Jason: the second in the thrilling Blades of Bronze historical adventure series set in Ancient Greece

By Mark Knowles

You've read the myths, now discover what really happened! In this powerful historical adventure set in Ancient Greece, the Argonauts take on mighty Troy, witness the strange skills of Circe, and encounter the unfortunate Sirens. Jason is the second novel in the breathtaking Blades of Bronze series, perfect for fans of Christian Cameron and Madeline Miller.

They may have won the prize, but will any of them make it home alive?

Jason has fulfilled the mission set him by his scheming uncle, King Pelias of Iolkos: he and the Argonauts have won the fabled Golden Fleece of Colchis. Jason dreams of glory – of taking his uncle's throne, rightfully his – and, like his warrior shipmates, of home.

But it is not only Pelias who wishes Jason ill. Before the Argonauts can make it back to Iolkos, they must contend with a legion of foes who would see them dead – and a web of allies who are not quite what they seem.

Jason and his warriors must outwit the recondite Circe and the spies of mighty Troy, overcome hostile tribes beyond the Danube, and sail the troubled waters of the Archipelagos, where the Sirens wait to snare unwary seafarers.

Yet Jason's perils are only beginning, for he will soon discover that a truer evil lies closer to home...

'A bold and thrilling voyage that plunges you deep into the world of ancient myth with every stroke of Jason's oar. Knowles's storytelling captured my imagination from the very first page. It is wonderfully atmospheric' Daisy Dunn, editor of ARGO: A Hellenic Review, and author of Of Gods and Men: 100 Stories from Ancient Greece & Rome

PRAISE FOR THE BLADES OF BRONZE SERIES AND MARK KNOWLES

'Mark Knowles has taken the legend of Jason and the Golden Fleece, and stripped it down to its bare bones... Epic battles, well-rounded characters sailing through a brilliantly described world' Adam Lofthouse
'What a spectacular triumph! Knowles has taken a reassuringly familiar legend and elevated it into a new, realistic and engrossing story' Sam Taw
'Knowles has combined historical realities with sure-footed imagination... brilliant' Dr Paul Millett
'[Knowles] has teamed his love of learning classics and childhood love of sword-and-sandals epics to accomplish something remarkable' Boarding Schools' Association

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Aug 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9781801102735

Mark Knowles

Mark Knowles took degrees in Classics and Management Studies at Downing College, Cambridge. After a decade working as a frontline officer and supervisor within the Metropolitan Police Service, he became Head of Classics at a school in Harrogate. He is a particular fan of experimental archaeology and rowed on the reconstructed ancient Athenian trireme Olympias during its last sea trials in Greece in 1994. Follow Mark on @mark77knowles and markknowles.info

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Eleusis, twelve months earlier

She shivers, despite the heat of the flames. The scent of the pig crackling on the flagstones in front of the hall promises neither sustenance nor solace to her. Shadows of the two families, laughing and dancing by the olive tree, leap against the portico and the building at right angles to it. Her own shadow is hiding somewhere behind her. Perhaps the prospects of what will happen to her within those walls has terrified it too.

The sky flickers again, illuming angry clouds scudding past the full moon. Seconds later, a faint rumble of thunder rolls in from the direction of Mount Pateras to the west. In just fifteen winters, she believes she has already become wiser than most Achaean women. Until recently, she had always believed that there was a greater force, regulating the ways of men. The mantle of that force had always protected her: or so she thought. Her naivety cut deep.

May she that was begotten beneath the light of the All-Knowing Moon learn to beget…

This is all she remembers from the brief ceremony. Like the few stubborn words of a long-forgotten song, their meaning flits in and out of the void.

As the revellers drink and feast, she now feels dark eyes leering at her on the other side of the fire. Even as he tips back the bowl and drains the wine, he doesn’t blink. Not even when he wipes his mouth against the sleeve of his tunic. She doesn’t know him but, with all her heart, she hates him. She experiences a sensation growing deep within her, something unfamiliar and brimming with malice. It makes her panic. She can’t control it. It makes her head pound.

Mother, she whispers, Mother, why did you abandon me?

The man’s twin sidles behind him, gripping his shoulder. Only then does the young nobleman stop staring and look up. He nods before fixing his eyes upon her once more. She tries to ignore him, drawing up her knees to her chest. Her fingers, she notices, are still reddened by the juice of the pomegranate and some of it has stained her white dress. It is next to her on the platform, squashed on one side. She knows full well what that fleshy, yielding fruit signifies and it sickens her. She kicks it into the drain in disgust.

King Celeos’ three daughters sneak into the courtyard and melt into the shadows by the wall. The distress on their friend’s face is raw. Beyond the gleeful faces of the celebrants, she couldn’t look more alone.

‘I’m going to see her,’ says Demo.

Callidice, the eldest, holds her middle sister back with a gentle hand. Her thick eyebrows knit. ‘Father said we shouldn’t interfere.’

‘We’re not interfering,’ declares Saessara, the youngest and most impetuous. ‘The ceremony’s over. Come on!’

Callidice rolls her dark eyes and sets off after them. They skirt the courtyard and merriment within it and, holding hands, skip over the drain, one after the other. Celeos breaks off his conversation with the Theban wanax to glare at them but, feeling the heat of his eyes, the sisters bow their heads and hurry to the steps of the platform. Here, they are partially obscured from the courtyard.

Saessara hisses, ‘Persephone!’

The young bride raises her head from between her knees, brushing loose strands of hair from her delicate face. When Callidice sees tears streaming down her cheeks and her pallid lips trembling, her reservations dissolve.

‘Oh, my love! Come here!’

She reaches out for her and Persephone shuffles across the platform. Callidice feels her friend’s fingers clasping her skin, her slim body heaving up and down. It makes her own eyes sting. Her sisters are stood on tiptoes, reaching out to embrace their friend and, for a fleeting moment, they are as one. Then they, too, are crying.

‘You’re supposed to be supporting her!’ whispers Callidice, pinching her two sisters.

They hear a scraping of boots on grit. The four girls flinch and look up with rounded eyes. ‘What a pretty scene!’ Prince Thersander has one hand on his hip, above his sword belt; the other cups a kylix of wine. He looks down at them with a handsome sneer and shapes his glistening beard to a point as he leans forwards and whispers, ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t find it a little thrilling to get through all of that wretched ceremony with none of my family knowing?’ His breath is hot and sour. ‘But never worry, my first act will be to free you. Well… perhaps not my first!’

Callidice makes a noise of disgust and he turns to her. ‘It is a shame, though. I’d have all of you, if I could.’

‘Girls, off you go!’

Thersander turns on his heels and gives King Celeos a winning smile. ‘It’s all in order, my lord. They were just… saying their goodbyes, I imagine.’ Callidice turns and shoots him a look as she strides away. He resists the urge to wink. ‘And such talented musicians!’

‘That they are.’

Celeos looks at Thersander with thinly veiled dislike. It doesn’t concern the young prince in the slightest. ‘My father tells me that, in the old days, pious kings would stop at nothing to ensure the safety of their people. Nothing. I know what you are thinking but you can consider yourself fortunate. After all, you still have your daughters. For now.’

‘Your father wants to speak to you.’ Celeos tips his head to the side. ‘Perhaps he has more wisdom for you: there is certainly room for it.’

Thersander’s face twitches but he forces a smile and bows. ‘Of course.’

From somewhere behind him, a bowl shatters on the ground. There is a snort of tipsy laughter. Celeos ignores it and looks down at the shivering girl. Her large, imploring eyes stir some dregs of pity, deep within him. ‘You should drink something, my girl. It will… help.’ The brief flare of hope in her eyes fades and she looks away.

Celeos sways. He had ordered his steward not to add the usual measure of water to the wine: it had seemed like the best way of getting things over with quickly. Has he really drunk so much? He leaves the girl to it and goes down the steps to relieve himself around the back of the house. Something about the evening has made him uneasy. But then the urge to piss has become more frequent of late.

Another flicker of lightning.

As he unbuckles his belt, the fresco before him flashes with brilliant light. The face of the goddess glares at him, making him step back in alarm. He presses his thumb and forefinger together to make the apotropaic sign, warding off evil spirits, and shakes his head with a wry smile whilst his heart settles. He bows to the goddess and takes himself further round the building to finish his business.

*

Celeos’ daughters pull their beds together. Though there is no rain, the wind whistles through the gaps in the shutters, setting their nerves on edge. The little discs of light between the rafters retreat further into the room as the flames of the oil lamps sway, then straighten.

A sharp cry of pain.

The sisters hold their breaths and clasp hands tightly.

Sharp but mercifully brief.

They strain their ears so hard they can hear the blood humming around their heads. The walls, they all know, are thick.

Silence and the wind.

They exhale in little increments when each passing second brings no additional sounds of pain.

‘Do you think…’

‘He’s drunk,’ interjects Callidice, with a confidence she doesn’t feel, ‘that’s what it is. He’s passed out. The beast.’

Another long moment stretches by.

‘She’ll not sow his seed. Not tonight.’

Callidice tuts and digs her elbow into Saessara’s side.

On the floor above, King Celeos is also awake. He, too, has heard the shout. He has heard many such noises in his time presiding over these rites – some of them even pleasurable – but none has ever kept him awake.

He experiences another ripple of unease and the knot of pain above his groin twinges.

PART I

THE MADNESS OF KING CELEOS

I

The evening following the rites

‘Father! There’s someone asking for you.’ A flushed face appeared around the door of the megaron, crowned with unruly golden curls. ‘Are you receiving visitors?’

‘I am not!’ snapped King Celeos. ‘I have called an assembly.’

Queen Metanira, working a loom across the hearth, frowned at his bad humour. ‘Who is it, Triptolemos?’

‘Some traveller.’ The boy shrugged, his smile undimmed. ‘Old. Thin…’

Metanira blew her hair from the corner of her mouth and cocked her head to the side. Celeos’ face softened. ‘I know that look.’ He dropped onto his chair by the hearth and gestured to his son. ‘Be sure the guard takes his weapon. And tell him to be quick.’

Triptolemos beamed. ‘It’s a woman, Papa.’

‘Can women not also be dangerous?’ Celeos permitted himself a tight smile. ‘Think of Medusa!’

The king and queen heard the clack of a walking stick a few moments before her silhouette appeared in the doorway. Celeos took one look at her and gave his wife a withering look. ‘Yes?’

‘Celeos!’ she hissed.

The woman, dressed all in black, put her hand on her heart and, for a moment, he thought she might keel over. Beneath her headscarf, he could see black hair, shot through with a streak of grey. Her eyebrows were thick and lent a severity to her dark eyes. As she entered, the walking stick seemed to Celeos to be superfluous: only a young boy would describe her as old. He waved Triptolemos away, though he knew he would be listening in the portico with his little brother: the pair were inseparable.

‘Won’t you sit?’ he pointed to a cushioned stool by one of the two pillars supporting the megaron’s roof. ‘Here. Warmer.’

The woman surveyed the hall with quick, intelligent eyes. They came to rest upon the old stirrup jar sat in an alcove above his shoulder. Her lips moved a little, as if she was sounding out the words painted above the ochre bands.

To the wanax. A gift from Dapuros of Knossos.

She lowered herself upon the stool, eying him carefully. He could feel her weighing him up, trying to read his mind. Her eyes had a peculiar intensity, he noticed. He was too weary to explain that the heirloom of which he was so fond was a relic of more prosperous times: and a more powerful king.

‘Water?’

‘Thank you.’

Still thumping the thread into place with her loom sword, Metanira became aware of an uncomfortable silence filling the room. ‘I’ll just fetch the water, shall I?’

Celeos raised his hands and let them drop to the armrests with enough force to convey his impatience. The men of Eleusis would be gathering in the marketplace, waiting for him. Still, the laws of hospitality could not be broken. Metanira poured a beaker of water and brought it over along with a bowl of broth and a husk of dark bread. The woman set about the broth as if she had not eaten in days. As she slurped it, Celeos gave his wife a look and cleared his throat. ‘Well, I have business and must leave you here. The Lady Metanira can keep you company…’

The loom fell silent. Metanira frowned at him. ‘What?’

She jabbed a finger at herself and made a walking gesture. Celeos rolled his eyes. ‘It seems we both have business, so… you may finish your broth.’

‘It’s cold out. My bones are cold.’

‘Yes, it is.’ He rose abruptly and grinned at his wife as he left. Her hands were on her hips as she watched him leave. She heard snickering from the porch outside. ‘And you two can come inside at once.’ Two young faces appeared at either doorpost. ‘Come on! Time you learned some manners. Make our guest feel welcome whilst I go out.’

‘Where are you going?’ asked Triptolemos sulkily.

‘I convened an assembly. It might be a heated affair.’

‘What’s your name?’ asked his younger brother, whose brown eyes were earnest and sincere. ‘I’m Demophon. I’m four. Next year I’ll be six.’

The lady chuckled. ‘My name is Doso. You must sit by the fire and tell me all about yourself.’

Metanira nodded with satisfaction. ‘Be nice to each other!’ she said as she fetched her cloak. She glanced back at them at the threshold of the megaron. She was about to call to the guard to keep an eye on the boys but they were chattering away at the stranger as if she was an old friend.

The Month of the Grape Harvest

Two moons before the end of the sailing season

The little altar by the Grove of Ares had never been attended by so many men in all the centuries of its existence. None had worship on their mind, only revenge. Melanion the Black, favoured prince of Colchis, looked on as the other five boats of the flotilla came to rest by the loamy bank of the River Phasis, a few miles upstream from the delta. Concealed within his cloak, his long nails tapped against the pommel of his sword. His eyes came to rest upon three men whom he recognised as they disembarked in a pool of moonlight, and he beckoned them over impatiently.

Their relief that they had not been singled out for their indifferent rowing was short-lived. He looked from one to the other without blinking, making icicles run along their spines.

‘Go through the grove. I need to know exactly what is inside the temple. Report back to me here.’

‘Your Highness, they…’ The trio exchanged nervous looks. ‘The word is that the temple is guarded by an unsleeping serpent. And aren’t there guards?’

Melanion had already turned his back upon them and now he shot them a look of irritation. He pulled a golden signet ring from his little finger and pressed it into the man’s palm. ‘Use this. Go.’

The second man coughed politely. ‘And the serpent?’

‘Rumours.’ He clicked his fingers at the captain of his vessel and pointed towards one of the torches affixed to the stern. ‘One each for them. Now go!’

*

The three knew each other by name – Aea was small enough that most citizens recognised every face well enough – but they did not exchange words until they were engulfed by the shadows of the woods and, even then, it was in hushed voices.

‘Have you… has he ever had reason to be displeased with you before?’ asked the eldest.

‘Never,’ said the curly-haired man with a pointed chin and beady eyes.

‘He chided me once.’

They looked askance at the young drover, fair-haired and freckled. The eldest frowned as he stepped over a mossy log. ‘Aren’t you a friend of his brother?’

‘Phrontis, yes. I stumbled into him once when Phrontis and I were wrestling; trod on his foot. He shoved me to the floor, called me something like peasant, didn’t even break his stride… I don’t think he ever forgave me. I never forgot.’

The eldest scratched his belly. ‘Safe to say he didn’t choose us for a task of any honour.’

All around them, creatures stirred and called in warning but none crossed their path, and then the forest petered out and the walls of the sacred compound emerged from the gloom. Were it not for the dying torches – little more than floating tips of amber – they would have missed the entrance altogether.

‘We’re here, come on.’

After just a few steps, the torchlight brushed over the sprawling forms of the two guards. The shattered bull mask of one was face down, whilst the other lolled against the boundary wall with his legs apart. Their clothes, their skin, the grass… it was all thick with cloying blood.

‘Gods on earth!’

‘What has happened here?’

‘An idiotic question.’ The three spun around in shock. Melanion was striding towards them out of the woods. ‘Get in there and report back to me, if you want to avoid the same fate.’ The prince’s eyes lingered on the drover for a moment longer than the others. ‘Run!’

They hesitated, mouths working but no sounds emerging. The thumb tapping on the hilt of his sword and the dark look in his eyes made their minds up for them. With faltering bows, they entered the gate.

*

Melanion did not have to wait long. An ear-curdling shriek faded into the night. He sensed rather than heard the flurry of activity in the aftermath of the first snakebite. Empty words of reassurance. The jolt of blind panic.

Will two be enough?

He did not want to send any more. It would look bad if more than three failed to return and none of the others on his galley were quite so obviously ill-suited or ill at ease with the business of fighting. And the boy, the youngest of the trio… There was something about his furtive eyes and narrow shoulders. He was a weakling. A runt.

Why did his brother enjoy wasting his time with him?

There was a faint disturbance and he anticipated the sound of hastening footsteps but… nothing. A breath of wind and leaves, perhaps.

Melanion’s thoughts turned to what he would do to the Achaeans when he finally laid hands upon them. Jason would know what it was to feel pain and fear – true pain and true fear – soon enough. He would flay him alive, as was the Colchian way, and he wondered what his grandfather Aeetes had been thinking with the fiasco of the ploughing and the bulls: it was embarrassing. Maybe the old king was losing his touch. Maybe he should just step aside.

But then the stark images of the fallen Sirakians in the halls and corridors of the palace flashed before his eyes. Contorted, broken, bloodied, some still rasping with breath. The most feared warriors in the Caucasus, slaughtered to a man. By the very men who had rescued him – and his brothers – from suffocation in that stifling, reeking hut. The pirates who had saved his life and killed his abductors were the very dogs who had sailed on to Colchis and shamed his family and impugned his honour.

The gruesome tableau of slain Sirakian tribesmen made his stomach turn, and that told him he was still a novice in the business of murder.

The Argonauts were not.

The sound of panting and soft pounding drew him from his thoughts. A few seconds later, the drover burst from the gates, chest heaving, sweat sheening his forehead.

‘Well?’

The boy was unable to speak. Terror had possessed his face.

‘Come on now,’ he murmured. ‘Where are the other two?’

‘Dead… They’re dead… my lord.’

The prince feigned shock. ‘Dead?’

‘I left one… breathing his last… There are snakes, vipers and the like, everywhere!’

‘Goodness! So the tale of the unsleeping serpent is… what, a myth?’

The drover straightened whilst his breathing subsided. He was about to answer but then realised that the prince was mocking him. Melanion saw a tendon twitch in his jaw. ‘You, at least, have some talent for avoiding death. The temple… What did you see?’

‘I saw… I saw the Golden Fleece, my lord! Draped over the branches of a twisted tree. What a thing! It’s safe, though, and I…’

‘The fleece: you are quite sure there was one?’ Melanion’s eyes hardened and the boy blinked in confusion.

‘Er… Yes… the fleece! I… it was there… People in Aea say that it doesn’t exist, that the temple is just an empty ruin. But now…’

‘This presents a problem.’

‘It… I’m sorry, my lord, I’m confused. Is there more than one? Did I do something wrong?’

Melanion pursed his lips as he considered what he had already divulged. The contents – the real contents – of the temple were a closely guarded secret, known only by its guardians and the Council of Six. ‘If I share a secret, you must promise that you will take it to your grave.’

‘Of course, my lord.’

‘There are – and have been – many fleeces, not just one. That is the myth. The Achaean pirates took two and left one. This is a grave worry, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t know what to say…’

‘My father once told me that an oracle prophesied to him that he, his family and Aea would prosper as long as a fleece never leaves his kingdom. He made us swear to keep this a secret. Now do you understand the magnitude of the problem?’

The boy was still processing this when Melanion discreetly withdrew a small ivory-handled blade, little larger than a scalpel but just as sharp, and plunged it into the boy’s heart. He made a sharp intake of breath and looked back at him in shock. ‘You kept your promise. I must keep mine. Aea depends upon it.’

The boy’s eyes were still open, their vital light fading, as he slipped to the floor and breathed his last. The prince stood there for a few moments longer, swaying on the spot, mesmerised. He noticed that the hand holding the knife was shaking. ‘Stop looking at me like that.’ He rolled the boy onto his side, tucked away the blade and sprinted for the forest.

II

The mist had arisen from the waters of the Phasis with the stealth of a thief. It had first appeared in faint wisps, unnoticed in the Argonauts’ desperate escape, but banks of it now shrouded the river, rolling over the moonlit marshes like hordes of wraiths.

In the second hour of the retreat from Aea, Argo slipped through the fog and became nigh invisible. There had been no more blares from trumpets and the silence was heavy and expectant, pierced here and there by the distant screech of a predatory owl.

The galley now bobbed impatiently in an inlet of bullrushes and sedge. The temperature had dropped perceptibly even in the past few minutes and some of the Argonauts – those not in the impromptu huddle at the stern of the ship – shivered on their benches.

‘We don’t even know who made that fire. Probably just a shepherd.’

‘A shepherd? What, tending his flocks on those saltings?’ Peleus shot Butes a tetchy glance and worked his bruised jaw. The pain caused by his tooth being knocked out in the fight in Aeetes’ palace was razor-sharp. ‘It’ll be a beacon.’

‘Beacons.’

‘What?’

‘Beacons. There’s at least two of them.’

All eyes turned towards Lynceus. Butes opened his mouth to pour scorn upon the lookout’s remarks but thought better of it. The man’s extraordinary sight had been proven too many times.

‘Well then, Jason? What’s it to be?’ Peleus’ tone bore an edge. ‘Jason? Gods above, the whelp’s asleep!’

Jason was looking down upon a younger version of himself – no more than nine winters – watching the older boys playing in the clearing amidst Mount Pelion’s wooded slopes. He wore a dirty tunic and a wooden sword hung from a piece of twine looped over his shoulder. One of the boys overthrew the leather ball and it landed near his feet with a soft thunk. He picked it up, offering it to the boy who stomped towards him. The look on the boy’s face made his smile fade as he stomped towards him. Don’t you touch it! What are you staring at, orphan boy? Go away, we don’t want you here!

When the other boys approached, the first shoved him hard in the chest, making him stagger backwards and stumble over a tree root. He scrambled to his feet, feeling his eyes stinging. When he looked up, the boy’s features resembled Idas, with his unmistakable jackal smile and his canted incisors, another bore a livid birthmark on his cheek, and he knew he was looking at the snarling face of the usurper Pelias…

‘Jason!’

The sharp voice made him jerk awake, rubbing his face, which was damp with a gossamer-fine layer of mist. Peleus and his brother Telamon exchanged frowns whilst Idas looked away in disgust. The moment of confusion was brief but bewildering. He had never felt so utterly exhausted. Yoking the monstrous bulls of the Plain of Ares and ploughing it under a blazing sun had drained him to feverish levels of fatigue, but indecision now, so close to freedom from the oppressive marshlands of Colchis, would be fatal.

‘Beacons,’ said Meleager patiently, ‘on the opposite bank. What do you propose?’

‘A good night’s sleep?’ muttered Idas.

Jason ignored the spearman and took a deep breath. He wished the voices might return and offer him something. He wished Idmon the seer was still alive. Most of the crew had considered him a mad old fool and, though Jason knew better, he had still kept him at arm’s length. Was he afraid of the seer’s knowledge? If so, who was the fool?

Jason reached out to the two golden fleeces beside him, hoping for some sense of their numinous power. They felt gritty and cold, as if they had been rolled in damp sand. ‘I think we should just…’

A disturbance in the bows cut him short. An incantation in a voice like waves seething over rocks.

‘It’s her.’ The voice came from amidships.

Jason had almost forgotten about Medea and now everyone twisted to look at her. She had drawn her shawl over her head and was on her knees, rocking back and forth over the prostrate form of her cousin Phrontis. To the Argonauts, her prayer sounded more like a curse. Now she kissed his forehead and straightened, aware of all eyes being upon her.

‘He is dead.’

‘Least of our concerns,’ snapped Idas. Jason rose and strode past him, causing Idas to shake his head. ‘This is not the time!’ he said through gritted teeth.

Meleager glanced towards the bows, where Jason was now deep in conversation with Medea. ‘What will it take for you to show him any respect? Even a pinprick of it?’

Idas shook his head and looked away, wary of the prince of Calydon. Nobody aboard Argo had done more to enhance their reputation as a warrior than he. Pollux, sat aft of amidships, sidled to the end of his bench so he could peer around the sweeping bows of the ship. The curtain of mist billowed in the silvery moonlight but nothing broke through it. Others, assuming he had seen something materialising out of the night, did the same. It became infectious, spreading a wave of shuffling trepidation down the gangways. Jason noticed it and broke off his conversation.

‘There’s nothing there,’ he repeated as he picked his way back towards the stern, placing a reassuring hand on the oarsmen’s shoulders as he passed. ‘Nothing but brown water.’

‘Well?’ demanded Peleus. Jason’s face, they all noticed, was a shade paler.

‘She also saw a light. She thinks there’s a ship out there: one of Aeetes’…’

‘Then why didn’t she tell…’

‘Because we’d already seen it.’ Jason cut Idas off, his voice breaking in anger. ‘That’s why. It’s not unusual for his ships to keep watch this far downriver at night but we must assume they’d heard the warnings. She says noise travels a long way along the Phasis.’

A pause.

‘So? Speak your mind?’

Jason stood, suppressing a shiver. ‘We need to row. See what’s out there before we do anything rash.’ The others stood, joints clicking amidst grimaces. ‘Keep your strokes clean and steady and quiet as you can. Ancaeus?’

The helmsman rolled his thick neck and pulled his fleece around his shoulders whilst the oarsmen settled back upon their benches. ‘Everyone to front stops. And… pull… and… pull… Take it down a notch, Meleager.’

Meleager nodded. Achieving a silent catch and rocking backwards without ripping the water was hard enough at the best of times but the Argonauts were stiff and cold and hungry. Nevertheless, Argo nosed around a sweeping curve in the river, stippling the water with little more noise than a clinker. They all hoped that the dull thump of the oars against the thole pins would be muffled by the swirling mist, which showed no signs of abating.

In the gauzy light, the stretch of the river down which they had passed in the opposite direction seemed utterly different. Willows and clumps of sedge reared out of the darkness like spectres and were gone, veiled by the mist. Of the lonely houses on stilts, set back from the banks, there was no trace at all.

For half an hour more did they proceed like this before Ancaeus raised his fist. Jason and Meleager gently lowered their flattened blades to the water and the others copied, leaving Argo to snake through the water with a brief sigh before once more coming to rest. Despite the danger they faced, Jason felt his eyelids grow heavier with every blink. He tried to suppress an inchoate panic that he might pass out altogether.

‘Lynceus, up here!’ whispered Ancaeus.

After a short conversation, they both nodded and Lynceus returned to his bench. Ancaeus leaned forwards over the tiller bars. ‘Three fires, Jason!’

Jason’s heart sank. The Argonauts, many times over, had lit as many campfires for themselves in the evenings. A Colchian vessel was waiting for them; he was sure of it. What mattered was how many men were aboard.

He stood and took a look for himself. When the fires had first been sighted, Ancaeus had described a single pinprick of light, but now they glowed and flickered brighter than the dog star Sirius.

‘Take us a little closer.’

Ancaeus raised an eyebrow but beckoned Lynceus to the helm deck once more. They paddled closer to the fires, barely breaking the surface of the water with each stroke, whilst Lynceus craned his neck forwards and stared, wide-eyed, into the night.

One minute passed like this… Two… Four… The rowers’ jaws began to ache from gritting their teeth…

Lynceus stiffened and raised his hand and the rowing stopped. Still straining his eyes, he muttered something to himself, as if confirming his worst fears. ‘I saw a boat, prow on. Moored, I think. Opposite bank!’

The crew fell silent. Jason felt all eyes boring into the back of his head. He turned to face them and whispered. ‘Muffle the thole pins with whatever rags you have. If you have even a mouthful of water or bread, take it now.’

He had neither. His throat was parched and he felt wretched. He closed his eyes and mouthed a prayer. He could hear enough gulps behind him to suggest most of the others, at least, had something. It didn’t bear thinking about when they might next be able to eat…

‘Jason.’ He opened his eyes and turned to Meleager, who was holding out his water skin. ‘Finish it.’

‘Thank you.’ The water tasted wonderfully cool and sweet against his parched tongue, reviving his spirits a little, sharpening his senses. He became aware once more of the expectant stillness. He nodded to Ancaeus. ‘Good luck.’

Paddling with their backs to the threat set their nerves humming with fear. As they slipped through the water, it seemed inconceivable that their silhouette wouldn’t betray them even if the sound of their oars didn’t. The mist provided good cover but it wasn’t perfect. Every so often, treacherously brief gaps would appear where only rags of fog drifted by. Jason assumed it was through one of these that Lynceus was able to glimpse the hull of the enemy galley. The man’s vision was extraordinary but it had its limits.

The soft murmur of conversation on the far bank now drifted across Argo’s deck. The rowing faltered for a moment and Jason closed his eyes, waiting for the clunk of blades thrown out of unison.

Silence.

Somehow, the oars kept apart, moonlit mist swirling around the blades like smoke. Jason sensed the shoulders of thirty-four men rocking forwards to the catch and, as he felt the water run under his blade, tried to attune his ears to the conversation on the opposite bank.

Understanding their speech was impossible but it seemed unhurried… unstressed.

He tried to guess how wide the river was at this point. On the way in, he had envisioned trying to clear the channel with his best javelin throw. Even allowing another ten paces, he doubted the tip would have reached the riverbank. Surely such a gap would allow Argo to slip by unnoticed?

Jason fancied he could hear the oarsmen holding their breath. They had all sensed that they were passing the galley now. The sound of conversation peaked but was still little more than a murmur. He looked into the hoary sea fret. He had never encountered anything like it, not even when he used to summit Mount Pelion and feel the clouds bedewing his skin.

Perhaps that was why the Colchians had moored up. Perhaps this far away from Aeetes’ eyes, discretion was the better part of valour. Then, for a fleeting second, the fret faded, and he discerned the hazy outline of a mainmast, sail furled, and a hull, oars in.

Jason turned to Meleager. The warrior’s jaw was clamped shut, his eyes glaring into the mist. With unspoken agreement, they hung out their oars. Miraculously, the others behind them had done the same, and the drips of water from the blade tips were lost to the gentle rush of the keel gliding through the water.

The image dissipated and was gone.

Jason blinked hard to remove the droplets of moisture beading on his eyelids. He hoped that Ancaeus’ eyes were open at least: he doubted anybody else’s would be.

The sound of conversation on the far bank faded. Jason held his breath.

Had they passed the vessel? Or had they seen Argo’s silhouette, in which case, there would be a flurry of urgent commands any moment…

A heavy silence fell.

One by one, the Argonauts’ eyes sprang open. Seconds turned into a full minute. Then another.

The helmsman lowered outstretched arms, mimicking a return to paddling and, within a minute of the blades returning to the water, they could all hear the faint roar of the sea.

Argo juddered, almost throwing the oarsmen from their seats. A stifled gasp of pain from Oileus was lost to the scraping of ship’s timbers against a sandbank. Ancaeus’ eyes rounded as Argo slowed to a near standstill before slipping free, making Jason’s heart slam into his ribcage. All along the gangway, the Argonauts exhaled raggedly. On the raised deck, the helmsman looked helpless. He was groping blindly into the night. He couldn’t be blamed if they were to run aground, but he knew he would be.

The steering oars cleaved the water once more and Ancaeus wiped his brow with a tremulous hand. They were threading through the heart of the delta now, where the shifting sandbanks were difficult enough to discern by daylight. What they were attempting by night was suicidal, yet there was no choice and he wondered whether he would even know when to open the tillers to the portside. Too early and they risked running ashore; too late and they might be engulfed by the open water, with the total loss of all bearings… But the consequences of the former were unthinkable.

Dead ahead, a penumbral blot now stained the fog and a galley loomed in the mist.

‘Stay on your benches!’ Ancaeus’ voice was a hoarse whisper.

The next two strokes were poor but all of the crew obeyed his command except Jason. He stood so briefly – seeing human silhouettes and a galley slanting across them – that his legs barely straightened. A vision of Argus the boatbuilder entered his mind, pointing to the oaken section of the prow. It will speak to you when you don’t know what’s in your heart.

Argo’s snout, and its burnished copper cap, had guided them all the way to Colchis. He doubted Argus would approve.

‘Hit them.’

Ancaeus gaped back at him.

‘Hit them!’

He could feel incredulous stares and he heard the half-formed complaints but the helmsman’s booming voice cut them off.

‘Full pressure!’

Argo jerked forwards with the first stroke and again with the second as the oarsmen stamped upon the benches in front, gasping for breath as the rating built. The prow slewed starboard, checking momentum briefly, but Ancaeus had committed early, giving the Argonauts another five clean strokes.

There was a fearful series of cracks, like the splintering of a giant’s ribs. Those Argonauts not expecting the impact were hurled forwards; some into the backs of other oarsmen; some into benches and tackle, causing a cacophony of dull thumps and sharp cries of pain. Jason and Meleager had braced themselves with legs rigid against their foot blocks but the impact made them jump into the air.

‘Turn on your benches! Turn – on – your – benches! Row in three!’ Jason’s voice didn’t sound like his own. He felt spittle flecking his lips. Chaos confronted him. A tangle of bodies, cursing, groaning and wild, confused eyes.

‘Come on!’

Argo was buried deep into the side of a listing Colchian galley. As disordered as Argo looked, it was clear the Colchians were experiencing worse. He had glimpsed archers readying themselves before impact. None stood now. Amidst the confused shouts that rent the night air, they could hear a few voices piteously shrieking for help with shattered bones.

‘Row if you can!’

Half of the crew dragged themselves onto their benches, gasping and cursing. The first few strokes were weak; the oar was now on the opposite side. The water resisted them as if it was setting jelly. Jason experienced a surge of panic. A blind archer would be able to pick them off at will, if there was even…

A hideous scrape and Argo’s beak juddered free. A few more oarsmen heaved themselves onto their benches, taking them a few more strokes into clear water.

‘Turn and row! Turn now!’

The winded command came from Ancaeus. Argo slowed and veered from the stricken galley. The next few strokes and she was passing it, leaving it to its grisly fate in the enveloping mist.

‘Pick it up!’ the helmsman hissed through gritted teeth. ‘Pick it up, Jason, Meleager!’

Ancaeus could feel the tips of arrows being trained upon their retreating deck. The stroke bench responded but Argo could still only limp away from the danger, and the moored vessel they had slipped past must surely have heard the pandemonium.

The brief, mournful wail of a horn answered their thoughts.

It was cut off abruptly but none doubted now that the pursuit was on. The chaos aboard Argo subsided. Now there was only wheezing and grunting as bruised bodies desperately groped for the catch.

‘Mad kuna!’ he heard someone mutter amidships, tinged with disbelief.

Grunts of assent. A cough. Then the gentle thump of oars against thole pins and the ripple of water beneath the keel. The recriminations, Jason was sure, would come later.

Why hadn’t he warned them about the impact?

Why didn’t they just row clear?

Why? Why? Why?

Jason’s mind buzzed with fatigue now that the rush of the attack had abated. He kept his head focused upon a knot in the planking of the helm deck, blacker than the wood around it, ignoring the glares directed his way. The urge to pull in his oar and make a dash to the bows was a strong one. He resisted it. Medea and Oileus would have to fend for themselves, for now.

Long minutes passed. Through the swirling mist, they could see nothing. No land, no hills, no trees, no pursuing boats. Nothing. It was as if they were paddling across the Styx.

He became aware of Ancaeus’ eyes glowering at him from above and was sure there was violence in them. He met them as impassively as he could. ‘How do they look?’

Ancaeus’ bulky shoulders heaved up and down. He was not a man to lose control of his emotions easily. His eyes swept over his crew whilst he clenched his jaw.

‘Some need help,’ he muttered, not looking back at him. Jason decided against asking him to elaborate and concentrated instead on placing his blade in the water. Hunger and exhaustion gnawed at his insides. He thought instead about the fleece and the look on Pelias’ face when he confronted him. The image of the usurper, horror-stricken and pale, afforded him some crumb of comfort.

*

They managed another hour of rowing, propelled by a desperate sense of being hunted, but they were flagging badly now. The grumbles, gasps, curses, the snappiness that greeted clashing blades, all told Jason it was time to rest; the only question was where. They had all been looking outboard for a brief gap in the curtain of mist which, if anything, had become denser.

Then they saw it, a boulder-strewn beach. They had been perilously close to running aground and the tillers twitched in Ancaeus’ mighty hands when it revealed itself. None cared, however. They were too far gone for that.

They backed in, stern first for a quick escape. Jason clambered over the rail and dropped listlessly into the water, though the temperature took his breath away. Other shapes dropped in to help him heave the ship until the hull grated against the pebbles.

Jason peered into the darkness and staggered ashore. He could hear other pairs of feet crunching the pebbles underfoot behind him but, until they passed in front of him, he was unable to make out who they were.

‘Orpheus, bring your flints.’

‘What do you plan to set light to?’

The voice was Idas’. He ignored it. The man had a point, though. Foraging for firewood in these conditions was inviting trouble. Regardless, he plunged on: they would all freeze unless he could find something.

He heard feet crunching towards him and was surprised to see Acastus. The young prince looked drawn and pale, with dark crescents under his eyes.

‘Oileus is hurt.’

‘He was slashed, I know.’

‘I mean, he fell badly when we crashed. Started him bleeding again, and he banged his head.’

The news made Jason’s stomach churn. ‘And he’ll feel worse if we can’t get a fire going. Will you help?’

Acastus nodded and they set off towards the fringe of the beach. They hadn’t taken many steps when they felt the ground begin to rise and a wall of spruce trees reared above them in the mist.

‘Fuck,’ murmured Acastus. The trees’ sudden appearance made him flinch. He grabbed a fistful of branches and sniffed them. ‘Full of sap. Not good.’

Jason was already sawing at them with his knife. ‘They’ll have to do. Strip the needles and…’

‘Shh!’

Acastus’ tone stopped him dead. The activity behind them on the foreshore was faint and ahead was silence. He heard Acastus heft his spear.

Then there was a deep grunt and a rasping snort, so close Acastus stumbled onto his backside. A furious shape bustled through the undergrowth and burst from the trees. On instinct, Acastus spitted it with an underarm thrust. It emitted an ear-piercing squeal as it thrashed about on the end of the spear and, even after it died, the noise seemed to echo from the trees. Other Argonauts came running. When they saw the warthog, belly up, there was some ironic laughter.

‘We