In the morning, he’s gone, and the day is filled with attendants, preparations for a great feast. She’s bathed and then waits, dressed and then waits, her hair arranged and then waits. So many hands touching her, something she hasn’t experienced since Colchis. The indifference of slaves. Touching her but absent, gone somewhere else, leaving her always alone, even when surrounded. She doesn’t see Jason again until evening.

Wearing that red-and-purple mantle, despite the heat, and carrying the golden fleece. The two of them walk together to a large terrace. Iolcans gathered on all sides below, watching. Hundreds of Jason’s people, and he looks like them. Same wide cheeks. Sent away as a baby, returned once before, now returned again. Pelias wanted him dead. Medea doesn’t see any love for Jason. These people mute, only watching.

Jason turns his back to them, takes Medea’s hand and they walk up enormous stone stairs. His hand shaking. White stone expanse, radiating heat. Only the two of them making this crossing.

Columns at the top of the stairs, a portico on another large terrace, and they walk through, spearmen lining either side. Pelias could have them killed easily.

At the far end of the portico, entrance to the throne room, massive stones that could not have been moved by men. As they enter, an enormous hearth at the center, raised, surrounded by four pillars that hold up the ceiling. Open center to this ceiling, for smoke and light. Pelias seated along a wall in plain view, surrounded by frescoes on the wall and floor, so that he is a dozen kings at once, with shield and spear, killing enemies, hunting, visited by goddesses. Golden king, shimmering on every side. Jason’s fleece pale and shabby by comparison.

Pelias beckons, and they walk closer. Jason holds the fleece before him, a kind of shield as he approaches his uncle.

Bearded king, like all kings, face hidden, no longer a man but something else, closer to a god, mostly unseen. Holding a great spear of ash and bronze wrapped in gold. An attendant beside him holding the golden helmet and shield. This could be her father.

Medea wants to kill. She could take his spear and drive it through him. But she’d be dead before she could watch him die. Guards on all sides, ready. She’ll have to wait for another time.

You are Medea, he says.

Yes.

You have killed your own brother, cut him into pieces, betrayed your father the king.

Yes.

Pelias smiles. And Jason. You have brought me something?

Jason holds out the golden fleece, dark sheepskin in this dim light.

Am I to believe that is the golden fleece?

It is, taken from Aeetes.

And how were you able to take it?

Jason looks at Medea. I had to yoke a pair of fire-breathing bulls.

Oh, Pelias says.