The Upper Hand

Elishat’s face flushed with anger. She hadn’t felt so furious since her last stand-off with her brother in Tyre, but this time there was no chance of escape, though the danger was just as grave. A union of marriage would favor Iarbas entirely. As his wife, she would lose the right to rule her people. Iarbas would, in effect, become the leader of Qart-hadasht. Her people would lose everything, above all, their freedom. His show of strength at her border was a threat she could no longer deny. She was convinced that it was precisely because he had met his match that he was imposing his will upon her. She had to face the fact that Iarbas might try to take Qart-hadasht by force—and win.

Barca, Bitias, and the Lieutenant stood under the tasseled awning that served as a roof over the unfinished palace. The Priestess sat quietly attentive on the sill of a half-built window. The tamizart, the white wedding cloak woven by Iarbas’s mother in anticipation of her son’s marriage, lay nearby.

Elishat paced the floor and fingered the turquoise horn moon pendant that hung around her neck.

“As you know, Iarbas sent an earlier proposal of marriage, which I rejected.” She pointed at the tamizart. “He has refused my decision by sending this gift as an ultimatum. The appearance of his soldiers at the foot of the hill was a provocation, a threat to the city. Be candid with me. How do you read the situation? What are my options? How can this situation be resolved?”

“Where defense is concerned, we are in a bind,” Bitias said. “With our backs against the sea, his united tribes have the strategic advantage. We would have no recourse but to board the ships and pull them offshore and wait for Iarbas to retreat, which he might never do.”

Barca stroked his beard. “We have no army and only half-built defenses. Iarbas can draw hundreds, maybe thousands of warriors from tribes across Libya. Now that he knows we have wealth, and he’s already lost a number of his followers to us, he has everything to gain and nothing to lose in attacking us.”

“What do you think, Lieutenant?” Elishat asked.

“I say we do away with Iarbas. Cut off the head and the snake will wither away.”

            “Possibly,” Elishat replied, “but there’s a good chance an assassination would add fuel to the fire.”

Barca said, “He’s still smarting from having lost the hill through trickery.”

“Was that a miscalculation on my part?” Elishat asked.

“Perhaps, but it was a fair ruse, and he knows it, and that’s what smarts. In any case, it’s behind us now.”

Bitias said, “If you don’t acquiesce to his demand, Queen—”

“His demand of marriage, you mean?”

Bitias nodded.

“A marriage that would end my reign, such as it is, but, more importantly, it would surely end our plans for the city.”

Shifting uneasily, Barca said: “I’m afraid we have no solution. Iarbas has the upper hand.”

Elishat looked out the window and shook her head at the thought of Iarbas’s warriors on the southern plain, sharpening their spears. There had to be a way out of this predicament. Without turning to her advisors, she said, “Suppose, for a moment, that I were no longer here.”

Bitias and Barca exchanged concerned glances.

She turned to face them. “Suppose, I don’t know,

suppose I sailed back to Tyre.”

The Lieutenant shook his head, “Back to Tyre? But Pumayyaton would—”

“Ignoring what it would mean for me, what if I left Qart-hadasht? Indulge me. What would happen then?”

            The Priestess raised an eyebrow and turned to look out the window.

“Iarbas wants to consolidate control through marriage,” Bitias said. “It’s been his intention from the moment he first set eyes on you. In your absence, I doubt he would engage in all-out war to take Qart-hadasht.”

“But that’s hardly a remedy,” the Lieutenant insisted. “Your people need you.” He gestured around the room. “We need you!”

“And years from now, when I am dead and gone, what then? With no heir to the throne, how will Qart-hadasht be ruled?”

From across the room, the Priestess replied, “That’s a good question.”

“Bitias and I have discussed such an eventuality,” Barca admitted.

Bitias rushed to explain, “Only because in case of accident or illness, may the gods forbid it, we must be prepared.”

Elishat waved her hand, “Speak freely, gentlemen. I’m not squeamish about my death. The gods know I’m not an immortal—only a queen.”

“Well, Princess, what would be your wish?”

“At the risk of repeating my father’s error, I would have you and Bitias rule together—not as kings but as judges: two white-bearded elders to whom the people can bring their cases for fair judgment.”

“If that is your wish, then may it be many years before my beard turns white,” Bitias said.

“And in the meantime,” Barca said, “what will you do about Iarbas?”

“I must think about it.”

The Lieutenant pressed, “The wolf is at the door, Queen.”

Elishat nodded, “Yes, I hear the howling. Thank you.”

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