It was Musa whose voice pierced the uncomfortable silence. “Euphorbus is my brother, Augustus. We parted when Lord Antony gave us our freedom, but everything he knows, he learned from me.”
I stared at Musa in surprise, as the emperor was wracked with an interminable cough. He convulsed, one of his feet sloshing water on the floor, and Musa called for slaves to carry the emperor to his bed. They hurried in, taking the emperor by his pale arms and lifting him from the chair. “Come,” Musa said to me. “He asked me not to let you see him like this.”
I followed the physician on unsteady legs. We stopped in the corridor beneath the painted garlands, vibrant green on the wall, and I leaned back against the plaster. The question that burned in my throat went unspoken, but Musa must have seen it in my eyes. “I hope I didn’t just make a terrible mistake, Majesty, but you seemed in need of my help.”
My wariness still made me choose my words carefully. “Euphorbus is your brother?”
“No,” Musa admitted. “But when I was in Alexandria with your father, I knew a Euphronius. He was a priest. A good man. Your tutor if I’m not mistaken . . .”
A hand to my cheek, I gaped at him. “Why would you take such a risk for me?”
“I’ve told you before that your father was a good master to me and that I was grateful to him for giving me my freedom. I’m a friend to you and your brothers, Majesty. You have many friends, though you may not know it. If ever I can help you, I will. As for risk, well, whatever we say in front of Augustus now may be denied and blamed upon the fever if he lives.”
“If he lives,” I whispered. “And he must live. He must live.”
ONCE Augustus was abed, I returned to the sickroom, taking up my harp again. I thought the emperor had drifted to sleep, but he turned rheumy eyes my way and murmured, “The divine Julius had the falling sickness. He was afraid that anyone should know. Once, I saw him froth at the mouth like a dog, and I drew the curtains and let no one see.”
Plucking a soft melody, I said, “He must have been grateful to you.”
“I thought I was the only one who knew of his illness, Selene.” He winced with pain. “But Cleopatra knew too. It was hinted at in your mother’s letters, the personal ones that she kept and showed to me to soften my heart toward her. She tended Caesar whenever he fell, just as you’re tending me now.”
He was still trying to live another man’s story, and here I was to complete the illusion. To see the hunger for me in his eyes was no less disturbing than it had ever been, but would my mother have flinched from it? She’d always done everything for Egypt and would expect the same from me. I gritted my teeth beneath a serene smile, knowing that I must stay by him and stoke this fantasy.
THE surest way to re-create the emperor’s fantasy would have been to stay in my mother’s old residence, the one she lived in as a guest of Julius Caesar. But if I were to relive my mother’s life—if I were to succeed where she’d failed—my story must not end with my little girl delivering to me a deadly basket of figs. So I bought a house across the river with ample room for my courtiers and an excellent view of the boat-shaped Tiber Island, the center of which was adorned by an obelisk resembling a ship’s mast. It was in my new house that my daughter first learned to walk, falling to her knees countless times upon the black and white tiled floor. When she cried, I’d take her to the terrace to watch young waterfowl test their wings while fishermen pulled in their nets.
My days were devoted to nursing the emperor, but entertaining consumed my evenings. My royal retinue was delighted to receive important guests and I was grateful for the tasteful entertainments of my poet and pretty Ecloga, my young mime. My house was a veritable embassy of Mauretania where Roman luminaries and foreign ambassadors came to call.
This house was, I realized, the first place in which I’d ever been my own mistress. It wasn’t my mother’s home, nor the emperor’s, and though it paled beside my beautiful palace in Mauretania, I didn’t even have to share this house with Juba. Not yet. I did write him a letter, apprising him of the emperor’s health and beseeching him to empty our storehouses and send more grain as proof against the coming famine.
Juba didn’t reply. I received word only from Euphronius: The king cares nothing for matters of state. He ignores dispatches, doesn’t meet with his council, and spends his time in the stables. Several Berber girls have been offered as concubines to comfort the king, but you’ve no cause to worry on that account as he refuses them, saying that he doesn’t want to favor one tribe over the other. We should, however, fear the influence of a Greek hetaera who has come to court as a gift from Herod.
Juba’s disinterest in the coming famine disturbed me even more than the fact that my enemy was providing my husband with female companions. To my immense irritation, I could do nothing about either as long as I was obliged to stay at the emperor’s side. One morning, as I prepared to make my daily pilgrimage up the Palatine, Tala said, “It’s shameful that you tend Augustus like a humble nursemaid. He doesn’t need you there every day.”
She made a good point and not just because the emperor’s health was improving. In spite of his drama with the signet ring, almost everyone still believed that he intended to rule Rome as a monarch. I feared they would blame his ambitions upon me and didn’t wish to give rise to gossip that I hosted lavish feasts while the Romans went hungry. Nor did I want to be seen as closeting myself away from Rome’s plainer citizens. I had my own reputation to protect, so I decided to take Philadelphus for a day at the races.
THE Circus Maximus was politically neutral. Patricians, plebeians, equites, freedmen, and slaves were all equally passionate about the races, and the enormous stadium was an excellent place to be seen. How Roman he’s become, I thought as Philadelphus excitedly rattled off the names of the best charioteers. I couldn’t help but be a little excited too.
Julia and Marcellus joined us at the arena, which turned my royal processional into an even grander thing, prompting trumpeters to announce our presence to the crowd. As we took our seats in the imperial box, the Romans cheered for the beautiful young married couple, and Marcellus glanced at the chair usually reserved for the emperor, laughing. “I could get used to this!” I must have looked appalled because Marcellus turned to Julia and said, “I see the sunny shores of Mauretania have done nothing to improve Selene’s sense of humor.”
“Don’t taunt her,” Julia said, waving to the crowd. “We’d hardly recognize Selene if she weren’t fretting about something! ”
“It’s just that you shouldn’t jest about taking the emperor’s place,” I said. “People might think that you wished him dead.”
Below us, in the arena, charioteers rode into view, flying their colors. Red, white, blue, and green. Four matched white horses in golden harnesses trotted at the command of one of the circus stars, and from the crowd, rose petals fell like rain. The lash of a whip sent the stallions into a gallop and over the thunder of horse hooves, Julia said, “Don’t be so dramatic, Selene. Of course we don’t wish my father dead. Besides, everyone knows he’s getting better. I sense that it’s your doing, but they’re going to erect a statue to Musa in the temple of Aesculapius for saving my father’s life.”
“Musa is a fine physician,” I said. “I don’t begrudge him.”
Julia plucked grapes from a platter and wiggled her toes in her sandals. “Neither do we. Like I said, we don’t wish my father dead, but he will die sometime, and when he does, Marcellus and I will change everything in Rome.”
Philadelphus had been counting coins to make his bets, but this made him look up. “What will you change?”
Marcellus waved his hand with a carefree patrician air. “I’d pack up Livia’s things and throw her out onto the street. What’s more, I think she knows it!” Marcellus and Julia both laughed, but I worried that they were overly sure of themselves, grown wild and careless after a few months of relative freedom. Rome was filled with Livia’s powerful Claudian family, and their clients numbered in
the thousands. Some of them were probably in the stands even now. Such words, cast so casually about, could get back to her. “Tiberius and Drusus can stay,” Marcellus added, motioning to a vendor who poured us some very fine wine. “Livia’s sons may be Claudians, but they aren’t evil.”
“Tiberius is a boor,” Julia told me. “The only one who ever seems to make him smile is Agrippa’s daughter. If I thought Tiberius actually had a heart, I’d swear he was sweet on her.” By Agrippa’s daughter Julia meant Vipsania, of course, not little Marcellina, Agrippa’s youngest, born to him by the emperor’s niece. But someone outside the family might be forgiven the confusion. The Romans mocked my family for our brother-sister marriages, but they wound their own families almost as tightly. “Every young aristocrat in the city wants to entertain us,” Julia continued. “We all go. Drusus, Minora, Philadelphus. Even Marcella and Antonia can sometimes be persuaded to abandon their dour old husbands for a good party. But Tiberius claims that he’s too busy counting money in the treasury and advancing his career as quaestor to be out gallivanting with the smart set.”
My, how things had changed since I’d been gone. “Your father lets you go to parties?”
Julia smirked. “I’m a married woman now. My father says it’s my husband’s burden to rule me.”
“And I’m a tyrant over her,” Marcellus reassured me with a wink. “When Julia misbehaves, I threaten to take her to Greece.”
Julia sighed happily. “I so want to go to Greece and Egypt and Spain and everywhere! But mostly Greece. My friends tell me about the Mysteries at Eleusis. Some of them have been initiated and they had visions. Even those who believe in your goddess take part.”
“Isis isn’t only my goddess,” I said. “She’s all goddesses.”
“How very convenient!” Julia laughed then clutched my hands to soften the sting of her mockery. “We should do it together, Selene. Go to Athens and take part in the Mysteries. You can work your magic. The kind with the wind, though, not the bloody hieroglyphics. That always ruins your gowns.”
“Julia,” I began, exasperation all too evident in my voice. “You’re—”
“A wicked, shallow girl,” she finished. “Yes, I know. Livia tells me all the time. You love me anyway!”
I did love her and somehow knew, even then, that this time with my loved ones was precious.
Philadelphus placed his bets on the blues. I bet on the greens because the horses were Barbary steeds, bred in Mauretania. “You’re going to lose your money,” Marcellus told me. “If Philadelphus bets on blue, we all do. He has a knack for gambling. He beats Augustus at dice all the time.”
Was Philadelphus so foolish as to use his powers of sight for sport? My littlest brother didn’t seem to notice my glare, and then the horses were off. While the chariots roared around the treacherous circuit below, Iullus and some of his friends dashed up the stairs to join us. Like Marcellus and Tiberius, Iullus had also started upon the so-called cursus honorum in which young Roman men took on a succession of public offices with the intention of reaching the pinnacle of power. I knew he was campaigning for office and had wondered how he afforded it. Seeing the way Julia greeted him with a kiss upon both cheeks, I wondered no more. Iullus smiled at Julia, eyes smoldering, and she turned pink from head to toe. If her husband hadn’t been seated between them, so untroubled, all of Rome would have known they were lovers. “Iullus Antonius,” Marcellus said, raising a cup. “We’ve chosen the wrong profession, campaigning for office like common drudges. If we took up racing, we’d be able to hire our own armies. Have you heard the absurd sums charioteers take home?”
“Only if they live to collect their prize money,” Iullus replied. The two young men laughed together and I realized how comfortable they were with their arrangement. Though I tried to fight it, I envied them. It had been here, in this very arena, where Helios had won the crowd’s adulation in the Trojan Games by rescuing Drusus from being trampled. That was the very same day the emperor tried to give him a new name, the day that Helios ran away . . . now I despaired of ever seeing him again.
“HOW can you waste your gift on gambling?” I cried.
Seated by my hearth with Bast purring contentedly in his lap, Philadelphus only shrugged. “Should I use my sight to help Augustus plan his war on Parthia? At least gambling doesn’t hurt anyone.”
I shouldn’t chastise him. He was only doing as I’d commanded him. Finding a way to survive in this Roman world. Though he would soon don the toga virilis of manhood, Philadelphus had managed not to draw too much notice to himself as one of the children in the emperor’s household. His relative obscurity might protect him. Even so, I couldn’t help but wonder what I might do if I had his gifts. “I wish I could see into the Rivers of Time . . .”
Now he looked very grave. “You wouldn’t like it. I see horrible things, like starving people . . .”
Juba and I had been sent to Mauretania to stave off famine, but it was coming anyway. “It’s a late harvest in Mauretania. I worry that the next shipments of grain won’t be ready before the sea closes. To get more, Juba will have to coerce ship captains into risking the winter journey and some won’t go at any price.”
“Write him a letter,” Philadelphus suggested. “With Augustus so ill, maybe no one has.”
“I have! Juba doesn’t reply.”
Philadelphus glanced at me, alarmed by my distress. “Is he a bad king? A bad husband?”
I told only the plain truth. “He’s well intentioned, but I fear neither kingship nor marriage has turned out the way he expected . . .”
“Is it what you expected? To hear some tell it, Mauretania is an unforgiving land filled with howling savages.”
“Oh no. Mauretania is beautiful. The sea is so blue, and the harbor looks like the gods created it to be Alexandria in miniature. In the market people speak a thousand tongues. Desert merchants on camels bargain with wealthy shipping magnates. Bankers and financiers shop alongside silversmiths and stoneworkers and slaves. One day, I’ll take you into the wheat fields where the farmers drive oxen behind their plows. I can’t wait for you to see it all.”
“I can see it,” Philadelphus whispered.
“With your eyes. I want to take you there.”
“I always stay in Rome, Selene.”
He’d said that before, when he was ill. I liked hearing it even less now. “You don’t know that. You’ve said yourself that the Rivers of Time can shift course.”
“I don’t mind,” he said. “Our family is in Rome.”
Philadelphus had lived fully half his life in Rome and our half sisters had become his siblings in truth. It broke my heart that he should forget what brought us here, but he was young. Perhaps it was a blessing for him to forget what I never could. I knelt beside him. “Philadelphus, when you look into the Rivers of Time, does the emperor make me Queen of Egypt?”
“Sometimes.”
Sometimes. A frustrating answer. “When you see me become Queen of Egypt, how does it happen?”
He closed his eyes. “Augustus opens an engraved box of silver and gold, bearing the Ptolemy Eagle, then places our mother’s diadem on your brow and her scepter in your trembling hands.”
It was a tantalizing image, one that seared itself into my soul like destiny. “How? What leads to that moment?”
Philadelphus flinched and his eyes flew open. “You don’t need to know.”
“Tell me.”
“No.” Suddenly, he leapt to his feet, making ready to leave. “Telling you won’t help make you queen. I’ve never seen it happen because I told you anything!”
What had happened to the pliant boy I’d left behind? I had to take him by both arms to make him stay. That’s when I realized he was shaking. “You’re upset.”
“I don’t want to talk about my sight,” Philadelphus said.
“All right,” I said, eager to calm him.
“I don’t want to talk about it, Selene. We don’t have much time together. We have to tal
k about something else. Ask me about the chariot races, or let me tell you how I bested Drusus in the gymnasium, but you mustn’t ask me what comes next, because I won’t answer and I can’t bear it.”
Nineteen
ROME
SUMMER 23 B.C.
IT ’D been another hot summer, tempers on edge, and not enough food. Riots weren’t uncommon in Rome, but the increase in gang fighting and public unrest worried me. I sent letters to Euphronius, commanding him to find some way of sending more grain, no matter what the risk, no matter what the cost. Bribes. Magic. It didn’t matter. We needed more grain.
When the emperor was well enough to get out of bed, I could put off a dreaded task no longer. Carrying Isidora in my arms, I knocked softly on the door to his study. “Leave the door open for a breeze,” Augustus said, rising gingerly from his couch. “I’m still feverish, but I think Virgil will have no cause to write mournful funeral poetry on my account.”
“I’m glad.” He searched my face for a lie, but he wouldn’t find a trace. I needed him to live, at least until he made me Queen of Egypt. “Caesar, this is my daughter.” There are no words to explain how difficult it was for me to close the distance between us, bringing my child near enough that he could touch her.
“Is she ill tempered?” he asked, taking her from my arms. “Julia was a very disagreeable child.” I didn’t answer him, ready to snatch her back at the slightest provocation. He stared at her little face and said, “She’s a Ptolemy, that’s certain.”
It was then that Agrippa happened by and went pale at the sight of my baby kicking her little feet while Augustus held her aloft. “You should be abed, Caesar, not entertaining the queen.”
“The queen is entertaining me,” Augustus said, returning Isidora to my arms. “She’s been at my bedside nearly every day.”
“Touching,” Agrippa said, flatly. “Now that you’ve recovered, perhaps she can return to Mauretania and help Juba with the task we’ve set for him. We need grain. Between the mess in Egypt and the imbeciles administering the dole, famine is inevitable. We’d best prepare for it.”
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