Orpheus shook dream and the pale sand of Dia from his head,
and tried hard to steady himself, though the world continued spinning
round and round him, like a top whipped about by a giggling child.
“O Kottyto,” the Bacchic seer swore, covering his mouth. “I’m about to dye my chiton purple.”
Instead he closed his eyes, focused on his breathing and scales,
and the wine stayed put in his belly, though just barely.
Orpheus went to wipe his eyes and realized his face was still caked in white clay,
his back was covered in raised, bloody welts,
the sacred fire had burned down to coals but was still going,
and he was not alone.
Across from him, in the shadows, sat the barbarian princess
but she did not see him.
He recognized that look, for it was often upon his own face;
she gazed out into other worlds and times,
as her soul roamed free from her body.
And what a body she had!
He knew he shouldn’t look –
her heart belonged already to another, a man who was like a brother to him,
leader whom he swore to follow to the ends of the earth and beyond,
friend who would throw away his life just to save him,
Jason, first and greatest hero the Hellenes would ever know.
Knowing, he looked anyway.
Her golden hair hung in braids,
woven with amber beads and animal bones,
and bones had been inserted in her ears and nostril too.
She was dressed in pure linen, white as her breasts,
around her neck hung a score of sacred trinkets and protective charms,
strange, spiraling figures had been applied in red ocher to her face and arms,
and sitting beside her was a hand-drum, a flagellum,
and the knife they’d used to cut the black ram’s throat earlier that night.
Never, in all his days, had Orpheus seen a more beautiful woman,
nor one as pious and versed in holy lore.
The two of them would spend hours, as the Argo lurched ever closer towards Hellas,
discussing theology and the various properties of plants,
cosmic sympathies and how music affects the soul,
the science of sacrifices and cathartic rites,
what their favorite forms of divination were and how to handle annoying clients,
especially those who won’t pay.
Orpheus, being a devotee of Dionysos, had a high regard for women
but Medeia excelled her sisters in every way that mattered to him.
It was like she was his barbarian, female double
except that the ways in which they differed excited him far more than their commonalities.
He found the differences in their practice infinitely fascinating,
and the unfamiliar spirits that came when she called gave him a dangerous thrill
and desire to learn more about them. And best of all, they were able to take drugs
and go on complimentary trips together. Such an intimate thing,
more so than any shallow pleasure of the body,
and that kind of compatibility was supremely important to one in Orpheus’ profession.
Watching her, Orpheus wondered if Jason saw any of that
or had he just proposed to Medeia so he could get his brutish fingers on that damned fleece of gold?
Did he at least appreciate her beauty, or was he so blinded by love of his own race
that her alien, snowy flesh brought only revulsion and queasiness?
Probably not; the man had fucked his way through continents;
any port in the storm was this sailor’s philosophy.
The thought of her and Jason coupling made him suddenly sick,
and the stars resumed spinning over Orpheus’ dizzy head.
Maybe it was the ceremony they’d just performed that was getting to him.
When they’d stopped on the island to replenish their supplies for the last leg of the journey,
the Argonauts met an old shepherd who informed them that they had reached Dia,
sacred to the Lord Dionysos and his bride. And then he showed them the way
to the cave where Ariadne had been brought after a black nightmare drove Theseus off.
There, for all to see, was the purple robe upon which the happy couple consummated their nuptials
and the place, to this day,
is still redolent of the sweet wine that flowed plentifully
on that night so long ago.
Orpheus fell to his knees and made offerings, moved by reverent awe,
but Jason merely laughed and said that would make a fine bed for deflowering his queen.
It may have been a joke when first he spoke those words,
but by the third time his will was resolute.
Jason dismissed Orpheus’ attempts to plead sense into him
as so much superstitious Thracian nattering,
but he was vindicated when Medeia collapsed to the ground
and began to convulse, frothing at the mouth.
Nothing could stop her; even the strongest of the Argonauts,
straddling her stomach and restraining her thrashing fists,
succeeded only temporarily, then another fit would seize her and it would start all over again.
Orpheus took mantic pebbles from his pouch
and discerned through their casting that this madness was sent by Taurian Artemis
who would not release her priestess from service until her price had been completely paid.
Without hesitating Orpheus collected the offerings and carried out the rites to set Medeia free,
only considering what that freedom meant once he was through.
He’d done his duty, as one of his line should,
though in so doing he’d removed the only obstacle to his rival’s wedding.
Tomorrow, after they’d recovered from the fatigue that follows ecstasy,
Jason would lead her to the verdant cave and Orpheus would lose his friend forever.
Tears leaving streaks in the white clay on his cheeks,
he continued to watch the unresponsive woman,
hoping to store in his memory every bit of her Kolchian beauty.
He hoped Jason would give her everything he couldn’t
– a safe and secure home, unconditional acceptance, and many fat and happy sons,
and perhaps even a daughter, who would grow into a woman like her mother one day.
Orpheus begged Flowering Aphrodite to make it so;
she heard, but was able to answer only part of his prayer
for Triple Artemis, the hanger of maidens, had not been appeased in full.
