Song of the Nile
Page 9
I didn’t even glance at him. “You might as well.”
Seven
THEREAFTER I shut myself up with my slave girl in a cabin that smelled of vomit. I’d taken to scratching at my arms with my fingernails, as if I could scrape off the emperor’s filth. That Juba had known, and let it happen, defiled me twice over, and I feared that all the water in the sea couldn’t wash the shame away. So while Chryssa retched, I wished I could heave up the poison of humiliation in my own belly. All that comforted me was the memory of my goddess and her words.
Child of Isis, you are more than flesh.
“I’m going to die,” Chryssa whispered late on the third night of our voyage, her eyes bloodshot, hair clinging in tendrils to the back of her sweating neck. She groaned as the waves tossed our ship like a gambler tosses knucklebones. “Promise that when I die, you’ll commend my spirit to Isis.”
“I promise no such thing as seasickness isn’t fatal,” I said, though her waxy complexion did nothing to convince me. Still, my tone was sharp and I hated the way my own despair made me mean-spirited and selfish. At the thought of her death, all I could think was that everyone else had left me. My parents. My brothers. Even my new husband had abandoned me to the clutches of a depraved fiend. I couldn’t lose Chryssa too. “You’re not allowed to die, Chryssa. I can’t be burdened with the guilt of having dragged you across the sea to meet your end.”
The next day, convinced that Juba was engaged elsewhere on the ship with his new advisers, I finally coaxed Chryssa out of her sickbed to take lunch on the stern deck. We enjoyed a pleasant meal of dried dates and savory cheese wrapped in bay leaves, and Crinagoras sidled over to amuse us. Wary of male company, I remarked, “King Juba fears that you don’t share Virgil’s vision, court poet.”
Crinagoras smirked, making a gift to me of an ingenious little feather fan. “It’s true that my vision is clouded with the perfume and glitter of royalty. Remember, madam, Virgil is Augustus’s poet, whereas I am yours. Augustus uses his poets to shape his reputation; I intend to help shape yours.”
My twin had loved all things nautical, the transport ships and their banks of oars, the ports and the sea itself. He’d spent the better part of his youth sketching war galleys and river barges; but when the skipper offered to give me a tour of the ship I declined in favor of a nap. Arranging myself beneath the billowing square sail of our big-bellied craft as it rode the waves to Mauretania, I dozed. Hence, it was with my eyes half closed that I first spotted land, and when my eyes fluttered back open I gaped in astonishment, letting the fan fall from my hand.
What I saw was no strange Berber land at the west end of the sea. This was Alexandria. Her towering lighthouse rose up from Pharos Island, winking fire to greet me, and I saw the Heptastadion too—that jetty connecting the island to the mainland and sheltering the harbor, where dock workers unloaded cargo. Beyond that, broad avenues lined with swaying palm trees and the Great Library where scholars strolled, debating the questions of the day. Alexandria . My birthplace, home of Isis, whose temple shone brightly in the sun. I jolted up, the words exploding from my chest. “How have we come to Egypt?”
“This is Mauretania, Majesty.” The skipper must have thought I’d lost my wits.
I blinked once and Alexandria was gone. A small untamed island off the coast led into the neglected harbor of a colorful village. Mountains broke through the clouds to loom over the blue sea and I was so disoriented that I forgot everything. “What is this town?”
“It was the capital city before old King Bocchus died,” Crinagoras replied.
“It looks barbarous,” Chryssa said, surveying the rocky coastline with a wary eye. “Is it just the first stop on our journey or are we meant to make it our home?”
“Not our home,” I said to reassure us both. “It’s only a mansio. A place to stay until I return to Egypt.”
I hadn’t meant for Crinagoras to hear my ambitions spoken aloud, but he seemed not the slightest bit surprised. “The natives call it Iol. It means ‘Return of the Sun.’ ”
The sun was my twin’s namesake, and the thought that this place might reunite me with Helios lightened my heart. A pod of porpoises leapt in our wake as if to celebrate my return to Africa and I realized that not even the emperor could steal all the joy of this moment from me. If Helios had returned to Egypt by sea, he too would have swallowed with emotion, his heart pounding as mine did now. We’d left Egypt together as prisoners of war, two children clinging to one another at the rail. Now, without thinking, I reached for my twin’s hand, grasping only empty air.
While the skipper barked out commands, it became apparent that Iol’s harbor couldn’t accommodate a ship such as ours and that we’d have to be rowed out, ferried to shore with the rest of our belongings. The smaller ships in our flotilla went in before us and as our officials made landfall, the people of Iol leaned out under tattered awnings, streaming out of flat-roofed buildings and thatched huts, hastening to the docks to greet us.
“We’d better dress in our finery,” Chryssa said, urging me back to our berth.
The sight of land seemed to have worked remarkable curative powers on my slave girl, who insisted that I wear a curve-hugging gown and the expensive purple cloak. When she tried to fasten pearl earrings on me, I stopped her. “I don’t want to be a peacock.”
Chryssa dared to argue with me. “They’re expecting to see their new queen! Why shouldn’t you want to look beautiful?”
Because the emperor and Juba both claimed it was the way I’d dressed on my wedding day that had driven Augustus to violate me. Chryssa, of all people, had probably guessed it, so why did she harry me? “It doesn’t matter how I look; they’ll all say that I’m beautiful to curry favor.”
“What will they say when you aren’t listening? They want to see Cleopatra’s daughter. Do you want your new subjects to think that you’re some dowdy Roman matron?”
“Better that than an ornament on Juba’s arm.” It’d only been days since I’d been held down against my will, less since I’d learned my husband’s part in it. “I refuse to be the pretty plaything of a petty king!”
“Majesty,” Chryssa began cautiously, her world-weary eyes meeting mine in a direct stare that most slaves avoided. “When slaves are flogged, the first thing we do is reach for clothes. We want to hide the injury, hide the shame, but we can’t suffer the cloth against our wounds. It makes it worse. The cruel masters know this. They count on that extra humiliation to break us. But you’re no slave; you can’t hide in shame and you can’t let anything break you.”
I tossed my head in denial; she had no right to speak to me this way and tears stung my eyes. It was as if she could see through me, like clear water, and I worried she might actually speak aloud what the emperor had done. I’d do anything to keep her from naming what had happened to me, so I blinked my tears away and surrendered silently, allowing her to make me presentable. I couldn’t wear the sleeveless dress because I’d scratched my arms red and raw, so Chryssa draped me in a white chiton, sleeves fastened with golden pins. I wore the pearl earrings and let Chryssa fasten my hair in a circlet of gold. Thus attired, I made ready to meet my new subjects.
Lucius Cornelius Balbus offered me a hand, helping me down into the rowboat, and I found myself face-to-face with my husband. Juba gave me a curt nod of acknowledgment. I gave him a cool stare. Once on shore, I knew we must stand together, but we wouldn’t have to clasp hands as Romans considered open affection between a husband and wife to be unseemly. These thoughts so consumed me as we made landfall that I was taken entirely by surprise by that first unexpected pleasure of planting my sandaled foot upon the soil of Mauretania.
It all rushed to me. Sea and salt, sun and sand. The lowing camels made strange music beneath the voices of the people in the crowd. The spice market must not have been far, for my senses were assailed with the scents of mint, lavender, turmeric, marjoram, mustard, oregano, and rosemary. Delighted, I stifled my sputter of amazement.
The Berber men wore swords on their belts. I wasn’t frightened, though, and the sight of Roman soldiers holding the crowd back only served to anger me. These soldiers were members of the Legio III Augusta, the Roman legion from the nearby province of Africa Nova. I wasn’t grateful for them. Nor was I grateful for Juba’s stance in front of me, as if to protect me in case the crowd would surge forward and attack. If they did, I’d sooner jump into the sea than seek shelter in Juba’s arms.
Officiously, we alighted a small podium that had been hastily erected for us, and then Juba cleared his throat to speak in Latin. “Salvete, Mauretanians! I come to you the son of King Juba, restored to my patrimony.” Of course, his father had been a Numidian king, not Mauretanian, which forced him to use my name to bolster his claim over the kingdom. “My queen is Cleopatra Selene of House Ptolemy, Princess of Egypt, so be confident in a prosperous reign. We’re both children of the line of Hercules and will rule justly. May the gods bless our glorious undertaking here!”
When he repeated his speech in Greek, only some of the crowd applauded. “Sweet Isis,” Chryssa murmured. “Are they hostile or don’t they know Greek? Have we been sent amongst savages?”
“Don’t call them that,” I whispered harshly. This wasn’t Egypt. These weren’t my people. But I’d asked to rule over them and I would honor them as I hoped they would honor me. When Juba finished speaking, I stepped forward to say a few words of my own, but he caught me by the arm. That he should touch me again was more than I could bear and I gave my husband a baleful look that stopped his tongue, midutterance.
In the king’s silence, Balbus was bold enough to say, “It isn’t proper for you to speak, Queen Selene.”
Was I to take lessons on propriety from Romans? It seemed so. Balbus was a big man who blocked my path just long enough for most of the courtiers and government officials to turn their attention to our processional. It would have taken a trumpeter to get their notice again. Angry that I’d missed this first opportunity to speak to my subjects, I wanted to throttle Balbus but steadied myself with a deep breath of the intoxicating air. This land was hallowed and, somehow, as familiar to me as the palm trees that swayed in the breeze. I felt as if I’d come here to find the missing part of myself. As if Helios were standing right beside me.
A little girl dressed in brightly colored scarves came forward carrying a garland of flowers, and I stooped so she could put it around my neck. I gave her a small token of favor, a little bag of coins, then sent her back to her mother, whose hands were decorated with brown tattoos that whirled into flowers and crescent moons. “Beautiful,” I said, first in Greek, then in Punic, which the woman seemed to understand, because she smiled.
At length, a Roman commander introduced us to the local garrison officers, and then Juba and I were ushered into litters with our entourage. Carried through the humble streets, we passed a charred and gutted apartment building, metal grates bent away from burned and crumbling bricks. Balbus was our self-appointed tour guide, and he explained that since the death of old King Bocchus, the city had fallen into decay. From what I could see of the streets where barefoot children played, Iol hadn’t been much to speak of at its peak. Yet I felt charmed by every resilient patch of swaying grass and each brave wildflower that blossomed between the neglected paving stones. We passed an open-air market where colorful awnings shielded a multitude of traders wearing fringed leather and striped cloaks. An escaped goat zigzagged through the shoppers, a bell ringing loudly on its neck as several merchants gave chase. I smiled at the rusticity because it reminded me of the little townships in Egypt, but Juba put his face in his hands. “We’ll need a new market,” he said.
“Hopefully the locals will welcome it,” Balbus said. “It’s good that we brought slaves because if the tribesmen don’t like a project, they won’t work. These Berbers, the Mauri and the Gaetuli and others, they’re the most backward and bullheaded barbarians you’ll ever encounter.”
I bit my lip, for Juba was himself a Berber, but if the new king took offense, he didn’t show it. Perhaps Juba had become accustomed to such disparagement, or perhaps he’d never considered himself anything but Roman. A subtle tug of sensation made me turn my head and open the curtain of our jostling litter. On the street, I spied a little group of musicians, pounding drums and shaking rattles. Beyond the music, there was something else that drew my attention. It was faint but exotic. In Egypt, I’d learned the scent of magic while trailing behind my mother and her court mage, Euphronius. I knew this wasn’t the floral scent of light magic nor the metallic scent of dark magic. This magic was some combination of the two, tinged with something more bracing, like mint. Sagging against its stone pillars, a crumbling temple leaned into view, and I had no doubt it was the source of the magic I’d scented. The temple’s broad wooden doors were carved with a symbol that looked very much like the looped cross of an ankh, but with a wider base. A bronzed crescent moon sat atop the building, forcing me to exclaim, “Oh! A temple to Isis . . .”
“It’s Tanit’s temple,” Juba corrected me, adopting the same tone he’d used when I was a child in his classroom. “She’s the Carthaginian mistress of the moon.”
It didn’t matter by what name they called her. I knew my goddess anywhere and by any name. “I wager she’s mistress of more than the moon, isn’t she? She’s a mother goddess, and a maiden, and a magician.”
Juba arched a brow. “So they say, but the tales of this goddess are dark ones, Selene. The Carthaginians gave children in sacrifice, though the Berbers claim Tanit brings forth souls into new babes when women ask for her blessing. Her temple certainly isn’t much to look at, here amongst the squalor of the street vendors.”
“Where else should it be?” After all, my goddess was no indifferent Olympian, to be viewed from afar on some high hilltop. She was a goddess for all the people and heard their prayers. Though lacking in grandeur, this temple held so much magic that it seemed to seep out of the bronze-studded doors and the hairs on my nape rose in response. I wanted to go inside. To feel powerful again. To wield magic again. To worship Isis and thank her for delivering me from Augustus.
But it would have to wait.
Our procession moved on and Juba gritted his teeth every time a new side street came into view. “It will take a lifetime to turn this place into a modern city,” he said, and when our litter arrived at the squat homestead of Mauretania’s last king Juba’s mood only worsened. The dilapidated mansion may have once housed royalty, but cracks in the plaster now gave way and the red-tiled roof sagged like an old man’s jowls. Vines had overgrown the gate, their wild leaves scrambling over the ironwork like an army in assault. Juba sighed to Balbus. “This is hardly a place suited to my wife’s Ptolemaic pride.”
I didn’t want the Romans to dismiss me as a spoiled Easterner. “My royal husband is overly solicitous of my comfort, Lucius Cornelius. I assure you, I’m content with this homestead.”
Juba seemed dubious. “We don’t have to stay, Selene. Augustus wants us to build our new harbor here, but we can rule from Volubilis, inland to the west. Or from the imposing cliffside city of Cirta, in Numidia.”
Curiosity overcame me. “Do our lands extend that far?”
The king was forced to shrug. Though everyone said we wer
e to rule the largest client kingdom in the Roman world, the borders of our territory seemed amorphous and subject to change no matter which map we consulted or official we spoke to. Perhaps Augustus wanted Juba to be able to claim that he now ruled his father’s lands, when the truth was that Numidia had been almost entirely absorbed into the Roman province of Africa Nova.
As we climbed out of our litters, Roman soldiers hastened about. Our swift arrival seemed to have caught them unawares. Had no one told them we were coming? If we were to be a sovereign kingdom, these Romans would have to leave.
A menagerie of dead animals crowded the entryway. A giant rug of leopard skins stretched over a cracked tile floor and the skin of an elephant, ears and all, hung from the wall like a drab gray tapestry. I swallowed to disguise my aversion.
The staff stumbled over themselves to make obeisance, prostrating fearfully before Juba, for it had been his father’s name too, and a name they feared in a king. Several of the girls peeked up at me with an expression of awe. The name Ptolemy still held power, and the name Cleopatra bespoke glamour, so I was very glad that I’d agreed to let Chryssa dress me in my fineries.
At length, my new lady’s maids came forward, but exhaustion defeated my best intentions to remember their names. Seeing me sway on my feet, a pregnant servant, a Berber if I wasn’t mistaken, asked in thickly accented Latin, “You want bath? Can fill tub.”
“Atub?” Chryssa yelped, unable or unwilling to disguise her dismay.
Like me, she was accustomed to the Roman luxury of running water and heated baths but I desperately wanted to feel clean again, so we would simply have to make do. “A tub will do nicely.”
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.