The soul of my dead son is now in my keeping and I can think of little else. I cannot even grieve properly for Tala, my friend who served me so long and so well. Nor can I properly grieve for Memnon, my brave champion. I am too lost, adrift, and broken.
My sisters pray with me, invoking my forbidden goddess, but my prayers to Isis are bitter. My heart is hard. I want the darkest magic to fill my being and I am bewildered that Isis should allow the days to grow warmer when my son is so cold. How can flowers blossom when my world is so gray?
I am resentful on the day Minora comes to my house carrying baskets of pink posies and red roses for my rooms, because she believes their brightness will cheer me. But she cannot know that the scent of roses will always remind me of the birth of my son, and the way I awakened to see him the first time, with that perfume in my nostrils.
She is not alone. Her children are in tow, and her husband, Drusus, is with her too. Ptolemy’s dog springs up at the sight of the tall military general, growling with such ferocity that I want to command my guards to throw Drusus out and slam the gates shut. Instead, I tell a servant to take the dog, then rise from my couch to face the newest Consul of Rome.
Filled with suspicion, I am brought up short by what Drusus holds in an outstretched hand.
“I don’t think you’ll remember,” Drusus says, offering a boy’s golden torque to me. “But I wore this many years ago when I rode in the Trojan Games. Your twin saved my life that day. I’ve always kept this torque as a lucky token and a remembrance of Helios. Now I give it to you to bury with your son because he should have lived to earn one of his own.”
I’m moved by the sincerity with which Drusus says these words, his voice choked with emotion. For years, no one in the imperial family has dared to mention my twin by name. Now Drusus dares. And with these words, he reminds me that he is not only Livia’s son, but my brother in marriage, and a boy I knew well. That doesn’t mean he is innocent, but if he is guilty, he is the most audacious fiend ever born …
“Take it, Selene,” Minora says, her eyes shining with love and admiration for her husband’s tender gesture. In the crook of her arm, she cradles little Claudius, their youngest. When I look at them together, a family in the truest sense of the word, I wonder how it is I can suspect Drusus of treachery. He is beloved by everyone. By his wife. By the Romans. By the Gallic tribes he ruled as governor. He is even loved by some of the Germans whose country he has ravaged. He is a hard soldier, battle-tested, and he is a canny politician; there burns in him a bright ambition, paired with exquisite charm. I must ask myself, is he the best of the Claudians or is he their cleverest villain yet?
I don’t know. I can’t know. So I take the gift and thank him gladly for it. I bid him fond farewell, for he is shortly to leave again on campaign in Germania. I embrace him, kissing both cheeks with all the affection I have conceived for him over the years. Then, when Drusus is gone, I take the token he has given me, and using a silk cloth, I rub the oils of his fingertips from the gold. At the small altar in my home, I offer this cloth to the fire, drawing the heka from my blood where it boils blackest.
And I intone a dark curse upon him.
I do not care what the curse claws out of me, for I am already hollow. And so I speak a spell that any evil he has done to me or mine be revisited upon him. If he stands innocent, let Drusus find glory and happiness in this world, but if he has stolen my son from me, by the power of Isis, let him meet with painful justice.
*
ONE gray afternoon Julia finds me sifting through the ashes in the burned-out stables, searching for Memnon’s missing sword. I wave her away, telling her that her feet will get dirtied with soot and her fine stola may snag and tear on broken timber.
“This stable should be knocked down,” she insists, flinging herself onto the makeshift seat of a broken beam. “Juba should order it.”
But Juba is not giving orders. My husband is like a shade in the house. I sense his presence, but he is never there when I look for him. He doesn’t leave his chambers unless he is sure not to see me. So I make excuses. “He is occupied with other matters.”
“What other matters? He must have told you that my father has commanded him to return to Mauretania …”
My husband has not told me, but I am not surprised. “So we are banished?” I ask, seeing a glint of metal and stooping to find only the remains of an ornamented bridle.
Julia’s lips tighten. “Not you, certainly. Only Juba. And not officially. It’s only that my father commands your husband to set sail before the Lemuria.”
This is more bad news, compounded by ominous meaning, since the Lemuria is a springtime festival in remembrance of the dead. “How did you learn this, Julia?”
“I told you before, I have my own partisans. I have spies amongst my father’s secretaries and messengers. For the sake of my sons, I make it my business to know what Caesar does … That is how I know that my father’s chief praetorian is badly burned, though I do not know how it happened. I know King Juba has fallen from favor but I don’t know how that came about either. But, as always, you do …”
“Juba quarreled with Augustus,” I say, using my fingers to wipe clean the heat-warped metal bit with a sharp edge.
Julia’s gaze is just as sharp. “I suppose we both know that quarrel has been a long time in coming.”
She is never quite what she pretends to be. She is not merely the flighty girl in need of censure and a strong hand. She is not merely a shallow hedonist who basks in the good fortune to have been born the daughter of Caesar. She has always hidden a keen mind and a depth of spirit. She is not blind to her father’s madness. Did she guess that his love for my son was at the expense of her sons?
My hand clenches hard on the warped metal as the horrifying realization washes over me. There is no one who would have more cause than Julia to kill my Ptolemy. The idea leaves me gasping for breath, my heart galloping in my chest. Could it be possible that I see treachery when I look into the eyes of my first, and best, friend? My bloodless lips begin to stutter what I do not even want to contemplate. “Did you—have you some involvement—do you know something about Ptolemy’s death?”
She tilts her head. “Oh, Selene. You can’t think—”
“Sweet Isis, swear it was not you!”
If Julia were guilty, I couldn’t bear it. I would rather be dead than live with the knowledge of such betrayal. But I would kill her first. I would kill her where she stands. I would kill them all …
I feel the pain in my hands and think it is my goddess again carving into my flesh. When I look down, I see that I am bleeding, but only because I have cut myself on the warped metal.
Julia sees it too, and her eyes fill with worry.
“Watch and listen,” she says softly, taking the metal from me and making a swift slash across her palm, opening a wound. At the sight of her red blood mixing with mine on the metal edge, I start to shout my protest, but she hushes me. “Pay attention now. I am showing you that when you are hurt, I am hurt. I am showing you that I could never wound you without wounding myself. Could you ever bring yourself to harm my sons?”
I am, in this moment, a danger to all of Rome. There is in me a fiery avenging spirit that desires nothing more than murder. If need be, I would slaughter Livia and her sons. I would slay the emperor and his minions. I would bring to the world not a Golden Age, but a world of carnelian blood that turns the Tiber red. There is something, someone, in me that would destroy anything that remains of the emperor’s legacy. Does that include his grandsons?
No. I am not a murderer of children. That is the only virtue I still cling to. I exhale, relieved to speak the truth. “Never, Julia. I would never harm your children.”
She nods. “It is the same for me and you must know that. You are the only person in my entire life who has been true to me. I swear to you by my blood, by Isis, Juno, and every other god and goddess I know. I did not hurt your son. Nor would I stand by and let someone hurt hi
m. You know my heart, Selene. You know me.”
She laces her bloody fingers with mine and I wince in pain at her touch. But she’s right. I do know her. I know her heart, for it is constant, no matter what she might say. Julia is no murderer of children. She is no monster. I am the monster. Grief has made me hate the whole world and suspect even those I hold most dear. I begin to tremble. “I’m so sorry. I am going mad. I am going mad!”
Julia pulls me into a forgiving embrace, stroking my back to soothe me. “It only feels that way. Take solace that this is the worst you will ever feel. When my baby died, I told myself that nothing could ever hurt more. That if I could stand this, I could stand anything …”
“That is you,” I whisper. “Not me. I can’t do this. I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. For your daughter, you will. What other choice do you have?”
No other choice at all …
Julia’s forgiveness calms me. Her strength keeps me standing. Her hand keeps mine steady. And when the moment has passed and I can stand on my own, she asks, “What will you do about Juba?”
“I will go with him,” I say, for in that, there is also no other choice.
Julia nods, knowing this is farewell. There is nothing more we need say, and we clasp our hands even tighter, quietly bleeding into each other as we have done in one way or another from the very start.
*
ON the day of the Floralia, prostitutes dance in the streets of Rome, drinking and celebrating. I do not celebrate the rebirth of the world, but I acknowledge it. The world is changed. For me, everything is changed. Rome will always be the place my son died and now that the embalmers have finished their work, I cannot wait to leave. But there is one thing I must do before I go.
I make a visit to the emperor.
My last visit, I vow.
This will be the last time I make my way up the Palatine Hill. The last time I stand at these gates. The last time I inhale this distinct scent of bay as it floats down from the laurel trees on either side of the entryway. The last time I will climb the stairs of the emperor’s house and enter his private sanctuary …
But at the foot of the staircase, the emperor’s wife blocks my way. Beneath her severely conservative hairstyle, her eyes narrow. “Augustus will not grant you an audience. After what you and your husband did, how dare you even show your face here?”
Just the sight of Livia gives rise to a primal hunger for vengeance. I do not know if she stands guilty of my son’s death, but my fingertips grow warm with the desire to burn her to ash and then call down my winds and scour the earth of her. I am holding myself back from such violence only by the thinnest of threads.
Perhaps she knows it, because she takes a breath and stiffens her spine. She is afraid of me and she should be. Restraining the surge of fury in my blood, I tilt my head. “You stand before me while my son lies cold and dead, and you ask how I dare? You are braver than I ever gave you credit for …”
“I did nothing to that boy,” she vehemently declares.
She has never been eager to exonerate herself before, no matter what I have accused her of, so perhaps she is telling the truth. I do not trust myself to judge. I do not trust myself, but there are other darker powers that I now put my faith in. All at once, I lunge at her, snagging my fingers in the knot of hair above her brow.
“What are you doing?” she shrieks, trying to pull free of me. But she is an old woman now and I have the strength of a mother lioness. I yank hard on her head, driving her to her knees, tearing her gray hair out by the roots. Then I hold a fistful of it in her face, knowing I will make a curse of it. “What am I doing? I’m making you a vow, you cold, grasping bitch! If my son died for your ambitions, you will suffer. You will suffer what I have suffered. You will lose your sons too, one way or another. And you will die, unloved and alone. You will rot like carrion left for vultures, stinking of all your vile deeds.”
She gasps, clutching at her scalp, her eyes bulging. “I did nothing to your son …”
I tuck her hair into a pouch on my belt, then leave Livia there, stepping over her to march up the stairs.
“I did nothing to him!” she cries after me.
Fortunately, the praetorians do not stop me. They do not even look me in the eye. The emperor should have left orders to refuse me entry, but his vanity prevents him from guarding himself from me. He will not kill me and he will not defend himself from me because to do either of those things is to end it all.
He will not end it. But I will.
Stepping into his private study, his so-called Syracuse, I brace myself for the mocking golden eyes of the statue, Fortuna. Instead, I find that Augustus has turned that fickle goddess to the wall and draped her in black. The emperor is also draped in dark cloth that hangs on his wiry frame in a way that makes him look old and tired. He hasn’t shaved yet today and I see how white his whiskers have become. They emphasize puffy jowls that give away his age. He was never truly the vigorous young soldier he is depicted as in his statues, but he never seemed so old as he does now.
Perhaps he does not hear Livia below us, still shrieking her innocence. Instead, he stares out the window, overlooking the garden where my son once played with the children of his household. I can imagine the laughter of the boys. I can imagine glancing into the yard and seeing my son playing with them. That is why we brought him to Rome, after all.
The emperor must be thinking the same. “Ptolemy will be borne by the greatest men in Rome for his funeral,” he murmurs. “I will carry his bier. Tiberius, Drusus, and Iullus have all agreed to take part in the procession.”
“Oh, have they?” My son was the Prince of Mauretania. He should have been Pharaoh of Egypt. He might have even been the next Emperor of Rome. He died too soon for us to know how brightly his star could burn. I would give him a grand funeral. I would have him carried in an elaborate coach, so laden down with jewels that it must be pulled by a hundred white mules. I would see mourners by the thousands at the sides of the road. But I will do none of these things because I will not give my enemies anything more of my son.
Certainly I will not have my son carried through the streets of Rome where Livia may silently gloat over his death. “There will be no procession,” I declare.
“There must be a procession,” the emperor insists. “If the people are to accept that a foreign prince will be buried in my mausoleum, they must see the imperial family honor him in the streets.”
He wishes to have my son beside him for all eternity? Augustus banishes Juba, but wants my boy in his tomb. I should be angrier at this revelation, for the emperor’s love for Ptolemy is narcissism. It is vainglorious folly. What he mourns most is the loss of his own legacy, his own glory. But he does mourn. The human part of me that survives my sorrow recognizes his suffering. And insofar as Augustus loved my son, it is no longer in me to be cruel to him.
It is no longer in me to be anything to him.
“Ptolemy is not Roman,” I say. “I will do for him what was done for Alexander. I will wrap him in sheets of gold pounded so thin that we will see his face through the covering. I will put amulets in his hands and over his heart and tokens of remembrance in his sarcophagus to take with him into the afterworld. I will fill his tomb with wax shabti figures, to go ahead of him and herald him to the gods so they know the spirit of a great prince is to join them. But my son will be buried on a hill in Mauretania where I built a tomb for my family. There I have placed statues of my loved ones so that their spirits may watch over him. And I will visit him and perform the rites that will sustain him in the afterlife.”
Augustus turns angry eyes my way. “You mean to take Ptolemy to some remote, inaccessible tomb in a faraway, barbarous frontier where I have vowed never to set foot?”
“Oh, yes. I am going to take my children and leave you to the disaster that you’ve created, as I should’ve done all those years ago.”
He grinds his teeth. “This is a disaster of your making as well as mine. Did yo
u not curse me to this fate? Did you not speak the words that threatened my heirs would fall before me if I did not appease Isis?”
“Those were the words of a goddess.”
“A goddess who let Ptolemy be struck down!”
That is hard to hear. It is a forbidden thought I have not allowed myself. A bitter thought that puts doubt in my heart. Isis did not protect my child. She did not save my child. I don’t know why; I will never know why.
He thinks he does. “Your goddess took him because he was my son. It is her curse. After all the ways in which I have sought to appease her, this is how I am repaid? I am done with Isis, that faithless Egyptian whore.”
I stand there swallowing my bile, searching my faith. Here I stand, a child of Isis. Still her champion. I should defend her, but I fail her in this, as I have failed her in so many ways.
“Let Ptolemy be buried with me,” Augustus says, his voice turning from anger to pleading. “He was my only son.”
“You have two sons, Caesar. Their names are Gaius and Lucius—”
“You will not leave me, damn you!” For a moment I think he will strike me, but he knows better than to test my strength. Instead, he reaches for my heartstrings. “You know that I am surrounded by enemies and rivals. You would not leave me to a pack of jackals, with no one to trust.”
“Trust Julia. Take her for a partner.” He snorts as if the idea is ridiculous fantasy, so I strive to convince him. “Julia’s interests align with yours. Cleave to her and her sons as if they are the only family you will ever have—because that is true. You will need them to hold the Claudians at bay. Treat them well and your love will be repaid a thousand times. Help Gaius and Lucius become strong men who will honor a Golden Age.”
“You aren’t leaving me. This is about Juba, isn’t it? You wish to make a grand gesture for his sake. Fine, then. Have your way. The King of Mauretania can stay in Rome as long as he likes so long as you take your place at my side.”
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