And he—well, how can I describe him without sounding like a lovesick poet? He is a tall king in his own hall, and I am so glad to have him home that I forget all our disappointments.
When I make ready to receive him in my chambers that night, the mirror tells me that he is a flatterer. My skin is not as smooth as it used to be and I spy two gray hairs that I pluck out with my own fingers. I am still tall and regal, but there is a heaviness in my face that was not there before. I have my ladies dress me in my finery, because I find that I am nervous to be alone with the king. In truth, I am as anxious as the day we married, when he took hold of the bed linens and unmasked me by wiping my face clean of the powders and rouge and kohl.
Then he asked me for love and I spurned him.
Now I want nothing more than to be beautiful in his eyes.
We break bread together that night for his homecoming. It is a spicy dish of root vegetables stewed in a clay pot and I worry it will be too hot for the king’s tongue. But he does not seem to notice this, or my anxiety.
“Have you heard what the emperor said of it?” Juba asks, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “He said it was better to be Herod’s pig than one of his sons.”
The witty comment does not amuse me. “Augustus is every bit as guilty. He might have put a stop to it if he cared to.”
Juba does not reply but encourages me to try some of the wine he brought back from the East. An expensive Falernian that is said to have no peer. “Glaphyra was pardoned. At least I accomplished that before leaving Beirut. Or, I should say, Isidora accomplished it …”
This makes me gasp. “You involved Isidora?”
“Not intentionally. One glimpse at Isidora with that snake on her arm and Herod went white with fear.”
It should not give me pleasure to imagine it, but it does. “You shouldn’t have let him see her.”
“She came to my side without my bidding,” Juba protests. “And she informed Herod that he was suffering from worm-eaten genitals, an ailment already blinding him and putting a fever into his brain.”
I stop eating. “I think I’m going to gag …”
Juba lifts his cup as if to bolster my appetite. “She offered a treatment, which, of course, Herod refused. Deep in his cups, he began muttering about how Cleopatra was a witch, how you and Isidora were witches, how even his dead wife was a witch. So I seized upon this to convince him it was the curse of Mariamne that ailed him. I said that being married to you, I’d learned that killing a woman always risks such magical vengeance and that it would be safer to send Glaphyra away. So Herod cast her out. Sent her back to Cappadocia with her dowry besides.”
I marvel at him. “Then your mission was no failure, Juba. You saved Glaphyra’s life!”
“She was not glad of it,” Juba says, head bowed as he dips his bread into his stew. “Herod took her children and she said she’d rather have died than leave without them.”
I palm his cheek. “You did more than anyone else could.”
Juba’s eyes remain downcast. “Evidently, Augustus agrees. His legates in Syria sent word to him commending my conduct.” I exhale, relieved, for this is exactly what I hoped for. Then Juba adds, “As reward, the emperor’s secretary has informed me that I have permission to style myself as King Juba Philokaiser.”
At this I wince, for we have never before needed such an appellation to boast that we were friends of Caesar, but I must keep up my husband’s spirits. “Augustus is softening, then. It’s an opportunity to appease him, and we must appease him. Not for our sake, but for the sake of our children.”
“For the sake of our children?” Juba asks, slamming down his goblet to punctuate his sudden, violent anger. “You know that he has been writing to Isidora. Caesar will not put a drop of ink to paper in addressing me, but he sends letters to a girl of sixteen. He will take her from us … I tell you, he will claim her as his daughter and he will take her!”
“He will not,” I say, for though I worry about all the ways in which the emperor might twist and manipulate my daughter, I will never let him have her. More importantly, neither will my enemies. “Livia will poison Augustus before she would allow him to claim Isidora as his daughter and he knows it.”
Juba uses a napkin to wipe up the wine he has sloshed onto his hand. “Then why is he writing to her?”
“Because he wants me to tell him to stop.” When Juba glances up at me, I vow, “I will not do it. I swear to you that Augustus has heard the last words from me he will ever hear. But you must be reconciled with him and I think I know a way. Every other kingdom in the empire now has a temple for Augustus. Perhaps it is time that you founded a cult to the divine emperor.”
Juba narrows his eyes. “You want the man worshipped here in our kingdom?”
“Of course not. But he will take it as adoration, and that is what he needs from you.”
“Selene, have you seen such cult temples to him? I saw them in Greece. He is carved with a breastplate that depicts his victory over your parents at Actium. Do not tell me that it would not sicken you to see such a thing here …”
“It will sicken me. It will be galling beyond compare. But I have endured galling things before and I can endure this for you, and for our family.”
My husband stares at me in such a way that I cannot tell whether he thinks me a genius or a madwoman. “Where did you even get such an idea?”
“From you. When we first came to Mauretania, you thought to build such a monstrosity, so you should be the high priest now. Pour spoiled milk for his libations and burn gristle and bone for his sacrifices and spit on his statue every day, for all I care. Or do whatever you would have done, when you first thought to build a temple for Augustus.”
He seems surprised that I know about the designs he made so long ago. “I had an architect sketch such a temple years ago, but my scribe mislaid the plans. Many things have changed since then.”
“Let the emperor forgive you,” I say.
My husband shakes his head. “How can you ask that of me?”
“Because I know how much vengeance and spite have taken from us. The emperor has destroyed his family. Don’t let him destroy ours.”
Juba is silent a good while, staring into the fire.
I break the silence with a confession. “And you should know that your scribe did not mislay the plans. Years ago, when you were away exploring the wilds of Mauretania with your hetaera, I found the plans in your study and burned them.”
His head jerks up. “You burned them?”
“To ash and with great satisfaction. But my rebellion serves no purpose now.”
My husband rises from his chair to hover over me. “Do I understand you to say … that you burned scrolls you found in the king’s study?”
His censure makes me sheepish.
When I can only press my lips together in guilty confession, he says, “I would have a man flogged for such a thing.”
To ease his temper, I murmur, “Good fortune that I am not a man.”
He smirks, in spite of himself, his anger melting into something else. “Good fortune, indeed. Still, I intend to exact a price.”
“What would you have of me, Your Majesty?”
“I would have you stay the night with me in my chambers. The whole night.”
My cheeks go hot at the suggestion. It is not done. The king visits the queen’s chambers and leaves before daybreak. The queen does not go to the king’s chambers like some hetaera. She certainly does not stay the night. It is not done. It will be remarked upon. Our courtiers will gossip.
And I find that I do not care in the slightest.
Forty-five
“IT’S wonderful,” I say from the warm confines of the king’s bed, the last scroll of his work spread over my bare knees like a blanket.
In the year since Juba’s return, we have scandalized our court with vulgar displays of public affection such as holding hands and exchanging kisses in the banquet hall. There are also persistent
rumors that we sleep together in the same chambers almost every night.
My Greeks fear I have truly become a barbarian. Perhaps they are right. After these many years of marriage to the king, it is as if I have only begun to discover him. I’ve learned that he wakes from slumber at the slightest provocation, only to rush from the bed to scribble down some note before returning to sleep again. I’ve also learned that he can be extraordinarily sensitive when it comes to his writing. “Do you truly think it will be well received?” Juba asks, his lips against my shoulder, making no attempt whatsoever to pretend he isn’t hovering.
I laugh, stroking my fingertips over his careful lettering, for he does not use a scribe for his scholarship. “I said it was wonderful! It will become an essential volume in every library in the world. There has never been such a comprehensive study of our kingdom. You have cataloged everything, from plants to purple dye, maps of islands and characteristics of our hunting dogs to the source of the Nile. Why, you even managed to slip in that story about Tala and the lion!”
The king’s valet knocks at the door, but we ignore it like petulant children, snuggling down in our nest of lavender-scented bed linens and warm skin.
“I ought to take it out. My fellow scholars think me a credulous fool …”
“Let them think what they like. Far more miraculous things have happened here than a merciful lion …”
The king takes my palm in his hand and kisses it with a promise of intimacy in his eyes. “Indeed. Perhaps miraculous things shall happen again, right now.”
The mischief in his gaze heats my loins, but again the valet knocks.
“Go away!” the king shouts. “Or I’ll send the executioner for your head.”
I throw my head back in laughter. “Tyrant! You’ll terrify the poor boy. Besides, we must get up or we’ll be late for our son’s birthday games.”
“Let the world wait,” Juba says, nuzzling my hair.
“But I have a surprise for you.”
The king tugs me closer. “All the more reason to let them wait.”
“Not here,” I say, trying to smother my grin. “In your study.”
With mussed hair and desire in his eyes, he says, “My study? I confess I am not very particular about where. Beds, couches, or tents are all the same to me. So I will not argue against the study, though it’s rather cluttered and I cannot speak for its comfort …”
Again he makes me laugh and I have to thwart him with both hands on his chest. “Careful. You are crushing your scroll between us …”
That makes him release me, as I knew it would, and I take the opportunity to roll from his bed and find my own robe. With a growl of frustration, he yanks a tunic over his head, then follows me into the hall, where some servants scatter and others turn to stone, none of them certain how to behave in the presence of the king and queen in dishabille. Together in bare feet, we sweep into his study, where I proudly unveil a brand-new water clock that I had designed by one of the scholars at our university.
With great showmanship, I snap off the coverings, explaining, “At each hour, a little mechanical animal performs some little trick!”
“Fascinating,” Juba says, stooping to examine each metal part, entranced by the intricacy of the automata in the form of lions, elephants, monkeys, and other creatures from our lands. Then the hour changes and a little mechanized spearman prompts the metal lion to attack with an accompanying chime.
Juba startles with delight. “How splendid!”
I am even more delighted. “The designer says it’s similar to one in Rhodes, where they’re experts in making such mechanized things. Do you like it?”
“I like it very much … except …”
Watching his smile slowly fade, I am deflated. “What is it? I know it is a whimsical gift not in keeping with the serious bearing of a king … but I hoped to impress you with the genius of the thing.”
“I am impressed. Quite pleased by the gift, Selene. It is only that I already have a water clock.”
“The old one is broken,” I protest.
“Yes, but I intend to fix it.”
I reach for his cheek with my left hand, where our amethyst betrothal ring gleams in the light. “Juba, you have been trying to fix that old clock for as long as we have been married. After nineteen years, don’t you think it’s time we start everything anew?”
*
CHARIOTS race to honor the birthday of my two-year-old prince, who sits upon my lap with pink apple cheeks and fat little fists that thump on my thighs when he is excited. Victory wreaths are awarded to our athletes and we pardon many lesser criminals that day.
Then we are treated to a tribute of musicians. We hear the soaring voices of altos, the hollow notes of pipers, and a kithara player I find fault with, on account of the fact I have played that song better. I am tempted to call for my own instrument to demonstrate, when a certain besotted soldier offers a basket filled with roses and wildflowers into my daughter’s lap.
The love-struck soldier is none other than Tacfarinas, no longer a boy but a man of twenty with a brawny sword arm and piercing eagle eyes. Some fool centurion apparently admired his fighting spirit and made Tacfarinas an optio, giving him actual rank and responsibility in the cohort we have stationed in the city. Tacfarinas is very young to hold such a position but has not made a mess of it so far.
At least until he decided to approach the princess so boldly and in front of the king …
Juba sees the flowers, then leans over to murmur to me with a violent sparkle in his eye. “I’m going to start a distant war just so that I can send Tacfarinas away to fight it.”
I laugh only because I know he will not really do it.
Now that we have a prince to rule the kingdom, some say we ought to send Isidora to a marriage bed in some far away kingdom. But we have decided to let Dora remain unmarried in keeping with her wishes to stay in Mauretania, and our wishes to have her near. I hate to think that my daughter may never have a child of her own, but she says she does not need one, for she has little T’amT’am. And it is true that she treats him as if he were her own child. He is a little boy with two mothers, for Isidora has her baby brother always in her arms. Perhaps that is best, for so long as she bears no sons of her own—boys the emperor might claim as his own descendants—it may keep her from his clutches.
Like me, Isidora has suffered the grievous loss of a brother. Like me, she will never marry the boy who first captured her heart. Like me, she will live under the shadow of the emperor’s desire to possess her. But unlike me, she must also live with the burden of what she sees that ordinary mortals cannot see.
And yet, like a cherry tree that must suffer the touch of frost before it can bear sweet fruit, she has blossomed in this adversity. There is no plant in our kingdom that she cannot identify in a glance or find a use for. Lady Lasthenia insists that she is knowledgeable enough to lecture in our university. People seek Dora out for remedies, and though the king says he finds this to be an entirely inappropriate vocation for a princess, Juba boasts about her discoveries and the new center of healing she has established adjacent to my temple.
Only a king such as Juba would allow his daughter such leniency, but I do not like it. I cringe every time a dirty peasant rushes upon my daughter begging for her advice on lancing a boil or curing a crusty rash. I seethe that any daughter of mine should pay more attention to someone’s earache than she does to the happenings in our council chambers.
But just as I was called to something different than my mother was, I fear Dora has her own calling. Or at least, a very good excuse to keep from marrying anyone other than her Berber boy. I muse to the king, “I don’t suppose there are many other men who aren’t dissuaded in their affections by a girl who keeps a snake for a friend …”
Juba furrows his brow. “You don’t think they find ways to meet in secret, do you?”
“Would you want to know if they did?”
As he contemplates the risks our headstrong
daughter might take, the king pushes his fingers through his hair, which is turning silver in a way I find most comely. But in the end, he says, “No, I suppose not. I have learned to let every woman have at least one mystery.”
*
LATER that night, I ponder his words, wondering at any hidden bitterness. I will always be a creature who harbors secrets—otherwise, I would not be myself. Even my goddess keeps her mysteries. But there can be no danger now in telling the truth. No painful choices for Juba to make. No risk that he will betray me. So, in the shadow of lamplight, cradled in my husband’s arms, I force myself to say, “I once asked you to let me keep a secret …”
He hushes me with one long finger atop my lips. “I already know.”
“You can’t.”
Juba insists, “I have suspected for a long time. When they said your twin was killed in Egypt, I told you I would send for the body to bury. And yet you never asked after the corpse again. Never once. You, who will wait seventy days for an embalming to be done properly. You built a tomb for Alexander Helios on that hill, but never performed rites for him there. So he must be alive somewhere …”
I shake my head, wondering how I will explain that if Helios is alive he is only alive in me. That he is here with us even now, but no longer between us.
As I search for the words, Juba whispers, “It took me some time to work out, but then I remembered. You once asked me to swear that I would never help the emperor harm your brothers. I would not make that promise. I would not give you what you needed to put your trust in me. I did not understand, then, that I could not love you and still deny you the one thing you needed most. But I understand it now, and I vow to you I will never tell Augustus. I will never cause harm to your twin or anyone you love. I vow this on my life.”
Swallowing, I turn to face him, realizing that he has finally chosen me. He has chosen me over the emperor and I am dizzied with love for him. Clutching him, I start to speak, but it comes out only as a sob.
“No tears, Selene,” he pleads with me. “I did not say it to make you sad …”
Daughters of the Nile Page 53
