The Children of Jocasta

As Jocasta turned from the gate and walked alone across the main square towards the second courtyard, she could feel Oedipus’s eyes upon her from the shadows. She wished she could break free of the protocol which expected her to be regal at all times, so she could hitch up her skirts and run. Instead, she walked as fast as she could and didn’t pause when she crossed the colonnade where her husband was waiting. She heard him hurry to catch up with her. He said her name and – lifting her hand – she cut him off.

‘I don’t want to talk about it until no one else can overhear.’ She kept moving and he strode along beside her. They crossed the second courtyard without seeing a soul: the slaves somehow knew to keep themselves scarce. She crossed into the family courtyard, and found herself short of breath.

‘Where are the children?’ she asked, looking around the deserted square.

‘In lessons or in the nursery, the same as every morning,’ he replied. ‘Let’s go to our room.’ He took her hand, but she wrenched it away from him.

‘We could be overheard by slaves in the next room,’ she said. ‘I will not have our conversation repeated. I want somewhere private.’ Oedipus looked around the courtyard, feeling foolish. Another room was hardly likely to appear.

‘Let’s sit by the fountain,’ he said. ‘No one can overhear us there. We’d see them coming from any direction, long before they could hear us.’ He reached out and took her hand.

‘Hiding in the middle of the square,’ she said, trying to smile.

He led her to the fountain. ‘Sit here,’ he said, and left her perched on the edge of the stone wall which surrounded it. He picked up two heavy chairs, and lugged them over to her. He placed them next to each other, but facing in opposite directions, so they could talk while keeping an eye on everything around them. He dug a piece of cloth from his belt, and dipped it in the fountain water. He reached over and wiped her hot, red face, like she did for the children on days such as these. She sat perfectly still and – when he had finished – he threw the rag on the ground.

‘Was it really her? Teresa?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘I didn’t recognize her.’

‘I didn’t either,’ she said. ‘Even when I knew it was her. She was unrecognizable. It was horrible, like hearing a familiar voice coming out from behind a mask.’

‘You do know she was lying to you?’ Oedipus asked.

Jocasta felt a shudder rack through her body. ‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what to believe. I thought she was telling the truth then, but she could easily have been lying to me: then or now. She’s a horrible woman.’

‘And she has a grudge against us. She blamed me for Laius’s death, and then I threw her out of the palace. She looks like she’s been living on the street ever since, waiting for the chance to get her revenge. She can’t hurt me directly, so she’s hurting you instead. You must be able to see that. She was a vicious old witch then, and she still is now. Her face finally reflects her true character.’

‘But why would she make this up now? Isn’t it just more likely that she’s telling the truth at last? I told you, I have always felt that he was alive. Always.’

Oedipus reached over and took her hand in both of his. ‘Jocasta, if something happened to one of the children—’

‘Don’t say that,’ she hissed, making the sign to ward off the evil eye.

‘I have to. If something happened to one of our children, I would do what you did. I know I would. I would imagine them continuing to grow up. I’d never stop. I thought about it last summer, when the plague came. I thought if anything happened to any of them, I wouldn’t believe it. They’re realer than you or me. They occupy space more than we ever could. And how could all of that just disappear? It couldn’t. So they wouldn’t disappear for me: I would carry them around, I’d imagine them. But that wouldn’t make my imagination reality, would it?’

She ignored him, and he squeezed her hand again. ‘Would it?’ he repeated.

‘It’s not the same,’ she said.

‘No, it’s much worse for you. You carried that child, Jocasta. He was inside you for nine months.’

‘I didn’t want him at first,’ she said dully. ‘I didn’t want a baby. They made me have one. They wanted a girl to be Laius’s heir. So they made me get pregnant. I wished and wished not to be, and the death was my reward and my punishment from the gods.’

He squeezed her hand so hard that she yelped, and he apologized, rubbing the bones he had crushed a moment earlier. ‘I wish I could have come sooner,’ he said. ‘I wish it every day.’

‘You were just a child,’ she said. ‘That’s precisely the problem.’

‘There is no problem,’ he said. ‘She’s locked up now, and she can die in prison, for all anyone cares. Spiteful old hag. No one can believe that I could be your son. No one. The idea is ridiculous. It was ridiculous a year ago, and it is even more ridiculous now.’

‘How is it ridiculous?’ she asked. ‘You were adopted. Your father said so. You don’t think he was lying as well, do you?’

Oedipus rolled his eyes, impatient at Jocasta’s need to repeat an argument they had conducted several times before. ‘No, I don’t think he was lying. And I also don’t think that he was lying when he said I was adopted from a family on the next street over, who couldn’t afford to feed a fifth child. Why would he make that up?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? Do we believe my father, who has no reason to lie to us, or an old woman who has every incentive to do so?’

‘Your father lied to you through your whole childhood,’ she said. ‘Why didn’t he tell you you were adopted before?’

‘Because he didn’t think there was any need, until I sent a messenger to him and asked,’ he said. ‘Some people do keep secrets even when there is no reason to.’ The barb in his tone was pronounced. ‘And why is my father suddenly the villain in this story?’

‘Because . . .’ She ran out of words. ‘I don’t know. He isn’t.’

‘Jocasta, please just think for a moment about what Teresa is suggesting. Do you really believe she could have stolen your baby, taking advantage of the fact that he – unlike all other babies – didn’t make a sound when he was born? That she could have hidden him somewhere? Where? In the palace?’

‘She wouldn’t have hidden him here,’ Jocasta snapped. ‘Don’t be an idiot.’

‘Very well.’ Oedipus raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘So she hid him outside the palace. She happened to know someone so well that she could just give them a baby, no questions asked, and they would take it. Why had you never seen her with this friend? And where were they when she left the palace a few years later?’

Jocasta blanched to hear him describe her purgatory as a few years, when it had felt so very much like forever to live through.

‘I don’t know. Maybe they died.’

‘Maybe they died,’ he agreed. ‘Before or after they went on an eighty-mile trek across mountains infested with bandits and brigands, carrying a baby? For no discernible reason except to give him away to a family who happened to live on the street next to my parents? And that family accepted this unwanted child, but then changed their minds and gave him away to their neighbours?’

‘Of course it doesn’t sound true if you say it like that,’ she said. ‘Stop trying to make me feel stupid.’

‘Then stop being stupid,’ he said. ‘It sounds impossible because it is impossible. You had a baby which died. My parents adopted an unwanted child hundreds of stades away from here. These two stories didn’t connect until I met you. You know it.’

‘No,’ she screamed, leaping up from the chair. ‘You know it. You know it because you always have to be so incredibly clever. You know it because you would never be taken in by a malevolent old woman who probably wouldn’t hate me so much if you hadn’t thrown her out of her home. You know it because you would rather admit to anything than that I might be right about something and you might be wrong. Even when it’s something as terrible as this. And instead of trying to make things better, you’re just sitting there, correcting me and belittling me and telling me I’m stupid. How dare you?’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘You aren’t. If you were sorry, you wouldn’t be doing it in the first place. I have tried to be calm about this. I tried last year, when we sent a messenger to your father. And I kept trying when he sent his reply and made everything worse, not better. And instead of acknowledging that, and trying to help me, you just pretended everything was perfect, and that all my fears were irrational and idiotic. And now look. Now, it’s come back again, like I knew it would. Like I said it would. And it’s what people out there believe. That’s why they hate me. It’s why they hate us. So why don’t you go out there and tell all of them that they’re stupid to believe something which is undeniably technically possible? Go on. Go and tell them. Go and tell them they’re all idiots because you know best. Treat the rest of the city like you treat me.’

‘I am sorry,’ he said again.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Not this time. I’m going to our room. To my room. I don’t want you in there tonight. I don’t want to share a bed with you. I don’t want to see you.’

‘Where do you want me to sleep?’ he asked.

‘I don’t care. Sleep in the children’s room, sleep in the garden, sleep wherever you like. But don’t come near me. I can’t bear it.’

That night, Oedipus slept on a too-hard couch covered in too-soft pillows in an unused bedroom, waking often and wondering for just how long his wife was going to be so angry. She hardly ever lost her temper, not even with the children. As he rolled over uncomfortably, he wasn’t sure he could remember ever hearing her shout like that before. It was understandable, he supposed. The face of that rancid old beggar-woman would revolt anybody. And she of all people knew how to upset his wife. She had practised doing it for years. But surely Jocasta would calm down by tomorrow. She couldn’t stay angry with him, when none of it – none of it – was his fault.

But when the morning sunlight poured in through the windows and he woke in a sleepy haze, his wife did not appear beside the bed, to kiss him and apologize for her harsh words. He watched, embarrassed, from across the courtyard, as two slave women knocked on Jocasta’s door and received no reply. Was she really punishing him like this, for all to see? He wanted to hammer on the door and demand she stop being such a brat. But how would it look, a husband pleading with his wife to be allowed into her room?

By the afternoon, he was worried. She had been in there for nearly a whole day. She must be hungry. Although, now he thought about it, he couldn’t be certain that she hadn’t left the room during the night, could he? Perhaps she’d sent someone to the kitchens to collect some bread and fruit, so she could spend the day sulking, making him feel guilty and look stupid. He refused to rise to the bait. No one else seemed worried, after all. The children had asked their nurse where their mother was, but she just told them Jocasta had a bad headache, as was often true.

As dusk fell, Creon wandered awkwardly into the family courtyard.

‘Sorry to intrude,’ he mumbled. ‘I was just looking for Jocasta.’

‘She’s got a headache, I think,’ Oedipus replied. ‘She’s been in her bedroom all day.’

‘Her bedroom?’ asked Creon, and Oedipus felt a surge of resentment against his wife, as his awkwardness was clearly visible to all.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She went to bed early last night and she hasn’t come out again yet.’

‘Has anyone been in to check on her?’ Creon asked.

‘No.’

‘Should we . . .?’ Creon gestured at the door.

‘Should we what?’ Oedipus blinked at his brother-in-law.

‘Make sure she doesn’t need anything,’ Creon said.

‘I’m sure she would have asked if she needed something. But don’t let me stop you,’ Oedipus said.

And Creon went over and knocked on the door. ‘It’s your brother,’ he called.

Oedipus held his breath for a moment, his ears straining to hear a reply. But Creon knocked a second and then a third time, before he gave up.

‘She must be asleep,’ he said.

‘I think so,’ Oedipus replied. ‘She does sleep very heavily, when she has these headaches. You know.’

‘Well, tell her I’ll see her tomorrow and I hope she’ll be feeling better,’ Creon said, and he turned, his shoulders slumped, and walked back the way he had come.

The following morning, there was still no sign of Jocasta. Oedipus had spent the night in the courtyard itself, curled uncomfortably on one of her divans. He was certain he would have woken if she had opened the door. So perhaps she wasn’t punishing him. Perhaps she did have a terrible headache. In which case, he wouldn’t lose face if he went to her room, even when she hadn’t apologized, would he? He took a deep breath, and knocked on her door. Their door. Palace etiquette had been thrown aside when they married and decided to share a bedroom instead of maintaining separate quarters. But Oedipus had never wanted to spend a single night away from his wife, and he never had, until now.

There was still no reply. He turned the handle and pushed at the door, but it didn’t move. She had locked him out. Locked him out of their bedroom. He could feel the anger rising. What if she was sick and needed help? She hadn’t thought about that when she locked the door in a fit of petulance, he was quite sure.

Oedipus could no longer leave things as they were. The children were becoming fractious, no matter how much the nurse placated them. Antigone wouldn’t stop grizzling, and even Ismene, who was normally so placid if Eteocles was there to amuse her, was frowning and refusing every spoonful of food. Exasperated by their behaviour, he hurled a small wooden stool at the flagstones, and watched the splinters jump across the floor. All four children began to cry, but still his wife did not appear.

‘Very well,’ he shouted. ‘You obviously want your mother. Go off to your lessons and I’ll bring her to you.’

He beckoned a slave over, and told him they would need to break through Jocasta’s door. The boy, who couldn’t have broken through a sheet of papyrus, nodded sceptically.

‘Fetch Creon,’ Oedipus sighed. ‘He’ll help.’

While he waited for his brother-in-law to arrive, he examined the door. It was made of thick oak panels and had only one lock, in the centre of the left-hand side. There were two bright bronze hinges on the right, and it was difficult to say whether the lock or the hinges would be the easiest thing to break. Or would the panels of the door split through?

Creon came hurrying behind the boy, then shooed him away.

‘The child says you want my help to break down the door?’ he asked, frowning.

‘She’s locked it from the inside.’

‘And there isn’t another key?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Oedipus said. ‘I’ve never known her lock the door before. Shall we test it?’ He backed up, eyeing the hard wooden surface.

‘I don’t think we could just smash through it with our shoulders,’ Creon said. ‘It’s solid oak, isn’t it?’

‘Do you have a better suggestion?’ Oedipus asked. ‘She might be lying on the floor; she could be unconscious.’

Creon whistled the boy to come back over, and sent him to fetch the guards. A few moments later, the watch commander appeared with four men. Oedipus explained the problem and the commander nodded. Two of his guards fetched axes, which he instructed them to put to use.

The noise was astonishing. The metal blades rasped on the old wood, and even after several blows the door was barely scratched.

‘Forgive me,’ said the commander to Creon and Oedipus. ‘It’s awkward. Keep going,’ he added, to the guards.

‘Once they’ve gone through the wood panel in one place, it’ll be quite quick,’ Creon said. The two guards stepped back and handed their axes to their comrades, who swung the metal with fresh arms. Finally a small crack of light appeared on the upper left quarter.

‘Concentrate your efforts there,’ Oedipus said, pointing. The watch commander raised his eyebrow a tiny distance. He jerked his head up, and the guards did as Oedipus had asked. A few deafening moments later, and a chunk of wood had broken through.

‘Force it,’ said the commander, before Oedipus could offer any more advice. The four soldiers shoved their combined weight against the door, and felt the panel give a little.

‘Come on,’ said Oedipus. ‘Surely that’s enough.’

The men pulled back and shoved themselves against the door again. Finally, there was a splintering sound, and the panel closest to the lock gave way. One of the guards reached through and groped around for the key. If Jocasta had taken it away from the door, they would need to smash more of the door around the lock to break in. But his face relaxed. He had the key in his hand, and he turned it, first the wrong way, and then correctly. The lock clicked open and the men stepped back. Oedipus nodded his thanks, and opened the door.

‘Where are you, my darling?’ he said. ‘Did you lock the door and then realize you didn’t feel—?’ He broke into a terrible howl.

Creon leapt forward. ‘What is it?’ he asked. And then, ‘No.’

Jocasta was hanging from a hook in the ceiling. No one could remember what it had once been intended for. But now it held the queen, suspended by a rope. She wore a plain white gown which Oedipus couldn’t recall ever seeing before. It looked like a child’s nightgown, one she must have brought here all those years ago, and long since stopped wearing. Her face was puffed up and purple, her hair was matted to her skull. She must have tied the noose around her neck and then jumped from the bed.

‘Get the doctor,’ the watch commander said to his men. ‘Go now.’

But it was much too late for that.