However misguided my husband’s loyalties have been, whatever his role in my family’s downfall, Juba has never wavered in that ambition. And now, even I must bow to it. “I think you neither self-important, nor a fool. You’ve steered a difficult course between Augustus and Agrippa so that they both might rely upon you. It positions our kingdom very well. It’s excellent statesmanship.”
Hope shines in his eyes. “I don’t think it will be so very difficult to reconcile them, do you?”
I’m not so certain. Six years ago, Agrippa broke with the emperor and left Rome. The falsehood that he was driven away by a jealousy for the emperor’s nephew has become accepted as truth. But now Marcellus is dead and Agrippa is not the same man who fled Rome in a pique of temper. Agrippa has been tested. He’s more confident. He’s more ambitious. And I tell Juba as much.
“But I suspect Agrippa does not desire more power for himself,” Juba muses. “All Agrippa wants is for the emperor to adopt his son.”
I make an indelicate snort. “What Agrippa wants is to stop the emperor from claiming Ptolemy.”
Juba stiffens, his eyes meeting mine. “Then it is in my interest to help him, is it not?”
There is a part of me—a dark shadowy part—that rises up unbidden, with ugly ambition. I surprise myself with thoughts that our son’s future could be greater than Juba and I have ever dreamed. If Juba could set aside his paternal pride, we could have more power over the emperor than ever before. The night Augustus hovered in our nursery he all but begged me to reach for the world. I could take it. I could rule it or destroy it … and if Juba were to conspire with me …
But he will not and I would never ask him to. I will not abuse his loyalty as the emperor does. And though I was born to intrigue, I will not exploit my innocent child. Not for Egypt, not for the world. I will not trade the world for my soul, I remind myself. I have not come to Rome to campaign for power. So, should I feel threatened or flattered that Agrippa finds himself struggling against me in a war I’m not even fighting?
*
ACCORDING to my husband, the emperor and his son-in-law are taking pains to avoid each other, relying upon Juba as their intermediary. It is, perhaps, the wisest course of action. Once, they hammered out a peace treaty with my father in the full view of their legions—whose unwillingness to bear arms against Mark Antony forced the bargain. They both learned from that mistake. They are now clever enough to keep their quarrel as shrouded in secrecy as their reconciliation must be. Only a few of us are aware that while the whole city prepares to celebrate, this fragile truce might fall apart at any moment.
Meanwhile, the children make nuisances of themselves on our terrace balcony, where they throw little pebbles toward the river. “Are you trying to hit the Tiber?” I demand, smoothing back my daughter’s golden curls into the ribbons meant to remind her that she’s a princess.
“We’re trying for the island,” Dora says.
“You’ll need a much stronger arm for that. Aren’t they clever, the Romans? To shape Tiber Island to look like a boat. Do you see the obelisk that makes the mast? That came from Egypt.”
My niece bobs her head with interest, but my daughter’s somberness makes me fear she remembers her time here as a child. Isidora was only a babe in my arms during the famine, when the sick and starving thronged the island, seeking help from the Temple of Asclepius. If I close my eyes, I can still hear the cries of the dying floating up to me from the river, and I fear my daughter remembers it too.
“Mama, will you take us to visit the island?” she asks.
“We’ll pass over it every time we go into Rome, where there are far more important things to see. I’ll take you myself to the Temple of Venus Genetrix, where you can visit a golden sculpture of your grandmother.”
Pythia’s eyes light up, but Dora only gives me an indulgent smile. “There’s a snake on that island and he calls to me.”
She’s always been a peculiar child. Helios once said that looking into her eyes was like seeing into the Rivers of Time, and it is true. Is it so wrong of me to wish that she could be just a normal girl, at least for a little while longer?
“Don’t be foolish,” I say, dismissing what she’s said as the fancy of a child’s imagination. But her words linger. It was a snake that took my mother to the afterworld. Snakes are guides for the dead and if one calls to Isidora, I will keep her from it. And so I do not bring the girls to visit Tiber Island.
Instead, we cross swiftly into the city, then take a litter up the Palatine Hill. Fierce-looking praetorians greet us before the laurel-decked entrance of the emperor’s residence. The modest front of the household in which I was once kept prisoner does not fool me. I know that the gates will open upon a collection of buildings and sprawling gardens, ornamented with priceless artwork, all joined together with the majestic Temple of Apollo.
I find it no small irony that once inside the sacred walls of Rome, I’m obliged to leave off my symbols of royalty, removing my crown and setting aside my purple cloak lest I offend the Romans who claim to tolerate no monarchs. And yet here upon this hill, in the heart of their city, is the seat of the true king who rules over them all.
The emperor calls himself only the Princeps, the First Citizen amongst equals. But here stands the evidence to the contrary: an imperial compound that has steadily grown into a palace, garden by garden, monument by monument, year by year. Like a slow and steady bricklayer, he’s accomplished this, like everything else, one plodding step at a time, so that it is now too late for anyone to complain.
Anyone, of course, except Agrippa.
I find Octavia in the sewing room amidst looms, spindles, and baskets of shining white sheep’s wool. To the fascination of my girls, I explain that in my youth, all the women of the emperor’s household toiled here, so that the emperor could claim he kept his women to the old Republican traditions.
Today, only Octavia and her daughters work at the tasks. My stepmother wears a drab tunica, a dark stola overtop to symbolize that she still mourns for her son. Her head is covered with a black shawl too, making her face look heavier and more severe beneath it. It worries me to see that the corners of Lady Octavia’s mouth turn down and little lines have etched themselves there as if she’s forgotten how to smile.
But the moment she sees me, she does smile. So do her daughters. There’s a great outburst of chatter as we all exchange glad embraces. In my mind’s eye, my half sisters, the Antonias, will always be little girls, quick to mimic their mother and me. But now Antonia Major is married and swollen with child. And at nineteen years old, Minora is betrothed. Together with Octavia’s oldest daughter, Marcella, my half sisters have become the solid foundation of the imperial family.
These are the women of the Julii. They are family of the emperor in a way that his wife and her Claudian sons can never be. It’s the emperor’s sister who has provided him with prim women of good reputation, beholden to no other political alliance, which is why they still reside with him on the Palatine and likely always will.
Kissing Marcella’s cheeks, I say, “I’m glad to see you haven’t forced little Marcellina to take up the loom yet.”
“Marcellina isn’t so little anymore,” she says. “Besides, Agrippa has taken her from me. Now she must call Julia mother, and we both know Julia would never deign to dirty her hands with useful work.”
It’s unfair. All of it. That Agrippa should take Marcella’s daughter simply because they’ve divorced is a cruelty. That Marcella should resent his new wife for it, doubly so. Julia had no part in the arrangements; indeed, she’s struggling with her own resentments, and it pains me to think of my two childhood friends so at odds. “Surely Agrippa lets you visit with your daughter …”
“Of course he does,” Octavia snaps. “The girl is coming today, in fact. Agrippa is no brute. He treated Marcella with respect.”
Octavia’s quick defense of the admiral reminds me that the twisted affections of the imperial family reach far beyond th
e perverse quadrangle at its center, made up of Agrippa, Marcella, Julia, and Iullus. The political marriages have hurt nearly everyone, including Octavia, though some of her wounds are self-inflicted.
This isn’t the tone I wished to set for our reunion, so I force a smile and wave a hand as if to disperse smoke from a kitchen fire. “This room is just as stuffy as I remember it! Are you going to make my royal entourage stand in the corridor, or shall we all go out into the gardens and have a proper visit where the children can play?”
Octavia’s hands halt over the shuttle of her loom. “You brought the children?”
“Yes, and I want them to enjoy themselves …”
The corners of Octavia’s mouth threaten to lift into another smile. “You have very unorthodox ideas about children, Selene. No doubt you’ll spoil them rotten and turn them into little tyrants.”
“No doubt,” I reply. “That is why I need your guidance.”
“Well, then,” she says, pushing her stool back from the loom. “I’ll go out by the fishpond for a spell, but I can’t spend all day dallying—I have to attend to my work at the theater. It will never be done in time for the games at this rate.”
The Antonias exchange a look that tells me their mother has been fretting about this for some time, and that my visit is a welcome distraction. So we all go out into the verdant springtime.
There in the gardens, I present my children to Octavia one at a time. My daughter is a prettier little girl than I ever was and Octavia praises her golden hair, calling her a veritable Venus. Then I present the dark-haired, sloe-eyed Pythia, and Octavia gives a wistful sigh. “Antony’s first granddaughter … a shame what happened to her mother. To be married off to a Greek merchant!”
Pythia lifts her chin ever so slightly, rancor burning in her eyes, so I send both girls off to play at the edge of the pool. “This is my son,” I say, giving my baby over into Octavia’s outspread arms.
She takes him eagerly. “Ah, a healthy little prince for Mauretania. He has Juba’s eyes, doesn’t he?” I’m grateful that she notices. “You’ll make a proper little barbarian, won’t you?” Octavia coos at my little Ptolemy, who takes no offense, blinking up at her with a sweet gurgling smile.
Just then, a fish splashes in the pond and I can’t help but taunt her. “Fishponds, Octavia? When did you become so grand a lady as to demand only the freshest fish for your dinner table? And are these saltwater fish? Do you have slaves haul ocean water all the way from Ostia for your convenience?”
Octavia huffs. “The piscinae weren’t my idea! It’s all the fashion these days to have lampreys and mullets. These were a gift from Agrippa.”
“Who knew the admiral could be so extravagant?”
“So says the queen of a grand palace by the sea,” Augustus interrupts, emerging from a nearby archway in a broad-brimmed hat and short tunic that exposes his spindly legs. “I’m glad to find you here, Selene,” the emperor says, motioning to me with two fingers. “Come. Walk with me.”
*
WHEN I was a girl I took pride in the way the emperor singled me out for his attention, but it now distresses me. Nevertheless, one does not refuse a request to walk beside the emperor …
We stroll in the gardens where he shows me a fruit tree I’ve never seen before. A gift from the kingdom of Pontus. Cherry, the emperor calls it. “It isn’t new to Rome, but it is rare. Like you, Selene.”
I turn from him, resisting his flattery. “Is it also poisonous?”
He snorts. “No. Cherries are sweet and fleshy …”
I don’t want him thinking of my taste or flesh, so I say, “Perhaps I will acquire some of these fruit trees for my palace in Mauretania, to which I should like to return as soon as possible.”
At this, the emperor abandons his wooing in favor of the business he has in mind. “The Senate meets today to authorize persons who would not normally be allowed to participate in the Secular Games …” The Romans can be very insular when it comes to their rites and rituals. “I want all of the city to take part. Slaves, mourning women, and even foreign queens.”
“That is why you summoned me, is it not?” I cannot resist plucking the ripening berries, so round and shining in the sun with possibility. Tasting one, I find that cherries are all sweetness. Juicy pleasure on my tongue. Such untainted sweetness is so strange to me, I cannot decide if I love this fruit or detest it.
“I mean for you to have a special role in the festivities,” he says, and the sweetness in my mouth turns sour. “During the day, I must share the glory with Agrippa. But in the evenings, I will invoke the gods of Rome to herald a new age.”
“Isn’t that the duty of the Pontifex Maximus?”
“I cannot very well call Lepidus back from exile to perform his priestly duties, can I?”
“Why not?” Marcus Aemilius Lepidus was the third man in the alliance my father once made with the emperor. The triumvirate. An agreement to divide up the Roman world between the three of them. But during the civil war, Lepidus was so inept as to make enemies on all sides. “I have always assumed that you let Lepidus live because he is harmless …”
The emperor scowls. “I do not let traitors live because they are harmless. He lives because he is the High Priest of Rome.”
“Julius Caesar was the High Priest of Rome and it did not stop the assassins from plunging knives into him,” I say, my voice trailing off as I realize my error. If there is anyone he truly reveres, it is his adopted father. He would do nothing to invite comparison between himself and the men who assassinated the dictator.
“Precisely the point, Selene! I cannot execute Lepidus unless I wish to be blamed for every calamity that befalls Rome—for the people will see in it the wrath of the gods. When Lepidus is dead, I will take the pontificate for myself. The ceremonies I will perform in the coming weeks will help to establish my place as the highest religious authority in Rome. That is why I’ll have you at my side.”
He says this to me as if it has already been decided, but I will not allow myself to play the role of the emperor’s mistress, fueling the sort of gossip that destroyed my mother. My mother was foolish to allow Julius Caesar to commemorate her with a golden statue for all Rome to gawk at, but she was the Queen of Egypt and she was in love with her Caesar.
I am neither.
“I’m not your wife and I have no place at your side.”
“Has your time in balmy Mauretania dulled your wits? I’m not asking you to take part as a notorious woman or an exotic curiosity. I want you at my side as the priestess of Isis that you are.”
He’s the first to call me a priestess. Though I’ve given voice to my goddess through my own flesh and blood and ministered to others in her name, never have I donned the robes of a priestess. Never have I submitted myself to the initiation of her holy order, nor suffered the privations they endure to find communion with her. Isis has called me her child, never her priestess, but hope creeps into my breast. “Do you mean, then, to restore Isis worship to Rome?”
“I cannot do that,” he says, and I think I hear a genuine hint of regret. “Imagine what mischief Agrippa and his champions could make for me if I’m seen to welcome back the foreign goddess of Cleopatra with her daughter standing beside me. No, Selene. In these rites, I must call upon Roman gods and show that I mean to restore the old ways. It’s an honor I offer you, to be here at the start of a Golden Age.”
I’m not honored but offended, for I understand the nefarious political reason behind this strange request. He remembers the last time I was in Rome—when conspiracy threatened his power and Isis worshippers rose up in insurrection. In this city alone, thousands of Isis worshippers believe that the goddess speaks through me. Augustus knows it all too well. He knows too of the prophecy at my birth, that I would help to usher in a Golden Age. My presence at his side would give a silent nod to those who believe in that prophecy … those who believe in me. My presence would tell them that if I have a place at the emperor’s side, then they too h
ave a place in his empire.
It is one lie too many. “No. I’m sorry. I must refuse.”
He stares at me with those intent gray eyes. “You rebuff me now at the merest provocation, clinging to your wounded pride. Selene, don’t you see what I mean to give to you in the years to come? Once it’s mine and only mine, I mean to give you the whole world.”
“Well, I don’t want it,” I tell him flatly.
“Yes, you do, Selene. Yes, you do.”
Eleven
THE next day, I receive an intriguing invitation to the Temple of Vesta. Draped in pure white, the chief Vestal Virgin is waiting for me inside the well-tended gates. She’s a woman of such height and stature that we meet each other with a level gaze. “Welcome to the House of the Vestals, Your Majesty.”
“I thank you for the invitation, Virgo Vestalis Maxima. To what do I owe this rare honor?”
“You may call me Occia,” she says with a musical voice, leading me into the shade of the courtyard, where the statues of her predecessors watch over us. “I’ve asked you here because Augustus wishes for you to take part in our sacred rites. He tells me that you have refused …”
“And he’s asked you to change my mind?”
“Yes. Though I would have tried whether he asked or not.”
“I cannot imagine why.”
“Your Majesty, I’ve been tending the hearth at the heart of this city since I was a girl. I was unusually young when I rose to be the chief Vestal. Twenty-two. The same age that you are now. That was the year your father broke with your mother to marry Lady Octavia and all Rome believed that the civil wars were over. We were wrong.”
I thought Vestals beyond such worldly concerns. Whenever I have seen them before, floating in a cloud of white wool, trailing the end of sacred processions, they’ve seemed like captive birds set out to please the eyes. I begin to think I have misunderstood something vital. “No one is sorrier than I am that no lasting peace for the world could be made.”
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