Chapter 8

The Queen

On the far side of the world where the Mediterranean Sea kissed the sands of Phoenicia, a widowed queen rode her ivory horse into the rising sun. Orange fingers of light caressed her pale skin - skin that was smooth and supple and inviolate. The glowing orb bathed her in an amber radiance and caused the large ruby ring on her left hand to flash with a piercing crimson fire. Her black hair glistened with a silken sheen; her large, blue eyes sparkled with gold flecks, like lapis lazuli. She had red, full lips that could curve into a luminous smile. But now, they were pursed and tight.

Queen Dido had always been beautiful, even as a child. From the moment she had reached womanhood, the kings and princes of the east had sought to win her hand. When she had wed the noble Sychaeus, many hearts had groaned in despair. Their marriage had been an idyll of love and joy - but that life was only a shattered dream now, broken memories that lay like the fragments of a mirror in the dust.

In the flaming dawn, Dido's sleek stallion walked ahead of a caravan of empty wagons moving down the wide road that stretched out across the plains of Lebanon. Her mind was bent on one thing only:

Escape.

Escape from the despair that imprisoned her soul; escape from the monster that had killed her husband, her lover, and her dearest friend. Her thoughts retraced the events of the last several years, replaying them endlessly, all in an effort to understand why a terrible fate had taken him from her.

'Melkarth,' she whispered to herself. 'You are a hard god. Did I love him too much? Was it out of your jealousy that you allowed that beast to strike him down? Was it my pride or his that provoked your wrath?'

A waterfall of images tumbled through her mind. She was driven by that desperate, magical hope that if she could identify the moment of offense, if she could repent of that instant of hubris or apostasy, she could undo the tragedy; her love would be restored to her. Death would give him back.

After an hour of this soul-wrenching rumination, Dido bowed her head, exhausted. In the glare of the sun, her mind swam; she began to lose consciousness, and teetered forward on her horse.

A strong arm reached out and steadied her.

'Majesty, are you all right?' asked a deep voice.

Dido fought to recover herself, straightened in her saddle, and turned to the man who had caught her - a stolid, gray-bearded soldier wearing a leather-banded breastplate embossed with silver, and the purple cape of the King's Commander. He radiated strength and the confidence of a seasoned officer. The old soldier studied the queen carefully, concern showing in brown eyes shaded by bushy black and gray brows. A thick scar stretched from his forehead through the end of his left eyebrow and down his left cheek, the memento of a battle fought long ago.

She smiled wanly and placed her delicate hand on his large strong one. 'Thank you, General Shantar.'

Shantar noted the pallid cast of her skin in the early light. 'We will stop for awhile and rest in the shade.'

She stiffened. 'No! There is no time. We must reach our destination, accomplish our task, and return before sunset.' She looked up at the glowing orb lifting from the eastern horizon directly ahead of them, then back at the wagons trailing behind. 'We will be hard pressed as it is.'

She pulled her arm from his grip and took the reins of her horse with both hands. Forcing her body to sit erect, she dug her heels into the stallion's flanks and trotted ahead, eyes fixed on the road.

Shantar watched her, his mouth drawn into a tight frown. She was a strong and brave woman, he knew. No one admired her more than he did. But she had pushed herself very hard over the last few months. He sighed and shook his head. She was Dido, the Queen of Tyre, and would follow her own dictates. And he would follow her without question.

Reaching down, he pulled a wineskin from beneath his cloak, jerked out the stopper, and took a long pull. Jamming the stopper back into the neck, he stashed the skin under his cloak again and wiped his mouth with the back of his broad hand. Urging his horse forward, he led the caravan into the fire of the morning sun.

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