Daughters of the Nile

by Stephanie Dray

  “I never asked for this duty.”

  I should have her on her knees begging forgiveness for such ingratitude, but because she’s my daughter, I calm myself. “Nonetheless, the emperor commands that you be married. There is nothing we can do to change that.”

  “Then curse the emperor!”

  Catching her by the elbow, I hiss. “You must never let anyone hear you say such a thing.”

  “Why? Will he take your crown? That’s all you care about. Only your kingdom and your crown. Not me or my happiness. I know what my duty is, and I’ll do it, but you don’t even care how much it hurts me!”

  To hear such words from her. If she had slapped me, it would not sting as much. I want to grab her and shake her, but I have never laid hands on her in anger before. “How wrong you are.”

  “I love Tacfarinas and it doesn’t matter to you at all.”

  “Of course it doesn’t. You are a Ptolemaic princess and he is a common tribesman. But for my interference, he would be a slave. Don’t make me regret saving him from dying in a cage like the dogs he bedded with.”

  “So now he’s a dog,” she says, skewering me with contempt-filled eyes.

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “It’s what you meant and I hate you for it!”

  The word hate knifes into me. I am smote to the heart. Still, even in my agony, some small part of me is gratified by her show of temper. Never did I want her to be a vicious and vengeful girl, but I take some small pride in the fact that she should stand up for herself … even against me. “You may hate me,” I say, a tremor in my voice, “but I love you more than any crown. More than any private passion or ambition. I have sacrificed for you more than you will ever know.”

  “I don’t want to know. I don’t care. The emperor may send me away, but I’ll never … I’ll never …” Whatever she was going to say is drowned by tearful sobs. And when I try to wrap my arms around her, she wrenches away.

  *

  FEELING miserably sorry for myself, I sulk in my gardens, hiding in a sea of lavender. Unfortunately, my freedwoman knows exactly where to find me. “Good news, Majesty. Captain Kabyle has found islands off the west coast that were used by the Carthaginians to make dye. They’re still equipped with vats. They’re even called the Purple Isles. We’ll reopen them immediately.”

  This is good news, for we have already opened five new dye factories and we are already in need of more. Still, I cannot even smile.

  “It’s what we hoped for, Majesty. We can now afford to double the workforce on your Iseum. The walls of the inner sanctum are up. Amphio has recruited some of the finest sculptors … Why aren’t you pleased?”

  Because I was a fool for thinking the Iseum would be complete before I left Mauretania. Amphio warned me he’d need ten years—did I think he could complete it in two? I would have liked to see it finished before the emperor took me captive again, but perhaps that is only a vanity on my part. In the end, it is Isis who must look upon this temple with pleasure … not me.

  Chryssa stoops in front of my bench to look me in the eye. “Has someone died?”

  Thinking to explain my devastation, I tell her about Isidora.

  She doesn’t seem to understand. “Oh, I’m certain the princess means nothing by it. It’s what children say to their mothers. Surely you remember what it was to be a girl her age.”

  “When I was a girl her age, I didn’t have a mother to hate.” Then I blush with shame. That is not true, is it? I did have a mother and I did hate her, for a time. For too long a time, I blamed my mother for dying. For leaving us. For risking our lives for what murky visions she saw in the Rivers of Time. Then there was Octavia. How I resented her. How I fought against her every kindness. I blamed Isis too. For her remote mystery. For not saving us from the emperor …

  Blinking my eyes against the sun, I whisper, “I never wanted Dora to know a moment’s suffering. I didn’t want her to grow up carrying the burdens I carried.”

  “Then why are you shocked that your daughter behaves as she does? She wasn’t a queen before the age of nine. She was no one’s prisoner. She’s never been dragged in chains behind a conqueror’s chariot. She’s never feared for her life. Frankly, she’s never stumbled over an obstacle that couldn’t be removed by her parents. You’ve never before denied her anything she wanted.”

  My freedwoman must mean to comfort me, but her words plunge me into despair. She is saying we have spoiled Dora. Maybe she is right. Perhaps I have failed my daughter—and now, because of it, I will lose her. She will hate me forever. She will think I betrayed her …

  What if I have? It’s true that I’ve never before denied her anything that she wanted. Why should I have, when she has never wanted anything that revealed an inner cruelty? I taught her not to accept the world as it is, but to endeavor to make it better, so is there really anything so very odd about her objection to being sent away to be the bride of a stranger just because that’s how it’s done?

  I should fight harder for her. Demeter fought for her daughter when she was taken away. Surely there is some plot, some scheme I can fashion for my daughter’s sake.

  When one comes to me, I go searching for Juba. I find him reviewing new scrolls he has acquired for our library. Shooing away the scribes, I say, “You helped Lucius Cornelius Balbus retire to an estate just across the strait, in Spain. He’s not royal, but he is wealthy and in need of a wife. Balbus could return to Mauretania to marry Dora. They could both live here. As a wedding gift, we could return all the lands I bought from him. Even the House of Olives.”

  Juba rolls the scroll up and slides it into the appropriate hole in the rack. “A Roman for Isidora? Now I know you are desperate. But it cannot work. Augustus has never forgiven Balbus for celebrating a Triumph, and I would not agree to the match because that is too much temptation for a man like Balbus. Do you want your son to be the next King of Mauretania, or do you want to trust that Balbus isn’t ambitious enough to use his marriage to wrest the throne away from us?”

  He makes a good point. “I cannot believe I’m suggesting it … but can we consider Tacfarinas? Perhaps we can cast the match as part of the policy of harmonia, a marriage to bring our peoples together.”

  Juba is only momentarily stunned. “Such a marriage would fly in the face of the emperor’s policy against marriage between persons of different social ranks. That is to say nothing of how we’d be laughed at in every corner of the civilized world.”

  A long, frustrated sigh escapes me. “I do not disagree. I just needed to hear you say it …”

  Juba gives a rueful shake of his head. “The boy is not landed nor the son of a tribal chieftain. He is not even Mauretanian. Our subjects might go into bloody revolt out of jealousy that we should raise up one Berber tribe over the other. And if our legions could not crush that rebellion, our kingdom could very well become a Roman province. It could be the end of everything, and you know it. Perhaps it’s time Isidora knew it too …”

  Thirty-three

  IOL-CAESARIA, THE KINGDOM OF MAURETANIA

  SUMMER 10 B.C.

  JUBA takes my daughter on a small sailing ship to view the harbor that day. I do not know what argument he makes. I only know that when they return, Isidora is subdued. She is no longer openly insolent, only cool and distant. She withdraws into her books, into her sketches and her pouches of powders.

  Seeking out the king in the confines of his study, where he is testing his broken water clock against a candle that has been marked off by the hours, I ask, “What did you say to her? Did you threaten her?”

  The king’s eye twitches in annoyance. “Do you take me for Herod?”

  No, he is not Herod, I remind myself. He is not Augustus either, but he has never before faced the challenge of a rebellious daughter. “She took what you had to say to heart?”

  “I explained to her that as a father, there is nothing I would not do to indulge her. But that as a king I must do what is best for all the people wh
o live in our kingdom. All the Romans, the Greeks, the Egyptians, and the Berbers too. Boys just like Tacfarinas. I reminded her that both her parents were orphaned by rash decisions that led to war. Then I asked if she would be the cause of other people’s suffering …”

  Even explained so reasonably, it is still a momentous responsibility. “Poor Isidora.”

  The king snuffs out the candlewick and smears the soot between his thumb and forefinger. “Save your pity for me. I had to demand her obedience as if she were a subject at the foot of my throne. Then I promised that if she would take up this duty, we would abide by her choice amongst the men the emperor will approve for her.”

  “How did she answer?” I ask, coming to his side.

  “She said she will consider her answer.”

  My eyes narrow in suspicion, wishing that I had been the one to reason with her. “As quietly as that? She does not say that she hates you?”

  My husband smiles softly, cupping my chin with compassion, no doubt smearing me with soot from the candle he snuffed out. “I am not her mother, Selene. She doesn’t have to cleave from me to understand herself. You must not take it so hard.”

  *

  IN the autumn, Captain Kabyle returns to Iol-Caesaria with new maps and big hunting dogs from islands he discovered off the coast. The muscular hounds have massive square heads and short, coarse coats. Juba is so impressed with these canines that he decides to name the islands after them.

  The Canary Islands, they will be called.

  Strangely, my daughter shows no interest in the dogs. With a distant stare she has perfected in recent months, she announces that she prefers her snake. So the finest specimen of the island breed, a bitch of silver fawn coloring, is given to my son. Ptolemy throws his arms around the neck of the hound and names her Luna. “It’s because she’s silver and beautiful, like the moon and my mother.”

  I am neither silver nor especially beautiful, but such courtly manners in my son charm me. The dog, however, does not. She guards my son aggressively, growling even at his friends. One afternoon, the boys dress for a hunting trip in tunics with striped sleeves. They carry with them traps for birds and Ptolemy whistles for the hound to join him. They are gone only a few hours before they return, half carrying Tala’s son, whose leg has been bitten.

  “Luna caught a hare!” Ptolemy cries. “But when Mazippa reached for it, she attacked him.”

  The other boys taunt Tala’s son for the dog bite, saying he cannot be a fierce Berber warrior if he cannot defend himself against a hound. The matter is only made worse when Dora calls him by his childhood name. “It’s not Ziri,” he snarls, in obvious pain. “It’s Mazippa, Princess.”

  I’m less concerned by his wounded pride than by the scandalized gasps that fill our hall when our princess apologizes to him, then kneels to wash out his wound. When she was a girl, her behavior was tolerated, but now she is on the cusp of marriage and the court has expectations of her. Expectations, of course, that she cares nothing about. If she did, she would not be wearing such a plain gown with her hair styled as carelessly as a scholar’s.

  I would scold her, but I do not relish another quarrel with my willful daughter. Juba is less hesitant. “Get up off your knees and send for Tacfarinas to take the dog to the stables! The bitch is covered in nettles and needs to be better trained to life at court.”

  My daughter stands up, her nostrils flaring. “Tacfarinas is gone. This morning I told him that the emperor desires that I should marry. That my father the king and my mother the queen command it. And that I intend to do my duty.” Her chin bobs in pride on the last word, even though her lower lip trembles.

  I reach for her hand but she stands on her own, tall and strong.

  “Tacfarinas is gone?” Juba asks, with obvious surprise. “Without leave?”

  My daughter swallows hard. “He didn’t think he’d be missed.”

  That is the end of it. Or so I hope. But my daughter comes to me that night in her nightclothes and slips under the covers. She clutches me round the waist, breaking into sobs. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said such things. I love you. I don’t hate you. I don’t hate anyone. I don’t know what to say to make it better.”

  I stroke her silky hair. “Oh, sweet girl. Words do not matter now.” All that we need to say can be said in the brush of my lips against her tear-soaked lashes and in the clutch of her arms. She clings to me, crying through the night, sniffling quietly, trying to stifle her sobs when she thinks I have fallen asleep. But by morning, she is dry-eyed.

  “You did well to give him up,” I tell her. “Rulers know great wealth and power. We build cities. We shape kingdoms. We change the lives of our subjects and their children. We write history with our own blood, sweat, and tears. Sacrifices must be made for such a privilege. We must give up certain things to achieve the rest.”

  “Like you gave up the man with the golden hair?”

  In dull shock at her words, I smooth the bed linens over my knees, noticing every wrinkle. How long has my daughter been holding this question in the secret chambers of her heart? She cannot have remembered Helios there, on the Isle of Samos, where he said she looked into his eyes. She was too young. How could she know him? But then, my daughter does not see with her eyes the way normal people do …

  In the end, it doesn’t matter whether she saw Helios alive as I have comforted myself to think I have seen him. Or if she has only seen another River of Time where we lived together as husband and wife. It only matters that my daughter is asking me, one woman to another, the most important question she might ever ask. She may hate me for my answer. It might be kinder, wiser, to lie to her. I could deceive her—yes, even her, with that penetrating otherworldly gaze. But I must trust her. I must trust that, like Pythia, I have shaped her into a woman who can hear the truth. “Yes,” I say, with a simple lift of my chin. “Just like I gave up the man with the golden hair.”

  It wounds me to say that. There is such finality to it that I shudder.

  “Did you love him?” she asks.

  The question cuts me even deeper. “With all my heart. With all my heart and soul.”

  Fingering the collar of gold amulet at her throat, she gives a mournful sigh, then glances up at me again. “Still, you gave him up so you could marry Papa and be queen?”

  “No. I gave him up so that you could be queen.”

  She blanches and asks no more questions.

  I allow the servants to dress me, then I go with my daughter to the library, where she asks to see maps she has never shown any interest in before. She wants to know her choices—where she might marry according to the emperor’s wishes and to what benefit for our family. Listening to her pose questions to the king, I am so filled with pride that I must brush tears from the corners of my eyes; for I have lost my child, but I have my daughter still.

  *

  “LET us delay our trip to Rome a few more weeks,” I plead with Juba, refastening his ivory fibula pin so that his royal cloak will fall better. “We need more time to settle our affairs.”

  He catches my hands and holds them against his chest. “It’s almost November, Selene. If we don’t leave now, we risk sailing in winter storms.”

  “I swallow storms. The last thing I’m afraid of is a storm.”

  “You are only afraid of Rome, I know,” he says, bringing my fingers to his lips. “But the rest of us are afraid of storms and shipwreck, so you must indulge us. Besides, we gave the emperor our promise. The Ara Pacis is complete and if we are not there in time for the dedication this winter …”

  It’s a bitter reminder. The emperor finished his grand altar to peace in two years, but Amphio hasn’t finished my Iseum. I’m afraid of what I might say or do to my temple builder should we cross paths, so I do not go to the site to inspect it. Instead, I take Isidora to my lighthouse and we climb all the way to the top so that we may look down upon the kingdom we may never see again.

  Here, with the wind howling and sky bright over
head, I wonder if I have ever done anything worthy. The emperor says he found Rome a city of brick and turned it into marble. Well, I have done the same in Iol-Caesaria. I have made this city a reflection of everything that has made me. Will I be remembered for it? Will I be remembered at all?

  There is not a schoolchild in the empire who has not heard tales of my mother and my father. They made war. I have tried to make peace. They made wild gambles. I have taken plodding steps. They clothed themselves in legend. I have played my part in someone else’s glory.

  They told the world that they were gods.

  I have merely tried to honor mine.

  And now I must return to Rome, to the emperor, with everything unfinished. I am so very miserable at the thought I could sob. Why haven’t I thought of a way to keep the emperor from destroying our life here? Wasn’t I smarter than this, once? Has motherhood made me irrational and featherbrained, or am I just tired of fighting?

  Glancing at my daughter, I know she struggles with her own disappointments. But she has gotten ahold of herself and I must do the same. Fine, then. Maybe it is all unfinished. Isn’t it for everyone, in the end? Not even Alexander accomplished everything he set out to do before he died, and I am not dead yet, though being at the emperor’s side will make me wish I were.

  I must bear up under this and find a way to turn it all to my advantage as I have always done. Just as my daughter is now learning to do. With a stiffened spine, I take Isidora’s hand and we return for what I hope will be a peaceful evening.

  Instead, we find my palace in chaos. It seems as if every courtier in the city is crowded in the throne room, where there is also a horse standing on my marble floors. Yes, a horse. A hobbled mare, burrs in her coat, ribs protruding at each side.

  Chryssa is there too, and my freedwoman tries to warn me away from the unusual scene with a frantic motion of her hand. Soon I see why. With the mangy horse is the boy. That wretched boy, wilder than when we first found him, teeth bared in a snarl at his Roman captors.