I started forward, drawn as to a magnet, but was held firmly in place by Father. The procession moved on, the sound of gongs and flutes fading as the crowd drifted forward until the priestess was obscured from view.
I sighed longingly. “Who was that?”
“An abomination!”
I looked up, shocked by an angry tone I rarely heard.
Mother’s small hands flew up in a protective gesture to avert the omen. “Marcus! She is the high priestess of Isis.”
“The goddess of that bitch queen, Cleopatra.”
“You don’t still think it was all Cleopatra’s fault!” Mother exclaimed.
“I do! If she hadn’t bewitched him from his duty to his family, to Rome—forced him to play Osiris to her Isis—”
“Can a woman force a man to do anything he does not desire?”
“Who are you talking about?” I wanted to know.
Mother and Father exchanged glances. Mother sighed. “Why not tell her?”
“It happened long ago. Such things are better forgotten.”
“Not that long ago,” she reminded him. “Tiberius has not forgotten. I notice he wasn’t at all pleased that Germanicus chose to come here for a holiday.”
“No, he was not,” Father admitted, his gray eyes thoughtful. “Another message arrived yesterday. Tiberius is angry.”
“I’m not surprised. I thought it risky of Germanicus. No potential heir has dared come here since—”
“Since what? Who are you talking about? I’m not a child,” I reminded them.
“No, but you are a daughter of Rome who should know better than to press her father.” Tata’s voice was stern, but his expression melted as he looked at me. “Whoever controls Egypt controls Rome’s grain supply. The emperor is always suspicious of Germanicus.”
I had sat, an attentive mouse, through many policy debates. Now I waited expectantly. When no one spoke, I prompted, softening my voice. “There’s more to it than that. I know there is. Who are you talking about?”
It was Mother who answered. “Antonius. Marcus Antonius, Germanicus’s grandfather.”
I nodded. “He shared the empire with Augustus, didn’t he?”
“For a time, before he was lured away by his Egyptian—consort.” The anger was back in Father’s voice.
“Here, I’m told they thought of him as her consort,” Mother reminded him.
“It’s Antonius’s disgrace that he allowed himself to forsake the gods of our fathers, that he walked at Cleopatra’s side while she was carried above him on that wretched throne.”
“It is incredible,” Mother agreed. “Imagine a man forgetting Rome so completely, sacrificing everything.”
I said nothing, remembering the invitation in the priestess’s eyes. I’d glimpsed a new freedom there. A chance, perhaps, to escape the imperial restrictions I resented. At the very least I’d seen the promise of an adventure unlike anything I’d ever known.
CHAPTER 5
Isis’s Quest
Mother had never taken me to the slave market. Now I saw why. The stench alone was dreadful. Many of the terrified slaves had fouled themselves, staining their garments and the filthy straw where they stood.
“Disgusting!” Mother muttered, holding her stola tightly about her. “No Roman would behave in such a manner.” She handed me a small crystal vial of perfume. “Hold this to your nose and stay close beside me.”
Clutching the vial, I followed Mother from one small crowd to another. The smell was only part of it. I heard horrible screams, curses, and shouts. The slaves wore metal collars fastened to chains secured by heavy wooden posts. Some of the men swore at passersby, straining as far as their chains would allow. So fierce, but I felt their fear, clinging like sweat. Older ones stood straight, but looked frail. Who would want them? Mother pulled me past a slave woman, her arms shielding three young children who clung to her skirts. All of them were crying.
“It’s awful, Mother. I had no idea.”
Mother nodded. “I can’t pretend that it isn’t, but someday you’ll have a home of your own to run. It’s time to see how things are done. Look around, we must find a replacement for old Priscilla. The banquet’s next week.”
I scanned the possibilities. They might as well be a herd of dumb oxen. And then one piqued my interest. She stood tall and still among the trembling, often whimpering men and women. “What about that girl?”
Mother gestured to the slave master standing nearby. He quickly handed her the girl’s bill of sale. “A fine choice, Domina. Rachel is today’s best.”
Mother turned her back to him, frowning over the scroll. “Rachel, is it? The stories those masters tell! This claims she’s fluent in both Greek and Latin with a father who was adviser to Herod the Great.” Regarding the slave closely, Mother speculated, “I wonder what’s wrong with her, only four years older than you and sold three times.”
I searched Rachel’s lively, intelligent face, liked her bright, hazel eyes, longish nose, and broad, humorous mouth. “Perhaps she was just unlucky.”
“She looks delicate to me.” Mother turned away.
Disappointment flickered in the slave’s eyes. “Hungry is more like it,” I ventured. “I think she’d be the very one to help with the banquet.”
The only other prospective buyer was a large man whose belly bulged over an Egyptian kilt. Round face flushed, he leaned forward to lift the girl’s wiry arms, managing to cup a breast in the process. His large hand moved to the slave’s jaw, forcing her mouth open. She ended the examination abruptly, catching two of his short, fat fingers in her sharp teeth.
“Seth’s shit!” he swore, cuffing her hard with one hand while trying to extract the other.
The slave master rushed forward. “Take care! You don’t own her yet.”
“How much is she?” I asked.
“One thousand sesterces,” replied the master. “A woman with such spirit”—he looked at the examiner, who swore again and sucked his bleeding hand—“such fire, is worth far more.”
“One thousand be damned,” the man growled. “She isn’t worth ten.”
“No, she isn’t,” Mother agreed. “Claudia, what are you thinking!” My cheeks flamed. Two men laughed openly; old women in black watched us with little fox eyes, missing nothing.
The slave master’s eyes shifted to Mother as one hand, weighted with rings, adjusted the folds of his embroidered tunic. “Surely a domina of your obvious discernment sees that a bright young woman with a cultured background would be a bargain at one thousand. It’s only because I’m forced to close my establishment to attend family business in Etruria that I’m willing to part with her so cheaply.”
Mother shook her head firmly. Taking my arm, she led me away from a knot of curious onlookers. “You’re so anxious to be treated as an adult, it’s time you acted like one. I’ve five hundred to spend, not a denarius more. That one”—she glanced discreetly at a matronly figure standing docilely at the far end of the line—“looks right. I’ve been watching her since we came in. The young slave is anyone’s guess. With such a temper, it’s no wonder she’s had so many masters.”
“What would you do if some man touched you like he did her? I’d bite him even harder than she did.”
“I’m sure you would,” Mother allowed, “but it’s hardly the same, now is it? The girl brought her troubles on herself. The slave master’s gambling that man will pay more than she’s worth and now he thinks you’re a potential buyer as well.”
“The man’s already angry,” I pointed out. “If he buys the slave, he may hurt her.”
“That’s life, my dear.”
“Oh, Mother, the poor slave…” I felt my eyes fill with tears.
“Don’t ‘Oh, Mother’ me. I am your mother, not your father. Save your drama for him.”
I dried my eyes. “How much were you planning to pay for a slave?”
“I told you, five hundred is my limit. I am expected to entertain the governor this week. Y
ou attended his reception. You saw how lavish it was. Those gold dishes, the sword swallowers—well, why not? He’s got the whole treasury of Egypt to steal from!” She paused, watching me speculatively. “Do you have any pocket money?”
“Fifty sesterces,” I admitted reluctantly. I’d been saving for a gold ring fashioned into a coiled snake with bright green eyes. The shopkeeper told me it had magic properties.
We looked back at the prospective buyer, still haggling with the slave master. The latter had come down to nine hundred, the former up to seven. So close. I looked at the slave, who stood still as stone, her face impassive but for the eyes—fixed on me.
I sighed. “I do have one hundred more hidden at home in Hecate’s basket…”
“Oh, very well”—Mother sighed—“if it means that much to you. We’ll pay seven hundred and fifty,” she called out in a clear voice. The buyer considered the girl for a long minute, muttered a curse, and stalked from the market.
RACHEL, OUR FAMILY SOON AGREED, KNEW EVERYTHING WORTH knowing about Alexandria. The girl fit effortlessly into our household, behaving as though she’d served us for years. Skilled at hairdressing, clever with a needle, she made herself indispensable to Mother while managing to work with Hebe and Festus, our cook and house manager, an ill-tempered but gifted pair. For that alone Mother blessed Fortuna, but soon she came to suspect that Rachel knew every bargain in a city renowned the world over for its variety.
The governor dined on the finest cuts of sterile sow womb. He delighted in boiled ostrich served on a bed of Jericho dates and rhapsodized over minced sea crayfish spiced with garum sauce. Orchids from the far reaches of the Upper Nile transformed our modest atrium. Athenian lute players entertained while an Ethiopian Venus performed with panthers that cavorted like kittens. Everyone marveled at the feats of Mithradites, a magician said to be the cleverest in a city of wizards; but Mother and I privately decided that Rachel was the true wizard. She’d accomplished the event for a fraction of the amount originally budgeted.
FOR DAYS BANQUET PREPARATIONS HAD ABSORBED RACHEL’S LIFE. All the while I’d thought of little but the great goddess Isis and her handmaiden, Cleopatra—exotic, intriguing, and forbidden. Returning to my room after the festivities, I sighed in anticipation. Let my parents keep their secrets, I knew exactly where to turn.
The lamps had been dimmed. A pink shift lay draped across the couch. Rachel rose to greet me. “Would you like a massage?” she asked, unfastening my tunic.
“Yes,” I answered, stepping out of my garments. “A massage and some information. Tell me about Cleopatra. Tata called her a bitch. Was she evil?”
Rachel carefully removed a vial of sandalwood oil from the small collection near the couch. “She was worshiped as a goddess. Alexandrians still mourn her. Cleopatra was the last of the Ptolemies, Alexander’s dynasty.”
“I know that!” I exclaimed impatiently. “When we conquered Egypt, Augustus installed a governor. One has ruled ever since. But what about Cleopatra? Was she very beautiful?”
Rachel’s hands kneaded my back. “Her statues show a shapely body dressed splendidly in the Egyptian manner.”
“Egyptian styles leave little to the imagination. What about her face?”
Rachel’s experienced fingers moved impersonally over my buttocks. “Her nose was large and her jaw pronounced.”
“But Antonius and, I’m told, Julius Caesar before him—”
“It couldn’t have been her face,” Rachel remarked with certainty. “The old ones say she had a beautiful voice and everyone thought she was awfully smart.” Rachel paused. “Then there’s the other thing.”
“Other thing?”
“You’re very young.”
“I’m fourteen! Another year and my parents will be searching for a husband. Tell me!”
“Cleopatra was heady wine. She thought that marriage, first to Caesar and then to Antonius, would unite the world in one bed—”
“Her own,” I finished. “But that was all so long ago. Tata never saw Cleopatra, yet he hates her. There must be something else…” I sat up, raising my arms as Rachel slipped the shift over my shoulders. Yawning, I lay back on the couch. My eyes felt heavy. “I don’t suppose even Tata knows why he hates Cleopatra,” I murmured sleepily, “but it’s that power he fears—the power of Isis.”
I DREAMED THAT NIGHT OF ISIS. A PLEASANT DREAM, FOR ONCE, BUT not surprising. I’d been thinking of her, after all. What did surprise me was Rachel’s reaction. “It’s an omen,” the slave insisted excitedly. “The true beloved of Isis are always dreamers.”
“How do you know so much about Isis?” I asked, looking up from my breakfast figs.
“I go to her temple whenever I can.”
“You go there? A slave?”
Rachel smiled at my surprise. “Isis welcomes everyone.”
“How remarkable.” I reached absently for a pot of honey. “Your bill of sale said you are Judean. I’ve heard that your people have only one god. He must be strong. Why have you left him?”
Rachel hesitated. “Yahweh punishes people. He turned one woman into a pillar of salt—just for looking back. A goddess would be more forgiving.”
“Some of them,” I conceded. “Diana turns men into stags if they take liberties, like spying on women bathing. She loves animals, though. When a chariot hit Hecate, no one thought she would live. Tata wanted to get another cat, but Diana heard my prayers. Hecate’s leg mended. She doesn’t even limp.”
“A miracle, I’m sure, but tell me please, what of your dream?”
“There’s little to tell,” I answered, surprised again by Rachel’s intensity. “It was mostly her face, so beautiful, full of love and…compassion. Isis wouldn’t turn anyone into anything. She called me to a lovely blue sea. We flew there together, she holding me in her arms. Sometimes we rested on the wave, rocking as in a cradle. I felt so…so safe.”
Rachel nodded knowingly. “The sea is sacred to her. She’s chosen you, I’m sure of it.”
LATER WHEN I JOINED MOTHER IN THE SUNLIT CORNER WHERE HER loom rested, she did not agree.
“Don’t let your father hear you talking about Isis,” she warned.
I nodded obediently, then after a pause, asked, “Are you happy worshipping Juno?”
“Happy?” Mother looked surprised. “I seek reassurance from Juno, nothing else.” She smiled at me. “When I was your age I worshipped Diana. She is a virgin, which is all very well when one is young—very well. But then I met your father…My offerings to Venus were well received. In recent years, Juno has grown very dear. She protects our home, I feel it.”
“But Juno…” I hesitated.
“Juno is the goddess of marriage,” Mother reminded me. She picked up a skein of mauve wool. “What more could any woman want?”
“I don’t know.” I paused again. “Her husband seems a strange god, always chasing one tunica after another, but Juno…isn’t very forgiving. She does such cruel things to her rivals—changing them into cows and things.”
Mother picked up her shuttle. “When you are a wife you will understand.”
RACHEL TOLD ME ISIS’S STORY EARLY THE NEXT MORNING WHILE WE walked to the fish market. At first Father had forbidden me to go; then, at Mother’s suggestion, he agreed to a litter. I didn’t want a litter. I wanted to see things, so I pleaded: “I need the exercise.” Tata sighed, finally agreed, but later I noticed two house slaves trailing discreetly behind us.
“If ever there were a pair of soulmates, it was Isis and Osiris,” Rachel said, lightly swinging the basket she carried. “They met and loved each other in their mother’s womb before their birth as twins.”
I had heard that Egyptian kings and queens sometimes married siblings. It seemed strange, but still, who would you know better than your own brother? “Their happiness must have been eternal,” I ventured.
“Anything but,” Rachel explained. “A jealous brother tricked Osiris into trying a casket on for size, then locked it and flung h
im into the Nile. Isis set off to find her husband. It was a long, hard journey. She even pretended to be a temple love priestess.”
“A love priestess!” I was shocked and thrilled.
“She had to,” Rachel quickly explained. “It was the only way she could get Osiris’s corpse back to bury. Even that wasn’t the end. The same awful brother unearthed the body, dismembered it, and scattered the pieces all over the world. So what could Isis do but set off once again, this time to find and join his missing parts.”
“Did she find them?”
“All but the most important.”
I tried not to giggle.
“It’s the means by which a woman brings life to her husband,” Rachel reminded me. “The goddess used her powers not only to reconstruct the missing member, but to bring immortality to her husband through their child.”
We’d reached the seaside market. Brightly colored boats bobbed in the water as men hauled in tubs of flailing fish. Rachel darted from one makeshift stall to another searching for the rare bream, Mother’s favorite. Sniffing from a perfume vial, I leaned against the sea wall, staring absently out at the harbor. Pharos, the great lighthouse I’d visited the week before, was emerging from early morning mist when Rachel touched my elbow. “We should return home,” she urged. “Look what I have here. Your father will want these sardines for breakfast.” In no time, she’d purchased not only sardines and bream but mussels and crabs.
All around us slaves and sellers bargained and cursed, crying out to be heard about the market din, but my thoughts were of a female deity who roamed the world surviving by her wits. “That was the most beautiful story I’ve ever heard,” I said at last. It was also the most exciting.
Turning to Rachel, I announced: “You will take me to the temple of Isis.”
She jumped, nearly dislodging the basket from her shoulder. “Your parents would kill me!”
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