With the crowds still cheering, we passed through the gates into the royal enclosure, where officials rushed out into the bright sunlight to greet me on the stairs. “Majesty!” Euphronius cried. “We had no word that you were coming. No time to prepare.” He was a strange sight. In the Egyptian tradition of mourning, he’d ceased to shave. Gray hair adorned his once-bald head. A beard covered his chin. I realized that he knew Philadelphus was dead. Perhaps news had reached him or perhaps he’d seen it in the Rivers of Time, but he knew. I wanted to run to him as I’d done as a little girl and weep.
Instead, I swallowed my sadness and said, “I’m glad to see you again, old friend.”
“The sight of you is the only thing that can brighten the dark days of my grief,” he replied.
I turned away lest I lose my composure. A contingent of Juba’s Roman advisers gathered around Balbus. He gave me a very slight bow, and they all mimicked him. Then I noticed the tall Berber chieftain. “Welcome back, Majesty,” Maysar said, jingling as he bowed, for he seemed to have acquired an impressive silver chain belt. “You’ve been missed.”
I’d missed them too. Climbing the marble stairs, I was even eager to see Juba. “Where’s the king?”
Did I imagine the sidelong glances and low murmurs?
It was Maysar who finally spoke. “King Juba is gone on expedition.”
“I’m sure he’ll be back soon,” Balbus said, but the Roman veteran seemed to lack his usual blustery confidence.
This awkward exchange made me happy to go inside, away from public scrutiny, where I was reunited with my slave girl. We embraced, but when she saw Bast, Chryssa choked back a sob. “Oh, his little cat . . .”
“No tears, Chryssa. I can’t bear it. Today I just want to rejoice in coming home.”
Euphronius leaned on his divination staff, stroking it as if to conjure memories. “Majesty,
Egypt
is your home.”
Did he think I’d forgotten? Tala whisked the children off to the nursery and I retired with Chryssa and the mage. I sought out the sanctuary of my rooms, the ones with windows overlooking the ocean. I threw back the silky curtains to let in more light and it seemed as if every winter blossom turned its face to me; the perfume of the sweet alyssum in my gardens beckoned, clean and welcoming. Chryssa put my things away, taking careful inventory of each new acquisition, and I found myself comforted by the familiarity of her service. Yet something niggled at me. “Why did no one want to speak of King Juba?”
“He went on a journey with Circe, his Greek
hetaera
,” Euphronius said. “I think she’s Herod’s spy.”
If I’d known Juba’s head could be turned by a
hetaera
, I might’ve hired one for him myself. “
Circe?
That can’t be her real name.”
“Of course not,” Chryssa snorted. “She’s a professional, and everything you might expect from such a woman. She’s talented in a variety of arts. There are rumors he’s settled her into a palace in Volubilis where he treats her like its queen.”
No bitter reply escaped my clenched jaw. Harem intrigue had long been a part of my family’s history and I knew better than to permit a genuine rival in my own kingdom. “Are the rumors true?”
Euphronius rubbed his chin. “I don’t think so. The king’s missives are long accounts of his travels, detailing everything from the behavior of elephants to his theory about the source of the Nile. Sometimes he sends plants for me to catalog and other times he sends maps for Rome. He couldn’t do all this if he were indolent with pleasure in a palace with a prostitute. But he seems in no hurry to return, no matter how we beseech him. He’s been gone for months.”
Was I fascinated or appalled? “
Months?
Who has been ruling the kingdom?”
Euphronius shrugged. “The council, Majesty. With much disagreement. I can’t count the number of times that Balbus and Maysar have nearly come to blows.”
With a critical eye, Chryssa examined a set of engraved ink pots I’d acquired in Rome. “I think the Berber would gut Balbus like a fish if he weren’t mindful of the trust you placed in him. It’s only by some miracle of Isis that blood hasn’t yet been spilled.”
“What are they fighting about?” I asked, realizing that I’d been gone too long and had much to catch up on.
“What
don’t
they fight about?” Euphronius snorted. “The slaves, the raising of troops, war with the Garamantes, the endless stream of veterans needing to be settled, the treasury—” He broke off, exchanging a guilty look with Chryssa.
“The treasury? No, don’t tell me. Not now.” I didn’t want to hear any more bad news. I would learn it all tomorrow in the council chamber. Right now, I just wanted to sleep peacefully in my own bed.
IT wasn’t until I’d changed gowns for the third time that I admitted to myself I was anxious. When I left for Rome, it was barely acknowledged that I
had
a place on the council as Mauretania’s queen. What political dynamics might I face now, after having been away? To be sure, I had my partisans, but Juba’s Roman advisers still made up the bulk of the government, and they’d been hostile to me. I dreaded the inevitable clash.
When I pushed aside the fringed draperies and passed beneath the archway into the council chamber, the herald announced me and the assemblage stood. I wore a splendid emerald-colored gown held in place with a long rope of pearls that looped round my waist three times, then crisscrossed my breasts before encircling my neck. In my hair, I wore a decorative diadem, likewise studded with pearls. On my shoulders, the royal purple cloak that Balbus had given me.
I forced my countenance to one of confidence. An expression that said this was my council, my palace, and my kingdom. I swept up the stairs of the dais and seated myself on the throne. Then I lifted my eyes to see the most astonishing thing. Juba’s Roman advisers looked
relieved
. “Majesty,” Balbus said, as if speaking for them all. “We welcome you home and wonder what news you bring.”
I reported everything hurriedly: The Kandake of Meroë had invaded Egypt. Admiral Agrippa was in self-imposed exile in the East. The emperor had survived his illness. Marcellus and my little brother had not. To keep the grief from my voice, I turned quickly to matters that concerned Mauretania directly. Our grain shipments helped ease the famine, but Rome would need more wheat and barley. “I must extend my thanks to Euphorbus and the rest of you for ensuring that grain arrived, even in winter. I know it was difficult. Perhaps near impossible. Yet I must ask, how much more can we send and by when?”
Maysar rose to his feet. His ornamented slippers swept softly against the marble as he took a few steps. “Majesty, Mauretania is a land of fruit and honey. We send the bulk of our grain to Rome, and for ourselves we eat fish and olives and the flesh of animals that roam in abundance. But those last shipments of grain cost us dear. We made no profit.”
I expected this and feared the worst. “So our treasury is empty . . .”
Maysar gave an uneasy smile. “Empty? No. Our treasury is growing. With the new seaport, we’re doing brisk trade. Lumber, carpets, animals for the arena. These things are all in high demand. But . . .”
“But?” I leaned forward, preparing myself for bad news.
“While you were away . . .” He cleared his throat and swept a hand in the direction of Chryssa, who skulked by the entryway, a bundle in her arms. “At the insistence of your rapacious slave girl, we started a dye works off the coast.”
Chryssa came forward, bowed deeply before my throne, then snapped open a voluminous garment before me. It was a purple cloak, a nearly exact duplicate of the one that I wore. “The sea snails? Juba gave permission for this?”
“Yes, Majesty,” Chryssa said, then climbed the marble dais and held the new cloak against the old. “It isn’t exactly the same shade as the Tyrian but very close. A little bluer. Prettier, I think.”
“And there’s demand for it?” I asked. Nervously, she looked to the others, and I sighed in exasperation. “Oh, will one of you please tell me!”
Chryssa was the brave one. “We call it Gaetulian purple. We put out that
this
is the color
you
favor. As you were born to the purple, the only remaining Ptolemaic queen, it’s become fashionable. We’ve received orders from all over the world. But we did this without your permission, Majesty. We beg your forgiveness . . .”
The council chamber was silent, everyone straining for my reaction. Since my mother’s death, I could scarcely count the days upon one hand that I hadn’t lied about something. Yet they all stood in mute terror over their harmless deception. “Well, I
do
favor Gaetulian purple, and I hope Lucius Cornelius won’t be offended, but I don’t think I’ll ever wear the Tyrian again!”
Balbus laughed, and as sighs of relief filled the chamber I removed the older cloak and fastened the new one on my shoulders. It was very fine indeed! If this new dye sold for even half that of its Tyrian counterpart, I’d have gold aplenty to send to Helios and his Meroite armies . . . if only I could find him. I’d never worry about how to fund a Temple of Isis or any other project. Sweet Isis, we were going to be
rich
.
Apparently, Chryssa already was. Presenting me with a note that detailed her share of the dye works investment, she lowered her eyes. “This is my
peculium
and I submit to you my request for liberty.”
This formality was unnecessary, but I knew how much it meant to her that we observe the official forms as nearly as we could. Though it would be expected of me, I wasn’t obliged to grant her freedom, and with the whole council looking on, her eyes met mine in silent plea. In truth, I’d never wanted to own another human being; I’d always intended to free her. Yet the fear that she might leave me made me hesitate. To sever this bond was to risk losing my closest companion.
This was, I thought, why love was so dangerous. I searched for the right words, when a certain warmth stole over me at the realization that her happiness was more important than my fear. Even if she left me, I’d never regret speaking the words, “My council may serve as witness that I gladly grant your freedom and will enroll you in the census. You’ll be known hereafter for official purposes as Cleopatra Antonianus.”
As I had received citizenship through my father, she’d bear his name and mine. In this way, even if no other, we would always be connected. She seemed to know it too and her eyes glistened as she took the new name to herself, bowing before me as a free woman.
EARLY the next morning, my courtiers and I boarded a small ship that ferried us out to an island upon which fishermen hauled in large wicker baskets filled with murex. It was the smallest of the dye factories and touring it was an otherwise idyllic adventure but for the stench. Going ashore, I nearly gagged. “What is that vile smell?”
Chryssa grinned, inhaling rather dramatically. “Learn to love it, Majesty. It’s the smell of profit!”
“It’s the dead snails, fermenting in the sun,” Maysar said with a grouchy roll of his eyes. “You’ll grow accustomed to it.”
I somehow doubted that. We tread a footpath between mountains of crushed shells. Muscular men stirred giant pots from which putrid plumes of steam rose up to sting our eyes. The workers wore veils to cover their mouths and noses. Even with such coverings, they must have had very strong constitutions. Much stronger than those of my courtiers; Lady Lasthenia pinched her nose shut and before Crinagoras could utter a witty word he rushed back to shore to vomit. With my own stomach churning in disgust, I asked, “Must the dead snails be fermented
and
boiled to get the color?”
The Berber chieftain and Chryssa answered me at the same time. She said yes. He said no. Then they grinned at one another as if they’d argued about it before and had enjoyed doing so. Maysar kicked at a little pile of shells, saying, “The sea snails need not be crushed up and turned into pulp. As I’ve told your greedy little freedwoman, the snails can be milked for pigment. When you poke them, they secrete mucus. Alone, it smells nothing so offensive as rotting shellfish. If we kept the snails as Romans keep lampreys, we wouldn’t have to keep dredging the sea for more.”
This seemed like a much more agreeable way of making the purple dye, but Chryssa argued, “As I’ve told this uncivilized Berber, milking the snails would require staggering amounts of labor. We’d need a legion of slaves.”
Too many slaves had already come with us from Rome. More arrived every day. I didn’t like the stench of this dye factory, but when I considered the alternative, it wasn’t difficult to decide against the snails.
Twenty-three
MAURETANIA
SPRING 22 B.C.
A few days after my return, Lady Lasthenia took me on a tour of the unfinished lighthouse. She and her students had employed mathematics to design new mirrors that better reflected the light. Now those enormous silver mirrors dangled at the ends of ropes as men used cranes and pulleys to haul them up. Someday, a fire would burn in that lighthouse, blazing as an eternal beacon of welcome to Iol-Caesaria. It was a thing of wonder to me and a great source of pride.
As we stared together up at the lighthouse, Lasthenia said, “We all share your sorrow for Philadelphus, Majesty. Pythagoreans believe the soul is indestructible and that he’ll be born again. In this, we aren’t so different from your Isiacs.”
I’d run from Augustus’s grotesque proposal like a hare from a hunter, only fearing that I’d be captured. I’d failed my Alexandrians, but my flight from the emperor was only a temporary setback. I hadn’t forgotten Egypt or the war happening there. “I wonder what your eyes and ears in Egypt have told you about the Kandake of Meroë?”
Lady Lasthenia crossed her arms over herself and adopted a scholarly tone of voice. “She’s a powerful queen who calls herself a pharaoh. I’m told she’s very majestic. She has a high proud forehead and wears thick gold bracelets on both arms. Her lips are very lush, very full, and they say that her skin is like polished onyx—”