Damn! I'd forgotten that," Shea said.
"I forbid it!" Florimel said. "She has been too kind to me. I shall not allow her to suffer so ignoble a late!"
"Hey, don't blame Reed," Shea said. "This is Virgil's doing."
"I care not," Florimel said. "If there be a world where Troilus hath his Criseyde, and another where he hath her not, then there may be a world wherein Queen Dido does not slay herself over a vagabond with the face and form of a god and the brain of a dung-beetle."
"You know. Doc," Shea observed, "that sounds like one of your syllogisms."
"Why, yes, it does! And it may just be valid. If we effect an alteration in this continuum, allowing Dido to live and continue her reign in Carthage, then we shall merely have brought about an alternate Aeneid, among many possible Aeneids. And this one may have existed!"
"What do you mean?"
"Virgil is known to have torn up early drafts of his epic. This could be one of his earlier versions. In fact, as Virgil was dying, he dictated in his will that the Aeneid, and all other works he hadn't had a chance to polish, were to be destroyed. Fortunately, Augustus forbade any such thing and rescued it, along with lesser works."
"You mean," Shea said, "that it's possible Virgil wrote a version where a couple of weird Orientals showed up, saved the wine and the banquet contaminated by harpies, and concocted a spell of invisibility for Aeneas?"
"Even epic poems need comic relief," Chalmers assured him.
"And to think," Shea said, "we may have ended up in a first century, b.c, wastebasket."
"If we pull this off," Chalmers said, "we may even be doing a future Rome a favor."
"How's that?" Shea asked.
"As Dido dies, she curses the departing Trojans, calling upon her own descendants to savage the descendants of Aeneas. The ancient Romans believed Hannibal to be descended from Dido."
"It is a disaster," Florimel wailed. "I tried to tell the queen that this Trojan would be a poor choice for king of Carthage. I urged upon her that his mother is Venus, and the antipathy between Venus and her own goddess, Juno, is widely famed. She was vexed and waxed most wroth with me. She did call in her sister, the Princess Anna, and asked her advice. Anna did say that Carthage is surrounded by enemies and while rich in artisans and husbandmen, it is poor in warriors, while the martial valor of the Trojans is renowned throughout the world. Then Anna urged withal that Carthaginian industry wed to Trojan valor would make her both safe and great. Even now, the sisters go to every nearby shrine, sacrificing ewes and rams, heifers and flawless bullocks, seeking the favor and advice of the gods."
"Anna has the hots for Ilioneus. I've seen her mooning after him." Shea took a sip of the new vintage. "It doesn't look promising.'"
"These intemperate passions seldom last long.
Chalmers said.
"The question is, which will ran out first: the passion or the livestock?"
"And that is not all!" Florimel said. "The Queen no longer takes any interest in the building of her city, whereof before she was so diligent in care. No longer do the walls rise, no longer do the young men drill upon the common in warlike exercise. But rather have all caught their sovereign's strange lassitude, and while away their days like lovesick swains.
"I thought things seemed awfully quiet," Shea said. "I was getting used to all that hammering and sawing."
"She's like the queen bee in a hive," Chalmers said. "Everything centers upon her. When she is busy, they're busy. When she acts like an infatuated schoolgirl, so do they. This is more serious than I had thought."
"Do you see divine intervention here?' Shea asked. "After all, Aeneas's mother is the goddess of love. Could this be her work?"
"I don't doubt it," Chalmers said. "Actually, Venus was a fertility goddess. Romantic love was the business of her son, Cupid. No doubt she put him up to this. It's been too long since I last studied the poem, I no longer remember the details, but as I recall it's all some sort of power play between the gods that favor Italy, and those who want Carthage to rule."
"You just can't get away from politics," Shea complained. "How shall we handle this?"
"We don't want to fall afoul of any more gods," Chalmers told him. Still ..." He fingered his chin and took on an abstracted expression. "... this lovesickness is inflicted by Cupid's arrows, therefore it must in some way be analogous with a toxin. The very word toxin is derived from the Creek toxicon 'of the bow.' Therefore, an antitoxin may be efficacious."
"Love is not a poison!" Florimel protested, "it is the pure emotion of the knight, the troubador or the goodly clerk for the lady he worships."
"Preferably somebody else's wife," Chalmers said. "Anyway, this is a very specialized sort of love, deliberately inflicted by the gods and almost always for a bad purpose."
"Right," Shea said. "Considering what she's in for, Dido really needs to be cured of this passion."
The chamberlain appeared at the door of the suite the three now shared. He rapped importantly with his staff, even though they were less than ten feet away.
"Her Majesty, Queen Dido," he droned, "requires the attendance of the foreign sorcerers. Reed Chalmers and Harold Shea, at her sacrifice in the temple of Poseidon."
"She wants us as sorcerers," Chalmers muttered. "This sounds ominous."
"It's a chance to gain some leverage," Shea told him. "Let's make the best of it."
They brushed their sandals and Florimel fussed over their tunic seams, straightening them and picking off bits of lint. "Thou need'st a haircut, my love," she told Chalmers.
When they were presentable, they hurried to the temple of Neptune. This was an imposing structure near the harbor, its walls faced with polished marble and its bronze roof gilded, with sculpted Nereids and tritons tootling conch shells from every corner. They mounted the broad steps and entered.
Inside, the air was heavy with incense smoke that billowed from bronze tripods full of coals. Huge garlands of flowers draped the walls and heaps of petals all but obscured the floor. The queen stood before a massive altar carved from rich porphyry. Surrounding the altar were men in long, striped robes wearing pointed caps. They looked decidedly downcast. Dido and her sister, Anna, flanked a massive bull. The animal was covered with garlands and festal wreaths and was even chewing on one.
"Oh, no," Shea said. "I hate this!"
"Come you here, my guests," Dido said imperiously.
"What would you have of us, my lady?" Chalmers asked.
"These soothsayers of mine," she indicated the glowering men in striped robes, "can avail me nothing. They've gotten so they can't tell a liver from a spleen! I need to know that the gods favor my marriage to Aeneas, that noble prince of Troy. I need to know that he loves me and no other and will dwell here with me in Carthage forever!" Obviously, the Queen was going to entertain no doubts.
"Your majesty," Shea said, "in our land we have a special spell to determine this. You see, no bull is necessary. All you need is a daisy."
"A daisy?" the queen said.
"Yes. You pull off the petals in succession, reciting the formula: He loves me, he loves me not. He loves me, he loves me not. He ..."
"That," Dodo said coldly, "is not sufficient to attract the attention of the Olympian deities. Now attend me." She addressed Chalmers. "I want you to read the liver of this bull for me. Tell me what the great Neptune thinks of my destiny. I must know if he approves of my nuptial plans."
An attendant handed her a knife and she nodded to her sister. Anna raised a hammer suitable for pounding railroad spikes and brought it down on a spot midway between horns and eyes. Shea and Chalmers closed their eyes as the crunch echoed through the temple. They opened them in time to see Dido cut the unfortunate beast's throat, sending a foaming torrent of blood to splatter everyone near and puddle around their feet. Some of it swirled down the drain in front of the altar.