“I was kind, Julia. Your father has no interest in Iullus beyond using him as an example of how merciful he can be. You say you care for Iullus, but you’re risking his ruin. You’re betrothed to Marcellus now. You can’t ever kiss Iullus again. It’s too dangerous.”
“It’s only dangerous if you tell,” Julia said.
I wouldn’t tell. Iullus might never think of me as a sister. He might never accept me as anything other than the daughter of an Egyptian whore, but I would protect what remained of my family, whether they wanted my protection or not. “I’m not going to say anything, but—”
“Thank you!” Julia embraced me in a fit of spontaneous exuberance. “I love him, Selene.”
This time, when she said it, I believed her. I wanted to cut that out of her too. “It doesn’t matter if you love him. He doesn’t love you. I know you think he does, because he gets Horace to help him write you love poetry. But Iullus only thinks you’re important because you’re the emperor’s daughter. He wants you because he can’t have you.”
She recoiled from me. “Why are you being so mean?”
“I’m not trying to be mean. I’m trying to tell you that Iullus isn’t a nice person. He has a darkness inside that he doesn’t even struggle against.”
Julia wrapped her arms around herself. “How can you say that?”
“I think he forced himself upon my brother’s slave.” When Julia’s eyes sparked with jealousy I explained, “Chryssa swore her virginity to Isis, but she claims—”
“I’ve heard of this,” Julia interrupted, her voice lowering a notch. “Of women who dedicate their virginity at fertility rituals in the Isiac temples.”
I felt my blood run unexpectedly hot. “I don’t think it was like that. Followers of Isis often make vows of chastity. They make sacrifices for spiritual enlightenment.”
“But some of them also debase themselves in fertility rites, don’t they?” Julia asked.
“It’s not debasement,” I argued before I could stop myself. “It’s something very old that is sometimes practiced at her temples. It’s a rare thing, but sometimes the temple prostitutes and other worshippers gather and initiate newcomers.”
“Initiate?” Julia was always one for the salacious details.
I sat down on the marble bench with her. I was exasperated, but I tried to appear more sophisticated about the subject than I really was. “They mate. It brings about the blessings of Isis to the land so that new children can be born.”
Julia’s eyes were wide. “Are you saying that Isiacs go to the temples and … breed with complete strangers?”
“I think so. I don’t know. Sometimes. But that’s not—”
Julia howled. “Worshippers of Isis do that and you’re worried about my kissing Iullus in the garden?”
“What should it matter? It’s a holy rite that has been sacred for thousands of years and it is probably gossiped about more than it’s ever been practiced. Even if Chryssa were going to do that, she’s an unmarried slave. You, however, are the emperor’s daughter.”
Julia seemed determined to divert me from the intended course of the conversation. “What happens if the women in this ritual were to get pregnant?”
“They’re supposed to,” I said. “Children are good to bring to a marriage. Sometimes married women go to the temple for the rituals if they are having trouble conceiving, with the blessings of their husbands.” I was likely confirming everything the emperor said about my mother and my people, but it was Julia, and I wasn’t about to feel shame before her. “It isn’t as if they’re taking lovers in amorous affairs!”
Julia looked at me dubiously. “You’re making that up.”
“It’s true. It’s referred to even in the Hebrew holy book. It’s the tree and the fruit and the snake, symbols of Isis that their creation story warns against—as they were no friends to the Isiacs even before King Herod came to power.”
“How can they know who fathered the child?” Julia objected, mesmerized.
“They can’t, and my mother said we ought to curse the day men ever learned that they fathered children, because that’s when they started treating them like possessions.”
We were both silent for a moment. Julia was looking at me with a mixture of admiration, envy, and fear. “Perhaps Livia should go to one of these rituals—then maybe she could provide my father with the son he needs and then I wouldn’t have to marry Marcellus.”
“Julia …”
“Perhaps I should go. Then no matter who my father married me to, I’d still get to choose who fathered my child. Perhaps then I could choose Iullus.”
I was frightened by how seriously she said it. “Don’t speak it. Don’t even think it. I should have never mentioned it.”
“Then why did you?” Julia leaned back against the vines on the low wall and her little mouth puckered in thought.
“I just want you to think twice. Iullus isn’t the boy you think he is and he likely violated Chryssa, though she made up this outrageous story about your father.”
“My father?” Julia said, with a tilt of her delicate head.
I’d come this far, there was no point stopping now. “She said someone found out that she was a virgin and brought her to the emperor’s bed.” I expected Julia to laugh or to be outraged and disgusted, but she showed no signs of surprise whatsoever. When she didn’t say anything, I rambled on with, “Clearly that’s a lie, but Chryssa was upset. And I’ve seen the looks Iullus gives her.”
Julia folded her arms over herself. “Sometimes you’re so clever, Selene, and sometimes you don’t know anything.”
I bit my lower lip. “I know how your father feels about such things. He’s even told me it’s not proper or legal for Romans to bed with their slaves.”
“First of all,” Julia said, “when he lectures about propriety, purity, and chastity, he’s talking about women. Second, even if he were talking about men, that doesn’t mean it applies to him.”
“The emperor preaches about homespun and he wears it,” I pointed out. “He preaches about simple food and he eats it.”
Julia rolled her eyes. She took a stone from near her foot, and threw it into the bushes. “My father also preaches about a moderate homestead and you’ve seen his office. You’ve seen the temple he’s built for himself while telling Rome it’s for Apollo. My father is like one of those actors from the theater. Everything is a show. So why don’t you stop blaming Iullus when anyone could tell you that deflowering virgins is my father’s favorite pastime.”
I sat there, still as a statue. “That’s absurd.”
“It’s true. His friends try to discourage him, but it’s of no use. There was even an instance where my father sent for a girl, and when he opened the carriage, a friend leapt out with a knife to show him how vulnerable he was. I think Maecenas hoped that my father would be content to take Terentilla as his mistress, but she apparently isn’t young enough, or pure enough.”
“You’re making that up.”
“Like you made up the fertility rites of Isis?”
My expression soured as I struggled to readjust my perceptions. “I just—my point was just that you shouldn’t so easily trust Iullus. Even if you’re right about your father, Chryssa said someone brought her to the emperor. That was surely Iullus, trying to impress.”
Julia stood up and started to walk away. She was like me in so many ways, a reflection and a shadow all at once. And no matter how foolishly placed her loyalty to Iullus was, I couldn’t hate her for it. “Fine!” I said. “Maybe it wasn’t Iullus that brought Chryssa to the emperor. It could have been anyone. You’re right.”
“Oh, it wasn’t anyone, Selene,” Julia said, whirling back to face me. “It was Livia.”
I sputtered with sudden, absurd, laughter. “Livia!”
But Julia wasn’t laughing. “Why do you think she even thought there was a chance that he’d choose Tiberius as his heir? She wins his loyalty by granting his every depraved whim. She practical
ly scours the city to find virgins for him to despoil. Some of the slaves even say she tries to find highborn women to bear him a son that she can take in as her own.”
A flash of memory from my first Saturnalia passed through my mind. I remembered the girl outside the emperor’s bedroom and the way Livia had been caressing her cheek, then commanding her. Heat crept up my neck at the memory.
“Don’t look so shocked, Selene,” Julia said. “Livia tends to all my father’s needs.”
ON the other side of the wall, Philadelphus pressed the sharpened needle against the fleshy part of his hand. “I don’t know if I can do it, Selene. I’ve never stabbed myself before.”
“Don’t do it too hard,” I said. “Just a little blood.”
We had a theory about the hieroglyphics. Only when I touched other people’s blood did the messages arrive. In all three instances, the blood had belonged to someone I cared about. Someone who believed. Now it was time to test the theory. A chair blocked my door to keep out intruders, but I was still nervous that Julia or Octavia might come bursting in, and I was irritated that Bast kept yowling to be let out.
Philadelphus still hesitated. “But every time you get a message, there’s trouble, and the emperor is in a foul temper already.”
“The emperor doesn’t know what causes the messages. Last time I had one, it made him unsteady. With Helios gone, I think I must keep him unsteady. It’s when he’s cool and calm that he’s most dangerous.”
“But the messages hurt you,” Philadelphus said.
“Not that much,” I lied, but I was desperate for guidance. I didn’t know if the bargain I’d struck with the emperor was right or wrong, and I hoped Isis might tell me.
Philadelphus whimpered, handing me the needle. “I can’t.”
I thought about how hard it must have been for my father to drive his own sword into his heart, or for my mother to bare her arm to the bite of the cobra, and I felt shamed for asking this of Philadelphus. “It’s all right. I’ll think of another way.”
Philadelphus pushed his hand through the hole. “This is the way, but you do it for me.”
My first attempt was ineffectual, causing pain without breaking the skin and Philadelphus yelped. “Sorry! I’m sorry.” Finally, I took a deep breath and plunged the needle into his hand, a trickle of blood welling where I’d made the puncture.
“Ow!” He yanked his hand back and shook it.
I reached for his hand and pulled it back, smearing his red blood on both of mine, and whispering, “Isis, let me be your vessel.”
When the crimson drops settled into the lines of my palms, I didn’t know what to do next. Was I to leave my brother’s blood on my hands? Wash it off? We had chores to do, and if I didn’t complete mine, Octavia would be wroth.
“Now what?” Philadelphus asked, putting his lips to the wound.
“I guess we wait.”
SUMMER was upon us and the Romans complained about the unbearable heat. Perhaps it was the nervousness that made me feel it too, because as I slipped onto a couch with Julia for our meal, I needed to wipe the perspiration from my brow. I had a hard time looking at her as the slaves served us millet porridge with thick ribbons of honey stirred through it. I couldn’t look at Livia either. Not after what Julia had said about her. Livia liked to say that she never feared the emperor would divorce her because she’d always done whatever he asked of her, willingly and without complaint. But what would the people think of Livia, the perfect matron, pimping the virgins of Rome to her husband? Rome would forgive the emperor this vice—perhaps even admire him—but Livia? Never.
Given that the emperor had just announced the betrothal of Julia to Marcellus, Livia’s position was more precarious than ever, and I knew it was a secret she’d kill to protect. I feared she could read the knowledge on my skin. In fact, I almost jumped when the emperor ambled into the room with some scrolls tucked under his arm.
“We’re going to have two weddings this summer,” he announced, and a spoonful of half-swallowed porridge caught in my throat. “Julia will marry Marcellus and Juba is going to take Selene as a wife.”
My intended groom smiled broadly, but Livia’s eyes flashed only briefly with resentment before drifting half-closed. It was her reptilian instinct to reserve energy. I knew she’d strike only when she felt strongest. My eyes lifted to the emperor who stood over me smugly, awaiting my reaction. I surveyed the room. Livia glared, but the tension and upset that had accompanied Julia’s wedding announcement was absent here. Everyone else smiled at me or gasped their surprise. Even Agrippa seemed strangely happy for me and raised his wineglass to us. I could scarcely believe it.
Even if someone had been ready to protest, the emperor held up his hand. “You said that only a king would do for Selene? Only a king would do for a Ptolemy? Now you’ll have one. I’m giving Juba back his ancestral lands. Congratulate King Juba.”
“King Juba?” My eyebrows shot upward. “You’ve given him back Numidia?”
How was this possible? Was Numidia really to be deprovincialized and given back to its native prince, or was this a title in name only? Either way, Juba looked as if he might burst with pride. But I couldn’t be happy for him. In the first place, I mistrusted this declaration. Surely there should be some manner of document to prove that the Romans would withdraw from Numidia in favor of Juba’s rule. In the second place, I thought of my father kneeling over his sword when his troops abandoned him, the job well done on Juba’s part for which he was now being rewarded.
“What have you to say, Selene?” the emperor asked me.
I’d already agreed to marry Juba so I’d gain nothing by refusing now, even if it meant I’d be dragged to Numidia—a world away. I loved Helios, I loved Philadelphus, I loved the Isiacs, and I loved Egypt. It wasn’t a difficult choice, though I choked on the words like a bitter draft. “I’m honored.”
The emperor was clearly enjoying the drama he was creating. He played the part of the benevolent dictator and he expected everyone to appreciate his largesse. “Haven’t you a question about your dowry?”
My cheeks burned at the question. I had no dowry. He’d taken from us everything we’d ever owned. As if some man needed to be paid to marry me anyhow! The indignity of it stung. “A dowry, Augustus?”
He threw a scroll down on the table. I was afraid to read it, and when I did I was filled with dread. Juba was the rightful heir to Numidia—perhaps giving him back his kingdom was the natural thing to do—but as dowry for a Ptolemaic princess, the emperor was gifting Juba with a kingdom that didn’t even belong to him: Mauretania. I’d asked the emperor to send us to Mauretania, to allow us to persuade the people there to build a port. I had not asked that he subjugate them under pseudo-Roman rule. “So, Juba will rule both Numidia and Mauretania?”
“How else will you build my trade port?” the emperor asked, entirely pleased with himself. “If I require a Ptolemy in Africa, I’ll have one as the king’s consort, although I don’t envy Juba’s task of keeping you in your place.”
“What about Egypt?” I dared to whisper. My true inheritance was Egypt and we both knew it. Was the emperor going to make Juba pharaoh too?
The emperor actually laughed. “A moment ago you had little more to your name than a cat and a harp. Now I’ve furnished you with a royal marriage, yet always your mind is on Egypt!”
“Egypt starves without a pharaoh,” I said quietly, cursing myself for the dangerous line I walked. If I continued, I’d remind him that my twin was in open rebellion.
“Egypt is a chained crocodile,” the emperor declared, swishing his purple bordered toga. “She’s no threat to anyone and no longer gives us enough grain. Africa is the future. If you and Juba do your part there, then we’ll see about ceding you back parts of the old Ptolemaic Empire. After that, perhaps we’ll speak of Egypt.” It was too rich a plum to dangle before me. He knew it. “Now, after the betrothal announcement, you’ll go to the Temple of Isis and look for your brother.”
>
My heart soared at the prospect of visiting the Temple of Isis, but my joy was tempered by the sinister purpose for which I was being sent. I knew I must get used to this. In becoming Juba’s queen, I’d have to rationalize and realize the emperor’s vision. I’d have to leave Rome and perhaps leave my brothers too, but it would save their lives and, perhaps, our faith. “Selene?” The emperor tired of waiting for my gratitude. I peeked at Juba and his eyes pleaded with me to use this as an excuse to finally invest myself fully, heart and soul, into Octavian’s dreams. My bargain with the emperor had been struck before Helios ran, so I donned my own mask of the gracious and grateful ward. “Caesar, you’re so very generous that I’m moved beyond words.”
Marriage, thrones, and the love of family now formed golden chains around me tighter than the ones I wore when they dragged me through the streets of Rome.
Twenty-seven
FOR our betrothal announcement, I was obliged to dress for the occasion in an embroidered white gown fastened with pearl brooches at each shoulder. Silvered ribbons ornamented the dark waves of my hair, and I wore my mother’s pearl necklace. Julia, Marcellus, Juba, and I stood together in the heart of the city where our betrothals had been published in the Acta Diurna for passersby to read. Then the herald made the announcement and the crowds swarmed around us in congratulations.
I was always frightened amidst Roman crowds—the memory of Octavian’s Triumph never far from my mind—but on this day the faces were curious and friendly. As Juba displayed me on his arm like a prized falcon, children threw flower petals, and there was a general atmosphere of merriment. The people were so enchanted with the idea of Julia and Marcellus that they had no apparent concern that the ruler of Rome saw fit to name kings and queens of faraway places, for now Rome owned the entire world.
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