Daughters of the Nile (18 page)

“Pride is a mirage,” she says. “You see, I thought I could secure the blessing of my goddess for Rome, but there have been many dark days since the year I became the chief Vestal. War and famine. Proscriptions, men murdered, and blood in the streets of Rome. I believe the dark days were a punishment from the gods, that they started here . . . and that they started with you.”

“With me?” We stop before a carved wooden door with a large bronze handle. It’s reinforced with bands of iron. I stare at it without comprehension. “I’m afraid I don’t understand; I have never been here before.”

She opens the door to reveal two pretty Vestals inside, one holding a lamp and the other filing some document away in an iron box. They both dip in reverence to the chief Vestal Virgin, who waves them away. From the doorway, I catch only glimpses inside, of chambers filled with metal plates, scroll-cases, and various strange artifacts.

Occia does not invite me to step inside. “Vestal Virgins are thought to be incorruptible, Your Majesty. That is why we can give testimony at a court of law without even swearing an oath. We are entrusted with treaties and contracts . . . and the wills of important men.”

Gooseflesh rises on my arms and I’m quite suddenly chilled. Her expression tells me I have every reason to be. Her gaze is faraway. She is remembering, lost in another time.

“You are the Vestal Virgin who surrendered my father’s Last Will to the emperor, aren’t you?”

She nods. “Octavian—that is what he was called then—came for it in the dead of night with torches and soldiers, demanding to inspect Antony’s papers. I stood here, my back against this very door, using my body to bar the way.”

“Do you mean for me to believe he did violence to force you?” I whisper, for I won’t believe her. Like a Roman magistrate, her very person is sacrosanct. No man would dare lay hands on her. Not even Augustus, I think.

Occia squints. “No one should blame us, he said. Was he not an imperator? We tried to reason with him. We made plain to him that this would violate our oldest trusts and traditions. But he said Rome’s protection should never extend to her enemies and that your father’s Last Will would prove him to be an enemy. In the end, we told him that if he held the gods and goddesses of Rome in so little esteem, he could take it and suffer their wrath. So he took it . . . and then we all suffered.”

There can be few things more sacred than the arrangements one makes to preserve one’s memory after death. My father entrusted his words—the last words he might ever say to his family and countrymen—to the Vestal Virgins. And the emperor took those words and used them to start a war.
Antony is no Roman now, but an Egyptian who wishes to be buried in his beloved Alexandria.

“I had always assumed it was a forgery,” I say.

“It may have been. I never read Antony’s will, but if the document the emperor revealed to the Senate was an expression of your father’s true desires, then his love for your mother was such that he couldn’t bear to be parted from her, even in death. The family Antony wished to honor was
yours
. So I am right to say that the suffering started here and with you, at least in part. That is why I hope you will take part in the rites, Your Majesty. Your father cannot absolve me, but perhaps you can stand in his stead.”

I hold tightly to my resentments. My hatreds must be pried from me before I will cast them away. I have struggled these years to master the dark, vengeful side of my nature lest it rule me. Forgiveness does not come easily. It has been difficult enough to reconcile myself to an alliance with the man who destroyed my family and to a marriage with the flawed man who helped him do it.

Now they want more than my forgiveness. They want me to ask even the gods to forgive them.

Such a galling request churns in my belly. It is too much. I can offer only a shake of my head and an upraised hand as if to forestall anything else she might say. Then I turn and walk away, trying to find the path that will lead me out.

The chief Vestal follows, calling my name. It is only when she matches my stride that I hiss, “If you think that Augustus is sincere, you are mistaken, Virgo Maxima. The emperor wants me at his side while he performs rites that he knows should be performed by the Pontifex Maximus. He wants me with him to lend religious authority to his performance, nothing more.”

I come to a halt at the foot of the steps that lead up into the Temple of Vesta, my body arrested by a familiar sensation that makes my fingertips tingle. Is it
heka
? Here? Watching me carefully, Occia pinches dead blossoms from a nearby vine. “Have you the gift to see into a man’s soul, Your Majesty?”

Not all men
, I think, but I have seen all that I need to see of the emperor’s soul. I’ve glimpsed the greatness of which he is capable, but I’ve also seen the writhing snake pit of madness and ambition. “I’m no stranger to the bargains that must be made for political gain,” I say. “Land, money, ships, slaves, marriage, alliances, taxes, and tributes . . . these are the currency of statecraft. I understand too that rulers must make bargains with the gods. But my faith is not a commodity; it’s something as pure white as the gowns you wear. To wield it falsely would be to stain it.”

“Majesty, I pluck these dead blossoms so that the other flowers may bloom bigger and brighter. It is for my own pleasure that I tend to the task. But does the plant know why or care? What matter does it make to great gods why we do our duty to them, so long as we do it?”

She speaks perfect sense in the Roman way of thinking; we worshippers of Isis bewilder them with talk of faith and mystery and communion. “It matters to me.”

“Then perhaps your prayers for a Golden Age will be more powerful than mine,” she says, starting up the stairs into the round Temple of Vesta and beckoning me to follow. It is not a large temple. The whole of it centers on a single flame, an eternal fire, tended by these women since the dawn of Rome. The fire represents light, and life itself. Life for the city. Life for civiliation.

Yet, it is an austere hearth, a tiny sanctuary beneath a domed roof.

And I am moved by the simplicity of it. Not only by the sight of these guardians performing their hallowed duties, giving their lives to this flame, but because the magic in this place rushes at me like water. I might drown in it if I do not let some of it flow into my body and the amulet at my throat. Perhaps I am entitled to take it, for has not Isis told me that she is all goddesses? Does this place, this Roman place, belong to her too?

I find Isis now even where her name is never spoken. And yet, I hesitate because the echoes of ancient prayers I hear are not the same kinds of prayers that women make in a Temple of Isis. These are not prayers to turn a lover’s gaze or make a womb fertile. Not prayers to save a dying child or bring home a lost sailor. The prayers I hear are for
Rome
. They are prayers for the well-being of the people as a whole. They are prayers for the preservation of the state.

How have I missed this crucial piece in understanding the people I have so long considered my enemies? Rome is male in every part, I have argued. Certainly everything the emperor has ever done before now has led me to that conclusion. But here in the heart of the city, at the center of everything Romans have believed about themselves, is the idea that only women can defend their way of life.

Chaste women, to be sure. Women who cannot be mothers or wives or lovers. But women, still.

“Your Majesty,” Occia says to me, her voice lilting low. “They say you are one of those persons for whom the veil is very thin between our world and the divine. Given the rapture on your face, I think they speak truly. I’m told that you have used your gifts to feed your people and give comfort to those in your faith. Perhaps our rites will have no meaning to you and will do no good for the world. But if we do mark a new age—is it not right that you should be there?”

* * *

IT
still irritates me to lay aside my royal purple garments for the festivities, but I settle upon a green
chiton
with a large Greek key embroidered on the hem. My shawl is so white it looks as if it’s been chalked for a Roman election. But for jewels, I wear showy amethyst earrings to match my mother’s carved ring. I cannot bear to forgo purple entirely, after all.

I take so long to dress that Juba is forced to set out ahead of me and I must pass over the bridge to Tiber Island in a covered litter with my own entourage following behind on foot. While the heralds shout invitations to the people, I cross the crowded island, then take the second bridge to the newly constructed Theater of Marcellus.

I confess, I did not much care for Roman architecture when I first came to this city as a girl, but since then, I have marveled at the grand domed Pantheon Agrippa built on the Campus Martius. And now I am impressed by the new theater, for this three-story semicircular structure is one of the finest I’ve seen. A honeycomb of archways and pillars, it’s covered in travertine. Ramps rise up to flower-bedecked platforms leading to airy corridors in which theatergoers may gather and converse. My only complaint is that the columns are a mix of Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian, which ought to please the Hellenistic queen in me, but I think it may be too much altogether.

Of course, I will not say so with Lady Octavia fretting near an entryway. Flanked by the Antonias, she’s cornered some hapless official. “It’s not finished,” she’s saying. “All of the paintings haven’t been hung. The statues haven’t been put into place. You’ve covered part of the structure with canvas but I can see the exposed bricks at the foundation in the back.”

“There’s nothing to be done about it now,” says Minora.

Then Antonia hurries to add, “People will be watching the play, not worrying about the brickwork, Mother. Trust in the emperor’s judgment.”

“Well, I’ve done that for a lifetime and where has it gotten me?” Octavia snaps. Then she sees me. “Selene! What honor does it do my Marcellus to let the people see a shabby unfinished theater?”

“Surely it’s better than to keep the people out,” I reply, nodding to the crowd that is assembling while the orchestra readies inside. “It can’t be right to celebrate the Secular Games without remembering Marcellus. The games come only once in a century; there won’t be a second chance for you to see them celebrated here.”

Octavia purses her lips in consideration. “That’s true . . .”

I know how to move her because we share a singular trait. Like me, Octavia has survived those she loves. Like me, she struggles to carve some legacy from the ruins for her beloved dead. So I say, “A hundred years from now, the people won’t remember the diamond-patterned bricks or even the plays they see this afternoon. They’ll remember your son’s name. They’ll remember that Marcellus shared in this glory.”

“Yes,” she breathes, releasing the fists she’s made of her hands. “Yes, they will. That’s all I can give him now.”

Minora leans to whisper in my ear. “She’s like this all the time. We couldn’t even get her to dress prettily for the celebration; not even jewelry.” Unfortunately, she doesn’t whisper quietly enough.

Octavia stiffens. “My ears haven’t failed me yet. Jewelry isn’t for women like me. It’s for you girls to make yourselves beautiful for your husbands.”

“Nonsense,” Minora argues. “Jewelry is to impress other women. Most men wouldn’t know the difference between an emerald or a pea.”

While I gape at my little sister’s surprisingly tart observation, Antonia holds up a pair of golden leaf dangled earrings. “This is a special occasion,” she insists. “Livia is wearing jewelry. Let me put these on you.”

Octavia snorts. “I most certainly will not.”

“If you don’t want to shine, I may take it as license to do something scandalous,” I say, to tweak her. “It’s not too late for me to don an old Egyptian-style wig and have myself carried in by oiled slaves dressed in loincloths. I’m Cleopatra’s daughter, but I was brought up in your household. How will that reflect on you?”

“You’re a wicked girl,” Octavia scolds, but she lets Antonia fasten the earrings on her.

Hearing that the emperor’s wife is soon to arrive, I make a swift retreat up the stairs to a small antechamber. Seated upon a luxurious couch draped in fleece, I wait for Juba. Unexpectedly, I am joined by an older man whose hair has been dyed black, in contrast to his graying eyebrows. Given this strange vanity and charismatic smile, I am left to assume he’s a stage actor.

“Your Majesty,” the actor says in strangely accented Greek, bowing with a dramatic flourish. “We have a few moments before you will be ushered to your seat.”

“Have you seen my husband?” I ask. “King Juba of Mauretania?”

“No, but I don’t suppose that he’s run away, my dear. Unless he’s been told about tonight’s play, in which case any sane man would find the nearest exit.”

My guards stiffen that he should address me with such familiarity, but I find myself stifling a laugh at the old man’s wit. “What is tonight’s play? I didn’t even think to ask.”

“It isn’t worth asking. You know these Romans. For them, it’s all comedy and pantomimes. I myself prefer a good Greek tragedy.”

The man’s geniality puts me at ease. “Do you have a favorite?”

“
Medea
,” he says at once.

“Ah. That’s very good, but such a fiendish tale of revenge has always disturbed me.”

He looks surprised, as if a queen may not be as horrified by the murder of children as any other woman. “Indeed, Majesty? Do your sympathies go to Jason who led the Argonauts or to the sorceress who triumphs over him?”

Wading into an argument that’s raged for hundreds of years, I insist, “No one triumphs in that play. Jason’s ambitions bring calamity down on his house and Medea cannot ruin him without ruining herself.” It’s the same iron-jawed trap I’ve been caught in all my life. “Besides, there’s no triumph to be had when you must sacrifice your own children to it.”

My charming companion smirks. “We’ll see if you still agree when you’re my age and your children show you so little respect that you wish you’d left them on a hillside.”