Daughters of the Nile (17 page)

Today, only Octavia and her daughters work at the tasks. My stepmother wears a drab
tunica
, a dark
stola
overtop to symbolize that she still mourns for her son. Her head is covered with a black shawl too, making her face look heavier and more severe beneath it. It worries me to see that the corners of Lady Octavia’s mouth turn down and little lines have etched themselves there as if she’s forgotten how to smile.

But the moment she sees me, she does smile. So do her daughters. There’s a great outburst of chatter as we all exchange glad embraces. In my mind’s eye, my half sisters, the Antonias, will always be little girls, quick to mimic their mother and me. But now Antonia Major is married and swollen with child. And at nineteen years old, Minora is betrothed. Together with Octavia’s oldest daughter, Marcella, my half sisters have become the solid foundation of the imperial family.

These are the women of the
Julii
. They are family of the emperor in a way that his wife and her Claudian sons can never be. It’s the emperor’s sister who has provided him with prim women of good reputation, beholden to no other political alliance, which is why they still reside with him on the Palatine and likely always will.

Kissing Marcella’s cheeks, I say, “I’m glad to see you haven’t forced little Marcellina to take up the loom yet.”

“Marcellina isn’t so little anymore,” she says. “Besides, Agrippa has taken her from me. Now she must call Julia mother, and we both know Julia would never deign to dirty her hands with useful work.”

It’s unfair. All of it. That Agrippa should take Marcella’s daughter simply because they’ve divorced is a cruelty. That Marcella should resent his new wife for it, doubly so. Julia had no part in the arrangements; indeed, she’s struggling with her own resentments, and it pains me to think of my two childhood friends so at odds. “Surely Agrippa lets you visit with your daughter . . .”

“Of
course
he does,” Octavia snaps. “The girl is coming today, in fact. Agrippa is no brute. He treated Marcella with respect.”

Octavia’s quick defense of the admiral reminds me that the twisted affections of the imperial family reach far beyond the perverse quadrangle at its center, made up of Agrippa, Marcella, Julia, and Iullus. The political marriages have hurt nearly everyone, including Octavia, though some of her wounds are self-inflicted.

This isn’t the tone I wished to set for our reunion, so I force a smile and wave a hand as if to disperse smoke from a kitchen fire. “This room is just as stuffy as I remember it! Are you going to make my royal entourage stand in the corridor, or shall we all go out into the gardens and have a proper visit where the children can play?”

Octavia’s hands halt over the shuttle of her loom. “You brought the children?”

“Yes, and I want them to enjoy themselves . . .”

The corners of Octavia’s mouth threaten to lift into another smile. “You have very unorthodox ideas about children, Selene. No doubt you’ll spoil them rotten and turn them into little tyrants.”

“No doubt,” I reply. “That is why I need your guidance.”

“Well, then,” she says, pushing her stool back from the loom. “I’ll go out by the fishpond for a spell, but I can’t spend all day dallying—I have to attend to my work at the theater. It will never be done in time for the games at this rate.”

The Antonias exchange a look that tells me their mother has been fretting about this for some time, and that my visit is a welcome distraction. So we all go out into the verdant springtime.

There in the gardens, I present my children to Octavia one at a time. My daughter is a prettier little girl than I ever was and Octavia praises her golden hair, calling her a veritable Venus. Then I present the dark-haired, sloe-eyed Pythia, and Octavia gives a wistful sigh. “Antony’s first granddaughter . . . a shame what happened to her mother. To be married off to a Greek merchant!”

Pythia lifts her chin ever so slightly, rancor burning in her eyes, so I send both girls off to play at the edge of the pool. “This is my son,” I say, giving my baby over into Octavia’s outspread arms.

She takes him eagerly. “Ah, a healthy little prince for Mauretania. He has Juba’s eyes, doesn’t he?” I’m grateful that she notices. “You’ll make a proper little barbarian, won’t you?” Octavia coos at my little Ptolemy, who takes no offense, blinking up at her with a sweet gurgling smile.

Just then, a fish splashes in the pond and I can’t help but taunt her. “Fishponds, Octavia? When did you become so grand a lady as to demand only the freshest fish for your dinner table? And are these saltwater fish? Do you have slaves haul ocean water all the way from Ostia for your convenience?”

Octavia huffs. “The
piscinae
weren’t my idea! It’s all the fashion these days to have lampreys and mullets. These were a gift from Agrippa.”

“Who knew the admiral could be so extravagant?”

“So says the queen of a grand palace by the sea,” Augustus interrupts, emerging from a nearby archway in a broad-brimmed hat and short tunic that exposes his spindly legs. “I’m glad to find you here, Selene,” the emperor says, motioning to me with two fingers. “Come. Walk with me.”

* * *

WHEN
I was a girl I took pride in the way the emperor singled me out for his attention, but it now distresses me. Nevertheless, one does not refuse a request to walk beside the emperor . . .

We stroll in the gardens where he shows me a fruit tree I’ve never seen before. A gift from the kingdom of Pontus.
Cherry
, the emperor calls it. “It isn’t new to Rome, but it is rare. Like you, Selene.”

I turn from him, resisting his flattery. “Is it also poisonous?”

He snorts. “No. Cherries are sweet and fleshy . . .”

I don’t want him thinking of my taste or flesh, so I say, “Perhaps I will acquire some of these fruit trees for my palace in Mauretania, to which I should like to return as soon as possible.”

At this, the emperor abandons his wooing in favor of the business he has in mind. “The Senate meets today to authorize persons who would not normally be allowed to participate in the Secular Games . . .” The Romans can be very insular when it comes to their rites and rituals. “I want all of the city to take part. Slaves, mourning women, and even foreign queens.”

“That is why you summoned me, is it not?” I cannot resist plucking the ripening berries, so round and shining in the sun with possibility. Tasting one, I find that cherries are all sweetness. Juicy pleasure on my tongue. Such untainted sweetness is so strange to me, I cannot decide if I love this fruit or detest it.

“I mean for you to have a special role in the festivities,” he says, and the sweetness in my mouth turns sour. “During the day, I must share the glory with Agrippa. But in the evenings, I will invoke the gods of Rome to herald a new age.”

“Isn’t that the duty of the Pontifex Maximus?”

“I cannot very well call Lepidus back from exile to perform his priestly duties, can I?”

“Why not?” Marcus Aemilius Lepidus was the third man in the alliance my father once made with the emperor. The triumvirate. An agreement to divide up the Roman world between the three of them. But during the civil war, Lepidus was so inept as to make enemies on all sides. “I have always assumed that you let Lepidus live because he is harmless . . .”

The emperor scowls. “I do not let traitors live because they are harmless. He lives because he is the High Priest of Rome.”

“Julius Caesar was the High Priest of Rome and it did not stop the assassins from plunging knives into him,” I say, my voice trailing off as I realize my error. If there is anyone he truly reveres, it is his adopted father. He would do nothing to invite comparison between himself and the men who assassinated the dictator.

“Precisely the point, Selene! I cannot execute Lepidus unless I wish to be blamed for every calamity that befalls Rome—for the people will see in it the wrath of the gods. When Lepidus is dead, I will take the pontificate for myself. The ceremonies I will perform in the coming weeks will help to establish my place as the highest religious authority in Rome. That is why I’ll have you at my side.”

He says this to me as if it has already been decided, but I will not allow myself to play the role of the emperor’s mistress, fueling the sort of gossip that destroyed my mother. My mother was foolish to allow Julius Caesar to commemorate her with a golden statue for all Rome to gawk at, but she was the Queen of Egypt and she was in love with her Caesar.

I am neither.

“I’m not your wife and I have no place at your side.”

“Has your time in balmy Mauretania dulled your wits? I’m not asking you to take part as a notorious woman or an exotic curiosity. I want you at my side as the priestess of Isis that you are.”

He’s the first to call me a priestess. Though I’ve given voice to my goddess through my own flesh and blood and ministered to others in her name, never have I donned the robes of a priestess. Never have I submitted myself to the initiation of her holy order, nor suffered the privations they endure to find communion with her. Isis has called me her child, never her priestess, but hope creeps into my breast. “Do you mean, then, to restore Isis worship to Rome?”

“I cannot do that,” he says, and I think I hear a genuine hint of regret. “Imagine what mischief Agrippa and his champions could make for me if I’m seen to welcome back the foreign goddess of Cleopatra with her daughter standing beside me. No, Selene. In these rites, I must call upon Roman gods and show that I mean to restore the old ways. It’s an honor I offer you, to be here at the start of a Golden Age.”

I’m not honored but offended, for I understand the nefarious political reason behind this strange request. He remembers the last time I was in Rome—when conspiracy threatened his power and Isis worshippers rose up in insurrection. In this city alone, thousands of Isis worshippers believe that the goddess speaks through me. Augustus knows it all too well. He knows too of the prophecy at my birth, that I would help to usher in a Golden Age. My presence at his side would give a silent nod to those who believe in that prophecy . . . those who believe in me. My presence would tell them that if I have a place at the emperor’s side, then they too have a place in his empire.

It is one lie too many. “No. I’m sorry. I must refuse.”

He stares at me with those intent gray eyes. “You rebuff me now at the merest provocation, clinging to your wounded pride. Selene, don’t you see what I mean to give to you in the years to come? Once it’s mine and only mine, I mean to give you the whole world.”

“Well, I don’t want it,” I tell him flatly.

“Yes, you do, Selene.
Yes, you do
.”

Eleven

THE
next day, I receive an intriguing invitation to the Temple of Vesta. Draped in pure white, the chief Vestal Virgin is waiting for me inside the well-tended gates. She’s a woman of such height and stature that we meet each other with a level gaze. “Welcome to the House of the Vestals, Your Majesty.”

“I thank you for the invitation, Virgo Vestalis Maxima. To what do I owe this rare honor?”

“You may call me Occia,” she says with a musical voice, leading me into the shade of the courtyard, where the statues of her predecessors watch over us. “I’ve asked you here because Augustus wishes for you to take part in our sacred rites. He tells me that you have refused . . .”

“And he’s asked you to change my mind?”

“Yes. Though I would have tried whether he asked or not.”

“I cannot imagine why.”

“Your Majesty, I’ve been tending the hearth at the heart of this city since I was a girl. I was unusually young when I rose to be the chief Vestal. Twenty-two. The same age that you are now. That was the year your father broke with your mother to marry Lady Octavia and all Rome believed that the civil wars were over. We were wrong.”

I thought Vestals beyond such worldly concerns. Whenever I have seen them before, floating in a cloud of white wool, trailing the end of sacred processions, they’ve seemed like captive birds set out to please the eyes. I begin to think I have misunderstood something vital. “No one is sorrier than I am that no lasting peace for the world could be made.”

“Perhaps a lasting peace can be forged now, Your Majesty. That is what we mean to ask of the gods in our sacred rites.” Though her unhurried steps give the impression of a tranquil stroll, I begin to think she is leading me somewhere. “When I became the chief Vestal, I thought myself every bit as pure as I’m meant to be. Pure in body, pure in heart, pure in deed. I was proud. I dutifully kept the fire burning in the Temple of Vesta. I fetched water from the sacred spring. I made the salted flour that sanctifies Roman rites. I was a very proud young woman.”

And I am a proud queen, so I cannot fault her.

Other homes display ancestral masks or graven images of Roman warriors on horseback or the conscript fathers in the Senate, but here, in this college of priestesses, they surround themselves with the memories of women who have served before them with duty and distinction. I’ve seen marble carvings of goddesses and nymphs and queens, but never before have I seen statues honoring mortal women for their spiritual dedication. And I am captivated. “Pride motivates us to do our jobs well.”