Dido's Sister

Dido’s Sister

A Novel

Galbraith Miller Crump

Copyright © 2012 by Galbraith Miller Crump.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2012909634

ISBN:      Hardcover               978-1-4771-1980-8

                Softcover                 978-1-4771-1979-2

                Ebook                     978-1-4771-1981-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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117116

For Ian,

imperium sine fine

Virgil, Aeneid I. 279

Contents

Chapter One Anna 

Chapter Two Achatës 

Chapter Three The Messenger 

Chapter Four A Youthful Huntress 

Chapter Five The Wink 

Chapter Six Gifts Fit for a Queen 

Chapter Seven A Meeting of Sorts 

Chapter Eight The Skin Trade 

Chapter Nine Achatës Alone 

Chapter Ten The Fall of Troy 

Chapter Eleven A Queen in Love 

Chapter Twelve Iarbas on Horseback 

Chapter Thirteen The Origin of Tears 

Chapter Fourteen Nighttime Worries 

Chapter Fifteen A Berber Feast 

Chapter Sixteen A Queen Dismayed 

Chapter Seventeen A Desert Morning 

Chapter Eighteen A Hunt Proposed 

Chapter Nineteen The Hunt 

Chapter Twenty The Storm 

Chapter Twenty-One The Cave 

Chapter Twenty-Two Anna’s Account 

Chapter Twenty-Three Under every stone… 

Chapter Twenty-Four The Curse 

Chapter Twenty-Five A City in Fear 

Chapter Twenty-Six False Prophets? 

Chapter Twenty-Seven Man’s Treachery 

Chapter Twenty-Eight Anna’s Plea 

Chapter Twenty-Nine Dido’s Resolve 

Chapter Thirty Preparations 

Chapter Thirty-One The Pyre 

Chapter Thirty-Three The Fire 

Epilogue At Sea 

Afterword 

Acknowledgements 

A Note on Narrative Anachronisms 

Further thanks 

Chapter One

Anna 

After the violence of yesterday’s storm which had lashed at the shutters and sent tiles skittering from the roof, today had dawned clear and bright. The first hints of sunshine sparkled in the streets and birdsong filled the air. The new day beckoned me forth. I threw off the bedclothes, tied on my sandals, and hurried from the palace without anyone noticing. I wished to leave behind the noises and confusion of the wakening city and run to the countryside, feeling the wet grasses on my feet and ankles as I climbed to my favorite hilltop overlooking the sea. From there I could watch the sun rising out of the waves, far away in that eastern horizon I used to call home.

Against the backdrop of the sea I had thought to gather a few wild flowers that had not been battered to the ground by the storm. Ever since I was a child I had marveled at the profusion and beauty of the wild flowers that carpeted the fields of my childhood back in Tyre. Here in my new home wild flowers were scant as was the lush greenery of woods and fields. Here the desert was always near at hand, the coastline was merely a fringe of green, woodlands thin with acacia and spruce. No, these were not the green hills and forests of my home, but still the chance of finding a few wild flowers drew me from my bed on a sunny morning such as this.

That was the thought that filled my head as I climbed to the crest of the hill. Instead of flowers, however, I saw ships far out to sea. They were not trading sloops riding low in the water. They were sleek foreign ships. As I watched, the glint of the sun off armor pierced my eye like a sword. These were ships manned by soldiers.

Soldiers! Men at arms!

Who were these men? What did they want? Why were their ships moving slowly, relentlessly toward land, our land?

I stood there a moment unable to move, fascinated by the fear of what I saw. I watched them drawing closer and closer. I counted the ships. There were twelve of them, scattered in groups over the sea road.

Now they were close enough for me to make out that the ships were damaged, moving slowly by oar toward the coast. I could see men bending to their oars slicing through the water. I could hear the drum beating time as the oars rose and fell in the gray sea, sending little white sprays of foam in the breeze. I saw one in full armor standing in the prow of the lead ship scanning the land for safe harbor.

Who were these men, sweat gleaming from their arms and shoulders, stroking their way into my life? What can they want from me or my sister?

Their ships were battered, some masts broken, lines trailing in the sea, evidence of yesterday’s violent storm. Some god had dispersed them. That was clear. There was no telling how many ships may have been lost in the violent storm. It had come on with frightening fury. The day had dawned clear and beautiful much as today. At noon, however, the skies turned black and the storm rolled in. Lightning crackled through the clouds, tearing them like a nurse tears a piece of cloth to swaddle a newborn babe. And then, as suddenly as it had started, the storm ended. The skies cleared. The sea became as gentle as a meadow.

Oh, we are used to storms along this coast, but this one was different, so fierce it was in beginning and sudden in ending. It was unnatural, I’d say, if I didn’t know better. Surely, the gods had some purpose in this. Yet what purpose? And whose gods?

My heart pounded in my breast with such thoughts, and I shivered as if a cloud had passed between the sun and me. How close the ships are! Soon their hulls will grate on the pebbles of the shore, and fierce men will leap onto the beach their armor clanging, swords drawn!

I must run and tell my sister what I have seen. She will know what has to be done. She will know!

Run! Before it is too late!

Run, Anna, run for your very life!

Chapter Two

Achatës 

My ship was all but destroyed by that blasted storm, my men frozen and weary, the women and children huddled among the ship’s tackle awash with water. Two thirds of our fleet lost, a dozen stout ships. Hundreds of our comrades drowned or desperately clinging to some piece of timber, half an oar, perhaps, struggling to keep afloat, feeling the cold of the sea creeping up their legs, numbing their arms, turning their fingers white. By now whatever hope they had was failing them. With each surge of water gurgling about their lips, stinging their eyes blind, those still alive must be crying out against the gods that had brought them safely from Troy only to drown them in the sea that had been their home for many long, weary months and must now be their grave.

I shook such thoughts from my head still wet with rain and now with tears. We saw their ships just before the black cloud enveloped us like a shroud. When it lifted an hour later, they were nowhere to be seen. Poor devils! Good men, all. Like brothers they were. What we’d been through together doesn’t bear thinking about.

At least, our leader survived, his ship still rising and falling in the swell of the waves, drawing us after, as if we were tied to it by stronger bonds than faith. For years we have followed him seeking that land he claims we are destined someday to find. If the gods haven’t changed their minds, that is. Now driven off course by that murderous storm there was little we could do but seek shelter and make for the nearest landfall. That would be Libya, if the gods do not deceive us once again. So here we are a half dozen broken ships limping after our leader, hoping soon to find safe harbor somewhere. Meanwhile, I kept the tattered sail spread against the breeze and set men and boys to bailing out the water that the storm and sea had dumped on us. We rode too low in the water for safety.

We had sailed on in this fashion desperately looking for land. Then there had come a shout from our captain’s ship. They had spotted a shoreline and were turning in its direction. Land! And none too soon, that’s certain. Follow close on, I shouted to my helmsman. Drop buckets and heft oars, boys. Land’s in sight. I sent men aloft to take in the sail now that we were in rowing water, and I signaled to the drummer to quicken the pace. With that my men gave a cheer and strained every muscle to swing us into the onshore breeze, which brought the smell of spices to our noses. And a welcome smell it was, too, after the stench of sea and storm and our own fear that was with us all the blasted hours we had battled with the storm!

Pulling hard toward shore, what we had thought was the mainland turned out to be a bit of an island forming a breakwater for a harbor that lay beyond. Into it we had rowed and reached calm water. Shelving cliffs rose to the port and starboard. Dark woods shadowed the summit. Ahead lay a narrow beach and a deep cave that might have been enchanted but, more to the point, would turn out to provide a spring and fresh, clear water, a great joy after the brackish stuff we had been forced to swallow these last few days at sea.

We had beached next to our captain’s ship, my men leaping into the water to drag us high up on the shore. Never had the rasp of sand and pebble on keel sounded so sweet, I can tell you! As I had watched the storm take its deadly toll of our fleet, I wondered who among us would ever be lucky enough to make landfall. Now we had found a harbor for our battered ships. Here we were, spared for some reason when so many of our number had gone under the waves and perished. May they find peace and good sailing among the shades! But here we were, and that was a fact.

I had swung my knapsack over my shoulder, dropped to the sand by the side of the ship, and followed my men up the beach, calling them to seek out dry leaves and wood for fire while I scraped a circle of beach free of sand, exposing the rock that lay beneath. On it I had placed a handful of wool from my knapsack and struck a spark with my flint, watching as it slowly caught hold in the tinder and a rosy yellow light burst into flame. Leaves, ho, I had shouted and Cymothes was the first at my side with leaves and twigs to fuel the fire. When it grew strong with flame, my men had drawn brands from it, carrying the flame to a dozen other piles of leaf and sticks. Soon, the beach was ringed with fire. The women had brought flour from the ship and mixed it with fresh water from the spring they had found in the cave, preparing to make the dough for flatbread, which they set out on baking pans heated in the fire.

My captain had called me from the fires, and the two of us climbed out of the basin of the beach onto the rocky headland above to scan the seas, hoping we might catch sight of our other ships, the Phrygian bireme, or the high-prow of the ship bearing Caïcus’ arms, two ships that had escaped the Danaan torch. But as far as my eye could see I beheld only the desolate face of the ocean. Nor had my captain seen any sign of ships out there on the sea. With a weary sigh, he had turned to descend the rocks, when I saw an amazing sight. Three stags rose up from the edge of the valley that lay below us. Following them a herd of deer meandered through the valley grazing on the grasses and herbs that lay in their path.

I took my captain’s shoulder and silenced him with a word. When he had seen what confronted us, he grasped the bow and arrows I had brought with me. Fitting arrow to bowstring, sighting the lead stag, he let fly at that regal beast whose antlers attested his age and worth. The arrow found its mark in the shaggy white chest of the stag. Its mouth opened to utter a cry of warning, but a second arrow brought him down noiselessly, his knees buckling, his great antlers digging into the soft earth.

My captain’s aim was sure, and swift was the flight of his arrows, bringing down the other two stags and then routing the herd. When the last of the arrows had sung through the woods, seven animals lay dead, one for each ship aslant the sand and pebble shore below. We had dragged the mightiest of the stags by its antlers down to the beach and sent a dozen comrades to bring in the remaining carcasses. Then my captain ordered the wine that had been given us in Sicily by the courtly Acestës to be brought from the ships and poured out among the men who drank heartily while the flatbread baked in the heat of the fires. But first he raised his helmet filled with wine, spilled a libation to the gods, in general, and to his goddess, in particular, then spoke in his usual way to his men. I don’t remember all he said. Though he was always a man lofty of speech, flowery, at times, to my way of thinking, what he said had cheered the men almost as much as the ration of wine each swallowed lustily!

Having finished their drink, the men fell to skinning the deer and cutting open the flesh. Some choice strips were skewered on spits and thrust quivering into the fire. Other pieces were cut up into chunks and thrown into the cooking pots, hoisted on tripods over the piled embers of the oldest fires. The skewered meats were soon ready to be slid from the spits in the grasp of a handful of new-made flat bread. While the women tended the stew boiling in the pots, the men lay back in the sand and stuffed themselves with venison, washed down with a second round of Sicilian wine.

When our hunger and thirst had been satisfied, we thought of our friends and comrades lost at sea during the storm. Though we hoped many had been saved and were alive somewhere on this barren shore, we knew in our gut that most had perished, never to be seen again by us, their brothers, comrades, friends, who had sailed with them following the destruction of Troy. For months after the city had been destroyed we labored together in the shadow of Mount Ida, building a fleet to carry us away from those desolate fields where lay our comrades, our wives, our mothers, sisters, fathers, children—all slaughtered by the swords of those bastards, the merciless Danaans. And now, not for the first time, I mourned the death of my young slave boy Anubus, who had been dearer to me than my own life. When would the grieving end, I wondered? Would it ever end? Not in my lifetime. That was what we were left with, those of us who had survived. It is the lot of the survivors to wonder why they were spared and others not, to grieve and have bad dreams, and little more than that. At night I was still troubled by all kinds of dreams of the dead and the dying. But more often than not I dreamed of Anubus, his smiling black face looking up at me, the gaps between his teeth that waited to be filled. In my dreams I could feel again the softness of his hand as he held on to one of my fingers when we walked through the streets of our city.

Now, when it was time for sleep, I set out men to guard us during the night and then, like my comrades, wrapped myself in my sea cloak, still wet from the storm, and prepared for another night of bad dreams. But tiredness blotted them out thankfully, and I slept the night through. I had slept so soundly, in fact, that it took my captain’s strong hand on my shoulder to rouse me this morning.

Chapter Three

The Messenger 

I turned my back on those battered ships and ran as fast as I could through the fields and down the slope toward the city. As early as it was, the stonemasons were already at work laying the foundations for the theater, which would open out toward the sea. Huge blocks of sandstone were being chiseled into shape by men who were covered in sweat and powdered dust that turned their bodies into moving statues. One stood and saluted me good-naturedly as I ran by, knowing, I suppose, that I could never identify him disguised in dust. Embarrassed, I half smiled at him as I ran on my way, and the men went back to their work, probably laughing among themselves at my obvious discomfort at having been accosted by one of them.

When I reached the center of the city, I passed through the trees known as the grove of the goddess, where we had dug up the head of a warhorse, which we took to be a great sign to us after our long wanderings over the sea-roads.

I hurried up the steps of the still unfinished temple to the goddess. There I found my sister fresh from the palace. She was staring at the story of Troy, that tragic tale known far and wide along all the coasts of the Great Sea. She had ordered it carved into the west wall of the temple by our most skillful artisans to commemorate the fall of a great city at the hands of barbarians. This morning she seemed to be studying the images as if she had never seen them before. Nor did she notice my arrival at her side. Indeed, she seemed almost to be in a trance.

Trying to catch my breath, I touched her shoulder and whispered her name.

Dido, I said. I bring dire news that must be acted upon at once. Sister! Do you hear me, I cried out grasping her shoulder, digging my nails into its soft flesh.

She turned to me her face pale and her eyes glistening with tears.

Sister! I cried out again. I bring urgent news. There are ships at sea making for us. Twelve of them. They may be friend or, the gods forbid, they may be deadly foes. You must alert the guards and prepare them to be ready for whatever these ships bring to us! Sister, do you hear what I say? There is no time to lose. Even as I bring you this word, those ships may be entering our harbor.

Still, she stared at the stone carvings. Then she turned from them and with a flick of her hand and a brisk command sent a guard running down the road toward the harbor. Then she turned to me with a wistful smile. It is all right, Anna, she said. Do not be frightened by those ships that sail toward us. I have dreamed of their coming.

What do you mean? When did you dream this?

Last night, and she took my hand. "Last night I had a most strange and wonderful dream. In it I saw more than a dozen cormorants, black as night, flying in disarray, suddenly transformed into halcyons and the seas were calmed. Then a voice spoke to me in my dream telling me that these ships have come to us from Troy. After many months of wandering on the Great Sea, they have been driven by yesterday’s storm to our shores for succor. They are ships of Troy, carrying refugees from that great, ill-fated city, seeking safe harbor.

They mean us no harm, Anna. My dream makes that clear. It was all in my dream.

She sighed and then pointed to the images of Troy cut into the wall. But tell me, Anna, the images, do they not seem to burn from within? She spoke again as if in a trance.

There are images of burning, truly, I said, images of Troy burning at the hands of the Danaans. We have watched as our sculptors chiseled them into the stone that is to be the west wall of the temple of the goddess. Yes, there are images of burning, certainly, but the stone is cold as any stone could be. That’s all I see or feel.

Look again, Anna. Look at these images, here. Do they not seem to you to glow from within? Can you not see it?

Sister, I see only the cold stone and those terrible images of the death and destruction of a great city. I find no warmth in such images.

She smiled at me, as if I were a child. It is as if I feel a fire within, she said simply.

And I did not know where this fire was. Was it in her heart?

Then she turned away from the images and, almost reluctantly, I thought, went about her daily concerns. First, she walked among our people, cheering them on in their labors, praising their efforts in building the city, smiling on the children who followed close behind her, speaking with the elderly who sat in the shade of the overhanging trees and watched the work that was going on all around them. Then at the entrance to the shrine where the seat of justice had been placed, she sat down as usual and turned to matters of state, ready to receive petitioners, any and all who came to her with a grievance or a request for aid. That was how each day began—with promise. No one in Carthage would be denied a fair hearing. That was understood by all and accepted as fair and just in this new city we were building on the edge of the sea.

She had just received the first petitioner and was listening to the grievance he brought to her for adjudication, when a cry went out from the guards on the tower, and all eyes turned to look down the road that led to the harbor. Coming up it were a dozen men in tattered garments and with weathered faces. Despite their battered appearance they strode toward the Forum with confidence, escorted by a number of our coast guards whose spears flickered in the sunshine. At the sight of my sister, the leader of these newcomers came forward toward her and dropped to one knee in supplication, hands stretched in a sign of peace.

Chapter Four

A Youthful Huntress 

My captain roused me from a deep slumber there on the sands of the beach. New cooking fires were burning, and the women were at work preparing bread and roasting strips of venison for our morning meal. I rose, my joints stiff from cold and damp, and took the leather bucket of cold, fresh water my captain held out to me, drank deeply of its sweet fragrance, then splashed some over my head, shaking myself dry like a dog shakes itself after a swim in some crisp mountain stream in the hills above—I started to say, in the hills above home, but I no longer have a home other than an open boat and the wide, unfriendly seas.

Come, my captain said as if he felt my mood, it is time we discovered exactly where we are. It is time to explore these lands and find out who lives here, whether friendly or fierce as harpies.

An old woman shuffled toward me holding out bread and venison for my breakfast. I nodded my thanks as I chewed.

You have brought me and my grandchildren safely through the storm. It is my turn now to repay you with what kindness I can. Eat and be strong. And she touched my wrist with her shaky fingers and smiled.

It is you who are strong. If we all had your fortitude, we could conquer the world.

Flatterer, she hissed through broken teeth and bent a feeble knee before turning and shuffling