Daughters of the Nile (13 page)

Some husbands would bend a disobedient wife to their will. Some wives would submit. But I won’t be bent and my will is stronger than his. Storming out of his study, I slam every door on my way to my chambers. There I stay, in spite of all my husband’s entreaties.

It isn’t Juba who persuades me. It’s Julia. Coming to my sitting room, and pretending to admire some of the Berber green and red pottery on display, she says, “Oh, be reasonable, Selene. Don’t you want to see Octavia? I’m told she doesn’t leave the house often these days, but she’ll cross the Tiber for you. Do you still own that house overlooking the river?”

“Yes, though it’s been empty some years now,” I say, annoyed by her transparent attempts to manipulate me with the mention of my stepmother.

“Marvelous. We’ll throw our banquets there. I’ll invite the youngest and most brilliant people in Rome. Everyone who is anyone important will want to come to pay a call upon the Queen of Mauretania.”

“I care nothing about banquets or brilliant people in Rome.”

“What of your sisters, then? Why, you and me and the Antonias haven’t been together since . . .” She breaks off for we both remember when we were last together. It was just before the fever that took Marcellus and killed my little brother. “Antonia Major is finally with child,” Julia continues. “It will ease her fears about childbirth to have her sister near.”

“She has other sisters.”

“Marcella, you mean.” Julia’s expression sours as if she’s bitten a wormy apple. “That’s another reason you must come back with me to Rome. I’ll need you to stand between us, so that I don’t claw her face.”

I sigh. If there were ever a puppet to circumstance, it is Marcella. I’d wager all I own that she played no part in the scandalous marriage arrangements that led to Julia’s unhappiness. “You can’t blame Marcella for your troubles.”

“Remind me of that when we see her,” Julia says, taking my hand in hers. “It’s one thing to hear of her marriage to Iullus . . . another to lay eyes on them together as man and wife. I won’t be able to bear it without you.”

“Enough, Julia. That’s your world, not mine.”

I don’t expect to see the hurt in her eyes. “You would truly let me go to Rome without you, given what I face?”

Guilt twists in my belly, but she doesn’t know the risk I’d be taking to be at her side. “None of us know what you face.”

She stares at me, the giddy light in her eyes winking into blackness. “In Rome, my husband and my father will be locked in whatever confrontation they’ve dreamed up for each other. It may come to civil war. War, again, and every Roman and every kingdom in the empire will be forced to choose a side. That’s why Juba must make peace between them. And you must be there to help him because you’re a symbol of the
last
war. I know it. My father knows it. And you know it.”

With clear eyes, I return to my husband’s study that night. Surrounded by scrolls, he wistfully dips a pen into ink but doesn’t set it to paper. We’re quiet as my fingers trail over all the comforts he’s gathered here. Paintings of old friends he hasn’t spoken to in years. A collection of letters from faraway companions he may never see again. A water clock that keeps breaking, but which he will not replace. The silence between us stretches out uncomfortably.

At last he breaks it. “Well?”

“I will go with you to Rome.”

He nods once, then returns to his writing.

The next morning, Juba appoints minor officials to look after his interests while we’re in Rome and I choose Chryssa to look after mine. Already the disgruntled men in my kingdom say about Chryssa what they cannot safely say about me. That she is an unnatural woman who meddles in matters of state when she should be bearing children and tending to her home. But, like me, she has made this kingdom a calling, and I think Julia was mistaken . . . a heart can make room for many loves.

Still, the appointment does not please her. “What can the emperor want from you now?” she asks. “Why won’t he leave you alone?”

“This visit to Rome has little to do with me,” I lie, because I cannot bear for even Chryssa to know the truth; that I am still the emperor’s possession to toy with. “All the client kings and queens must go to Rome. The city will be filled with royalty. I’ll be only one more queen in a sea of them.”

But she is not fooled. “And I am a blue-painted Pict from Britannia.”

Eight

THE PORT OF OSTIA

SPRING 17
B.C.

WE
sail to Italy in ships laden with a cargo of ivory, wooden furniture, pungent fish sauce, and exotic animal hides—all of which are sold by our agents before they’re even unloaded from the holds. Other royal embassies have arrived from the East, and we quickly fall into the company of the Cappadocians, King Archelaus and his daughter, Princess Glaphyra.

We must all bear the indignity of being summoned to the emperor to account for ourselves like wayward legates. We all owe our positions to Augustus, and if he wishes to parade royalty before the humblest citizens in Rome, we will all march to his tune. Climbing into wood-paneled carriages with gilded wheels and cushioned benches, we start our painfully slow progress from Ostia to Rome.

Normally, it is an easy day’s travel, but with the crowds on the road, I fear that we won’t arrive by nightfall. And not an hour into our journey, we come upon King Iamblichus of Emesa, who hails us. Then our followers swell in number so that our combined royal caravan goes even slower, now taking up a long stretch of the road with our supply carts and guards and retainers.

It’s a veritable reunion of my closest royal allies—all of whom once tried to persuade Augustus that I should take my mother’s place as the Queen of Egypt—and I’m glad to see my friends again. But whereas I was the darling of Greece, Julia is the darling of Rome. The common people wave and cheer her. Maybe they love her because she’ll soon be a mother three times over. Maybe they love her because she’s young and beautiful and vivacious. Whatever the reason, they
do
love her and I’m glad to see her glow under their adoration, acutely aware that my own status is increasingly entwined with hers. I’m accustomed to being loved or hated for the sake of my parents; it’s an entirely new thing to be looked upon with favor because Julia keeps me as her closest companion.

As our journey progresses, my baby boy fusses in my arms. Fortunately, my daughter and my niece keep each other busy with little games, the rules of which only they know. And on the road, the gossip is all good. We hear that there’s been a grand reunion between the emperor and Agrippa, their friendship renewed after such a long separation. Everyone we encounter, from fishmongers to mule drivers, tells us the upcoming celebrations shall commemorate the close partnership between the emperor and his son-in-law.

But mine is an ear trained to hear falsehood; I notice the tension in the voices of soldiers newly returned from Gaul. The stories of harmony between Augustus and Agrippa are too bright, too optimistic. We even hear rumor that Agrippa’s self-imposed exile six years before was not any true break in his alliance with the emperor, but only a ruse by which the Parthians were lured into peace.

I know this is a lie. And because it is a lie, we cannot trust the rest.

Julia must know it too. With each new cheerful rumor, her rosebud lips draw tighter together.

When we stop to water the horses, we’re nearly mobbed by curious travelers. An elderly woman thrusts forward a basket of herbs, crying, “To help with the pains of childbirth!”

Julia’s slave girl, Phoebe, takes the basket, and the emperor’s daughter says, “I’m no stranger to such pains but I welcome a respite from them. Have you any other advice to offer a good daughter of Rome?”

The woman goes pink with pleasure at being asked and dispenses wisdom about how to steep the herbs in boiling water and the best way to discipline a wayward child. “May the gods bless you, Lady Julia. You’re no dried-up old stick living high on the Palatine.”

The implied resentment for the emperor’s wife is music to my ears. It probably pleases Julia as well, but she’s wise enough to take no notice of it. “What welcome will I find in Rome, good matron? Is it true that my father and my husband are fast friends?”

At last we’ve come upon someone who is unwilling to lie. “You poor thing,” the woman says. “Torn between a father and a husband. You’ve some mending work to do if you will keep them at peace. Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa keeps the company of his own soldiers, and I fear that soon every man in Rome will again be forced to choose a side.”

Julia nods gravely, sending the woman on her way with a few coins. None of us speak about what we’ve heard; we all know the decisions we may have to make if Agrippa and Augustus end their partnership and battle each other for power. Instead, we speak of the upcoming ceremonies, advertised by heralds at milestones here and wide as a spectacle that comes every 110 years, a thing no living man has seen before and will never see again.

Princess Glaphyra asks, “Wouldn’t it be fascinating if we could find someone who attended the last
Ludi Seculares
?”

“Impossible,” I say. “To remember the spectacle, the man would need to have lived longer than one hundred and ten years, and the gods will not allow any mortal so many years.”

“Unless you worship the Hebrew god,” Glaphyra argues. “In their book, men live to be hundreds of years old. Perhaps King Herod will outlive us all.”

Her father, the Cappadocian king, scowls at her. “I shouldn’t have let my daughter learn to read.”

“Oh, Papa!” Glaphyra titters. “Don’t you want me to learn the beliefs of the Jews? You can hardly marry me to one of Herod’s sons and not expect me to wonder if there is more to Judaism than avoiding pork and shellfish.”

I’m aghast, and not only because I’m sensitive to the mockery of religion. It is Glaphyra’s marriage plans that set my nerves on edge. My mother’s old rival Herod has always shadowed my life. Once he tried to convince Augustus to kill my brothers and me. And though I’ve never met the man, I count him as an enemy and am alarmed by the way he is growing in power and influence. “I’m afraid news reaches us slowly in Mauretania,” I say. “Who arranged this portentous marriage?”

“Herod approached us,” the Cappadocian king replies, taking no notice of the edge in my question. “As he received permission from Augustus, I could not refuse the honor.”

This tells me nothing and everything.

King Archelaus goes on, “Besides, it’s a good match. Herod’s son has a better claim to the throne than his father.”

This much is true. Herod is king only because he married the princess of the Hasmonean dynasty. Herod’s sons have royal blood through their mother, not their father. Aware that Princess Glaphyra is awaiting my congratulations, I say, “I’m sure Princess Glaphyra will bring the light of Hellenism to the Judean court. May she shine like a burning lamp in the dark.”

Glaphyra grins at my flattery. “Don’t worry. I won’t let the Herods dampen my flame!”

The Herods
. She has transformed what may become a dynastic name in the careless and amusing way that normally appeals to Julia, but the emperor’s daughter is remarkably subdued. Instead of laughing at Glaphyra’s cleverness, Julia turns without a word, returning to the
carpentum
to wait. I go with her because I know the impending confrontation in Rome weighs heavily on her mind. The burden of her pregnancy only makes things worse.

In the carriage, Julia leans her head upon my shoulder and asks, “What if I’m not married?”

“What?” I ask, wondering if Julia is overheated, and where that slave girl got to with the fan.

“Agrippa may have decided upon divorce. What if I am the last to know?”

“He’d never divorce you, Julia. It would invite war.”

“Maybe he
wants
war. I’ve always assumed that Agrippa was a faithful hunting hound who would return chastened to my father’s side. But what if I’m mistaken? Maybe Agrippa is a wolf.”

I cannot say she
is
mistaken. Once, Agrippa was the emperor’s loyal champion. But over the years, the warrior learned his own strength and his master’s weaknesses. To comfort Julia, I can only say, “Divorce may be the answer to your troubles.” After all, in Rome, marriage is a political alliance more easily shaken off than in other places. Nearly every woman in the imperial family has been divorced before. It should not unduly tarnish Julia’s reputation. “If Agrippa has divorced you, then you won’t be torn between them anymore.”

“If Agrippa divorces me, he’ll take my children. By Roman law, he can do it. He’ll take this baby in my womb too the moment it’s born. Just as my father stole me from my mother’s arms. I was almost never allowed to see her. I grew up without her, wondering, always
wondering
, if she loved me. If
anyone
loved me. I can’t bear for my children to wonder such a thing. I can’t bear it!”