Daughters of the Nile

by Stephanie Dray

  I’m silent, half-horrified, half-fascinated, clutching my baby to my breast as the emperor asks, “Do you know what I face here in Rome without you, Selene? If I want to keep my alliance with Agrippa, he says I must adopt his son. I’ll be father in name, but Agrippa will be the father of the next ruler of Rome in truth. That’s how he steals my glory. How he seeks to cheat me. Perhaps I’m better off to be rid of Agrippa once and for all. Certainly my wife thinks so.”

  Of course she would. Such a bargain between the emperor and his greatest general will threaten Livia’s position as First Woman in Rome. If the emperor does as Agrippa wishes him to do, Livia would be obliged to give way to Julia, the stepdaughter she tormented.

  I find myself unexpectedly delighted by that prospect …

  My mother was once the most powerful woman in the world, and if I cannot walk in her footsteps, Julia should. So I defend the admiral without whom my family might still be alive. “It’s no easy thing to kill Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa, or you’d have done it by now.”

  The emperor almost smiles at my cool assessment. “Agrippa is as wary of me as I am of him. We’ve kept the pretense of harmony, but for how long?”

  “Julia would have you reconciled with her husband.”

  “Such a reconciliation will make rivals of you,” the emperor says, his gaze still fixed on the babe in my arms. “Julia pitted against you. Her son pitted against yours.”

  My blood begins to rise to this bait. He’s whistling like a master to a well-trained hunting cat, calling to the dynastic ambitions that have been bred deep into my Ptolemaic bones. But he has done it before and I turned it away. The price was too steep. The world for my soul. It’s still not a trade I’m willing to make. “You must do what’s best for the empire.”

  *

  AUGUSTUS is already gone when Juba enters the nursery. “What did he want? What did he say?”

  “Nothing,” I reply as my innocent baby nuzzles against my breasts.

  Juba slants a dubious gaze at me, his eyes taking in the loose hair that flows over my shoulders. Here I am, having greeted the emperor in the middle of the night, dressed in little more than what I wore to bed. It would be enough to make any other man suspicious and Juba knows he has better reason than any other man. “Do you mean Caesar was silent? Utterly silent?”

  Knowing the emperor as he does, this prospect probably alarms him more than if the emperor shouted and raged. And I am so shaken by the visit that I tell him the truth. “The emperor has convinced himself that Ptolemy is his son.”

  I watch my husband wrestle with his emotions until his mouth thins into a straight line. “I see.”

  Laying the baby back down in his cradle, gently untangling a fist from my hair, I ask, “Aren’t you going to ask me if it’s true?”

  “No,” Juba says.

  Remembering a long-ago day on the deck of a ship when my husband wouldn’t hear the truth about how Augustus violated me, I turn to glare. “Go on. Ask me if I’ve deceived you.”

  Juba sits in an alcove by the window, folding his hands in his lap. “I didn’t ask you the day you laid this baby at my feet and I’m not going to ask you now.”

  “Doesn’t it matter?” I ask, lashing out at him though it is the emperor who has me furious. “You’re already playing the father to another man’s daughter, so why not a son? Or don’t you want to know? I think you’re so beholden to the emperor that you cannot bear to know all the insults he’s done you.”

  In the face of my tirade, Juba’s tone is calm and even. “I’m not going to ask because if the torn trust between us is ever to be mended, one of us must give way. I’ve thrown down my weapons on the chance that you’ll do the same.”

  My cheeks sting with embarrassment even as the heat of my temper drains away. “I thought—”

  “You thought I’d accuse you, as I’ve done before. You thought I’d treat you coldly.”

  Coming to his side, I say, “I’m sorry.”

  He looks weary. “As am I. I know that I’ve taught you to guard yourself against me but I’m a man of learning. I’m trying not to repeat my mistakes.”

  And I’m trying not to repeat mine. I want to reassure him that he is Ptolemy’s father—to give him the gift of honesty, freely given. But when I start to speak he presses his lips to mine. Not softly. Not experimentally. Not playfully. He kisses me with a desire and perhaps an expectation of more. But more I cannot give him, not here in the shadow of the Palatine Hill …

  *

  “MY father was here,” Julia says by way of morning greeting. She usually sleeps late; I hadn’t expected to see her so early. “Don’t bother to deny it.” Julia sniffs. “The slaves know everything. Phoebe says you rose from your bed and that you went to the emperor half-dressed!”

  I’d expected recriminations from my husband—not from the emperor’s daughter. As we sit down together in my triclinium for the morning meal old-fashioned Romans insist is a gateway to Oriental corruption, I say, “I only went to see that my children were sleeping safely and was taken by surprise by the way your father stole into my house.”

  Julia’s beautiful face twists in bitterness. “I thought he might have come for me. Isn’t that foolish? I hoped that my father might have come to take me home. That he came to say, ‘Well done, Julia. I know what you risked to obey my command and I’m grateful.’ But he didn’t even ask for me!”

  “Of course he did,” I say, sipping at wine vinegar and water, a mixture Romans swear by to awaken the senses. “I told him you were quite big with child and shouldn’t be awakened. I told your father he must let you have your rest.”

  She knows I’m lying and her nostrils flare, but before she can accuse me, Tala rounds the corner to announce that we have a visitor. “There’s a Roman at the gate most eager to see Lady Julia. King Juba has gone out to greet him.”

  Julia’s head snaps up. “Who?”

  “Admiral Agrippa,” Tala replies.

  The emperor’s daughter goes pale with fright, lifting both hands to her face. To calm her, I say, “Go back to your rooms, Julia. I’ll see what I can do to make your husband leave.”

  Julia laughs bitterly. “No, Selene. Not even you can make Agrippa do anything. I wondered which of them would come for me … would it be my father? I admit it; I even wondered if it would be Iullus. I just didn’t think it would be Agrippa.”

  Steeling her spine, she snaps her fingers at her slave girl and Phoebe helps her rise up out of her chair; for Julia is so pregnant now it takes both of them to get her upright. Then we all go out to the front of my house to greet the admiral where he is mounted upon a warhorse accompanied by lictors, the ax-wielding guards that denote his office and power.

  Agrippa is a big man with a thick brow over his fierce eyes. He has the bearing of a commander, and even though he’s aged since I saw him last, the graying temples and weathered face only make him look more dangerous.

  Fortunately, he and Juba appear to be in amiable conversation. My husband has maintained good relations with the two most powerful men in the world. Juba has no mind for intrigue—he is ever willing to swallow Roman lies and propaganda—but he has always said that he wished to bring about a more peaceful world, and in spite of my reservations, I find myself earnestly hoping that he may accomplish it.

  Agrippa dismounts and falls into stride with the king, entering our courtyard. “Welcome, Admiral Agrippa,” I say, forgoing almost all the formalities of address. It isn’t as if my whole royal court is looking on, after all. “It seems that our little home on the Tiber has become a veritable embassy, which the most important men of the Republic feel compelled to visit.”

  He takes my meaning at once. “Caesar was here?”

  “Indeed, he was,” I reply, hoping the invocation of the emperor is enough to still Agrippa’s hand if he means to do violence. But Julia fearlessly pushes past me to face her husband.

  The two of them stare at each other and the courtyard falls into silence.

/>   Agrippa is the first to break it. “Pack your things, Julia.”

  “I’m delighted to see you too, my darling husband.”

  Agrippa grinds that massive jaw. “Don’t call me husband when you ran away from me like a rebellious slave. I should thrash you within an inch of your life.”

  Moving to her side, I’m ready to defend her, but Julia lifts both her hands in invitation. “So do it, Marcus. Right here in front of the royalty of Mauretania. Better still, take me to the forum and beat me. Humiliate the daughter of Augustus and the granddaughter of Julius Caesar the god. I’ll wear the bruises proudly before your legions. Before your children. Do you think that will endear you to them? Or do you think the bruises will serve as evidence of the lowbred New Man that you are?”

  I’m surprised to see him flinch, surprised that she knows how to cut him. “I thought you’d been lost at sea, you wicked woman. When I heard nothing from you, I thought you’d been lost or taken by pirates. Do you understand? I feared you were dead.”

  Julia lowers her chin, perhaps a bit chagrinned. “Wickedness wasn’t my aim. In this, I was an obedient and dutiful daughter.”

  Agrippa grunts, as if this were the only excuse that might appease him. “Then rejoice, because your father and I hope to soon be in accord.”

  “That doesn’t mean I have to go with you.”

  He glowers at her. “Get your women and your things and follow me meekly or I’ll haul you over the saddle of my horse and carry you off like a Gallic slave girl.”

  Julia sighs. “For such a brilliant strategist, you’re terribly simpleminded at times. There are other options …”

  Agrippa raises a brow. “Such as?”

  “You could extend a hand to me. I might take it. I might walk with you away from this house, where all the people can see us warmly reunited. Why, you might be vulgar enough to press a kiss to my cheek. And if the stars align, I might forget that you’re just a coarse soldier, not fit to put hands on me …”

  I’m slack-jawed at her nerve and even more astonished that Agrippa seems prepared to bargain. He crosses his meaty arms over his chest and asks, “What would such a performance cost me?”

  “Not much, for I confess I’m more pleased to see you again than I thought I’d be.”

  I swear I see a blush creep under his stubble. “Don’t trifle with me, Julia. We’re neither of us very fond of each other.”

  “Oh, yes,” Julia says cheerfully. “You despise me and I think you’re a perfectly contemptible old goat, which makes my sentimentality all the more confusing. Perhaps it can be explained by way of the fact that we’re having another baby. Perhaps it will even be another son, which is all you care about, isn’t it?”

  Agrippa barks, “What do you want, Julia? A gown of Coan cloth? A strand of pearls? Tell me now, because I’m not going to stand here all day while you heap insults on my head. What do you want this time?”

  “I want my mother,” she says, the thread of hope in her voice pulled tight. “I’ve been scarcely permitted to see her since the day my father took me from her arms. I want to see my mother.”

  It’s such a pure, simple request that one would have to be a monster to deny her. In this one thing, Agrippa is the only man in the world who can give Julia what she wants. She’s gauged him; she’s chosen the precise moment when he wants to irritate the emperor without damaging the relationship beyond repair. She’s made a careful calculation, and I’m reminded that she is, after all, the daughter of the world’s foremost manipulator.

  I am not the only one who learned at the emperor’s knee …

  Agrippa rubs at the back of his neck. “Your mother has a reputation as a respectable woman. I can’t see the harm in it. I would permit you to see Scribonia today. Will that suffice?”

  Julia’s breath catches in scarcely contained joy. Then Agrippa thrusts his big hand out to her. Julia stares at it, this beckoning hand with its scars and calluses ruddy in the morning sunlight. She’s making a choice, I realize, and there have been few enough of those in her lifetime. Perhaps she savors it. Julia gives me a brave smile. Then she steps forward and slips her delicate hand into his. Moments later, the two of them go out my front gate, the distance between them closing with each step.

  *

  NOT long after, Iullus Antonius arrives at my door fitted out like a military staff officer, in a cuirass and military skirt, the flaps of which slap against his thighs as he marches into my house. My Roman half brother is some manner of tribune but I don’t know which kind. It doesn’t matter, really. He has whatever authority Augustus gives him, and since he married the emperor’s niece, he’s benefited greatly.

  “You’re too late,” I say, leading him into my triclinium, where the morning meal has gone cold. “Julia already left this morning.”

  Iullus scowls at me with as much resentment as the day he met me. “I only just heard she was in the city. You might have sent word to me.”

  “If Julia had asked me to, I would have.”

  His hands flex on the back of my couch—a blue one from Mauretania, with a carved citrus-wood edge. “To whom did she go? Augustus or Agrippa?”

  When I tell him, he looks stricken. It takes him more than a few moments to compose himself. “As it happens, I didn’t come here for Julia.”

  Lies do not come as easily to him as to me, but it is a brave attempt, so I pretend to believe him. “Oh?”

  “I came to speak to your husband about what the emperor expects from him in the coming days.” Iullus is puffed up with importance as one of the emperor’s closest companions—as if the emperor had not already been here, in the night, desperate to rekindle our old intimacy. But if it pleases Iullus to think that he’s now the favorite, I’ll let him think it. After all, the emperor threatened to make me a widow, a fear made all the more potent when Iullus says, “The emperor will meet with Juba tonight on the Palatine Hill, and he wants to see him alone.”

  Ten

  I don’t know how it will go between my husband and the emperor. I’m afraid. If after ten years of separation, the two men meet in violence, I’ll be to blame. If they embrace as brothers, I might also be to blame, for we’re all bound together by a singular crime.

  In any case, I don’t want to bear witness to their reunion, but when my husband leaves, I find myself uttering prayers to Isis for his safety. And when Juba returns home that night quite unharmed, I’m relieved beyond measure.

  I press him for details in the privacy of our triclinium, where we take our ease upon dining couches strewn with pillows dyed in saffron and blue. The king sends his cupbearer from the room, then pours himself some wine, but he cannot hide his conflicted emotions behind the rim of a cup. “I gave the emperor an ivory fibula pin for his cloak, carved like the sphinx on his signet ring.” An odd token, I think. A reminder that the emperor is every bit as unknowable as the desert riddler and just as deadly. Juba adds, “He received it gladly and threw his arm around my shoulder as if I were his long-lost son.”

  But the way Juba’s fist suddenly clenches at his side, I worry there has been some confrontation. “And then?”

  Juba takes a gulp of his wine. “He said nothing of his late-night visit to our nursery. Instead, he spoke of old times, when we would drink wine together by a warm fire, talking about the tragedy of Ajax. He said that he’d suffered without me at his side all these years, but that it was a sacrifice he needed to make for Rome. He said I was a good king and better than my father before me …” The throaty emotion in Juba’s voice tells me that he still falls easy prey to the emperor’s praise. “He greeted me very warmly, Selene.”

  Personal warmth has never been one of the weapons in the emperor’s arsenal. Indeed, I doubt Augustus can even feel love. At least not the way other people do. He does form attachments, however, so perhaps his regard for my husband is genuine. Unfortunately, those the emperor keeps closest to what passes for his heart are often those to whom he is most cruel.

  One glance at
Juba as he averts his gaze tells me that he has, indeed, endured some manner of torture. “What did he say to you, Juba?”

  Twice Juba starts to speak before he finally swallows whatever is choking him. “He said that every man is, alone, barbarous and pathetic, capable of any dishonor, and that he is no different. The emperor told me that he has committed great wrongs for which he seeks redemption. That it is only the fellowship of a man’s friends that keeps him from wandering off civilized roads. He says that he needs me now, as he has never needed me. That I’ve been called to keep men from drawing their swords; to keep friends marching together on a road to glory.”

  I am rendered quite speechless by this secondhand account of the emperor’s expert manipulation; apologizing for his crimes without admitting fault, blaming Juba’s absence for his poor decisions, all while begging for help. The brazenness of it stuns me almost as much as the way it has affected my husband. As I stare at him, Juba drains his cup, swallowing the wine down in several gulps. When he is finished, he leans back against the pillows and I see what wars inside him.

  He is a father who wants to protect his child. A son who wants acceptance from the only father he’s ever known. Perhaps even a husband who would defend his wife. Certainly a newly made king who wants to be of some consequence …

  “You think me quite a self-important fool, don’t you, Selene? To think I may play some instrumental role in the age to come.”

  “No, I don’t.” My husband wasn’t born under a prophecy; no one expected anything from Juba except that he would eventually betray barbarian leanings—an expectation he has frustrated his entire life by becoming the most learned and civilized of kings. And yet, from the first day I met him, empire building was on his mind. When I was still too much of a child to understand the ways in which the world had changed, my husband explained them to me with a determination to help Augustus make the world a better place.