Daughters of the Nile

by Stephanie Dray

  I burn to be compared to my predecessor, the emperor’s shameless mistress, Terentilla, but try hard to remember that this is no easier for my husband than it is for me. “Augustus will not put hands on me. I’ll receive him with refreshments and good cheer. I’ll listen to him complain about how the gods taunt him, how Fate denies him what he most desires, how he has sacrificed all for Rome. Then I’ll say whatever words are necessary.”

  “Whatever words are necessary,” the king repeats slowly.

  “If he comes tonight, it’s because he sees in me and the children a fantasy. He is nearing his fiftieth birthday and he wants to believe what every man wants to believe at the end of his life: that he leaves behind a son to carry on after him. But it is only a fantasy. No harm can come of it now. You have nothing to fear.”

  My husband’s fingers go to his temples, rubbing there as he contemplates what I’ve said. At last, he surrenders and rises to go. Before he does, he turns. “I am not afraid of the emperor’s fantasies, Selene. I am afraid of yours.”

  I do not tell him what I am afraid of. I am afraid the emperor will take one look at my son, who looks more like Juba now than he did as a babe, and know the truth. I am afraid the emperor will fly into such a rage that he tries to murder my family in their beds. Never will I let him do it—I would kill him first—but either way, I am afraid blood will be spilled.

  Memnon hears the rattle of the chain at the gate before I do and pokes his head round the corner to warn me. I put down my scroll and go out into the atrium, where the emperor is unfastening a decorative cuirass that weighs heavily on his shoulders. He lets it fall to my tile floor with a clatter, dropping a parade helmet there too. Almost four years have passed since I saw him last, and the years have not been kind to him. His hair is whiter. His skin is pallid and looser, his arms thinner than before. But those accursed eyes of his are just as penetrating as they have ever been.

  “Caesar,” I say, dipping low and humble in greeting.

  To my surprise, my humility does not seem to please him. “Is that how you greet your Pharaoh?”

  Pharaoh. How he needles me! My mother was Pharaoh. My brothers ought to have been. I do not care what the terrified priests of Egypt say, this man will never be the true Pharaoh of Egypt. Nevertheless, I bow. “All hail, God-King.”

  Augustus arches a brow. “If I did not know better, I would say you were mocking me. What new divine powers do I have now as Pharaoh, do you suppose?”

  “I could not guess, Caesar.”

  “Pharaoh.”

  He wants to make me say it. “I could not guess, Pharaoh.”

  “Can’t you?” he asks, coming closer. “I have power over the wind. I have power to commune with other gods. I have power over all the magic and spells you know, because I have power over you, my Cleopatra. Is it not said by the Egyptians that a man cannot become Pharaoh until he has wed Pharaoh’s daughter? I made you my bride during the Mysteries at Eleusis. And here you are, still mine.”

  He wants to set a tone for our reunion, I see. “You have come a long way. Won’t you join me for some refreshment?”

  Alas, the emperor has not returned from the provinces in the middle of the night for wine and olives and cheese. “Take me to see the boy,” he says, shivering against the night air.

  “My son is abed, asleep.”

  “All the better,” he replies. “Take me to him.”

  What if I don’t? If I refuse, maybe it will put an end to this farce. But maybe it will prolong it …

  My son does not even stir when we creep into his room. Ptolemy has decided he is too old to sleep with his Berber nursemaid but we keep a lamp by his bedside because he is still afraid of the dark. He sleeps with both little hands curled up beneath his dimpled chin and I gently stroke the dark curtain of infuriatingly straight hair from his brow.

  Augustus sighs, leaning over my son’s bed, staring at his face as he once stared at mine. Then all at once, he draws his fist against his lips. “By the gods! What have you done, woman?”

  My blood goes to water. When my son was still a babe in his cradle, the emperor was sure of his patrimony. But now? What does he see, looking at my precious boy? I see Juba in his features, but there, by his mouth and eyes, I see my older brother Caesarion too. I do not know which resemblance the emperor will latch onto, and I cannot speak.

  I am too afraid to speak.

  “My Cleopatra.” The emperor exhales, eyes bright and manic. “Look what you have wrought. Look at this fine little prince you have given me …”

  I say nothing, grinding my teeth against delusions that would be pathetically comedic were they not the key to our survival. Augustus cannot live forever, I tell myself. He will leave this empire behind for a younger man, or perhaps one in better health. Agrippa or his sons will rule Rome. When that happens, I will be left with only the protection of my magic. But for now, we are all at the emperor’s mercy.

  So I say nothing.

  The emperor’s eyes soften as they rest upon my son. “He has the blood of Alexander, the blood of Aeneas, and the name of a dynasty that goes back hundreds of years. No one will ever dismiss him as unworthy … and that will make him a better ruler, Selene. The things I have done that haunt me still are things I would never have done if I did not have to fight for my name …”

  I do not know if this is true or not, and there is an argument to be made that men who must fight for power learn better how to use it. But the emperor is lost in his own thoughts and he says, “You’ve made me want to do better, Selene. I want to rule more justly, so that when our boy grows to manhood, he may take pride in me as a father.”

  An unexpected tenderness at the sincerity of his words tries to steal into me. “What child of yours would not take pride in you?”

  It is too flip an answer. It wounds him. The emperor was vulnerable for a moment, but now he hardens again, demanding of me, “Should our son not have a bulla like a true Roman boy?”

  He speaks of the protective amulets worn round children’s necks. But if I were to give Ptolemy such an amulet, it would be an Egyptian one, such as my mother gave to me and my brothers before she died. I still wear mine, the jade frog at my throat. But I have another. The collar of gold worn by my little brother, Ptolemy Philadelphus. I should give it to my son, who is named in his honor. I can, even at this moment, imagine it glittering on his neck, a tribute to his true heritage.

  But then I remember one of the last things my little brother ever said to me. Give this to your daughter. You may be tempted to give it to the son you’ll bear, but it’s meant for her. “He does not need a bulla,” I say. “He is a child of Isis and she watches over him as do I.”

  “Good. Watch over this precious little prince you have given me, Selene. Or perhaps I gave him to you. It is gods who grant life. Goddesses and women are only the fertile earth in which seeds grow. They are the soft bed upon which men and gods find comfort. Goddesses and women nurture what gods and men allow to prosper. Is that not so?”

  My nostrils flare as I consider an answer. “I always nurture that which is given to me.”

  “Thank me, then, for the life of this boy.”

  Chilled to the bone by the implied threat, I swiftly say, “I am grateful.”

  “And your niece. Was the wedding to your liking?”

  I inhale sharply. “It was. Thank you. Again. We are so grateful.”

  “Now thank me for the girl,” he says. “Thank me for Isidora.”

  I stare at him, dumbly, fear and anger swirling together in a familiar storm.

  “I remember the night we made her, Selene. I think of it often and with pleasure. I remember how you fought me. How I had to hold you down. How you sobbed and cried out in pain when I breached your maidenhead. You made me conquer you. But in the taking, I gave you something very precious that night, did I not? Thank me.”

  I would sooner stab him. This sickness is what no one else understands about Augustus. He cannot hold regrets as other men
do for very long. He cannot allow himself to have been the villain. He wants so badly to be a giant that he makes himself into a small, small man. A line draws itself inside me and I cannot cross it. “I will never thank you for what you did to me that night.”

  “You wanted me to do it, Selene. You looked my way as you spoke your wedding vows. You seduced me with a painted face and loose hair and bare shoulders. You knew you were mine, and dared me to take you with every flutter of your eyelashes. You wanted me to do it. You wanted it to happen just the way it did. And have I not always given you everything you wanted eventually?”

  There is suddenly a swarm of hornets in my mouth eager to be unleashed. I can scarcely swallow over the sting. I didn’t want him to do it. I won’t take the blame for his crime. But the accusation humiliates me. He has taken nearly everything from me, but he would argue that he gave it all back. In some twisted way, it might even be true. What would he give me now? Egypt is no longer in his power to give. Not while Agrippa breathes. And at this moment I am so filled with revulsion, I do not think I would take the crown of Egypt from his hand even if it were freely offered. “Your generosity is a thing of legend, Caesar.”

  He smiles as if he finds my anger amusing. “Do your children not thrive on it?”

  “They do. So do Gaius and Lucius. I’ve seen your sons and know you must take great pride in them.”

  Now he scowls. “You are the one who said I must make peace with Agrippa and adopt those boys. I would never have done it—I would never have given away the inheritance of our little prince—if you did not goad me to it during the rites. Don’t you know how difficult it would be now to undo it all?”

  So that is what he wants. He wants to undo it. He wants to disinherit Julia’s boys, break with Agrippa, and abandon all those pledges he made to the gods at the Ludi Seculares. And he wants me to beg him to do it. That is why he came here this time, to provoke me. He has already written my part.

  “I am sorry,” I say, because I want no part in this.

  “You should be sorry. You convinced me I must surrender to Agrippa’s demands. In the moment your courage was tested, you faltered. But our son will not falter. What a hero, what a king, what a pharaoh and emperor he will be. He has the sweet face of a choirboy, but look at those tightly squeezed fists. When the time comes, he will grasp hold of his destiny and never let it go.”

  *

  WAR has broken out and no one seems to know it but me. Indeed, the Senate votes to dedicate an altar to peace and to sponsor a thanksgiving for the reunion of Augustus and Agrippa. After four years, they are again together in Rome. In public, they clasp hands as friends. They are seen to walk together in the company of the sons they share, Gaius, a little older than my boy, and Lucius, a little younger.

  Unlike the last time we were together in Rome, soldiers are not tight with tension, trying to guess how their loyalties will be tested. The people do not invent bright and cheery gossip to disguise their terror of civil war. They do not notice the artifice with which the emperor loudly proclaims Agrippa to be his dearest friend, closest colleague, trusted ally, and son-in-law.

  Even Agrippa does not seem to notice it.

  The admiral does not like my presence in the city, much less in his house. He scowls when he comes home to find me in his villa, visiting with his wife. Yet when we meet in passing, he forces himself to civility. He mentions favorably the quality of our Mauretanian grain tribute. He even compliments me on the poise of my niece, the new Queen of Pontus, who has been charming the social set in Rome.

  In spite of his age, Agrippa is still healthy and built like a bull, but I remember Julia’s letter about the pain in his feet and notice that he limps a little now. Dora sees it too, and as we are making our way out after a visit with Julia, she dares to address him directly. “Admiral Agrippa, you should drink an infusion of ground chicory root each morning and eat berries with your dinner.”

  He is caught unawares by her, staring at me with suspicion as if I have a raised up a little witch. “Some hemlock too while I am at it?”

  “Dora, go,” I say, pointing a finger. “Tala is waiting outside.”

  My daughter leaves, and Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa and I are left in his giant atrium with all the garish Egyptian artwork on its walls. “Be wary, admiral.”

  “When you are near, I’m always wary, Cleopatra Selene.”

  “Not of me.”

  He quirks a brow. “Who, then?”

  I cannot tell him outright that the emperor is considering breaking their alliance. It is too dangerous to tell him, but I say, “There are very few people in this world who can harm you, Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa. I am only warning you to be wary of the ones who can …”

  We stand there staring at each other until he rubs at the back of his neck. He knows what I mean—what I am warning him of. But I fear he does not believe me. “By union small things become great, by division the greatest fall to pieces. If you are here to sow trouble—”

  “I am not here to sow trouble. I am here because I am Julia’s friend.”

  His eyes soften at the mention of her, though he complains, “I suppose I have you to blame for her profligacy. She spends treasure faster than I can seize it.”

  “Even if she continued this way the rest of her life, she could not spend all your treasure. You have become a very great man. You have done exceedingly well for your family and honored your ancestors. I do not begrudge you.”

  He nods stiffly. “Then leave me to my own affairs and go on home with you and be the good matron Octavia taught you to be.”

  When I do go home, I find Iullus there, complaining to my husband about his rivalry with Tiberius. Livia’s eldest son has already served as Consul of Rome, but Iullus, as a praetor, is on his heels, always a step behind. Their political ambitions have pitted them against each other again and again. But my half brother has been denied the coveted military command that would make all the difference.

  “Tiberius has me worried that the birthday games will not be grand enough,” Iullus complains. “He intends to outdo me with a lavish affair to celebrate the emperor’s homecoming and success in Gaul.”

  “There will be honors enough for Augustus this summer,” Juba says.

  But I worry there can never be enough.

  Twenty-two

  WERE I to list the dizzying variety of parades, ceremonies, and official celebrations that we are obligated to attend in honor of the emperor, I would exhaust myself all over again. In their attempt to outdo each other, Iullus and Tiberius treat us to such an endless barrage of feasts, games, and entertainments that even the children begin to find them tedious.

  Then there is Drusus and all his pomp. Still as genial as he was when we grew up together on the Palatine Hill, Livia’s youngest son has, nonetheless, surprised us all by maturing into a military commander of the first order. Bold and energetic, with a keen mind for strategy, he’s earned honors for routing bandits from the Alps. He dresses the part of a hero from the short cut of his leather military skirt to the laces of his sandals, which have been dipped in gold. Given the way girls swoon when Drusus passes through the forum, I worry for my poor half sister, Minora, who must burn with jealousy as his wife.

  But it is said that Drusus does not stray from her bed. It seems that there is no fault that can be laid at his door, except for the persistent rumor that he would like to return Rome to her old Republican traditions when elected officials held true power.

  If it is true, I think he must be alone in wishing to revisit that sort of chaos.

  One morning on the way to yet another parade, Pythia frets, “Am I doing everything right? There are so many rules to follow as queen!”

  She seems content in her new marriage, and says nothing against her new husband whatsoever. Dora reassures me that Pythia is happy, so I resolve to be happy too. After all, there is nothing unusual about their marriage; it is only that the emperor has made me leery of what older men might do to a girl …


  On the emperor’s birthday, on my way into the circus, I am unexpectedly approached by an old rival: Lucius Cornelius Balbus. Given the enthusiasm with which the Roman greets me, bowing with a flourish in a way he never did when he served on our council in Mauretania, one might think we were long-lost friends. And after a few moments chatting with the bombastic soldier, I forget that we were anything but.

  It is strange how I can hold a perfect memory of every crime Livia or the emperor ever committed against me and mine, but time has worn away at lesser resentments. I cannot even recall now the cause of my quarrel with Balbus—something about gladiators, I think. Is it age or maturity that makes us forget such things?

  In any case, Balbus has come to Rome to dedicate a theater in his own name. Unwisely, I think. Years ago, Balbus made the near-fatal mistake of celebrating a Triumph to mark his victory over the Garamantes—something I doubt the emperor has forgiven. But Balbus longs to leave a legacy, and he surprises me by asking after the son of one of his freedwomen. “Iacentus, I named him, as I always suspected he was mine. He’s a good Roman-trained soldier. I hope he’ll have a fine future.”

  I know just the young man he’s speaking of—an ambitious soldier with piggy eyes that should have made me suspect the relation. Since I too am here to assure the future of my children, I am pleased to inform him, “King Juba speaks highly of his competence. I see no reason that Iacentus will not advance at our court.”

  Balbus is so puffed up with pleasure at my answer, and his own self-importance, that he invites me to join him in his procession to the imperial box, where he intends to approach the emperor. Of course I cannot accept, because Augustus has made it clear that women and men should not be seated together at occasions such as this one. Instead, I climb up to the rows reserved for the women of the imperial family and take my seat beside the emperor’s daughter.