Daughters of the Nile (5 page)

Romans. Greeks. Egyptians. Berbers. Ours is a court of many languages and complexions. Knots of men stand together amidst the pillars, fanning themselves with palm fronds to fend off the afternoon heat while discussing the latest news from Rome. In the farthest corner, Lady Lasthenia instructs her students on some point of Pythagorean theory. Reclining upon a cushion in the presence of royalty as only our court poet is brave enough to do, Crinagoras sees me beneath the archway and shouts, “All hail to Queen Cleopatra Selene!”

Lifting my chin with a regal air, I force myself to stride to the raised dais. My gossamer cape billows behind me as if caught by the wind, and the crowd makes way. Behind me, Tala carries the baby in her sturdy Berber arms.

I walk purposefully, pausing only once to keep my balance. Watching me, the king’s brow creases with worry. In my white silks, I must appear very pale and frail indeed. But when my son lets out a cry, my frailty is forgotten. My husband launches to his feet, and his eyes fasten eagerly on the newborn. A smile breaks over the king’s face. He holds out his arms for the child but I catch Tala’s elbow before she can give the swaddled bundle over. “No,” I murmur. “Do as we discussed.”

Scowling, she lays the babe down on the floor at the king’s feet. I’ve no fondness for this custom either, but I know the Romans. My father was one of them and my husband may as well be. Even so, the king startles when I so publicly offer him the opportunity to reject my child. Perhaps he is remembering that I was no maiden when I came to his bed. His gaze darts to meet mine, a question in his eyes that I do not answer. My expression remains placid, inscrutable, even when the assembled courtiers lapse into silence, anticipating scandal and humiliation.

Many here have seen the emperor’s eyes gleam with lust for me. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were, even now, counting the months since I left the court of Augustus to take my place as the Queen of Mauretania, and wondering about the paternity of my child. My husband isn’t beyond such speculation. He knows already my daughter was not of his get. Perhaps he will reject my son for fear that he has been betrayed again.

Juba hesitates before lifting his robes above his sandals, descending the stairs, and stooping to examine the babe. I resent that he folds back the blankets to reveal my child’s sex, but it takes all my strength to remain standing; I’ve none to spare for irritation.

At the sight of the little phallus, the king smiles and holds the child aloft, naked, exposed. “My son!” Juba cries with joy. A cheer goes up from the crowd and a little bleating lamb’s cry goes up from my baby.

Just a few moments more, little one.

I have created a dramatic moment—one that will cause talk in Rome. It was the emperor, my mentor, who taught me such stagecraft, so I know how to ensure that this news reaches him.
Just a few minutes more. Just long enough to give my son his name and I can return to my rooms and collapse in bed.

“Your son,” I agree, taking my place at Juba’s side.

It is the king’s privilege to name the child. It would not surprise me if he meant to name his son in honor of his own family. Another Juba, perhaps, or Masinissa. But the divine ichor in our son’s veins is the blood of the Ptolemies; my legacy is far more prestigious than my husband’s. Though it would help to erase any doubt that Juba was the father of this child,
I
am the one who labored hard to bring the child into the world so I say, “His name is Ptolemy.”

The joy on Juba’s face fractures. “Ptolemy? Why not Gaius, after our patron, the emperor?”

Is that sarcasm I hear? Does he seek to shame me after all? Surely he knows that naming my son after the emperor would invite scandal. Not to mention the fact that I would never name my son after the man who destroyed my family, stole Egypt, and violated me. I shake my head so violently that my dark hair lashes at my face. Somehow, I manage to swallow down my bile long enough to whisper, “Flattery will not sweeten this news for Augustus. Let the baby be named Ptolemy; it will stand him in good stead.”

My husband can be an agreeable man—a mild-mannered king—but I am asking a rather grand concession from him. Looking down fondly at the newborn in his arms, he finally nods. “I’m told the birth was a struggle. You’ve given me a precious gift: a son to secure our reign. If you wish to call him Ptolemy, I won’t refuse you . . . but we’ll have to write Augustus. There can be no more delay.”

I exhale, relieved and grateful. Motioning to the crowd, I say softly, “Augustus may hear it from them before he hears it from us. Now that the seas have opened, rumor will reach Rome in a week. No more than two.” Fear tightens my stomach, but I lift my chin with resolution. “Then we’ll reap what we’ve sown.”

Three

DURING
the month named for the Roman goddess Juno, our subjects take to the fields to cut down the ripe grain before it is burnt by the high heat of summer. The largest plantations, worked by gangs of slaves, are the first to get their grain to market. Even now, caravans of colorfully saddled mules clog the city streets, bound for our harbor. Camels, horse-driven wagons, and even carts pushed by laborers descend upon us from the hills, all laden down with sacks of oats, barley, and wheat.

If I close my eyes, I can already smell the bread that will be baked with all this grain. It’s a sacred scent that calls me to my duty. So why am I listless? I’m healed now from the birth of my son. The illness made my milk run dry, but my infant son thrives at the breast of his wet nurse.

There is no accounting for my overwhelming sadness.

Yet I have no appetite. I’m short-tempered with servants. I hide in my chambers, shunning our court. Though summer bathes my kingdom in golden light, I lurk in gloom. Perhaps it’s because I await word from Rome. When Augustus hears of the birth of my son, how will he answer? Will he rage like a possessive lover and mete out revenge? Or will he care at all? Maybe what I do is beneath the emperor’s notice now and he will greet the news with indifference. That is the best I can hope for . . .

Alas, I suspect my gloomy mood has less to do with the emperor than with what I saw when consumed by fever. They say I called his name.
Helios
. My other half. Twin. Brother. Lover. King. There was a time I would’ve gone anywhere with him—disappeared into the desert, sailed away into the farthest reaches of the sea. I’d have abandoned my husband, my crown, my kingdom, and the prophecies too. For Helios and I are of one spirit, one
akh
. We have been together in all the worlds that have ever been or will ever be. That is how I know he lives. We are bound. If he were dead, I would know it. I would be torn asunder. My world could not stand on its foundations without Helios in it. I know this.

What does it matter if I called his name in the shadow of Anubis? I was not in my right mind, quaking with chills and parched by sweats. Perhaps a temporary madness made me see him in the afterworld. I saw Caesarion there too, and did the Romans not tell me he was burned? Would that not have destroyed his soul? No, I cannot have seen Caesarion there and I cannot have seen Helios either, for he lives. I know that he lives.

And yet I cannot be at peace.

I have made of my body a vessel for my goddess, so that the rains might come and the crops might grow. I’ve swallowed a storm and called it back to my fingertips. I’ve taken the
heka
in my body and used it to open my womb to new life. There is a birthmark on my arm, the sign of a sail, and the winds are drawn to it, but I know too little of the ancient magical arts of Egypt.

And of the world beyond this one, I know even less.

Only my mage can teach me what I need to know. And so I finally emerge from my chambers with my hair fastened by a white ribbon and a collar of turquoise stones over my robes. I seek out my mage in his apartments. In the guise of Euphorbus Musa, he has become a great favorite of the king because both men share a natural inquisitiveness.

Since leaving the emperor, I’ve spent many hours in the mage’s suite of rooms studying lesser magics of herbs and oil lamp divination. My wizard has taught me to write the words of a spell upon papyrus, then wash the ink into a cup with brown beer and drink it. He has taught me the sacred numbers that carry a chant to the ears of the gods. And he has taught me something of curses, though not nearly enough.

Today he is bent over papyrus, sketching the leaves of some plant while a cacophony of squawking birds in cages on the far wall announce me and my daughter. My Isidora is, as always, enchanted by creatures, standing on tiptoe to peek into the cages, so I let her play with the birds.

Meanwhile, exile has made my mage eccentric and distracted; even with the squawking it takes him a moment to realize we’re here. Hobbling along with the assistance of a divination staff, he herds me into a chair that is dusty with pollen. “Majesty, you had only to summon me. You ought not risk your health coming here. After birthing your baby, it will take time to regain your strength.”

“I should like to know why the birth of a child has laid such waste to me,” I say, wondering how such a tiny baby could’ve been so very difficult to bring into the world. “You will say that childbed fever saps the strength of queens and peasants alike, but I wear an amulet that says
I am the Resurrection
. Isis is a mother goddess and has made me her vessel. Why should giving birth have been so dreadful for
me
, of all women?”

I expect him to knit his brow in curiosity, or to rub at his chin the way Juba does when worrying over a problem, or even to scratch at his head as when confronted by my inability to work a spell. Instead, he stares with sad, watery eyes that fill me with foreboding. “What is it, Euphronius? Have I displeased the goddess? You cannot think that she’s left me . . .”

The mage’s fingers squeeze tight on his staff. “Isis will be with you unto death . . . even if you were to abandon her.”

It is a rebuke, and I might have expected one, given that he believes I have forsaken my birthright. I will never be Pharaoh, and while the rest of my courtiers dream of the day I will reclaim my lost inheritance, my mage can read my heart. He doesn’t need to look into the Rivers of Time to see that all other possibilities flow away from us now. So I admit it. “I will not chase my mother’s throne again. I’ve never forgotten Isis and I’ve never forgotten Egypt, but they’re not the same. Land can be taken from me by force, a crown and scepter wrestled from my grasp, but Isis lives in me and no one can take her from me. You told me—
you
told me—that I carry her wherever I go. I’ve used her magic here to make Mauretanian fields fertile. I’ve fed the people on her bounty. That is salvation. That is the true immortality. That will be my legacy.”

“If so, it comes at great sacrifice,” the mage tells me flatly.

His impertinence stokes my anger. “I am not my mother. I am done fighting Rome. I am done scheming. I am done longing for a lost kingdom. For a lost world. I intend to build a new one, and if you won’t help me—”

“Majesty!” he protests. “There is nothing I would deny you.”

“Then teach me to see in the Rivers of Time.”

The request plainly surprises him. “Majesty, the
heka
we draw, the power and prayer that fuels our magic, is precious and rare. To be used sparingly. You’re no temple wizard, pulling magic from the sacred pools. You’ve awakened powers that are yours alone, but you were not gifted with sight—not every sorceress has it.”

He means that
I
do not have it, and he is right. That gift belonged to my mother and my littlest brother, Philadelphus, nearly five years now in his tomb. But I’m desperate. My choices have led me to a path my ancestors have not charted before. How will I navigate the way ahead so that my dynasty might survive? More urgently, how can I go on without knowing the truth about Helios?

It has been a year since I saw him last, but the pain of our separation is still a fresh wound. A pain made more excruciating by what I saw when I was fevered. “Teach me to read the Rivers of Time,” I insist. “How is it done?”

My mage calls for his servants to fill an alabaster divination bowl with water. Upon the small altar in his chambers, we light a candle made of sweet-smelling beeswax. We burn incense too that we may be purified enough to invoke the goddess. I sit barefoot before the bowl and press the soles of my feet into the woven carpet. The mage tells me to close my eyes and imagine that it is the warm sand of the desert between my toes. To chant all the names of Isis. To envision a temple to her. To see the silver moon rise over it, glowing on the water of the Nile, shimmering upon the petals of each lotus flower.

“Now draw upon your
heka
,” the old man says. “Open your eyes and see into the bowl of water. See the glistening ripples of the Nile and how they turn the shining round moon into the crown of the goddess. See her glorious face shimmer. See what she would show you . . .”