We sit looking over the city of Athens. It is something we do often, Aegeus and I.

An old married couple, waiting only for a peaceful death, and burial by their children: that is what old age should be. And sometimes, I can almost imagine that is the case.

Except I will never again marry, even if any man alive would have me. Aegeus certainly wouldn't. He hated me, for a time, but he is a man who respects his oaths. And, over time, the hatred cooled, and now we have much in common.

No. Not an old married couple, not Aegeus and I. Though I did give him children, after a fashion. Another woman bore them--his wife, dead now for many years--but it was my skill, my knowledge, that allowed the conception. These Greeks are quick to praise their precious civilized values, quick to mock those others of us they call barbarians. They are also quick to accept our aid: they might call it magic or evil cunning, and not just rudimentary medical knowledge, but they will acknowledge the babies as their sons. And deny that acknowledgement, just as easily.

"I have another granddaughter," Aegeus says, and I nod.

Aegeus does not look like a grandfather, exactly. He is old--he was old when his first child was born--but still healthy and virile. It is very important that he remains alive. I can do more than guarantee the conception of children.

I think he hated me for his long life, too. Well, not for the life, not for the virility I gave him. But for the looks he was given, even as king. These prejudiced Athenians, who cannot conceive of the possibility of barbarians surpassing (or even equaling) their knowledge or morals. They cannot quite forgive Aegeus for the magic I worked on him, granting him more life.

They could forgive him granting me sanctuary. He swore to do so, in the names of the gods. I forced him to swear, and he did so willingly; as a politician, he knew how valuable that excuse could be. And I don't think he ever really expected me to come. He certainly didn't expect me to make such an entrance, riding upon the chariot provided by my grandfather, the Sun.

I try to imagine growing up as Aegeus's granddaughter. She'll be coddled, uneducated, probably as insipid and brainless as all the rest of his female offspring (and male, come to think of it). And of course she will be popular and desired by all of Athens. I cannot imagine living without the knowledge that a god had sired my father, without the knowledge that I was something more than ordinary mortals.

"You would have grandchildren by now," he says.

Only a few years ago, I would have assumed he said such things to wound me. Now, he is only making an observation. As if I would forget how old my sons would be.

"The boys could have come," he says. "I would have protected them, too."

It is an old...not quite an argument. An argument requires some amount of passion, or at least immediacy. "Though you only swore to protect me, I suppose you would have, until you died."

"You didn't ask me about them," he says.

That is true. I sometimes have dreams, where they are both alive and happy and living with me here in Athens. Actually, I often have these dreams. I never have the same one twice. They progress chronologically, giving me a glimpse at life as it might have been.

I don't dream about Jason any more. It has been years. That surprised me, when I first realized how remote my feelings for him had become.

"I wish you had," Aegeus continues. "We'd have had an easier time."

We, he says. The king of Athens and an alien woman, exiled from every other land. Hardly comparable positions.

Although, in all fairness, he did face a fair amount of criticism. People called him a fool, said I'd bewitched him. I suppose I'm lucky he didn't decide to chance breaking his oath. I've often wondered if he didn't because of his own sense of honor, or because he feared what the gods--or I--would do to him.

How he raged at me, privately, calling my every act into question. As if I lacked the intelligence to examine my own plans before executing them.

I shake my head. "I know how you Greeks treat your outcasts. Living as aliens and murderers, hounded and mocked by their enemies? I did not bear my children for such a fate."

"People would have forgotten," Aegeus says. "It wasn't as if they planned to kill anyone."

"And Jason did not kill Pelias, but Iolcus would not have him," I counter. "Guilt by association is very popular among your people, Aegeus. The act is more important than the thought. I've always found that rather amusing, given how you claim to love philosophy and the exercises of the mind."

"You are too much the elitist. Not everyone has your intelligence, your ambitions. And you shouldn't look down on those people; you should envy them."

"Perhaps. If I were a stupid, simpering woman I would be living happily in Colchis, and would die forgotten. In that, Jason was right: he did introduce me to more of the world than I could hope to have seen. I could never have been happy, Aegeus. I want at least to be remembered."

I sometimes wonder, when I wake, why I didn't ask Aegeus to protect my sons as well as me. To live happily in Athens, still leaving two bodies behind in Corinth: surely that, too, would have been a victory.

I have never done well when my heart has been divided: choices have always been black and white. I will not be forgotten; my sons could not have had even a chance at living happily unless their deeds and their mother's faded from men's minds. In the long run, I could not have protected them. I do not believe that I could have ensured that Aegeus survive them, and offer them his protection. How much worse, to try to keep them safe, and then watch them live in misery, mocked and hounded by their enemies, perhaps slaughtered by them....

No. Better to know for certain, better to be able to grieve for a single act, and not a lifetime's worth of missteps.

I have always been able to take the long view. Aegeus has come to realize that, though for years he thought I was an impulsive fiend, at best a pawn for a series of gods' pranks.

I know I am not a tool, though I have been close to the gods. I still keep a shrine to Hecate, though I have little cause to call upon her now. I still resent Aphrodite, for inducing me to look so kindly upon Jason; and I still resent Zeus, who did not force Jason to keep his oaths to me. But then, what could I expect from a god who is even more promiscuous than my husband?

Hera will abandon Jason; of this I am certain. She knows the pain of a wronged wife. I believe that she is sympathetic to my cause. I must simply wait.

"Men say that before battle, in the same tone," Aegeus says. "I think that women should not say it, since they can only kill their friends."

I wonder what battle is like, what it feels like to kill a man who is a complete stranger. It is something I have never done, except at a distance, by others' hands. I cannot imagine looking at a victim as he dies, and not know who he is, not love him and grieve for the necessity of his death.

"Perhaps that is why men make war," I say. It is not a new debate, nor an urgent one. Aegeus will never again go to war, though I suppose he is probably physically able. I have no reason to murder anyone. And no one left to murder.

One of Aegeus's slaves approaches us, somewhat wary. The foreign witch and the bewitched king, that is how he sees us. Not an alien outcast, and the man who owns his life and body. Men are fools.

"My lord," the slave says. "News comes for the lady."

"Continue," I say. I was the daughter of a king, and should have been the wife of one; it is my right to command, especially since this message can only be one final piece of news.

"Jason is dead," the slave says. They do not call him my husband. Just another poor, helpless Greek bewitched by the foreign woman. "He was sitting beneath the remains of the Argo, and a beam fell upon him and killed him."

"Thank you," I say. "You may go." I watch him withdraw, vaguely wondering how he expected me to react.

Silently, I give thanks to Hera. I suppose it is the last time I shall ever have cause to speak to the gods.

"Well, then, that is all," Aegeus said.

Long ago, when he still loved me above all others, Jason told me how Hera had helped him in his quest. How she herself provided some of the materials he used to build his great ship. I am certain that the beam which killed him was touched by her hand.

I nod. "I have won. I hurt him for all his life, and now I have outlived him."

"Does it bring you comfort?"

Aegeus thinks that I do not understand the depths of my own pain. "It is the end, the thing I have waited for all these years. I am satisfied."

Aegeus smiles. "Then I suppose I shall begin to wither away, now that you no longer need me to protect you."

The poor man. How he must have feared and longed for this day. I shrug. "You have been a good and true friend, Aegeus. You kept your oath, when I expected that no man was capable of remembering his word. For that I thank you. I will not abandon you now; if you desire my help, I can keep you alive and healthy for a little longer, at least."

I stand, feeling the warmth of my grandsire's light. I feel a twinge in my joints, for I am growing old as well. I have no reason not to, now, no reason not to die.

Aegeus looks frightened, though he hides it well. He only ever asked for children, not the extra years I have granted him. He took the gift, in part because he thought he had no choice in the matter. I wonder idly if he loves this world enough to remain a little longer, though it will win him the enmity of his people. But it is only fair to make him decide. Kings make decisions for other people every day; they should sometimes be forced to decide about their own lives.

"Thank you for sitting with me," I say, and look out once more upon the city. I have waited so long for this day; now everything is complete. "I hope we may sit here together tomorrow."

I leave him there, heading back to my house. It is not a palace, but I am still one of the great ones. I understand how such things are measured, and the toll they take. The dramatic deeds that linger in men's minds are important, and difficult; yet the aftermath is so much more painful. And so long. But that is over now. I have survived: the final task I needed to perform, and now absolutely nothing else can matter to me again.

About the Author.

About the Reader.

Back to the top of this page.