Daughters of the Nile (10 page)

* * *

IN
the palace kitchen, the half-starved Berber boy gnaws the roasted lamb off a skewer, then stuffs bits of bread into his mouth as if he’ll never see another meal again. He’s been bathed and his wounds tended. Euphronius smeared the cut on the boy’s face with aloe. As for the wound under the boy’s ribs—it looks to have been a laceration from a spear tip—my wizard cleaned it, treated it with a poultice of honey, and dosed the boy’s cup with herbs to dull the pain.

Hopefully it will make the boy sleepy and less apt to run away. He’s already tried to run, twice. Both times, Memnon boxed him into submission with unnecessary brutality. Both times it was my daughter who got the boy to settle. She soothes the boy like she does her little animals, coaxing him as if he were a cat, letting him approach her, never crowding him. But I think his own tribesmen may be able to make him more comfortable, so I called for Maysar, my Berber chieftain, who stands scowling in the archway. “And what do you expect me to do with him?”

“I expect you to find his people.”

Maysar bares his teeth. “Majesty, do you imagine that I know every Berber family in the kingdom?”

“No, but Tala thinks this boy is of the Musulamii tribe. Are they not part of your federation?”

“They’re nomadic herdsmen. They travel on the frontier between our kingdom and Numidia. You don’t expect me to roam the steppes of Africa looking for this boy’s family, do you?”

“The Romans killed his family,” my daughter interrupts, having come to my side by stealth.

Surprised, I ask, “Is that what the boy told you?”

Isidora bobs her head, golden curls falling haphazardly in her eyes. “His family returned to their summer grazing lands to find them fenced and farmed by Roman settlers.”

“Damned thieving Romans,” Maysar murmurs, and the boy’s head jerks up from where he’s huddled over his meal. Tacfarinas speaks to Maysar in a Berber dialect that doesn’t unravel easily inside my ears, but I understand the fear and anger in every gesture. The boy tells a tale of confrontation; of watching his family die. He tells a tale of being the one who ran away. Of being the only survivor . . .

And my heart breaks.

It wasn’t
our
Roman settlers who murdered his family, but they could’ve been. Every year more of the traditional grazing lands are taken for productive use, marked off, fenced in, plowed, and planted. We need those farms if we’re to send Rome our tribute of grain, but at what cost?

“We can find some place for the boy, can we not?” I ask.

Maysar replies in Greek so that the boy cannot understand us. “He’d rather run off to join the Garamantes who took him in. I’m not sure I disapprove.”

Glancing back at the boy, I say, “Berber warriors begin young, but not as young as this. He was riding with raiders. If he runs with hard men like that, we’d only end up having to bring him to justice someday. Do you want to see him on a cross?”

Maysar sighs and I know why. His romantic notions of the noble warrior ejecting the Roman menace fades more and more each year. “We’ll put him to work hauling firewood for the lighthouse. If we find he can be trusted not to run away, perhaps he can tend to the king’s horses in the stable.”

The slightest flicker of interest lights in the boy’s eyes at the word
horses
. Ah, yes. So he is Berber to the bone. And he knows at least one word of Greek. Perhaps he knows
more
than one word. Though he’s louse-ridden and hostile, I think he’s a clever boy. I have a kingdom full of boys just like him. I cannot save them all, but perhaps I can save just this one . . .

Six

IT’S
my husband’s habit to visit my chambers on the Ides of each month. Such visits reassure our courtiers that all is well between their sovereigns, and our subjects are comforted to think that their king is a virile man with a fertile wife. They need not know that Juba’s visits aren’t conjugal in nature.

Other women at court are altogether too eager to share the king’s bed. There are young men too who would gladly please him, though I’ve never heard so much as a whisper that my husband’s preferences run that way. In any case, since the night our son was conceived the king hasn’t attempted to seduce me and I’m glad of it, for we’re estranged by the things we cannot say to each other . . . or be for each other. I cannot give myself to Juba without counting it a disloyalty to my beloved, and I would wager Juba cannot touch me without counting it a disloyalty to the emperor. Oh, we mustered the nerve for it once, but there’s no need to repeat it. And so we content ourselves with our cordial alliance.

On the night he comes to dine, I invite the king into my chambers, where we recline on cushions in the native fashion. Slaves wash our hands in rose water, then deliver an array of dishes to our table, several of which are artfully presented in fired-clay bowls decorated beautifully in bold geometric patterns representing partridge eyes and lion paws. The king studies a dish before sampling it, as if he can puzzle out the spices just by looking, then dips his flatbread into a bowl of slow-roasted fowl and olive
tajine
. “I’m told that you and the emperor’s daughter made a nuisance of yourselves with the legion. Is it true that you liberated a bandit?”

“He’s just a boy, not a bandit—”

“I might’ve known Julia would lure you into mischief,” he growls.

His foul mood tells me that he still worries that when the seas open and we receive word from Rome, we’ll be blamed for aiding Julia’s rebellion. Perhaps we’ll be blamed for much more.

But this has nothing to do with the boy. “Juba, no harm came of it.”

“You cannot flit about near the frontier, Selene. It isn’t safe.”

“Where am I safer than with Roman legions?” I ask, trying not to take umbrage at his implication that he makes
inspections
at the frontier but I only
flit about
.

“Look what the sun has done to you,” he complains. “Your skin is burnt, and I gather that if I come close enough to sniff, you’ll smell of camels.”

“I do not smell of camels! The moment I returned, I soaked in a bath of honey and donkey’s milk.”

To prove it, I hold out my perfumed wrist. With surprising intimacy, he leans forward and inhales the scent. “So you have. I suppose that accounts for the sour faces of your attendants. They must have spent hours drawing such an extravagant bath for you.”

Taking me unawares, he kisses the soft underside of my arm. It’s at this moment I realize he may have come to my rooms tonight with a desire for more than dinner. “How solicitous of you to notice the faces of my serving girls. Are you considering taking one as a concubine?”

I ask this only half in jest. I’m a woman and a wife but I’m first a queen; I must know the dynamics of my own court, even if the knowledge pains me, and I suspect it might.

Juba replies with an airy tone. “I’d only take one of your servants as a concubine if I thought it would vex you.”

“Perhaps it would.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I doubt that, but, as it happens, your serving girls fear you more than they desire me.”

Slicing herbed goat cheese for my bread, I counter, “Perhaps they’re motivated by love for me and not fear.”

“Perhaps.” My husband smiles as if our banter is soothing his bad temper. “You did steal my favorite
hetaera
from me, after all.”

He speaks of the Lady Circe, who has transformed herself into a grammarian and teacher of Greek. I call upon her from time to time because, even though her beauty is fading, she’s wise in the way of men and of kings. Once my husband’s lover, she belongs to me now, and it occurs to me that all our court can be divided in such a way. There are those who would kill for Juba and those who would die for me. Only my daughter’s loyalty seems evenly divided between us.

“Will you employ another
hetaera
?” I ask.

“Would it vex you if I did?”

To admit jealousy would be beneath my royal dignity and also concede my powerlessness in such matters. If it’s true that a king is free to take lovers where he might, then it’s equally true that a queen must never grant her husband’s whores the status of a rival. To deflect the question, I say, “Such matters are improper to discuss . . .”

“Now you concern yourself with propriety?” he asks, chuckling as we eat together, sharing bits of bread and cheese and almonds. “And this on the same day you let Julia persuade you to take in an urchin boy.”

“It was my idea. If you’d seen him there, in that cage, so broken and pathetic. If you’d heard Isidora crying, begging for me to help him . . .”

My husband lifts a hand to wave away the subject. “Say no more. You’re right. I couldn’t bear Isidora’s tears. She’s a special little girl.”

To hear him praise my daughter moves me. “She is, isn’t she? Nevertheless, please know that I’m grateful for the way you’ve forced yourself to take my daughter into your heart.”

“There was no force involved,” he protests. “How could I not take her into my heart when your daughter is the only person who has ever loved me?”

The moment the words fall from his lips, his eyes slant away with apparent embarrassment. He sips at the mint tisane our Berbers serve at every occasion, as if I ought to take no notice of the astonishing statement. My stare must tell him that he will have to explain himself, for he finally adds, quietly, “Isidora is the first person to ever open her arms to me without reservation or consideration of my birth or station.”

I remain astonished. He’s a king, a scholar, a soldier, and a man whose looks turn the heads of even young girls at court. It pains me to think that he’s never been loved—or at least, never loved in the way he wanted to be. In fact, it pains me so much that I thrust the thought away. “That can’t be true.”

“It is. You know I have no memory of my parents or my siblings. Only the
Julii . . .”

I know exactly what it’s like to live as an orphan in the emperor’s household, beholden to Romans who can be kind and cruel in turn. “But, Juba, there must’ve been some friend, some . . . some courtesan . . .”

The king laughs. “I’m not fool enough to believe words of love that fall from the lips of a courtesan. No, Selene. Whereas everyone either loves you or hates you, I’m a man for whom people might feel perfect indifference, as you well know.”

“I have never been indifferent to you.”

Ambivalent, perhaps, but never indifferent . . .

I don’t say it, because I can never find the words to explain precisely what it is that I feel for Juba, and in any case, he is already groaning at my attempt to comfort him. “Enough, Selene. It wasn’t my intention to press you for some declaration of emotion. Or press you at all. You’ve done your duty by me. You’ve given me a son and heir. It cost you dearly. Euphorbus tells me that if we have another child, it may kill you. So you must never fear that I’ll ask more.”

I am troubled beyond measure that my mage should speak to the king about such a thing. Has he grown so old and addled that he’s lost all political sense? To portray me as frail! “Euphorbus said only that we must not risk another child
now
.”

“Ah,” Juba says and I cannot tell if he is pleased to hear it. “Nevertheless, we can wait for another prince. There’s no hurry.”

Stung, I continue, “The old man worries overmuch; he exaggerates my illness. I’m healthy enough. I’m no unworldly girl. I am a child of Isis. The magic of Egypt is in me. I’ve learned to work
heka
on my own body so I am never with child unless I want to be.”

“I find this hard to believe . . .”

How can he doubt me? He’s seen my goddess speak to me through symbols engraved upon my palms. He’s seen blood drip from my fingertips to be transformed into red flowers when they splattered upon the marble tiles. Has my childbed illness somehow reminded him of my mortality and lessened me in his eyes? The matter must be put right.

My spine stiffens. “Juba, did I not swear to you, the night we came together, that I would conceive a child? Did I not vow it would be a son? Everything I promised has come to pass. I am no ordinary woman. There is no risk in bedding me unless I will it.”

In the face of my furious proclamation, the room is silent, and then . . . Juba laughs. I think he mocks me, but his eyes are filled with good-natured mirth. “Madam, if I didn’t know you better, I might think you were arguing for me to take you to bed for the sake of pleasure.”

Heat pricks at my cheeks and I start to stammer a denial, which only makes my husband laugh harder, and I don’t like being laughed at. “Trust that if I were luring you to my bed you would know it.”

He is now wheezing in his merriment. He laughs so hard he must dab at the corners of his eyes with a napkin. “I suppose I would. As Cleopatra’s daughter, you aren’t shy when you want something.”

“If this is going to turn into another discussion about how I’m the daughter of an Egyptian whore and well versed in the art of seduction, I—”