The Beatriceid, Page 2

“And handsome shoulders too!” says Beatrice.

  “Or so the Dido thought as she grew bored

  and gave her mind free rein to walk amid

  the more enlightening groves of learnéd thought:

  The means by which a scholar calculates

  precise circumference of our great green Earth,

  the equinox recession, how to plumb

  the ocean’s briny depths. The winds! The stars!

  The gods are kind! For all their cruelty

  they still have given beauty to the world

  which humans can extol and praise and seek.

  These thoughts did cause a smile to tease the queen’s

  becoming lips. A spark shone in her eyes,

  which he mistook for admiration’s blush.

  Thus kindled in his heart and loins a lust

  to fondle her with his ideas and love.

  What woman could resist? So ran his thoughts.

  While she considered altitudes and math.

  281

  ‘Too terrible the pain I now recount!’

  His cry did echo in the marble hall.

  ‘And yet the gods did favor me, it’s true.

  Which I shall now relate, in chapter two.’

  285

  ‘We shall go for a hunt!’ she intervened.

  ‘And the next verses leave for later on.

  We’ll rest this night and then ride out at dawn

  among a mighty crowd, and with my hounds

  shall race the stags and lions to their end!

  Such sport shall entertain us, shall it not?’

  291

  He says, ‘Your word is law, oh mighty queen.’

  Meaning the words to have a second sense

  that he supposes will engage her heart.

  Escorted to his room, he lies abed,

  where flames of love do flood and drown him whole.

  Again, again, again, he thinks of her:

  ‘She looked at me with soft, forgiving eyes!

  I am thick in her heart. She will recline

  amid my strong embrace. She’ll marry me!

  The land she rules, her breasts, her Venus mound.

  All this shall welcome my supremacy.’

  It’s hard to sleep, so very swelled is he.”

  Book III

  303

  While Beatrice holds forth, a shadow hunts

  through the academy, seeking its prey.

  ‘Tis in the kitchen Cat finds what she seeks,

  though no one working there can see her pass.

  A jar of honey, borrowed. That is all.

  Wrapped in shadow she returns post-haste

  and into the schoolroom creeps, unseen,

  where none do know she’s missing, or returned.

  None but Beatrice, and she’ll not tell.

  Their plan relies on secrecy, it’s true,

  and none more secret than a cat who can

  conceal herself in plain sight, and a bee

  whose buzzing will attract every last eye

  and keep the audience all well entranced.

  Thus Beatrice continues. She speaks on:

  Book IV

  318

  “Thus dawn’s sweet light does bring the hounds to bay.

  The hunters take their places. She appears,

  more beautiful than gold, and strong as iron.

  A purple cloak does hang down from her shoulders.

  Her quiver has an ornament of gold.

  Her hair falls careless, free, and unadorned,

  for no adornment outshines majesty.

  325

  Aeneas, too, looks splendid. She admires

  his flowing hair, his graceful poise, his lips.

  And so they reach the hills where stags do run.

  The chase begins, and yet the gods step in.”

  329

  She takes a breath. And all her listeners brace

  for the words that all must know come next.

  331

  “A dreadful storm! Hail! Wind! The thunder rolls.

  Lightning scatters horses!”

  333

  Her loud voice

  does make all of her listeners jump, surprised,

  and, embarrassed, giggle at their fright.

  So none, not Pulcheria, not her friends,

  note the shade that, sliding, slips among them.

  338

  Beatrice resumes. “Queen and lord

  take refuge in a cave. They are alone.

  He means to speak at length with honeyed words.

  She chooses the more interesting act,

  engages him in pleasure and delight.

  For her an afternoon’s sweet dalliance,

  but in his mind they’re married. It is love!

  Love and conquest’s all the same to him.

  He tries his best to please her, and he does.

  347

  Then when the storm is over they depart.

  They hunt. They feast. The days pass in abandon.

  349

  He corners her one night and, fierce, he speaks:

  ‘Oh glorious queen! Yield to my yearning heart!

  Let us join our selves, our hearts, our souls,

  our kingdoms!’ ‘What kingdom have you?’ she asks.

  353

  ‘The one that we will share! You and I.

  Together we will rule in harmony.

  Where is my crown, my dearest love, my sweet!’

  356

  ‘Your crown? Crown you?’ she says. ‘I need no king.

  I’ve ruled alone for years. My people thrive.

  If our arrangement does not satisfy

  then you may sail along to other shores,

  and I will kiss you for a last good-bye.’

  361

  What madness clutches her, he cannot tell.

  But clearly she has lost all of her mind,

  such as it is, for how can she refuse?

  All know that women crave a man’s firm hand.

  These thoughts do rage as anger in his heart.

  He stalks the streets at night, he mutters threats.

  Among his men he whispers mutinous words.

  He sings of arms, he tries to raise revolt.

  And thus he is arrested. Put to death.

  A foreigner whose treason comes to naught.”

  Book V

  371

  “That’s not the tale!” cries Pulcheria, stung.

  “‘Twas Dido fell in love and died, not him!”

  She stomps her foot. She huffs. She shakes her head.

  The bows and ribbons that ornament her hair

  do flutter as she draws all eyes to her.

  She will defeat her Phoenician foe! She will!

  The girl may be pretty, it is true,

  but she is poor, and everyone must know

  that riches and high status win the war.

  380

  “Then do go on,” bold Beatrice implores,

  “Please let us hear the story as you know it.

  For I am sure that these young men do hope

  to hear the dulcet tones of your pure voice

  raised in praise of Roman history,

  that tale much told. Your diligence, I’m sure,

  is like unto the ants, for ants are wise.

  They fill their larder as you store up words—”

  388

  “May I go on?” snaps Pulcheria. “Ants!

  “Do store up food for winter, as we all know.

  For so the story tells us, does it not?”

  391

  “It does,” says Beatrice, and she steps back

  to give the Roman girl the space she needs

  and all attention. Thus plays out the plan.

  394

  “Of arms I sing!” she cries. “Of swords and spears.

  Of that harsh battle, Aeneas’s sad fate.

  When his ships came to Qart Hadast it’s true

 
he was engaged to tell the tale. ‘Please do!’

  the queen whose name was Dido did beseech,

  for she was struck by his manly physique.

  And thus she sat, enthralled, as he did speak

  in manly tones, and manly words, and these

  sharp mem’ries of Troy’s fall he bravely shared,

  while queen and countrymen aghast did stare:

  ‘So in the ruined city we did fight!

  The enemy did trample in our halls!

  Our temples burned, our gates thrown to the ground!

  Our women lost. Our sons and pride cast down!’”

  408

  She flinches. Twitches. Flicks a crawling ant

  from her fine skin, her peerless milk-washed arm.

  410

  Bold Beatrice exclaims, “Is something wrong?”

  “No. No! I shall go on. His tale he told.

  A tale—” Another flinch. Another ant.

  Her fingers pinch it off. “A tale told well—!

  What are these creatures crawling up on me?

  Get off! Get off!”

  416

  Now all can see a swarm. Industrious ants!

  Up, up, they climb! Up legs, up arms, up necks.

  And suddenly chaste Pulcheria shrieks,

  “Off! Off! Foul ants! They’re everywhere!” Her friends

  Likewise do find themselves with skin and hair

  beset with ants, a mob of ants intent,

  upon the bows and ribbons in their hair.

  They brush, they rub, they hop, they skip, they bow,

  bent almost double, best to scrub their hair,

  to wipe the ants away. And when they touch

  their hands to bows and ribbons they do find

  the silk and satin sticky, sweet and moist,

  all covered o’er with honey. Thus: the ants

  have come en masse to feast. Everyone laughs.

  430

  They pluck the bows and ribbons from their locks

  and fling them to the floor with cries and groans.

  “What plague is this! What infestation crawls?”

  And last do they run weeping from the room.

  Book VI

  434

  Bold Beatrice sits down. And Cat does, too.

  The young men shift, the women glance around.

  Oh, silence! No one knows what quite to do.

  437

  “A tale told well, twice told’s a tale indeed!

  I’m sure on this we can all well agree.”

  Says Beatrice, commanding their regard.

  “Of arms I sing, and ships, and of a queen,

  the famous didos of a mighty land.

  If you tempt their wrath they will requite

  lies and blows ten fold, and bring down blight.

  So let this be a lesson. Listen well.

  Toy not with us. All enmity let go.

  We smile upon our friends, and smite our foes.

  To what divinity do we give thanks?

  To Blessed Tanit, she who grants her strength,

  protection, favor, shelter, all of this,

  450

  unto her daughters, and to us, her kiss.”

  THE END

  AN ENDING I LIKE BETTER

  We define ourselves through the stories we tell. And sometimes some of us just get so tired of hearing certain kinds of stories that we want to rip them apart and piece them back together in a new shape.

  The great epic narratives of Western civilization underpin much of our understanding in the Western world about what subject matter is appropriate for a story everyone is meant to be familiar with. Such narratives teach us who stories center on, how people will behave, and how the world should properly work according to the specific culture and era they grow out of.

  For example, The Iliad relates an episode from the Trojan War in which men fight over honor and women are trophies to be parceled out and quarreled over. The name Robin Hood first appears in early modern ballads (15th - 18th c) but the story we know best of a Saxon lord fighting for justice and freedom against oppressive Norman invaders comes from the 19th century. In Star Wars: A New Hope, scrappy and independent rebels fight against a rich and powerful Empire in a tale that owes a debt to Joseph Campbell’s book on the Hero’s Journey as well as glossy versions of the American Revolution.

  Stories like The Iliad and The Odyssey and the early Robin Hood ballads begin their lives in the oral tradition, only later written down and elaborated on. In contrast, the Roman writer Virgil set out in the waning years of the first century B.C.E. to write a deliberately epic poem that would, he hoped, create a founding myth for Rome, one that might perhaps rival Homer in its influence.

  Virgil wrote during a period of transition as the expanding, vigorous Roman Republic became an empire. As we know, empires need all the propaganda they can get to justify their creation and continuing existence. He chose a secondary hero from the matter of Troy, various loosely connected tales related to the war that were well known in antiquity. For the hero who was the ancestor of Rome to come from one of the heroes of the Trojan War added to Rome’s legitimacy. Aeneas came from the losing side, had a vague connection to Rome, and was evidently known in the corpus of tales as a man of great pietas, defined at dictionary.com as “the ancient Roman personification of familial affection, patriotism, and piety.” Perfect for a founding father!

  In The Aeneid, Aeneas flees the final conflagration of Troy with his father and his son, his wife having conveniently expired so she can appear to him as a ghost and generously and unselfishly encourage him to seek a greater destiny without her (which will naturally come complete with a new, fresh, and better-connected wife therefore acquired with no guilt).

  The second half of the poem centers around his arrival, exploits, and new-bride-acquiring in Latium (the region where the city of Rome was later founded).

  However the best known sequence in the poem comes from its first half, the tale of his arduous travels as he escapes Troy and wanders for some time around the Mediterranean. This part of the story includes an important sojourn in Carthage during which the ruling queen of Carthage, Dido, falls in love with Aeneas after a dalliance and kills herself when he leaves her.

  Henry Purcell’s English Baroque opera Dido and Aeneas features the beautiful and heartbreaking aria, “Dido’s Lament”, her final words (here performed by the incandescent Jessye Norman).

  The Aeneid is meant to take place in the legendary past. More germane to Virgil’s Roman audience however was their historical memory of the Roman Republic’s conflict with the Carthaginian Empire. The three Punic Wars lasted from 264 BCE to 146 BCE and were the world wars of their time. Perhaps most famous for Hannibal’s crossing of the Alps with elephants to bring the war to Italy, their struggle for dominance over the Mediterranean ended with Rome’s utter destruction of the city of Carthage.

  Of course The Aeneid portrays Aeneas as the best of heroes due to his heroism, filial piety, leadership, valor, and good looks. Dido appears at first as a powerful and lovely woman who has been prosperously ruling Carthage since the death of her husband.

  In fact, the goddess Venus herself must take a hand in causing Dido to fall so hard for Aeneas that the queen actually begs him to marry her and rule with her. Aeneas is tempted but instead is supernaturally reminded that his destiny lies elsewhere. When he departs, in secret, Dido is seen to have dishonored her own vow to remain chaste after the death of her husband Sychaeus and must pay with her life. Meanwhile, Aeneas leaves behind another dead woman and merrily goes on his way to that fabulous promised destiny.

  So, yes, while I can acknowledge the great achievement of The Aeneid, and thrill to its heroic adventures, I can also get tired of a powerful woman’s story of love and rulership being cast as a tragedy when the dude (typically) gets off with a few faint regrets as he trots off to his next conquest.

  Enter my alternate-history Afro-Celtic post-Roman icepunk fantasy adv
enture Spiritwalker Trilogy, which begins with Cold Magic (and features lawyer dinosaurs, natch).

  In the three Spiritwalker books the narrator, Cat Barahal, tells the story of her unexpected adventures and world-traveling shenanigans in an early 19th century-era setting in an alternate history where the Carthaginian Empire did not fall, and in which the Romans and the Carthaginians dueled over control of the Mediterranean for centuries.

  Cat and her cousin Beatrice are of Carthaginian descent although they live (and grew up) in the port city of Adurnam on the shores of what in our history is called Britain. As Cold Magic opens, they are 19 going on 20, attending an academy (a college) as lowly Kena’ani (Phoenician) scholarship students who often wrangle with the snobbish rich girls of Roman ancestry.

  I have long desired to tell a story about Cat and Bee’s schoolgirl adventures. In the trilogy I allude to several mischievous incidents. But it wasn’t until I decided to offer a piece of written-to-order short fiction for an auction benefiting the Con or Bust organization that the spark for this piece got lit. Paul Weimer and D dueled over the piece, Romanophile Paul planning to ask me to write something on the alternate progress of Rome in the Spiritwalker world. Carthage-champion D won the bid, however, and asked for a piece about the girls’ Cartheginian heritage.