The Ivory Gate

Chapter 3

Chapter 3Darkness covered Karkhedon’s entertainment district and it smelled like a drain. Distorted laughter echoed through the street. Some comedy was playing at the theatre. Careful to avoid a fetid puddle, Aeneas weaved through an alcove leading toward the crossroads tavern. He nodded to the wretch of a doorman chained to a post and lifted the thin curtain that separated the Lucky Latin from the street. This place was hellish, but perhaps it held the answers he sought.

The prince of Troy looked around, feeling out of place. Flickering lamplight revealed stains on the walls. A carpet of dried reeds crunched beneath his boots. The huddled warmth of the drinkers struck him. The scents of olives and figs mingled with those of a crowd that had not bathed for days. Dice rattled on the tables, the patrons yelling. A scantily clad flautist played a bawdy tune as she moved between the couches. Aeneas stepped toward the bar, making sure his hood was up properly. He could already taste the wine.

The barman had a ruddy face and bristles on his cheeks. When he saw Aeneas approaching, he tucked a dishcloth into his leather apron and leaned upon the bar.

‘What’ll it be, friend?’ he said in coarse Phoenician.

‘You are Umbro?’ said Aeneas, his Latin halting.

The barman’s eyebrows raised. ‘That I am.’ He switched to Latin. ‘Umbro the Sot, they call me. Can’t think why, I don’t partake myself. Been a while since I’ve heard the old tongue, though. What’s your name?’

Aeneas swallowed. ‘The name for me is Philemon. I like to be asking you a few questions about your homeland.’ Gods, he sounded like a fool. It was good to get more practice with his Latin, though.

Umbro nodded. ‘All right, but you’ll want to order something.’

‘I will be having wine, I thank you. Yellow wine, I wish.’

The man chortled. ‘Right you are, young fellow.’ He dribbled a measure of drink into a clay cup. ‘There you go. Two bronzes.’

Aeneas passed over his coins, not quite liking the way the barman eyed his money pouch. The prince raised the cup and glanced into it. Something floated in the liquid. It smelled of vinegar. Shrugging, he took a sip. The wine tasted brackish.

The proprietor chortled. ‘The wine comes from the Po Valley—good stuff, though hard to stomach if you’re not used to it. You’ll want to be careful.’

Aeneas drained half the cup in one gulp, relishing the heat coursing through his belly.

‘I stand corrected,’ said Umbro.

‘Not my first wine upon tonight,’ said Aeneas, wiping his mouth. ‘Now. Questions.’

‘What do you want to know? It’s a strange stranger that wants to hear about Italia.’

‘The ways of Hesperians I wish to know. You call yourselves … Italians?’

‘Aye. It’s only Greeks and Trojans that call us Hesperians.’

Aeneas nodded. ‘I hear you call the gods by other names.’

Umbro raised an eyebrow. ‘You travelled much?’

‘I have travelled,’ said Aeneas. ‘But not far enough.’

Umbro smirked. ‘Might have guessed. That accent’s not local, is it?’

Aeneas avoided his gaze and held the cup to his lips, taking a more cautious sip.

The barman took out his dishcloth again and wiped a cup. ‘You’re not one of them Trojans, are you? You sound mighty familiar, but I never seen you around here.’

‘Just one of those voices,’ said Aeneas, slipping into Greek.

‘I see.’ Umbro set the cup down on the bar. ‘You know, I don’t much like talking to a man when he keeps changing tongues. Why don’t you lower that hood?’

The hairs on the back of Aeneas’s neck stood. He looked over his shoulder. Two men were watching him, their eyes hard as they reclined on their couches. One was wearing a greenish-grey tunic. The other’s was mustard-yellow. His scalp was shaved and a thick scar ran across his forehead.

‘What’s going on, Umbro? This a Trojan place, now?’ Mustard demanded in Latin.

‘Shut your mouth. I’ll handle this,’ said Umbro, and he turned back to Aeneas. ‘I once heard that Prince Aeneas speak, you know.’ A sly grin crept across his face. ‘His Greek sounded like yours. Polished. Soft.’

Aeneas looked down at his hands.

‘Ha! That bloody Aeneas,’ said Grey, his Latin a little slurred. He sidled up to Aeneas, trying to get a look under his hood. Aeneas recoiled and hunched down. ‘Remember when he showed up? Everybody said he was the best thing since purple. Then the truth came out.’

Mustard took a step closer. ‘Little pustule of a boy. Five years ago he told the real story, Umbro, wasn’t it?’

‘Seven years. Tomorrow, in fact. Said he was nothing, that his friends had done all the heroics, not him.’

‘Not just his friends. His woman.’

Actually, the anniversary commemorated the fall of Troy, not their arrival in Karkhedon. But Aeneas wasn’t going to correct these men. He licked his lips, wondering if this place had a back door.

‘Still,’ said Grey, an eye on the money pouch hanging from Aeneas’s neck, ‘I hear a Trojan went and bedded the queen. Her pet. Rich as a king now, even if he isn’t one.’

A hand fell upon Aeneas’s shoulder and he was relieved to hear a Trojan voice in his ear. ‘Time to go, chief.’ Aeneas turned to see who was speaking and found himself staring at a familiar pair of brown eyes. Beroe grabbed his upper arm and he stood.

Umbro leered. ‘Hallo, my sweet. Thought I told you not to come back here. You always cause trouble.’

Beroe smiled. She’d lost a tooth since the last time Aeneas had seen her. ‘I don’t make trouble. I am trouble. And you should look after your doorman a little better. He let me in for a hunk of bread. But we’ll be on our way.’ She and Aeneas made for the door.

‘Trojan trash,’ spat Mustard. ‘Go back where you came from.’

‘Would if we could,’ muttered Beroe as they stepped out of the tavern.

They pushed through the curtain and walked a few blocks. Beroe checked around the corner to make certain they hadn’t been followed. Then she rounded on Aeneas and yanked back his hood. ‘What by the Furies were you thinking, going in there? Umbro’s scum. He’s as likely to sell you to slavers as pour you a drink.’

‘I’ll have to say something to Dido. I’m sure she could shut that place down.’

‘Yeah. Bet she could.’

Aeneas stared, not sure what she meant by that. Now that he looked at Beroe properly, he saw the deep shadows under her eyes. Her cheekbones were more prominent than he recalled and sourness wafted from her tunic. ‘You don’t look well, Beroe.’

‘Thanks. You see a mirror, lately?’ Beroe looked him up and down with a scowl. ‘When was the last time you got a decent night’s sleep?’

He rubbed his temples. His head was starting to ache. ‘My dreams have been troubling.’

She crossed her arms. ‘My sympathies.’ Nobody could miss the edge in her voice.

‘What were you doing around these parts?’

Beroe shrugged. ‘I was on my way home from work when I saw some fool I used to know about to do something stupid. So I followed him.’

Aeneas frowned. Maybe the wine had gone to his head—it was so hard to remember. ‘Work? Really? We’re a fair way from the docks. How is the business going, anyway?’

Beroe’s mouth fell open. ‘Chief? Palinuros and I lost the fishery months ago. I work at the laundry now, washing clothes in piss. They pay us in grain. There’s loads of Trojans stuck there. Remember? I wrote to you.’

Aeneas’s eyes dropped. ‘I never got it. The courtiers, sometimes they …’ He bit his lip. The words weren’t coming out right. ‘Forgive me.’

‘It must be nice to be surrounded by people who think for you.’

He snatched the money pouch from around his neck and tipped the coins into his hand and offered them to her. ‘Will this help?’

Beroe hesitated. She frowned at Aeneas, caught between temptation and revulsion. At last she took a single bronze. ‘For the bread I gave the doorman.’ She tucked the coin inside her tunic.

‘Take it all.’

She shook her head, eyes filled with sorrow. ‘Chief, after all we’ve been through, don’t shame me.’

Aeneas stuffed the coins back into the pouch and leaned against the wall. It was wrong to see tears in Beroe’s eyes. He slid down to the cobblestones, a hand over his face. ‘I’ve shamed myself. Why are things so bad, Beroe?’

She sat down beside him, finger-combing her greying hair. ‘You heard those fools at the tavern. Who wants Trojans? Especially when they want pay for their work.’ Beroe sighed. ‘Chief, how long are we going to stay here?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean …’ She fidgeted. ‘We were meant to stay in Karkhedon for a few months. Next we know, it’s been a year. Then two and here we are. Seven years. We didn’t want this and neither did the Karkhedans.’ She gave a bitter laugh. ‘Things were so much easier when all we had to worry about was Greeks knocking down the door. And, you know, Palinuros and I could jump on a ship and leave like what’s-his-name did.’

‘Gyas?’

‘Yeah, him. But where do we go? Remember what happened when we arrived here?’

‘Prison.’ It wasn’t something he’d soon forget.

‘It’d be the same everywhere. Probably worse. I know we got lucky this time. If that Dido wasn’t sweet on you … But we’re guests and we’ve outworn our welcome.’ She swallowed. ‘We lost so many souls to the Middle Sea. But not for this. Karkhedon just isn’t …’

‘Home,’ Aeneas finished for her. ‘It isn’t home.’

‘Yeah.’ They sat on the cold pavers for a moment and then Beroe offered Aeneas a hand up. ‘Come on. No point freezing our arses off. Put that hood up, eh?’

Aeneas took her hand and straightened and dusted himself off.

Beroe didn’t speak again until they neared the domed temple of Hera and Aphrodite. ‘Palinuros still thinks very highly of you, you know. Won’t hear a word against you.’

‘Aye? How is the good captain?’

‘What he lacks in vigour, he makes up for in experience.’

‘That’s not what I meant and you know it.’

She laughed and gestured toward the palace on the hill. ‘Reckon you can make it on your own?’

‘Should do. My thanks, Beroe. I’ll look into the situation for the poorer Trojans, I promise.’

‘Right. Make sure you do. Well, give my best to the wife.’

The back of Aeneas’s neck grew hot. ‘Dido’s not my wife.’

‘All right,’ said Beroe over her shoulder, already walking away.

‘Wait,’ said Aeneas. He blinked, trying to gather his thoughts. ‘Are you coming to the ceremony?’

Beroe stopped and turned. ‘Daytime is sleep-time for me.’ She smiled, revealing the dark gap between her teeth once more. ‘Is Eumela coming? Haven’t seen her in a bit.’

‘I think so. She came to the last one.’

‘Then I guess we’ll see. Take care, Aeneas. Oh, and say hello to Julos for me. I always liked that boy.’

‘He’s not exactly a boy anymore, but I will.’

Aeneas walked the last block on his own, until he arrived at the palace gates. The guards crossed their pikes as they saw him coming, and then he lowered his hood.

The captain of the guard looked him over and grunted. ‘Ah. It’s you.’ He scratched his beard. ‘All right, boys, let him through. We’ll catch hell if we don’t, I suppose.’ The gates creaked open and Aeneas stepped across the courtyard and into the entrance hall.

After a few twisting hallways, he tiptoed toward his chambers and paused outside Dido’s. A strip of lamplight flickered beneath the door. Of course she was still working. He reached to push the door open, then decided it wouldn’t be wise. She always hated being interrupted. It was late and drink had made him light-headed. Tomorrow he would have to rise early. No point getting into an argument now.

Dido. So like Kreusa in many ways, but unlike in others. But then, why had he expected her to be like his first wife? No two people were the same. And why did Kreusa still haunt his thoughts? He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Sometimes he could swear she was near, could almost feel her eyes on him in quiet moments. Once, drifting through a waking dream, he’d reached out as though to touch her, but there was nothing. He shook his head, trying to clear it. Kreusa was gone now. Seven years gone. A teardrop burned his cheek and he flicked it away. Of course she wasn’t gone. Not really, so long as Julos lived.

He turned down the hall and pushed open the door to Julos’s bedchamber. The boy lay on his bed, his round face framed in light. A shaggy curl spilled across his forehead. He looked so young when he slept. Aeneas could hardly believe he was eleven. Would it hurt to come in and stroke his hair? On tiptoes he crept in and slipped on something. With a lurch and a curse Aeneas crashed to the floor.

Julos twitched and groaned. ‘Dad? It’s still dark. I don’t want to get up.’

‘What? Oh, right. The ceremony. No, that’s hours away.’

His eyes bleary, Julos sat up. He stared down at Aeneas sprawled on the carpet. ‘You all right?’

‘Yeah. Think I tripped on your quiver. I’ll be up, just give me a moment.’ He squinted around in the dim light, trying to get his sense of balance back. How could one child produce so much debris? Odd socks and scrunched-up bits of papyrus littered the floor. Ants crawled over browning apple-cores. He could taste something unpleasant on the air. The empty quiver lay at his side. ‘You could get one of the slaves to tidy your bedchamber. Or better yet, do it yourself.’

Julos lay back on the bed, pulling the blanket over his bony shoulders. ‘Probably.’ He rolled over onto his side, facing away from Aeneas.

It took more effort than it should have to stand and Aeneas stumbled over onto Julos’s bed. He lay down beside the boy, reached to stroke his downy hair.

Julos gave no response, but he didn’t pull away either. ‘Why are you in my bedchamber, Dad?’

‘I was just thinking, little man. It’s been seven years. Since Troy. Since …’ His voice thickened.

‘Since my mother.’

‘Yeah. Since Mum.’

The boy pulled the blanket tighter.

‘It’s fine, Julos. We can talk about her. I know you miss her. I do too.’

Julos tensed. ‘Dad … I don’t even remember her. Not much anyway.’

‘Huh?’

‘I just don’t. I was only little.’

‘Nothing at all?’

Julos paused. ‘There is one thing. I don’t even know if it’s real.’

‘Tell me.’

Julos rolled away and sat up. ‘It—it’s a big dinner. A feast? You’re there, and you talk for ages and there’s people listening and she’s there. Cuddling me. She’s warm and big and I’m half-asleep, but it’s all right, because … What? Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘Oh, son.’ Aeneas sighed. ‘That wasn’t Mum. That was Dido. Not long after we arrived here.’

Julos’s expression dulled. It was as though a cloud had passed across the sun.

‘It’s fine,’ said Aeneas. ‘It’s fine you don’t remember. Let me tell you—’

‘Dad, I’m tired,’ Julos said. ‘I want to sleep.’

‘Just thought it would be good to talk, that’s all.’ Aeneas’s words were slurred. The drink had risen to his head.

‘Here, let me help you up.’ Julos sighed, pushed himself out of bed and put his arm around his dad. Aeneas allowed his son to guide him. By Hades, it hadn’t been that long ago that he’d had to take Julos by the hand. Together they shambled toward Aeneas’s chambers. Standing before the doorway, Julos let him go and Aeneas teetered like a new-born lamb before finding his feet.

‘Night, Dad. Big day tomorrow. Get some sleep?’

‘Right.’

Julos scurried back to his bedchamber, shutting the door behind him.

Aeneas eased his way to his bedside and made sure he was alone. He threw his clothes to the floor and lay down. His eyelids fluttered. For the thousandth time, Aeneas wondered how he had ended up here.

He fills his chest with the scent of apples and pomegranates. The vale is clothed in threads of light, the sun rising on another world. All around stand the forms of people he knew before the end of all things, their bodies rendered in a pale wash. The ghosts stare at him, muttering words beyond mortal knowledge.

The old man steps forward, clad in white. Disappointment reflects in his eyes. ‘I’ve been waiting for you, boy. We all have.’