Daughters of the Nile

by Stephanie Dray

  “I don’t like how he looks at her,” Juba whispers to me.

  “How else should he look at her?”

  “I don’t know,” Juba confesses. “But I don’t like it.”

  When the second course is served, the recently widowed King Archelaus of Cappadocia arrives. It pains me to see how our old friend has aged since last we saw him. Not even his ornate crown can disguise that he’s balding and has lost a few teeth. He is, I should think, the suitor a girl should least wish for. And yet Dora smiles brilliantly when he presents her with an oak chest carved with the symbol of a serpent wound tight round a branch.

  It’s the symbol of Asclepius. A reminder of her serpent. Not a poisonous cobra intent on murder, but a snake meant to teach us how to shed our old skin and learn to live in a new one. My daughter’s eyes light up and she cries with delight, “A medicine chest!”

  Then she throws open the lid and marvels over the contents of each little pouch of herbs she finds inside. King Archelaus listens patiently as she natters on about this rare plant from the East or that new poultice from India.

  From across the room, Crinagoras smirks, obviously guilty of having meddled in the matter. Having once told King Archelaus how to trick Herod, Crinagoras obviously advised him how to win the affection of my daughter too. By the gods, my poet is a wily old thing. I’m not entirely sure I approve.

  At any rate, Isidora spends the rest of the dinner with the old Cappadocian king. I want to urge her to pay more attention to the King of Emesa, who is at least still young enough to give her children. But we have already asked much of Dora. If she prefers a man old enough to be her grandfather, then that is whom she will have. Better Archelaus than Herod. That is what I keep repeating to myself.

  At the end of the evening, when we make our farewells, the King of Emesa’s words are tinged with sadness. “It was my father’s wish that our families be bound by blood and kinship, but I fear your daughter would rather be the Queen of Cappadocia.”

  I try to soften the blow. “Oh, don’t be hasty to draw conclusions. It is only that she has known Archelaus since she was a little girl … He is a familiar face and knows what sort of things capture her imagination.”

  “I should have thought to give her a box of dried weeds …” He laughs at himself, good-natured for a man who has been snubbed, and I decide that I like him even if Dora does not.

  Clasping his hands, I say, “I too would have our families bound by blood and kinship, for I have not forgotten your father’s friendship on the Isle of Samos, nor have I forgotten that a Prince of Emesa once gave his life for me. I have a son who will need a wife. Perhaps there is an Emesani princess who longs to see the beautiful mountains of Mauretania …”

  He grins and I see that he likes the idea. And I am grateful that we part friends. Meanwhile, all Rome waits for the emperor’s triumphant return, and Augustus sends word that my son is to command a troop of boys in the Trojan Games.

  I know these games to be quite dangerous, involving horse-mounted drills and mock-fighting. Boys have been known to break bones and I do not want my son to take part. I remind my husband that once, years ago, my twin was forced to rescue Livia’s son, Drusus, from being trampled in the melee. But my husband reassures me that Ptolemy is a better rider than even my twin brother was at that age and I know this to be true.

  Moreover, Ptolemy is overjoyed at the news.

  When it comes to horses, my son’s Berber blood serves him well. He doesn’t even use a saddlecloth atop Sirocco. He is accustomed to galloping in the plains of Africa and riding down antelope. But to command troops in the Trojan Games will require much discipline, and so Ptolemy goes to the stables every morning to practice while we await the emperor’s entrance into Rome.

  One evening, the king presents my daughter with a necklace—a sardonyx cameo with a perfect little portrait of our family. Juba carved on one side and me on the other with Ptolemy upon my lap. My daughter is plainly touched by this gift, clasping it to her breast and promising to wear it always so that she may think of us in faraway Cappadocia.

  “It’s to be Archelaus, then?” Juba asks.

  Dora nods. “I think he will be kind to me, Papa. He reminds me a bit of you.”

  Yes. I can see it now. No king in the empire can match Juba’s scholarly mind, but Archelaus of Cappadocia is intellectually curious and has a fatherly manner about him. I doubt that Dora will ever know love or passion with him, but he will allow her to be whatever she wishes to be … and there are worse fates for a princess.

  “If that is your choice, I’ll make the arrangements,” Juba says.

  “Yes,” Dora says bravely. “That is my choice.”

  I dread the moment we must let her become a bride, but Juba is in good humor, lifting himself onto one elbow and glancing about the dining room as if he cannot see our boy. “And where is Prince Ptolemy?”

  “Right here!” Ptolemy calls from where he is sitting on cushions.

  “Did you get taller since this morning?” Juba asks, feigning at surprise. “Why I scarcely recognize you. Oh, well, never mind, then, I suppose you are grown enough for these.”

  In a flash, Juba presents a quiver of golden arrows to Ptolemy.

  I protest immediately. “Those arrows aren’t blunted. They’re sharp at the points.”

  “Mother, these arrows aren’t for shooting,” my son tartly informs me with a roll of his eyes as if I have never before seen the Trojan Games. “They’re just to be slung over my shoulder while I take my troops through the maneuvers.”

  Tala cuffs him for impertinence, but he’s so proud, so tall, so earnest about the Games that I can only ruffle his hair before he goes off to bed. Ptolemy gets almost to the archway before rushing back to hug his father in thanks. He hugs me too, dimpling me a smile before pressing a quick kiss to my cheek.

  Then he runs off like a ruffian.

  Together, Juba and I laugh. We cannot help it. And when we are alone, the king reaches into a pouch at his hip. “Don’t think I forgot you, Selene. Where is it? Ah, yes, here is another cameo for your collection.”

  This cameo is also sardonyx, cleverly carved where a layer of whiter stone meets the bloodred color. On one side is a likeness of my daughter and on the other, a likeness of my son. Two portraits of my children. Like my jade frog, this is another kind of sacred amulet—one that I will wear with the first.

  I thank Juba over and over again, then let him fasten it upon my neck, saying, “Master Gnaios has become even better at these. I recognize his handiwork. You must have had this made long before we came to Rome.”

  Our fingertips brush as we straighten the chain, and the king murmurs, “Yes, and it wasn’t easy to keep it secret from you all these months.”

  Oh, how my heart hurts for the secret I keep from him. The time we have now is so precious, for when he realizes I will not return to Mauretania with him, he will think himself abandoned. He will never forgive me. Not even if, in his heart, he knows that I have no choice in the matter. But I hold a hope—surely a vain one—that he might still remember me a little fondly. That is all that I can ask for.

  “I have something for you too,” I say.

  His hands drift down the front of my gown and his lips whisper against my neck. “Oh?”

  “It is a silly thing,” I say, suddenly embarrassed. “Nothing as lovely as this cameo. Nothing grand or expensive … except for the box.”

  “With such an introduction, how can I resist? Show me.”

  I lead him to the study, where I pull back a curtain to present a strongbox with my Ptolemy Eagle laid in gold over a silver thunderbolt, much like the one that held my mother’s crown and scepter. This one holds nothing so grand, and when I open it, I explain its humble contents. “A veil, to remind you of our dancing in Volubilis. Whorled snail shells we collected on the beach near the cave of Hercules. A golden apple, for our time together in Lixus …”

  These and other trinkets I have collected in remembrance, b
ut now I worry he will find them to be strangely sentimental. Given the tilt of his head, I think he does. “What is this?” he asks, reaching inside. “A braid of hair?”

  “Yes. I cut mine and Isidora’s and Ptolemy’s and braided the hair together so that you might have it if you should ever need reminding of us …”

  He brings the braid of black and brown and golden hair to his nose, inhaling deeply of its scent before lifting his eyes to mine. “Selene, I shall keep this box of treasures and value it more than a chest of gold, but know that I never need reminding of you or the children. We’re here in Rome because Isidora is to marry and Ptolemy is to have his education. It is only a change for us, not a good-bye.”

  I kiss him so that he cannot see how much it pains me to know he is wrong …

  *

  IT is night when Augustus summons me.

  “I’ll go with you,” Tala says, hastily wrapping an indigo blue shawl over her dark hair. But I know she dreads to go out into the cold night, and her teeth already chatter with anticipation. “Nothing good happens at this hour, Majesty. Especially not here, in this city of schemers and cutthroats.”

  Nevertheless, I must go. And I must go alone. I tell myself that it is better that Augustus has summoned me upon his return to the city. It means that I do not have to wake the king. It means less of an affront to my husband’s royal dignity and mine. And it means that whatever happens will not happen in the house where my children sleep.

  So I fasten my new fur cloak on my shoulders, the weight of it giving more gravity to my steps. I look in on Isidora before I go, comforted to find her bundled beneath a woven blanket, her flaxen hair fanned out on her pillow. Ptolemy too is tucked safely into his bed, faithful Memnon outside his door.

  I do not visit the king’s chambers, however. If Juba were awake, I could not face him.

  Instead, I follow the emperor’s praetorians.

  I think they will escort me up the Palatine Hill to the emperor’s residence. Instead, they take me to the Campus Martius, the site of the new altar, lit by torches and the full moon. Passing into the enclosure, I encounter the square, squat Ara Pacis. The emperor’s monument is more modest than I would have guessed. The steps are not very many, nor very steep. It isn’t until I’m halfway up that I see the detail, the Greek key pattern that separates each panel, and above it, a story of Rome and a story of the emperor’s ambitions.

  To my right, a colorful frieze of pious Aeneas, the emperor’s hero, his head partially covered with his toga, pouring out a libation, always ready to sacrifice to the gods. With him, his son Julus, from whom the Julii claim to descend. To my left, a depiction of Romulus and Remus, twin princes, sons of Mars, thrown into the Tiber River to drown, then rescued by a she-wolf.

  To enter the Ara Pacis, one must pass between both these foundation stories, these reminders with which Augustus irrevocably ties himself to Rome’s greatest heroes.

  These are legends, but a man of flesh and blood waits inside. Augustus stands upon the raised podium before the altar table. He is alone. Solemn. Pensive. “Just the queen,” he says to his guards and they withdraw.

  Anxiously, I dip low in deference to him. “I bid you glad homecoming, Caesar.”

  He takes my hand as I alight the last few steps, and in spite of the chill, his skin is warm, his palm sweaty beneath mine. That is curious, for I have ever known the emperor to be a man who runs cold. “Ah, Cleopatra. I have been waiting a long time for this reunion.”

  “Only two years. Not long at all.”

  Augustus swallows, as if overcome. “Much longer than that, as I am about to show you.”

  He leads me into his monument, the thing of himself he expects to endure. The interior is open to the night sky and the moon glows down on a riot of color. Blue Corinthian capitals bend to fit inside each corner. The carved walls boast of green palmettes, yellow festoons, and red garlands. There are also ritual cups and platters, fruits and ribbons and bovine skulls. As I catalog the various patterns and symbols, the emperor watches every flick of my eyes, desperate for my reaction.

  I consider carefully before I give it. There is no heka here. Not yet. But I can well imagine that there will be. This will be a sacred place of gladness. Of thanksgiving. Of goodwill and gratitude for the Golden Age.

  All my life I’ve watched the emperor tear things down, and finally, he is proudest of what he is building. I am stung with jealousy … but also deeply moved. “It is lovely,” I admit. “It is beautiful beyond what I might have imagined …”

  He preens, running a reverent hand over the altar stone. “This is where the Vestals will make a yearly sacrifice for peace.”

  “To do it, they must turn their backs on the field of Mars,” I notice. “To make peace, they must turn their backs on war. Very clever.”

  He smiles like a man who knows a secret. “But the artistry, the true artistry, is on the outside. Come. Walk with me, Selene.”

  Back down the stairs we go, hand in hand, into the moonlit night. He leads me past Romulus and Remus to the north wall where a grand procession is carved in high relief. It features senators and other important personages carrying laurel branches. In the carving, two senators stop to talk to each other, so lifelike that I might almost stop and lean in to overhear. It’s a strange piece, as if the artist had frozen a real moment in time and reproduced it with all its flaws.

  Then I see Julia carved on that wall, and realize that the artist has captured a moment; this is the processional from years before, the happy thanksgiving celebration we shared to consecrate this ground. Oh, how I remember that day. Agrippa and Octavia were still with us then, and Julia was smiling, as she is in the carving, trailed by her children. Gaius, Lucius, and little Julilla, and baby Agrippina too. My heart warms at the portrait of Julia’s brood, then my throat tightens as I see my beloved Octavia, illuminated by moonlight.

  The emperor’s sister is brought to life here, where all the gods and all the generations might see her holding two laurel branches in her hand. Sweet Isis, how I have missed her. Would that I could reach out and touch Octavia’s cheek and find it warm. But if I were to reach out, the illusion would break apart like a reflection on the water. That’s what this monument is—a glimpse into the past, as if it were a River of Time flowing the other way.

  “Come,” Augustus says when I linger too long in loving memory. “There is more.”

  We turn the corner, where I see Roma wearing a battle helmet, sitting atop a pile of captured war trophies in victory. We have come to the street entrance where the people will see the monument in its splendor, and the emperor’s hand clutches mine so hard that I’m forced to look up into his eyes, which are smoky gray. He has always been ice, but tonight I see the spark of something in him. “Look, Selene. Up and to your left.”

  I do as he says.

  To my surprise, green eyes, just like mine, capture my gaze. I am looking at a face like my own, more feminine, more idealized, her hair wavy instead of curled in the Greek style. But the nose, straight and long like mine. Her expression intense, like mine. The breasts, round and full like mine. Perhaps my eyes play tricks on me, perhaps I’m a vain woman to see my own features, but then I see the winds …

  … and my heart begins to pound.

  This is no simple portrait of me, the Queen of Mauretania, on his monument. This is something else. Something grander. Something unimaginable. It is an earth mother, two babes in her arms, one of them offering a pomegranate. A goddess flanked by the aurae, nymphs of the breezes, one atop a swan and the other on the back of some manner of serpent. The aurae attend her. They are in her power. Just as my winds obey me.

  He has made me into a goddess in the heart of Rome.

  My hand trembles in his; the other covers my mouth to hold back a sob of awe. Staring, dumbfounded, I soak in every detail. With only stones as her throne, this goddess dwarfs a bull and a lamb at her feet. Fruit spills from her lap. Grapes and acorns. Tall grasses and reeds recall Egypt to
mind. And there, by an overturned urn, is a heron. A heron. Sacred in Heliopolis, a city named for the sun, like my twin …

  I cannot move. I cannot breathe. I cannot tear my eyes away. The trembling moves up my hand into my arm until it overcomes me and I shiver from head to toe. Cold bites at my nose, at my cheeks, at the tips of my ears, but it all fades to numbness.

  “Who is this goddess?” I murmur.

  “Does it matter? She is Tellus, the very earth itself. She is Venus, my ancestress. She is Pax, the peace we have wrought. She is Isis. She is you.”

  I shake my head, unwilling to believe that he’s done something so reverent and momentous and marvelous for me. I am shocked. I am wonderstruck. I am overcome with sentimentality. With this monument, he has finally touched me where his hands could never reach …

  Myriad emotions wrestle free of my heart, causing tears to spill over my lashes. Tears of joy. Tears of awe. Tears of fear. “Why have you done this?”

  “It’s no golden statue in my family temple,” the emperor replies, his throat bobbing, evidence that he too feels deeply. “But it is no less a statement of who you are to me. The fertile earth, the mother of my children, the goddess who has guided me to this Golden Age.”

  This monument has been years in the making. Longer than just the two it took to build it. Years he has planned this gesture. It is part of his grand delusion, so it ought not pull at my heart like it does. I don’t want to be touched by it, but I am, oh, I am. Stupefied, I let him tilt my chin and in an instant we’re back on the Isle of Samos, and he’s offering me the world. “I do honor you, Selene. Can you see that now?”

  “Yes,” I whisper, enthralled by its beauty. “Yes, I do see it, Caesar.”

  “And we are bound, do you see that too? We have always been bound.”

  First by tragedy and treachery and violation. But now this monument, this Ara Pacis, will bind us together in a new way as long as it stands.

  He has bound us together with peace, forever.