Amber Benham is a 21-year-old Classical Studies BA student at King’s College London. She is passionate about ancient Greek literature and focusing on the reception of female voices within it. In 2021 she moved to London and since found a devotion to studying and providing ancient women with their own voices.
I remember everything, even dying.
Anna’s face fades into a rainbow, who knew that death was so memorable. I have no eyes, no mouth to let out one less curse to him. I am nothing. Death is seemingly quite peaceful. I feel my madness slipping away, a neutrality consuming me, a numbness, but I don’t fear it. I welcome it, after all my suffering, I greet nothingness as my saviour.
Or at least I did, until I feel a coldness which immediately reaches my bones, and the numbness turns into an empty sense of floating, I feel some sort of form return to me and open my eyes. I reach for the wound from his sword and feel my own hands pass through my stomach, I look down and see a transparent version of my body, emitting a dull glow.
It was awful, at first, my judgement, my aimless walking, nothing to do, no need to eat or sleep. Death no longer seemed peaceful, but rather the worst punishment for living life. That is, until I found Sychaeus, or rather, he found me. He’d heard rumours of my death and had been searching for me, and our eyes met after, well, who knows how long I’d been dead, the underworld has no sense of time. We ran, or perhaps floated is a better term, to each other and embraced as well as two souls can, intertwining as much as possible. If I had been able to, I would have cried, with happiness at being reunited with the love of my life, and with guilt, for betraying every promise I made to him in life and in death. He already knew somehow, all about him. We never spoke his name. Sychaeus comforted me, loved me, made being dead somewhat enjoyable.
We performed the closest thing to a life as we could, we were finally going to be able to spend eternity together, and due to my curse, hopefully he would never be buried so we could make our own slice of heaven in the pits of the underworld. We were safe, free and alone, forever.
And, for a while, we were. Until rumour of a mortal amongst us reached us, no one said the name of the mortal, but rumour spreads event faster down here than she does in life, so Sychaeus and I abandoned our plan of floating the boundless fields to see the big news.
We passed through the crowd, happening upon the Fields of Mourning, and all at once, it was like I was alive again, the crowd around me dissipated, I lost feeling of Sychaeus’ presence and was entirely consumed by the sight of him. He glowed in his armour, a golden bough in his hand, which I noticed was shaking slightly, in fear perhaps. As his eyes gloss over the crowds and the barren landscapes of the underworld, he falters when our eyes meet. He turns almost as pale as me, and the golden bough falls from his hand, while he takes a step forward, a step towards me.
‘Dido, Queen of Carthage, can it really be you, in this miserable and desolate place?’ He says, fear and guilt racking his voice until it breaks and wavers so much it is almost hard to understand him. Thousands of thoughts flood me all at once, of our times together, loving him in the cave, all the joy our passion and love brought me. Then I’m reminded of his abandonment, his disregard for our relationship, his disregard for me. I remember my madness, my death, and I remember Sychaeus. I feel his presence, not near my side, but somewhere behind me, allowing me this moment to be experienced independently.
I realise he is still speaking, ‘Please, my Queen, say something, anything. I can never forgive myself for the pain I caused you, but you must see it was against my will, I have my fate to fulfil and no one, especially not I, can dissuade the gods of fate. I apologise, for how I left Carthage, but you must forgive me, as I did no wrong, and it was simply madness that resolved you to your death.’
For the first time since my death, a laugh escapes my mouth, and crescendos till it echoes all around us. His face drops in confusion, if forgiveness is what he was expecting, he clearly never knew me. How dare he.
‘You refuse any fault in my death? You blame me for my madness, perhaps you want to blame the gods for that too? I understand entirely what you are saying, don’t let that be at question. Now let me explain something to you so perhaps you too will finally understand. You are a pathetic man, an unreliable leader and a worthless husband. Yes, I will call you my husband, as the gods, Venus and Juno convinced me we were married. And you, you acted along with this rouse, you reaped the benefits of my love, and then once you were satisfied you held me in such low regard that you attempted to flee my country without informing me. Was it not you who washed up on my shores begging hospitality, which I presently provided? Was it not you, who took me to bed during that storm in the cave? Was it not you, who was so jealous that I was completing your so-called ‘mission’ more successfully than you, that you demanded I prioritise you over everything, my city, my sister, my livelihood, myself. I should have been happy when you left my shores, and I hope to somehow be told in this dark world that my curse comes true, and you suffer each indictment. I was a queen, you were, are, and will always be… nothing.’ An amalgamation of anger, sadness and guilt forms on his face. Satisfied, I return to my love, who welcomes me with open arms, and we enjoy our eternity together, happily, in peace.