Song of the Nile (17 page)

Juba only called for servants to attend me, then retreated to the cramped room he’d claimed as his private study. I was grateful, because I needed time to make sense of my changed world. Chryssa broke open a waxy green leaf, smearing sticky aloe onto my cheeks to soothe my wind-burned skin. I didn’t want to share the truth of what happened, but I knew that Chryssa still grieved for Helios and believed him dead so I whispered, “I’ve seen him.”

She shuddered, her hands trembling. “Isis gave you a vision?”

“No vision, Chryssa. I saw
him
. Helios is alive, but no one must know it.”

She gave me a pitying look, as if she thought I’d gone mad. “Oh, my poor queen.” She didn’t believe me. Should she have? It was all too unreal. And when I woke the next morning, the skies were bright and blue as if the storm had never been.

SORCERESS
.

This was the word spoken most often of me in the days that followed. The Romans whispered the word with fear and loathing. The Greeks, like Crinagoras, mused upon it with skepticism. The Berbers uttered it with a hushed reverence. That I’d gone into sanctuary in their custom pleased them; the rumor that I’d come out of sanctuary to command a storm filled them with awe.

To my surprise, I wasn’t touched by the slightest trace of
heka
sickness. Only heartsickness. I grieved for Helios as if he were really dead. I mourned the boy with the golden future who must now lose his name and his legacy. I grieved to be separated from him again, and more important, I grieved that his spirit had been broken. The Prefect of Egypt, Cornelius Gallus, had done that, and now I traced his name on papyrus. Cornelius Gallus.
Cornelius Gallus
.

Names held power and I wanted power over this man, but I couldn’t decide how to retaliate. If only I knew how to destroy the destroyer of Thebes! What could I do? Egypt was half a world away and even if I still had partisans there, how could I reach out to them without putting them in danger? Frustrated, restless, and in need of diversion, I fixated upon Mauretania. Until I could think of a way to have my revenge, I wanted to know more of this land that had reunited me with my twin.

Late autumn and early winter was the planting season in Mauretania, when farmers drove teams of oxen to pull their plows, digging furrows in the earth. I watched them at their work and learned that the best fields were reserved for delicate wheat, but barley could be grown aplenty on less choice land. While Juba remained cloistered with his advisers, refusing to allow me into the makeshift council chambers, I took a small retinue of servants and courtiers into the sun-drenched hills and inhaled the unique scent of Mauretanian soil in all its infinite complexity. The old king’s orchards now belonged to us and from beneath an olive tree, I had an excellent view of the Roman engineers in the harbor, working a remarkable bit of sorcery of their own. In large vats they mixed volcanic ash from the Bay of Naples with lime to form a concrete that actually hardened under water.

While we watched them build piers with this miraculous substance, Chryssa examined the olive trees of my orchard, which were dry and rotting in the sun, the victim of some pestilence. “It’s a shame,” Chryssa said, running her hands over the gray bark as if it confirmed her belief that Helios was dead and all the world was dying with him. “We might have amassed a little fortune.”

My slave had an acute awareness of every commodity’s value—maybe even her own—but she didn’t know everything. “The olive trees aren’t dead yet,” I said, firmly. “They’ll fight their way back. Meanwhile, the grapes should have been harvested. They might have made a fine vintage. Next year they will.”

Crinagoras plucked a withered overripe grape from its vine. “Our queen speaks as a veritable fertility goddess already. Luckily, I’m on hand to memorialize the epic story of her battle with the sirocco.” I could tell from the way he wagged his eyebrows that he didn’t believe I’d swallowed a storm. That wouldn’t stop him from writing about it.

TALA’S child came the next night, in blood and sweat and pain. The Berber woman’s screams echoed down the dark passageways, beneath the hunting trophies. It was a hard labor, a battle fought upon the birthing chair, one that nearly defeated the midwife with all her elixirs and rubbing oils. After many hours, Tala made a small triumphant sound, sagging as her babe squeezed between her thighs in a rush of fluid.

Tala’s son was a squalling infant whose lusty cries convinced us he would live. His mother, however, lingered between life and death. Before dawn, all the women knelt down before a small stone altar in the garden to make an offering to their goddess for Tala’s health. They left barley cakes and drizzled them with honey, poured milk libations onto the dry earth, and clutched at amulets bearing a circle with a wide triangular base. To their astonishment, I knelt down with them as they chanted their ritual. “Your goddess is my goddess too,” I said, explaining that the symbol of Tanit, narrowed only a little, was an
ankh
, a sign of Isis, a mark of eternal life.

“Queen,” they whispered. “Sorceress. Will you use your magic to heal her?”

I knew no healing magic, but the women pleaded with me to go to Tala’s side, so I did. I found her contorted in bloody linens, her body robbed of all its color but the distinctive blue stain. Her hair hung in sweat-soaked ringlets, clinging to her bare shoulders like black coiling snakes. I feared that Anubis, the jackal-headed god of the dead, was near, so I prayed with her, telling her that childbirth was sacred to Isis and that the goddess would help her through her trials.

She listened, then struggled to make each Latin word she spoke very clear. “Don’t let Romans put my son in the hills when I die. Take the baby to my brother.”

It wasn’t only the Romans who exposed unwanted babies, leaving them to starve, freeze to death, or be eaten by predators. Few in the palace would see the point in sparing an orphaned child of a Berber serving woman, even if she was the sister of a tribal chieftain, but I vowed, “I won’t let anything happen to your baby. If Maysar won’t keep your son . . . I will.”

It was an impetuous promise, but I meant every word. The way Tala’s eyes widened, this was more than she expected. She reached out for me in gratitude and began to cry. I hated this, for I’d never been able to bear watching strong people crumble. “Stop it, Tala. Don’t embrace death because you think your son doesn’t need you. Know that if you die, I’ll give your baby over to Chryssa to learn Greek. He’ll never learn to ride a horse or wield a Berber sword because she’ll make sure that he spends all his time in the library, and he’ll be as spoiled as you say I am. Do you want that?”

Her weak laugh mingled with her tears. “You’re so spiteful, little queen?”

“Oh, Tala, you have no idea.”

TALA survived the birth but never regained her strength. She was weeks abed, and even when she was urged to activity, she moved slowly, her vitality stripped away. The Roman wives at court urged me to dismiss the big Berber woman from my service, for she’d never been respectful and was no longer strong enough for hard tasks. What with a babe on her hip, she was no fit companion for a queen anyway, they said. Worse, she was the sister of a Berber chieftain, no doubt sent amongst us to spy. I didn’t care what they said. I refused to send Tala away. Though the Berber woman didn’t like me, for some reason I liked her, and as a vessel of Isis, I wouldn’t dismiss a widow and her orphaned child.

ONE morning in early winter, Juba rode out from the palace on one of his fine new horses to inspect the aqueduct work of the Legio III Augusta. Thus, it fell to me to greet newcomers to the palace, and when a delegation arrived at the gate, I was stunned to learn that they’d come all the way from Alexandria. Excitement and apprehension warred inside me. “These are Egyptians from the finest city in the world! What will they think of this dank old building?”

“All Egyptians are spoiled like you?” Tala asked. Her customary rudeness had lost its hard edges but reassured me that her health was improving. “Just bespell them to admire this place.”

“It doesn’t work that way, Tala.”

“Why not?” she asked, opening her gown so that her babe could latch on to a swollen brown nipple. “You are sorceress. I name my son Ziri, after moonlight. Like Selene. Means moon, yes?”

I nodded, touched, feeling a kinship with her, even through the barrier of her insolent glare.

At that moment, Chryssa rushed in, her cheeks pink. “The Alexandrians are waiting. We found a throne chair and dragged it into the receiving room for you. Come!” I followed, my nerves a jumble. Not since my father made me a queen in the Donations of Alexandria—the very act that had predicated the war with the emperor—had I taken my place upon a throne.

This one was decidedly feminine, inlaid with ivory and pearls. I ran my fingers over the smooth iridescent arms, marveling. “Whose throne was this?”

It was Tala who answered. “Belonged to Queen Eunoe. King Bogud’s wife, mistress of—”

She broke off and I knew why. “It’s all right, Tala. You can say it. Queen Eunoe was Julius Caesar’s mistress.” Queen Eunoe hadn’t been my mother’s rival. Not truly. After all, it hadn’t been Eunoe’s statue that Caesar placed in his family temple. Eunoe hadn’t given him a son. Nor had he taken Eunoe to wed in the ancient tradition. It was my mother that Caesar had loved. Still, I was intrigued by the queen who had come before me. I settled into the cushion, beneath the watchful gaze of a statue of hulking Hercules—that one ancestor that Juba and I both had in common if one credited the claims of his father and mine. “Was her affair with Caesar considered shameful in Mauretania?”

“Only by King Bocchus. Queen Eunoe was his brother’s wife . . .”

The two Mauretanian kings, Bocchus and Bogud, had ruled jointly. But when Roman civil war broke out, Bocchus supported Pompey and Bogud supported Caesar, going so far as to lend his wife to the cause. After Caesar’s assassination, the two brothers were forced to divide their loyalties yet again. Bocchus supported Octavian and Bogud supported my father. It was a common enough story. Wise families put a son in each camp during Roman civil wars so that at least one of them would end up on the side of the winner. It pit brother against brother, the kind of tragedy that Juba always pointed to when he insisted that the world would be better off when Augustus was the only man who held real power. I admit, it would have been easier to hate Juba if he didn’t make such arguments sound so reasonable.

Our guests entered with the distinct bearing of Alexandrians, some draped in Greek
himations
, others wearing Egyptian cosmetics and wigs. The easy mix of cultures was a hallmark of the city in which I’d been born. These were my mother’s old courtiers, several of whom wore mourning clothes for her. Or maybe it was Helios they mourned, though they could never say so openly, not even here. Standing before me was Master Gnaios, a talented gem cutter who’d worked for my father. Also the Lady Lasthenia, an esteemed Pythagorean philosopher who traveled with a number of her students, eager to find a place at my royal court. Memnon, the commander of my mother’s formidable household guards, led a troop of Macedonian soldiers, scarred veterans, fair-haired and brawny, not to be confused with more typical Greeks. My heart swelled as they presented themselves, their eyes shining a reflection of my mother’s gloried days.

Memnon appraised me with an open stare, as if he didn’t recognize in me the child I’d been when the Romans took me prisoner, but I remembered him and how he’d scolded my brothers and me to make us behave. We’d been afraid of him; now his face was dear to me. “We offer our services as your personal bodyguard,” Memnon said, and my throat tightened with emotion. To have armed men accountable only to me was a blessing.

“I’ll try not to make it too difficult to protect me,” I said, and they all grinned.

Lady Lasthenia laughed richly. “Majesty, if you’ll have us, we’ll be a veritable Ptolemaic court in exile.”

I knew I shouldn’t invite them without consulting Juba, but these Alexandrians remembered my mother as the strongest monarch in the world; I couldn’t bear for them see me as only
the king’s woman
. “We’ll gladly have you,” I replied, and should have given some flowery speech of welcome to these men and women who’d traveled so far to join me, but I detected the fragrant scent of light magic swirling together with the metallic tang of darker sorcery and faltered for words. Chryssa shot me an alarmed look and I followed her eyes to a figure cloaked in bright white.