I turned to Helios for his reaction, but my brother was facing in the direction of Agrippa who was barreling toward us, muscling through the crowd. Octavia followed with Minora on one hip and Philadelphus on the other. “There you children are!”
I turned to warn Euphronius, but his white garments had already vanished into the sea of peasant gray and brown.
“What are you two doing?” Livia snarled at us once she caught up. “I told you to spend your coins at respectable shops. There’s no telling what pestilence you may have picked up from beggars. Helios, if you can’t follow simple instructions, I’ll have you beaten until you can.”
“I gave away my coins too,” I said, unwilling to let Helios take all the blame.
“Helios is a boy,” Livia snapped. “He’s responsible for what you do.”
I sputtered with indignation as Agrippa marshaled us back into line with the rest of the children. “Next time, do something worth the beating,” Julia said to Helios, then offered me a sticky pastry. “Here. I promised you half.”
I took the sweet, but my eyes were in the crowd. What was Euphronius doing in Rome? Had he been sending the bloody messages to me? If so, how could I warn him to stop?
Eleven
WINTER arrived without our seeing Euphronius again and I began to wonder if—wishful and homesick—I’d only imagined him in the crowd. Helios, however, had faith that the old wizard was in Rome. “He has a plan, Selene. He’s come to take us home where we can reclaim the throne.”
I wasn’t so sure. And though we exhausted ourselves thinking of ways to contact Euphronius, we were isolated and watched, with no avenue of escape. The Greek slave girl had offered to help us, but she’d been caught trying on Livia’s jewelry, whipped for her insolence, and sent to work at a country estate.
I was sure we’d get no more help from her, but seeing Euphronius again had given both my twin and me a renewed sense of purpose, and we were more conspiratorial than usual. Lady Octavia seemed to notice, and kept us separated at every turn. She and the emperor’s wife kept a constant and suspicious eye on me, which I felt most keenly during the long afternoons after we’d retired from the schoolroom to work the looms.
In Egypt, weavers often did their work from the floor, but my loom was vertical and warp-weighted, which meant I had to walk back and forth to add the weft thread. Unfortunately, I also needed Julia’s help, and she wasn’t very attentive. “This will have to all be unraveled,” Livia scolded. “Don’t you pay any attention, Julia? Notice how neatly Selene always does her work!”
When Livia turned her back, Julia made a face at me while mimicking in mock whisper, “Notice how neatly Selene always does her work!”
Livia turned around just in time to see Julia’s antics. “You’re a wicked girl, Julia, and I hope to prove it to your father one day. In the meantime, I have errands to attend in preparation of the Saturnalia. When I get back I expect this to be fixed.”
After Livia left, Julia rolled her eyes and whispered, “I’m not so wicked a girl that she doesn’t want me to marry her son Tiberius, of course.”
“What are you girls whispering about over there?” Lady Octavia asked, her strong hands working the wool. “Just because Livia has other business doesn’t give you an excuse to dawdle.”
“Someday,” Julia whispered, “when I’m grown with my own house, I am going to dawdle all day. Dawdle, dawdle, dawdle.”
“What’s that?” Octavia asked.
Julia gave her best innocent look. “Oh, I was just telling Selene that it’s important to be a modest lady in Rome if you want men to admire you.”
Octavia’s lips thinned as she looked at me. “Both of you are too young to be worrying about how to earn a man’s admiration.”
“I’m not worrying about it,” I said, defensively, giving Julia a dark look for having created mischief. “Besides, in Egypt, a woman cares not so much whether a man admires her. She worries, instead, about what a man has that she might admire.”
Lady Octavia looked scandalized. “That’s a presumptuous attitude.”
“Perhaps men prefer presumptuous women,” I said, though I was of an age when I had more questions about men than I could answer. “Why shouldn’t a man find a woman’s strength complementary to his own?”
Octavia stared at me for a moment, as if I’d said something seditious. “The emperor has spoken on this subject at length. Men need women for heirs, not for partnership.”
I don’t know what got into me. Perhaps it was the stifling room with its false frescoes. Perhaps it was merely that I couldn’t wear a mask every moment of every day. “My father wanted a partner,” I argued. “He was the first Roman to put women on his coins and he preferred strong-minded and independent women like Fulvia of Rome and Cleopatra of Egypt.”
Even before I’d finished, I knew that I’d gone too far. I could have added that my father had put Octavia’s likeness on coins too, but it wouldn’t have helped matters. I’d reminded Octavia of my father’s love for my mother and her face went ashen. “I endeavored to be the perfect wife to your father. Did Antony never have a kind word for me?”
I couldn’t answer truthfully, especially not with my two half sisters, the Antonias, listening to every word, so I spoke carefully. “My father said that you were modest and righteous, Lady Octavia.”
Self-righteous, in truth, but it wasn’t necessary for her to know that.
“That was kind of him,” Octavia replied.
I thought the matter was settled, but then she asked, “Did he say anything else about me and my daughters?”
Oh, how I wished she hadn’t asked. My parents had mocked Octavia as her brother’s creature. My father had even jested that being married to her made him feel a kinship to Roman matrons who lay back with a shudder to do their duty for Rome.
I could have hurt Octavia with that knowledge. A part of me wanted to hurt her. But the Antonias were finally looking at me with rapt attention, eager to learn anything they could about the father they’d never known, so I pieced together truth and fiction as convincingly as I could. “My father said a man couldn’t have a more dutiful wife than you and that he regretted the circumstances that prevented him from gathering his children under one roof.”
I’d lied as artfully as I could for her sake, but Octavia’s silence settled over the room like a suffocating blanket as she worked. She only looked up when Agrippa passed by the archway.
“Will you marry again, Lady Octavia?” I asked, desperate to lighten her spirits.
In answer, Octavia’s thick fingers twisted in the wool. “Not unless my brother commands it. I love my children too much. If I married, my daughters would all have to be left behind.”
“But why?” I asked.
“A Roman man shouldn’t be asked to take girl children from another marriage into his household.”
This shouldn’t have astonished me. Nonetheless, my mouth fell open. Octavia looked up to catch me gawping and asked, “Besides, who would I marry?”
“Agrippa favors you,” I suggested.
Octavia’s hands stopped moving and her voice went lifeless. “I’m too old to give Agrippa heirs. He’s marrying my eldest daughter, Marcella.”
From the look on her face, Marcella already knew. Shyly, she showed us her betrothal ring. It was a twisted signet of gold and iron, and she wore it on the fourth finger of her left hand, where the nerve of love was said to run straight to the heart. Upon seeing her ring, the other girls squealed. Minora clapped and Antonia wrapped her arms around Marcella in a rare show of affection.
Julia was alone amongst the girls in seeing this as a bad pairing. “But Agrippa is so old! He’s dirt common to boot.”
Lady Octavia scowled. “Julia, he’s the emperor’s most trusted friend. Agrippa is a fine match for Marcella.”
“And he’s old enough to be her father.” Julia yanked at some stitchery. “How can Marcella ever love Agrippa?”
“She doesn’t have to love him,” Octavia replied. �
��She just has to marry him. Love causes pain, but good marriages benefit the state. It’s your central purpose and duty, girls. Remember that because you’ll all be married off soon enough.”
THE cold weather sent the emperor’s household into frenzied preparations for the Saturnalia. Slaves adorned the buildings with wreaths of evergreen. Feasts were prepared throughout the city, and the spirit of gaiety so often found on the streets of Alexandria only now made its way to Rome. Where laughter was usually discouraged as an affront to Roman gravitas, smiles and merriment now appeared even in the emperor’s household.
Helios and I had the sense that something important would happen soon. Something would have to happen soon. We just had to be prepared for it when the opportunity came.
A few days before the Saturnalia, Octavia saw me and Helios with our heads together, so she sent me to the emperor’s house to work with Julia making gift baskets. Trudging into Livia’s salon, Julia and I piled heaps of baskets and evergreen in one corner, piles of red fruit in another, and placed rows of white candles in the middle.
“At least Marcella will get a pretty wedding gown,” Julia said, clearly wanting to gossip more than she wanted to work. “Poor consolation for marrying Agrippa, though. Can you imagine marrying a man who moons over your own mother?”
I glanced at her, surprised that she too had noticed the affection between her aunt Octavia and the admiral. “Do you think Marcella knows?”
“How can she not? Octavia is heartsick, but she and Agrippa just do whatever my father wants them to do.”
“What choice do they have?” I asked, tying a bow on a basket of candles and fruit.
Julia made a face. “I suppose not much. My father kills people who don’t do what he tells them to.”
I swallowed. “Surely he wouldn’t kill his own sister.”
“I think he might,” Julia said quietly. “Or at least … he would send her away like he sent my mother away and we’d never see her again.” I didn’t know what to reply, and the moment stretched on until Julia said, “So tell me about Africa.”
The cool air nipped at my cheeks and I was grudgingly grateful for my ugly wool clothing. “It’s warmer than this place, I can tell you that much.”
Not far from where Julia and I toiled, the emperor conducted business in the uncovered atrium. The emperor’s doctors had advised that cool winds might help his numerous ailments. So there he was, bundled against the chill. He seemed annoyed with the merchants who were pestering him and I did my best to ignore them until a breeze blew through the courtyard carrying the sweet scent of light magic to me. That’s when I realized that the merchant was Syrian and spoke through an interpreter. I was startled to hear him talking about Helios and me.
I stopped working, straining to hear more.
“No here, do it like this.” Julia grabbed my basket from me and placed the fruit in an aesthetically pleasing way. “Is that all you’re going to tell me about Africa? It’s warm?”
“We also celebrate the solstice and yearly rebirth,” I said distractedly, trying to listen to the exchange in the courtyard as the Syrian made feverish appeals, holding up a polished mirror and other pretty trinkets for the emperor, whose patience was finally at an end.
“Maecenas granted you an audience for this?” the emperor snapped. “Livia buys for the household. I don’t want these baubles.”
The Roman interpreter said, “We’re just trying to make an honest living.”
The emperor threw the man a pouch of money. “You’re lucky it’s the season of Saturnalia and that I’m in a generous mood. Here, take these coins and be gone.”
Leaving Julia and the baskets behind, I walked toward the courtyard. I knew better than to interrupt the emperor’s business, but the injustice drove me to action. “The Syrian isn’t a merchant,” I said.
The three men glanced my way as Julia loomed in the doorway behind me.
Exasperation made the lines of the emperor’s pale brow furrow. “Child, be silent.”
“Would Caesar have me let a man lie to him?” I asked.
Caesar. This was the first time I gave him the honor of that name; it left a taste in my mouth like ash. Still, it was the only way to convince the emperor to listen to me.
The emperor motioned me forward. “What lies is this man telling?”
A twist of anxiety crossed the interpreter’s face, confirming my suspicions. “He’s mistranslating everything. The Syrian isn’t trying to sell you baubles.”
The emperor’s gray eyes tightened nearly imperceptibly as he peered at the interpreter. “Is this true?”
“Emperor,” the interpreter answered, “the Syrian offered me a cut of his business if I would help sell you his goods from the East. What does this little girl know?”
I lifted my chin with an imperious air. “I know Syrian.”
The courtyard went silent. The interpreter’s hand trembled, and I wasn’t the only one to see it.
The emperor finally asked, “If he isn’t a merchant, then who is he?”
“He’s a wizard,” I said. “A magi bearing gifts, and he’s giving them because of me.”
“You, Selene?” The emperor’s eyes widened. “Why?”
At the mention of my name, the Syrian dropped to his knees before me, pressing his forehead to the floor in abasement. Startled, I took a step back. I’d seen people worship my mother as pharaoh but this was different in quality and intensity.
“What’s this nonsense? Make him get up!” the emperor demanded.
I touched the magi’s shoulder and whispered in Syrian, “Please rise or you’ll make the emperor angry. Who are you? Why are you bringing gifts?”
The magi smiled into my eyes with joy that made me tingle. He got to his feet, his stance unsteady as his head bowed before me. He actually began to weep. “I come from the East to honor Isis. Octavian of Rome has spared the holy twins who are saviors. I bring offerings for his family and gifts for you as the holy day of your birth approaches.”
Warmth spread through my chest at the realization that people in faraway lands still cared about us. My brothers and I had felt alone in the world, yet people we had never met gathered their wealth and sent it to us as a gift. I’d all but forgotten my own birthday, as I’d spent the last one in the belly of a warship awaiting my arrival in Rome. Yet other people still remembered it a world away.
“What did he say?” the emperor asked.
I knew I’d have to surrender the truth, but I waited a few moments more to savor the loving words before Rome stole them from me and turned them ugly.
When I translated, the emperor struggled to hide his surprise. He loathed the unpredictable, so I was relieved when his dangerous gaze rested upon the interpreter instead of me. “Why would he lie and tell me that this man is a merchant?”
“Maybe he doesn’t speak Syrian well,” I suggested, but I suspected darker motives.
So did the emperor. “Perhaps he meant to make me pay for goods that were being given as gifts? Perhaps he meant to steal from me without my ever knowing it.”
The interpreter blanched as if struck, perspiration gathering on his brow. “Surely not, Caesar! Perhaps I misunderstood a few words, but my Syrian is more expert than the girl’s and maybe she misunderstands.”
“Send for Juba,” the emperor said to Julia.
I’d nearly forgotten she was behind me. Now she dashed off at her father’s command. We stood waiting as caged birds in Livia’s atrium sang to fill the silence.
As if prompted by the uncomfortable wait, the Syrian addressed me, “Holy One, to honor you and your brother as the children of Isis, my ship is filled with gifts. Perfumes and silks. Gold and myrrh.”
I translated quickly to allay the emperor’s suspicion, then added, “Perhaps the truth can be found in the ship’s papers.”
The emperor lifted one finger. “Just as I was going to suggest, Selene.”
The interpreter interjected, “Caesar, this Eastern barbarian didn�
�t show me any papers!”
It was too late. The emperor wasn’t even listening to the interpreter anymore, only to me. “If this man is guilty of trying to steal from me, Selene, what should I do?”
Even at my age, I understood I was being asked to condemn him to death. I examined the interpreter’s face, noticing the hollowed cheeks. There was a desperate, hungry look about him. “His soul is for Isis to judge. I pray that Caesar is merciful.”
The interpreter snarled. “You’d believe the daughter of an Egyptian whore instead of a citizen of Rome?”
I’d suggested clemency, and yet when he called my mother a whore, I found myself adding, “But I wonder … would he have laughed afterward at how great a fool he’d made of you?”
From the slight darkening in the emperor’s eyes, I could see my arrow had not missed.
Just then, Juba arrived, sweaty and winded. He was only wearing a tunic and toga, but saluted as if he were in military garb. “Juba, do you speak Syrian?” the emperor asked.
“Some,” Juba replied.
Then he smiled at me winsomely, not yet sensing the tension between those gathered. Julia eavesdropped from the doorway behind him and the emperor tipped the brim of his hat toward the sky. “Juba, ask the Syrian who he is.”
I didn’t flinch, but the interpreter quaked as Juba did as the emperor asked. “Caesar, he says he’s a priest who brings offerings.”
“Offerings? Gifts? Not merchandise?” the emperor asked.
“Perhaps gifts,” Juba said, abashed.
The desperate interpreter pointed an accusing finger at the Syrian. “He’s only saying that now, hoping to avoid the offense of having annoyed Caesar with his baubles!”
The emperor plucked a red berry from one of the bushes in the courtyard and flicked it away. “What merchant offers his entire cargo for free when he could have left with the bag of coins I offered? Guards, arrest this man.”
The interpreter maintained his composure even while understanding he was doomed. He didn’t struggle as the emperor’s soldiers seized him. That was the Roman way and I could almost admire it. The Syrian, for his part, left my presence with tears in his eyes as if in holy rapture.
Lily of the Nile Page 11