Daughters of the Nile

by Stephanie Dray

  And I do not want to spend another moment abed.

  Especially since the king is coming to call.

  My ladies wash me, comb my hair, and fill the room with sweet-smelling herbs to chase away any lingering odors. Then they put my baby into my arms, though I have no milk for him, for that has dried up with my blood.

  The king refuses to be kept away another moment, and when he strides in, my husband’s eyes are still shadowed, as if he has not slept at all since the moment of my first birth pang. Perching at the edge of my couch, he says, “You gave me such a fright!”

  “I would never die in childbirth,” I whisper, as if I had never been afraid. “That is an ordinary death. Besides, Isis favors mothers above all.” Then I put my infant into my husband’s arms. “I deliver to you a baby boy, King Juba. You’re the father of a healthy little prince.”

  Cradling the bundle, my husband is deeply affected, and I am glad I did not wait to put this baby at the foot of his throne. This moment is meant only for us to share.

  “Hello, little prince …” Juba’s eyes glisten, then flash as a crack of lightning splits open the sky. Our son does not even cry as the storm loudly boasts of its power. And Juba says, “You will make a fine leader of men, for the red rain has frightened many grown men in our court who see ill omens in every bolt from the sky.”

  “The blood rain is not an ill omen,” I insist.

  “Blood rain has been witnessed in the islands and across the narrow strait. But here?” Juba peers down at his son. “It is your mother’s doing. If it is blood, it is the queen’s blood, for she battled the sirocco to bring you into the world.”

  That is not how it happened, but I do not interrupt him, because Juba is in tears, bowing his head as his emotions pour forth. “I am … I am … I don’t even know what I feel.”

  “Is it joy?” I ask, my own lashes wet with it.

  He glances up. “Is it right to feel such a thing again?”

  “It is, for if we do not take joy in the good things we are given, do we not invite only evil?”

  At my words, I think he will let himself smile.

  Instead, he weeps.

  He weeps without shame. My husband is weeping over a babe in his arms, and he is weeping with happiness. Moved by his emotions, I weep too. And when we are sniffling, wet and red-nosed, chuckling with embarrassment at our overwrought state, I ask, “What should we name him? You choose this time.”

  “I would name him Ptolemy. To honor our lost boy and … as an act of …”

  He struggles for his explanation, so I suggest one. “Defiance.”

  His breath of relief surprises me. Is it possible, after all these years, we finally think the same thoughts? To name our son Ptolemy is to defy the forces—mortal or divine—that took our elder son from us. It is to defy those who would see an end to my family dynasty. It is also to defy the emperor’s belief that I would never have a child with another man.

  There is no question this time, no doubt that this is the king’s son. The months add up in such a way as to frustrate even the delusions of Augustus. This baby belongs to us and only us, no matter what his name. And I am so very glad of it. “Ptolemy the Younger,” I say softly. “Prince Ptolemy of Mauretania.”

  Juba smiles. “The tribesmen are already calling him T’amT’am, the little drum.”

  I soften, remembering how our Berbers pounded their instruments to encourage me. “Ptolemy. Our tiny T’amT’am, then.”

  Our little war drum. Our little heart, pumping hot new blood into our legacy. He is also the pulse that beats inside us both. The breath of new life into our kingdom and our dreams.

  *

  “YOU are such a peacock,” Crinagoras accuses from my window seat, where we watch the remaining red drops splash on the stones, evaporating almost instantly into a pink mist. “You cannot even birth a baby without drawing a tempest to our door!”

  Sighing, I say, “You last complained I had become domesticated. It seems I can do nothing to please you, court poet.”

  “Oh, I’m not complaining,” Crinagoras assures me. “I’m a great admirer of showy exhibition. But you’ve terrified the Romans with this bloodred rain. Iacentus cannot step out of the barracks without trembling beneath his praetorian’s helm.”

  We both laugh, then I ask, “Is that why you’re the only courtier to call on me? Are they all so afraid? Where is Chryssa?”

  “Your freedwoman quit the palace after her quarrel with the king … she is with Maysar somewhere in the hills, counting their gold and their big brood of children.”

  Juba would forgive my freedwoman, I think, for her defiance in my birthing room, but Chryssa has reason to be wary of men who threaten to flog her. “I’ll call her back when the king leaves on his trip for the East. What of my daughter?”

  “Princess Isidora has not come?” he asks with a raised brow. “I know she visited your babe in the nursery. Perhaps she is distracted …”

  “Perhaps …”

  “In any case, you’ve inspired another marvelous poem, but I dare not read it to you because your physician warns that you’re not recovered. My dazzling talent might strike such awe into your heart that you fall ill again.”

  Fie on the physician! He knows nothing. The scent of iron in the air strengthens me. I am invigorated by the storm and the scorching summer sun that emerges after it to dry up all the rain, leaving the world stained red. I bled. Mauretania bled. Now that is done.

  To be sure, I force myself to eat shellfish and generously salted meats, even though I have little appetite. And I decide to make strolling the garden with my son’s hound at my heel a morning ritual.

  On my first turn around the lavender, I find myself a bit breathless, but that is to be expected. And if my bones ache and I walk like a crone, well, it is still better than being idle in bed. I am quite exhausted when I catch a glance of my daughter’s fair hair.

  “Isidora?” When she doesn’t answer, I say, “I see you there …”

  Shamefaced, she peeks from behind a hulking statue of Hercules. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  “Why are you skulking about like a criminal?” When she presses her lips together, I know. “Oh, come and see with your own eyes that I am alive and well and that not all visions come true.”

  With a wary smile, she rustles through the bushes to join me. “But … but I was sure that I would send you into the afterworld …”

  I clasp her hands. “You are fifteen years old, Isidora. Trust me, when I was fifteen years old, I was sure of a good many things too. Now the only thing of which I am certain is the world’s uncertainty.”

  Shyly fingering the collar of gold amulet at her throat, she says, “The storm saved you. I didn’t know it could.”

  “We’re always saved or lost in the center of a storm. It’s the only time we can ever truly know ourselves …”

  “You sound like a philosopher now.”

  “Do I? Well, you’ll have to compare my wisdom to that of the scholars in Greece … I want you to go with the king on his trip. You’ll enjoy being feted in the East as the granddaughter of Cleopatra.”

  She blanches. “I have already done it, and know I wouldn’t enjoy it at all.”

  She is remembering her girlhood, when we rode together with the emperor into Athens and the crowd stomped and roared in welcome such that the earth trembled beneath our feet. “Everyone loves to be feted,” I insist. “The Greeks want to see Ptolemaic glamour and you shall stand in my stead.”

  Panic flares in her eyes. “Mother, I can last no more than two hours in a pleated gown before it is all wrinkled and unpleated and I am pulling the ribbons from my hair and fleeing a social gathering!”

  It’s true that my daughter seems to have taken her sense of fashion from Lady Lasthenia and the Pythagoreans, but this will be a good lesson for her. “In the East, you’ll learn the importance of appearance, the influence of a well-spoken word, and the power of reputation in the Greek world.”r />
  She sputters in protest, then crosses her arms. “You’re sending me because you don’t want me to receive any more letters from the emperor, aren’t you?”

  “That is not the only reason.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t you want to see Pythia?”

  At the mention of my niece, her resistance melts away. For all the love I bear Pythia, I think my daughter loves her even better. And it is only because they were as sisters to each other that I can bear to let Isidora attend the royal wedding in my stead. I am reluctant to part with my daughter even for a few weeks, a few days, a few hours. But the thought of my girls reunited together makes me smile.

  “I will watch over Papa for you,” my daughter promises.

  I smile again, drawing her into my arms. “You’ll have a grand adventure. On the first clear sunny day, I’ll kiss your cheeks and send you off on a ship laden with gifts for Pythia. Then I’ll cry myself to sleep every night and look for a letter from you every morning …”

  *

  IN the years that Amphio has been building my Iseum, hundreds of workshops have sprung up near the harbor. Stonecutters, carpenters, smiths, and other skilled tradesmen have profited handsomely. Now they must make way for the finer artists. Sculptors to carve cornices and pillars from marble. Painters to color the walls with murals. Tile layers who will cover the floors in mosaic designs that call Egypt to mind. And masters of statuary to render my lovely Isis in ivory and gold.

  It is a very great expense, but our amber, our purple dye, our citrus-wood furniture, the pearls from our sea, and even our garum sauce will pay for it. Especially if Juba is able to secure trade alliances on his journey.

  Days before the king and his entourage are to depart, I call Amphio to account. “Why haven’t you removed the centerings from the dome?”

  “There was a small matter of a storm,” the architect replies archly. “And we have been delayed by the need to scrub everything clean of the red rain.”

  “Tell me, do you fear the blood rain was a bad omen?” I ask with raised brow. “Or are you now convinced of the miraculous power of my goddess in this land?”

  Amphio throws up his hands. “It was neither an omen nor a miracle nor blood! It was merely the red sand of the storm mixed with rain. Cicero wrote that the red rains were born of some earthly contagion. Certainly there’s nothing divine about the ungodly mess it left behind.”

  Amused at his effrontery, I say, “The dome in my Iseum had better hold.”

  The dome holds.

  Good thing too, because Amphio is standing under it when its supports are removed … just as he promised. I don’t think he ever had a moment’s doubt, but he makes a great show if it nonetheless, holding his arms up as if his strength alone kept the dome in place.

  Let him mock magic if he wishes. I will always know that a true wizard gave his essence to bless this place. And the nearer the temple is to completion, the more grateful I am for it. My temple is already a shining beacon to Isis worshippers who flock to our shores. Surely my goddess will be pleased and give her blessing and protection to my husband and daughter on their quest across the sea …

  Forty-four

  IOL-CAESARIA, THE KINGDOM OF MAURETANIA

  SUMMER 8 B.C.

  Dearest Mother and Queen,

  Have you been taking the tonics of herbs that I advised for you to balance your humors? My snake is very much concerned you will forget …

  We are missing your company here in Greece where we toured the buildings dedicated to our ancestors in Olympia. I made a rubbing for you of the names of Ptolemy II and his sister, wife, and queen, Arsinoe II, the first female pharaoh of our line, but I continue to guess at the real reason you wished for me to travel with the king in your place.

  Was it because you knew married women are not allowed to attend the Olympic Games, but as a maiden, I could sit beside the king and watch the athletes compete?

  The champion runner of the stadion was Artemidoros of Thyateira, should you care to know his name. Papa said that you would enjoy watching men race for the glory of it, but I suspect you would consider quite dull a sport in which men are neither running from anything nor to anything. In any case, I liked the boxing. Do you know that a physician must set a broken nose immediately, or the swelling will make it impossible to do it right? Perhaps this explains Amphio’s crooked nose.

  *

  HERE I pause in my reading to laugh at my own folly. I sent my daughter to see all the splendor of Greece only to have her take away from it a new knowledge of broken noses! This is the longest that I have ever been apart from Isidora, and the separation gives me keen anxiety, but while she is away, I burn every letter that comes to her under the emperor’s seal. Eventually, word must reach him that she is traveling in Greece, because the letters stop. Then, at the height of summer, a dispatch from Rome informs me that the month of Sextilius is now to be called August, after the emperor.

  He has not chosen for his own the month of his birth. Oh, no. He has chosen for himself the month in which he conquered my mother and saw her dead. And though this makes me burn, I will not be goaded into a response.

  I miss my husband’s arms and my daughter’s laughter. I still mourn my eldest son. I ache upon waking and still tire easily. And yet, there is true joy at my hearth. By day, I do my best to rule justly and patiently. Sometimes I even succeed. At night, I cradle my son and sing him little songs to lull him to sleep.

  No two children are the same. You love them differently. This little boy is not the same as my first Ptolemy, but he is already his own little person. He does not know anything of the past. There are no scars on him, and I mean to keep it that way.

  Dearest Queen and Wife,

  The giant statue of Zeus in Olympia is rendered in gold and ivory. Ebony makes up his fierce black eyes. Dust of gold shines in the creases of his strong, muscled chest. And he sits upon an enormous seat of cedar, his throne studded with glittering emeralds and rubies and sapphires. They call it a wonder of the world, and I know you would think so. Even the Romans say that it moves them to believe they are staring at the god himself. And yet I think it no greater or more beautiful than the statue your artists are making for Isis.

  All right. Enough of that. I will try not to chronicle our journey like a geographer or point out all the customs that I find unusual here in the East. I will save all that for my next treatise.

  Instead, I will tell you how I settled an old score on your behalf.

  It has long been my policy to deny the pleas and extortions for money from Greece because we have both seen how Herod’s subjects hate him for spending their taxes in places they will never see. But I have decided to make one notable exception. I have given over treasure to rebuild the gymnasium of your ancestors in Athens. We will have statues dedicated to us in thanks not only on the Acropolis, but inside the building itself. It is as plain a statement as we can make that your Ptolemaic dynasty will endure.

  Isidora wished to make her own tribute. From her own savings she purchased a small plaque to remember Memnon and your Berber woman, Tala, who I think would be amused to be honored so far from her home.

  I smile at the memory of my faithful friends. I think Tala would be amused to know she has been honored this way—no simple serving woman, indeed. And though Juba said he would not drone on like a geographer, he proceeds to do just that, filling several scrolls’ worth of details about his journey to mountainous Cappadocia, where stones rise up from the ground like dragon’s teeth. It makes me sigh with affection, for my husband can never resist an opportunity to lecture. Still, I skip ahead to the part about Pythia’s wedding …

  Your niece came to her new husband wearing a soaring crown of hammered gold and a saffron veil. Pythia did not go shyly to her groom, but with the full majesty of a queen with a cadre of guards at her back. I had the opportunity to speak with Pythia both before and after the wedding, and she bade me to reassure you that she is neither disappointed nor ov
erjoyed by this marriage.

  She views it as a political advantage.

  How like you she has become.

  The reminder leaves me to wish fervently for our reunion. I have taken Isidora to see plays and to hear poets and to debate philosophers. She has tried to make of herself a fine companion for me, but there is nothing we see but that we wish you were here to see it with us. I do not like this separation and I cannot imagine how I let you convince me it was a good idea. You are never long from my thoughts and I would, even now, be on the deck of a ship straining for the sight of our lighthouse were it not for the matter of Herod’s trial …

  Another letter comes from Juba a few weeks later, and this one is written in Latin.

  Salve Selene,

  As it is now autumn and we have still not returned home to you, I am sure you have surmised that all is not well. We were forced to celebrate Isidora’s sixteenth birthday in Beirut.

  The happy occasion was ruined by the trial of Herod’s sons.

  You will have heard by now that the trial was a mockery of justice. I tried to persuade Herod that executing his sons would not gain him favor with the emperor—a sentiment echoed by the Roman magistrates—to no avail. The vast majority of the judges were beholden to Herod. They voted for guilt.

  The princes were condemned to be strangled to death.

  I fear that I proved unequal to my mission. We will not stay to witness the executions as even the shame of my failure cannot dissuade me from returning home to you. Herod has robbed us of enough time!

  *

  THE king’s ship sails into our harbor only days after I read this letter. Oh, how I curse the eager crowd of courtiers in our entryway who prevent me from rushing to my loved ones in unseemly haste. The king and Princess Isidora stride into the palace with their servants and baggage close behind. I grasp my daughter by the hands and pinch at her cheeks as if she were still a small girl and not a woman of sixteen.

  How could my daughter have become more beautiful? Oh, but she is. With pink cheeks and bright eyes she chatters excitedly about her travels. Then Juba calls my name and I turn. With a courtly bow of his head, he says, “You are looking very well, Queen Selene.”