But first, I must give him breath.
*
“CHILDBED fever,” someone says. And as I toss and turn upon sweat-soaked sheets, I’m filled with dread. Merciless fever has taken loved ones from me. I know to fear it. Fever ravages the body and the mind and it ravages me. My breasts leak and ache. My empty womb cramps and I cannot find my ease. I sleep too long. I shiver and burn by turns. My only comfort is the sound of a raspy cry, breathing ragged and desperate.
My son does breathe, and that is what matters.
After several nights—I do not know how many—I hear Chryssa murmuring prayers. I smell the burning sage she offers to our goddess. My Berber woman is there too, pressing a wooden talisman into my hand. It is the looped symbol, sacred to the native goddess Tanit. Narrowed only a little, it is also an ankh, the symbol most sacred to Isis. It is meant to protect my soul.
So they think I am dying …
Pharaohs journey to the West when they die, finding immortality with the setting sun. But I am not Pharaoh and Mauretania is already near the western edge of the living world. The world of the dead is very close now, just past the veil. I am not eager to reach beyond it, for I have fought for my life since I was a child. My survival has always been at the mercy of Augustus and his obsession with my mother, and then with me. All my life, I have charmed and reasoned and plotted to stay alive. But this illness cannot be charmed away or reasoned with or plotted against.
The luxurious room, with its wispy linen draperies and alabaster lamps, blurs white in my fevered eyes. Above my bed hangs a gilded circular frame carved with my proud Ptolemy Eagle. When I look up, he’s no longer wooden but alive and glowing, spreading his wings. I blink and the bed netting that drapes from his jeweled talons turns to mist.
Then I see them. My lost loved ones. My regal mother wearing fat pearls and the amethyst ring that once was hers but is now my betrothal ring. My father is there too in his red cloak and crested parade helmet. My brothers, each one. Caesarion riding his horse, fitted out as the King of Egypt with a diadem of white ribbon in his hair, giving me a jaunty smile as only the son of Julius Caesar might. Our half brother Antyllus is at his side, his arms thrown open in generous welcome. There too is my little Philadelphus, ripe dates in one hand and a pair of dice in the other, his pudgy cheeks scrunched up in a smile.
I see them all sheltered by the iridescent wings of Isis. I want to go to them. I want to run to them. I want to clasp my mother round her perfumed neck and bury my face in her hair. I want to weep for the joy of our reunion upon my father’s broad shoulder and feel the stubble of his chin scrape my cheek. I want to hold my brothers. Caesarion, and Antyllus, and Philadelphus, and …
“Helios,” I moan from beneath the blankets where I shiver.
With his hair lit golden in the sun where he practices with his sword, he glances at me over one broad shoulder. That is how I know my eyes play me false. I cannot see Helios in the afterlife, for he is not there. Last of the Ptolemies, they call me. The only survivor. But I am not the only one. My twin brother escaped the emperor’s clutches. They think he is dead, but he battles the Romans still, known only as an outlaw, Horus the Avenger. And yet, in my delirium, I see him in the afterworld.
Helios. My twin, my king, my beloved … he reaches one hand for me. The same hand I have been reaching for all my life. I long to take it. I long to rush into his strong arms, to be made whole again by his kiss, to love him and be loved by him. To beg his forgiveness, to stroke away every moment of separation between his skin and mine with fevered fingertips. I am desperate to go to him, but I cannot.
Last of the Ptolemies, they call me, but I am not the last.
I won’t be the last.
I have a daughter, and when she was born, I swore to her that I would never leave her. I vowed never to leave her afraid and vulnerable the way my mother left me. Now I have a new baby son. He has not heard me make this promise to him, but I have already made it in my heart. I will never leave him. My mother surrendered to the venomous bite of an asp. My father fell upon his sharp sword. My brothers are dead or presumed to be. But life has always been my stubborn companion.
I survive. That is what I do.
*
“YOU’RE not meant for such an end as this, Cleopatra Selene.”
Is it jackal-headed Anubis speaking, releasing me when he finds I am too tough a morsel to chew? I open my eyes to see not the death god but the mage at my bedside. This wise old man of Egypt is the only man, save the king, whom my guards would admit into my chambers. His name is Euphronius, but to escape the emperor’s wrath, he masquerades at court as a physician by the name of Euphorbus Musa. I know the mage’s secrets and he knows mine, for he has gifts of seeing I do not possess.
“How will I die?” I murmur. “Have you seen it in the Rivers of Time?”
My wizard presses a cool cloth to my brow. “You have years ahead of you, Majesty, and much left to do.”
From my birth, much has been foretold. I was to be a divine child and a powerful queen. I was to bring about a Golden Age. I was to save my goddess too. I have failed at it all, save that I am queen. But if I am to fulfill any of the prophecies that attended my beginning, I think it will be easier to know how I will meet my end. Perhaps death will come to me in poison, offered to me by a false friend at the behest of my enemies. Perhaps it will be the edge of a knife’s blade that slithers into my body to bear my soul away. Perhaps one day when I’m swimming, a strong current will drag me under and I will sink into blackness. Or perhaps it will be the venom of an asp, its fangs sunk deep into my flesh, bringing me to the gods like the serpent that killed my mother.
I think it will go better for me if I know.
“Tell me how I will die. I command you.”
The old man only smiles, for he knows his disobedience will never result in punishment. He has been with me too long, or perhaps he has reached the age at which men no longer fear their monarchs. “Majesty, I can only tell you that yours will not be an ordinary death.”
*
I awaken to the scent of roses. It is the season when blossoms are harvested to make wreaths for funerals, weddings, and festivals, so slaves have adorned my bedchamber in rose garlands. The whole palace teems with the perfume as I reach out for my son and they put him in my arms.
He is tiny and his skin is petal soft, pale like mine. I can see the blue veins beneath his skin. And I worry over a shallow indentation on his chin that I hope will become a dimple. My daughter hovers over us, watching her newborn brother sleep. I stare at them both, this daughter I didn’t want and the son I shouldn’t have had. And I love them fiercely. They are part of me, molded inside my body, brought into being like magic. They will be my legacy. The part of my family that lives on.
For nearly three hundred years the Ptolemies have thrived. It will not end with me.
With a lilt of excitement, my daughter says, “The king has returned from Spain, Mama. And he wants to see the baby.”
My freedwoman frowns and I know what she is thinking. The baby is fragile yet. No one can say if he will live. Better to wait until little cheeks are flush with color lest a husband be tempted to order a sickly child be left on a hillside. Many babes have died at the command of their fathers, exposed to the elements, vulnerable to predators, at the mercy of the gods. This is what all my women are thinking, though they will not say it in front of my sweet daughter, Isidora.
And they dare not say it to me.
I draw my daughter close and kiss her fingertips. They are lightly sticky, as if she’s recently visited the kitchens where the cook spoils her with honeycombs. My daughter has never known fear, and if I have my way, she never will. So, when she looks up at me with her unnerving blue gaze, I am decided. “Then we’ll take the baby to the king.”
My freedwoman frowns again. “Your fever has only just broken. You shouldn’t be so soon out of bed, Majesty.”
I do not want to admit that Chryssa speaks the truth, but as
my servants dress me, I can barely stand upon my shaky legs. I feel bruised and battered inside. Worse, a glance in a polished mirror reflects back my image, deathly pale and stripped of vitality. Still, what I’m about to do, I need to do while I still have the courage for it.
Tala appears, her silver bracelets jingling together as she knocks lightly against the half-opened carved wooden door. “The king has called together the court to attend to him.”
So we leave for the throne room, my sandaled feet shuffling slowly on the mosaic floors. My Macedonian guards snap to attention, their eyes lowered in deference. I am a tall woman, but I make myself stand taller, for I must preserve my reputation as a fertile young queen. My ability to bring forth life in this land is at the heart of the people’s love for me. I cannot be seen as weak.
In an archway, I peer between shimmering draperies to see King Juba seated on his ivory throne chair—the one given to him by the Senate and people of Rome, along with a purple robe, ivory scepter, and golden crown. My husband’s full lips turn down at the corners when he is pensive, and they are turned down now. He fidgets while our courtiers crowd the throne room.
Romans. Greeks. Egyptians. Berbers. Ours is a court of many languages and complexions. Knots of men stand together amidst the pillars, fanning themselves with palm fronds to fend off the afternoon heat while discussing the latest news from Rome. In the farthest corner, Lady Lasthenia instructs her students on some point of Pythagorean theory. Reclining upon a cushion in the presence of royalty as only our court poet is brave enough to do, Crinagoras sees me beneath the archway and shouts, “All hail to Queen Cleopatra Selene!”
Lifting my chin with a regal air, I force myself to stride to the raised dais. My gossamer cape billows behind me as if caught by the wind, and the crowd makes way. Behind me, Tala carries the baby in her sturdy Berber arms.
I walk purposefully, pausing only once to keep my balance. Watching me, the king’s brow creases with worry. In my white silks, I must appear very pale and frail indeed. But when my son lets out a cry, my frailty is forgotten. My husband launches to his feet, and his eyes fasten eagerly on the newborn. A smile breaks over the king’s face. He holds out his arms for the child but I catch Tala’s elbow before she can give the swaddled bundle over. “No,” I murmur. “Do as we discussed.”
Scowling, she lays the babe down on the floor at the king’s feet. I’ve no fondness for this custom either, but I know the Romans. My father was one of them and my husband may as well be. Even so, the king startles when I so publicly offer him the opportunity to reject my child. Perhaps he is remembering that I was no maiden when I came to his bed. His gaze darts to meet mine, a question in his eyes that I do not answer. My expression remains placid, inscrutable, even when the assembled courtiers lapse into silence, anticipating scandal and humiliation.
Many here have seen the emperor’s eyes gleam with lust for me. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were, even now, counting the months since I left the court of Augustus to take my place as the Queen of Mauretania, and wondering about the paternity of my child. My husband isn’t beyond such speculation. He knows already my daughter was not of his get. Perhaps he will reject my son for fear that he has been betrayed again.
Juba hesitates before lifting his robes above his sandals, descending the stairs, and stooping to examine the babe. I resent that he folds back the blankets to reveal my child’s sex, but it takes all my strength to remain standing; I’ve none to spare for irritation.
At the sight of the little phallus, the king smiles and holds the child aloft, naked, exposed. “My son!” Juba cries with joy. A cheer goes up from the crowd and a little bleating lamb’s cry goes up from my baby.
Just a few moments more, little one.
I have created a dramatic moment—one that will cause talk in Rome. It was the emperor, my mentor, who taught me such stagecraft, so I know how to ensure that this news reaches him. Just a few minutes more. Just long enough to give my son his name and I can return to my rooms and collapse in bed.
“Your son,” I agree, taking my place at Juba’s side.
It is the king’s privilege to name the child. It would not surprise me if he meant to name his son in honor of his own family. Another Juba, perhaps, or Masinissa. But the divine ichor in our son’s veins is the blood of the Ptolemies; my legacy is far more prestigious than my husband’s. Though it would help to erase any doubt that Juba was the father of this child, I am the one who labored hard to bring the child into the world so I say, “His name is Ptolemy.”
The joy on Juba’s face fractures. “Ptolemy? Why not Gaius, after our patron, the emperor?”
Is that sarcasm I hear? Does he seek to shame me after all? Surely he knows that naming my son after the emperor would invite scandal. Not to mention the fact that I would never name my son after the man who destroyed my family, stole Egypt, and violated me. I shake my head so violently that my dark hair lashes at my face. Somehow, I manage to swallow down my bile long enough to whisper, “Flattery will not sweeten this news for Augustus. Let the baby be named Ptolemy; it will stand him in good stead.”
My husband can be an agreeable man—a mild-mannered king—but I am asking a rather grand concession from him. Looking down fondly at the newborn in his arms, he finally nods. “I’m told the birth was a struggle. You’ve given me a precious gift: a son to secure our reign. If you wish to call him Ptolemy, I won’t refuse you … but we’ll have to write Augustus. There can be no more delay.”
I exhale, relieved and grateful. Motioning to the crowd, I say softly, “Augustus may hear it from them before he hears it from us. Now that the seas have opened, rumor will reach Rome in a week. No more than two.” Fear tightens my stomach, but I lift my chin with resolution. “Then we’ll reap what we’ve sown.”
Three
DURING the month named for the Roman goddess Juno, our subjects take to the fields to cut down the ripe grain before it is burnt by the high heat of summer. The largest plantations, worked by gangs of slaves, are the first to get their grain to market. Even now, caravans of colorfully saddled mules clog the city streets, bound for our harbor. Camels, horse-driven wagons, and even carts pushed by laborers descend upon us from the hills, all laden down with sacks of oats, barley, and wheat.
If I close my eyes, I can already smell the bread that will be baked with all this grain. It’s a sacred scent that calls me to my duty. So why am I listless? I’m healed now from the birth of my son. The illness made my milk run dry, but my infant son thrives at the breast of his wet nurse.
There is no accounting for my overwhelming sadness.
Yet I have no appetite. I’m short-tempered with servants. I hide in my chambers, shunning our court. Though summer bathes my kingdom in golden light, I lurk in gloom. Perhaps it’s because I await word from Rome. When Augustus hears of the birth of my son, how will he answer? Will he rage like a possessive lover and mete out revenge? Or will he care at all? Maybe what I do is beneath the emperor’s notice now and he will greet the news with indifference. That is the best I can hope for …
Alas, I suspect my gloomy mood has less to do with the emperor than with what I saw when consumed by fever. They say I called his name. Helios. My other half. Twin. Brother. Lover. King. There was a time I would’ve gone anywhere with him—disappeared into the desert, sailed away into the farthest reaches of the sea. I’d have abandoned my husband, my crown, my kingdom, and the prophecies too. For Helios and I are of one spirit, one akh. We have been together in all the worlds that have ever been or will ever be. That is how I know he lives. We are bound. If he were dead, I would know it. I would be torn asunder. My world could not stand on its foundations without Helios in it. I know this.
What does it matter if I called his name in the shadow of Anubis? I was not in my right mind, quaking with chills and parched by sweats. Perhaps a temporary madness made me see him in the afterworld. I saw Caesarion there too, and did the Romans not tell me he was burned? Would that not have destroyed his so
ul? No, I cannot have seen Caesarion there and I cannot have seen Helios either, for he lives. I know that he lives.
And yet I cannot be at peace.
I have made of my body a vessel for my goddess, so that the rains might come and the crops might grow. I’ve swallowed a storm and called it back to my fingertips. I’ve taken the heka in my body and used it to open my womb to new life. There is a birthmark on my arm, the sign of a sail, and the winds are drawn to it, but I know too little of the ancient magical arts of Egypt.
And of the world beyond this one, I know even less.
Only my mage can teach me what I need to know. And so I finally emerge from my chambers with my hair fastened by a white ribbon and a collar of turquoise stones over my robes. I seek out my mage in his apartments. In the guise of Euphorbus Musa, he has become a great favorite of the king because both men share a natural inquisitiveness.
Since leaving the emperor, I’ve spent many hours in the mage’s suite of rooms studying lesser magics of herbs and oil lamp divination. My wizard has taught me to write the words of a spell upon papyrus, then wash the ink into a cup with brown beer and drink it. He has taught me the sacred numbers that carry a chant to the ears of the gods. And he has taught me something of curses, though not nearly enough.
Today he is bent over papyrus, sketching the leaves of some plant while a cacophony of squawking birds in cages on the far wall announce me and my daughter. My Isidora is, as always, enchanted by creatures, standing on tiptoe to peek into the cages, so I let her play with the birds.
Meanwhile, exile has made my mage eccentric and distracted; even with the squawking it takes him a moment to realize we’re here. Hobbling along with the assistance of a divination staff, he herds me into a chair that is dusty with pollen. “Majesty, you had only to summon me. You ought not risk your health coming here. After birthing your baby, it will take time to regain your strength.”
Daughters of the Nile Page 3
