nothing back. It pleased me to know that she was well provisioned, even if she would not stay.
We looked long at each other, and neither of us moved. The wind rustled our clothing, lifting Atalanta’s whitened hair and causing me to pull my shawl more tightly around myself. Kastana pawed the ground and snorted. The moment stretched on; neither Atalanta nor I seemed willing to end it.
As in the library so long ago, I was seized with the sudden desire to kiss her.
A foolish thought. I pushed it back down firmly but made a last-ditch attempt to reason with Atalanta. “Are you sure you won’t stay? The children love you.” To my horror, I felt tears prick my eyes.
Atalanta shook her head, then reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “You left me all those years ago, Medea,” she said softly. “Is it really so terrible that I should leave you now?”
This was the first time during her visit that either of us referenced her proposal on Crete, and it surprised me. “Well, yes, itisrather terrible, now that you mention it,” I replied. “But I won’t curtail your freedom.”
Before, Atalanta seemed rather preoccupied. Now, she smiled.
“You know,” she said, searching my face, “Circe once said you never gave anyone else a chance to speak. But I think you have learned. Learned how to listen.”
“And you were wild as a bear cub when we first met, but now you move through the world with ease,” I said with a bitter laugh.“It wouldn’t have worked out between us, you know. I could never have beaten you in a race.”
“You would never have had to chase me,” Atalanta replied, her expression unreadable. “I wouldn’t have run from you.”
My heart, I realized, was beating quickly.
Before I could ask what exactlythatmeant, she turned away, pulling herself up on Kastana’s back and nudging the old horse into motion. She started down the road, then abruptly halted. I wondered if she’d left something behind when she turned around and spoke.
“Mount Geraneia!” Atalanta called out. “That is where my camp is.”
She hesitated for a moment, as if to say more, then whirled around and continued at a steady clip out of the city. The statement—invitation?—baffled me. Neighbors were stirring at their windows, and I shriveled under the weight of their eyes but held my ground. I watched Atalanta’s swaying back until she was out of sight, greedy for every last glimpse of her. Then she was gone, leaving me alone with the morning sunshine and the tears on my cheeks.
67
Jason
Jason bounces back and forth between his home and the palace, avoiding Atalanta at the one and Creon at the other. This balancing act is made easier when Atalanta abruptly departs, though Medea falls ill shortly afterward and takes to her bed. Jason puts Eirene in charge of the household, then returns to the palace before he can catch the fever himself.
This, unfortunately, puts him directly in Creon’s path.
“Where have you been, my dear boy?” the king booms, slapping him on the back. “No matter, you’re back now. Well, here goes. I wish to formally extend a proposal that you marry my daughter, Creusa.”
The breath leaves Jason’s lungs. The king’s proposal is not unexpected but nonetheless leaves him stunned. It’s all he could ever have wanted. The girl is beautiful and charming, and she brings with her a throne. As Jason well knows, Creusa is the king’s only daughter and her husband will eventually rule. It’s not the throne of Iolcus, and he won’t hold it until after Creon’s death, but Jason can still become a king. He will have power and something to pass on to his sons after he dies.
It is as though the scattered pieces of Jason’s life have drawn back together again. Everything that has happened to him—fleeing the palace as a child, the voyage of theArgo, the monotonyof the past two decades—has led at last to this, and all his suffering is finally given meaning.
There is just one problem. “I already have a wife,” Jason says, thinking of Medea, quiet and loyal. They have been stars in each other’s orbit for the past two decades, a familiar pattern, though a largely silent one.
Creon’s face twists in obvious disapproval. “You have a foreign concubine with a shady past. Not a suitable match for my finest advisor and future heir. It would be one thing if your wife were the daughter of a well-respected Corinthian family, or even a girl of the town, but instead she is some barbarian from the ends of the earth.”
“But our sons...” Jason says, turning up his palms in a gesture of surrender.
Creon rubs his beard thoughtfully. “Your sons I will adopt as my own. They will be members of the royal family. Though, to be sure, it is my trueborn grandson through Creusa who will inherit the throne,” he adds.
“As for Medea,” the king continues. “Send her away. Give her back to her family, and give her lots of gold, anything you please. But she cannot remain here. I don’t trust her.”
Jason doesn’t disagree with this, but he won’t be giving Medea back to her family. That was the entire reason he took her as a wife in the first place: to prevent her from being dragged home. He remembers the wedding on Phaeacia, the promises he made to Medea in front of gods and men, and feels almost ill.
Before Jason are two paths. On one is everything he has ever worked for, stability, and safety. On the other is only his duty.
Creon clears his throat expectantly. “Well, what do you say? Truthfully, I thought it would be an easy choice. My daughter is a beautiful woman, and her dowry comes with a kingdom.”
Jason dithers, sweat beginning to gather under his armpits. Breaking his vows means risking much; his patroness is the goddess of marriage, and it would not do to displease her.
