The Beatriceid Read online

  THE BEATRICEID

  by Kate Elliott

  Book Smugglers Publishing

  Copyright 2015 Katrina Elliott

  Contents

  The Beatriceid

  Inspirations and Influences

  “An Ending I Like Better”

  SFF in Conversation

  “The Courage to Say Yes”

  A Chat with Kate Elliott

  About the Author

  About the Artist

  Book Smugglers Publishing

  Copyright Information

  Dedication

  To D and to Paul Weimer.

  When, last year, I offered to the Con or Bust Auction a short story set in the Spiritwalker Trilogy written to the prompt of the winner’s choosing, little did I imagine that two people, Paul Weimer and D, would duel over the piece with such enthusiasm. Paul wanted a story on a Roman theme, but it was D who won the auction and asked for a story around a Carthaginian theme. That this story exists is due to their spirited bidding.

  Thank you.

  THE BEATRICEID

  Book I

  1

  There was an ancient village called Adurnam,

  founded by the Celts of Tarrant fame.

  Along the sea they plied their leather boats

  and fished and farmed and lived in amity,

  if amity is one raid every year.

  6

  Then came across the sea on winds of change

  the bold Kena’ani, wise merchants all.

  Made famous by their victory at Zama

  they sought out harbors new, and tin and wool,

  and on this shore they landed. Very soon

  they drafted trade agreements and built homes.

  With vigor the town grew into a port

  whose gleaming wharves and bustling markets swell’d

  into the jewel and heart of western trade

  where every ship flown north a cargo lade.

  16

  Adurnam’s fame grew great. The Romans came,

  cloaked in fog and lies as is their wont.

  Their stadia and roads blighted the earth

  until the Celtic tribes, having enough,

  shook free the heavy yoke of Roman rule.

  Before the warlike Celts the empire fled

  to take its refuge in Latium walls

  and slake its thirst for gold in minor wars.

  24

  But left behind, Rome’s footfalls hammered deep.

  Their boots have trampled down Truth’s fragile keep.

  Who will stem the tide of Roman lies?

  What voice lays fortunate claim to verity?

  Book II

  28

  Thus Blessed Tanit turns her kindly eye

  to seek her faithful daughters in the crowd

  of pupils who arrive on morning’s blush

  into the halls of the Academy.

  In this court of learning youthful minds

  can measure out the workings of the world

  and scope the orbits of the moon and sun,

  the cunning nature hidden within beasts,

  deeds of man and woman keenly sung.

  All this, and cautious speculation, too,

  into the secret lore of mages cold

  and blacksmiths’ fire. So do the gods o’erlook

  from vasty heights our tiny little world.

  41

  So thus they come, in twos and fours and tens,

  pupils from the fashionable homes

  of the city’s highest-ranking clans

  with lineages and language as diverse

  as these waters on whose shores we live.

  Celt and Mande, Rome, Iberia,

  Kena’ani and Kush, Oyo, Avar.

  All who can afford it send their youth

  to take their places in the lecture halls

  and rooms where knowledge rains upon their heads.

  51

  There sit the richest girls, the Roman snobs,

  who laugh and tell the tales that they believe

  will earn for them attention from young men

  whose clans and looks agreeably contend

  for princely favor or a wealthy bride.

  56

  Chief among them, Pulcheria. Long

  the acknowledged leader of the set.

  She smiles and blushes, falsely, and begins.

  59

  “I sing of arms—that’s swords, not arms and legs—

  and Aeneas who did brave the salty sea.

  The salty sea I say, but not the rivers

  because rivers, as we know, do have no salt.”

  63

  Her friends assay a laugh, applaud her wit,

  all while sidelong eyeing fine young men.

  They simper, and display their fashionable hair

  with knots and bows a-flutter, dazzling bright.

  This style the newest vogue in these dull halls

  and woe betide those girls who due to lack

  of coin or cooperative hair, cannot so style

  themselves in current mode. These sit alone.

  71

  As on the chamber’s poorest bench there sits

  a quiet cat-like girl, Kena’ani.

  She reads a book. But words scald ears, and thus

  she lifts her head to better hear the tale.

  75

  “Fugitive, the bold Aeneas fled

  the burning pyre of Troy with all his men.

  For years the pitiless sea was all they knew

  as angry Juno’s hate hounded them far

  and wide with waves and gulls their only friends

  and not one shore to welcome them to home.

  It was so hard to found the race of Rome.”

  82

  So muttered quiet Cat, “Not hard enough.”

  83

  But Roman ears are quick to catch a slight.

  Pulcheria turns her head to glare

  by which her profile shows to best effect

  and decorative bows and knots to sway.

  The young men look, and smile, and thus become

  the audience she all along has craved.

  So, on she speaks. “Yet dutiful Aeneas

  will in no way despair. He leads his men.

  Across tumultuous seas they come to land,

  spy glassy bay and black-browed cliffs. Not sure

  if this land will grant haven to the lost,

  to those who wander far with pious hope,

  and seeking answer to what will soon become

  a fateful question, on the deck he stands.

  His men await his word. But still he stands,

  uneasily athwart the ship’s proud head—”

  99

  She breaks off as new smiles crease the lips

  of those she hopes will most admire her tale.

  101

  So speaks the quiet Cat: “Folk call them prows

  or stems, as those who ply the seas must know.

  To be uneasy athwart the ship’s proud head?

  That doth portend a different apprehension.”

  105

  The haughty Roman girl lifts up her chin,

  her eyes ablaze with anger so astounded

  that at first she merely huffs. Her friends

  their mouths do shield with hands. She burns,

  sensing the mortifying beat of mocking words.

  A clamor in her head shrieks “vengeance mine!”

  And yet her cunning guards intemperate speech.

  112

  “What mewling do I hear?” she says. “My friends

  and my companions, have your ears been soiled

  by lowly merchant’s wares that are mere dirt,

  not the go
ld of civilized discourse?

  Who even speaks aloud of things best left

  to silence and respectful curtains drawn?

  No mention would an honorable soul

  make of that which well bred folk do leave

  behind closed doors. But how can we expect

  a crass Phoenician to abide by rules

  that their untidy mercenary minds

  cannot sell and make a profit on?

  Give her a coin, and let her close her mouth.”

  125

  She reaches for her purse. She finds a coin.

  “One as or two?” she asks with vicious smile,

  and flips a coin across the gap between,

  meaning for the flashing copper coin

  to strike her hated foe right in the face.

  130

  But angry cats are quick. Thus, with a snatch,

  swift Cat captures the coin out of the air

  and throws it back both accurate and strong

  like any Argive spear was flung at Troy.

  The as hits true. It strikes her Roman nose,

  and Pulcheria shrieks. The young men laugh.

  136

  “You! You! You! You!” she screams! “You! You! You! You!”

  She shakes a fist.

  138

  “Don’t hurt yourself,” Cat drawls.

  139

  “You crawling vermin! Baby-slaughtering tribe!

  You might as well go prostitute yourself

  at Tanit’s temple gate. But what is this?

  Oh dear!” She gives vent to pretended gasps

  of sad regret. “I should never have said,

  for we all know that every Phoenician girl

  already has.” This slur, or indeed the one

  against the Blessed Tanit, overwhelms

  young Catherine’s tenuous calm, admittedly

  a trait whose scant reserves she’s now drained dry.

  149

  To the attack she springs. She jumps upon

  the bench and thence upon the table too.

  From the schoolroom’s dimly lit back wall

  she bounds so light of foot that it may seem

  a certain feline grace does drive her feet

  as from table to next table she does leap.

  With a cry the Roman girl draws back

  behind the quivering bodies of her friends,

  a shield wall of silk, expensive gowns

  and all the bows and ribbons in their hair

  like banners fluttering in a storm-swept air.

  160

  “Will no one guard me from this cruel assault?

  This unharmonious brute? Immodest girl!

  How dare you strike at me? For am I not

  a modest picture of chaste piety? While you!

  You! You! Are nothing but an unbecoming beast!”

  165

  Too late Cat finds herself caught in that place

  she likes the least: The censure of all eyes.

  Hard to fade from notice when she stands

  atop a table shaking with righteous rage.

  She’s trapped by her own nature. What to do?

  170

  “Apologize at once!” cries Pulcheria,

  who like a jackal senses lowering doom

  and means to gnaw this flesh and bone until

  the last worn tatters of repute are dead.

  Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. The battle lost.

  175

  Cat knows not what to do. Her pride rebels

  from speaking even one soft humbled word.

  Yet all have seen her act in such a way

  that Pulcheria’s sneers are long forgot,

  her crime of grossly unbecoming slurs

  does fade compared to Cat’s rash rough assault.

  181

  “Bow down and beg forgiveness. You! Bow down!”

  The Roman girl awaits her foe’s defeat.

  183

  All wait. All stare. Cat trembles. What to do?

  The room grows hushed.

  185

  And yet the gods can hear.

  186

  The Blessed Tanit guides her favored daughters

  and shelters them in times of storm and stress.

  A sound! A foot does fall before the door.

  The threshold shakes! Bold Beatrice arrives!

  Her beauty is her sword, her gleaming eye,

  her gaze a spear to part the seas of doubt.

  All those her eye surveys take swift step back

  as if to get some distance from her scorn.

  194

  “What’s this?” she asks. “What have I missed today

  that drives my dearest cousin to stand atop

  a table as if the seas are soon to rise?

  Is this some Roman custom of debate?

  Perhaps a means by which some stand below

  while others must of course be stood above?

  Who then shall rise and who perforce shall fall?

  Who must command and who in truth bow down?”

  202

  “The girl did cast a coin against my face.”

  203

  “You threw it first!” cries Cat, then silent falls

  as Beatrice does raise a pretty hand

  whose graceful wave the young men do approve.

  206

  “Oh la! Such goings on! What started this?”

  She asks. And Pulcheria does reply,

  208

  “I merely told the true tale of Aeneas.”

  209

  “Oh that! I know it well. Shall I proceed?”

  210

  A blink is all it takes. Cat knows the plan.

  211

  Into the room bold Beatrice does sail

  and every eye does capture her fine form,

  her sterling intellect and majesty

  like that of Didos, queens of Qart Hadast,

  who led their people far across the seas

  to found a prosperous city, rich and strong.

  217

  “To Qart Hadast he came,” says Beatrice,

  “Aeneas, fled from Troy and tempest tossed,

  his ships and men and household gods he brought

  to Libya’s fertile shores where he sought peace.

  Son of Venus! A manly man, it’s true!

  How fortunate to wash upon these shores

  where nectar flowed in honey and cattle grazed

  and every shrine and temple rich with gifts

  in honor of the well belovéd gods—”

  226

  “Who feast on infant blood!”

  227

  “You tell a lie!

  But let that pass, for my tale’s not yet done.”

  229

  So Beatrice takes center stage and smiles

  and all who look upon her must forget

  that Cat who was just now upon the table

  has vanished. She is gone. She can’t be seen.

  233

  Bold Beatrice speaks on. “So gather folk

  who happily will feast the weary men.

  The Dido welcomes wanderers brave and true

  and likewise all with thrilling tales to tell.

  And in all honesty her eye is caught

  by the particular beauty of the man

  who calls himself Aeneas and their lord.

  His raven hair, his brilliant eyes, his smile,

  his sculpted shoulders shown to best effect.

  His arms, his legs…Enough! ‘Tell us your tale,’

  the Dido says with generosity,

  as servants bring a feast munificent

  and cups that never once fall scant of wine.

  Tongue loosened he does speak, at length, of deeds

  and fights and storms and suffering and pain.

  Oh what a man he is! to suffer angst

  that no mere woman dares hope to comprehend.

  Always polite, the Dido nods and
smiles,

  and smiles and nods as he goes on and on,

  sure of acclaim, for every man’s account

  has great import, as we all know is true.”

  254

  The young men, list’ning, pause. One nods and grins.

  The rest do hesitate for they’re not sure

  if nods and smiles do signify assent,

  or possibly some other hidden view.

  258

  “Of course it’s true!” cries Pulcheria, quick

  to grab advantage while her foe is quiet.

  “What noble man! What brave audacity!

  No common man could soldier ever on,

  his shoulders heavily burdened by his woes.”

  263