Daughters of the Nile (73 page)

She views it as a political advantage.

How like you she has become.

The reminder leaves me to wish fervently for our reunion. I have taken Isidora to see plays and to hear poets and to debate philosophers. She has tried to make of herself a fine companion for me, but there is nothing we see but that we wish you were here to see it with us. I do not like this separation and I cannot imagine how I let you convince me it was a good idea. You are never long from my thoughts and I would, even now, be on the deck of a ship straining for the sight of our lighthouse were it not for the matter of Herod’s trial . . .

Another letter comes from Juba a few weeks later, and this one is written in Latin.

Salve Selene,

As it is now autumn and we have still not returned home to you, I am sure you have surmised that all is not well. We were forced to celebrate Isidora’s sixteenth birthday in Beirut.

The happy occasion was ruined by the trial of Herod’s sons.

You will have heard by now that the trial was a mockery of justice. I tried to persuade Herod that executing his sons would not gain him favor with the emperor—a sentiment echoed by the Roman magistrates—to no avail. The vast majority of the judges were beholden to Herod. They voted for guilt.

The princes were condemned to be strangled to death.

I fear that I proved unequal to my mission. We will not stay to witness the executions as even the shame of my failure cannot dissuade me from returning home to you. Herod has robbed us of enough time!

* * *

THE
king’s ship sails into our harbor only days after I read this letter. Oh, how I curse the eager crowd of courtiers in our entryway who prevent me from rushing to my loved ones in unseemly haste. The king and Princess Isidora stride into the palace with their servants and baggage close behind. I grasp my daughter by the hands and pinch at her cheeks as if she were still a small girl and not a woman of sixteen.

How could my daughter have become more beautiful? Oh, but she is. With pink cheeks and bright eyes she chatters excitedly about her travels. Then Juba calls my name and I turn. With a courtly bow of his head, he says, “You are looking very well, Queen Selene.”

And he—well, how can I describe him without sounding like a lovesick poet? He is a tall king in his own hall, and I am so glad to have him home that I forget all our disappointments.

When I make ready to receive him in my chambers that night, the mirror tells me that he is a flatterer. My skin is not as smooth as it used to be and I spy two gray hairs that I pluck out with my own fingers. I am still tall and regal, but there is a heaviness in my face that was not there before. I have my ladies dress me in my finery, because I find that I am nervous to be alone with the king. In truth, I am as anxious as the day we married, when he took hold of the bed linens and unmasked me by wiping my face clean of the powders and rouge and kohl.

Then he asked me for love and I spurned him.

Now I want nothing more than to be beautiful in his eyes.

We break bread together that night for his homecoming. It is a spicy dish of root vegetables stewed in a clay pot and I worry it will be too hot for the king’s tongue. But he does not seem to notice this, or my anxiety.

“Have you heard what the emperor said of it?” Juba asks, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “He said it was better to be Herod’s pig than one of his sons.”

The witty comment does not amuse me. “Augustus is every bit as guilty. He might have put a stop to it if he cared to.”

Juba does not reply but encourages me to try some of the wine he brought back from the East. An expensive Falernian that is said to have no peer. “Glaphyra was pardoned. At least I accomplished that before leaving Beirut. Or, I should say, Isidora accomplished it . . .”

This makes me gasp. “You involved Isidora?”

“Not intentionally. One glimpse at Isidora with that snake on her arm and Herod went white with fear.”

It should not give me pleasure to imagine it, but it does. “You shouldn’t have let him see her.”

“She came to my side without my bidding,” Juba protests. “And she informed Herod that he was suffering from worm-eaten genitals, an ailment already blinding him and putting a fever into his brain.”

I stop eating. “I think I’m going to gag . . .”

Juba lifts his cup as if to bolster my appetite. “She offered a treatment, which, of course, Herod refused. Deep in his cups, he began muttering about how Cleopatra was a witch, how you and Isidora were witches, how even his dead wife was a witch. So I seized upon this to convince him it was the curse of Mariamne that ailed him. I said that being married to you, I’d learned that killing a woman always risks such magical vengeance and that it would be safer to send Glaphyra away. So Herod cast her out. Sent her back to Cappadocia with her dowry besides.”

I marvel at him. “Then your mission was no failure, Juba. You saved Glaphyra’s life!”

“She was not glad of it,” Juba says, head bowed as he dips his bread into his stew. “Herod took her children and she said she’d rather have died than leave without them.”

I palm his cheek. “You did more than anyone else could.”

Juba’s eyes remain downcast. “Evidently, Augustus agrees. His legates in Syria sent word to him commending my conduct.” I exhale, relieved, for this is exactly what I hoped for. Then Juba adds, “As reward, the emperor’s secretary has informed me that I have permission to style myself as King Juba
Philokaiser
.”

At this I wince, for we have never before needed such an appellation to boast that we were
friends of Caesar
, but I must keep up my husband’s spirits. “Augustus is softening, then. It’s an opportunity to appease him, and we
must
appease him. Not for our sake, but for the sake of our children.”

“For the sake of our children?” Juba asks, slamming down his goblet to punctuate his sudden, violent anger. “You know that he has been writing to Isidora. Caesar will not put a drop of ink to paper in addressing me, but he sends letters to a girl of sixteen. He will take her from us . . . I tell you, he will claim her as his daughter and he will take her!”

“He will not,” I say, for though I worry about all the ways in which the emperor might twist and manipulate my daughter, I will never let him have her. More importantly, neither will my enemies. “Livia will poison Augustus before she would allow him to claim Isidora as his daughter and he knows it.”

Juba uses a napkin to wipe up the wine he has sloshed onto his hand. “Then why is he writing to her?”

“Because he wants me to tell him to stop.” When Juba glances up at me, I vow, “I will not do it. I swear to you that Augustus has heard the last words from me he will ever hear. But you must be reconciled with him and I think I know a way. Every other kingdom in the empire now has a temple for Augustus. Perhaps it is time that you founded a cult to the divine emperor.”

Juba narrows his eyes. “You want the man worshipped here in our kingdom?”

“Of course not. But he will take it as adoration, and that is what he needs from you.”

“Selene, have you seen such cult temples to him? I saw them in Greece. He is carved with a breastplate that depicts his victory over your parents at Actium. Do not tell me that it would not sicken you to see such a thing here . . .”

“It
will
sicken me. It will be galling beyond compare. But I have endured galling things before and I can endure this for you, and for our family.”

My husband stares at me in such a way that I cannot tell whether he thinks me a genius or a madwoman. “Where did you even get such an idea?”

“From you. When we first came to Mauretania, you thought to build such a monstrosity, so you should be the high priest now. Pour spoiled milk for his libations and burn gristle and bone for his sacrifices and spit on his statue every day, for all I care. Or do whatever you would have done, when you first thought to build a temple for Augustus.”

He seems surprised that I know about the designs he made so long ago. “I had an architect sketch such a temple years ago, but my scribe mislaid the plans. Many things have changed since then.”

“Let the emperor forgive you,” I say.

My husband shakes his head. “How can you ask that of me?”

“Because I know how much vengeance and spite have taken from us. The emperor has destroyed his family. Don’t let him destroy ours.”

Juba is silent a good while, staring into the fire.

I break the silence with a confession. “And you should know that your scribe did not mislay the plans. Years ago, when you were away exploring the wilds of Mauretania with your
hetaera
, I found the plans in your study and burned them.”

His head jerks up. “You
burned
them?”

“To ash and with great satisfaction. But my rebellion serves no purpose now.”

My husband rises from his chair to hover over me. “Do I understand you to say . . . that you burned scrolls you found in the king’s study?”

His censure makes me sheepish.

When I can only press my lips together in guilty confession, he says, “I would have a man flogged for such a thing.”

To ease his temper, I murmur, “Good fortune that I am not a man.”

He smirks, in spite of himself, his anger melting into something else. “Good fortune, indeed. Still, I intend to exact a price.”

“What would you have of me, Your Majesty?”

“I would have you stay the night with me in my chambers. The
whole
night.”

My cheeks go hot at the suggestion. It is not done. The king visits the queen’s chambers and leaves before daybreak. The queen does not go to the king’s chambers like some
hetaera
. She certainly does not stay the night. It is not
done
. It will be remarked upon. Our courtiers will gossip.

And I find that I do not care in the slightest.

Forty-five

“IT’S
wonderful,” I say from the warm confines of the king’s bed, the last scroll of his work spread over my bare knees like a blanket.

In the year since Juba’s return, we have scandalized our court with vulgar displays of public affection such as holding hands and exchanging kisses in the banquet hall. There are also persistent rumors that we sleep together in the same chambers almost every night.

My Greeks fear I have truly become a barbarian. Perhaps they are right. After these many years of marriage to the king, it is as if I have only begun to discover him. I’ve learned that he wakes from slumber at the slightest provocation, only to rush from the bed to scribble down some note before returning to sleep again. I’ve also learned that he can be extraordinarily sensitive when it comes to his writing. “Do you truly think it will be well received?” Juba asks, his lips against my shoulder, making no attempt whatsoever to pretend he isn’t hovering.

I laugh, stroking my fingertips over his careful lettering, for he does not use a scribe for his scholarship. “I said it was
wonderful
! It will become an essential volume in every library in the world. There has never been such a comprehensive study of our kingdom. You have cataloged everything, from plants to purple dye, maps of islands and characteristics of our hunting dogs to the source of the Nile. Why, you even managed to slip in that story about Tala and the lion!”

The king’s valet knocks at the door, but we ignore it like petulant children, snuggling down in our nest of lavender-scented bed linens and warm skin.

“I ought to take it out. My fellow scholars think me a credulous fool . . .”

“Let them think what they like. Far more miraculous things have happened here than a merciful lion . . .”

The king takes my palm in his hand and kisses it with a promise of intimacy in his eyes. “Indeed. Perhaps miraculous things shall happen again, right now.”

The mischief in his gaze heats my loins, but again the valet knocks.

“Go away!” the king shouts. “Or I’ll send the executioner for your head.”

I throw my head back in laughter. “Tyrant! You’ll terrify the poor boy. Besides, we must get up or we’ll be late for our son’s birthday games.”

“Let the world wait,” Juba says, nuzzling my hair.

“But I have a surprise for you.”

The king tugs me closer. “All the more reason to let them wait.”

“Not here,” I say, trying to smother my grin. “In your study.”

With mussed hair and desire in his eyes, he says, “My study? I confess I am not very particular about where. Beds, couches, or tents are all the same to me. So I will not argue against the study, though it’s rather cluttered and I cannot speak for its comfort . . .”

Again he makes me laugh and I have to thwart him with both hands on his chest. “Careful. You are crushing your scroll between us . . .”