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Chapters (53)
  1. COVER PAGE
  2. PRAISE
  3. ALSO BY
  4. AUTHOR BIO
  5. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  6. EPIGRAPHS
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. BOOK TWO
  39. 1
  40. 2
  41. 3
  42. 4
  43. 5
  44. 6
  45. 7
  46. 8
  47. 9
  48. 10
  49. 11
  50. 12
  51. 13
  52. 14
  53. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The daughter of great Aeetes being stepped on by rabble, by people who live in shit. Held pinned to the earth like any insect. She crawls toward Cyzicus, toward where she might stand, and vows revenge. She could use her knife now, but she will wait. She will consider. Killing Jason now, she’d be killed herself, killed for a man, same as this queen. She won’t die here in a nameless place and for nothing.

Just as she had felt a stronger love for Jason. And now on her hands and knees, fate of any woman who lets herself love a man.

A sea of lament, the crowd surging above, moaning and shrieking for two pieces of meat. The heat of them, all moving as one, pressed that tightly together, but she finds Cyzicus, presses against his empty chest, hardly more than a boy without his mask, frees her legs to straddle. Hands on his chest, groin against his, and she could be riding him. Medea laughs. They would be horrified. They would kill her. But they are all looking upward to see the queen brought out dead. They want to see her neck stretched, so Medea rides their dead king surrounded by all his people, some atavistic ritual in torchlight, as if all must be fucked into the other world and no other entrance, a god of lust, barbaric god from before thought, before name.

Medea yells and hoots and laughs in that night, and none can tell. Sorrow and joy the same sounds, and everyone blind in their obedience, never imagining Medea possible. No one will ever predict her.

She stands, finally, places her foot on this borehole chest and is able to see better that way, taller, stepping on their king. Her other foot on his face, sandal covered in shit. She holds onto shoulders in the crowd, sees the queen brought out, not what you’d imagine in a queen, smaller, a lump in brown linen, not wearing animal hides at least.

She steps off into the crowd as they turn to raise their king to meet his queen, not knowing he’s just been with another, a final love to last into death. Cleite will have to be alone.

Wander forever, Medea says in her own tongue. Both of you, wander alone forever in the other world and never meet, and Cyzicus dream only of me. And let this city be burned and erased and forgotten.

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