from the waist. Her arms were bare and brown. Her hands were the tiniest he had ever seen, and yet he sensed their power, more of gesture than grip. It was as if by raising a hand she could calm a mob—or rouse an army to fight. Her feet were proportionately small, and one of her sandals held a broken strap. The people had formed a line in front of her chair (intended to be a throne? It was made of citron wood, not gold, and its feet were those of an ostrich and not a lion or a sphinx). They did not bring her gifts, but they bowed and presented various grievances: A craftsman had overcharged for a brick oven; a drunken sailor had started a fight. Her voice was soft, the essence of womanhood, but nobody seemed to question her judgments.
“Mennon, you charged your cousin an ox for a brick oven? For shame! You know it is only worth a ewe.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“And Aelous fighting again. Did he do any damage this time?”
“He broke my tooth,” cried a strapping youth from the crowd.
Witnesses nodded assent. The people were dark from the sun, and dark by race. Ascanius judged them to be less martial than mercantile; unimaginative except in trade, and devoted to their queen, who clearly came from another race. His father had taught him to make quick judgments, even if wrong, for the life of the Trojans since the fall of Troy did not allow delay. Time, their only treasure, must be carefully spent.
“Then he shall pay you a day’s catch in fish.”
The next in line did not present a complaint: a young girl—homely, Ascanius thought, with a nose which was twice the suitable size—and she carried a baby (homelier) in her arms.
“Semele. I didn’t know—!”
“Wanted to show you, Miss. Named her for you.” (Ugh. It looked like an unburnt offering. An oven would do it a world of good. Also, it smelled of rancid milk.)
The lady wore no adornment of any kind, neither bracelets, anklets, nor rings, but she reached in a wicker chest at her side and removed a chunk of amber which could be carved into gems, fashioned into a bottle to carry scent, or simply strung around the neck for luck. “This is my birthday gift for the little Dido.” She smiled; a radiance seemed to suffuse her colorless gown, and Ascanius saw that her amber hair was even more richly colored than her gift. Yes, he thought, she is surely the queen of the land, and as beautiful in her way as my father (and not too young—twenty-five I should think—to become his bride).
Then she raised her head and looked beyond the crowd and saw Aeneas’ band. She rose to her feet; there was an artless grace in the tilt of her head, her outstretched arms, her sudden smile.
“But you must be the men from the ship which was sighted floundering down the coast. And a little boy! And all of you golden-haired. You will need food and drink and rest.”
“I am Aeneas, Queen Dido, and the boy is my son.”
“The hero of Troy!”
Ascanius knew that his heroic father detested being called a hero; he liked to be called a bard.
“The survivor of Troy.”
She turned to her people. “Have I answered all your complaints?” Dusky of hair, muffled against the torrid African sun, the people forgot whatever complaints they had brought. Everyone knew of Troy…Helen…Achilles…and yes, Aeneas, who had been the greatest Trojan after the death of Hector and had wandered for seven years in search of a place where he could rebuild his home.
“Father,” said Ascanius. “Do you find her beautiful?”
“More,” said Aeneas. “I find her kind.”
“And remember that she is a widow…”
“But where is Iarbas?” she suddenly cried. “Surely he brought you here. The elephant king, I mean. He patrols my coast for me.”
“Why, he went to join his people, I expect,”said Ascanius.
“If he did, he is angry. See. His subjects have left my walls.”
“Angry with us?” asked Aeneas.
“Mostly with me,” she said. “I did not acknowledge him. Never mind. We shall go to my house.” But she minded more than she said, and there was fear in her amethyst eyes. (Ascanius thought: She is talking to hide her fear. I shall look for Iarbas and bring him to her house.) “No one could rightly call it a palace, but at least it is roomier than a ship. I know about ships, you see. I love them. They brought me here with my friends. But not exactly in comfort.” She indicated a bay to the south of the town; purple waters afloat with gilded ships. “Those are my walls,” she said, “till the elephants finish their task. Those are the reason my brother, the king of Tyre, has not pursued me. His captains were my friends. I left with half of his fleet.”
“We are both of us founders,” Aeneas said. “I too have a town to build. I can learn from you.”
“But you must wait for your ships to regather from the storm. I will send some punts to look for them. Meanwhile, you and your son and your men can wait with me. My home is humble, but my hearth is warm.”
Ascanius smiled his craftiest smile. Yes, she would make his father a splendid wife (and such an elegant bosom; a pillow for boys like him).
First he must find Iarbas, the moody king.
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