Luck
Disclaimer: See previous chapters; I don't like being redundant.
Note: To the reviewer who asked what "Xeper" meant; it is the title of a song by Vader that I was listening to while writing chapter 6. It's a word of Egyptian origin, meaning "becoming", or philosophically, "I have come into being, and by the process of my coming into being, the process of coming into being is established."
The morning is young upon the hard-packed earth, and for the seventh time since their party left Troy, Paris approaches the edge of camp with the smoothly disjointed saunter of a panther.
It bothers him that his once-opulent life of the past has disintegrated into the framework and confines of mere routines, of being "on the run" - the current one being his present actions. Routines are a practice that he had always sworn to avoid, and it is an oath that Paris breaks time and time again, each time to a more painful form of heartbreak. Or lifebreak. You see, Paris likes to be impulsive, to be unpredictable. It was his unstated role as the younger prince of Troy. But now, he is the only prince of Troy, a Tory which has fallen into Greek hands, and he along with Aeneas must care for the survivors.
His bare feet fall rhythmically on the ground and he can see the curving slope of her shoulders, and the low plains of her legs tucked to the side. When he approaches, the effect of the faint light at night will pin a refracted and soft glow to the lines carving the exposed skin stretched over her neck and collarbone. Underneath that skin, Paris knows there are scars. She is reading, but Paris knows exactly how to read her movements (or lack thereof) - and he knows that she knows he's here.
Pairs doesn't like that he doesn't understand what has happened to dear Briseis. His once sprightly and joyful cousin, whose age was so close to his own, mirrored his own passion for life, for emotion, for love. She has become a mute woman, all harsh angles and firm planes of skin, fully exposed to the hardships and tragedies of war. That she refuses to speak, to anyone, frightens him, because he does not know what she could be thinking. And thinking too much, even Paris knows, is a dangerous thing.
This nightly routine is supposedly under her control: Paris refuses to lie to himself and say that there's a chance he might not come to sit with her on another night - because he will. The game is completely different for Briseis: she doesn't suffer the skewed crises of conscience that he is. He feels bound to her, but she is not bound to him.
The routine is this: she leaves the camp each night, for a reason that is lost within her self-taken oath of silence, and a while later he follows, and finds her sitting on the outskirts of camp reading or drawing or just watching. He joins her, sometimes he brings his own single piece of literature that he had brought back from Mycenae, and together they sit. She, of course, says nothing.
He sits as he does every time -cross-legged and slouched- and places his leather-bound book carefully on a patch of wild grass as he methodically lights a new fire for the two of them. Briseis likes to watch him do it: the smooth movements of flicking his small branch of fire from the main one back at camp on a collection of sticks and grass, the out-of-place steady flame and its sudden flare, the smoldering ashes and that strange familiar smell are all entrancing and powerfully intoxicating to her. Watching it makes her feel like she's innocent and naive and an idiot back at the temple again. But then, not really. But she returns to the ink words on the page as soon as he's done, and before he has the chance to catch and gauge the intensity of her stare.
Before he picks up his own book, Paris takes a few moments to stare openly at her - not like one might at a zoo, but like one might regard something blatantly familiar with a new, tiny fault. He tries to summon up a moving image of Briseis with her Greek lover Achilles, all golden skin and molten hair and Poseidon eyes, but the fusion and mixture of Technicolor and reality doesn't work out pleasantly.
Briseis looks up and now they stare at each other. Her eyes, his eyes; white shift, blue robe; exposed scar, hidden scar.
A few seconds pass, and Paris moves to pick up his book. The he speaks.
"Aeneas says we have gone off course."
She does not even glance at him; she is utterly not concerned with the plight of the Trojans any longer. Originally, Aeneas had thought to lead them to found a new Troy in a war-torn, savage land on the other side of Greece, far away from Thrace and the Asia Minor. It had been many, many, many days since they had left Troy, but the days weaved together in her mind, as did the carts the rode, the ships, the marches. These concerns were for Paris and for Aeneas and for Helen. She was unconcerned.
He kept talking. "But instead, Aeneas says that he had a vision of Athena commanding him to go to Carthage. You know of it?" Briseis shrugs. "I think it suspicious, that Athena would help us when she favoured the Greeks at Troy. I think it's a trap." His eyes glitter at the possibility. Paris mutters then, more to himself, "I think we have had enough of traps."
She continues reading.
"Even so, we will reach the realm of Carthage in the net few days. With luck, we will not all be slaughtered."
Nothing.
"Helen has a theory that you have taken a vow of silence to appease Apollo for giving up your virtue to A Greek."
She looks up sharply, with greek fire flaming in her eyes. For a moment, it is almost like the old days, when Paris would tease her about her virginity and her virtue as a maiden of Apollo, of the world she was missing, within the walls of their home. But it is not like before, and Briseis stands, and leaves him alone to his fire, weaving her way back to camp.
Paris sighs.
Now, when they reach Carthage, another one of those curious things happen.
Their group of survivors trudges towards the garrisons, towards the battalions of soldiers, so similar to the forces their own land had once held under the vigil of Hector. The Carthaginians take sight of them; from their faraway mounts they point and gesture to their dusty little group of unmarked Trojans, all of them without hope or weapons. Briseis is among them, walking hand-in-hand (for strength) with Andromache, just in front beside Paris and Helen and Aeneas and his brood.
As the soldiers of Carthage ride towards them, Briseis begins imagining different scenarios of reception. Either they would all be killed on the spot for entry into foreign lands without permission, or treated like prisoners with little respect. Given her limited knowledge of Carthage traditions, she finds the former far more likely. She has heard that in Carthage, they sacrifice masses of infants to appease their pagan gods. She frowns, but Andromache only smiles weakly and serenely to her in support.
Aeneas hails to the advancing guard in greeting, and then chaos breaks upon them like the foam of the waves from the sea.
Andromache, being the most sensible of the entire group and subconsciously trained by watching her late husband in battle, is the first to see the head of the guard draw a long spear from his weapons. She freezes and lets Briseis' hand free in panic, her voice brokenly raised in panic. Aeneas sees the threat next and stops very suddenly, halting the group along with him.
Briseis, lost amid herself, walks forward regardless.
She does not, or cares not, hear the warning shouted to her by her countrymen, and the spear flies toward her, made the target by her advance.
Now here is the curious thing:
As the spear hurtles towards her, Briseis momentarily says what she believes to be her final prayer to Apollo, hoping to be sent to the same place in Hades as her lover. But when the spear nears her, a swallow flies across her line of vision, and the spear strikes the bird dead to the heart.
Bird and spear fall to the ground at her feet.
Silence.
The guards stop very suddenly in their own advance, and it seems as though they are a chessmatch at a stalemate, with Briseis caught as the bargaining tool. The Carthaginians confer amongst themselves, and the man who threw the spear finally comes forward. The hooves of his horse leave marks in the sand. As he approaches, the Trojans shout warnings to her, but Briseis is past caring. The sign of the swallow has made her wonder if she is back in the favour of the gods, for surely it could be nothing but a sign from Olympus.
The Carthaginian halts his horse before her and dismounts, removing his helmet and revealing darkly tanned skin and brown eyes like her own. He studies her as he walks to her, studying her features and the aura that may or may not surround her. But when he is before her, the soldier who towers above her drops into a bow and takes her hand softly. He speaks in a low and thickly accented voice, in almost archaic Greek.
"My patron Lady of Luck and Fortune, I welcome you to Carthage."