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,
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?
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