Song of the Nile (23 page)

“If we raise a Mauretanian army for war with the Garamantes,” Maysar ventured, “who will lead these troops?”

“Lucius Cornelius will lead our army,” Juba said, and Balbus’s expression was smug. Oh, how I wished the king hadn’t made this announcement. Not here. Not now. The tribesmen were furious. Several slammed down their cups and others stood to leave. Some muttered curses and I knew enough of their language now to recognize it. Juba did too and tried to explain himself. “Balbus will be able to take a tribal cavalry and create an effective auxiliary force for the Roman legions.”

“So much for the independence of Mauretania,” Maysar said, spinning on his heel so that his burnoose swirled around him. Then he stormed out of the banquet.

I chased the widowed Berber chieftain down the long pillared corridor. My running steps were most undignified but entirely necessary, and the disquieting looks of the servants would have to be endured.
“Maysar, wait!”

When I caught up, Maysar growled, “We thought this king would be different. But Juba is
worse
than a Roman. He’s a changeling. He’s a creature of Rome sent to defile our sacred lands. And though my sister praises you, you’re just another Roman wife.”

“I’m no Roman wife!” I cried, deeply offended. “I’m an Egyptian. A Ptolemy. I’m Cleopatra’s daughter. There’s no one who knows better than I do how the Romans destroy and defile sacred lands.”

Now he stopped, his eyes snapping to mine. “There it is, madam. You’re an
Egyptian
. Mauretania is but a sojourn for you. I’ve heard the talk of your haughty Alexandrian contingent. It’s only a matter of time before you’re restored to Egypt, they say. Then what’s to become of us?”

“I’ll still be your queen,” I said, though I couldn’t be sure of it.

He turned in the torchlight so that the hint of blue dye on his skin seemed like a menacing shadow. “Now you’re going to give me honeyed words about how the Romans are only here to help us . . .”

“The Romans are here to steal from you,” I said, and since he looked taken aback by my bluntness, I pressed on. “They have a voracious appetite that can never be filled. Even now, they’re gorging themselves on Egypt. I hope they choke on it.”

Maysar’s hazel eyes narrowed, the weathered lines of his warrior’s face tightening, wary of a trap. “You’re here to stop them?”

“I can’t stop them,” I admitted. Deciding then and there, I said, “But I mean to ensure that for every single thing the Romans take from you, they give something back. Right now, all you see is this palace and a harbor for Rome, but it’s only the start. With Roman money, we’ll build roads to connect the cities and villages. We’ll build aqueducts to carry water into the desert. We’ll build markets in which every Berber can profit. We’ll build an army, using what the Romans have taught us about fighting so that—”

“So that we become just like them,” Maysar interrupted.

I clasped my hands, searching for the words to explain. “Rome is triumphant now, she’s ascendant, but things change. Fate turns. In the hills and the desert, the Berbers have always bided their time. As your sister is fond of pointing out to me, the Phoenicians who built their Carthaginian Empire on these lands are gone, but the Berbers are still here. Aren’t you strong enough to outlast the Romans?”

I saw the hint of a smile. “The king feels this way too?”

“The king is ill advised,” I said carefully, not wanting to do more damage to Juba’s reputation. “That’s why I can’t let you stalk off into the night. That’s why you must stay. Serve as an adviser to me and to the king as well.”

“And serve with that swine-faced Balbus? Never. My honor would never endure it.”

He stared at me, waiting for a gesture of dismissal. I almost gave him leave to go. Then I changed my mind. “For four years I lived with the man who destroyed my family. I ate with him, shared his wine, and played a
kithara
harp to entertain him. For the good of all that I cherished, I endured it. You’re a chieftain. For the sake of Mauretania, can’t you tolerate Balbus?”

“No,” he said, slowly, then showed me his teeth. “But I’ll join your council and enjoy forcing Balbus to tolerate me.”

Fifteen

WINTER was always quiet in Mauretania. To the southwest, winter snows crowned the Atlas Mountains, but here on the coast cypress, juniper, and aloe still covered the world in a green mantle. The almond trees were bare, but sun-drenched flowers bloomed in pots and the warm breeze that stiffened the banners over our palace carried a light perfume. We received few guests and even fewer letters. No more orders from Rome about the maps we must make, the aqueducts we must build, the grain we must send. Until the sea opened again, we were free to spend our efforts building the palace.

I hoped it would be the envy of every monarch in the empire. Bright and luxurious, it would be a reproduction of the home I’d left in Egypt. Carved marble niches waited with high arrogant brows, as if they knew Juba would acquire only the best artwork for them. Terraced gardens and brilliant mosaic floors—all inlaid with translucent glass tiles of green and blue—gave way to airy passageways. Draperies in the terrace doorways swished with every sea breeze, and though rain-fed fountains sprayed with fanfare in the entryway, there were more placid blue pools too.

I couldn’t build a temple to Isis, but even Juba allowed that I must not be faulted for a private shrine to my goddess. If the Romans could house their
lares
and
penates
in the storeroom, I could build a private enclosure in my rooms for Isis as the patroness of my reign. Therefore, I oversaw workmen as they installed an alabaster altar with niches for burning candles or sacred herbs. Painters gave life to my goddess in bright green, red, and yellow—depicting her in the Egyptian style, with wings, an
ankh
in one hand, and wearing a headdress shaped like a throne. I swelled with pride to see it. If Isis lived in me, I was bringing her back home to Africa, step by step.

Meanwhile, Juba’s Roman advisers now treated me with a modicum of respect. This may have been because I now looked more like a woman and less like a girl. It may have been because I was a mother. Or perhaps it was because Juba made no objection when I stated my intention to attend the council meetings.

Like all the greatest leaders, my family embraced the Hellenistic ideal of
harmonia
, a concept of community and cooperation. Tolerance for cultural differences. A goal of partnership between different peoples from all walks of life. This is why Juba had invoked my name to assure the Mauretanians that they’d be well ruled. Now I hoped to make good on that unspoken promise. I arrived early at the council chambers, ascending the stairs of the marble dais to my pearl-studded chair. It was smaller than Juba’s, dwarfed by his golden throne, but mine had history, and I liked it. I thought Isis would have liked it too. I never forgot that Isis was the throne upon which I sat. It was by her providence and with her love that I must learn to rule.

The counselors arrived in groups, bowing to me as they found their seats. Some wore elaborate Roman togas draped over their arms. Some wore traditional Greek
himations
. One wore an unfashionable brown gown, for I’d invited Lady Lasthenia, and her presence here irritated the men almost as much as mine did. When Euphronius took his seat wearing stark white robes, more than a few of Juba’s advisers raised their eyebrows. Still, none of them complained openly until Maysar strode into the chambers, his bright Berber garments sweeping the floor behind him.

Balbus drew his brows together, muttering something to his companions that I couldn’t hear, and a general murmur of disapproval was cut off by the announcement of the king. Before Juba could settle onto the cushion of his throne or call our meeting to order, Balbus was on his feet, one finger pointed directly at the Berber chieftain. “What is he doing here?”

I gave Balbus my most charming smile. “Lucius Cornelius, thank you for giving me the opportunity to introduce our newest councilor, Maysar of the Gaetuli. He’s here at my invitation.”

My charm was clearly lost on Balbus, who turned to Juba. “Gaius Julius Juba, isn’t it enough that we have to endure the queen in our council but also foreigners, most of whom aren’t even citizens?” His fellow Romans thumped their feet in agreement and Maysar tensed, hand on the hilt of his sword. I didn’t turn to look at Juba but sensed his alarm at this sudden mutiny. Balbus squared his shoulders, encouraged by the other Romans. “Why should we welcome a barbarian?”

My lips parted to answer, but I wasn’t the first one to speak.

“Why should you?” Juba asked, voice steady and clear. “Because we say so.”

If Juba’s words surprised me, they positively stunned Balbus. Juba had used the royal
we
, and it seemed to remind Balbus that he stood before a sovereign king. “Majesty, I urge you to reconsider.”

Juba’s long arms stretched at his sides, tendons tight. “Lucius Cornelius, my wife and I were both raised within the household of Augustus himself, who set us here in the highest authority with his full confidence. You may trust in our decisions and you will remember yourself.”

Juba and I were unlike any other client monarchs in the Roman world. We didn’t have to send ambassadors to treat with Augustus, nor await intermediaries to express his will. Outside of Agrippa and Maecenas, there was no man within the emperor’s circle trusted more than Juba. Balbus knew it, and though he blustered on a few more moments, he eventually took his place, brooding silently.

What we discussed that day I cannot now recall, though I’m sure it had something to do with raising troops to secure the frontier against the Garamantes. I only remember that Juba and I left the chamber together, and everyone stood until we were gone.

On the terrace at this end of the palace, the mist of ocean spray sometimes wet the tiles and made them slick, so Juba offered me his arm and I took it. “Thank you,” I said as we walked. “It means a great deal to me that you supported Maysar . . . and me.”

Juba drew me closer, but said, “I didn’t do it to please either of you. I can’t have men like Balbus test me and find me wanting.”

I agreed. “He’s ambitious and hard to manage.”

“Somehow he’s easier to manage than my wife.” Juba’s tone was lighthearted, an amused tilt to his lips. I didn’t expect that. I wanted to read his thoughts, feel his emotions, but he wasn’t my other half. He was, and would always be, in some part, a stranger. “Selene, I’m told that other men’s wives concern themselves chiefly with their households and the gentler arts.”

“I’m not one of those wives,” I replied, encouraged when Juba didn’t scowl. “And though you might deny it, I suspect you wouldn’t be happy if I were. Perhaps we ought to encourage Balbus to find his glory elsewhere. There are opportunities for advancement in Africa Nova.”

Juba shrugged off my suggestion. “I’m going to ride, Selene. Why don’t you come with me?”

As I could think of no good reason to refuse, I accompanied him to the stables. He chose a white horse for me—one of an ancient, all-but-extinct breed with gray stripes on its legs. Taking our mounts down the road, I urged my horse to step clear of rain puddles. Memnon and a few of our guards rode behind us. When it came to horses, Juba was a native son. While I struggled to stay astride, Juba coaxed his horse into an easy gallop past some Berber washerwomen who were too slow to give way to our royal entourage. A spatter of mud doused the oldest woman amongst them, and when she turned to see that it was the king who had splashed her, she cried, “You Romans make a mess of everything!”

At that, Juba wheeled his horse around. “What is the trouble?”

She splayed her dirtied gown so we could all see it. “You’re the trouble, Majesty. Look what you’ve done! You and your muddy hooves.”

“Madam,” Juba sputtered, hand on his heart. “Do you take me for a
centaur
?”

We all broke into uproarious laughter. Me, Juba, the guards, and even the mud-spattered woman. We gave her some coins for her trouble then rode to the shore where the rocks at last gave way to the sandy beach. “A centaur!” I cried, bursting into a fresh round of laughter. “You knew what she meant.”

Juba stopped his horse, leaning forward. “Yes, but I wanted to make you merry.”

As always when Juba wanted to please me, I was guarded. “What makes
you
merry, Juba?”

“Not much these days.” He looked away, his gaze on the mountains to the south. “I’ve sent expeditions into the wilds, but I think I’d like to see more myself. Once things are more established here, I’d like to take a journey.”

He often boasted that he’d been given back his patrimony, but his father’s cities remained in Roman hands; I wondered if he longed for home as I longed for Egypt. “Will you journey to Numidia?”

“No. I want to explore the interior of Mauretania. To see the lions and the elephants and find—Selene, you oughtn’t let him do that.”

I’d been too lax with my horse, who stretched his neck to bother a shell in the surf. It was some manner of sea snail, and the horse was pawing at it, and nipping with his teeth. “Is the snail poisonous?”

“No, but look at the pink froth on your mount’s lips. If left in the sun, it might stain him purple.”

“Purple?” I asked, suddenly alert. “Is that snail a murex?” And when Juba nodded, I realized that my horse was worrying the tiny creature that created the most expensive dye in the world. “Here?”

“Don’t get too excited . . . There’s a dye works in Numidia, in Chullu, but its purple is considered inferior to the Tyrian, the recipe for which is a closely guarded secret.”

Other spiny shells littered the beach, albeit without live inhabitants, and I dismounted to gather some. Juba climbed down from his horse and collected a few shells himself. They were golden in color and whorled at the end with a low spire. Smaller than the kind children put to their ears to hear the ocean inside. In the russet sunset, Juba and I walked together on the pebbles that had washed ashore, their once-angry edges washed smooth by the waters of Mauretania.