Daughters of the Nile (74 page)

That makes him release me, as I knew it would, and I take the opportunity to roll from his bed and find my own robe. With a growl of frustration, he yanks a tunic over his head, then follows me into the hall, where some servants scatter and others turn to stone, none of them certain how to behave in the presence of the king and queen in dishabille. Together in bare feet, we sweep into his study, where I proudly unveil a brand-new water clock that I had designed by one of the scholars at our university.

With great showmanship, I snap off the coverings, explaining, “At each hour, a little mechanical animal performs some little trick!”

“Fascinating,” Juba says, stooping to examine each metal part, entranced by the intricacy of the automata in the form of lions, elephants, monkeys, and other creatures from our lands. Then the hour changes and a little mechanized spearman prompts the metal lion to attack with an accompanying chime.

Juba startles with delight. “How splendid!”

I am even more delighted. “The designer says it’s similar to one in Rhodes, where they’re experts in making such mechanized things. Do you like it?”

“I like it very much . . . except . . .”

Watching his smile slowly fade, I am deflated. “What is it? I know it is a whimsical gift not in keeping with the serious bearing of a king . . . but I hoped to impress you with the genius of the thing.”

“I am impressed. Quite pleased by the gift, Selene. It is only that I already have a water clock.”

“The old one is broken,” I protest.

“Yes, but I intend to fix it.”

I reach for his cheek with my left hand, where our amethyst betrothal ring gleams in the light. “Juba, you have been trying to fix that old clock for as long as we have been married. After nineteen years, don’t you think it’s time we start everything anew?”

* * *

CHARIOTS
race to honor the birthday of my two-year-old prince, who sits upon my lap with pink apple cheeks and fat little fists that thump on my thighs when he is excited. Victory wreaths are awarded to our athletes and we pardon many lesser criminals that day.

Then we are treated to a tribute of musicians. We hear the soaring voices of altos, the hollow notes of pipers, and a
kithara
player I find fault with, on account of the fact I have played that song better. I am tempted to call for my own instrument to demonstrate, when a certain besotted soldier offers a basket filled with roses and wildflowers into my daughter’s lap.

The love-struck soldier is none other than Tacfarinas, no longer a boy but a man of twenty with a brawny sword arm and piercing eagle eyes. Some fool centurion apparently admired his fighting spirit and made Tacfarinas an
optio
, giving him actual rank and responsibility in the cohort we have stationed in the city. Tacfarinas is very young to hold such a position but has not made a mess of it so far.

At least until he decided to approach the princess so boldly and in front of the king . . .

Juba sees the flowers, then leans over to murmur to me with a violent sparkle in his eye. “I’m going to start a distant war just so that I can send Tacfarinas away to fight it.”

I laugh only because I know he will not really do it.

Now that we have a prince to rule the kingdom, some say we ought to send Isidora to a marriage bed in some far away kingdom. But we have decided to let Dora remain unmarried in keeping with her wishes to stay in Mauretania, and our wishes to have her near. I hate to think that my daughter may never have a child of her own, but she says she does not need one, for she has little T’amT’am. And it is true that she treats him as if he were her own child. He is a little boy with two mothers, for Isidora has her baby brother always in her arms. Perhaps that is best, for so long as she bears no sons of her own—boys the emperor might claim as his own descendants—it may keep her from his clutches.

Like me, Isidora has suffered the grievous loss of a brother. Like me, she will never marry the boy who first captured her heart. Like me, she will live under the shadow of the emperor’s desire to possess her. But unlike me, she must also live with the burden of what she sees that ordinary mortals cannot see.

And yet, like a cherry tree that must suffer the touch of frost before it can bear sweet fruit, she has blossomed in this adversity. There is no plant in our kingdom that she cannot identify in a glance or find a use for. Lady Lasthenia insists that she is knowledgeable enough to lecture in our university. People seek Dora out for remedies, and though the king
says
he finds this to be an entirely inappropriate vocation for a princess, Juba boasts about her discoveries and the new center of healing she has established adjacent to my temple.

Only a king such as Juba would allow his daughter such leniency, but I do not like it. I cringe every time a dirty peasant rushes upon my daughter begging for her advice on lancing a boil or curing a crusty rash. I seethe that any daughter of mine should pay more attention to someone’s earache than she does to the happenings in our council chambers.

But just as I was called to something different than my mother was, I fear Dora has her own calling. Or at least, a very good excuse to keep from marrying anyone other than her Berber boy. I muse to the king, “I don’t suppose there are many other men who aren’t dissuaded in their affections by a girl who keeps a snake for a friend . . .”

Juba furrows his brow. “You don’t think they find ways to meet in secret, do you?”

“Would you want to know if they did?”

As he contemplates the risks our headstrong daughter might take, the king pushes his fingers through his hair, which is turning silver in a way I find most comely. But in the end, he says, “No, I suppose not. I have learned to let every woman have at least one mystery.”

* * *

LATER
that night, I ponder his words, wondering at any hidden bitterness. I will always be a creature who harbors secrets—otherwise, I would not be myself. Even my goddess keeps her mysteries. But there can be no danger now in telling the truth. No painful choices for Juba to make. No risk that he will betray me. So, in the shadow of lamplight, cradled in my husband’s arms, I force myself to say, “I once asked you to let me keep a secret . . .”

He hushes me with one long finger atop my lips. “I already know.”

“You can’t.”

Juba insists, “I have suspected for a long time. When they said your twin was killed in Egypt, I told you I would send for the body to bury. And yet you never asked after the corpse again. Never once.
You
, who will wait seventy days for an embalming to be done properly. You built a tomb for Alexander Helios on that hill, but never performed rites for him there. So he must be alive somewhere . . .”

I shake my head, wondering how I will explain that if Helios is alive he is only alive in me. That he is here with us even now, but no longer
between
us.

As I search for the words, Juba whispers, “It took me some time to work out, but then I remembered. You once asked me to swear that I would never help the emperor harm your brothers. I would not make that promise. I would not give you what you needed to put your trust in me. I did not understand, then, that I could not love you and still deny you the one thing you needed most. But I understand it now, and I vow to you I will never tell Augustus. I will never cause harm to your twin or anyone you love. I vow this on my life.”

Swallowing, I turn to face him, realizing that he has finally chosen me. He has chosen
me
over the emperor and I am dizzied with love for him. Clutching him, I start to speak, but it comes out only as a sob.

“No tears, Selene,” he pleads with me. “I did not say it to make you sad . . .”

“I am not sad,” I croak against the wet pillow. But tears wash over me, soaking my cheeks, my shoulders, my bare breasts. Tears flow until I am shaking.

He holds me tight, trying to hush me, begging me between kisses to be content. “Why do you cry?”

I gasp in astonishment that he does not know it. That he cannot see it or feel it. “I am crying because I love you and because I am so sorry for every moment I did not know it . . . and I’m so grateful that I know it now. I love you. I love you.”

He smiles tenderly, using his thumbs to wipe away my tears. “That is no reason to cry . . .”

“How did I never know the man you are? You don’t know how much I regret.”

Where might I even begin to list all the ways in which I wish I’d loved him better?

He tilts my chin so that I must look at him. “Regret nothing. I am only the man you made me, Selene . . . You are loved and you are forgiven all. As I hope I am.”

“You are,” I say, with a violent intensity. “You are loved, Gaius Julius Juba. You are loved and you are forgiven everything.”

* * *

THESE
are happy years in Mauretania.

The happiest, I think.

And filled with delightful surprises. One sun-drenched afternoon, some commotion erupts in the archway to our throne room, and Juba exclaims, “Aha! Here it is at last . . .”

With great fanfare, a long wooden cage is wheeled into my tiled palace to the frightened and astonished gasps of our courtiers. “Good gods!” Crinagoras exclaims at the sight of the beast inside. “Majesties, are we not even
pretending
at civilization anymore?”

That is when I see a beautiful crocodile inside the cage. She is a massive specimen with rows of gleaming teeth and scales banded with olive and brown. Her spiked tail is as long as the rest of her and she gapes open her mouth to show me her pink, well-fed gullet. Consumed with wonder, I stand up from my throne and ask, “Wherever did she come from?”

“From Lake Nilidis,” Juba says, puffed up with pride. “I sent an expedition into the wilds to capture this creature for your temple, Selene, as I know they are sacred to your goddess.”

My smile widens until my cheeks ache with it. I am nearly quivering with delight. No one else would have cause to know what this means to me. Why this crocodile is better than any jewels or scrolls or riches I have ever received. Heedless of the scandal, I throw my arms around his neck. “Oh, Juba!”

He embraces me, well pleased by my reaction, murmuring into my ear, “And you think Isidora is strange to squeal when someone gives her a box of dried herbs?”

Our open affection makes the stiff-necked Romans of our court very uncomfortable . . . which makes it all the more enjoyable. But eventually I become aware that one courtier in particular is more distressed than the others.

With a rumble of disapproval, Amphio asks, “You mean to keep this crocodile in my temple?”

I want to remind him that it is
my
temple, but I should not begrudge him. He prides himself on every detail of the Iseum. Every lily pattern in the stonework, every elegant curve in the bronze doors, every plank of wood for the throne of Isis, and every drop of gold paint on the shining dome. And so I take Amphio aside to explain to him why he must now pride himself on a crocodile pool.

“Ridiculous!” Amphio blusters. “How am I to convince workers to put the finishing touches on the Iseum when they are afraid to drop a hammer too near your new pet’s snapping jaws?”

I merely lift a brow and say, “I’m sure you will manage it somehow.”

“Why not?” he asks in high pique, arms folded over his chest, as if daring me to throw yet another challenge in his way. “What next? An altar for shit-throwing monkeys?”

Not a bad guess
, I muse to myself. “We would like you to begin a temple for the divine Augustus.”

Since my architect is Roman, I think he should relish this idea. But Amphio snorts in such a way that makes me think it is more than his usual irreverence that gives him a loathing for the idea. His disdain reminds me that in Rome, Augustus is no god but must cloak himself in false humility, calling himself the
First Citizen
. And Amphio says sourly, “I cannot do better than I have done with your Iseum, Majesty.”

“Good.”

“To be more exact . . . I have no desire to build another temple. This temple is my mark on the world.
This
one.”

I cannot blame him for feeling this way. Amphio is a bald, twitchy shadow of himself. Ten years more, he said it would take, and yet he has nearly completed the Iseum in half that time. And so allowances must be made. “Very well, Amphio. Then set an apprentice to the task of a temple for Augustus. Only see to it that the cult statue is wearing sandals; I will not have Augustus barefoot like some Homeric hero from the
Iliad
or like some god in flight. There is only one winged deity in my lands. And speaking of Isis, I am told the Iseum will be ready to dedicate soon?”

“This spring,” he promises.

“You have worked a miracle to get it done.”

Amphio does not blush; it is not his way. “I don’t believe in miracles, Majesty.”

I smile and say, “One day, you will.”

* * *

COME
spring, we are drowned in a deluge of letters. The most notable missive comes for my husband, written in the emperor’s own hand, praising Juba’s newest geographical treatise. Reminiscing at length about their long-standing friendship and how glad he is to be served by King Juba II,
Rex Literatissimus
, Augustus makes it plain that he has decided to reconcile with my husband, or at least pretend that he has . . .

I am glad of it. “So he has heard about the temple we are building for him.”

“Of course he has,” the king replies. “No doubt he imagines that you will tend to him as his high priestess, bathing and dressing his statue every day like a humble wife.”

“If spitting upon his statue counts as bathing it . . .”

The king is not amused. In a huff, he leaves me to dress for a musical competition at which we are to choose the victor. I sit at my dressing table making ready, dabbing perfumed oil at my wrists, when a servant delivers to me a letter of my own.

This one is from Julia, and her letter explains the emperor’s new conciliatory attitude far better than our cult to the divine Augustus.