Daughters of the Nile (19 page)

“Your children can’t be so bad as that . . .”

“Oh, they are. My sons take after their mother. They’re high-handed and proud. I look forward to fetching them home and teaching them a lesson.”

Fiddling with the embroidered edge of my
chiton
, impatiently watching the doorway for Juba, I ask, “And where is home if not Rome, sir?”

The genial gleam in his eye slowly changes into something sharper. “Somewhere we appreciate tragedies. Somewhere we notice that Medea escaped with
Helios
, who tried to drive his father’s chariot but set the world on fire.”

My eyes snap to his, for no one speaks the name
Helios
to me by accident. “Do I know you?”

His smile is like the edge of a silvered knife. “I’m Herod. King Herod of Judea.”

Twelve

MY
blood runs cold. It isn’t done that one sovereign meets another without introduction or warning. He must have arranged to come upon me this way, or had someone arrange it for him. He would only do such a thing if he wanted to shock me or frighten me or both. Since I cannot let him have the satisfaction, I smile as if I admire his nerve and answer him in his own language. “I think I’ve heard of you. You were one of my father’s allies, weren’t you?”

My performance gives him pause. Perhaps he did not know that, like my mother, I speak his tongue. Or perhaps he didn’t expect to be put on the defensive over the matter of alliances abandoned more than a decade ago. “I was the best friend your father ever had, but now I’m an even better friend to Caesar.”

“So he’s told me,” I say, to remind him that I have the emperor’s ear. “Yet, in all our conversations together, Augustus never intimated that you were such a humble king. Why, to greet me without an introduction or even a retinue . . . is this part of the pageantry? I know the emperor likes to present himself as simply the First Citizen of Rome, but do you mean to outdo him by masquerading as an usher? Should I rub a little dirt on my cheeks to get into the spirit of the thing?”

His grin widens. “I come to you this way in the spirit of friendship. I didn’t think you’d receive me warmly if you knew my name.”

My other enemies are familiar to me; I’ve grown accustomed to Agrippa’s stoic enmity, Livia’s petty resentment, and the emperor’s ruthlessness. They have always been perfectly obvious. Herod, by contrast, is a cipher, so I cannot let my mask slip for even an instant. “Why wouldn’t I receive you warmly, King Herod? I still owe you thanks for a coin you commissioned in honor of Kore . . . a gift you sent to me when the emperor and I were in Greece together.”

“Much has changed since then. I fear that you’ve been poisoned against me. You must know how it is to practice a faith that is suspected here in Rome. There are always people willing to slander those who are called to serve only one god . . . or goddess.”

This I cannot argue.

Perhaps sensing that he has me in his thrall, he continues, “No doubt you’ve been told that I’m a monster who mutilates the genitals of young boys and eats babies after midnight.”

It’s a step too far and now I’m done with the charade. “What I’ve been told is that you have a penchant for killing queens.”

He grimaces. Good. I’ve found a sore spot. I’m tempted to twist the knife by mentioning the wife he murdered by name, but I hold that in reserve. “Didn’t you try to persuade my father to kill my mother?”

Regaining possession of himself, the older man admits, “I did. Had Antony taken my advice, he’d be emperor now. Indeed, you might be the Queen of Egypt in your mother’s stead. Yes, I tried to persuade Antony to kill Cleopatra but there was no malice involved; I gave him my best political advice. In the end, he followed his heart and now we all live in the world he left behind. My actions were that of a friend.”

Some friend! I go from cold to hot. His rational accounting of his actions offends me. I can think of no reason not to be frank. “Does a friend argue for the slaughter of Antony’s children? I’m told you pleaded with Augustus to kill me and my brothers when we first came to Rome. Do you deny it?”

Herod affects a wounded expression, hand to his heart. “You’ve been woefully misinformed, Cleopatra Selene. It was only the boys I thought Augustus must be rid of. Only your brothers; not
you
. Why, I even made an offer to marry you when you came of age.”

“Oh, well, then. How can I hold it against you?” I try to dislodge the thought of Caesarion strangled, Antyllus cut down at the foot of Caesar’s statue, Philadelphus writhing in a fever that may well have been poison. And Helios? No, I best not think of him . . . “Did you mean to make a wedding present to me of my brothers’ heads?”

Herod lifts both eyebrows as if surprised by my sarcasm. “I didn’t know you were so fond of your siblings. Your mother certainly didn’t care for hers . . .”

“I’m not my mother.” And it’s true. I loved my mother, I admired her, and I grieve for her. But I walk my own path. “I’m no one that you’ve ever met before, King Herod.”

His eyes narrow with a hint of approval. “It’s fortunate, then, that we have this time in Rome to get better acquainted . . .”

A gruff voice interrupts us. “Herod?” I look up to see Juba in the doorway and my husband’s glance tells me that he had no idea to expect the King of Judea. “To what do we owe the surprise of your company?”

Herod’s mature and practiced geniality never falters. “Ah, Juba, how good to see you again, my old friend. I came to pay tribute to your queen. When I hear about one of the world’s wonders, I like to see it with my own eyes. She is as has been reported to me . . .”

“By whom?” I ask.

Herod ignores me. “We’ll be sitting together tonight, your royal family and mine. The greatest king in the West and the greatest king in the East, come together as friends for the glory of Augustus.”

Herod flatters himself. Juba is certainly the greatest king in the West, but Herod is only one of many in the East. Herod’s is a troublesome kingdom, providing Rome with neither a great abundance of grain nor mineral wealth. Judea is notable only for the strategic importance of its location and the unusual religious traditions of its people. And Herod is notable only for his bloodthirsty reputation.

My husband does not point any of this out. “Perhaps we can take the opportunity to discuss how to better share the talent of the empire. With our competing building projects, the engineers, architects, and artists have learned to play us against one another and extort outrageous fees.”

This is a bit of diplomacy on Juba’s part, for he knows, as well as I do, that Herod boasted of building two cities to frustrate our own efforts. For now, though, Herod is happy to let the engineers and architects and artists take the blame. “Indeed! Perhaps these profiteers would be less bold in their demands if they knew we shared a friendship. An alliance between our two families might be taken by Augustus as a sign of harmony in his empire.”

Before I can make an indignant reply, we hear music from the orchestra indicating that we will soon be called to our seats. “Alas,” Juba says. “It’s a discussion that must wait.”

Herod makes an elaborate gesture of farewell and then withdraws. The moment he is gone, I launch up from my couch, but before I can utter a word, Juba takes hold of my arm, “Calm. Be calm.”

“Herod is not to be trusted!”

Juba dips his head to look me in the eye. “I know this, wife.”

Why am I always ready for an argument with Juba, always leaping into combat even when there is no enemy on the field? It’s a habit I must break myself of, so I moderate my tone. “He’s not what I expected, not what I expected at all. I assumed he’d be a nasty brute . . .”

“He is, but he’s also a chameleon. He’s a Jew when he wants to be a Jew, but does not keep their traditions. He’s a Hellenized king when he travels, but his interest in philosophy is not genuine. He’s a fawning friend to Augustus while sneering at Roman ways when he can get away with it.”

Juba’s evaluation dispirits me. Herod is an actor after all, good enough to charm even the emperor. But that does not explain why he came here tonight. “Why should he come to us looking for friendship?”

“He needs allies,” Juba explains. “Herod isn’t popular in Judea—or anywhere else.”

“Herod
has
allies. Augustus allows him great latitude. He has the friendship of Livia and Agrippa too. Why, he’s even strong-armed Archelaus of Cappadocia into giving over his daughter in marriage. Who could make Herod feel so vulnerable that these aren’t friends enough?”

“That I cannot guess, Selene, but if he wants our friendship, we should give it to him. It serves us no purpose to grant him the status of a rival.”

I cannot disagree. I don’t trust Herod—all the more so because I found it difficult to dislike him—but he can be no threat to me now. It’s the quailing little girl inside me that fears him; I shouldn’t let her rule the queen I have become. If forcing myself to smile at Herod means more engineers and architects for Mauretania, then I must find a way to make common cause.

The musicians hail us with a royal march as we’re led into the crowded theater. The first row is reserved for Roman senators, in their best purple-bordered togas. Behind the senators sit the moneyed equites, knights of the Republic . . . or what is left of it. Finally, in the upper rows, the plebs, the common citizens of Rome, find their seats. A special area is roped off, reserved for royalty and foreign visitors, and we find our places there.

Juba and I are well received by the crowd. The people remember our tributes of grain. They remember Juba as a scholar, soldier, and tamed barbarian. They remember that while I am Cleopatra’s daughter, I’m also a daughter of Rome. They cheer us and we wave to them. The crowd also cheers for the two sons of Herod, who have lived in Rome now for years.

But no one cheers for Herod.

The King of Judea pretends at distraction as his sons find their seats. Alexander and Aristobulus are men now, both handsome, sitting close together, straight-spined like fellow soldiers who have been through some manner of battle. My heart goes out to these Judean princes, for they’ve been kept here in Rome far from their homeland. Perhaps they’ve considered themselves hostages, and I know what that’s like. But I catch the glance they exchange when their father leans over to whisper something to them.

And then I know.

I know exactly who makes Herod feel so vulnerable that he would seek even
me
out for a friend. He fears the popularity of his sons. Those young men both sit as stiffly near their father as if they had a scorpion at their back, and perhaps they do. These are the sons of Queen Mariamne, the Hasmonean princess whose bloodline put Herod in reach of the throne. He murdered their mother and now he’s come to fetch them home . . .

I cannot imagine having such a father. My own father refused to harm my mother, though it cost him his life. Not even Augustus could bring himself to do away with Julia’s mother. Which tells me that though I boasted of being no one Herod had ever met before, he is something I have never encountered before either. No matter how advantageous an alliance might be, no matter how witty or charming Herod is, I decide he must
always
be my enemy, or I will have betrayed everything good still left inside me.

The trumpets sound and we all look up to the imperial box. There Augustus and Agrippa stand. There they are, the two men upon whom the fate of the empire rests. One broad-shouldered and brawny. The other frail and shrewd. Neither man spares the other a glance. Like a courageous Sabine woman, willing to throw her body between her warring husband and father, Julia stands with these men, one hand upon her pregnant belly. With glittering eyes and a dazzling smile, Julia wins the hearts of the crowd in an instant. They are on their feet for her. I stand too, for it is Julia’s moment. Glowing in our admiration, she is the strand that connects everything. This is her dead husband’s theater. She is widow, wife, mother, daughter. She is First Woman in Rome.

We rely upon her to hold these men together, to be the conduit between them that keeps their ambitions and hostilities at bay. She need not share this rare moment of recognition with anyone else, but as the crowd adores her, Julia sweeps one arm back, turning to acknowledge the older woman behind her: Lady Octavia.

Octavia gives a quick shake of her head, her face frozen in an expression of Roman
gravitas
, as if she thinks herself unworthy of recognition. But brash, lovable Julia grabs Octavia by the arm and pulls her to her feet. And in spite of everything, my own eyes glisten with pride for them both.

The crowd applauds the matriarchs of the
Julii
. They cheer for Octavia because she has shared with all these Romans, their darkest times. Wife of Mark Antony. Sister of Octavian. Mother of Marcellus. She’s suffered torn loyalties, lost loved ones, and sacrificed in the hope of a better future.

They honor her. I honor her too and not only because of the kindnesses she’s done me over the years, but also because I know what she has sacrificed to keep Livia from power. Julia is Rome’s darling only because Octavia made it so . . .