Song of the Nile (13 page)

The servants showed me through the rotting latticework doors to my chambers. Chryssa seemed eager to take charge, and I found myself grateful for her newfound sense of authority. With the noise from the courtyard, the scampering of lizards on the windowsill, and the strange aromas coming from the direction of the kitchen, this place was foreign to me. Yet I felt as if I’d found a refuge where everything that was broken in me might be healed again.

This wasn’t only because of the temple and the magic I’d scented, but because, in the way of a twin, I sensed Helios near.

Eight

IF I’d hoped for a lavish palace and majestic coronation, I was to be disappointed. We’d invaded Mauretania like a small army and our reward was the old royal mansion, with its soot-stained walls. Our artists and other retainers all needed accommodation. The surveyors, engineers, and slaves needed lodgings too. There wasn’t enough room for them, so some bedded down with the soldiers and others were forced to pitch tents on the grounds. To feed the multitude, our new cooks roasted meat on spits outside and boiled vats of porridge in the kitchen from morning till night. One afternoon, pushing away his bowl, Crinagoras leaned to me and said, “This gruel doesn’t inspire me, Majesty. I do hope you intend something grand here in Mauretania, because this is no suitable place for a poet of my stature!”

Juba overheard, and though it was plain to me that Crinagoras was teasing, my husband gave him a sharp look. In truth, I wondered how either of them could have greeted the prospect of this new adventure so glumly. Unwilling to let them spoil my mood and eager to explore the grounds, I summoned the Berber woman to give me a tour. She was enormously pregnant, her bulk emphasized by bright clothing, flowery henna tattoos, and a mysterious blue sheen to her skin. The blue was a fascination to me, but I hesitated to ask about it lest I offend. Moreover, the Berber servant and I had difficulty understanding one another. She seemed to have some authority over the others and spoke better Latin—but that wasn’t saying much.

“I am Tala,” she said, showing Chryssa and me to an overgrown garden courtyard where a cistern-fed fountain snorted up muddy water. “You are king’s
only
woman?”

Chryssa huffed with indignation. “She’s your queen. Not the king’s woman. She’s his
wife
.”

I was neither in truth, but Tala didn’t seem impressed. “Numidian kings keep . . . much . . . wives.”

“
Many
wives,” Chryssa snapped. “King Juba will have only one. He’s a Roman citizen. Learn to speak more respectfully, you insolent barbarian!”

I hadn’t ever seen Chryssa in such a temper and Tala was a big woman—bigger because of her pregnant belly. She towered over my slave girl and I worried that the two might come to blows, but Tala turned her attention to me and said, “Carthaginians come, then go. Romans come, but they will go. This queen, she is Greek. Or Egyptian. She will go too. Always, only
Amazigh
remain.”

Not even as a captive in Rome had I allowed servants to speak to me in this manner. “Tala, I’ll be Queen of Mauretania for as long as the goddess wills it. Now, either tell us why every corridor has animal tusks protruding from the walls or leave my presence at once.”

Tala gave a sullen shrug. “Old king liked hunt. Gave many animals for Roman arena.”

It was a reminder of our obligations to Rome. There must be lions and elephants aplenty for the gladiators to fight. We’d be expected to provide them, and though it sickened me, it would enhance the prestige of our kingdom.

Later, when we were alone, Chryssa’s temper hadn’t cooled. “Why didn’t you dismiss that impudent savage immediately?”

I earnestly pondered her question. It had been my deeper instincts that told me not to send Tala away. “Chryssa, I must win her over. If I can’t win the love of my household staff, how can I win the rest of Mauretania?”

THAT night, the servants brought me a plate of flat bread and a board of goat cheese with a knife to cut it. I read from a scroll in my lap while I ate, leaving the oil lamps burning, never dreaming that Juba might take the glow under my door for an invitation. He knocked briefly, letting himself in and waving all my servants away. “What is it?” I asked, not rising to greet him. “News?”

“Nothing from Thebes, if that’s your concern.” Juba’s eyes fell upon the scroll on my lap. “What are you reading?”

I fingered the vellum, for I liked its texture. “A copy of Mago’s treatise on agriculture.”

Juba looked suitably impressed. “In Punic? I knew that you’d learned a few words but not that you’d mastered it.”

“I haven’t yet,” I admitted, wondering why he’d come. I didn’t want him here. I hadn’t forgiven him. I was certain I never would. “I’d do better with a translation, but I’m trying to learn the language of our people.”

“Punic isn’t the original language of the Berbers,” Juba said, sitting beside me at the low table near the remains of my meal. “They speak it here in the cities, but in the highlands, they speak a thousand dialects. Better that we make our subjects learn Latin or Greek. Still, if you’re determined, I’ll send you a teacher and perhaps I can help you practice myself.”

“That’s very considerate,” I allowed. “But you’re a king now. You’ve more important things to do than tutor me.”

An awkward silence fell between us until he cleared his throat. “Selene, I’ve given some rational thought to our situation. I understand how unhappy you are in this marriage, but you must also remember that Mauretania fell into the hands of the Romans because the king died without heirs. We’re here to forge a new dynasty. We represent a second chance—perhaps Mauretania’s
last
chance—for independence.”

“I am aware,” I said, anticipating a lecture.

“Then you must know that we have a duty to our new kingdom. Given your age, I hoped to wait some years, to give you some time to grow into womanhood. Unfortunately, we cannot wait. We must have children and we must have them soon.”

How could he speak of it now? Memories of the emperor’s bony knees bruising my thighs raised a cool sweat on the back of my neck and nausea rose in my throat.

Juba must have noticed because his posture stiffened. “I can plainly see that you find me too lowly a prince for your affections, but I’ll endeavor to make the act of conception as pleasant for you as I can.”

Embarrassment singed my ears. “And what if I’m already carrying the emperor’s child?”

Again, I said it only to hurt him, to wound him as he’ d wounded me. But Juba must have considered the possibility already, because he didn’t flinch. “I’ll claim your child, Selene. It’s no fault of the babe that it should have to endure the taint of illegitimacy.”

I stared up at him in surprise and the scroll fell from my hands. “You’d do such a thing?” I’d been called the bastard brat of Antony more times than I could count. That Juba would spare a child that pain softened me toward him.

Juba nodded once, his fingers lacing together in quiet reserve. “Our reign can only benefit by raising the offspring of Augustus. If you’re already with child, I’ll simply wait a respectful interval before getting my own sons upon you. Motherhood will be good for you, Selene. It’ll give you something useful to do.”

He was trying to be reasonable. He was trying to be generous and conciliatory. It only drove me to rebellion. “And if I should refuse to let you ‘get your sons upon me’?”

Just like that, the pretense of magnanimity vanished and Juba’s lips thinned. “Don’t play the Vestal Virgin, Selene.”

He made a gesture that I mistook for an intention to grab me. “Don’t touch me,” I cried, my voice not nearly as steady as I wished it to be. I scrambled to the other end of the table, upsetting cups and plates along the way.

Seeing me flee from him in white-knuckled fright, Juba put his face in his hands as if he needed to master himself. When he finally looked up, his eyes hardened. “All your life, you’ve known me as a solicitous tutor, Selene. You should know that I’m a soldier too. I descend from King Massinisa of Numidia and my father was Juba the warrior king. You don’t want to test me. I
can
be ruthless for the greater good.”

At his displeasure, I should have lowered my head meekly the way Lady Octavia had taught me to do, but he was threatening me, and that was beyond endurance. “Just because you can ride a horse doesn’t make you a soldier,” I seethed. “And we both know you’re a coward besides.”

This time, he
did
reach for me. Though I gave it no conscious thought, my fingers wrapped around the hilt of the table knife. I was almost as astonished as Juba when the tip of my blade pressed against his belly. The knife stopped Juba short and we both stared at one another over the sharp edge. My chest rose and fell, rage making my hand shake, but I didn’t lower the blade.

Eyes wide, hands slightly raised, Juba said, “You’re as vicious as a she-wolf!”

He could have disarmed me, but he didn’t try. Instead, he retreated and I called after him. “Think twice before you lord your barbaric ancestry over me, Juba! I’m a Ptolemy and you may trust that you’ll be found dead in your bed before I ever let another man force himself on me.”

THE next afternoon, swarthy desert men rode up to the gate. Their leaders dismounted effortlessly, swinging bright burnooses over their shoulders. There were other riders too, dangerous-looking men with braided hair, clad in animal skins, and carrying daggers and shields of rawhide. Some were dark-skinned, others were fair, and yet they were all allied tribesmen who eyed the Roman guards with hostility. Though we were unprepared for guests of any kind, it would have been insulting not to receive them, so Juba and I stood together in the audience chamber, not sparing each other a glance while the Berbers bowed before us. We had little to offer them for supper, so we served spare quantities of capers, yogurt, brown bread, and grilled lamb in juniper sauce. We shared this modest meal at low tables and one of the Berber chieftains rose to his feet.

Like Tala, his skin shimmered blue in the creases of his elbows, his hands, and some of the lines of his face. Lifting a goblet in salute, he introduced himself as Maysar of the Gaetulian tribes, then went on in passable Latin. “Juba son of Juba, the Gaetulians, the Musalamii, and the Mauri tribes bring to you an offering of horse stock, some of the finest steeds in this land.”

Juba’s expression lightened for the first time in days. “I’m honored by this gift! Horses are a passion of mine.”

The chieftain glinted a pearly smile. “May these horses sire a royal cavalry that will be the fear of all nations!”

“To the greater glory of Rome,” Juba said, for he couldn’t show military ambition in front of so many Romans. Even I understood this, but some of the tribesmen scowled, conferring with their heads close together.

To distract from the angry murmurs, I asked, “Do you have a wife, Maysar? After so fine a gift as horses, it seems only right that I should gift your wife with a token of my esteem.”

“I have a wife, just not . . . at the moment. She’s in sanctuary. We’re divorced tonight, but will remarry upon the morrow.”

Sure that I’d misunderstood his words, I turned to Juba, who said, “It’s a Berber custom.”

“When our women wish for fortune or healing,” Maysar explained, eager to teach me, “they spend the night in a tomb of our ancestors. Failing that, a cave or other sacred space. Whatever she dreams there will come true. Only unmarried women can go into sanctuary. Since we’re a practical people, a married woman ritually divorces before she goes, then remarries when she returns.”

This fascinated me. “Perhaps I should go into sanctuary, to bring good fortune and blessings upon this land.”

The Berber chieftain tilted his head in surprise, a glimmer of pleasure in his eyes at my suggestion. At the same time, the Romans scoffed, and it was no secret that their opinion mattered more to Juba than mine. The king smiled tightly, swirling some of his watered wine in his cup. “I’m not sure it’s fitting . . . My queen isn’t Berber.”

“But it’s
most
fitting,” Maysar argued. “Since our tribes and the Numidian tribes of your father are all Berbers, we greet you as a
brother
as well as a king. Your wife should share our customs.”

Juba was clearly uncomfortable to be reminded of his heritage in this manner, and in the awkwardness, Crinagoras rose to recite an amusing epigram in which he maintained that he was himself a more revered poet than Homer. The guests all laughed, and the tension dissipated, for which I was grateful.

Later, when the men broke into groups, some to discuss commerce, others to plan construction, and still others to gossip, I sought out Maysar and his group of warriors. He bowed. “Queen Cleopatra.”

It was my name but my mother’s too. “You may call me Queen Selene. Your men don’t much like the Roman soldiers, do they?”

At this, the Berber’s smile faltered. “We’re eager for them to be gone. We rejoiced to hear that a Berber king was being sent to us. Then we saw all the Roman settlers and all the slaves . . . We call ourselves the
Amazigh
. It means ‘free people.’ We won’t bend easily under a yoke and we don’t like to see others bent.”