The Children of Jocasta

Jocasta lay on a couch covered with fatly stuffed cushions in the middle of the courtyard, her eyes closed. She could pick out the voices of both her sons and her daughter, as they squawked at one another in the shade of the east colonnade. In a moment, the coos and squeals of delight would no doubt be transformed into howls of pain and rage, but for now, the children were playing together as she had always imagined they would, and she delighted in ignoring them. She had never managed to explain to Oedipus that so long as she could hear the children, she was happy.

Even when she had a crippling headache – which happened sometimes now her belly was so swollen she could almost hear the baby’s voice murmuring into her ears – she liked to be able to listen to the children, to be able to hear each one separately from the others. It had been easy when there was just Polynices, who screamed at the top of his lungs every day for months. Then, when Eteocles arrived, she had been astonished to discover that there could be a smaller baby than Polynices. She could see that her older son had grown longer, and heavier, and finally taller, as he sat up looking at his surroundings as though he might one day approve of them but not yet. Still somehow, he remained a tiny baby in her mind until Eteocles was born, undeniably smaller. The same thing had happened when Antigone was born, but with the added delight that now she had a girl. Two sons and a daughter. She could hear the difference in every sound they made: Polynices did everything noisily, even breathing. Eteocles was quieter, but snored like a cat. Antigone raged at the slightest provocation, and could never keep still. Even when she was just a few months old, she watched her brothers with vast green eyes, determined to escape the cage of her crib and join them in their adventures. And the new baby, what would she be like? Jocasta stroked her hardening stomach to see if she could feel a kick. This one was nowhere near as restless as the other three had been. She – Jocasta knew it was a girl from the way everything tasted somehow metallic, though she could not explain this to Oedipus – lay still for hours at a time. Just as Jocasta began to worry, the baby would give her a reassuring shove. Hand touching hand, with only her own skin between them.

She could hear her husband kicking a soft leather ball to Polynices, as Eteocles demanded they let him play. Would he be the first to crack the tranquillity with a scream? No, Antigone as usual was suddenly wailing at some real or perceived injustice. Jocasta listened to Oedipus scoop her up and tell her she could play on his team: the two of them versus the boys. Everything was as it should be.

She lay half-dozing in the sun, trying to remember what she needed to do today. But she had little to fret about: her brother was in control of things. He had become increasingly helpful as her children arrived, taking on more responsibilities each year. Creon wanted to ease her burden, he had told her when she was pregnant with Polyn. He always rushed to put a stool behind her, as if her legs could not possibly hold the weight of her and her unborn baby. She had thought then what a good father he would be, when he and Eurydice had a child; once they did, she saw she was right. He doted upon his little son, who now came to the palace so often with his papa.

Eurydice and Creon had moved into a neat little house, just down the hill from the market square, near the palace gates, three – or was it four? Jocasta struggled to remember – years earlier. The smell of rotting vegetables behind the grocery stalls had made Eurydice queasy when she was pregnant, and for a while she clearly felt that the move across the city had been a mistake. She stopped attending the palace with her husband and withdrew into her own household. But once Haemon was born, she saw the virtue of the location. Creon could walk to the palace in a matter of moments, and Eurydice could come and go as she pleased, with the baby. If she wanted more time to herself, she dropped him off with Jocasta’s brood. One more child made no difference in the palace, where plentiful nursemaids were always on hand. Eurydice was never the sister that Jocasta had hoped she would be, but she made Creon happy, and their son was a delight.

Jocasta thought she should ask Creon if he and Eurydice were planning to have another baby. She had been sure they would have armfuls of them when she saw them with Haemon. But first months and now years had passed, and still there was no second child.

She heaved herself off the divan, shedding cushions in her wake, and waved across the square at Oedipus and the children.

‘I won’t be long,’ she called. She walked into the middle courtyard, and wished she had stayed where she was. Lying in the sun was pleasant enough, but walking in it, even this short distance, left her over-heated and exhausted. She could feel the sweat form beneath the linen tunic that pressed against her back. She opened the door to the treasury room, and found Creon sitting in the ornate wooden chair that had been a gift to Jocasta from a visiting ambassador from Athens.

‘You look comfortable,’ she smiled.

He leapt to his feet. ‘Forgive me, sister. I was just—’

‘You don’t need to apologize,’ she said. ‘I must sit down.’ Jocasta dropped onto the nearest couch, which was covered in hard padding: was it animal hair? She wished again she had stayed in comfort on the divan, and summoned Creon to her. She dimly recalled that one of the other children had made her as tired as this, but she couldn’t remember which one. ‘This baby is determined that I spend nine months lying on my back,’ she said, accepting a small metal cup of water which Creon brought over, concern in his pale blue eyes.

‘Should I send for some ice?’ he asked. ‘I know you like it.’

‘No, thank you. I do like it, but the baby doesn’t. It must be too cold for her. It makes her kick.’

‘Ah, that’s a pity,’ he said. ‘How are you feeling otherwise?’

‘Puzzled,’ she replied. ‘Why don’t you and Eurydice have another child? And why haven’t I ever asked you before now?’ His face coloured. ‘Don’t blush,’ she added, smiling. ‘Only one of us should be bright red and sweating, and it can’t be you, because I came into the room that way.’

He thought for a moment. ‘I did want more children,’ he admitted. ‘I would have liked three or four. But Eury . . .’ He lost the words, and she forced herself not to fill in the silence, uncomfortable though it was. She would never know the truth if she allowed herself to be tactful.

‘Eury was so sick when she was pregnant, she said she couldn’t face going through it all again. And I was worried for her. It can’t be safe for a woman to be so sickly.’

‘Was she that ill?’ Jocasta felt a sharp twinge of guilt. She knew her sister-in-law had suffered from morning sickness at all hours, but she didn’t realize it had been quite so debilitating.

‘She was sick all the time,’ he said. ‘Every day. She grew so thin in the early weeks – don’t you remember? She could barely eat a thing.’

‘Of course,’ Jocasta said. But she was lying. She already had Polynices by then, and was expecting Eteocles, who was only two months younger than Haemon. She had felt for her sister-in-law, but hadn’t been paying her particular attention. She had simply assumed Eurydice was sick sometimes, in the same way as Jocasta and every other pregnant woman was.

‘Eury didn’t want another child enough to be that ill again. I felt guilty even for suggesting it, to be honest. As if I was asking her to put her own life at risk again.’

‘Well, if she felt that strongly . . .’ Jocasta said. ‘You have Haemon, that’s the important thing.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I do know. But I would have liked a daughter, too. You know I would have.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I wish I hadn’t asked. It was rude of me.’

‘No,’ he replied. ‘It’s good to be able to say that out loud. I wouldn’t say it at home, you know. Eury would think I was criticizing her. Or expressing some sort of dissatisfaction with Haem, who – of course – is the perfect son. She has given me an heir: it’s all I could have asked for. But it’s quite separate from him, you know? Wanting a daughter. You understand.’

‘I think so,’ she said. ‘This one will be a girl, I’m sure of it. Will you promise to take care of her?’

‘Are you planning on exposing her on the mountainside?’ he laughed. He was looking across the room at the strong-boxes which contained Jocasta’s gold, and the new tapestry she had asked him to acquire for her – blood red, shot through with gold, and woven so carefully the Fates themselves could do no better – so he did not see the shudder run through his sister’s body.

She swallowed and replied in a light voice. ‘Of course not. Oedipus loves having daughters, you know that. He prefers Ani to either of the boys, even though she fusses all the time. I’m just worried this one might get overlooked. She’s quieter than the others.’

Her brother turned to look at her. ‘How quiet?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Jocasta said. ‘She moves. Just not as often as I’m used to. Antigone punched and kicked me every day – do you remember?’

He nodded. ‘It was driving you mad. The gadfly, you called her, because she stung you so often.’

‘She’ll never be short of attention,’ Jocasta agreed. ‘Which is why you must always look out for this one. She’ll be the baby of the family, so she’ll need someone to make sure she isn’t ignored. Say you promise.’

‘Don’t you want to ask Oedipus?’

‘Why? He would think it was a good idea, just like I do. I know he would.’

Creon looked at her flushed face, framed by damp brown hair which was now flecked with grey.

‘I promise,’ he said. ‘I won’t let you ignore her, no matter how noisy all your other brats are.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘Now will you bring the tapestry over here so I can look at it? Is it as beautiful as we were promised?’

‘It is,’ he said.

By the time they had finished, Jocasta was relieved to accept her brother’s arm as he walked her back to the rest of her family. ‘Will you stay for dinner?’ she asked, as she watched Haemon run the length of the courtyard before flinging himself into his father’s arms. ‘I could send someone to fetch Eurydice?’

Creon’s biceps bulged as he swung his gleeful son around him in a circle. At the same time, the tension in every other part of his body seemed to disappear.

‘You’re getting too heavy to do that,’ he said, as he hurled Haemon round one more time before placing him on the ground. ‘When did you get so tall?’

‘I don’t know,’ squealed the little boy.

‘Was it this afternoon?’ asked Creon.

‘No,’ Haemon said.

‘This morning, then? It must have been this morning.’

‘No,’ the boy shrieked with delight, running to look in the water beneath the fountain, to check if his reflection had grown taller.

‘I think we’d better go back,’ Creon said to Jocasta. ‘Eury will have planned dinner by now.’

Jocasta tutted. ‘Of course. I should have thought of it sooner. Polyn! Eteo! Come over here!’ The two boys ran over, but stopped carefully before they crashed into her. They had learned to do this when she was expecting Ani. ‘Will you go and pick some herbs and flowers for your Aunt Eury? So she knows we miss her and long to see her for dinner tomorrow,’ Jocasta said. ‘While your uncle has iced water with me and Papa.’

The boys nodded and bustled off, filled with sudden seriousness.

‘There’s no need,’ Creon said.

But his sister patted his arm, and walked back to her divan, which still lay in the afternoon sun. She turned the hot cushions over, so she could lie on something cool. Oedipus walked out of the shaded portico where he had been sitting, and waved to Creon, pointing at a plain wooden chair he was welcome to use.

‘I cannot stay for much longer,’ Creon told him, sitting down. ‘My wife is expecting us home.’

‘You can stay for a little while,’ Oedipus yawned. ‘They’ll start scrapping before they’ve done as they were asked. It never takes long.’

‘They’re not that bad,’ Jocasta said, just as Eteocles shoved his brother aside to reach the rosemary. ‘They’re just boys being boys.’

But Oedipus was right. The boys were at war again, and were no longer picking herbs. A moment later, Polynices brought over a mangled bunch of thyme stems, bent and broken from being pulled by competing hands. Haemon came over to take a look at the sorry bouquet. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said, and took himself off to look at the plants. One of the gardeners was working in the far corner of the courtyard, and seeing Haemon’s intense concentration, hurried over to assist him.

‘Why can’t my sons behave like yours?’ Oedipus groaned. ‘Little monsters.’

Eteocles and then Polynices, seeing that things were progressing more successfully without them, scurried over to help rather than watch their cousin carry out the important task alone. ‘You see?’ Jocasta said. ‘They’re not so terrible.’

Conversation between the three parents dried up, as it so often did. Jocasta wished her brother and her husband would at least feign the friendliness they couldn’t feel. Creon had never liked Oedipus, though he had never said a critical word about the king. But Jocasta remembered the expression on her brother’s face, when she first introduced him to her husband. He had obviously been warned to expect someone young, but her brother’s shock had been vivid and ill-concealed. He was used to being the youngest man in his sister’s life: she was ten years older than him, after all. And then he met Oedipus, and had to readjust his role accordingly: he couldn’t be the baby brother if her husband was six – or was it seven? – years younger than he was. And he was no longer the only man Jocasta relied on, once she had a real husband, a proper marriage. It was an abrupt awakening.

And Oedipus was a proprietorial man. It was this kind of thing Jocasta occasionally wondered if she might have noticed before they married, had things moved less quickly when they met. Oedipus was the opposite of Laius, never happy in the company of men. He preferred to be alone with her, and his possessiveness stretched backwards in time. He disliked the presence of anyone from her life before he arrived in it. Teresa had barely continued in her employ at the palace for a month after Laius died. Jocasta had felt sure that her housekeeper – a free woman – would prefer to leave. But upset though Teresa was about Laius, she seemed to want to keep her position. Still, she could not have made her dislike of Oedipus more overt, nor her delight when he left Thebes a few days after he had arrived with news of the king’s death: Teresa’s spies must have been slacking, Jocasta had thought, because the housekeeper had been more surprised than anyone when Oedipus returned a half-month later to ask the queen to marry him. Teresa’s response had been furious, and Oedipus had ordered her out of the palace within the day. She had turned to Jocasta, expecting the queen to overrule this upstart and tell him that Teresa was not to be argued with. But Jocasta had done nothing of the kind. Rather, she had taken her husband’s arm, and told Teresa that things were changing at the palace, so perhaps it was time for her to move on. Teresa had spent a day holed up in the kitchens, waiting for the queen to reconsider. But when a new housekeeper arrived – Oedipus had put out word that the position was vacant and dozens of Thebans hurried to offer their services – she had been obliged to pack her things and leave. Jocasta thought about her occasionally, and wondered where she’d gone that day. After all those years living in the palace, would she have had anywhere else to stay? But it didn’t matter. Jocasta had made her choice, and that was Oedipus. After so much of her life had been decided for her, she was determined to stand by her decisions now she was finally allowed to make them for herself. And soon, Oedipus was asking why the courtyard didn’t have flowers and suggesting they knock down Teresa’s ugly little shrine and replace it with an almond tree. And a few years later, when the tree came into blossom for the first time, Jocasta had forgotten that the square had ever looked different from the flowering place it had become.

If Jocasta was honest with herself, she knew that even if Creon had offered a boundless welcome to her second husband when they first met, Oedipus would probably not have warmed to him. Oedipus had always loved her jealously. He was irritated when he had to share her attention with the children – much as he loved them – and he certainly didn’t love her brother. He always found the older man both condescending and excessively protective. ‘Where was all this concern when you had a husband who hated you?’ he once asked. Jocasta shrugged and reminded him that Creon had been a child when she was married off, and had known little about her life in the years that followed. She couldn’t blame him. But she also couldn’t focus too much on Creon’s comparative youth, because he was several years (she rounded the number down in her mind) older than Oedipus, who had defended her against her husband before he even met her.

Jocasta had long ago decided that the best course of action was to refuse to allow that there was anything wrong between them. She had learned never to be too fond of Creon when Oedipus was there, as jealousy only made him more impatient. Her husband needed to be unrivalled in her affection, and he was. She had always hoped they would warm to one another one day and things would become easier. She had tried to enlist Eurydice as an ally – encouraging her brother to marry the girl as soon as he could – but even when it was just the four of them (Creon and Eurydice living so close by) it made no difference. Jocasta tended to elide the status difference from her thoughts, but the others never did. Creon prickled to hear Oedipus called ‘king’. And Oedipus relished Creon’s lack of official position, choosing to refer to his work as ‘helping your sister’.

Jocasta heard the children come running over with the flowers and herbs, tied with a neat little plait of grasses. ‘That’s beautiful,’ she said to the three of them. ‘Will you take it carefully to your mama?’ she asked Haemon. He nodded.

‘Time to go,’ Creon said, and raised himself from the chair. ‘See you tomorrow,’ he told his sister.

Perhaps the flowers would persuade Eurydice to visit, Jocasta thought, as she waved her brother a lazy goodbye. But she knew she was the only one who wanted the four of them to be friends. And that was never likely to be enough.