Daughters of the Nile

by Stephanie Dray

  “I don’t know,” I whisper. “Were we all drawn here by the same impulse?”

  My husband has grown a beard—a thing that bewilders me, given his sensitivity to being mocked as the son of a hirsute barbarian king. He is generally fastidious about keeping his cheek clean-shaven as a Roman would, so this beard, like everything else about him tonight, is a sign of his desperate grief.

  “I’ll go,” Juba says, turning to retreat.

  “Wait, Juba, please …” But when he stops, I don’t know what to say. I want to rush to him. I want to grab his hands and fall to my knees and beg his forgiveness. It would not matter, though, for I cannot forgive myself. I think to suggest he divorce me and take a new wife who can give him children of his own, but where would that leave my daughter? So I only ask, “Will you write to Herod? Perhaps you can persuade him—”

  “Herod will not rest until his sons are dead.”

  What horrible irony that we would give anything to have our son back and Herod is still trying to kill his. “Won’t you try?”

  Juba scowls. “There is enough to be done in Mauretania. There are trade agreements to be reached, letters to dictate, military posts to be built, and justice to dispense.”

  He wants to retreat to his study into a pile of scrolls. He wants court cases in quick succession. He wants to send advisers scurrying to gather more information on this problem or that. He wants to work with a feverish determination that will hold the grief at bay. I know, because I have done it too. “Not even the greatest king can send sadness into exile …”

  My husband swallows at the word exile, glancing around our son’s empty room. “I am mindful that our court is watching us, Selene. They worry what is to become of our kingdom, and I can’t let them see that I am not even king enough to care.”

  “You care, Juba. It’s only that you can’t feel it now. You are numb—”

  “I am everything but numb, Selene! By the gods, I wish I were numb. What a relief it would be not to have to hide the truth.”

  It is the first time in months that he has spoken to me beyond that which was necessary. I take it for a fissure in the wall he has built to keep me out, so I screw up my courage and say, “You needn’t hide your grief from me.”

  “No. To you, I am entirely exposed. But what does it matter? Ptolemy is dead and buried. No prayers or pleading or tears will change that. So what are we to say or do with so many eyes upon us?”

  We both live public lives. We have always been watched and studied. But whereas I have embraced the attention, Juba has shied away from it more than once. Maybe he was right to. Perhaps running away is the only thing that helps. “We can go where we’re not watched.”

  “And where would that be? There is no such place.”

  “I know a place … and I will take you there, if you will let me.”

  Forty

  THE KINGDOM OF MAURETANIA

  SUMMER 9 B.C.

  IN silence we ride up into the wheat fields that blanket the hills with their tall golden stalks, each head swollen with seeds. It is not a far ride to my plantation, where the blossoms of the olive trees have begun to give way to the growing fruit. My groundskeeper has already cut chunks from the wheat fields to test the crop for harvest. Some of this scythed wheat has been bundled into tawny sheaves to dry under the bright summer sky, and hope steals into my heart …

  If there is any place where my little family and I might find respite, it will be here, at the House of Olives. I have happy memories of this place. Of Julia and I rolling around in the muck, flinging dirt at each other. Of teasing Memnon that he ought to retire here. Of my children learning to press oil and hiding behind vats in the fermenting yard. Of my husband asking questions of our sharecroppers, always keen to learn something new …

  But that was Juba as he was before. Always inquisitive and interested. With the death of his son, the light has gone from his eyes. He has withdrawn so far into himself that he does not even bother to return the greetings of our housekeeper, who welcomes us with a promise of spicy sausages, eggs, fresh-baked bread, and a hot mint tisane.

  When my daughter and I settle into our rooms upstairs, Isidora lingers by the window, asking, “Where is Papa going?”

  I look out to see my husband walking through the olive orchard. “I’m sure he has gone to speak to one of the plowmen,” I say, so as not to alarm her. But I am alarmed because Juba is without his guards.

  Bidding my daughter to go down for a plate of the housekeeper’s rustic fare, I seek out Iacentus in the yard. “Why aren’t you with the king?”

  “He commanded us to stay behind, Majesty. He wants to be alone.”

  Yes, Juba wants to be alone. That’s why we came here, isn’t it? I don’t know why I should feel so unsettled. My husband is not likely to meet with danger on a farm … unless that danger is from himself. I try to shake away that fear, telling myself it is only because I lost both my mother and father to suicide that such thoughts occur to me. Knowing my husband’s temperament, Juba is more likely to simply walk off into the wilderness.

  But then I remember Iullus and what he contemplated in the face of the emperor’s disfavor …

  I try to shrug off these worries and follow the scent of sausage roasting in the kitchen, but Luna starts barking. Perhaps she only barks at the cows being led into the barn but the sound makes me remember. I remember how she barked when my son lay trampled in the dirt. How she barked when Drusus came to call upon me at my house. Her bark brings back to me the darkest moment of my life and panic overtakes me.

  Gathering my skirts in my hands, I start out after the king. He is at the edge of the olive orchard now, crossing the road into the wheat fields, and if I do not catch up with him, he will disappear in the sea of grain. “Juba!” I call after him, but he does not turn. Walking faster, I hurry past the water well, past the wagon filled with manure, past servants hauling buckets of water. I call again, but the king does not answer.

  He only walks faster, as if to escape me.

  I pick up my pace, wading into the field after him, calling his name, until I am running after him, the wheat stalks slashing at my face and scraping my limbs. “Juba!”

  All at once, he whirls on me. “What do you want?”

  I hold my ribs, breathless with fear and exertion. The blood is pounding in my ears, and I am too afraid to say what I really want. “I only want to know where you are going.”

  “Away,” he says, taking a sword from his belt to chop his way through the grasses as if it will speed his progress away from me. Stubbornly, I follow him, even though I know I should leave my husband to grieve.

  Farther and farther we go into the grain field, until I am as lost in the world as I am in my soul. Julia once wrote that the loss of a child will smash even a marriage of the strongest of foundations. The foundations of my marriage were like Necho’s sunbaked bricks, likely to crumble away under any weight at all. If my husband hates me, it is no more than I deserve. All these years, I have taken for granted his affection and now it is gone. Still, I need to reassure myself that my fears are unfounded. “Why do you have a sword, Juba? What are you going to do?”

  This stops him. He turns to look at me, sweat dripping from his fine dark brow. “Are you worried I am such an incompetent fool that I might cut myself?” When I press my lips together, he must see what I fear, because he blinks. We stand there, staring at each other as if over an abyss, and his eyes go hard. “No, Selene. Though I want nothing more than to lie down in the earth and die, that is no way out for a king. There is no way out for me.”

  I exhale, glad that he knows it. Grateful beyond measure that I am the fool. And yet I cannot be glad that he is in such pain he would wish for death. He has never known grief like this before; he has never lost anyone that he loved so deeply. Being well practiced at mourning has not blunted the pain for me, but Juba has not even that pitiful defense. And I have done this to him. I could not have known where my choices would lead when I was onl
y a girl, playing with Augustus for the world. I didn’t know that someday I would have a new family to be harmed by the decisions I made. But does that excuse me?

  As Juba begins walking again, I cry, “I would do anything to take it back! To make it all different. I am sorry. I am so sorry—”

  Juba rounds on me with bloodshot eyes. “You apologize to me? You stand there, seeking forgiveness?”

  Forgiveness would be far too much to ask, so I say, “I only need you to know of my regrets, but that is a selfish urge too. If you wish to be alone, if you cannot bear to look at me … I’ll leave you and Isidora here and return to the palace. Just tell me what you want and I’ll do it.”

  “I want you to blame me!” he roars. “Why don’t you say it, Selene? I know you must think it. You must think it every moment of every day. Say that it’s my fault our son is dead.”

  I am so stunned that I nearly stumble. The sweat pools in my palms and I stare at him, trying to understand. Can it be that what I have seen when he looks at me with those bleak eyes is not hatred but guilt? Sweet Isis, does he believe I would lay our son’s death at his feet, as I laid the baby there at his birth? There are so very many people I have condemned, myself most of all, but I have never held my husband responsible. “How could I blame you?”

  I reach out for him, but he catches me by both wrists. Then the calm, reasoned shell of the king cracks open to reveal the raw man inside. He shouts in my face, “I was the one who insisted we foster him in Rome! You never wanted him to go. You told me the truth about Caesar’s obsession. You warned me again and again that our son would be in danger. You begged me to believe you. You begged me, but I wouldn’t listen.”

  I let him scream at me. I let him shake me. I do not care if I fly apart. I only care that now he does believe me. He does. “You suspect someone?”

  Juba grinds his teeth together. “I don’t know who. I don’t know anything. I only know that I was not with our son when he died. I was not with Ptolemy that day. I gave him that stallion—that ferocious stallion. Yet I imagined I had some more important business. I left him alone. So blame me. Damn it, blame me.”

  He stands there, bracing for the mortal blow of my accusation. Welcoming it, I think, like a gladiator who is done with life. But I would not willingly wound him, and the bitterness leaches out of my pores. “Yes, you gave him that stallion, Juba. And so much more. You gave him a father to admire, a father who showered him with love. Juba, you did not leave Ptolemy and he was not alone. I will not blame you. I will never blame you …”

  His hands tighten painfully on my wrists, then he tries to thrust me away. “I will blame myself for all my life … so leave me be.”

  He is a vigorous man, kept fit by horse riding and practice at arms. His body is stronger than mine, but I do not let him thrust me away. I grab his arms and cling to him. “For the love of Isis, I don’t want to leave you. I want to hold you and be held by you. I know I don’t deserve it, but I want to grieve with you and share with you whatever comes of this day.”

  He shakes his head, as if it were too late. As if the bridge between us is broken and there is no way back. He tries again to push me away, but I won’t let him go. I know Juba and what he does with his pain. If history is any guide, he will soon gallop off to the wilderness to make his maps or write his books. Perhaps he will take some pretty Greek hetaera with him. It will be as it was when we were first married, still strangers to each other, pried apart by our own disappointments. It will be as if Ptolemy had never been born.

  That, I cannot bear, so when he turns from me again, I grasp him round the waist, fighting Juba as I have never fought anyone. I don’t use my magic. I use my arms, my legs, my whole body. My fingers clutch at his clothes, my nails dig into his skin. Anything to keep him here with me.

  “Selene!” he cries. “Let go.”

  “I won’t,” I say, my voice breaking. I hold on as if my life depended on it, and his too. “I won’t let you go. Not this time.”

  His attempts to escape me become more violent and I am sure he bruises me in his desperate attempt to get away. But I don’t let go. We grapple and he becomes breathless with his efforts to dislodge me. I am tall, like my father, and I make of myself a deadweight. My gown tears in our struggle and we tumble down to the earth. We hit the ground so hard the breath explodes from my lungs, but still, I don’t let go of him.

  Then, there is surrender.

  All at once, I feel him shudder in my arms, for I am drawing the grief out of him. It starts as a moan, then dissolves into a keening wail. He chokes with sobs, his whole body quaking with despair. He is drowning in it. And instead of pushing me away, he clutches at me, his fingers digging into my back. I let him soak my hair with his tears, here in the field where the grasses shield us from the world.

  I kiss him. Soft kisses to start, on his head, on his shaking shoulders, on his tear-soaked beard. Then our lips meet in shared anguish, touching off a desperate hunger to feel something, anything but pain. We kiss again, longer, harder, my face in his dirtied hands.

  Then, by silent assent, our kisses become something else, more frenzied and hungry. His hands are on my face, in my hair, on my breasts. And my hands are on him too, yanking his tunic up. Grief has stripped us of all grandeur. Here on this field, with my back on the earth, I am humbled. I am no goddess and he is no god. I am no queen and he is no king. He is only a man and I am only a woman.

  We make love. And I realize that it is love.

  How have I denied it so long?

  I want him. I need him. This time, I give myself to him completely. And when we are both spent, I whisper the truth against the salty sweat of his neck. “I love you.”

  Heaving with ragged breaths, he murmurs, “Don’t say it, now. I cannot believe it, now.”

  He rolls off me and we stare up into the glow of the afternoon sun. His hand tangles in my hair. I breathe in the warm desert scent of him.

  “All my life I have dreaded for you to see me this way,” Juba whispers, as if afraid his voice might carry on the shimmering sea of grass.

  How strange that he should dread for me to see this side of him, when it is precisely the unexpected rawness of him that I am drawn to. “Why should you fear such a thing?”

  “Because I am exposed. I never wanted you to realize that I am an empty man, a paper king. Without Ptolemy, I am of even less substance. A man without weight. A man without family …”

  “No, Juba. No.” I feel his pain as my pain. That is how I know it is love between us. For all that I have repudiated it, it is there. Juba has not always loved me well or faithfully, but he has loved me with a long and patient constancy that has outlasted even the resentments of my hard heart. And I love him. I love him so much it aches beneath my breastbone. I must find a way to convince him. If only I knew the words …

  “You are not empty, Juba. You are filled with patience, foresight, and resolve. I would live all the rest of my days with you, and when I am dead, I would be buried with you in the mausoleum on the hill. I would be your family. I am your family, if you will let me be.”

  He gives a sad smile, as if he dares not hope for it. “But it is only the three of us now.”

  In my life, I have played many grand roles. Isis, Kore, Cleopatra, Dido, Demeter, and more. All of them queens or goddesses. But here, now, with Juba, I am only an ordinary woman. It is this ordinariness that offers us a chance at more than we have ever had before. I decide, then and there, to embrace it. “We will make it enough. We’ll find a way to need no one else, Juba. We’ll find a way.”

  *

  I think it’s true what I said that day in his arms, smeared with tears and sweat and dirt, my skin sticky and itching from the crushed grasses that made our bed. Together, we are enough. But sometimes the gods see beyond the truth and bless us with gifts we did not think to ask for.

  I did not use my magic in the field with Juba. I did not invite my goddess into me. Yet in the hottest days of summer, when fa
rmers bring in the last of the grain harvest, I feel the spark of heka in my womb. Barren so long, I tell myself it is nothing. It is a vain hope in all this sadness and I cannot afford another disappointment. But I am craving figs. Fresh figs. Dried figs. Fig sauce. Any kind of fig. I ask for figs in the morning and before I go to bed, telling myself all the while that I am a half-wit.

  I am thirty years old. What barren woman my age suddenly bears fruit?

  Then, one day, my daughter asks me if I know that I am with child. “You are swollen at the breasts,” Isidora says. “Your hand keeps drifting to rub your lower back and you do not sit as long in council before you excuse yourself to pass water.”

  Everything she says is true. There are other signs too. I cannot remember the day of my last moon’s blood. My nipples have darkened. I feel heavier upon the earth. Perhaps it is possible. My mother was thirty-two when she birthed her last child. Octavia was thirty-three.

  Am I not as strong as either of them?

  My hands go to my cheeks with excitement.

  Sweet Isis, I am going to have a baby!

  The sheer force of such unexpected joy brings a smile—a thing itself that makes me feel so ashamed that I cover my mouth. What if someone should see me smile and think I have forgotten poor Ptolemy? How can I smile when I have lost my child? What will I tell Juba?

  It is better to wait to tell until I am sure. After all, we are both so fragile. In the daytime, the king and I are gentle with each other. At night, we hold the grief at bay, as if we have both discovered in each other’s bodies the only elixir for our pain. Our lovemaking has an urgency to it. It is still, for both of us, a desperate thing. But I have kept enough secrets from my husband for one lifetime. So I decide to tell him when he comes to me in bed that night.

  After he is spent, I draw the long fingers of his hand over my belly and whisper, “I am with child.”

  Still breathing hard from our exertions, Juba shakes sweat-damp hair from his eyes. “What?”