Egypt's Sister: A Novel of Cleopatra

by Angela Hunt

  Amphion knew his master well. On the day Scribonia gave birth to Julia, a beautiful little girl, Octavian divorced her.

  A few weeks after the depositio barbae, our master became engaged to Livia. A grand betrothal banquet was held at the house, and all the fashionable people of Rome attended. Livia owned little slave boys known as deliciae, or darlings, and they scampered throughout the crowd, entertaining the guests and behaving like typical children. At one point I was offering our master a platter of pigeon eggs when one of the little darlings noticed that Octavian and Livia reclined on one dining couch while Livia’s husband and another woman took their ease on another. “What are you doing here, mistress?” he asked, his high voice easily carrying over the rumble of the other guests. “Your husband is over there.”

  I froze, my back bent, the tray in my hand as the room went silent. Horror flickered in Livia’s eyes, and Octavian paled.

  Obeying an impulse, I dropped my supporting hand and allowed the tray to flip and rattle onto the floor, scattering pigeon eggs in every direction.

  The guests gasped, and ladies moved out of the way lest they soil their gowns, but Dominus bent to help me pick up the mess at his feet. “Clever girl,” he murmured, his gaze catching mine as he handed me an egg. “Very clever indeed.”

  I suppressed a smile and nodded, then heaped the rest of the food onto my tray and left them alone.

  “Chava?”

  I paused in the doorway to Livia’s room, my basket of birthing supplies in hand. “Domina?”

  “We are expecting a guest later in the day. Do you think you will be back in time to help serve? I know there are other girls, but this guest seems to have a particular fondness for you.”

  I felt an icy finger touch the base of my spine. Could it be—?

  “So will you be back?”

  “I cannot say, Domina. As you know, some babies take their time.”

  “Indeed they do.” Livia’s youngest had come quickly, and with so little suffering that the new bride felt obliged to wail and scream, after the child’s birth, as if the process had nearly killed her. Upon seeing the result—a healthy son and a happy wife—Dominus had been extremely complimentary of my midwifery skills.

  Livia propped herself up on pillows and yawned. “If your dominus asks where I am, tell him I have decided to sleep a little longer.”

  I nodded and hurried out of the room.

  Livia had made herself at home in our master’s house, quickly eliminating every trace of Scribonia. Livia’s two sons would remain under the authority of their father until they were of age, so Tiberius and baby Drusus lived with Tiberius Nero, though they visited often. Scribonia’s daughter Julia lived in our household and rarely visited her mother.

  I nodded to the doorman and stepped onto the street, where the wind had picked up. I lowered my head and walked toward the Aventine at a brisk pace, my feet keeping time to the heartbeat that had quickened when Livia mentioned their guest.

  Could it be Agrippa? He had been away for nearly two years, and during that time I had heard many stories of his outstanding accomplishments, among them securing the frontier on the Rhine and founding a city he called Colonia Agrippinensis. He had recently come home to aid Octavian, who was facing a challenge from Sextus Pompeius, son of Pompey the Great. Sextus had bedeviled Octavian since the time of Julius Caesar, and Octavian was determined to remove him. But Sextus had become a man of the sea, and Octavian was far less sure of his navy than his army.

  I paused as a man with an overloaded wagon cursed his mule for being unable to budge the load. Voices from a nearby insulae called down to insult the man who had dared to disturb the quiet of early morning.

  I shook my head and walked on.

  The delivery was another breech birth, one that required slippery fingers and all my concentration. But the mother was ecstatic when I placed a living son in her arms, and the father slipped me two sestertii for my trouble. “Your fee,” he assured me, “has already been paid.”

  Of course it had. But I’d never see a copper of it.

  I gathered my supplies, gave the mother a few final instructions, and left the house.

  The sun was sinking behind the western hills as I approached the Palatine. I considered using one of my coins to buy a drink at a tavern, where I could wait until Octavian and his guests had finished dinner. But anyone who saw my slave’s tunic would know I was out of place. Word might reach the Octavii house before I’d even finished my drink.

  I trudged on.

  I greeted the doorkeeper and dropped my basket on a bench. “Is Dominus having dinner?”

  “Yes. Dinner was served in the peristylium.”

  “How nice.” I smiled in relief—I could walk around the atrium and enter the kitchen. If Agrippa was in the garden, I wouldn’t have to see him. But I couldn’t resist knowing for certain. “The master’s guests? Who is here?”

  The doorman’s smile broadened. “Master Agrippa, of course, and Caecilia Attica.”

  I blinked at the unfamiliar name. “Who?”

  “Agrippa’s betrothed. The marriage,” the doorkeeper glibly went on, “was negotiated by Mark Antony and will take place in this house. Exciting developments!”

  I knew it wasn’t reasonable, but the news stole my breath away. For some reason I had imagined that Agrippa would remain unmarried, but why should he? He was twenty-four, strong and virile, and he undoubtedly wished to have children. He and Octavian were close, and as Octavian rejoiced in his young bride, perhaps something had made Agrippa long for a wife of his own.

  I gave the doorkeeper a false smile and walked through the atrium, then slipped through the shadows and went to the back of the house.

  The cooks greeted me with absent nods and said nothing when I picked up a small loaf of bread. I’d eaten nothing all day, and the bread would keep my stomach from rumbling while I slept. I walked out to the veranda and hid myself behind a pillar, wondering if I could hear the diners at the center of the garden. . . .

  I heard Octavian’s bold laughter, followed by the soft murmurs of the women. Then Agrippa said something, and Octavian responded by standing—I saw the shimmer of his hair in the torchlight. “To marriage!” he said, holding his cup aloft. “And may the gods bless you with fruitfulness!”

  I looked down and blinked tears out of my eyes. I was exhausted. I wasn’t crying; my tears were simply an overflow of feeling, an excess of emotion after a long day.

  “Chava!” I looked up, surprised to hear Dominus call my name. “Come at once.”

  Again I blinked the tears from my eyes and, with nowhere else to put it, tossed the bread over my shoulder. I walked toward the two dining couches at the center of the garden and resolutely refused to look at the seat where Agrippa and his betrothed reclined. “Dominus?”

  “I thought that was you,” Octavian said, smiling. “Our Agrippa is going to be married to this lovely young lady. And because Agrippa is my dearest friend on earth, I am giving him a most valuable wedding present: you.”

  A ripple of shock spread throughout my body, tingling my toes and leaving me light-headed. Unable to believe what I’d heard, I broke my own resolution and looked at Agrippa, who appeared as shocked and horrified as I felt. “Octavian, you mustn’t—”

  “Indeed I must, for what better gift could I give? I know you have a fondness for the girl, and her income will provide tunics and stolas for your new bride. I’ll have her delivered after the wedding.”

  My gaze shifted to the bride-to-be, and astonishment smote me again. This Caecilia was no woman—she was a child in her early teens, at best. Flat-chested and thin, and her cheeks still retained the plump curves of childhood—

  He was marrying a baby.

  Somehow I remained on my feet, then I murmured something—I cannot remember what—and backed away, disappearing into the palms surrounding the garden. I made it to the basement room where the women slept, then fell on my bed, too weary to weep.

  How could I l
ive with a man I loved while he was married to another? I would have to quell my feelings for him; I would have to crush them, turn them to hate. For although the Romans thought nothing of loving their slaves and tolerating their spouses, I would never be able to do it.

  I closed my eyes and tried to summon up Yosef’s image, but it had been too long. The nose kept elongating, the eyes brightened, and the chin and jawline insisted on being clean-shaven. Every face belonged to Agrippa.

  “Adonai?” I mumbled the holy name into my pillow, closed my eyes, and searched my memory in desperation. Was there a name for God that meant door? Because more than ever, I needed HaShem to provide me with a way of escape.

  On the morning of Agrippa’s wedding, I rose early and packed my few possessions into a basket, then slipped into a clean tunic. After the ceremony, I would walk with the wedding party to Agrippa’s home, and there I would somehow find a way to fit into a new family and a new set of slaves.

  The groom arrived first and remained with Octavian while slaves served guests lemon water and wine. Finally the bride appeared at the door, accompanied by her father, Titus Pompons Atticus. The young woman had gathered her hair into a crimson net and put on a long tunic, secured at the waist by a belt tied with the traditional Hercules knot, to be untied only by her husband. An orange veil, worn over a wreath of verbena and sweet marjoram, covered most of her face but revealed her excited smile.

  Since I would be leaving with the bride and groom, I was not expected to serve at the wedding. I should have gone for a walk, but I couldn’t help myself—I had to watch. So I picked up a tray of sweets from the kitchen and mingled among the guests, keeping an ear open for gossip.

  As soon as everyone had arrived, a priest of Isis walked to an altar in the garden and sacrificed a ewe lamb. The guests cheered when the blood splashed on the stones beneath the altar, then the couple turned to each other.

  Caecilia Attica placed her hands in Agrippa’s and said, “Ubi tu es Gaius, ego Gaia.” Where you are Gaius, I am Gaia.

  I closed my eyes as a sudden pang struck my heart. How often had I found myself wishing I could say those words to him! But it was not meant to be—not ever.

  The guests shouted “Feliciter!”—Congratulations!—as the crowd poured out of the house and entered the street. The distance between Octavian’s house and Agrippa’s was not great, so I remained in the back of the throng as they escorted the couple to their new home. Flute players led the procession, followed by torchbearers, even in the bright light of day. Two young boys held Caecilia’s hands and led her to Agrippa’s doorstep.

  Through watery eyes I studied Agrippa’s home. The bright blue door had been garlanded with flowers, and Caecilia paused before entering. As part of a traditional ritual, she knelt to wind wool around the two doorposts, then coated them with lard, a symbol of plenty. Laughing, Agrippa lifted his bride and carried her over the threshold, for a bride’s stumble would have begun the marriage under a bad omen. They were followed by Caecilia’s three bridesmaids, who carried symbols of domestic tranquility: a distaff, a spindle, and a ball of yarn.

  As the wedding guests followed the bride and groom into the house, I remained in the outer courtyard. I knew what would happen next. After singing a chorus of crude songs, the bride would be led to the bridal bed, where Agrippa would take off his bride’s cloak and untie the Hercules knot. That would be the guests’ cue to leave and close the door behind them.

  I sat on a stone bench and crossed my arms, refusing to shed another tear. How could I rail against the inevitable? How could I allow myself to become so distracted from my goals? Every minute spent thinking or dreaming about Agrippa was a moment I was not thinking about midwifery or returning to Alexandria.

  More than ever, I yearned to go home. I wanted my father, if he still lived. I needed him.

  The events of the day had forcefully reminded me that I would never feel at home in Rome.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The ancient Egyptians buried their dead with hundreds of ushabti, small clay figurines depicting servants who raked, planted, baked, hoed, cooked, shopped, and any other kind of work imaginable. The Egyptians called them “answerers,” because they would answer the deceased’s call in the afterlife and do whatever had to be done. The ushabti had no feelings, thoughts, or lives of their own, but existed only to serve.

  I worked for Agrippa and Caecilia as best I could, though I often felt like a ushabti.

  Months after I went to Agrippa’s house, I realized Octavian had inadvertently done me a great disservice: my wages as a midwife should have gone with me to my new master’s house. But Octavian, who had no need of money, had forgotten about my wages, which meant I had accumulated nothing to earn my freedom while in his service. I could have asked Agrippa to remind him, but I knew he wouldn’t want to appear petty in Octavian’s eyes.

  So I remained silent.

  The year after Agrippa’s wedding, the Roman popular assembly voted to buy Octavian a house. With a grant from the Senate, Octavian and Livia left Atia’s home and purchased a group of houses near a hut said to be the former dwelling place of Romulus, one of Rome’s founders. While Octavian met with architects to turn the houses into one large household, Livia worked tirelessly to ensure their new home reflected her husband’s greatness and power.

  I toiled quietly at Agrippa’s house, tending to his wife when he was away on military missions, pretending not to care for him when he was in Rome. And hurrying out to deliver babies whenever someone sent for me.

  Once I was amazed to discover I was delivering the child of a Jewish family. They had come from Judea, and while the mother labored, the pregnant woman’s sister told me why they had moved to Rome.

  “We had to leave,” she said, holding her sister’s hand as the pregnant woman panted. “The man on the throne is not even a Jew. He is descended from Esau, not Israel, and pretends to keep our laws and talks of rebuilding our Temple. But no one is fooled; he cares only for power and riches.”

  “I have a brother and a friend in Judea.” I lowered my voice. “I have not heard from either of them in years, but I pray for their safety.”

  The woman lifted a brow. “Their names?”

  “Asher, son of Daniel of Alexandria,” I said. “And Yosef, son of Avraham the butcher. I do not know where they are living.”

  She shook her head. “Asher is a common name, as is Yosef. But if they worship HaShem, they are bound to be heartbroken by the current state of Jerusalem.”

  “Why?”

  The woman shook her head. “We had hope, until recently. Aristobulus, a true son of Israel, was appointed high priest. Our hearts were cheered to think that a man from a proper priestly family would finally represent us before HaShem, but our acclamations and approval only made Herod jealous. A few days later, Aristobulus was drowned in the king’s fish ponds. Herod claimed it was an accident, but we all knew Aristobulus was murdered. The priest’s mother even prevailed upon Cleopatra, asking her to speak to Mark Antony—”

  “Cleopatra is involved with Judea?”

  “Mark Antony is,” the woman said, her brows knitting. “She begged Antony to punish Herod for the high priest’s murder, yet I do not believe anything will happen. Herod will offer bribes to clear his name.”

  As another pain subsided and the laboring mother relaxed, I motioned to a slave—time to record the reading on the water clock. The pains were coming faster now. Still, the baby would not come for some time yet.

  I returned my attention to the sister. “I am sorry things are so bad in Judea. My father was always eager to hear tidings of Jerusalem—he kept waiting for news of the Messiah.”

  “I do not see how Messiah can come,” the woman said, her eyes watering as her gaze drifted to some vision I could not see. “He has to come through the royal line of David, but how can He when sons of Esau occupy the throne? If He does not come, who will deliver us?” A tear slipped from her lower lashes and fell on her cheek. “And that is w
hy my family came to Rome. HaShem will send His Messiah, but He will not come any time soon. Not in our lifetime. Not now.”

  I had no answer for her, and no hope to give. Once again I thought of my father and wanted to weep.

  I often found it incredible that the people we Jews lived among—Egyptians and Greeks and Romans—had considered themselves kings of the earth, when everyone who followed HaShem knew that Adonai ruled over the affairs of men. He had shown the prophet Daniel a vision of a statue representing the world’s kingdoms. Daniel had written that a great stone not cut by human hands would strike the statue and fill the entire earth.

  In their debates about the meaning of Daniel’s vision, my father and his students had agreed on one precept: one day HaShem would destroy the kingdoms of the world and replace them with His own.

  When I walked through the Palatine, I would occasionally stop by the Octavii estate to visit with friends and see what had been done to the house. From Amphion I learned that Agrippa had taken charge of Octavian’s navy and helped defeat Sextus Pompeius at sea.

  “He built a secret harbor,” Amphion explained, “by digging a canal that led to a lake on one end and the sea on the other. He also invented a weapon that sailors could use to hook a nearby ship, then draw it close for boarding.” He tilted his head and gave me a curious look. “Do you not know this? Do you not talk to your master?”

  I looked away to hide the telltale blush burning my cheek. “Agrippa does not talk about his work. And when he talks, he talks to his wife.”

  Amphion shrugged. “In any case, Dominus is doing well. He was involved in wars up until late, but he has finally defeated Pompeius. It appears that peace has come to Rome. Long may it last.”

  “By the way,” I asked, “what news have you of Mark Antony and Cleopatra?”

  The old man lifted a brow. “Antony has been away fighting the Parthians,” he said, “so he left the queen and her twins for the battlefield.”

  I gaped at him. “Cleopatra has twins?”