Daughters of the Nile (39 page)

AQUILEIA

SPRING 12
B.C.

AQUILEIA
is a frontier town, a veritable fortress against the tribes to the north. Just south of the Alps, the air is colder here and scented with the brackish water of lagoons. My children think this is a rugged springtime adventure and wonder if we will continue up into the mountains and camp in the wild where they’ve been told they might see wooly bears.

But all the niceties of civilization follow wherever the emperor goes. We are swiftly ensconced as guests into the villa of the wealthiest man in the vicinity. Aquileia is equipped with baths and a marketplace and a basilica for public business, and until the plague passes, this will be the new seat of government.

Something King Herod uses to his immediate advantage.

One night, returning from a foray in the hills with Roman soldiers, Juba says, “The entire royal family of Judea is coming here.”

This has me up and out of my chair. “All the more reason to pack our bags now and be on the swiftest ship home . . .”

Still wearing armor, my husband rubs the back of his neck where his helmet has left a red mark. “You go, Selene. Take the children. But I cannot leave Caesar. At least not until autumn. Perhaps the uprising will be over by then.”

I want to tell my husband how foolish he is being. I want to tell him that the emperor doesn’t need him. That the emperor doesn’t even
want
him here. That he is no Roman officer, but a king of a faraway kingdom and is not meant to fight like a lowborn soldier. I want to tell him that he is only being kept at the side of Augustus so that
I
will be kept here too. But these are the things that would break him, so I grind my teeth. “I hope you have at least spoken to the emperor about the settlement of veterans. There must be a better way to reward these soldiers at the end of their careers than with the grazing lands of our Berbers. Why not a lump sum of gold?”

“Because every soldier dreams he will one day pound his sword into a plowshare and retire to his farm like the old Roman hero Cincinnatus.”

“Oh, yes, the idyllic agrarian soldier . . . The dream might be a credit to them if so many soldiers did not immediately sell their land holdings in Mauretania to the richest noblemen in Rome.”

On this subject, Juba and I have enjoyed many spirited discussions, but there is no point prattling on about it because we are largely in agreement. He nods. “I’ll speak to the emperor after Herod’s visit.”

And that will have to mollify me. “Why is Herod coming anyway?”

“There is to be a trial.”

“A
trial
?” At this news, my eyes widen and I imagine the King of Judea being dragged before the emperor in chains. “What has Herod done?”

A cool mist has descended from the Alps, and in the dampness, Juba slicks his hair back and stops to warm his hands over a brazier in our rooms. “Herod isn’t on trial. He’s bringing his sons to be tried in a Roman court of law. Herod is bringing them as prisoners. He accuses them of treason.”

At this, I nearly choke. “Treason?”

“It’s a contemptible business, isn’t it? He doesn’t dare try his sons in Judea. The boys are both well loved there. For that matter, they’re well loved in Rome too. Herod cannot act against them without a Roman decree or he’ll be torn by the mob, either in Judea or in Rome.”

“Isis forgive me, but seeing Herod at the mercy of the mob
would
be worth staying to see . . .”

Juba smirks at my thirst for Herod’s blood. “You won’t see it. Herod has chosen his moment well. He drags his sons here to Aquileia where no one knows them. Where no one can defend them.”

“Still, he takes a horrible risk just for spite.”

“Indeed. Romans will say that a king who cannot keep peace within his own family cannot govern a client kingdom. Herod risks being stripped of his throne. If he cannot establish good governance, all Judea may be turned into a province as a lesson to the rest of us.”

Juba does not have to explain it to me. We should be present, whatever comes, if only to serve as a dignified counterexample to the sordid spectacle, lest every kingdom in the empire become another province for greedy Roman generals to loot. We cannot leave for home if we want to have a home to return to . . .

* * *

THE
emperor sends Juba back up into the mountains to brave the arrows and javelins of the Pannonian tribes. Meanwhile, we celebrate my son’s sixth birthday in Aquileia with a party for the little army of imperial and royal children who fill the rustic villa courtyard with shrieks and laughter. Under the supervision of their nurses, they chop at one another with wooden swords, then chase one another on wooden horses with gilded wheels and gemstone eyes. Meanwhile, Dora supervises a makeshift hospital for little clay dollies, much to the delight of the younger girls.

I’m glad the children can take delight in the world, even as the rest of us feel it reshaping under our feet. Livia does not attend the celebration. Octavia, who has scarcely spoken a word since Agrippa’s death, excuses herself to take an afternoon nap. Never have I known Octavia to be idle a day in her life, and I glance to Julia in surprise, but her gaze is far away. Too far away to care.

We’d all worried what would happen if the emperor should die but none of us gave a thought to losing Agrippa. It hadn’t ever seemed possible. It still does not. “It’s your turn,” I say to Julia, prompting her attention back to the dice that lie inert in her hand. I’ve taken it upon myself to cheer her when I can, teaching her games from ancient Egypt that can be played upon a lovely carved wooden board. “Julia—”

“I thought I already won,” she says.

“That was only the first round.” I run a thumb over the polished ebony of my game piece until it hits a rough edge. “It isn’t the whole game. There is an element of chance to it, but there’s strategy too. You race your ivory pieces—”

“My father likes to roll dice, not me,” she says, pushing away from the table. Then she blinks, staring at the sun. “Selene, you’ve no gift for false cheer. If I wanted to be amused I’d call for musicians or mimes or . . . monkeys. I seek out your company because you’re good at mourning.”

She may not intend her words to sting me, but they do. “I never forget my dead, but today I celebrate the birth of my son. My children are the blessed salve for my wounds, and you’ll soon have
five
children to comfort you in your darkest days.”

Julia snorts indelicately. “Oh,
spare
me. Have you taken to heart my father’s lectures about motherhood?”

“Of course not,” I say, laying my hand over hers. “But you told me you were glad for this child. Surely not all your happiness died with your husband. You were
Julia
before you were the wife of Marcellus. You were
Julia
before you were the wife of Agrippa—”

“And I was Caesar’s daughter before any of that,” she says bitterly. “I can never outgrow his authority . . .”

Just then, Augustus enters the courtyard and we jump to our feet—except for Julia, who is too heavily pregnant to jump. The slaves and children all bow to the emperor until he waves them back with one hand, saying, “I’m told there is a young prince who celebrates a birthday today!”

The emperor motions for my son to come near. The children all quiet and gather round, eager to see what great honor the emperor wishes to bestow. How strange it is to witness Augustus go down to one knee before the little Berber prince he wishes so desperately to believe is his own son.

Ptolemy shows no fear. To the contrary, my son smiles his dimpled smile and gives the formal military salute of a Roman soldier. It’s a precocious gesture that charms the emperor. “Are you ready to fight the barbarian hordes for me, young Prince Ptolemy?”

My son brandishes his wooden sword in eagerness. “At Caesar’s command!”

The emperor smiles more indulgently than I’ve ever seen him smile at anyone. “Then I think you’ll need this.” Augustus snaps his fingers and slaves bring forth a miniature set of parade armor, complete with a tiny carved breastplate in gleaming gold and a leather military skirt, studded with gems. My son gasps in delight as the slaves fasten it over his tunic.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen my son so overjoyed.

“But what’s missing?” the emperor asks playfully. “What could it be?”

“A scarlet cloak?” little Gaius asks, wrestling with envy.

“Not quite,” the emperor says, and another slave comes forward to unfurl a purple cape fringed with gold. “Scarlet cloaks are for everyday soldiers, but Ptolemy is kin to Alexander the Great. He shall wear royal purple like the king he will become.”

At this I cringe, for the moment the purple cape is fastened over Ptolemy’s shoulders he reminds me of Juba. With long arms and legs, and skin kissed by the desert, he looks more like his true father every day. Whatever I see, however, the emperor does not. “And now, then, young Ptolemy, what’s missing still?”

“A helmet,” Ptolemy guesses.

“Not a helmet for Ptolemy, but a crown,” the emperor replies and rises to receive into his hands two toy reproductions of sacred emblems. When a client king is vested by Rome as a friend and ally, he receives an ivory scepter. Now, with mock solemnity, the emperor places an exact reproduction into my son’s hands. Then, whilst Ptolemy is still marveling over the scepter, the emperor places a golden crown upon his head. “There now, you are king for a day.”

My children have been taught proper manners, but such is my son’s excitement at his gifts that he launches himself against the knees of the emperor, hugging them in gratitude. I give a sharp intake of breath—and all the court titters—but the emperor indulgently pats my son’s head. “Off you go now, my little king.”

With the lavish gifts dispensed, Augustus meanders to where Julia and I sit astonished. “You’ll spoil him,” I say, wishing he hadn’t called such special attention to my son.

“Oh, I think he’ll make a just king,” Augustus replies, pointing to where Ptolemy has set up a mock court from which to preside. Peering down at our game board, the emperor takes up one of the ivory pieces, examining it carefully. “What’s this?”

“Selene’s teaching me a game,” Julia says, frostily.

“When it comes to games, you can have no better teacher.”

The emperor smiles at me, meaning in his hooded gaze.

And Julia’s shrewd eyes miss nothing. “Unfortunately, the games that interest both of you hold no appeal for me. Once my child is born, I wish to return to Rome and retire into private life.”

I’m not sure which of us is more surprised by this announcement, but the emperor speaks before I can. “You wouldn’t last two days in private life. You crave the attention of the crowds too much.”

Because I agree with him, I say nothing. Julia lives to be adored. Even in her grief, she is sure to never, ever be alone. The very idea of such a vibrant woman shutting herself up in a house and wearing mourning clothes every day is absurd. But Julia argues, “I don’t see why you should object, father. Your laws say that Roman women have some right to independence once they have borne three children. Well, this child will be my fifth. Surely I qualify to live my life as I please. I’ve done all that you’ve asked of me. All that you ask of
any
Roman woman.”

“You’re not
any
Roman woman,” Augustus snaps. “You’re my daughter.”

She cannot bury her resentment over the emperor’s delay in reaching Agrippa’s bedside; she cannot even hide her contempt. “Yes, I am your daughter. When you remember it and only then.”

“See that
you
remember it when you remarry, which you must now do.”

This comes as a cold shock, for Agrippa is not even three months dead. Julia blinks, but recovers swiftly. “Who would you have me marry this time?”

“Someone suitable. You’re too dangerous to leave unmarried. You know that, Julia. You must remarry.”

She raises her chin. “No. I won’t.”

For a moment, Augustus stares at his daughter in confusion, unaccustomed to being refused. While he stares, Julia pushes her pregnant girth up from her chair so that she can meet him with a level gaze. “I will not remarry, father. I’ve given you my children, my youth, my heart . . . you’ve no right to steal the years remaining. I will not do it. I will not do it simply because you say I must.”

Whatever drives her to defy him is a dangerous impulse. He sometimes accepts rebellion from me, but never from her. His arm draws back and his fist closes. It is only because he is slow that I am able to throw myself between them before he strikes her. “Wait!”

Scarlet with rage, the emperor trembles, his arm still upraised. “Hear how she speaks to me!”

“We shouldn’t argue in front of the children,” I say quickly.

“Let them see how a father disciplines a rebellious daughter!”

Julia ought to shrink from him; she ought to apologize. Instead, she stands behind me, her black garments rustling in the wind like leaves. She is an imperious oak tree of grief. Her stoic silence, her absolute
composure
enrages the emperor even more.

Again, his arm comes up and this time I know he really
will
strike her if I don’t stop him. Desperate, I grasp the emperor’s cloak, pleading. “Let me speak to you before you do anything rash. Please, I beg of you.”

My intimate touch has the desired effect; Augustus allows me to lead him into the house, where I hurriedly whisper, “She doesn’t know what she’s saying. She’s a wounded animal, lashing out blindly. She’s broken by grief.”

He gnashes his teeth. “Why should she grieve so bitterly for a husband she never wanted in the first place?”

“Does she not owe some loyalty to Agrippa’s memory, especially when she is wracked with guilt for having always put her father before her husband?” In this, I mean to remind him of how Julia left Agrippa in Spain, at her father’s command. “She’s always honored you above everyone else—”

“Where is her filial piety now?” he growls, though his high color is fading. “The contemptuous look she gave me just now would be cause to end a life were she a man.”