Chapter Text
The Aeneid: A Diverging Path
Oh Muses, sing to me of tragedy, averted;
Of what terrible fate might have befallen the most innocent of creatures had the gods not, in their infinite wisdom, prevented it;
Sing to me of what could have been.
Our story starts in Carthage.
It was a summer of rest; a time of rare peace, for the Trojans forced ever-onward by the hands of fate. A city ruled by fair Dido and her beloved Aeneas; a city filled with hope and joy, as the wilds were fresh and green and the waves lapped calmly at the shore, and there was plentiful trade with faraway peoples, and Carthage knew wealth and her people knew all things good; and the Queen heard the story of the Trojans and fell in love with them all. For it was not only the Hero Aeneas, destined founder of Rome, who she held dear in her heart; it was all her people, and his, too; and his son, the young Ascanius, who would one day inherit all his father would build for him, and build yet more of his own.
The love Dido held for Aeneas was not forged of her own will; but nor did she resent it, for by the meddling of the gods she had found her life enriched, and her heart full; and in the story which truly came to pass, which we know well, it was this truest love which would be her undoing. In the story told, it would be the will of Jupiter alone that would drive the Trojans from this brief respite; Mercury bringing Aeneas winged and cruel words, reminders of destiny and all that was at stake; beseeching him to consider the young Ascanius, and all that was owed to him.
In truth, there was another path that this story might have taken; there was another way that the Trojans might have remembered their fated future, and the future owed to Ascanius, and parted from Carthage before the summer’s close, with all the swiftness of Neptune’s gentlest seas. The gods, for reasons which will be made evident, could not allow this story to take hold in reality; but by the grace of Mercury and the will of Apollo, this path will be followed in our hearts; and it will bring a lesson to all who will hear it: take care to observe that which pains those who you love. Take care to see them, as they are, and to never leave them to believe they are unwanted and uncared for; for one day, you might lose them, and not all are so blessed that the will of the gods should align with their own.
It was a few weeks into the spring preceding that fated seventh summer, when the young Ascanius awoke in the dead-of-night; faded memories of all that had been lost to the flames of war leaving him shivering and cold, despite the bedding wrapped around him. The memories chased him from the Trojans’ winter lodgings, into the frost-filled outdoors, and led him to a place of far colder comforts than he had left behind; the tomb of his grandfather, Anchises, killed before he could see his people reach their fated lands. It was here that the child intended to wait in solitude until the memories were reduced to ash again; until he calmed enough to return to the embrace of sleep. But solitude did not find him— for there was another, there, crouched in the meagre shelter afforded by the tomb against the cold night: a pup of merely six weeks or so, dirtied and thin and with a matted, flea-covered pelt, shivering against the bite of the wind. Ascanius, nightmare all but forgotten, swept the young thing up into his arms and exclaimed “Oh! But you are just like me; swept away from your home and family, lost in the cold. Only you haven’t a father to care for you, is that so? Oh, poor creature!” And he vowed right there to care for the pup as his own father did for him; to put its future above all else, and to teach it how best to live one’s life when all had been lost.
And so it was that Ascanius changed everything. For when the Trojans set out to sea once more, and found their way to beautiful Carthage and fair Dido and peace and safety and rest, they brought with them the pup, called Anchises— after Ascanius’ late grandfather whose tomb he had been found beneath— that the child had nursed to health by his own hands. For, indeed, it was Ascanius who was responsible for the rearing of the pup, as a condition of its accompanying the Trojans on their voyage; he had gathered all knowledge which would be necessary in this task, from the likes of his father Aeneas, and his father’s dear friend Achates, who took particular care in guiding the youth and ensuring the canine Anchises was well cared-for, even as he did not interfere directly more than was necessary.
It must be understood that Anchises was not at fault for the shortcomings of his young master; indeed, it is that very fact which drives this story forward. For all of the Trojans were made aware of the Barbary Stag fawn which had been taken in by Dido’s primary groundskeeper that same spring; the fawn which had, in absence of a mother, been fed goats’ milk and raised among human-kind; and all were aware that it had since been allowed to roam the grounds, and must not be harmed. All except for the now adolescent pup which Ascanius had raised, and which was then coming into the age at which dogs are taught to hunt; and unfortunately, Anchises-the-pup had not yet learned restraint, and a terrible tragedy was the result.
It was Ascanius himself who first discovered the murder, having traipsed through the wilds after his furred companion; the young deer, glossy-eyed and still in death, and the pup Anchises standing proudly beside, teeth and paws coated in crimson. It was the work of moments for the joy of a successful hunt to be replaced by horror; for pride to be cruelly dashed by the dawning understanding of what had been done.
Ascanius, not yet twelve years old, saw what consequences this would surely bring and elected to flee from their fate for as long as the gods would allow. He brought Anchises to his own sleeping-quarters, apart from all others, and impressed upon him the importance of discretion. “They must not know it was you,” he told the pup, “my father will be furious; the grounds-keeper distraught. They must not know.”
Fate has never been kind to the Trojans, not in the reality-we-know, nor in the story I tell you now. But perhaps, in this one instance, there is kindness to be found; for it is not Aeneas, nor Dido, nor the grieving grounds-keeper who would come to find Ascanius and Anchises hidden away, their position and their guilt belied by a trail of bloody paw-prints across the floor; rather, it was Achates, dear friend of Aeneas, who had himself helped to raise the pup and who knew best of all others how much the child cared for his companion. Achates saw the wide eyes of Ascanius, holding all the sorrows of one whose innocence was lost too soon, and comforted him. “I will ensure that you are treated fairly,” he reasoned; “but we must not hide the truth.”
The household was in chaos; the grounds-keeper flying about in a rage that the culprit be found and justice dealt, Dido attempting to calm him, Aeneas nowhere to be found; Achates ushered Ascanius and Anchises into the centre of it all, blood half-dried and soaked into clothes and fur, and all fell silent for one long, terrible moment.
“It was this creature, then?” the grounds-keeper demanded; “it was this rabid creature which killed my most treasured Issa?”
Ascanius was quick to protest; “Anchises is no rabid creature, for only following that which is natural to him!”
The grounds-keeper grew red with rage; Dido’s gentle hand on his arm his only source of steadiness. “I found my Issa mauled and left for carrion, in the woods which had been her home! I would not call that natural, if asked to swear before the gods. Do you deny that it was this young hunting-dog which ended her life?”
“Yes, it is so,” Achates injected, “but we must not hasten to anger. Can’t you see that this pup is of the same age as your Issa, and that his young master cares for him as deeply as you cared for your lost fawn?”
“Then let the dog’s life serve as payment for this crime,” the grounds-keeper demanded, turning then to Dido, fair queen of Carthage; “let us take one creature’s life to settle the debt of another.”
Ascanius, a child alone amid those fully-grown, held tightly to Anchises in fear and sorrow. “No!” he begged; “you must not! He is only young; he did not know which creatures to hunt and which to leave be. You cannot take him!”
And Achates, as he had promised he would do, entreated them all to observe patience and fairness. “Let us wait until Aeneas returns; only with his insight should we reach a decision on this matter.”
Dido, fairest queen, spoke her ascent; “As this is a matter concerning the Trojans, it is only right that their leader’s voice be heard. Where is my beloved Aeneas?”
Aeneas, unknowing of the tragedy playing out in his absence, had that very day been playing out the familiar notes of the story that would come to be true; for he had heard the message of the gods, reminding him of his destiny, and all that he owed to Ascanius; and he returned home to find that very child the centre of a conflict which was, to him, shockingly mortal in nature. And when he arrived, and he had heard all that had transpired, he found himself momentarily overwhelmed to silence.
“The dog must pay the price that is demanded,” Dido declared, “unless a payment of equal value can be found.”
Ascanius again attempted to bargain; “it is not the dog’s fault, that I did not train him well; it is mine, and whatever punishment is needed, it should fall to me.”
At this, Aeneas found his voice. “No,” he said, at once. “I will not have my son face any more hardship than has already found him.”
The grounds-keeper’s rage turned then to Aeneas; “Would you offer yourself, in his place?”
But Dido would not see her lover brought low; she would not see his reputation harmed. “No punishment is to be handed to Aeneas; he had no part in this.”
Achates, then, offered himself. “It was I who provided the young Ascanius all that he needed in the course of caring for Anchises, from that frost-covered night until now. I made myself responsible for ensuring he was well cared-for, and it was a failure of mine that this was allowed to transpire. If a punishment must be exacted, it should fall to my shoulders.”
Ascanius, shaking all over, still holding tight to Anchises, did not want to see anybody suffer; least of all the faithful Achates. “No, you must not!” he insisted, but his words fell on uncaring ears.
“What do you suggest, Achates?” Dido asked.
“Allow me to be exiled from the city,” Achates suggested; “let me bear away these sins on my back as I flee far away from here.”
Despite that Achates was the best of them all, and that neither Aeneas nor the young Ascanius wished to see him off, it was decided among the adults that this outcome was the most acceptable. For his part, Ascanius found it decidedly repulsive; and, no longer feeling at home in Carthage as he had a mere few hours before, elected to pack for himself a single bag containing his most important belongings; and then, late that night, he approached where he knew Achates’ sleeping quarters to be, intending to convince the man to allow him and Anchises-the-pup to follow him into exile.
Instead, Ascanius witnessed a conversation meant not for childrens’ ears; for Aeneas had, himself, sought Achates’ out in the night, bringing news of far greater forces at work. “Mercury has spoken to me, and I believe that our time here in Carthage is drawing to a close. Dear friend; I should not allow this incident to be the rift that tears our people from the peace they have come to know, but I cannot face this uncertain future without you by my side. We must all sail, together, towards destiny; we will find another way to navigate these seas.”
Ascanius took these words to heart as one might a dagger; and, thinking that they intended to allow his innocent pup to be killed after all, he gathered his things and he gathered his pup and he made his way swiftly to the shore, where the Trojans and the Carthaginians kept all of their sea-faring vessels; and he selected for himself a small boat, with a small sail such that he would be able to man it on his own. Under the cover of night and summer rain, the child stole away into the darkness, and it was very nearly the end of him. For, you see, the light rain that gave him such cover as he left was the prelude to a thunderous storm, not unlike the one that drove the Trojans to Carthage.
Ascanius was no match for such a force; and both he and his much-loved dog would have perished, here, if not for the gods intervening; as the waves loomed larger, and the child fought to keep them upright, he heard the voice of wise Jupiter— though the god did not address the words to him, and no matter how he cast his eyes about, he could not find the source of what he heard. “Ascanius carries with him the future of the Trojans; he cannot be lost to sea before fate has the chance to be made manifest,” the god said; and it was Neptune, god of the sea and storms, who replied: “It is true that we require the child to live; but you must know that regardless of the outcome of this night, the prophesied future you fought so hard for is forfeit.” As the boat crested another wave, and Ascanius felt the pull of the earth twist his stomach, Jupiter concluded: “Maybe so; but we must not allow it to stray further.”
Ascanius awoke some time later to bright morning skies, gentle waves teasing his ankles, and a lazy tongue against his face. It was not long that he was left to wait there, face pressed against Anchises’ neck to hide his tears, before footsteps thundered towards him, and the voice of his father called out above the rushing in his ears. “My son! My son, Ascanius, he’s here; beside the wreck of our missing boat, alive by a miracle!” And then they were all there; his father, and Achates, and Dido and even the grounds-keeper, though the latter was evidently lost for words. And through the haze of exhaustion that surrounded him, Ascanius watched his father deliver to Dido the news that, in another story, would have been hidden from her for far too long. “We have been called forward, toward destiny; the gods have reminded me that there is a place we must find, and though it is not here, I appreciate the respite which has been granted to us in your home. We have brought bloodshed here; my son was almost lost. It is time for us to go, my love.”
And in this story, Dido understood. She wished them well and sent them off without resentment; she did not curse the Trojans, she did not die by her own hand. We would think this story to be the lesser tragedy; one innocent fawn, sacrificed to prevent centuries of war and death. Would Rome and Carthage have been allies? Would Juno have seen her beloved city prosper for all time? But it must be impressed that without facing such hardships, Rome would never grow to become what destiny required.
The gods, in their infinite wisdom, could not allow this future to exist.
And so it was that what could have been was not.
And so it was that the young Ascanius never ventured out on that fateful frosty night; never found the creature which provided him such companionship; never set the Trojans and Carthaginians at odds with one-another.
And so it was that, with one tragedy averted, countless more would rise to take its place.