ENEMY AT THE GATES

She exited from the cold bath and slipped into a silk shift, dyed a deep blue. She messed with her hair before entering the sleeping chamber. He was sprawled out on the bed, bare chest rising and falling to the rhythm of sleep. She left him there, and entered the common room. The azaleas and purple morning plants were wilting into their stalks, neglected.

The slave was bent over a scroll, taking inventory. Boxes were sprawled around him, revealing caskets of raisin wine, scores of dates and a smattering of peaches, dried meat and other delicacies.

She walked to him, and peeked over his shoulder. She blinked at the small and precise notations before yawning.
"It is too quiet."
"Mistress?"
"Perhaps some music…"
"Of course." His pale, soft hands deftly rolled up the scroll before tucking it into his tunic.
"Shall I also call for Shafat?"
She shook her head. "Not today."
He bowed and disappeared behind a curtain, the visage of Dido rippling in his passing.

The couch was calling. She went to it, and stretched. Many a time had she lain in its embrace, dreaming of foreign princes and breathtaking mountains. Now she only thought of her father. But she did not dwell on him. It hurt too much.

The music grated on her psyche like a rusted dagger, and she ordered a stop. It had seemed as if she was hearing her own, somber death march, a dirge of impending doom. She arose, and paced.
"You are like a caged lion, my love."
She had not noticed his entrance.
"Perhaps I shall go to Byrsa. Or maybe the Tartan Way: Elissa says I should visit."
He grunted in response.
"She has done a lot for us," she said.
"Yes." He did not sound happy. "She has."
He strode to the crates and grabbed a handful of dates.
"Baaly, I have ordered those to be rationed."
"I'd rather die with a full belly than an empty one."
"You're morbid."
"Realistic."
She crossed her ams.
"Well, I guess I'm going now."
His mouth was full, so he did not answer.

She went and changed into a pale green robe, a gift from Elissa. The old lady was always happy to see her charity on display. The robe was cut down the middle to the waist, and a small jade necklace was chosen to accompany it.

The streets away from the citadel stood aloof and apart, brooding in their solitude. Many of the families had secured their valuables and left, winding their way to the hill that would provide the final defense. Elissa lived in a large house near the sea, between the baths and theatre. It was surrounded by a large stone wall, the mid-morning sun revealing a reddish tent.

She paused at the gate, and fingered her necklace. It would not be locked; it was never locked. The mercenaries welcomed action, and Elissa welcomed the mercenaries. It had been three years since the rabble had tried to steal. There had been no judgment, for there was no evidence left of the thief. But the stories survived.

There was the gate, she had only to enter. She ran her hand along the metal, and closed her eyes. Was it this same element that had ended his life? Was it a thrust to the heart? A slice to the neck? A blow to the leg? Her hand dropped to her side, and a tear sprang unbidden to her eye. She was alone, all alone and Elissa could not help. Baalyaton would look at her with his puppy-dog eyes and blink, not knowing what to say. And so he would crack a joke, or speak to her as a child, and she would melt into his arms hating him all the more.

It was the end of the world, and she could not open the gate. She walked toward the sea, away from home.