Song of the Nile

by Stephanie Dray

  My charm was clearly lost on Balbus, who turned to Juba. “Gaius Julius Juba, isn’t it enough that we have to endure the queen in our council but also foreigners, most of whom aren’t even citizens?” His fellow Romans thumped their feet in agreement and Maysar tensed, hand on the hilt of his sword. I didn’t turn to look at Juba but sensed his alarm at this sudden mutiny. Balbus squared his shoulders, encouraged by the other Romans. “Why should we welcome a barbarian?”

  My lips parted to answer, but I wasn’t the first one to speak.

  “Why should you?” Juba asked, voice steady and clear. “Because we say so.”

  If Juba’s words surprised me, they positively stunned Balbus. Juba had used the royal we, and it seemed to remind Balbus that he stood before a sovereign king. “Majesty, I urge you to reconsider.”

  Juba’s long arms stretched at his sides, tendons tight. “Lucius Cornelius, my wife and I were both raised within the household of Augustus himself, who set us here in the highest authority with his full confidence. You may trust in our decisions and you will remember yourself.”

  Juba and I were unlike any other client monarchs in the Roman world. We didn’t have to send ambassadors to treat with Augustus, nor await intermediaries to express his will. Outside of Agrippa and Maecenas, there was no man within the emperor’s circle trusted more than Juba. Balbus knew it, and though he blustered on a few more moments, he eventually took his place, brooding silently.

  What we discussed that day I cannot now recall, though I’m sure it had something to do with raising troops to secure the frontier against the Garamantes. I only remember that Juba and I left the chamber together, and everyone stood until we were gone.

  On the terrace at this end of the palace, the mist of ocean spray sometimes wet the tiles and made them slick, so Juba offered me his arm and I took it. “Thank you,” I said as we walked. “It means a great deal to me that you supported Maysar . . . and me.”

  Juba drew me closer, but said, “I didn’t do it to please either of you. I can’t have men like Balbus test me and find me wanting.”

  I agreed. “He’s ambitious and hard to manage.”

  “Somehow he’s easier to manage than my wife.” Juba’s tone was lighthearted, an amused tilt to his lips. I didn’t expect that. I wanted to read his thoughts, feel his emotions, but he wasn’t my other half. He was, and would always be, in some part, a stranger. “Selene, I’m told that other men’s wives concern themselves chiefly with their households and the gentler arts.”

  “I’m not one of those wives,” I replied, encouraged when Juba didn’t scowl. “And though you might deny it, I suspect you wouldn’t be happy if I were. Perhaps we ought to encourage Balbus to find his glory elsewhere. There are opportunities for advancement in Africa Nova.”

  Juba shrugged off my suggestion. “I’m going to ride, Selene. Why don’t you come with me?”

  As I could think of no good reason to refuse, I accompanied him to the stables. He chose a white horse for me—one of an ancient, all-but-extinct breed with gray stripes on its legs. Taking our mounts down the road, I urged my horse to step clear of rain puddles. Memnon and a few of our guards rode behind us. When it came to horses, Juba was a native son. While I struggled to stay astride, Juba coaxed his horse into an easy gallop past some Berber washerwomen who were too slow to give way to our royal entourage. A spatter of mud doused the oldest woman amongst them, and when she turned to see that it was the king who had splashed her, she cried, “You Romans make a mess of everything!”

  At that, Juba wheeled his horse around. “What is the trouble?”

  She splayed her dirtied gown so we could all see it. “You’re the trouble, Majesty. Look what you’ve done! You and your muddy hooves.”

  “Madam,” Juba sputtered, hand on his heart. “Do you take me for a centaur?”

  We all broke into uproarious laughter. Me, Juba, the guards, and even the mud-spattered woman. We gave her some coins for her trouble then rode to the shore where the rocks at last gave way to the sandy beach. “A centaur!” I cried, bursting into a fresh round of laughter. “You knew what she meant.”

  Juba stopped his horse, leaning forward. “Yes, but I wanted to make you merry.”

  As always when Juba wanted to please me, I was guarded. “What makes you merry, Juba?”

  “Not much these days.” He looked away, his gaze on the mountains to the south. “I’ve sent expeditions into the wilds, but I think I’d like to see more myself. Once things are more established here, I’d like to take a journey.”

  He often boasted that he’d been given back his patrimony, but his father’s cities remained in Roman hands; I wondered if he longed for home as I longed for Egypt. “Will you journey to Numidia?”

  “No. I want to explore the interior of Mauretania. To see the lions and the elephants and find—Selene, you oughtn’t let him do that.”

  I’d been too lax with my horse, who stretched his neck to bother a shell in the surf. It was some manner of sea snail, and the horse was pawing at it, and nipping with his teeth. “Is the snail poisonous?”

  “No, but look at the pink froth on your mount’s lips. If left in the sun, it might stain him purple.”

  “Purple?” I asked, suddenly alert. “Is that snail a murex?” And when Juba nodded, I realized that my horse was worrying the tiny creature that created the most expensive dye in the world. “Here?”

  “Don’t get too excited . . . There’s a dye works in Numidia, in Chullu, but its purple is considered inferior to the Tyrian, the recipe for which is a closely guarded secret.”

  Other spiny shells littered the beach, albeit without live inhabitants, and I dismounted to gather some. Juba climbed down from his horse and collected a few shells himself. They were golden in color and whorled at the end with a low spire. Smaller than the kind children put to their ears to hear the ocean inside. In the russet sunset, Juba and I walked together on the pebbles that had washed ashore, their once-angry edges washed smooth by the waters of Mauretania.

  WHEN I returned to the palace with a handful of shells, Chryssa hoarded them like gold. “You said we must make ourselves rich! This is how we can do it.”

  “Juba says that the Tyrian purple can’t be reproduced. We’ll never be able to make the same shade.”

  “Only a Greek would know the difference,” Chryssa argued. “To the barbarians, purple is purple!”

  I might have debated the point, but I was distracted by my daughter’s cries. Tala tried giving her a damp cloth and a wooden ring to teethe on, but it hadn’t helped her pain, and near my wits’ end, I called for Euphronius. When he entered the nursery, I asked, “Can you stop my daughter’s tears?”

  Euphronius lifted Isidora from her cradle, handling my child like the precious jewel she was. “Her gums hurt. It’s natural for her to cry. These things are always more difficult for the mother than the babe.”

  “But she’s suffering,” I said, feeling guilty for having been away from her for most of the day.

  “I could give her a pinch of white willow bark powder, but there may be a spell . . .” He took his finger and rubbed it slowly on her lips, letting her gnaw him as she was wont to do.

  Tala tutted. “Old man, how can we teach her not to bite when you encourage her?”

  “Hush, Tala,” I said. Like a cat senses an intruder, I felt the heka as the old mage whispered some words in the ancient language. The scent of magic was in the air. Then Isidora hiccuped through her tears, and calmed.

  “That’s our little princess,” Euphronius cooed, lowering her back down in her cradle, utterly spent. He sweated and panted as if he’d made the run to Marathon. Then all at once, my mage keeled forward, collapsing to one knee.

  “What ails you?” I asked, rushing to help him up.

  Euphronius got to his feet only with difficulty, abashed. “I’m old. It’s an ailment of its own.”

  I could never remember a time when the priest of Isis had not been old. He’d been old whe
n he was our tutor, old when we were taken by the Romans, and older still when he urged us to run away from Augustus. Isiac priests and priestesses lived long lives and I never thought that he’d be an exception. He never ate the flesh of animals. He subsisted on fruits and vegetables, breads, cheeses, and nuts. He took bracing baths and long meditative walks. He’d always seemed hearty and hale until recently. “Is it heka sickness? Did you forget to do as you instructed me and make a channel for it to flow away?”

  Euphronius shook his head. “It’s like squeezing blood from a stone, Majesty. I have very little heka left inside me.”

  “Then visit the Temple of Tanit and be replenished,” I said, wondering if he’d lost his wits.

  “Majesty, I am not like you. I’m a priest of Egypt and Isis doesn’t come to me in every incarnation. Besides, there is little heka left in that temple. Like tears into a well, it takes many before there’s a bucket full. What magic was there now resides inside you.”

  In this moment, I realized how much it cost Euphronious to be here with me. He could have remained in Egypt, where he was still revered. Instead, he’d followed me to a land where he didn’t even have a temple in which he could worship. He’d borne my resentment and coldness for more than a year now, keeping his eyes low and never speaking in my presence unless I spoke to him first. He’d waited upon my every whim without complaint and spent what little magic he had upon my simple request for my daughter. “Forgive me,” I said, shamed for the way I’d been treating him. “My mother once said your loyalty was worth more than all the gold in the world. I haven’t valued you as I should.”

  The old man faltered, a tremor in his lower lip. “I’m of no value, Majesty. I’ve led everyone I’ve loved to ruin. I know that it’s only because of your generosity and sentimental heart that you haven’t banished me. I’ve made too many mistakes in trying to guide you.”

  “I’ve made mistakes too,” I said, my chest squeezing with emotion. “Too many to count. One of them has been to deny that you’re dear to me.”

  Tears shone in his eyes. “I’d give my life for you, Majesty. You and Philadelphus and this little princess . . .”

  People said these things to monarchs. They promised their loyalty and their lives. Yet I knew that Euphronius meant every word. “I’m a most fortunate queen. Can’t . . . can’t I give you some of my heka?”

  “Majesty, queens use magic as mothers must, to feed the people and to defend them. Not to murmur little healing spells or help old mages. Remember, the magic inside you came at a costly price.”

  “Soon my private shrine to Isis will be complete and you can worship here in the palace. But one day, I’ll build a temple of Isis. Here, in Mauretania.”

  “There’s no need,” Euphronius replied. “For I’ve foreseen that you’ll leave this place soon.”

  WHEN the first ships arrived that spring, my royal entourage was moored in the marketplace near the stall of rug merchants because Chryssa insisted on interrogating them about dye making. She’d already learned that the Gaetulian tribes manufactured purple long ago. I remained dubious that such an industry were even possible. Given the words of the rug merchant, however, I was starting to wonder. “We need two kinds of snails. We have snails with red dye in Mauretania too. Perhaps not the same as in Tyre, but it’s a good fast-setting dye that deepens over time. Yet what good is this to us? We have no Roman senators to wear the purple stripe on their togas.”

  And if I had my way, we never would.

  “Majesty,” a courier called for me in the crowd. “You’re needed at the palace. A dispatch from Augustus awaits you!”

  My blood ran cold. Juba regularly received instructions from Rome, but I’d received only silence. It would be bad news, I thought as we hurried back to the palace. Perhaps something had happened to Philadelphus . . .

  “Get the queen something to drink,” Chryssa snapped at a servant girl when we burst into my apartments. “She’s deathly pale.”

  “I don’t think I can read it,” I said, handing the emperor’s missive to Euphronius.

  He broke the wax seal, read the contents, and announced, “The emperor is gravely ill.”

  My shoulders sagged in relief. “The emperor is always ill. How many times has he thrown Rome into a panic?”

  “There’s more,” Euphronius continued, breathless. “You’re summoned to Rome. You and your daughter both. Augustus says that he wants to make peace with you before he dies.”

  I clutched the arms of my chair, realizing how glad I’d been for the ocean separating me from the emperor. Chryssa hugged herself, her posture an echo of my inner torment. To see Augustus, to be at his mercy again . . . “I won’t go, and if I must go, I won’t take Isidora with me. She’s not even a year old!”

  “Majesty,” Euphronius said, his voice moderated to soothe me. “Have you considered that the emperor may wish to restore you to the throne of Egypt?”

  It could happen like that. On his deathbed. A grand dying gesture, like in all of the emperor’s favorite plays. On the other hand, he could execute me. That would also be a dramatic end. Augustus thought he’d rid himself of Helios. Now he only had to do away with Philadelphus, me, and my daughter to make an end of the Ptolemies. But my deeper instincts told me this wasn’t his intent. The Romans had rules for how to do away with foreign monarchs—even the ones they created—and Augustus loved to be seen following the rules. “You must be right, Euphronius. He must plan to restore me to Egypt, and my daughter after me. Is that what you’ve foreseen?”

  “I’ve seen only possibilities, Majesty. Not certainties. The Rivers of Time show all possible futures. In some currents, Augustus restores you to Egypt. I just can’t be sure if our River of Time flows in that direction.”

  In spite of this, I dared to hope. As Queen of Egypt, I could make a place for Helios. I could rebuild Thebes and unite North Africa, and revive the worship of Isis. But first I had to return to Rome.

  Sixteen

  CHRYSSA insisted on packing my trunks for the journey, gathering up combs, polished mirrors, and pots of cosmetics while I dithered over which gowns to take. When I dismissed her to pack her own things, I caught a fleeting look of anxiety that she sought to hide from me. I remembered how she’d never wanted to return to Rome and how sick she’d been on the ship. “Chryssa, if you want to stay in Mauretania, you can stay.”

  She snapped my strongbox shut. “I belong to you. Where you go, I must follow.”

  A shaft of sunlight cut through the open terrace doors, illuminating the fabric that curtained my luxurious bed, a bed that would find no equal in Rome. I wanted her with me, but I wouldn’t force her. “I’ll need someone to stay here with Euphronius. King Juba seems fond of him, and he can look after my interests in the royal council, but I need someone to see that my estates are well managed. To watch over my treasures.”

  “I can’t let you face the emperor alone,” she said quietly. “Besides, who would reassure my sister that I’m happy here? Who will make sure that Phoebe is well?”

  “I will,” I told her. “You needn’t return with me, Chryssa. I won’t be there long.”

  She gave me a sidelong glance as if to test my resolve. “Who would tend to your hair and clothing?”

  “I’ll take Tala with me. She’s been a good nurse to Isidora. I’ve come to rely upon her.”

  Chryssa scoffed. “You can’t trust that Berber woman to make you look like the Queen of Egypt.”

  I’d been called the Queen of Egypt more times in the past few days than in all the years before, and I worried it would tempt the fates. “We’ll manage without you, Chryssa. It isn’t certain that Augustus means to restore my mother’s throne to me. Even if he intended to do it, he’s very ill. He might be dead before I even arrive in Rome.”

  Her chest rising and falling with emotion, she dared a glance at me. “Isis, forgive me, I wish he already were.”

  ON the morning of my departure, Juba was drunk. Frightfully drunk. Though he had
a reputation for being a mild-mannered king, today he was snappish, hurling a finely wrought glass pitcher after a slave boy who displeased him. It had been a rare piece, but Juba didn’t seem to care, and he forbade anyone to sweep up the shards. Stepping over the mess, I found him staring out over the harbor where my baggage was being loaded onto the ship. His long body slumped so far over the balustrade that I worried he might fall. When he saw me, he rose back up and took another gulp from his goblet, then let it fall. It rolled off the marble edge of the terrace to tumble down the rocks to the sea. “Vale, Selene. Farewell to you and tell Augustus that everything I’ve done is for his vision of peace, for his glory, and his Golden Age . . . Through all things, I shall always honor him.”

  I’d never thought to feel pity for Juba, but the pain in his eyes rendered me speechless. In his way, Juba had always been the devoted son the emperor wished for, a son completely blind to his faults. Juba loved Augustus and everything my husband did, every stroke of his pen, every slash of his sword, and every breath he took, was a plea for the emperor’s approval and acceptance. And yet on his deathbed, Augustus hadn’t summoned Juba. He’d summoned me.

  Wishing to say something, do something, to ease Juba’s pain, I reached for his cheek, but he stopped my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “He’ll want to see his child. Of course he will. It only makes sense.”

  “Isidora isn’t the emperor’s child. She’s mine.”

  It was so often our habit to speak past one another that he went on as if he hadn’t heard me. “The divine Julius summoned your mother to Rome. Now another Caesar calls for another Cleopatra to join him. And you look so pretty, flush with young motherhood, perfect for the part.”

  “You’re terribly drunk,” I said, inhaling the wine on his breath. “You’re going to be sick in the morning.”

  “I’m already sick. I wonder if your mother’s Egyptian husbands felt this way. Her brothers. She married them, but it was Caesar she wanted. You’ve made a brother of me. You’ve come to think of me like that, haven’t you?”