Daughters of the Nile

by Stephanie Dray

  It’s a step too far and now I’m done with the charade. “What I’ve been told is that you have a penchant for killing queens.”

  He grimaces. Good. I’ve found a sore spot. I’m tempted to twist the knife by mentioning the wife he murdered by name, but I hold that in reserve. “Didn’t you try to persuade my father to kill my mother?”

  Regaining possession of himself, the older man admits, “I did. Had Antony taken my advice, he’d be emperor now. Indeed, you might be the Queen of Egypt in your mother’s stead. Yes, I tried to persuade Antony to kill Cleopatra but there was no malice involved; I gave him my best political advice. In the end, he followed his heart and now we all live in the world he left behind. My actions were that of a friend.”

  Some friend! I go from cold to hot. His rational accounting of his actions offends me. I can think of no reason not to be frank. “Does a friend argue for the slaughter of Antony’s children? I’m told you pleaded with Augustus to kill me and my brothers when we first came to Rome. Do you deny it?”

  Herod affects a wounded expression, hand to his heart. “You’ve been woefully misinformed, Cleopatra Selene. It was only the boys I thought Augustus must be rid of. Only your brothers; not you. Why, I even made an offer to marry you when you came of age.”

  “Oh, well, then. How can I hold it against you?” I try to dislodge the thought of Caesarion strangled, Antyllus cut down at the foot of Caesar’s statue, Philadelphus writhing in a fever that may well have been poison. And Helios? No, I best not think of him … “Did you mean to make a wedding present to me of my brothers’ heads?”

  Herod lifts both eyebrows as if surprised by my sarcasm. “I didn’t know you were so fond of your siblings. Your mother certainly didn’t care for hers …”

  “I’m not my mother.” And it’s true. I loved my mother, I admired her, and I grieve for her. But I walk my own path. “I’m no one that you’ve ever met before, King Herod.”

  His eyes narrow with a hint of approval. “It’s fortunate, then, that we have this time in Rome to get better acquainted …”

  A gruff voice interrupts us. “Herod?” I look up to see Juba in the doorway and my husband’s glance tells me that he had no idea to expect the King of Judea. “To what do we owe the surprise of your company?”

  Herod’s mature and practiced geniality never falters. “Ah, Juba, how good to see you again, my old friend. I came to pay tribute to your queen. When I hear about one of the world’s wonders, I like to see it with my own eyes. She is as has been reported to me …”

  “By whom?” I ask.

  Herod ignores me. “We’ll be sitting together tonight, your royal family and mine. The greatest king in the West and the greatest king in the East, come together as friends for the glory of Augustus.”

  Herod flatters himself. Juba is certainly the greatest king in the West, but Herod is only one of many in the East. Herod’s is a troublesome kingdom, providing Rome with neither a great abundance of grain nor mineral wealth. Judea is notable only for the strategic importance of its location and the unusual religious traditions of its people. And Herod is notable only for his bloodthirsty reputation.

  My husband does not point any of this out. “Perhaps we can take the opportunity to discuss how to better share the talent of the empire. With our competing building projects, the engineers, architects, and artists have learned to play us against one another and extort outrageous fees.”

  This is a bit of diplomacy on Juba’s part, for he knows, as well as I do, that Herod boasted of building two cities to frustrate our own efforts. For now, though, Herod is happy to let the engineers and architects and artists take the blame. “Indeed! Perhaps these profiteers would be less bold in their demands if they knew we shared a friendship. An alliance between our two families might be taken by Augustus as a sign of harmony in his empire.”

  Before I can make an indignant reply, we hear music from the orchestra indicating that we will soon be called to our seats. “Alas,” Juba says. “It’s a discussion that must wait.”

  Herod makes an elaborate gesture of farewell and then withdraws. The moment he is gone, I launch up from my couch, but before I can utter a word, Juba takes hold of my arm, “Calm. Be calm.”

  “Herod is not to be trusted!”

  Juba dips his head to look me in the eye. “I know this, wife.”

  Why am I always ready for an argument with Juba, always leaping into combat even when there is no enemy on the field? It’s a habit I must break myself of, so I moderate my tone. “He’s not what I expected, not what I expected at all. I assumed he’d be a nasty brute …”

  “He is, but he’s also a chameleon. He’s a Jew when he wants to be a Jew, but does not keep their traditions. He’s a Hellenized king when he travels, but his interest in philosophy is not genuine. He’s a fawning friend to Augustus while sneering at Roman ways when he can get away with it.”

  Juba’s evaluation dispirits me. Herod is an actor after all, good enough to charm even the emperor. But that does not explain why he came here tonight. “Why should he come to us looking for friendship?”

  “He needs allies,” Juba explains. “Herod isn’t popular in Judea—or anywhere else.”

  “Herod has allies. Augustus allows him great latitude. He has the friendship of Livia and Agrippa too. Why, he’s even strong-armed Archelaus of Cappadocia into giving over his daughter in marriage. Who could make Herod feel so vulnerable that these aren’t friends enough?”

  “That I cannot guess, Selene, but if he wants our friendship, we should give it to him. It serves us no purpose to grant him the status of a rival.”

  I cannot disagree. I don’t trust Herod—all the more so because I found it difficult to dislike him—but he can be no threat to me now. It’s the quailing little girl inside me that fears him; I shouldn’t let her rule the queen I have become. If forcing myself to smile at Herod means more engineers and architects for Mauretania, then I must find a way to make common cause.

  The musicians hail us with a royal march as we’re led into the crowded theater. The first row is reserved for Roman senators, in their best purple-bordered togas. Behind the senators sit the moneyed equites, knights of the Republic … or what is left of it. Finally, in the upper rows, the plebs, the common citizens of Rome, find their seats. A special area is roped off, reserved for royalty and foreign visitors, and we find our places there.

  Juba and I are well received by the crowd. The people remember our tributes of grain. They remember Juba as a scholar, soldier, and tamed barbarian. They remember that while I am Cleopatra’s daughter, I’m also a daughter of Rome. They cheer us and we wave to them. The crowd also cheers for the two sons of Herod, who have lived in Rome now for years.

  But no one cheers for Herod.

  The King of Judea pretends at distraction as his sons find their seats. Alexander and Aristobulus are men now, both handsome, sitting close together, straight-spined like fellow soldiers who have been through some manner of battle. My heart goes out to these Judean princes, for they’ve been kept here in Rome far from their homeland. Perhaps they’ve considered themselves hostages, and I know what that’s like. But I catch the glance they exchange when their father leans over to whisper something to them.

  And then I know.

  I know exactly who makes Herod feel so vulnerable that he would seek even me out for a friend. He fears the popularity of his sons. Those young men both sit as stiffly near their father as if they had a scorpion at their back, and perhaps they do. These are the sons of Queen Mariamne, the Hasmonean princess whose bloodline put Herod in reach of the throne. He murdered their mother and now he’s come to fetch them home …

  I cannot imagine having such a father. My own father refused to harm my mother, though it cost him his life. Not even Augustus could bring himself to do away with Julia’s mother. Which tells me that though I boasted of being no one Herod had ever met before, he is something I have never encountered before either. No matter how advantageous
an alliance might be, no matter how witty or charming Herod is, I decide he must always be my enemy, or I will have betrayed everything good still left inside me.

  The trumpets sound and we all look up to the imperial box. There Augustus and Agrippa stand. There they are, the two men upon whom the fate of the empire rests. One broad-shouldered and brawny. The other frail and shrewd. Neither man spares the other a glance. Like a courageous Sabine woman, willing to throw her body between her warring husband and father, Julia stands with these men, one hand upon her pregnant belly. With glittering eyes and a dazzling smile, Julia wins the hearts of the crowd in an instant. They are on their feet for her. I stand too, for it is Julia’s moment. Glowing in our admiration, she is the strand that connects everything. This is her dead husband’s theater. She is widow, wife, mother, daughter. She is First Woman in Rome.

  We rely upon her to hold these men together, to be the conduit between them that keeps their ambitions and hostilities at bay. She need not share this rare moment of recognition with anyone else, but as the crowd adores her, Julia sweeps one arm back, turning to acknowledge the older woman behind her: Lady Octavia.

  Octavia gives a quick shake of her head, her face frozen in an expression of Roman gravitas, as if she thinks herself unworthy of recognition. But brash, lovable Julia grabs Octavia by the arm and pulls her to her feet. And in spite of everything, my own eyes glisten with pride for them both.

  The crowd applauds the matriarchs of the Julii. They cheer for Octavia because she has shared with all these Romans, their darkest times. Wife of Mark Antony. Sister of Octavian. Mother of Marcellus. She’s suffered torn loyalties, lost loved ones, and sacrificed in the hope of a better future.

  They honor her. I honor her too and not only because of the kindnesses she’s done me over the years, but also because I know what she has sacrificed to keep Livia from power. Julia is Rome’s darling only because Octavia made it so …

  By instinct, my eyes seek out the emperor’s wife, seated to the side in shadow. Livia wears a soft smile of serenity that scarcely disguises her smoldering resentment. This might have been her moment, but Octavia has stolen it from her and delivered it into Julia’s hands. When Octavia came to suspect that Livia was responsible for her son’s death, she retaliated with an unbending resolution to box the emperor’s wife into irrelevance. And for that, we might all be grateful.

  *

  THE play is exactly as Herod predicted: utterly forgettable. Rome’s artistry resides chiefly in her ability to organize, build, or destroy on a massive scale; her playwrights, when not stealing from the Greeks, are middling at best.

  Fortunately, just when I think I cannot sit through one more moment, the show is over. As soon as the performers take their bows, Agrippa makes a hasty exit. He has always been an active man who can never sit still for very long, but I think it is the pretense of accord with the emperor that his general cannot maintain—not even with his pregnant wife as a buffer between them. He considers himself a man on the verge of war, and because Agrippa is who he is, he cannot bear to be sitting beside his enemy.

  As we watch him shoulder his way out of the crowd, something strange happens. My husband and I glance at each other, and reach wordless agreement on what must be done. Juba must follow Agrippa. He must seek out the brooding general and playact the part of the aggrieved husband.

  At least, I hope it will only be playacting.

  Meanwhile, I must join the emperor in his religious rites. Juba’s trust in me is a new and fragile thing, and I don’t know how much weight can be safely stacked upon it. And yet, I’m emboldened by our silent conspiracy. To be, for once, in such perfect harmony with my husband is as welcome as it is unexpected.

  We both rise, splitting our retinue neatly in half as we go our separate ways. Falling in with the emperor’s entourage, I pull my palla over my head and I go out into the torchlit night where the priests of Rome burn a cloud of bitumen and sulfur to rid us of lice and mites. We purify ourselves by walking through the strong-smelling smoke. On the Aventine, acolytes at the Temple of Diana give out baskets of wheat and sacks of barley and beans to be offered to the gods. The emperor and the college of priests lead a grand processional to the river, where three different altars are illuminated against the black sky.

  The bleat of the sacrificial lambs can be heard as they’re lured to the places they will find their end, but my ears are filled with the sound of the Tiber River as it flows by.

  The emperor raises his hands and invokes the gods of the West. Jupiter and his wife, Juno. Apollo, and his ruthless twin sister, Diana the Huntress. He invokes Neptune, the god of the sea, and Minerva, the virgin goddess of wisdom. He invokes Venus, the goddess of love, and Mercury, the fleet-footed messenger. He calls Ceres, who brings the grain, and Vulcan, who pounds in his forge. Then Mars, who brings war, and Vesta, whose hearth the Vestal Virgins tend. He even calls upon Hercules, that demigod of so many labors from whom both Juba and I claim descent. Then he calls upon the Fates, and when he does, the emperor’s eyes seek me out and beckon me to his side.

  The Fates. I feel their shadow over us. How have our destinies become so closely entwined? Part of it is the emperor’s doing. Part of it is my doing. My quest for Egypt, my desperate desire to save what remained of my family and our legacy drove me to cleave to this complicated man, in whom so much wickedness and potential reside. But perhaps there are forces greater than either of us who have drawn our lives together in a single thread. And I am afraid to know what will happen if it unravels.

  So I go to his side, where I see the sacrificial knives laid out on a cloth of gold, glinting in the torchlight. The emperor means for me to hand him the knives with which he will sacrifice the lambs.

  The emperor shouts, “Now we call upon Pluto and the forces of the underworld. We call too upon his bride, Proserpina, whom the Greeks call Persephone or Kore, goddess of springtime!”

  In Greece, they called me the New Kore. She is the wife of the dead. She is also Isis. And in the crowds, I can see Isis worshippers nodding beneath their conical pileus hats of liberty—the same ones we wear for the Saturnalia—as if they believe he is acknowledging her by acknowledging me.

  But one should never play such tricks with the gods.

  I want no part of this. My throat swells closed. No. I will not do it. I am not shy of animal sacrifice. It is not the blood but the lie at the heart of this sacrifice that gives me pause. I cannot do it. I tell Augustus this with a barely perceptible shake of my head. He waits, but I make no move to help him. I will not hand him the knife. Finally, one of the priests of Rome does what I will not. The emperor makes short work of the first lamb, whose warm blood mists in the air before it collapses.

  A priest is near to collect the blood, which he drips on the altar to the gods of Rome. But there are still two more lambs. “We call upon the Fates to receive our sacrifice,” Augustus says, plunging another knife into a struggling lamb, forcing its head to crash to the stone, air puffing from its nostrils before it breathes its last.

  Hearing the death rattle of its comrades, the last lamb panics and pisses itself. The creature has soft, innocent eyes that remind me of my little brother, now in his tomb. This last lamb’s wool has magnificent curls like those my father wore in his hair. This last lamb will bleed on my feet like the Prince of Emesa did when he died.

  I think to call an end to this; to plead mercy for this last lamb, but I cannot. Instead, I step back. I step back from this. I step away before the emperor cuts the lamb’s throat. And I do not stay to see the lambs burnt. I flee to the Sellisternia, the sacred banquet in honor of the Great Mother Goddess, hosted by the matrons of Rome. Entering the hall, I am still shaken, though I try to disguise it. Blessings are said over the cheese and herbs. Small portions are set out for the great mother, but I eat little. The taste of parsley and coriander in the cheese is not strong enough to overcome the bile at the back of my throat. Underneath the drums and flutes that play for the revelers, I h
ear Roman women whispering with distaste about the wives and daughters of Asiatic kings who have dressed with insufficient humility.

  Their barbed remarks make me glad I chose my garments carefully. Fortunately, Princess Glaphyra of Cappadocia is so lovely that she’s spared their contempt even though she wears a headdress made of thinly pounded gold leaves that tinkle whenever she moves. She sits beside me, and urgently whispers, “I’ve met my bridegroom and he doesn’t want me!”

  “I’m sure you’re mistaken,” I say.

  “I’m not,” Glaphyra cries, wringing her hands. “Prince Alexander said his people won’t accept me. That I’ll taint his claim to the Judean throne. That any children we have won’t be seen to properly belong because they won’t have a Jewish mother.”

  “That can’t be true. King Herod cannot secure his shaky dynasty by making bad marriages for his sons. Especially not for the son who will follow him onto his throne.”

  Glaphyra worries at her bottom lip. “Alexander promises that he’ll treat me gently—that I’ll never have want for jewels or baubles—but says I’ll never be his queen. When it comes time to take his throne, he says he’ll set me aside for a more suitable woman.”

  Tears pool in the corners of her eyes and I can think of nothing to say to ease her mind. “Have you told your father this?”

  “Of course!” she whispers so vehemently that her entire golden head tinkles. “But Papa says that these are just the words of a resentful young man. That when I bear sons for Prince Alexander, he’ll feel differently.”

  If he doesn’t, he’ll have to contend with the wrath of the Cappadocian kingdom. Given that Judea cannot afford to make enemies, the objections of the young Herodian prince to his new bride will have to be overcome, but such calculations aren’t likely to soothe poor Glaphyra. “I’m sure your father is right. Feelings do change in time,” I say, reflecting hopefully on the fledgling understanding I have reached with my own husband. “Everything changes in time …”