“We are foreign and they’ve accepted us,” I said, but that wasn’t wholly true. We’d come to this place with an army of slaves. The members of our court hailed from Rome, Egypt, Greece, and even farther than that. But where were the Berber advisers in our council? Though Tala was reluctant to tell me the complaints of her people, I knew they were growing angry with our high-handedness and it was time that something be done about it.
THE winter solstice had come again and the whole world was celebrating. In Greece it would be the Haloa, to honor the return of Demeter’s lost daughter. In Egypt, they feasted for Isis and the Nativity of Horus. Though I’d been born on the solstice and proclaimed one of the holy twins, harbingers of a Golden Age, I knew better than to celebrate my sixteenth birthday with an Isiac pageant. Juba wasn’t wrong when he told me that building an Iseum would insult Augustus, but Isis was a patient goddess. She’d hidden from Set until her child was strong enough. Isis would wait for me too.
In Rome, they celebrated the Saturnalia, so we’d celebrate that here in Mauretania too. I hoped it might provide a note of commonality. The Berber goddess Tanit had taken a sun god as her consort and because this sun god carried with him a sheaf of wheat and looked grandfatherly, the Romans reinterpreted Ba’al Hammon as their Saturn. With this in mind, I invited not just every prominent Roman family in the city to our banquet but also the Berber chieftains and their wives.
Our Saturnalia would be my first great entertainment as queen, the first thing I arranged on my own, without Juba’s approval. I fretted, afraid to misstep. If I entertained too lavishly, the Romans would condemn me as a hedonist. On the other hand, if I erred on the side of frugality, my guests might take insult. I decided upon a middle course; I let Chryssa manage the funds for the banquet, and we decorated the new hall with pine wreaths and golden curtains. From the tribes of the Atlas Mountains, Tala purchased thick woven Berber rugs, dyed in beautiful shades of indigo. Silver plates and goblets graced every setting, and much to Chryssa’s dismay, I decided that we’d send this silver home as a gift with each guest. She was only slightly mollified by my decision to serve Mauretanian wine from native grapes. Though the Romans complained it wasn’t as fine as other vintages, it certainly wasn’t as expensive.
That night, Chryssa helped me into a blue gown of transparent Coan cloth, wrapping it around my body many times so as to make some attempt at modesty. I liked the way it made my green eyes even greener, how lightly the gossamer fabric rested upon my skin, soft as Helios’s caresses had once been. And I reminded myself that a woman should be able to dress as she liked without a man hurting her . . .
“You almost make me pine for a child,” Chryssa said, cinching the gown. “Look what it’s done for your figure.”
I made a face. My hips had widened and my breasts were larger, but I didn’t like the tiny lines pregnancy had left on my belly. What’s more, while my mother had been a petite woman, I was growing tall like my father. I worried I’d become an unfeminine giantess. “Sweet Isis, listen to it rain,” I said, stealing a glance at the terrace, where fat drops of water splattered the marble and made the bushes shake. “Do you think anyone will even come?”
Chryssa sniffed. “They’ll all come. Every Roman plantation owner looking for favor will attend. Every artist seeking your patronage, and every hungry mouth that salivates for the wagonloads of oysters and mussels near the kitchens. Did we really need twelve different fish dishes to celebrate the new harbor?”
Of course we did. I looked to Tala. “Will the tribal chiefs come?”
Smoothing down my daughter’s unruly curls, the Berber said, “Yes, but I hope you have enough couches and cushions, for they’ll bring all their wives, and some of them have more than one. They’ll bring their daughters too, who may offer themselves as concubines to the king.”
I felt no twinge of jealousy upon hearing this. No matter how gently Juba wooed me, I hadn’t invited him into my bed. The truth is that I couldn’t imagine ever willingly joining with another man, skin to skin. Helios had made me into a goddess. In Juba’s arms, I didn’t ever want to be anything less. So if some other girl could divert the king’s attention from me, I told myself I’d be grateful.
When we swept into the banquet hall, servants were already passing great platters of fishes and amphorae of warmed wine to our damp but spirited guests. The majordomo announced us and the crowd rose to its feet, giving a collective sigh of satisfaction at the sight of my golden-haired baby girl. They raised cups to the king, cups to the gods, and some of them even raised cups to me. Then the musicians took up their tunes and someone shouted, “Io Saturnalia!”
The night seemed sure to be a great success, with revelry and feasting. The women danced, weaving patterns with their hennatattooed hands, jerking to drumbeats with zest. In Rome, men and women mingled freely during the Saturnalia. The custom seemed perfectly amenable to some of the tribesmen, but others kept their women at the back of the room. I thought to join these veiled and cloistered women, to encourage them, when I spotted the Mauri and the Gaetulians standing opposite a group of Roman settlers amongst whom Lucius Cornelius Balbus stood out in a magnificent burnoose and blue paint upon his face. With a wide, silly grin, he said to the Berber chieftains, “See, I look like you now. So we too are brothers and you shouldn’t trespass on my lands.”
The Saturnalia was a festival of pranks and tomfoolery, so Balbus’s mockery wasn’t out of place, but as I floated toward the knot of men I could see that the tribesmen weren’t amused. One of them addressed Balbus hotly and I recognized him as Tala’s brother, Maysar. “When did they become your lands?” he demanded.
“When your old king bequeathed his kingdom to Rome,” Balbus replied.
“Then learn our ways like a good steward,” Maysar argued. “We graze our animals on the lowlands—”
“You graze them in my fields where my slaves are trying to grow crops!”
“After the harvest, what fool objects?” Maysar asked, an enormous sword swaying at his belt. “When we take our animals to the highlands, the farmers are free to grow whatever they want. Farmers sell us grain, we sell them meat, and everyone is happy. We’ve been doing this long before any Roman stepped foot here.”
Seeing that Juba was locked in conversation with the aqueduct engineers and didn’t sense the trouble, I hurried between the men just in time to stop a red-faced Balbus from making some blustery retort. At my approach, he checked himself and made a correct bow, which every Roman considered a trial. The Berbers also bowed, the tinkling of their jewelry a pleasant sound as they rose back up again. “I’m so honored that you all came to celebrate the Saturnalia,” I said, and knowing that Tala’s brother had lost his wife to illness, I reached for his hands. “Maysar, I hope we can share in your joy for the new year as we shared your sorrows in the one past.” In Egypt, where it was forbidden for strangers to touch the royal family, no queen would do this. But the Berbers might not come to love me if I held myself apart and I wanted them to love me. I needed them to love me. I’d learned from Cleopatra, Antony, and Augustus; I knew how important it was.
Maysar clasped my hands briefly, his eyes dropping in grief, and then he pressed the palm of his hand over his heart. “Come celebrate with us, Majesty.”
I sat with the Berbers, listening to their stories. They were very polite and fiercely independent and generous with their praise when they learned that they were to keep their silver plate as a gift. Still, I sensed in them a tension that not even the rain or the freely flowing wine could dilute. It all came to a head when talk turned to the Garamantes. Balbus’s nose was redder than usual and I suspected he was deep into his wine. “Mauretania must raise troops to fight,” he said to Juba. “We can squeeze the Garamantes raiders between our soldiers and the ones in Africa Nova.”
“We?” Maysar interrupted. “Will your sons fight or do you mean that the sons of Berbers should fight?”
The Romans prided themselves on enrolling their own sons in t
he legions, so I didn’t think it was a fair critique. Moreover, we’d need to raise native Mauretanian troops, Garamantes or no; we couldn’t rely upon Roman legions forever.
“Afraid of fighting, are you?” Balbus asked hotly. “The Garamantes refuse to acknowledge Juba as king. Your own brother-in-law was killed during a raid. If you don’t want war with them, you’re a coward.”
“Coward?” Maysar was on his feet, and several other men rose with him. Then everyone started to speak at once and I had trouble following the argument.
“We avenged my tribesmen, then made peace—”
“You have no authority to make agreements—”
“The Garamantes aren’t trustworthy—”
“Enough!” Juba shouted. My husband so seldom raised his voice that it silenced the room. Then the king waited for all eyes to settle upon him as he took a sip of wine to fortify himself. “We’re building a kingdom. If there is to be Mauretanian independence, we must negotiate peace together, and if that fails, we must fight together too. Berbers and Romans, together.”
This didn’t go down easy. The chieftains grumbled their dissent, but Maysar suggested, “King Juba, son of Juba, perhaps we can send an envoy to the Garamantes to negotiate peace. I will go.”
“It’s too late,” Juba said flatly. “The Garamantes have killed Roman citizens. They must pay for it in blood.”
These weren’t Juba’s words, I knew. He was repeating something he must have heard from Balbus or one of the veterans, or perhaps even from one of the dispatches he received from Rome. Worse, I didn’t know that he was wrong. I doubted that my mother would have dealt peacefully with raiders. War was an evil but perhaps, sometimes, a necessary one.
“If we raise a Mauretanian army for war with the Garamantes,” Maysar ventured, “who will lead these troops?”
“Lucius Cornelius will lead our army,” Juba said, and Balbus’s expression was smug. Oh, how I wished the king hadn’t made this announcement. Not here. Not now. The tribesmen were furious. Several slammed down their cups and others stood to leave. Some muttered curses and I knew enough of their language now to recognize it. Juba did too and tried to explain himself. “Balbus will be able to take a tribal cavalry and create an effective auxiliary force for the Roman legions.”
“So much for the independence of Mauretania,” Maysar said, spinning on his heel so that his burnoose swirled around him. Then he stormed out of the banquet.
I chased the widowed Berber chieftain down the long pillared corridor. My running steps were most undignified but entirely necessary, and the disquieting looks of the servants would have to be endured. “Maysar, wait!”
When I caught up, Maysar growled, “We thought this king would be different. But Juba is worse than a Roman. He’s a changeling. He’s a creature of Rome sent to defile our sacred lands. And though my sister praises you, you’re just another Roman wife.”
“I’m no Roman wife!” I cried, deeply offended. “I’m an Egyptian. A Ptolemy. I’m Cleopatra’s daughter. There’s no one who knows better than I do how the Romans destroy and defile sacred lands.”
Now he stopped, his eyes snapping to mine. “There it is, madam. You’re an Egyptian. Mauretania is but a sojourn for you. I’ve heard the talk of your haughty Alexandrian contingent. It’s only a matter of time before you’re restored to Egypt, they say. Then what’s to become of us?”
“I’ll still be your queen,” I said, though I couldn’t be sure of it.
He turned in the torchlight so that the hint of blue dye on his skin seemed like a menacing shadow. “Now you’re going to give me honeyed words about how the Romans are only here to help us . . .”
“The Romans are here to steal from you,” I said, and since he looked taken aback by my bluntness, I pressed on. “They have a voracious appetite that can never be filled. Even now, they’re gorging themselves on Egypt. I hope they choke on it.”
Maysar’s hazel eyes narrowed, the weathered lines of his warrior’s face tightening, wary of a trap. “You’re here to stop them?”
“I can’t stop them,” I admitted. Deciding then and there, I said, “But I mean to ensure that for every single thing the Romans take from you, they give something back. Right now, all you see is this palace and a harbor for Rome, but it’s only the start. With Roman money, we’ll build roads to connect the cities and villages. We’ll build aqueducts to carry water into the desert. We’ll build markets in which every Berber can profit. We’ll build an army, using what the Romans have taught us about fighting so that—”
“So that we become just like them,” Maysar interrupted.
I clasped my hands, searching for the words to explain. “Rome is triumphant now, she’s ascendant, but things change. Fate turns. In the hills and the desert, the Berbers have always bided their time. As your sister is fond of pointing out to me, the Phoenicians who built their Carthaginian Empire on these lands are gone, but the Berbers are still here. Aren’t you strong enough to outlast the Romans?”
I saw the hint of a smile. “The king feels this way too?”
“The king is ill advised,” I said carefully, not wanting to do more damage to Juba’s reputation. “That’s why I can’t let you stalk off into the night. That’s why you must stay. Serve as an adviser to me and to the king as well.”
“And serve with that swine-faced Balbus? Never. My honor would never endure it.”
He stared at me, waiting for a gesture of dismissal. I almost gave him leave to go. Then I changed my mind. “For four years I lived with the man who destroyed my family. I ate with him, shared his wine, and played a kithara harp to entertain him. For the good of all that I cherished, I endured it. You’re a chieftain. For the sake of Mauretania, can’t you tolerate Balbus?”
“No,” he said, slowly, then showed me his teeth. “But I’ll join your council and enjoy forcing Balbus to tolerate me.”
Fifteen
WINTER was always quiet in Mauretania. To the southwest, winter snows crowned the Atlas Mountains, but here on the coast cypress, juniper, and aloe still covered the world in a green mantle. The almond trees were bare, but sun-drenched flowers bloomed in pots and the warm breeze that stiffened the banners over our palace carried a light perfume. We received few guests and even fewer letters. No more orders from Rome about the maps we must make, the aqueducts we must build, the grain we must send. Until the sea opened again, we were free to spend our efforts building the palace.
I hoped it would be the envy of every monarch in the empire. Bright and luxurious, it would be a reproduction of the home I’d left in Egypt. Carved marble niches waited with high arrogant brows, as if they knew Juba would acquire only the best artwork for them. Terraced gardens and brilliant mosaic floors—all inlaid with translucent glass tiles of green and blue—gave way to airy passageways. Draperies in the terrace doorways swished with every sea breeze, and though rain-fed fountains sprayed with fanfare in the entryway, there were more placid blue pools too.
I couldn’t build a temple to Isis, but even Juba allowed that I must not be faulted for a private shrine to my goddess. If the Romans could house their lares and penates in the storeroom, I could build a private enclosure in my rooms for Isis as the patroness of my reign. Therefore, I oversaw workmen as they installed an alabaster altar with niches for burning candles or sacred herbs. Painters gave life to my goddess in bright green, red, and yellow—depicting her in the Egyptian style, with wings, an ankh in one hand, and wearing a headdress shaped like a throne. I swelled with pride to see it. If Isis lived in me, I was bringing her back home to Africa, step by step.
Meanwhile, Juba’s Roman advisers now treated me with a modicum of respect. This may have been because I now looked more like a woman and less like a girl. It may have been because I was a mother. Or perhaps it was because Juba made no objection when I stated my intention to attend the council meetings.
Like all the greatest leaders, my family embraced the Hellenistic ideal of harmonia, a concept of community and
cooperation. Tolerance for cultural differences. A goal of partnership between different peoples from all walks of life. This is why Juba had invoked my name to assure the Mauretanians that they’d be well ruled. Now I hoped to make good on that unspoken promise. I arrived early at the council chambers, ascending the stairs of the marble dais to my pearl-studded chair. It was smaller than Juba’s, dwarfed by his golden throne, but mine had history, and I liked it. I thought Isis would have liked it too. I never forgot that Isis was the throne upon which I sat. It was by her providence and with her love that I must learn to rule.
The counselors arrived in groups, bowing to me as they found their seats. Some wore elaborate Roman togas draped over their arms. Some wore traditional Greek himations. One wore an unfashionable brown gown, for I’d invited Lady Lasthenia, and her presence here irritated the men almost as much as mine did. When Euphronius took his seat wearing stark white robes, more than a few of Juba’s advisers raised their eyebrows. Still, none of them complained openly until Maysar strode into the chambers, his bright Berber garments sweeping the floor behind him.
Balbus drew his brows together, muttering something to his companions that I couldn’t hear, and a general murmur of disapproval was cut off by the announcement of the king. Before Juba could settle onto the cushion of his throne or call our meeting to order, Balbus was on his feet, one finger pointed directly at the Berber chieftain. “What is he doing here?”
I gave Balbus my most charming smile. “Lucius Cornelius, thank you for giving me the opportunity to introduce our newest councilor, Maysar of the Gaetuli. He’s here at my invitation.”
Song of the Nile Page 17