Daughters of the Nile (20 page)

By instinct, my eyes seek out the emperor’s wife, seated to the side in shadow. Livia wears a soft smile of serenity that scarcely disguises her smoldering resentment. This might have been
her
moment, but Octavia has stolen it from her and delivered it into Julia’s hands. When Octavia came to suspect that Livia was responsible for her son’s death, she retaliated with an unbending resolution to box the emperor’s wife into irrelevance. And for that, we might all be grateful.

* * *

THE
play is exactly as Herod predicted: utterly forgettable. Rome’s artistry resides chiefly in her ability to organize, build, or destroy on a massive scale; her playwrights, when not stealing from the Greeks, are middling at best.

Fortunately, just when I think I cannot sit through one more moment, the show is over. As soon as the performers take their bows, Agrippa makes a hasty exit. He has always been an active man who can never sit still for very long, but I think it is the pretense of accord with the emperor that his general cannot maintain—not even with his pregnant wife as a buffer between them. He considers himself a man on the verge of war, and because Agrippa is who he is, he cannot bear to be sitting beside his enemy.

As we watch him shoulder his way out of the crowd, something strange happens. My husband and I glance at each other, and reach wordless agreement on what must be done. Juba must follow Agrippa. He must seek out the brooding general and playact the part of the aggrieved husband.

At least, I
hope
it will only be playacting.

Meanwhile, I must join the emperor in his religious rites. Juba’s trust in me is a new and fragile thing, and I don’t know how much weight can be safely stacked upon it. And yet, I’m emboldened by our silent conspiracy. To be, for once, in such perfect harmony with my husband is as welcome as it is unexpected.

We both rise, splitting our retinue neatly in half as we go our separate ways. Falling in with the emperor’s entourage, I pull my
palla
over my head and I go out into the torchlit night where the priests of Rome burn a cloud of bitumen and sulfur to rid us of lice and mites. We purify ourselves by walking through the strong-smelling smoke. On the Aventine, acolytes at the Temple of Diana give out baskets of wheat and sacks of barley and beans to be offered to the gods. The emperor and the college of priests lead a grand processional to the river, where three different altars are illuminated against the black sky.

The bleat of the sacrificial lambs can be heard as they’re lured to the places they will find their end, but my ears are filled with the sound of the Tiber River as it flows by.

The emperor raises his hands and invokes the gods of the West. Jupiter and his wife, Juno. Apollo, and his ruthless twin sister, Diana the Huntress. He invokes Neptune, the god of the sea, and Minerva, the virgin goddess of wisdom. He invokes Venus, the goddess of love, and Mercury, the fleet-footed messenger. He calls Ceres, who brings the grain, and Vulcan, who pounds in his forge. Then Mars, who brings war, and Vesta, whose hearth the Vestal Virgins tend. He even calls upon Hercules, that demigod of so many labors from whom both Juba and I claim descent. Then he calls upon the Fates, and when he does, the emperor’s eyes seek me out and beckon me to his side.

The Fates. I feel their shadow over us. How have our destinies become so closely entwined? Part of it is the emperor’s doing. Part of it is my doing. My quest for Egypt, my desperate desire to save what remained of my family and our legacy drove me to cleave to this complicated man, in whom so much wickedness and potential reside. But perhaps there are forces greater than either of us who have drawn our lives together in a single thread. And I am afraid to know what will happen if it unravels.

So I go to his side, where I see the sacrificial knives laid out on a cloth of gold, glinting in the torchlight. The emperor means for me to hand him the knives with which he will sacrifice the lambs.

The emperor shouts, “Now we call upon Pluto and the forces of the underworld. We call too upon his bride, Proserpina, whom the Greeks call Persephone or Kore, goddess of springtime!”

In Greece, they called me the
New Kore
. She is the wife of the dead. She is also Isis. And in the crowds, I can see Isis worshippers nodding beneath their conical
pileus
hats of liberty—the same ones we wear for the Saturnalia—as if they believe he is acknowledging
her
by acknowledging
me
.

But one should never play such tricks with the gods.

I want no part of this. My throat swells closed. No. I will not do it. I am not shy of animal sacrifice. It is not the blood but the lie at the heart of this sacrifice that gives me pause. I cannot do it. I tell Augustus this with a barely perceptible shake of my head. He waits, but I make no move to help him. I will not hand him the knife. Finally, one of the priests of Rome does what I will not. The emperor makes short work of the first lamb, whose warm blood mists in the air before it collapses.

A priest is near to collect the blood, which he drips on the altar to the gods of Rome. But there are still two more lambs. “We call upon the Fates to receive our sacrifice,” Augustus says, plunging another knife into a struggling lamb, forcing its head to crash to the stone, air puffing from its nostrils before it breathes its last.

Hearing the death rattle of its comrades, the last lamb panics and pisses itself. The creature has soft, innocent eyes that remind me of my little brother, now in his tomb. This last lamb’s wool has magnificent curls like those my father wore in his hair. This last lamb will bleed on my feet like the Prince of Emesa did when he died.

I think to call an end to this; to plead mercy for this last lamb, but I cannot. Instead, I step back. I step back from this. I step away before the emperor cuts the lamb’s throat. And I do not stay to see the lambs burnt. I flee to the Sellisternia, the sacred banquet in honor of the Great Mother Goddess, hosted by the matrons of Rome. Entering the hall, I am still shaken, though I try to disguise it. Blessings are said over the cheese and herbs. Small portions are set out for the great mother, but I eat little. The taste of parsley and coriander in the cheese is not strong enough to overcome the bile at the back of my throat. Underneath the drums and flutes that play for the revelers, I hear Roman women whispering with distaste about the wives and daughters of Asiatic kings who have dressed with insufficient humility.

Their barbed remarks make me glad I chose my garments carefully. Fortunately, Princess Glaphyra of Cappadocia is so lovely that she’s spared their contempt even though she wears a headdress made of thinly pounded gold leaves that tinkle whenever she moves. She sits beside me, and urgently whispers, “I’ve met my bridegroom and he doesn’t want me!”

“I’m sure you’re mistaken,” I say.

“I’m not,” Glaphyra cries, wringing her hands. “Prince Alexander said his people won’t accept me. That I’ll taint his claim to the Judean throne. That any children we have won’t be seen to properly belong because they won’t have a Jewish mother.”

“That can’t be true. King Herod cannot secure his shaky dynasty by making bad marriages for his sons. Especially not for the son who will follow him onto his throne.”

Glaphyra worries at her bottom lip. “Alexander promises that he’ll treat me gently—that I’ll never have want for jewels or baubles—but says I’ll never be his queen. When it comes time to take his throne, he says he’ll set me aside for a more suitable woman.”

Tears pool in the corners of her eyes and I can think of nothing to say to ease her mind. “Have you told your father this?”

“Of course!” she whispers so vehemently that her entire golden head tinkles. “But Papa says that these are just the words of a resentful young man. That when I bear sons for Prince Alexander, he’ll feel differently.”

If he doesn’t, he’ll have to contend with the wrath of the Cappadocian kingdom. Given that Judea cannot afford to make enemies, the objections of the young Herodian prince to his new bride will have to be overcome, but such calculations aren’t likely to soothe poor Glaphyra. “I’m sure your father is right. Feelings do change in time,” I say, reflecting hopefully on the fledgling understanding I have reached with my own husband. “
Everything
changes in time . . .”

* * *

THAT
day, all manner of games and entertainment are held, to the joy of the populace. Chariots run special circuits in the circus. Plays are performed in wooden theaters, and pantomimes erupt in the streets. I learn this from Tala, who takes the children to see all these marvels and brings them home excited, babbling about puppet shows. Then Juba returns early with an unwelcome guest.

We receive King Herod with all due honors, of course. Nothing else can be done.

I have refreshments served and make Crinagoras recite some verses for us as we sit down together with a few of our most entertaining courtiers. Still, to have the King of Judea here, in my home, discomforts me in every way and I’m relieved to hear him say that he cannot stay long.

“Perhaps I ought to have sent an emissary,” Herod says, reaching for his wine with an aged hand. “But when in Rome, they say it is best to do as the Romans do. I thought we might get straightaway to our business without the usual formalities.”

“By all means,” Juba says.

Herod swirls the vintage in his cup, sniffing at it before he swallows. “My son Alexander will marry Glaphyra of Cappadocia, but I have other sons in need of brides. I’m told there is a Princess of Mauretania.”

A sudden chill sweeps through the room as nearly every one of my Alexandrians turns hostile glances in the direction of our guest. No Eastern king can have designs on a Ptolemaic princess without turning greedy eyes to Egypt, and they all know it. Most of my retinue once graced my mother’s court; some of their families have served mine for hundreds of years. They are nearly as haughty and proud as I am—maybe more so. And they seem plainly horrified by the idea that the Ptolemaic dynasty has fallen so low that I might entertain a marriage proposal for my daughter from a foreign prince, much less the King of Judea.

But where the direction of this conversation receives a cold reception from my courtiers, it sparks a flame of maternal protectiveness in me. “My daughter is only six years old.”

Herod smiles, tipping his cup to recognize me, as if amused I should enter the conversation without invitation. “I was told she was nearly seven, but that is of no matter. Send her to Judea and the wedding could be postponed until she turns twelve.”

“Twelve!” I cry indignantly.

Juba puts a hand on my knee to still me.

Herod tilts his head, as if bewildered by my reaction. “Is twelve not the legal age at which girls may marry by Roman law?” Indeed, he seems so puzzled that he may not even realize how distasteful his proposal truly is. Even the emperor insisted upon the age of
fourteen
for the girls in his household.

“Twelve is the legal age,” Juba replies. “But my queen is very attached to our daughter. We would not part with Cleopatra Isidora so soon.”

It is the politic answer, so I do not interrupt.

Herod lifts his hands in a gesture meant to be conciliatory. “Normally, I’d want the girl to live in Judea until she’s of age, but we’re men of the world, Juba, and kings besides. We can indulge the sentimental urges of our women. Cleopatra Selene, content yourself to keep the girl until she’s twelve and then we can celebrate a wedding.”

I am about to say something undiplomatic when Juba breaks in with, “I need time to consider this offer, and, in any case, we could not let her go until she was fourteen.”

My husband says this as if he will be the one to make this decision. As if he is actually entertaining this preposterous idea, a thing that plainly discomfits our courtiers as much as it outrages me. From his dining couch, my poet’s eyes narrow to a squint. Even Memnon, standing at his post by the door, clears his throat.

Still, Juba’s insistence that Isidora be fourteen before she marries should dissuade Herod. The King of Judea’s sons are grown. He would waste almost a decade before Dora comes of age, during which time his sons will weary of waiting.

Strangely, Juba’s demand does
not
deter Herod. “Fourteen, then.”

I can no longer keep my silence. “We have not agreed to this.” With Princess Glaphyra’s words still ringing in my ears from the night before, I say, “Surely there are more suitable brides for your son. Perhaps a Jewish girl?”

King Herod gives a look that seems to indicate he expects my husband to keep me in better order, but Juba merely dips a bit of flatbread in spiced olive oil, which forces Herod to deal with me directly. “I am a Jew, Queen Selene, but my subjects dispute this. The more closely I keep Judaic tradition, the more they hold me in contempt. There is no pleasing them and it holds no benefit for Judea to please them anyway. Better that my people adopt Hellenistic culture and learn to comingle. It is for this reason I prefer to marry my sons to gentile princesses.”

It is a perfectly reasonable explanation. Perhaps his sons only
imagine
that he seeks to eliminate them as legitimate rivals for his throne by marrying them to princesses who do not worship the god of the Jews. I too would find it hard to trust his motives were he my father, but Herod’s words have such a pragmatic ring of truth that they cannot be entirely discounted.

“Nevertheless, my daughter cannot be part of your plans,” I say. There is no advantage in mingling my Ptolemaic blood with Herod’s; if anything, it is a distinct disadvantage, as can be read in the hostile expressions of my courtiers.

Juba attempts to soften the blow of my refusal by saying, “Our daughter is so young that we’re forced to be cautious. I have only two children, after all.”

King Herod’s response is a tapping foot upon my tile and a scowl that makes plain we have offended him. Then he forces a leering grin onto his face. “Come now, Juba. Surely not just the two children. You’re a young man, but not
very
young. Have you no natural children of concubines or harem girls?”