Song of the Nile

by Stephanie Dray

  “It would be my honor,” Euphronius replied, but when the old mage bowed in my direction, I turned away.

  It was actually Lady Lasthenia who caused the greatest stir. When she presented the king with the writings of Pythagoras and introduced herself as a philosopher, several Romans laughed and Juba arched a brow. “My wife maintains that some women work as scholars in Alexandria. Do you expect it to be the same here in Mauretania?”

  Lady Lasthenia straightened her very plain gown, unperturbed. “Majesty, I expect nothing, but hope for much. I come to you from the Museum of Alexandria, the institute of the Muses. I’ve lectured at the Great Library. It’s my understanding that you intend to create a center of learning here in Mauretania, which is why I’ve come.”

  Juba’s eyes fell to the scrolls that Lady Lasthenia offered. Copies of Herodotus and Sallust, whose historical and geographical writings he prized. To turn her away would be to turn away precious gifts, so I knew her position was secure. Indeed, the king seemed grateful for the influx of culture from Alexandria. He missed those scholarly days of leisure when he could teach and research and write. And by the end of the evening, he was plainly enchanted by the tragedian, one Leonteus of Argos, who engaged the king in a lively debate over whether or not lowly cooks were actually the civilizers of society. While the two men bantered, I slipped away with Lady Lasthenia to receive news of home.

  “Are things so difficult in Egypt that it’s made exiles of those who served my mother?” I asked when we were alone.

  The scholar, whose pretty dark hair was always a little unkempt, was frank. “The Romans put several of your mother’s adherents to death, but most escaped punishment. Her court physician, Olympos, has retired to write a history of your mother’s life.”

  Now that was something I should like to read. “And Fat Mardion ?”

  Lady Lasthenia smiled. “Your mother’s eunuch sends his warmest regards.”

  “I worried . . .” I covered my mouth with both hands for I hadn’t believed that my mother’s closest minister would have been spared.

  “Oh no,” Lady Lasthenia fiddled absently with the frayed end of her braid. “The Romans would’ve been fools to put him to death. Mardion knows far too much about how the Greek and Egyptian systems work in tandem. The Prefect of Egypt needs him to keep the country from falling into disorder.”

  “The prefect. Cornelius Gallus.” I forced myself to say the hated name. Offering Lady Lasthenia hot mint water, I said, “Tell me about him.”

  Pouring herself a cup, she said, “He’s a vain man who fancies himself a poet, but he’s enamored with wealth and power. He’s looted the temples, of course, but to impress the emperor he’s persecuted the Isiacs and terrorized the priests. To defend themselves against his ruthlessness, some have carved his name and likeness into the stelae as if he were Pharaoh.”

  Such shame! It mortified me that Egypt should honor such an unworthy man—one who wasn’t even the conqueror. Say what I would about Augustus, he hadn’t demanded that we acknowledge him as Pharaoh. Gallus dared what the emperor had not, and now I hated him even more than before.

  “When Thebes rose up,” Lasthenia continued, sniffing at the mint tisane in her cup, “there was a glimmer of hope, but then Gallus destroyed the city, which prompted a riot in Alexandria. Worshippers of Isis, the zealous ones, and even the quietly faithful like Memnon believe that Isis must have a throne in this world. When rumors spread that your twin was killed . . . well, you’re now the last hope for those who believe in a Golden Age.”

  As a Pythagorean, Lady Lasthenia studied mathematics and pondered theories about the transmigration of the soul. I somehow doubted she’d come to Mauretania seeking religious refuge. “And what about you, my lady?”

  “I’m part of a vast network of worldly individuals who wish to have influence. My students and I can be your eyes here, in Rome, and in Alexandria.”

  “Why would you risk it?” I asked.

  She smiled, taking a deep swallow from her cup. “Because, Majesty, we all believe you’ll be the next Queen of Egypt.”

  Twelve

  MAURETANIA

  WINTER 25 B.C.

  CORNELIUS Gallus. Everything Lady Lasthenia had told me about him further enraged me. He was a man of that knighted class that wasn’t even noble by Rome’s dubious standards. He’d destroyed one of the world’s oldest cities, killed Egyptians, and broke my twin’s spirit. But Helios wasn’t the only one who could wield a weapon in vengeance, was he? I’d learned from the emperor that you could wound a man’s reputation without ever taking to the battlefield, and sometimes that wound was fatal. A pen could be as sharp as a sword, ink as deadly as venom. Choosing carefully from a sheaf of blank papyrus rolls, I prepared to write to Augustus.

  As the ink swept across the papyrus, I observed all the proper courtesies and salutations, then wrote: You promised mercy for Egypt and for my brother. Now Helios is dead—I stopped, shuddering at having committed those words to paper. It was a lie, I reminded myself, and there was no lie I wouldn’t tell to have my way. I started again. You promised mercy for Egypt and for my brother. Now Helios is dead and Thebes is no more. You refuse to make me Queen of Egypt, but you let Cornelius Gallus carve his name into the Great Pyramids. He demands the worship of the people as if he were their conquering god. I told you that Egypt needed a Pharaoh, but how bitter to know that you’ve given the title to a mere equite!

  The emperor would never lose a moment’s sleep over the death of my twin or the destruction of Thebes, but he tolerated no rivals. He believed his own propaganda that my father’s ambitions had been fueled by Egypt’s mystic sands. In making him suspect that Gallus had fallen prey to the same Egyptian grandeur, I aimed a poisoned dart precisely where it would do the most damage.

  The courier I found to carry my letter informed me that I should have a scribe make copies. Military dispatches would be sent even during winter, he said, but the seas were treacherous. Messages sent overland from Mauretania might never reach Rome because of the hostilities on the border. “The Garamantes have conducted devastating raids in the countryside, Majesty. They don’t want to be ruled by either the Romans or a Numidian king.”

  I’d heard nothing of recent raids but knew Tala’s husband had been killed by Garamantes. I guessed that these were the meaty matters Juba discussed with his advisers when I wasn’t present. Appalled, I went straight to the king’s study, nearly tripping over the stone threshold, which had come loose. He’d been writing—for Juba was always writing—and he cleared his throat in surprise. “Selene . . .”

  From the doorway, I asked, “Who are the Garamantes?”

  Juba twirled his reed pen between two fingers. “Have you returned to me as a pupil?”

  One should never be too proud to admit ignorance, but his tone galled me. “When dispatches arrive, when you receive advice from Balbus and the others, I should like to be there.”

  The king gave a bark of mocking laughter. “Should you?”

  Though my cheeks burned, I bit back my pride. I’d marched here to make demands, but in some ways I had less influence in Mauretania than I’d had in Rome. Juba had soldiers at his command. He had men who honored his authority, whereas I had only a handful of bodyguards, maidservants, poets, and a mournful old magician. “I want to learn; I’ll listen quietly in council.”

  He snorted. “No, you won’t. You’ll never hear me disparage your quick wit or even your good intentions, but the fact remains that you’ll meddle in everything and you’re a girl with no experience in governing anything.”

  As my attempt to be reasonable failed, my temper flared. “And what experience do you have beyond governing a schoolroom?”

  He dipped his pen back in the inkpot with a wry smile. “I’m sure most of the empire is asking the same question. I must pretend that I wouldn’t rather be in Rome, debating scholars. I must pretend that I wouldn’t rather be writing my books than practicing statecraft. Why not enjoy the freedom you have, S
elene, unburdened by these concerns?”

  “Juba, I’m a Ptolemy. I wouldn’t need to pretend that I’d rather be doing anything else in the world. I was born to rule. I want to be involved with these matters.”

  Wiping a stray spot of ink from his finger, he shook his head. “The Garamantes are a warlike tribe and their rebellious spirit needs to be crushed. Their leaders need to be captured and crucified. Do you want to be a part of that? War is no proper concern for queens and I should think your mother’s example would’ve taught you that.”

  His words stung me. I’d quietly endured the disparagement of my family in Rome, but must I endure it here too? “What my mother’s example taught me is that but for some bad weather and a lack of concern for her reputation, Cleopatra might have ruled the entire world. How am I to fare in her shadow?”

  He let out a long, frustrated breath. “Selene, I don’t begrudge your desire to make a mark. Perhaps we can find a building project to interest you . . .” Pondering, he ran a hand through his dark hair, something he did often, and this habit annoyed me almost as much as his attempt to distract me. To send me off to do something somewhere I couldn’t be a bother.

  But perhaps I could turn this situation to my advantage. “I’d like to build a temple to Isis.”

  “Selene!” His teeth snapped together. “You know that isn’t possible. Your goddess is out of favor with Augustus. He’ll take offense. Put that thought out of your head.”

  I would never put that thought out of my head, but I could see that I wouldn’t be able to change his mind. At least not now. He and the emperor had used me as a game piece since I was a child; well, I had a game of my own and there were several moves to make. “Then I want to build a mausoleum.” It was the task that Helios set for me. The Romans think I’m dead. Make them believe it. Build a tomb. Mourn for me. “You said that I could bury Helios in our tradition. Let me carve the name of Alexander Helios in stone, so that the gods might remember him.”

  Juba’s eyes softened such that I knew he wouldn’t refuse, and in the morning he sent architects to meet with me. Their sketches lacked artistry, so I described the kind of tomb I wanted to memorialize my twin. Circular in foundation, with an Ionic facade and a stepped cone like a pyramid on top. Very much like my mother’s tomb and not dissimilar to the one that Augustus built for himself. The architects seemed stunned by the scope of it. “I studied under Vitruvius himself,” one of them said, puffing out his chest. “So I know it can be done. But this would be something on a much grander scale than we’d envisioned for . . . for . . .”

  They wouldn’t even say my twin’s name. No one would. Helios was neither a traitor nor a hero. His rebellion never mentioned. His fate, not even whispered. Helios had simply vanished from the house of Augustus. He was being erased, which was, in itself, a death of part of his Egyptian soul.

  When Juba saw the plans, I thought he’d complain of the expense, but he gave his full-throated support. “We’ll make it a royal mausoleum. It’ll make a fine statement about our dynastic plans; it’ll give the people a sense of our permanence here.”

  So he believed that I meant to stay here with him. That I’d live and die here in Mauretania. That my mummy would be sealed in this mausoleum. But the remains of my twin wouldn’t rest in this tomb, and neither would mine. Isis willing, I meant to return to Egypt, no matter the cost.

  IT was a strange thing to see Memnon and his men snap to attention outside my rooms. Holding round Macedonian shields, each painted red and adorned with my initials, these guards were a fearsome-looking lot, all awaiting my command. “I want to be alone at night,” I said to Memnon, remembering the way Livia had come to fetch me in the dark and how I’d awakened the next morning to find her offering me poisoned wine. “Can you prevent anyone from coming into my rooms at night? Even the king . . .”

  It was a peculiarity; it wasn’t done. Wealthy persons of any station were attended in the night by slaves and servants who slept in niches and on bedding on the floor. What’s more, I was a married woman. The king would be expected to visit my bedchambers. My desire for privacy at night, one that I would cling to all my life, was a suspicious thing, so I was grateful when Memnon nodded his understanding without judgment or dispute. “As you wish, Majesty.”

  Winter in Mauretania was pleasant. The evenings were cool enough to warrant a fire, but the days were warm unless it was raining. For my part, I didn’t much mind the rain, for it reminded me of the season of inundation in Egypt. Just as Helios had bathed me in the Temple of Tanit, these rains washed the world clean. For my subjects, they also meant the difference between a full belly and starvation. Without the rain, the grain wouldn’t come.

  Since winter storms rendered the sea too dangerous for travel, we received few guests and there was time for personal indulgence. I chose planting urns to grace the grounds of my twin’s empty tomb and Tala spent her days weaving a beautiful rug. The Berbers were skilled in such things, so it surprised me to see her struggle at the loom. I’d spent the better part of four years toiling in the sewing room with Livia, Octavia, Julia, and the rest of the Roman girls, so I lent my hand to the task. “Try it like this,” I said, and all the women startled at the sight of their queen taking up weaving work.

  Tala seemed more than startled and actually pushed my hands away. “I must do it.”

  “It’s their way of grieving,” Chryssa explained. “Berber widows must make something to remember their beloved husbands and shun the company of men until it’s finished.”

  I too was making a memorial to my beloved so my hands fell away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  Tala nodded, grunting. “You’re still strangers here. Ignorant.”

  Chryssa sniffed. “At least we’re not blue.”

  I shot Chryssa a glare, but Tala barely glanced up from her work. “Indigo. Like my gown. We spread dye paste on fabric, then pound with stones until it shines like metal. Powder comes off on skin and stains. Is sign of status.”

  Chryssa laughed. “A high price to pay for status. You’re blue! ”

  “I wouldn’t laugh,” I said. “If Tyrian purple stained, royalty would still pay a fortune for it.”

  ONE sunny winter afternoon, I accompanied the surveyors to the site of the mausoleum. It would have been more comfortable to make the trip in a litter, carried by the matched slaves we’d brought with us for just such a purpose. But whereas oiled slaves dressed in leopard skins inspired envy and respect in Rome, such a sight seemed to engender hostility amongst the native Mauretanians. For that reason, I chose a carriage, which jostled Chryssa and me together as we traversed the mostly unpaved roads. Euphronius trailed behind us on foot, though I hadn’t invited him. “Why does he follow me like some beaten dog?”

  “What else has he to do?” Chryssa asked. “He’s a priest of Isis in a land that doesn’t worship her, going by a name that isn’t his own, serving a queen who won’t even speak to him.”

  “I might’ve known you’d take the wizard’s part,” I said, lips pressed tight in irritation.

  She glanced up at me from beneath fair eyelashes. “You make no secret of the fact that he’s out of favor. It rouses suspicion.”

  I pretended as if her words were of no import, but it’s always a slave who knows best how to pierce her mistress with self-doubt. Our carriage stopped below a hilltop upon which there were foundations of some older structure—perhaps some long-abandoned project of past kings. While the surveyors stretched ropes over the hard earth and tied them to pegs, I noticed Euphronius walking strange patterns through the grass. I’d seen him do this when I was young but didn’t realize he was working a spell until I felt a slight tug of heka pull me toward him.

  I didn’t want to speak to him, but my curiosity overcame my resentment. I stepped over fragrant rosemary bushes to come to his side and asked, “What are you doing?”

  He bowed deeply, his eyes alight. “Majesty, I’m searching for evil spells that might have been laid in this pla
ce . . .”

  “Do I have the power to do this?” I wondered aloud.

  He nodded, leaning against his divination stick, the serpentine eyes of which seemed to taunt me. “In Egypt you’d be able to do this and much more. Yet another reason we must see you safely home, Princess. Here, I don’t know the limits of your powers or mine.”

  I bit my lower lip, admitting, “I don’t know how to control my powers anywhere. Whenever I use them, the heka sickness comes, except for the last time, when I took a storm into me.”

  “There’s no price to be paid for taking heka into you, but to let it out in a rush? It’ll ravage you. Heka flows into your body and wants to remain there. When you release it to work magic, it carves its way out.”

  “It carves itself... in my flesh?” I wondered. “In blood and symbols?”

  “When the goddess wills it,” Euphronius said, seeming to measure the shadow of his staff. “Even if you can’t see the wounds, the magic does cut you. You must give it a channel to flow away.”

  I resented taking instruction from him, but the old mage was my only link to the lost magic of Egypt. Given what little I knew, his words made some sense. “And my amulet. It isn’t the source of magic . . .”

  “Your frog amulet gives shape to your heka and serves to help you control it, but you could wield magic without it.”

  “Will you show me? I want to draw a light breeze.”

  He surprised me by asking, “To what end? Majesty, the heka you draw from the temples is left there by people who seek salvation. The magic is born of their hopes, their fears, their tears. Every bit too precious for experiment.”

  I didn’t want to be lectured. Not by him. “Then how can I learn?”

  “Why not commune with this spot? Make sure this is a good place to build a tomb. Let the hill speak to you. If there are curses upon this place, you’ll know it. Kneel down.” The Romans builders were too busy exploring the foundations to pay much attention to me, so I gathered my skirts and lowered to the ground. “Now,” the old man said. “Press your hands to the earth and push a bit of the heka inside you into the soil, then draw it back in again. Let it flow through you, but hold yourself aloof, and when it grows too intense, push the rest into your amulet.”