The Daughters of Palatine Hill: A Novel

by Phyllis T. Smith

  I took a breath. I had been terribly afraid she would say Augustus.

  “I love Juba. And he loves me.”

  In the aftermath of fear, I was furious. “Oh? How sweet. You little fool, couldn’t you keep your legs together?”

  Her face remained strangely calm. “Help me. You said you would be my friend. Now help me.”

  A memory came to me—my nineteen-year-old self, pregnant by the man I had been forced to marry, but wildly in love with Tavius, kneeling before my husband and begging his forgiveness, praying he would forgo vengeance and let me go. When we are young, we are passion’s playthings.

  “Help you how? Do you want a potion to rid you of the child? Anything that would work might just as easily kill you. Don’t you know that?”

  “I wish to bear the child. Juba has offered me marriage. I desire to be his wife more than I want anything else on this earth. Help me and I will be your loyal friend forever. I will take any oath.”

  I stared at her, feeling cold inside. Arrange a royal marriage for Antony and Cleopatra’s daughter? What simpleton would do such a thing? The future threat such a marriage might pose to Tavius and me was palpable.

  Selene read in my face denial of her plea. She gave a small nod, accepting my verdict. She let go of my knees, then said in a voice charged with urgency, “You understand Juba is not to blame. He did not force me. I offered myself, I tempted him. Such a thing is always the woman’s fault, isn’t it? And after all, I am Cleopatra’s daughter.” A faint, bitter smile flickered across her face. “If there is a price to be paid, it is right I alone should pay it.” She reached into a small pouch that hung from her waist and took out a dagger.

  I nearly cried in alarm when I saw it, thinking she meant to kill me. But her eyes met mine and she gave a little shake of her head, to reassure me.

  “I will not bear my child in shame.”

  “This is not necessary,” I said.

  “But it is. If I cannot marry Juba, it is better that I die with honor as my mother and father did.” She trembled a little, but her voice was clear and calm.

  I have experienced only a few moments in my life when time slowed and seemed to creep. This was one of them. Still kneeling, Selene raised the knife in her right fist. It was a small dagger, the handle inlaid silver, the blade brightly gleaming. Selene no longer seemed aware of me, only of the knife. She gazed at it as if entranced.

  She had just turned sixteen and was only coming into the beauty of young womanhood. Her skin was smooth and unmarked as that of a child.

  Disjointed thoughts flitted through my mind. I thought of my father falling on his sword. I remembered finding my mother dead of poison. I recalled what I had been told of Mark Antony’s botched suicide and long dying, of Cleopatra holding out her wrist to be bitten by a poisonous snake.

  This is how we leave the world when we are defeated—we who have walked on the stage of history. In pride, by our own will, and by our own hand, we go.

  I had never seen the act performed before. But I had imagined many times how it would be.

  The moment was brief but endless. I had time for all these thoughts, time to feel horror. I knew by the resolve in Selene’s expression that this was no ruse. She had come fully prepared to end her life if I would not help her.

  Parting her lips, she took a deep breath. Then she touched the dagger to the side of her neck. I saw a tiny drop of blood as she began the slashing movement across her throat, and at that same instant, I cried, “No!” I hit out with all my strength and struck the dagger from Selene’s hand.

  I pulled her into my arms. She did not weep, but I did. I wept for my parents. I wept for all the terrible choices, all the pain that had touched my life. I held the girl as a mother holds a beloved child. She had conquered me. She had taken a great gamble, but she had won.

  Somehow I would persuade Tavius to give her to Juba as his wife.

  The girl had won. But I would set the terms of her victory.

  She had put her dagger away. I had cleaned and put balm on the bloody scratch on her neck, and she had rearranged her hair so the mark did not show. She sat in a chair, still shaking a little, understandably. She had come very close to death.

  I had one of my maids bring her a cup of wine mixed with water. Selene drank, and gradually her trembling stopped. I dismissed the maid, and when Selene and I were alone, I said, “Swear loyalty to me and to Rome. Swear by your mother’s Egyptian gods that if you are allowed to marry Juba, I will have your lifelong fidelity.”

  Selene nodded, as if she had expected this. Indeed she came prepared with a great and terrible oath. “I swear by Osiris and by Horus that if I become Juba’s wife, I will be bound always to you and Rome in loyalty. If I break my oath, may I be struck blind and deaf. May eternal misery be my portion. May I die in agony and burn in everlasting fire.”

  She spoke gravely. But would the oath bind her? Can we be sure of another person—or even truly sure of ourselves? We can only guess, and hope.

  Tavius was still weak from the sickness’s aftereffects. Beyond that, he was deep in grief. He grieved for Marcellus, whom he had loved almost as a son. He felt pain for Julia, who was so withdrawn in her mourning that she barely answered when she was addressed. He did not speak to me of his daughter’s future—but I knew him well enough to understand where his thoughts must be tending. Those thoughts only added to his woes. He already foresaw that he could not do what was right for Rome and at the same time secure her happiness.

  To make matters worse, Octavia, his beloved sister, had been utterly shattered by her son’s death. This was beyond grief. She spoke only of the son she had lost, saying again and again he had carried burdens too great for one of his years. She looked at Tavius with stony eyes, as if he were her son’s killer.

  I felt true guilt at the prospect of harrying Tavius further at such a time, seeking his approval of Selene’s marriage to Juba. But the situation would brook no delay. So I chose a quiet evening when my husband was in his study alone and sat down across from his writing table. “Tell me, beloved, why did you decide to give the crown of Mauretania to Juba?”

  “Are you objecting to that? If you were against it, you should have said so before.”

  “I am not objecting. I just wondered about your reasons.”

  “He’ll make an able administrator. And the people of Mauretania will respect him because of his royal birth. His ancestral ties in North Africa will help keep the region stable.”

  “You don’t think he would rise in rebellion?”

  “His loyalty to me was twice proven in war. He is not the kind to break faith.”

  I nodded. “I think he and Selene have similar qualities. She is not lacking in honor. And you like her, don’t you, beloved? It seems to me you have shown that you do.”

  His expression turned wary. “What exactly are we discussing?”

  “Juba has gotten her with child. And they would like to marry.”

  He stared at me. “Gods above . . . he dared touch that girl? He dared?”

  I had anticipated Tavius’s anger, for after all, Juba had meddled with a young woman under his protection. To soothe him, I launched into a virtual ode to young love. I reminded him of how it was to be young and passionate, spoke of our own early days. Then I restated his good reasons for making Juba a king, which still applied. I told him of the fearsome oath of loyalty that Selene had willingly taken.

  I said, “Sometimes kindness is weakness in a ruler. One must be pitiless, in certain situations, for the sake of a greater good. I realize this. Still, I would rather you err toward kindness in this case. I like to believe the gods reward mercy.”

  “I know you do. All evidence to the contrary.”

  It was an old argument with us. We were both silent for a few moments. Then I said, “You can lavish Juba and Selene with kindness and, with any luck, secure their friendship. Or else . . . well, if Juba loves the girl half as much as she loves him, he will never forget that we depriv
ed him of her. He may well become our enemy. In view of that, instead of giving him a crown, you’d better execute him now and let Selene take her own life. That is the safest thing to do . . . if you are so enamored of safety.”

  Tavius frowned. “I am not enamored of safety. What I am is prudent.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  I felt strange, different, as if I had already died and this was the afterlife. I carried out my daily tasks—studied with my tutor, spun wool—and yet it was as if I were gazing through a veil at ordinary existence.

  Livia had said she would be my advocate with Augustus. She by no means promised that she would be successful in obtaining his permission for Juba and me to marry. My fear was that Augustus would see Juba and me not as erring lovers—though that might in itself enrage him—but as allies dangerous to Rome. He had thought my half brothers constituted a danger, at sixteen and seventeen, and executed them both. They had done nothing to earn his wrath but be who they were. But Juba and I—we had done something, hadn’t we? Something he might be unwilling to forgive?

  I had not told Juba yet that I was with child, or spoken of my conversation with Livia. Sometimes I thought of urging him to run away, telling him that I was pregnant and he was in danger. But I knew in my heart he would not run.

  I prayed that even if Augustus put me to death, he would spare Juba.

  In the morning, three days after my talk with Livia, Augustus summoned me. My heart hammering, I went into the chamber, off the atrium, where he sometimes held audiences with public officials. He sat in an ornate chair that looked almost like a throne. Behind him was a huge, vividly colored wall mural, showing battle scenes from the siege of Troy. Livia sat beside him. Another person was in the room—Juba, who stood like one accused before his judges. He shot me a look full of apprehension—apprehension and yet also a kind of helpless tenderness. I was certain he had been informed of my pregnancy.

  Augustus showed me none of his usual punctilious courtesy. He did not rise when I entered. Nor did he invite me to sit. He probed me with piercing blue eyes and said, “You are with child by Juba, is that correct?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  Augustus nodded toward Juba. “He didn’t know.”

  “I did not tell him.”

  If Augustus wanted an explanation of this, he did not ask for it. “You two had better marry, then.” Augustus glanced at Juba. “You agree?”

  “Yes . . . ,” Juba said. He sounded at first almost stunned by Augustus’s words. Then he added strongly, “Yes, Augustus. I want Selene as my wife.”

  I looked at Livia. Her face was impassive. I searched in vain for some sign from her that Augustus would truly allow us to marry. I had a terrible fear that we were being played with, that this might be all a cruel hoax.

  Then Augustus said, “I will give you the same dowry I would if you were my own daughter.”

  I groped for words. “You are beyond generous . . .”

  He nodded, as if agreeing with my assessment of his generosity. “Juba will come to you king of Mauretania. You will be a queen. Rome must rule Egypt directly—that is strategically necessary. I am afraid you must give up all thought of your mother’s throne. Will you surrender all claim to Egypt and accept Mauretania?”

  Any claim I had to Egypt was shadow and air, for I had no means to enforce it. I was giving up nothing. I had been given the greatest gift in the world—life with the man I loved. My heart soared. “Yes.” I blurted out the word.

  Augustus smiled. I think at that moment I amused him. “Then it’s settled.” Without another word, he got up and left the room.

  Livia remained seated. Her eyes went from Juba’s face to mine. “You are happy? Both of you?”

  We agreed that indeed we were happy.

  “Good,” she said. “Let me tell you something that perhaps comes better from me than from Augustus. He gives you these gifts in friendship. Juba, the kingdom you will rule is somewhat less than the territory your father held. Still you will be a king. Selene, Mauretania is not Egypt, but you will be a queen. And Augustus is bestowing great riches on you besides. You will have a grand dowry.”

  “They are great gifts,” Juba said.

  “Be satisfied with them, then,” she said. “It is important in this world to know what is possible and what is not. Take my advice. Do not look for more than what has been given to you. If you take Augustus’s gifts and show yourselves ungrateful . . . well, he would never forgive that.”

  “You don’t have to say this. I understand.” Juba spoke with an edge in his voice.

  “I’m glad you do. But let me repeat myself.” She looked at me, her eyes seeming to bore into my soul. “He would never forgive that. And neither would I.”

  And so we were betrothed, and given every inducement to keep faithful to Augustus, faithful to Rome. My good fortune almost frightened me—as if it might turn to dust in my hand. And yet it was real.

  “I feel an enormous debt to Livia,” I told Juba. “I could never break my oath to her.”

  “We will be loyal,” he said gravely. “Not out of fear but because it is right.”

  At the dinner celebrating the betrothal, my brother Jullus sat on the edge of my dining couch, leaning close so we could speak privately. “The goddess Fortuna has blessed you, little moon.”

  “Come to Mauretania with us,” I said.

  “It would be wonderful not to be parted from you. But what life could there be for me there?”

  “Juba and I have discussed it. There would be a place for you, I promise. A place of influence and importance.”

  “Yes, every king and queen need a poor relative as a hanger-on. I’m sure it would be pleasant, and I’m almost lazy enough to take you up on your offer, but, sweet Sister, my life is here in Rome.”

  “What sort of life can you have under Augustus’s rule?” I spoke in a whisper. “You are Mark Antony’s son.”

  “Before long, Selene, I may give you precisely the kind of pleasant surprise that you have given me.”

  “You are speaking of marriage?”

  “An advantageous marriage,” Jullus said. He went on soberly, “I’m not unambitious, you know. Far from it.”

  “Is your intended a Roman?”

  He laughed. “I would say so.”

  “Who?”

  “You promise not to tell?”

  I nodded.

  He whispered, “Marcella.” I must have gaped at him, because he grinned and said, “Oh, Selene, does it seem as unlikely as that that she would have me? Augustus’s niece and Mark Antony’s son—don’t you think that will make a delightful combination? I do.”

  “Jullus, she is married to Agrippa.”

  “There’s a divorce and remarriage in store for Agrippa, I strongly suspect.”

  I let that pass without probing. “You don’t like Marcella,” I whispered.

  “But she likes me.”

  If she did, it was no wonder. Jullus was taller than most men by half a head, had a strong, handsome face, arresting hazel eyes, and curly black hair. And he had another quality, hard to define yet palpable. People still spoke of our father’s raw magnetism. Jullus had inherited it.

  I thought of how unpleasant a person Marcella was, how selfish and haughty. “You truly wish to marry her?”

  “Oh, she’s not bad-looking. I’ll be able to do my duty by her. And don’t you see, I’ll be a member of Augustus’s own family. You’ve found a place in this world. Don’t grudge me one.”

  “I grudge you nothing. You’re too good for her.”

  In the future, I knew, my brother and I would see each other only on rare visits, spaced out over the years. An ambitious young man, his life in Rome would be full of pitfalls. No one, least of all Augustus, would ever truly forget he was Mark Antony’s son. And if he married Marcella . . . ? She would bring him advancement, but at what personal cost?

  I loved my only remaining brother. He had always done his best to protect me. Now it was I who wish
ed to protect him. “Jullus, think again,” I said. “You are my kin. It is only right that you have a share in my happiness. Please, come to Mauretania with Juba and me.”

  He shook his head. “Little moon, I’m a Roman.”

  My wedding day was not as grand an occasion as it might have been if the family of Augustus had not been mourning Marcellus. I had been grafted on, made a member of that family. How strange it was that Augustus of all men, who had been my father’s deadly foe, should act in his stead and give me away in marriage. But he did—he was the benign paternal figure presiding over the celebration.

  He placed my hand in Juba’s. The guests all cried, “Feliciter!”

  I saw Julia in the crowd, dressed in mourning white. Her face was empty and bleak. What must she be feeling now, looking at me, a happy bride, when her own husband lay newly dead? Did she feel, as I did, that for this moment at least our fortunes had reversed themselves? She had always been the soaring lark and I the fearful wren who kept close to the ground. I did not wish her ill; I would have brought back Marcellus if I could. Yet I could not help but take note of the moment—this moment when she had cause to envy my good fortune.

  Beside her, also in mourning garb, stood Marcellus’s mother, Octavia, who had played a part in my rearing. Today, not she but Livia had helped me don my bridal finery. Octavia could never muster warm feeling for me, though, to her credit, I think she tried. Beside her, solicitous as a good son, was my brother Jullus, whom she had raised almost from infancy. Him, at least, she had come to love. He smiled broadly when I caught his eye. He delighted in my happiness. Nearby I noticed Marcella and Agrippa, neither of them looking in a festive mood.

  The seeds of the future were here, though no mortal could say how they would sprout. The past too was almost close enough to touch. I wondered if my father and mother somehow knew of my marriage. If they did, I hoped they were pleased. Live, my mother had commanded me. In my womb, I carried Mark Antony and Cleopatra’s grandchild. Yes, I told Mother silently, my babe and I will live.