Jason and Medeia by John Gardner

something
    in the stars, I think,”
    he said at last. Paidoboron gave him no answer. “I think the stars sent you—or so you imagine—sent you for
    something
    you’ve no great interest in, yourself.” He tapped his
    chin,
    thinking it through. Suddenly I saw in his eyes that his
    thought
    had darkened. He said: “If Zodiac-watchers were always
    right,
    we’d all be wise to abandon this hall at once.” He
    smiled.
    Kreon looked flustered. “What do you mean?” When
    Jason was silent,
    he turned to Ipnolebes. “What does he mean?” The
    slave said nothing.
    The old king pursed his lips, then puffed his cheeks
    out, troubled.
    â€œFiddlesticks!” he said. Then, brightening: “Wine! Give
    everyone here
    more wine!” The slaves hurried in the aisles, obeying.
    But Jason
    pondered on, and the sea-kings watched him as Kreon
    did,
    Time suspended by Jason’s frown. The game was ended, I thought, incredulous. He’d understood that the fates
    themselves
    opposed him, through Paidoboron.
    Then one of the shadowy
    forms beside him vanished—Hera, goddess of will, and the same instant a man with a great red beard
    stood up,
    and a chill went through my veins. His eyes were like
    smoke. The man
    with the red beard snapped, “One thing here’s sure.
    We’re all engaged,
    whatever our reasons, in a test. It’s ungenteel, no doubt, to mention it. But I never was long on gentility. These kings don’t loll here, day after day, some showing
    off
    their wares by the walls, some flashing their wits at
    the dinnertable,
    for nothing. I say we get on with it.” He glared from
    table
    to table, red-faced, his short, thick body charged with
    wrath.
    Kreon looked startled and glanced in alarm at Ipnolebes. “Jason,” the red-bearded man said fiercely, pointing a
    finger
    that shook with indignation, “if you mean to play,
    then play.
    If not, pack off! Make room for men that are serious!” Jason smiled, but his eyes were as bright as nails.
    â€œI assure you,
    I had no Idea there were stakes involved, and I’ve no
    intention
    of playing for them, whatever they are. I am, as you
    know,
    a beggar here. I leave the game to you, my dissilient friend, whatever it is.”
    The man with the red beard scoffed,
    tense lips trembling like the wires of a harp, his eyes
    like a dog’s.
    â€œWe’re to understand that Jason, known far and wide
    for his cunning,
    has no idea of what every other lout here, drunk or sober, has seen by plain signs: Pyripta’s for sale, and we’re bidding.” He pointed as he spoke, his face
    bright red with rage,
    whether at Pyripta for her calfy innocence, or at Kreon
    for his guile,
    or at devious Jason, no one could tell. Like a mad dog, a misanthrope out of the woods, he turned on all of
    them, pointing
    at the girl, scorning the elegant forms of their civility. Pyripta gasped and hid her face, and the blood
    rushed up
    till even her forehead burned red. Like one fierce man,
    the crowd,
    half-rising, roared their anger. He glared at them,
    trembling all over,
    his head lowered, pulled inward like a bull’s. “Get him
    out of here!”
    Kreon shouted. “He’s drunk!” But when men moved
    toward him
    he batted them off like a bear. Men jerked out daggers
    and began
    to circle him. He drew his own and, hunched tight, guarding with one arm, rolled his small eyes, watching
    them all.
    Then Jason rose and called out twice in a loud voice, “Wait!” The crowd, the circle of men with their daggers
    drawn,
    looked up at him. “No need for this,” he said. “A man in a rage is often enough a man who thinks he’s right though the whole world’s against him. I know this
    wildman Kompsis.
    Dog-eyed, fierce as he is, he tells you the truth as he
    sees it—
    sparing no feelings. He may be a rough, impatient man, a truculent fool, but he means less