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From on high Liber had seen this mighty miracle, and, reminded that his nurses could have their youthful years restored, obtained this gift from the Colchian woman. And so that her treachery might never rest, the woman of Phasis feigned a quarrel with her husband and fled as a suppliant to Pelias’ threshold. Since he himself was bowed with age, his daughters welcomed her. In a little while the cunning Colchian won them over with a show of false friendship.

As she recounted, among her greatest achievements, how she had stripped away Aeson’s decrepitude, dwelling on the tale, she planted hope in Pelias’ daughters that the same art might make their father young again. They begged her for this, bidding her name whatever price she pleased. For a little while she kept silent, seeming to hesitate, and held her pleading listeners in suspense with feigned solemnity.

At last she promised. “To give you greater confidence in this gift,” she said, “the oldest ram you have, the leader of your flock, shall become a lamb through my drugs.” At once a woolly ram, worn out by countless years, was dragged forward, its horns curling round its hollow temples. When she had pierced its withered throat with a Haemonian knife and stained the blade with its scant blood, the sorceress plunged the creature’s limbs and her potent juices together into a bronze cauldron. Behold, they shrank its limbs, burned away its horns, and with its horns its years, and a tender bleating sounded from within the cauldron.

At once, while they marvelled at the sound, a lamb leapt out, frisked away, and sought an udder to suckle. Pelias’ daughters stood amazed; and now that her promises had proved true, they pressed their plea more urgently than ever. Three times Phoebus had unyoked his horses, plunged in the Iberian river, and on the fourth night the radiant stars were shining when the treacherous daughter of Aeetes set over a blazing fire pure water and herbs that had no power.

Already a sleep like death held the king, his body limp, and with their king his guards lay sleeping too, overcome by spells and the power of her magic tongue. At her command the daughters entered with the Colchian woman and gathered round his bed. “Why do you linger now, so helpless? Draw your swords,” she said, “and drain his aged blood, so I may fill his empty veins with youthful blood.

Your father’s life and years are in your hands. If you have any love for him, if your hopes are not empty, do your duty by your father: drive out his old age with your weapons, plunge in the steel and let his tainted blood flow.” Urged on by this, the most devoted was first to prove undutiful, and, to avoid a crime, committed one. Yet none could bear to watch her own blows: they turned their eyes away and blindly dealt wounds with cruel hands, their faces averted.

Streaming with blood, he nevertheless raised himself on one elbow and, half butchered, tried to rise from the bed; surrounded by so many swords, he stretched out his pale arms. “What are you doing, daughters? Who has armed you to kill your father?” he cried. Their courage and their hands fell. As he would have spoken further, the Colchian cut his throat, cutting off his words, and plunged his mangled body into the seething water.