Ascanius quickly reclaimed his god and smiled his thanks to Iarbas. He knew that he did not have to speak.
Follow me, little man, and meet the queen of your kind.
Then, Iarbas rose and ambled away from the sea along the widest path, swishing a skinny tail, more suitable to a dog.
Aeneas hugged his son against his breast. “Ascanius, you have saved the lot of us. But, you gave me quite a fright. Why, he might have caught you in his trunk.”
Such an embrace was the kind Ascanius liked: father and son, hero and hero-to-be. He returned the hug with all of his strength, and his strength was considerably more than that of his age.
“I’m the one who gets caught,” Achates sighed.
“He only meant to give you a scare,” said Ascanius, who did not like his elephant thought to be cruel. “At least he didn’t tusk you. Now let’s follow him to the queen.”
“Are you sure that’s where we’re going?” Aeneas had met his share of amorous queens. Dido was a queen whom he had to meet. He had heard, however, that she did not choose to wed.
“Oh, yes.”
“How do you know, Little Bear?”
“He told me. Also, his name’s Iarbas.” Of course! Iarbas had spoken only to him.
Ascanius looked at his father as they walked. Why, even at thirty-four, the man was Apollo and Paris in one. The yellow hair of his people had slightly silvered at the death of Creusa, but his face had remained unwrinkled and strangely young, except for his eyes, which had looked upon pillage and rape, the fall of a city, the death of a wife, a father, and loyal friends. When you have seen such woes, it seemed to Ascanius, the only cure is to see their opposite, and he hoped that Iarbas would lead them to just such a sight; namely a widowed queen who was ripe to wed.
* * * *
It was not a city like Troy (dimly remembered) or Tyre (of which he had heard); it was a simple town with a half-built wall at its foot; it climbed a low hill with white wooden houses whose doors and roofs were red and whose windows were filled with glass. Nowhere pillars of cedar and bronze; sphinxes of terra cotta; gods of gold and ivory; a palace with courtyards and fountains and coconut palms. Nowhere, display and pride; everywhere, sweet simplicity. Men and elephants, hoisting wooden stakes, toiled together to finish the palisade which was meant to enclose the town. But most of the people seemed to have gone to market, between the hill and the sea. In the shade of lemon trees, there were canvas stalls like inverted poppy blooms, white and black and red… There were curious animals—that was a camel, he knew from tales he had heard, though the creature looked like a hump-backed, oversized horse—and that was an ostrich with the snaky neck and the large feathery bottom, which seemed to be meant for carrying little boys. Perhaps he could buy a ride when he learned what ostriches liked to eat.
The people of the town were less to his fancy: white-robed merchants displaying their goods to wary buyers (for Tyrians, being traders, loved to bargain; and Dido had led the people of Carthage from Tyre). Wooden, three-legged stands held most of the wares: glass necklaces; terra cotta images of misshapen gods (like the dwarves he had seen near the ship?); ostrich eggs, split, hollowed and hardened into bowls; coconuts, lentils, cuttlefish, and other foods.
But most of the folk surrounded a lady in a chair. She had caught her hair in a knot behind her head with a plain leather band. She wore an ankle-long gown, spotlessly white but fashioned of inexpensive wool, with three flounces flaring 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