They row on as the day brightens and shores fall away. A few small fishing boats disappearing along the margins and otherwise alone. Wind rising as the sun passes overhead, bringing small waves from the side. The men gather at the stern and haul two heavy lines to raise the upper yard. Tilting and swinging as it goes up, slim trunk of a pine, tapered at the ends, banging, low thuds. The bronze head with its many eyes at the top of the mast is straight, and the sail hangs out to the side, so the lines are twisted and difficult to pull through. More men join, ten at each rope. Sail fat and heavy, tipping the boat and refusing to be pulled tight, so finally they give up and leave it that way, tie off the halyards.

They sleep almost instantly. They haven’t eaten, but they’re so exhausted from rowing through the night they don’t care.

No one relieves the helmsmen. They fight against this baggy sail and track toward where the sun will set. Smaller men, both of them, not big enough for the oars. A position of shame, perhaps, on any boat. And yet every man here is a king and a demigod. That’s what they claim. So there must be at least two smaller peoples somewhere, ruled by these runts.

Runt-kings, Medea says aloud.

They ignore her, of course, if they understand.

Living close to the ground, she says, hiding in the rocks. Waiting with short little spears for some shorter deer.

One of them glances back at her, unmasked hatred. So they do understand, but of course they do nothing except what they’ve been told, steering endlessly while the larger men sleep.

Slaves, Medea says. Runt-slaves.

The day burning, and no amount of goading will provoke a response from the little kings, so she crawls to the hatch and realizes this is what their people must do. Anyone taller than the king must crawl everywhere. An entire people on hand and knee, going out to the fields to work, dragging wine and food through mud streets, all looking down. At least two kingdoms ruled this way. Children allowed to run only until they reach a certain height. Every temple shortened, every doorway, even the day. Everyone going to sleep before the sun has fallen. Medea laughs and crawls below into shade, to her coiled rope, checks above to see if their legs come down through, not shorter but only submerged.