“I don’t know,” I said, feeling an old familiar emotion coil inside my belly. It was the wound at my core, spilling forth a toxin that ate me from the inside. “Maybe it isn’t just because of Helios or Thebes or all the disappointments. Maybe it’s also because when I was a little girl, he made me carry a basket of figs into my mother’s tomb.” This was known only to my brothers, our wizard, and me. I’d never confessed this secret to anyone else, and my hands trembled to tell the tale. “There was a serpent inside that basket. A deadly asp, I think. Maybe a magical one. It killed her. Euphronius made an unwitting killer of me. And I couldn’t save her . . .”
Chryssa put down the linens and covered my trembling hands with hers. “No one could save her.”
I can, I thought. My mother gave up her life so that my brothers and I might rule Egypt in her stead. If I could make her dream reality, then my mother would never die. Not truly. Perhaps I could never put the lid back on that basket, but I could make true the last words she ever spoke. In the Nile of Eternity, I shall live forever.
“I shouldn’t have told you that story,” I said.
“Your stories are my stories,” Chryssa said, and it touched me. “I’m your slave.”
“You needn’t be. I can manumit you and there’s no law in Mauretania to stop me. You’d still have your position here with wages if you wanted it.”
She shook her head. “I haven’t saved up enough for my peculium .”
I hadn’t known she was saving the formal sum by which she could buy back her freedom, but I should have guessed. “You misunderstand. I’ll happily give you your freedom.”
Her gaze shifted to the curtains as they swayed in the breeze, and she shook her head again. “You’re a vessel of Isis, so I’m indebted to you for the salvation of my soul, but I want to owe my freedom to no one.”
Somehow I understood. All the vast wealth that the emperor had bestowed upon me was but a fraction of my stolen birthright. Even so, I wanted resources that were mine alone, which I might use to help me win back my mother’s throne. “Then we’ll both have to find a way to make ourselves rich.”
Chryssa made a disgruntled noise. “You’re already the richest woman in the world!”
“Though she hides it, I think Livia may be wealthier.” Having spent summers at Livia’s country estate, I knew there wasn’t an inch of land that she left idle. She grew edible plants for decoration and sold the eggs of her famous white hens. I hated few people more than I hated the emperor’s wife, but I made a point to learn from my enemies. “We’ll need to create some industry.” Chryssa eyed me with more interest now. “If there’s money to be made, it’s in some luxury the Romans want badly but not badly enough to steal it.”
“Timber, pearls, citrus wood?” she suggested. “Or maybe fish sauce, wine, or horses for the circus.”
We had all these things in plenty, but whatever I’d been about to say in reply was immediately forgotten with the sensation of movement inside me. I put both hands on my belly, marveling at the pain. “The child is kicking me.”
“Does it hurt?” Chryssa whispered, the lines of her face creased with worry.
“Oof, yes, it hurts. I’m under attack!” My dramatics were apparently convincing. Hearing my cry, Tala came running with such haste that her jewelry was still tinkling when she burst into the doorway. With her baby boy in one arm and a drawn knife in the other, she looked like a gladiatrix ready to defend me. I panted, half doubled over with laughter and pain. “Oh, Tala, I think you’re starting to like me.”
Surmising there were no intruders, Tala huffed, “I’ll never understand Easterners!”
Chryssa laughed. “Why not, Tala? Babe on one hip, dagger in the other, you’re like some tattooed Amazon.”
“Don’t look down your long Greek nose at me, slave girl!” Tala turned to storm out, but when she grabbed for the old latticework door, it collapsed from its hinges, cracking into three pieces. I don’t know why this should have seemed so very funny to us, but when we tried to smother giggles, it only made the three of us explode with laughter.
THERE’S one thing about the Romans I’ll never criticize; they’re the finest, most efficient builders in the world. Set them to a construction task, and they’ll have workers in organized groups swarming beneath the sun by day and under torches at night. We’d only commissioned a new palace in February, but by high summer a small wing was already habitable. Eager to abandon the old mansion with its animal skins and disintegrating woodwork, we moved in with all our belongings. The sounds of hammers against wood and chisels against stone echoed through the halls from dawn to dusk, but with the ocean waves crashing just outside my bedroom terrace, I still slept soundly.
The summer harvest season was upon us, and wagonloads of grain rolled to the harbor where Roman ships waited to carry it all away. There wouldn’t be enough, Balbus warned. Even if Mauretania produced a bigger crop next year, our granaries were disorganized, and until the harbor was finished the largest ships must seek port elsewhere. Meanwhile, dispatches arrived from Rome daily.
None from Augustus. Though he’d forced Cornelius Gallus to suicide, he’d never answered my letter. His cold-blooded elimination of the Prefect of Egypt was the only sign that the emperor had received my message or still thought about me at all. I’d said that it would never be over between us, but I began to wonder if Livia had been right. In delivering me to his bed before sending me into exile, perhaps she had broken his fascination with me. Perhaps Augustus gave no thought to the fact that my forthcoming child might be the bitter fruit of that accursed night in Ostia.
Perhaps he believed the child was Juba’s. Certainly, everyone else did. Philadelphus wrote with much joy at the news of my pregnancy, and I reread his letter several times, searching for secret messages, finding none; though he was a Ptolemy, Philadelphus was no schemer. A missive from Lady Octavia assured me that I should rest throughout my pregnancy and that Philadelphus was applying himself to his studies. I received congratulations from Virgil, written in pastoral prose. I wrote replies to all of them, and when I went looking for a courier I came across Juba on the terrace.
“Don’t trouble the queen with this news,” he was saying. “We don’t want to upset her when she’s so near to childbirth.”
I didn’t bother to conceal myself—how could I, when my huge belly announced me before I entered a room? “What news is this? Tell me.”
The hapless messenger looked between me and Juba, not sure who to obey, and the king let out a long-suffering sigh. “Selene, there’s a new Prefect of Egypt.”
“Another one so soon?” I asked, frustrated that such news always reached us weeks, if not months, after the fact. “What happened to this Gallus?”
Juba shook his head. “He made a disastrous expedition into the Arabian Peninsula and barely escaped with his life.”
“How unfortunate,” I said, wishing the new prefect hadn’t escaped at all. “What was he doing in Arabia?”
Juba leaned back against the marble balustrade, his arms folded over his chest. “He was lured by tales of treasure. Frankincense and myrrh. He took a fleet of ships across the gulf. There may’ve also been some mercenaries involved. Then the heat of the desert crossing debilitated the army to the point of utter defeat. He had to turn back. Now he’s trying to cover up his incompetence by claiming he was betrayed by his guides and some outlaw called Horus the Avenger.”
Helios. I held my breath. They’d all tried to convince me that my twin was dead, but here was proof he was alive! Who but Helios could be responsible for the Roman defeat? If my suspicions were true, I’d helped rid Egypt of one terrible Roman overlord, and Helios had destroyed the next. How difficult it was to hide my deep-felt satisfaction. “So the Prefect of Egypt is being replaced again?”
Juba watched me carefully. “Augustus has no choice but to get rid of him. Such a defeat might encourage the Egyptians to rebel.”
“Augustus does have a choice,” I argued, heat prick
ling along my skin. “He can name me Queen of Egypt. After all, I’d never have made war on the Arabians without cause.”
“Selene, you’re upset. This is exactly why I didn’t want you to know—”
I cut him off with a shriek. Pain clutched at my belly, clamping down with the ferocity of a crocodile’s jaw. I staggered as the pain moved to my back and Juba hastened to steady me. I cried out again, and he shouted, “Send for the midwife!”
Fourteen
MAURETANIA
SUMMER 24 B.C.
WHEN they strapped me onto the midwife’s chair, I felt like a condemned criminal sent to crucifixion. The child was coming and I was helpless to do anything but endure it. With every contraction, sweat ran like a river down my spine. I gripped the arms of the birthing chair until my fingers ached. I cried out in agony and between puffing breaths, I rolled my head from side to side, wondering how any woman consented to do this thing. I didn’t want to be attended. Like a wounded animal, I wanted to crawl off into some corner by myself until the ordeal was over. But in this my wishes were completely ignored. Chryssa stayed at my side, sponging my face and wetting my lips while the midwife made preparations. Tala remained too, singing Berber songs and adorning me with henna. “What kind of barbarian symbols are you painting on her belly?” Chryssa demanded.
“Markings of the Amazigh,” Tala said with a proud toss of her head. “The free people. You would know nothing of this since you’re just a slave.” I noticed that her Latin had much improved but I was too weak to command them to stop quarreling.
Still, I was young and healthy; I didn’t flirt with death. The blood didn’t pour out of my body in torrents, soaking my thighs as it had when Tala gave birth. Yet the writhing and panting and pushing tempered me as metal is tempered in a forge.
HOW foolish I was to ever think I wouldn’t love her. With my infant daughter squirming in my arms, I tested each of her tiny pink fingers against my own, and some new magic happened I’ll never be able to explain. I felt like a whole person for the first time. If Helios and I were each one half of a soul, then this baby was the mystical tendril that held us still connected. A tuft of shocking blond hair curled on her little head, and her eyes sparkled blue. I’d been fair as a child but my hair darkened, whereas Helios remained golden. I knew, as I hadn’t known while I carried her, that she was part of me and part of him. Part of all we had ever been or would ever be.
Even if Helios wasn’t her father, I didn’t care. She was a Ptolemy. That made her ours, and I loved her as I’d never loved anything or anyone. It terrified me. I was sure that my enemies would know in one glance that harming her was the surest way to wound me. Is it any wonder that Isis hid her baby in the reeds? Where could I hide my daughter to keep her safe? Perhaps my mother had known this fear, embracing the bite of an asp to free her from it. I would always make a different choice. Cuddling my baby close, I promised, “I’ll never leave you. I’ll never, ever leave you.”
When the king came to call upon me, I received him wearing a simple dressing gown. Subdued, Juba remained standing, hands folded at the small of his back as if afraid to touch my daughter, who mewled like a kitten in my arms. “What will you name her?”
“Isidora,” I said at once. Gift of Isis. “Cleopatra Isidora.”
We both knew that to give her a name of my heritage instead of Juba’s would be taken either as an admission that my bloodline was far more prestigious than his or that he wasn’t the girl’s father. Even so, Juba didn’t argue. He actually looked relieved. Had he thought I’d name her Cleopatra Augusta as my mother had named her child Ptolemy Caesar? He looked down at Isidora and I imagined that he was enraptured by her tiny pink lips and soft little ears. “Selene, I told you that I’d find a way to forgive you, and I have. Your twin is dead and Augustus is across the sea. We never have to speak of it again.” I wet my lips, nodding only to forestall the inevitable argument and put an end to this conversation. “I blame myself, Selene. A man should know how to control his wife and make her find pleasure in submitting to him. I’m an able horseman. I should have known better how to approach a skittish creature.”
“Juba, I’m not a horse,” I said, though I was too tired to take much offense.
Juba reached out a hand and placed it over mine. “I shouldn’t have threatened you when we first arrived in Mauretania. It’ll be better between us now. This can be a new beginning for all three of us.”
One might think that I scoffed at this offer or threw it back in his face. After the unforgivable things that Juba had done, perhaps I should have closed my heart to him forever. However, with a babe in my arms, everything looked different to me. I wanted to make a world for Isidora in which she could be safe and happy. If that meant accepting Juba’s forgiveness for a crime I hadn’t committed, was that too large a price to pay?
MY daughter’s first six months were a time of unexpected tranquillity. I fed her from my own breasts, though it wasn’t considered queenly to do so. And I tried to be of a more forgiving, generous nature, for I never wanted her to taste my hatred of the emperor in my mother’s milk. I learned to soothe my daughter when she cried and though my servants were eager to give me a respite, I loved caring for Isidora, pressing my lips to her brow and inhaling the scent at her temple where her baby smell was strongest.
“You should give her over to me,” Tala said one morning. “Let the little princess be a milk-sister to my son.”
Princess. It was the first time I’d heard the title applied to anyone but me. My mother’s advisers might always see me as the Princess of Egypt, but by rights that title now belonged to Isidora, and I shivered, because I knew that now I’d only see myself as the queen. Though my father had crowned me as a girl and Augustus had given me this kingdom as a dowry, it was my daughter who at last made me a queen in truth.
“For once, I agree with this savage,” Chryssa said. “Your seclusion makes it easy for the king and his advisers to forget you.”
That’s when she showed me the newly minted coin. Clutching it in my hand, I hurried down the marbled hall, stepping over toolboxes and dodging workmen, until I found Juba in his new study—a room draped with crimson curtains and lit by giant braziers shaped like wheat sheaves. Juba rose with courtly grace to greet me, but I held up the evidence of his true intentions in my hand. “What’s this?”
The king’s smile swelled with pride as the metal caught the light. “It’s the new coinage of the realm. It isn’t the best portraiture of me, but your father’s old gem cutter has promised to make a better likeness next time.”
“Where is my portrait on this coin?” I asked. “Anyone who saw this would think you were sole ruler of Mauretania.”
Juba knitted his brows and a sound of exasperation caught in his throat. “Women don’t belong on coins.” My father had been the first man to ever put a woman on a Roman coin—and he’d done it more than once. He’d made coins for Fulvia, for my mother, and even Octavia. He’d taken the women in his life as partners, not subjects, and it disturbed me that Juba wasn’t that same kind of man. At my obvious distress, Juba adopted a conciliatory tone. “Selene, haven’t we been friendly since Isidora’s birth?”
Yes, we had been friendly. He’d indulged me with lavish gifts of jewelry and perfumes. He’d sat with me in my chambers, helping me to learn Punic and never pressing me for intimacy. I’d begun to think of him as a generous and gentle man again. But all the while, he’d been planning this accursed coin. “Juba, I’m not some kitchen girl to be wooed with sparkling trinkets. I’m a sovereign queen. When we first arrived here, you invoked my name to assure the people that they’d be well governed, but you and your counselors don’t listen to a word I say!”
“I do listen to you,” he protested. “This palace and the lighthouse are all being built to your specifications. My counselors agree that you have a good instinct for forming a proper royal court. Confine your interests to such things. Isn’t your mother’s example enough to teach you how disastro
us it is when women involve themselves in politics?”
How often must I hear this argument? It seemed that I’d been fighting all my life for my own place. Even when I rushed here clutching this coin in my hand, I was filled with offense for the insult it did me. Now my anger went beyond what men were trying to steal from me; I thought of my daughter too. Her future should be shaped not simply by the fact that her grandmother had been an extraordinary woman. If we were ever to return home to Egypt, Isidora needed me to be strong too. “Juba, from this day forward, I’m going to act either in agreement with you or upon my own authority.”
His cheeks reddened. “Such arrogance! Do you think it’s easy to govern a kingdom, Selene? You’re a child; the council won’t work with you.”
“Then I’ll form my own counsel. So don’t be surprised to find a giant Iseum being erected in the middle of the city.” It was a threat without teeth, for the soldiers respected the king’s commands, not mine. But Juba must have feared that I’d persuade others to my cause, because he came out from behind his writing table to confront me.
“If you build such a temple, you’ll start a public quarrel with the man who has given us all this,” he said. “We have to please Augustus. We have to show our gratitude.”
And Juba had condemned me as the emperor’s whore? Not wanting to have the same argument over and over again, I smiled sweetly. “If he needs a show of gratitude, let’s rename the city. We’ll call it Iol-Caesaria in honor of the emperor.” Or so it would seem. The name also belonged to my murdered brother. I hadn’t been able to give Caesarion a funeral, or to lay his body to rest in the Soma with the other Ptolemies, nor even to place him in my mother’s tomb. I couldn’t perform the Opening of the Mouth ceremony to help him breathe again in the afterlife, but I could name this city after him and not even the emperor would object.
“It’s a good idea,” Juba admitted. “Iol-Caesaria. Augustus will like that and it will confirm to every other client monarch that we’re a rising power. No Iseums, though, or Augustus will turn Mauretania into another Roman province. Besides, who knows if the natives will accept Isis. She’s a foreign goddess.”
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