Jason and Medeia Read online

  saw

  the fleece, and remembered the words of the blind old

  seer of Apollo,

  I too, blindly—like a mad fool, from the point of view of the old, all-seeing gods … I checked myself. They

  were phantoms,

  dead centuries ago if they ever lived. It was all absurd. I remembered: The wise are attached neither

  to good

  nor to evil. The wise are attached to nothing. I laughed.

  Christ send me

  wisdom!

  Still trembling, I went to the door, then out to the

  garden

  to walk, examine the plants and read the grave-markers. I could hear the city waking—the clatter of carts on

  stones,

  the cry of donkeys and roosters, the brattle of dogs

  barking.

  I sat for a long time in the cool, wet grass, and as the day warmed, and the children’s voices came down

  from the house—

  soft, lazy as the butterflies near my shoes— I fell asleep.

  7

  Kreon beamed—propped up, plump, on scarlet pillows— wedged in, hemmed on all sides by slaves, some feeding

  him,

  some manicuring his nails, some waving fans, great gleaming plumes. His cheeks and bare dome

  dazzled,

  newly oiled and perfumed, as bright as the coverture of indigo, gold, and green. The pillars of the royal bed were carved with a thousand liquid shapes: fat serpent

  coils,

  eagles, chariots, fish-tailed centaurs, lions, maidens … Writhing, twisting, piled on top of one another, the

  forms

  climbed up into the shadows beyond where the sunlight

  burst

  like something alive—a lion from the golden age—past

  spacious

  balconies, red drapes.

  “He was magnificent!”

  the king said. The slave in black, standing at his

  shoulder,

  smiled, remote. “Poor Koprophoros!” the king exclaimed, and laughed till the tears ran down. The slave by the

  bed laughed with him.

  “And poor Paidoboron,” he said, and looked more sober

  for an instant;

  but then, unable to help himself, he laughed again. You’d have sworn he was ten years younger today, his

  cares all ended.

  His laughter jiggled the bed and made him breathless.

  The dog

  at the door rolled back his eyes to be certain that all was

  well,

  his head still flat on his paws. When the fit of laughter

  passed,

  the old king patted his stomach and grew philosophical. “Well, it’s not over yet, of course.” Ipnolebes nodded, folded his hands on his beard. King Kreon lowered his

  eyebrows,

  closed one eye, and pushed out his lower lip. “Make no mistake,” he said, “that man knows whom he’s speaking

  to—

  This for the princess, that for the king; this for the

  Keltai,

  this for the Ethiopians.’ ” He closed his left eye tighter still, till the right one gleamed like a jewel.

  “And what

  does he offer for Kreon and Ipnolebes?” Abruptly, the

  bed

  became too little span for him. He threw off the cover— slaves leaped back—reached pink feet to the floor and

  began

  to pace. They dressed him as he walked (somewhat

  frailly, eating an apple).

  This, certainly, whatever else: the trick of survival may not lie, necessarily, in heroic strength or even heroic nobility, heroic virtue— consider Herakles and Hylas, for instance. The world’s

  complex.

  There’s the more serious side of what’s wrong with

  Koprophoros.

  Graceful, charming, ingenious as he is (we can hardly

  deny

  he’s that), his faith’s in himself, essentially. The

  strength of his muscles,

  the force of his intellect. We know from experience,

  you and I,

  where that can lead. Oidipus tapping his way through

  the world

  with a stick, more lonely and terrible, more filled with

  gloom

  than Paidoboron himself. Or worse: Jokasta hanging

  from a beam.

  Or Antigone.” He paused and leaned on the balustrade

  that overlooked

  the city, the sea beyond, the visitors’ ships. “Antigone,” he said again, face fallen, wrecked. He raised the apple to his mouth and discovered he’d eaten it down to the

  pits. He was silent.

  He stared morosely seaward. Ipnolebes stood head

  bowed,

  as though he knew all too well what molested his

  master’s thought.

  The king asked, testy, his eyes evasive, “Tell me,

  Ipnolebes,

  what do the people say now about that time?” The slave stiffened, disguising his feelings, then quickly relaxed

  once more,

  grinning, casually picking at his arm. But if there was

  cunning

  in what he said, or if some god had entered his spirit, no one there could have known it. “My lord, what can they say?” he said at last. “No one was

  wrong …

  it seems to me … though what would I know, mere

  foolish old slave?”

  Kreon turned his bald head slightly, lips pursed,

  eyebrows

  low, dark, thick as a log-jam. His neck was flushed—old

  rage

  not yet burned out. Ipnolebes said: “With Oidipus blind, self-exiled, Queen Jokasta dead, the city of Thebes surrounded, you had no choice but to seal the gates.

  That stands—”

  He paused, looked baffled for a moment. That

  stands … to reason. And of course

  Antigone had no choice but to break your law, with

  her brothers

  unburied, food for vultures. So it seems … It was a terrible time, yes yes, but no one…” His voice

  trailed off.

  Kreon’s mouth tightened. “I should have relented sooner.

  I was wrong.

  To think otherwise … Would you have me consider

  our lives mere dice?”

  Ipnolebes wrung his hands. “I’m a foolish old man,

  my lord.

  It seems improbable …” “If it’s true, then Koprophoros’

  way’s the best:

  Seize existence by the scrotum! Cling till it shakes you

  loose,

  hurls you out with an indifferent horn toward emptiness! I refuse to believe it’s true!” But his eyes snapped shut,

  and he whispered,

  “Gods, dear-precious-holy-gods!” I looked at Corinth’s

  towers,

  baffled by the sudden change in him. I looked, in my

  vision,

  at the parks, academies, sculptured walkways, houses

  of the people

  (white walls, gardens, children in the streets)—a city

  as bright

  as Paris, greener than London, as awesome in its power

  for good

  or evil as rich New York; and suddenly I knew what

  shattered him:

  Thebes on fire. (Berlin, San Francisco, Moscow,

  Florence …

  New York on fire. Babylon is fallen, fallen ...)

  The slave shook his head,

  rueful. “My lord, what got you back onto this? We

  should think

  of the present, be grateful for the gifts the generous

  gods give now!”

  For a long time Kreon was silent, looking at the sea.

  Below him

  the city, blazing in the sunlight, teemed with tiny

  figures

>   moving like busy insects through the streets. The tents of the marketplace were shimmering patches of color.

  By the walls

  stood hobbled donkeys, loaded with goods—bright cloth,

  rope, leather,

  great misshapen bags of grain, new wineskins,

  implements;

  above it all, like the tinny hum that rises from a hive, the sound of the people’s voices buying and selling,

  begging,

  trading—people of every description, thieves, jewellers, shepherds driving their bleating sheep and goats, sailors up from the ships in the harbor, zimmed and

  clean-shaved spintries—

  shocking as parrots—and prostitutes, old leathery

  priests …

  The old king pointed down at them, touching

  Ipnolebes’ arm.

  “See how they live off each other,” he said. “Shoes for

  baskets,

  honey for wine, filigree for gold, a few pennies for a prayer. Picture of the world—so Jason claims.

  Picture

  of the Argo, gods and men all ‘arm in arm,’ so to

  speak:

  no one exactly supreme. If Antigone and I had been like that, more willing to give and take …” Ipnolebes

  scowled

  but kept his thoughts to himself. When Kreon glanced

  at him

  he saw at once that something festered in the old slave’s

  mind.

  “Don’t keep your thoughts from me, old friend,” he said.

  His look

  had a trace of anger in it. Ipnolebes nodded, avoiding the king’s eyes. His gnarled hands trembled on the

  white of his beard

  and it came to me that, for all their talk of friendship,

  they were

  slave and master. Ipnolebes touched his wrinkled lips with two bent fingers and mumbled, as if to himself,

  “I was thinking—

  trying to think—the old brain’s not what it used to be,

  my lord—thinking …

  from Aietes’ point of view… how he felt when the Argo—every man at his task, the south wind

  breathing

  his steady force in the sails—came gliding to the

  Kolchian harbor

  to steal the fleece, bum ships, seduce his daughter—

  destroy

  his house.” Suddenly he laughed—the laugh of a

  halfwit harmless

  slave. King Kreon looked at him, his small eyes wider, glinting. “Aietes was wrong,” he said. The gods were

  against him.”

  Ipnolebes nodded, looking at the ground. They must

  have been.

  But what was his error, I wonder?” King Kreon glanced

  away.

  “Who knows?” he said. Tyranny perhaps. Or he

  slighted some god—

  who knows? It’s none of our business.” He closed his

  mouth. It became

  a thin, white line, perspiring at the upper lip. “Who

  knows?”

  He shot a glance at Ipnolebes, but the old man’s face was vacant. His mind had wandered—a trick of Athena,

  at his back—

  and Kreon pressed him no more. Ipnolebes excused

  himself,

  mumbling of work, and the king released him, frowning

  slightly.

  When the slave was gone, he stood on the balcony alone,

  thinking.

  All around him, gods stood watching his mind work, slyly disguised as crickets, spiders, a lone eagle ringing slowly sunward, on Kreon’s left

  Below,

  Ipnolebes paused on the stairway, listening. A frail

  old woman,

  slave from the south, was singing softly:

  “On ivory beds

  sprawling on divans,

  they dine on the tenderest lambs from the flock

  and stall-fattened veal;

  they bawl to the sound of the minstrel’s harp

  and invent unheard-of instruments of music;

  they drink their wine by the bowlful, use

  the finest oil for anointing themselves;

  death they do not sing of at all.

  and death they do not think of at all;

  But the sprawlers’ revelry is over,”

  Without a word, Ipnolebes descended, thinking.

  On a bridge in the palace gardens, Pyripta stood looking

  down

  at fernlike seaweed, the wake of a swan, the blue-white

  pebbles

  below. She stood till the water was still and her reflection—pensive, silk-light hair falling over

  her bosom—

  looked back at her. She seemed to be trying to read the

  face

  as she would the face of a stranger. The face said

  nothing—as sweet

  and meaningless as a warm spring day. She pouted,

  frowned,

  experimented with a smile. She glanced away abruptly, with a frightened look, alarmed by art. I hurried nearer, picking my way through flowers. Aphrodite appeared

  beside her,

  faintly visible on the bridge, like a golden haze, and

  touched

  Pyripta’s arm. The princess stared at the water once

  more

  and sighed, shook back her hair. “I won’t,” she

  whispered. “Why must I?

  Later! Please, gods, later! I need more time!” The

  goddess

  moved her hand on Pyripta’s hair. The girl looked

  down,

  posing, as before. The flowers of the garden rimmed the

  pool

  like a wreath of yellows and pinks. The swans moved

  lazily,

  like words on the delicate surface of a too-calm dream.

  Above,

  on the palace roof, a songbird whistled its warning to

  the sky,

  the encroaching leaves: Take caret Take care! Take

  care up there!”

  As I raised my foot, stepping over a flower, the garden vanished.

  I stood in the shadow of Jason’s wall. There were vines, the scent of black earth, old brick. I went to the open

  window,

  cleaned my glasses on the sleeve of my coat and,

  standing on tiptoe,

  peeked through the louvers. He was dressed to go out,

  standing at the mirror,

  his back to Medeia, brushing his long black hair.

  She said:

  “Don’t go, Jason.” He said nothing, brushing, his arm

  and shoulder

  smooth, automatic as a lion’s. He put down the brush

  and took

  his cape from the slave. Except for his eyes, he seemed

  relaxed.

  His eyes had blue-black glints like sparks.

  But he swung the cape to his shoulders gently, graceful

  as a dancer.

  “Jason,” she whispered, “for the love of God, don’t

  make me beg!”

  He turned to the door. She paled. “Don’t go,” she said.

  “Don’t go!”

  She went past him, blocking the door, and her eyes were

  wild. “Jason!”

  He moved her aside like a child and walked from the

  house. “Jason!”

  she screamed, clinging to the jamb. He didn’t look back.

  He walked

  to the gate and through it. I hurried after him, amazed,

  stumbling,

  trying to watch Medeia over my shoulder, where she

  stood

  on the steps.

  “Jason, you’re insane!” I hissed. I snatched at his arm. My hand passed through his wrist. Ghosts, I

  remembered. Shadows.

  I kept close to him, whispering. If Medeia had seen me,

  so could he,

  if
he’d use the right part of his mind. “I know the whole

  story!” I hissed,

  “the fiercest, most horrible tragedy ever recorded! God’s

  truth!”

  I might as well have complained to the passing wind.

  We came

  to the palace steps. There was a crowd gathering. He

  started up,

  three steps at a bound, his cape flaring out behind. At

  the door

  I caught a glimpse of the blond young slave Amekhenos. Gone before Jason saw him.

  Then, from behind us in the street,

  came a thin, blood-curdling wail. “Jason!” We stopped

  in our tracks.

  The crowd shrank back. She stood with blood running

  down her cheeks,

  the skin torn by her own nails. “Jason, I warn you,” she called, and sank to her knees, stretched out hex

  arms to him.

  “By the sign of this blood, I warn you—Medeia,

  daughter of Aietes,

  as mighty a king as has ever ruled on earth—come

  away!”

  He stared, shrinking. I was sick, so weak that my

  knees could barely

  hold me. Her hair was beautiful—red-gold, shimmering

  with light,

  too lovely for earth—but her face was torn and swollen,

  bleeding…

  We looked away, all of us but Jason. At last he went

  down to her

  and, gently, he took her hands. After a moment, he said, firmly, but as if he were speaking to a child, “No,

  Medeia.”

  She searched his face, trembling, clinging to his hands.

  “Go home,”

  he said. “I know you too well, Medeia. Not that your rage and grief are lies. You feel what you feel. Nevertheless, this once you can’t have your way. If you could show

  what I do

  in any way unjust or unlawful—if you could raise the shadow of a logical objection, I’d change my course

  for you.

  You cannot. Long as we’ve lived together, you were

  never my wife,

  only the lady I’ve loved. There’s a difference, in noble

  houses

  with large responsibilities. For love of you I fled my homeland, abandoned my throne, sharing

  the exile

  your crimes earned. I was innocent myself—all Argos

  knew it;

  no one more shocked than I when I learned of that

  monstrous feast.

  Ask anyone here.” He turned to the crowd, then to her

  again.

  “Now, and partly for your sake, I mean to rebuild my

  power,

  gain back part of what I’ve lost. Go home and wait for