B. Alexander Howerton (5 page)

“Yeah, good idea,” she answered.

They spent the rest of the evening getting to know each
other, sitting close together on the bed.  Alan now got more than cursory
answers to his requests, and offered plenty of his own information.  After
about an hour, a very tired, somewhat inebriated Jeff started making noises
like he was ready for bed.

“Shall we take a little walk?” Alan suggested, looking deep
into Julia’s eyes.

“Yes, I’d like that,” she responded.

They strolled out of the room and down the hall, holding
hands.

“Which room are you staying in?” asked Alan.

“Right down here. Do you want to see it?”

“Sure.”

They entered her room, and the door swung shut behind them. 
Before it was shut they were hugging each other, kissing.  A full minute had
not passed before the door opened again.  Startled, Alan and Julia pulled
apart.

“It’s me, Carol.”  A head peeked around the door.

“Come on in,” Julia said.  “I bet you’re ready for bed.”

“Well, yeah, pretty much.  Jeff shut down his party.”

“Come on. Let me show you my room.”  Alan tugged gently on
Julia’s arm.

“OK.”

They walked back down the hall in the direction they had
recently come.  Alan used his card key on a door on the other side of the hall
from Julia’s room.  They entered.  There stood Steve, removing his shirt. 

“Sorry,” Alan apologized.  “I guess you’re crashing too,
huh?”

“Yep, that’s right.”

“OK, whatever.”  He shut the door, and Alan and Julia stood
in the hallway, staring at each other.

“Come on,” Alan said, and took Julia’s hand.  They walked
down the hall, away from where the party had been.  They rounded a corner at
the end of the hall, which led to doors of two more rooms.

“This looks like about as much privacy as we’re going to get
tonight,” Alan whispered, and leaned forward.

“I guess so,” responded Julia, and opened her lips to meet
his.

They kissed passionately for about two minutes.  Finally,
Alan pulled his head back, gazing at Julia.  Here eyes were glowing, seeming to
say, “I wish we could find a way to spend some more time together.”  But her
mouth uttered, “Well, I guess I’d better get to bed too.”

Alan sighed, not able to see a way out of their present
impasse.  “Yeah, I guess that’s a good idea.  I’m pretty tired.”  He took her
hand and led her back to her room.  They kissed briefly one last time.  “Well,
goodnight.”  Alan said quietly.

“Goodnight,” Julia responded, opening her door, slipping in,
and letting it gently shut behind her.

Alan sighed deeply.  Well, so much for that, he thought, as
he turned toward his room.

The first thing Alan saw in the morning, once he could
focus, was the bedside digital clock reading 10:58.  He got up, splashed water
on his face, and pulled on his pants and shirt.  He crossed the hall and
knocked on Julia’s door.  No answer.  They were obviously gone.  Oh well, he
thought, and returned to his room to pack up his things.

Princess Carialla of Tyre leaned against the parapet and
stared, wide-eyed, at the gathering horde of Alexander of Macedon, half a
league away on the shore.  Nelka, her nursemaid since birth, rushed up and
tugged on her ornately embroidered sleeve.  “Come, child,” she hissed
urgently.  “We must go now, or we lose our chance.”

Carialla tore herself away from the terrifying scene and
hurried after Nelka, who led her through the labyrinthine passages and
stairways of the sprawling, ancient palace.  They made their way, along with a
few other loyal servants, toward the southern-facing Egyptian port of the
island city.  As they egressed onto the quays of the harbor and rushed toward
the waiting royal trireme, Carialla risked another glance over her shoulder at
the mainland.  The armies of Alexander had begun arriving there the previous
evening, and by now a formidable host had arrayed itself along the coast.

Carialla halted suddenly, her long, raven-dark tresses
whipping around her head in the blustery wind.  She turned her gaze back to the
city of Tyre, ancient beyond memory, rising majestically in many tiers from the
bedrock of the island off the coast of the Levant, the only dwelling place she
had ever known.  Now she was fleeing, perhaps forever, from her town, her
people, her life.

Her father, the king, was away with the Persian fleet,
attempting to harry Alexander’s asiatic assault force from the sea.  Her
brother, acting as regent of Tyre,  had sailed to the mainland to parley with
Alexander’s delegates.  They had showered the emissaries of the island city
with compliments and gifts, and had requested permission to peacefully enter
Tyre and make sacrifices in the temple of Herakles, whom the Tyrians called
Melkart.  The temple at Tyre was purportedly the most ancient shrine dedicated
to that god, and the Macedonians would consider it a great honor to worship and
sacrifice with the Tyrians.

The delegation from Tyre had discussed the proposition
amongst themselves, and had concluded that it was too dangerous to allow the
invaders from across the Aegean, who had been pillaging their way through
Anatolia, into their ancient and venerable city.  Who knows what the barbarians
would do once they were inside?  They communicated their refusal, and in less
than a day the answer had come back: Alexander was furious at the lack of
civility, and would enter the island city, with or without the permission of
the inhabitants.  The delegation retreated in terror and began preparations for
the coming storm.

“Come, come, there is no time to lose.”  Carialla was
brought back from her reverie by Nelka, who had approached and put her wizened
arms around Carialla’s shoulders, attempting to guide her toward the waiting
ship.  “We must sail for Carthage now, or all is lost!”  Carialla wiped at a
falling tear as she turned to look at Nelka.  Her wise old visage melted into a
sympathetic smile as she cupped the princess’s cheeks in her aged hands and
gazed into her soft, brown eyes.  “Oh, me dear, my flower, my jewel, you are so
young, beautiful, and fresh to the ways of the world to be taking on such a
heavy burden.  Yet this is the fate that Melkart has prepared for you.  He will
not take you from this life until it is your time.  Until then, you must be
strong, and bravely face every challenge he tosses at you.  Come now.”  Nelka
gently took her hand.  “We must be away.”

She led Carialla onto the waiting trireme, and in less than
half an hour the three staggered banks of oarsmen on either side of the
majestic ship put oar to water.  The craft glided smoothly out from its mooring
berth and proceeded out of the Egyptian harbor.  Once in open water, the
singular great sail was unfurled to speed the ship on its way to the Tyrian
colony of Carthage, on the coast of Libya.

The princess made her way to the stern of the trireme and
leaned on the gunwale, watching wistfully as her beautiful city on the sea
receded.  Occasionally she reached up and brushed her long, dark, windblown
hair from her face, which the people of Tyre had called the fairest in the
whole city.  She valiantly tried to abstain from breaking out into sobs, but
was not very successful.

Nelka approached and rubbed her back with one bony hand. 
“Be brave, my child, we are safely away.  The fate of the city is now in the
hands of the gods.”  Nelka tried to comfort the girl as they both gazed with
melancholy back at their retreating home.  Suddenly, Carialla squinted, and
furrowed her brow.  It seemed to her that she saw a black speck at sea level
detach itself from the north side of the island fortress.  She pointed.  “Do
you see that, Nelka?”

“Dear, my eyes are old and tired.  I cannot… wait!”  Her
face slowly transformed into a look of terror.  “That is a pursuing enemy
trireme.  We must inform the captain at once!”  They whipped around, only to
see the captain approaching.  Behind him, out on the open sea in front of the
ship, they could perceive three other ships closing on their vessel.  The
captain reached them and bowed courteously.  “Forgive me, princess.  I must
kindly ask you to go below decks and secure yourselves in your cabin.”

“Are we in any danger?”  Carialla asked with growing fright.

“Perhaps, milady.  We must prepare for the worst.  Allow me
to escort you.” 

“That will not be necessary,” Nelka said, taking the
princess by the arm and guiding her.  “We know the way.”

“Very well,” responded the captain, and turned to bark
orders to his crew.

Nelka and Carialla made their way below the wide wooden
platform in the center of the ship, and entered the royal cabin at the stern. 
When the door was shut, the princess burst into tears.  “Oh, Nelka, I’m
frightened.”

Nelka reached out and took the girl in her arms.  “There,
there, child.  The captain is a capable man, the best in the fleet.  That is
why your father assigned him to this craft before he departed, so that in such
an emergency you would have the best man to protect you.  Everything will be
fine.”  Guiding them both to sitting positions on the richly decorated bed, she
put the girl’s head to her bosom and stroked her hair.  They rocked gently for
several minutes, a soft sob escaping the princess from time to time.  They both
expectantly listened to the shouting and tramping of feet above them, but they
could not quite make out what was transpiring.

Suddenly there was a violent jarring which knocked the two
women to the floor.  Carialla started screaming, and Nelka frantically tried to
calm her.  They could hear a loud, harsh scraping, as if something heavy were
being dragged along the side of the boat.  The commotion above them became
louder, and before long there was the unmistakable sound of the clash of arms. 
Carialla screamed in panic, hunching down as low as she could on her knees, and
Nelka rubbed her back, hair and arms, desperately hoping to relieve her fear.

After a few minutes, the sound of battle died away, and
their was an eerie silence.  Carialla stopped crying and looked up expectantly,
trying to hear something.  Eventually they could hear the slow, measured tread
of boots coming down the stairs to the lower deck.  The steps slowly
approached, then stopped, seemingly just outside their door.  The women looked
in terror as the door swung slowly open.  There stood a tall warrior, a
stranger, dressed in unfamiliar military garb.  He carried a sword, and blood
was splashed about his clothes.  He looked down at the women, and sighed
deeply, catching his breath.

“Princess Carialla of Tyre?”  His Phoenician speech was
thick with a Greek accent.

The princess was frozen in terror.

“I am Andros of Athens.  I am an admiral in Alexander of
Macedon’s fleet.  I am your captor.  You will rise and follow me.”

Carialla did not move from her crouch on the floor.  Nelka
hugged her tightly.  Andros stared at them sternly.

“I am aware you are a princess.  You will be treated with
the utmost civility and courtesy.  We have an appropriately appointed cabin on
my waiting trireme.  You will be looked after.  But make no mistake.”  His gray
eyes narrowed under his blood-caked red hair. “You are my prisoner.  You will
come, one way or another.  You can come of your own accord, or we can carry you
like all the other cargo we are now removing from this sinking ship.”  He
turned on his heel and whispered something to an aide who had appeared behind
him.  He called over his shoulder, “You have five minutes to gather your
belongings.”  He strode out of sight.  The aide, also blood covered but with
sheathed sword, crossed his arms and stared malevolently at the women through
the open door.

Nelka flew into frantic activity.  As she hurriedly gathered
articles from the cabin into small chests and satchels, she called, “Come dear,
we must make the best of it.”  Carialla remained frozen on the floor.  Nelka
suddenly rushed up to her, knelt down in front of her, and slapped her
sharply.  Eyes flashing, she hissed, “it is your duty to your city and your
people that you survive!”  Carialla rubbed her cheek and gazed into her
nursemaids eyes, which were showing kindness and sternness at the same time.  Nelka
held out her hand.  “Come.  Assist me.”

The princess finally reached out.  Nelka grabbed her arm and
pulled her to her feet.  They both now engaged in desperately packing up
anything they could grab.  They noticed water begin to trickle in at the doorway,
where the aide stood unmoving.  They began to try to pick up as many of the
satchels and boxes as they could, but the aide said, in Egyptian with a very
thick accent, “leave things on bed.  We bring.  Come”

As the two women emerged into the bright sunlight above
decks, they squinted and raised their hands to shield their eyes.  They then
gasped in horror at the sight they beheld.  The crew of their ship either lay
dead upon the gangplanks or were bound and being escorted by the Greek
assailants onto another ship that had smashed into the prow of the royal
trireme.  The masts and sails of the Tyrian ship were aflame, and the craft
listed at a sickening angle.  The wreckage caused by the ramming of the enemy
ship was tremendous.  It was obvious that it would not stay afloat much longer.

The aid beckoned to the women to follow him, and picked his
way through the carnage.  Carialla clung desperately to her nursemaid as she
gazed in shock about her at the dead and dying seamen.  She could not avoid
dragging the hem of her gown in the blood that washed the deck.

They were helped aboard the Greek trireme by some of its
sailors, and directed to the aft, where they descended stairs to their waiting
cabin.  The stateroom was appointed with very luxurious and very unfamiliar
Greek finery.  Porters brought in their things from the other ship, then the
door thudded shut behind them, and they could hear the unmistakable sounds of a
bolt being thrown across the door.  Carialla threw herself upon the ornately
brocaded bed covering, buried her face in her arms, and began sobbing.  Nelka
came over and sat beside her, stroking her and mumbling comforting phrases,
trying not to appear as anxious as she felt.

There was a scraping and shuddering as the Greek trireme was
obviously dislodged from the conquered Tyrian craft, then for a long time they
could perceive nothing.  They watched the light dim outside of their small
windows as the day faded away, and they lit the lamps in their room.  They were
just beginning to become calm and even drowsy when they were startled into
alertness by the sounds of the door bolt being removed.  The door then opened,
and there stood Andros, now clean, freshly oiled, his red locks freshly pressed
and curled, and looking majestic in his admiral’s tunic.  He held out his right
hand.  “Princess, if you will please come with me.”

Carialla glanced at Nelka, fear etched in her eyes.  The
nursemaid gave her hands a squeeze, and they stood up together to face whatever
would befall them.

“Not you, you kind old crone,” Andros smirked.  “I wish to
entertain the Princess alone.”

Carialla looked at Nelka again, fearful and trembling. 
Nelka responded, “It’s alright, my dear.  If they wanted to kill us, they would
have done so already.  Be strong.”  She patted her hand and turned her toward
the waiting Admiral.  Carialla advanced slowly, with trepidation, but Andros’
smiling face put her oddly at ease.  She timidly reached out and took his
proffered arm.  “That’s better,” he chuckled.  “You see?  I won’t bite.”  He called
over his shoulder as he led the Princess out of the room, “You will soon
receive supper, grandma, and I promise I’ll have her back unharmed within the
hour.”

He led her down a short corridor to his stateroom, which was
elegantly yet sparsely appointed.  It was very obviously the working quarters
of a sea warrior.  A table in one corner held several charts and navigation
devices, while in another corner was a table bedecked with dining finery.  A
small roast pheasant sat on a platter in the middle of the table, waiting to be
carved.  A platter of dark bread sat beside it.  Two fine gold goblets sat at
each place setting, with an ornate gold pitcher between them. 

The Admiral escorted the Princess to one chair, then sat
himself in the opposite one.  “Are you hungry?” he asked.  “Of course you are. 
You know,” he said as he began to carve the fowl, “this is an auspicious day. 
Please help yourself to some wine.”  The princess sat, her hands folded in her
lap, not knowing what to do.  Andros sat back, a look of comprehension dawning
on his face.  “Yes,” he said slowly,  “you are a princess of Tyre.  You are not
used to serving yourself.  Here, allow me.” 

He set down the carving utensils and picked up the gold
pitcher, filling both their goblets.  He set down the pitcher and raised his
goblet.  “Here we sit, you, the Princess of Tyre, and I, the Admiral of the
Greek fleet.  Most likely we would not or could not have met in any other
circumstances, yet here we are.  May our meeting bear glorious fruit between
our peoples.”  He drank heartily from his goblet.  He lowered it, wiped his lip
with the back of his other hand, and noticed that Carialla had still not
moved.  He assumed an air of injured dignity.  “My dear, I offer you my finest
hospitality, and you do not avail yourself.  I am sure you are less than
pleased about the circumstances which have brought us together, but that is our
destiny.  That does not mean that we should not make the best of what fate has
dealt us.  Drink up.”  He made little lifting motions with one hand.