Daughters of the Nile (26 page)

This seems to soften Juba. “You did nothing to encourage him in Rome? This coin is not meant to provoke him now?”

“I did not mint the coin to provoke Augustus,” I say, my throat pained under the emotion swelling there because I suspected it
would
provoke him, but took the risk anyway for a greater purpose. “It was not my
aim
to provoke him. Nor did I encourage him in Rome. And if you dare . . . if you dare to accuse me again after all these years—”

“I’m sorry,” he says harshly.

“I did not encourage him!”

“I
am
sorry,” he says again, trying to soothe me. I will not be soothed. I am shaking my head, a distraught girl again, caught in the memory of how I told him I’d been forced, how he would not believe me when I needed him most. “Selene, it was not my intention to accuse you.”

I do not know if he is speaking of now, or then. It is still a wound more raw than perhaps either of us realized. And I am guilty too because part of me believes he has no right to be angry that I honored my mother this way and another part of me believes he has every right. “Then what did you intend, Juba?”

“It is only that I must know what you want, Selene. You say you chose Mauretania. Well, if you have now thought better of it, I must know. I cannot bear to do this again . . .” He looks away. “I cannot bear to always be the one to hold you back from what you want. There are two cities in this kingdom that need rulers; there is no reason we must live together, always in each other’s way, trying to make a solid thing out of something hollow.”

I flinch at the word
hollow
, then swallow my anger and my pride. He is making a sincere offer to step aside in deference to my ambitions. For my sake—or perhaps for the sake of our children. But I
did
choose Mauretania. “I have not changed my mind.”

He does not look as if he believes me. Instead, he stares off at the southern horizon, as if he were eager to pack up and go off into the wilderness without another word as he did when we were first married. Will he make me say it? Must he hear me speak the words aloud? “I don’t want you to go to Volubilis, Juba. I don’t want to be apart.”

“You know I must go,” he replies. “And if there is to be fighting, I cannot have you or the children there with me. There is no choice to be had. I must go and we must be apart.”

“Yes, you must go,” I admit. “But you do not have to stay away. And I don’t want you to.”

“You don’t?” he asks, reaching for me as if afraid to believe it.

I meet his gaze. “No. I don’t.”

Rubbing my arms against the damp chill, he asks, “For the sake of the children?”

By the gods, must he humble me so? I have already said enough. I have already said too much. “Not
only
for the sake of the children.”

With a sudden jerk, he pulls me closer, wiping the mist from my cheeks, staring at me all the while. “Selene, someday, we will be called to Rome again and you will be tempted. You must know that.”

I do not want to know it. I do not want to admit it. I do not want to think about it. So I say, “I only know that this is your home . . . and that I will be here waiting for you when you return.”

* * *

THAT
night, the king comes to dine in my chambers but we leave our meal untouched. In the light of the moon, he draws me into his arms and kisses me. I return his kisses with eagerness, dizzied by the scent of cinnamon on his skin. When he touches me, I touch him too.

There is a moment that he hesitates. A moment in which I am afraid he will ask a question I cannot answer or say something to pull me from this blissful, mindless pleasure. But I think he must know that the price for this pleasure is silence, because he stops only long enough to blow out the lamp so that what we do we may do in darkness.

Sixteen

IOL-CAESARIA, THE KINGDOM OF MAURETANIA

SPRING 16
B.C.

IT
is easier this time. When I last ruled Iol-Caesaria in the king’s absence, I was only seventeen years old. Then, I arrogantly assumed I knew best until I came up against my own ignorance of the day-to-day administration of a kingdom. Since then, I have learned a great deal about governing, and, perhaps more importantly, I am no longer easily questioned or dismissed.

There are, to be sure, a few men on our council who bristle at a woman’s authority. Some who attempt to bully me. But it is the ninth year of my reign. The king’s explicit command that I am to be obeyed, paired with my own independent stature, renders such men a mere inconvenience.

Truthfully, I am also more patient. Once, keen to prove my worth as Cleopatra’s daughter and a queen in my own right, I took umbrage at every offense. Now, placidly seated on my pearled throne wearing my gold crown and purple cloak, I happily indulge the long haranguing lectures of our most bombastic Roman advisers.

Then I do as I like.

When I am not tending to the business of the realm, I am worrying.

I worry always for Helios, never knowing where he is or whom he is fighting or what danger he faces. But my beloved twin is a child of Isis with powers beyond those of ordinary mortals. With a back as broad as a bull, Helios is stronger than ten men put together, a demon with a sword in one hand and fire in the other. He has made himself into the legend
Horus the Avenger
.

My husband is no legend, but a mortal man, so my worry for Juba is more acute. Juba is neither a hardened fugitive nor accustomed to fighting. Yes, he has experience as a cavalry officer, having fought beside Augustus in Spain, but I am fretful every day that we do not hear word of the king’s expedition. And Juba is gone
two months
before we receive our first report from Volubilis.

The king writes that his soldiers captured the men responsible for murdering our magistrate, and that he presided over the trial, condemned the guilty men, then had them stripped naked and crucified alongside the road. I shudder to read this. Crucifixion is a lingering public death meant to humiliate and intimidate. It is not a death for warriors. It is a death for slaves and lowly criminals . . . which is why the king chose it. These men must not be lionized by other tribesmen; their rebellion must not spread. Of course, any pity I may have had for these crucified men swiftly diminishes upon reading a second message telling how armed rebels descended from the mountains one night to attack my husband where he made camp. Juba and his men were able to repel the attack without serious injury, but it is an act of untold brazenness to attack the king!

How can this be happening all because of a census? Everywhere in the civilized world people know they must be counted and pay taxes or make tribute. Berbers say they do not want Roman soldiers ruling over them. Well, if that is so, then they must allow their sons to enroll in Mauretanian legions. Berbers say they want to remain an independent kingdom. Well, if that is so, then they must contribute to our enterprise. I would say as much to Maysar, but my Berber chieftain is with the king, serving as his emissary at my behest. And with sullen sighs, Chryssa makes plain that she is not at all pleased about it, given that she is now expecting their first child.

* * *

THE
emperor’s answer to my coin comes in equal parts seductive, grandiose, and appalling.

Augustus has had himself named Pharaoh of Egypt.

I despair to hear such news from Lady Lasthenia, but do not doubt her. Her society of Pythagoreans comprises a formidable network throughout the world and my disheveled scholar is usually the first to know everything. Here, it is to my advantage, even if what I am hearing horrifies me.

Pharaoh
. A title passed down from antiquity to Alexander himself, then conveyed upon my ancestors. It was my mother’s title. Perhaps I never deserved for it to pass to me, but it should have gone to Helios, who fought for Egypt when I could not. And for all I know, he is still fighting . . .

Putting my face in my hands, I take a moment to compose myself. Then Lady Lasthenia and I walk together amongst my withered cherry trees, none of which have acclimated well to our hot climate.

It should not surprise me that Augustus should want this title. Hasn’t he wanted all the others? Perhaps he thinks he needs it if he is to be the savior all the world wants him to be. The savior who is prophesied to come out of Egypt. But why now? I fear he has done it now because of me. With my coin I honored my mother, Cleopatra VII, the last Pharaoh of Egypt, forcing him to conquer her all over again. When I find my voice, I ask, “The emperor will go to Memphis to be anointed?”

“No,” Lady Lasthenia replies. “But he had his likeness carved at Dendera.”

“Not Dendera!” This will break my mage’s heart. It is already breaking mine. “Did he tear down the temple walls or merely erase my mother’s name there? Tell me.”

Always cool-tempered, Lady Lasthenia lowers her voice in response to my outburst. “Neither, Majesty. He had himself carved near to her.”

My hand presses flat to my chest in surprise. “Do you mean to say that Augustus had his image carved there
with
my mother’s?”

“Yes, Majesty. According to my sources.”

Moments pass in which I try to order my words into coherence. Augustus is a genius and a madman, and in this I think he is both. He has ensured that his name will be entwined with my mother’s long after the papyrus scrolls of history turn to dust. Perhaps this is his way of making things right. His way of honoring Isis as he promised to do on that night when we sacrificed together in asking the great mother of the world to cleanse us of our sins and to give birth to a new age.

Were it not for my Ptolemaic pride, perhaps I would see this as a gesture of his true greatness. His willingness to preserve my mother’s legacy along with his own. His willingness to honor the ways of Egypt and give her the pharaoh that she needs. I sacrificed my hatreds to help make him a better ruler, and perhaps he is becoming one . . .

So why does this dig at me like a nettle beneath my skin? Why do I suspect there is, still, some game behind this and that he is waiting for my next move?

Pharaoh
.

He’s taken my mother’s kingdom, her children, her crown, and her title. Now he has proclaimed himself her heir. Just as I am her heir. Just as my children are her heirs . . . and I am more aware than ever that he can make them his heirs too, these children of mine that he believes are his own . . .

To My Friend, the Most Royal Queen of Mauretania,

Rome is so very dull without you. Thank heavens I will be leaving it soon! Though it is against custom for a wife to accompany a governor on his travels, I’ve persuaded Agrippa that petty little rules like that apply only to ordinary people.

Meanwhile, Livia’s sons have been sent to subdue rebels in the Alps. It seems like dreary enough work for a competent soldier like Tiberius, but I fear young Drusus is not likely to distinguish himself in battle. Though his mother has the temperament of a gorgon, he was always good-natured. I can scarcely believe how quickly time has passed that the boy we grew up with is now old enough to fight.

Oh, well. I suppose that’s what all boys do.

Anyway, since Drusus and Minora are soon to marry, for the sake of your half sister, I will make a little offering at a shrine for his protection. I would hate to think of Drusus stuck with some barbarian’s spear atop a frozen mountain.

Especially since I shall soon be enjoying the balmy weather of Greece!

Speaking of Greece, have you heard that this Olympic Games may be the last? Somehow, they have run out of money, and are too proud to ask my father for more than he has already given. They prefer to think of the games as the province of Hellenes, I suppose, and since you are the most prominent Hellene I know, you can probably expect a request for an outrageous sum.

Julia’s warning still leaves me utterly unprepared for the plea that comes from Greece. Were my husband here to see it, he would sneer at the sum. I too am overwhelmed by the expense, but where can Hellenism find a champion if not in Cleopatra’s daughter? My ancestors would never allow the Olympic Games to perish and neither can I. I am Mauretanian now, not a barbarian, after all.

I pledge nearly all the profits of my new amber lake to the games, though it pains me to do so because I fear it leaves me with too little in my treasury to woo a renowned architect when he arrives with letters of recommendation and an ambitious plan for my temple. “Do you know him?” I ask my mage. “This Necho of Alexandria?”

“I know
of
him and I know the names of the men who vouch for him in his letters.” My mage says all this stiffly, for he still sees for me a different destiny, and even now, he will not surrender to defeat. “But it is not too late to turn your attention to a worthier project, Majesty. You have learned small magics from me in Mauretania, but think of what I could teach you in Egypt and how great your powers might be there. With your hands alone you might summon such winds to bury legions in the sand!”