Medea. Kerry Greenwood
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changed the ointments, do you think?' I asked, knowing the answer.
'You have only to look at him,' spat Trioda with satisfaction. I looked. My half-brother was crestfallen, his fine smile wiped away, and the beginnings of fear were crossing his face.
'One day a cock, the next day a fly-whisk,' said Trioda, quoting a Colchian proverb.
'What will my father do to him?' I wondered aloud.
'We shall see,' said my mistress.
The furrow was completed. The king loosed the bulls, which wandered away to their pasture, and walked the furrow, dropping barley seeds behind him. The people cheered; he was carried, shoulder high into the city, and we followed at the end of the procession, curious to see to which doom he would put his betrayer.
A fine, sleety rain stung my skin as we walked through the narrow streets to the palace, where the men would feast. Sweating slaves had been preparing bread and roasting meat since early morning. Trioda placed the other papyrus packet into her sleeve.
This was a mystery of the priestesses of Hekate; a combination of powders derived from mining, a yellow mineral, ground charcoal, dog dung, and a pale silvery powder would explode with a bang and a flash if they were lit and thrown. In such a way had the city been impressed with the power of Hekate when the common people had raided the shrines, some twenty years ago, after such a hard winter as this. It was the discovery of the priestess Althea, three generations ago, and she brought the secret from the Black Land with her. The ingredients were scarce and seldom found, and it was by the special intervention of the Lady that Trioda had been carrying a couple of them - or perhaps it was not. My mistress had a way of knowing most things. Now she was walking grimly beside me. I asked, 'What do you think will happen, Lady?' and she grunted.
'The king your father has no sense,' she said flatly. But she would not tell me what she feared.
The crowd had come into the precincts of the palace, where the feast was laid out. We walked through the throng of men, who were laughing and tearing chunks off fresh loaves, following the king into the inner palace and into the audience chamber. The noises of the feast faded behind us. My mouth watered. I seemed to be always hungry since the goddess made me a woman.
Aetes climbed out of his litter. A broad gesture dismissed the priests of Ammon, who scurried away. Facing the king as he sat down on his throne were the four sons of Phrixos and my half-brother Aegialeus.
Aetes surveyed them in silence.
'Someone tried to kill me this morning,' he said. There was no reply from any of them.
'The man who did so must have had the ointment on him,' he said.
No one moved.
'Turn out your pouches,' roared the king. Kneeling, trembling, the five young men did as they were bid and the king searched through the contents. Knives, letters, a piece of bread - that would be Melanion, my old companion, who was always hungry - a sharpening stone, a lump of wax, an ivory comb.
No little pot of ointment which could tame the bulls.
'Confess!' screamed the king. He was purple, and Trioda whispered to a slave to prepare the draught for apoplexy. He was working himself into another fit.
'Lord, we did not plot your downfall,' said Cytisoros, the eldest son of Phrixos. 'Not I, and not my brother Argeos or my brother Phrontis or my little brother Melanion.'
'You are the sons of the stranger,' snarled the king. 'You are foreigners, bearing foreign seed.'
'Lord, we would not harm you,' said Argeos.
'Who, then?'
Cytisoros made a fatal error. He did not speak, but he looked aside at Aegialeus, and the king caught the look. I have never heard human voice rise to such a shriek.
'You dare to accuse my own son; the son of my loins?'
Cytisoros backed away from the incandescent king.
'No, Lord…' he stammered.
'Exile!' Aetes called for his counsellors, and they ran into the room, tablets at the ready. 'I cannot kill you, sons of the stranger, for you are my kin, after this my own son. But you shall leave my kingdom. I will give you a ship and you shall leave - all of you. Forever.'
'Lord, give us leave to say goodbye to our mother, your daughter,' begged Cytisoros. He was shocked, but he was still thinking.
I could not bear to look at the renewed smirk on the mouth of my despicable half-brother. It was desperately unfair. The king was making the wrong decision. I stirred, but Trioda caught my wrist.
'The errors of men are not ours to mend, daughter of Hekate,' she instructed.
'But he's exiling the wrong ones!' I protested.
'He's a man,' said Trioda in a vicious undertone. 'Of course he's wrong.'
I was forced to stand and watch as Phrixos' sons, with whom I had played as a child, were marked with red paint to signify that they were exiles. Chalkiope, my sister, was brought in to receive their farewells. She wept painfully, crying out on my father that he was mad, so that he struck her across the face and the slaves carried her away.
Then my playmates were gone, and I could not avoid looking at Aegialeus. He was sitting at the king's feet. Aetes' old, veined hand rested on his curly black hair and he was as smooth and self-assured as a wolf.
He was smiling that smug smile, and I felt sick.
It was just before dusk on the next day that Trioda announced that I was to travel with the Scythians for the spring and summer.
It was not unknown for Hekate's priestesses to travel with the nomadic, or royal, Scyths. They did not camp, except for the winter, and they travelled on many roads where the sacred places were unattended. Every ten years or so, one of the daughters of the Dark Mother would go along on the circuit with the tribes, to clean and re-sanctify the temples and altars, to advise on medicine and to learn, for a priestess is always learning, until Hekate gathers her to her bosom.
Trioda was sending me to keep me out of my half-brother's grasp, and I was grateful.
I had no opportunity to speak with my father, and Chalkiope would not confide in me, even when I went to tend her bruised face. I gathered my belongings - precious few - and called Kore and Scylla. Trioda took me to the Scythian camp. We walked in amongst the noisy, colourful crowd and for the first time I felt different in my black robes.
'Little Scyth,' said a voice from above me. A woman sitting comfortably on a wagon tossed one plait back across her shoulder and grinned. I groped in my memory. I felt a strong hand, and remembered the street.
'Lady,' I replied. 'It is a long time since I ran under the hoofs of your horse!'
'You travel with us, priestess?' she asked, and I nodded.
'Excellent,' she said. 'Ride with me, if you can. My name is Anemone,' she added, as Trioda dragged me onward by the sleeve.
We bowed before a fat man, slouched on a pile of cushions in the corner of a sumptuous tent which stank of curdled milk. I had seen him before. He was the Scythian king, Idanthyrsus. His bulk did not preclude his excellent horsemanship, and he was reputed to have three wives - though that may have just been gossip. The Scythians were little known in Colchis, and out of ignorance comes fantasy. He was very dark of skin, with long hair arranged in two plaits, and was hung with gold jewellery. Like most Scyths, he had a broad face, with high, flat cheekbones, a wide nose, and eyes so black that their expression was impossible to read.
'Princess,' he nodded to me. 'Trioda. This is your acolyte?'
'Full priestess now, and very acute.' Trioda was even more short of speech than usual. 'You travel the usual way?'
'The usual way, yes. Unless you have some seeing for us?'
'Fair weather and good fortune,' said Trioda, spitting out the words as though she was cursing, not blessing. 'But if Medea returns unvirgin, then disaster and plague.'