Song of the Nile (47 page)

All eyes turned to me for there were some rumors I couldn’t squelch. My congress with the emperor was a well-guarded secret, but my magic was not, so I allowed a smile to touch my lips. “Caesar doesn’t need a woman to fight his battles.”

My words only echoed the very Roman ideals Augustus strove to embody, but he recognized my political volley. The more this line was repeated, the less likely he could make use of me in wartime without losing face. Irritation twitched at his brow, just beneath his oak-leaf crown. “The Queen of Mauretania speaks truly,” he said. “But perhaps there will be no battle. Rome seeks to fight only
just
wars. Parthia must surrender to us our lost battle standards and make tribute for their offenses. If they refuse, they’ll be crushed by the legions I’ve amassed near Armenia. But if they
can
be persuaded, the Parths may recover something
they
want.”

I doubted my words alone had convinced him but found myself strangely delighted by this apparent change of heart. The Indian ambassador seemed pleased as well. “We’d be happy to travel with you, Augustus, to serve as intermediaries.”

I could see it now. All the emperor’s actions here on the Isle of Samos had taken on a shape of the same character. From his willingness to negotiate a peace with the Kandake to his toppling of Artaxias . . . he was, step by step, ensuring a stable stage upon which to perform his next act. Marcus Crassus failed to conquer Parthia because he was a fool. Caesar failed because he was assassinated before he could try. My father failed because he left diplomatic instability in his wake. Augustus had studied; he’d learned from these men. Now he approached his attack on Parthia in slow crawling steps, just as he’d approached everything he wanted, including me.

H E summoned me to his rooms that night. I waited until the oil lamps burned low, half dazed by my unexpected admiration for his thoroughness. When I entered, Augustus wasn’t abed but throwing dice upon a table.
“Caesar doesn’t need a woman to fight his battles for him,”
he mimicked, shaking the
tali
bones in his cup. “You think you’re very clever, don’t you?”

“Not as clever as you are,” I admitted without prevarication. Circe had advised me to find something in the emperor to love; his cunning, his persistence, his plodding determination all resonated deep inside me. We were alike in so many ways that it ought to have disturbed me. “I begin to sense that you may actually prevail with Parthia.”

“I’m touched by your confidence.”

The blood of the Ptolemies ran in my veins; Alexander’s ambitions were a siren call to me too. Much as I might will it away, the desire to be near the center of the political world was as real for me as the pull of the moon. That was something else to appreciate when in the presence of Augustus. “I shouldn’t have doubted you, Caesar. Agrippa may have formulated a genius battle plan, but you . . . While Agrippa is off battling Cantabri hillsmen in Gaul, you’re here threading each kingdom into your alliance like so many disparate beads on a single string.”

The emperor had been the subject of much praise in his life. But what he had wanted—what my mother deprived him of—was her
appreciation
. She’d died before he could make her look upon his brilliance and recognize it. Now he wanted that recognition from me. My words changed his posture. He preened at my praise, like Bast sometimes did when I told her she was a good kitty. My genuine appreciation of his talents also aroused him. Instantly. Powerfully. He took no pains to hide it, his face flushed, a rising bulge between his legs. “Selene, the Indians bring me creatures large and small for my amusement. What will you offer me? Surely I’ve earned some reward beyond a kiss.” I’d known from the start that he wouldn’t be forever content to plunder my mouth with lips and tongue, so I braced myself for his approach as he rose to his feet. “I must leave soon for Parthia, but I
will
make you Queen of Egypt once the Parthian matter is decided. Trust in Caesar. Do not refuse me.”

“I only refuse to be bedded as a prostitute,” I said as he circled me, his breath lifting the downy hairs at the back of my neck. “My mother did what she liked with shameless disregard for the judgment of good Romans. I’ll never allow myself to be dishonored, even by you, because it would taint your honor and that of your son.”

His hands went to my hair, roughly. “No more games. Tell me what you want.”

“I want to give you a son. A
legitimate
son and heir. Make it possible for me to give myself over to Caesar’s hands, body and soul.”

That stopped him. “You wish—you wish to be my
wife
?” The idea of marrying the emperor was revolting in every possible way, but he wanted to possess me. He’d
always
wanted that. Let him believe that I wanted it just as much. He stammered with astonishment. “I’m married to Livia.”

“I know it all too well. And I wonder if it was this way with your father, Julius Caesar, whining about Calpurnia. Do you think he skulked about in the middle of the night, pretending he didn’t summon my mother to his bed? He took her to bed and to wed, his Roman wife be damned.”

“I’m not—”

“Caesar?” The word echoed through the room, and the oil lamps flickered, as if we’d summoned his spirit. The emperor now stood taller, strength regained. He
was
Caesar; he’d never admit otherwise.

“I’ll consider it,” he said, and I was stunned into silence. I’d just asked him to make me Empress of the Empire. He should have slapped me for the suggestion. He should have cursed me or banished me to my rooms the way he had the day I demanded he send Livia away. “I’ll consider it, and you’ll allow me liberties this night,” he said, his lips capturing mine. The acrid tang of his kiss burned like poison. It made me want to spit, but I commanded my lips to receive it as honey.

Every princeling in Asia Minor would have eagerly lain beneath the emperor, so why should I flinch from it? But Augustus took pleasure in the despoilment of virtue. Not the lack of it. So I wouldn’t allow him to ravish me. I broke away from his kiss and said, “We won’t make a child this night.” He must have heard me, but his mouth fastened on the hollow at my throat. Then he yanked the front of my gown open, mauling me with both hands. To my surprise and relief, this was less intimate than kissing. Easier to pretend that I wasn’t inside my own body and that my
ba
was floating somewhere near, somewhere apart. “Gentle,” I scolded as his fingernails raked at me. “I’m not some Gallic girl you captured in a field.”

“You’re as tall as one,” he said, and I knew that displeased him, but I could feel his arousal pressed against me. “You’re my Cleopatra. More like her every day. I didn’t think it would be better with you willing, but perhaps it will be.”

With that, he lowered his head to capture one of my pink nipples between his lips. I hadn’t expected this because suckling was the kind of hedonistic, pleasure-giving, pleasure-taking indulgence that he viewed as oriental deviance. Yet he gloried in it. I arched my back, pushing upon his shoulders to encourage him. In so doing, I forced him down to one knee. A worshipful pose.

A thrill went through me.
He was kneeling before me.
I’d brought the ruler of Rome to his knees, and I wanted to make a fistful of his hair and revel in my triumph. I wanted to force his head back and make him beg, as he’d made me beg. I wanted to strike him across the face as I’d done when he raped me, but it had excited him then. Now, it might break the spell, and I was almost as bound by it as he. It was the feel of his hand moving up my leg that brought me back to my senses. “I’ve allowed you liberties, Caesar, but I warned that we’d make no child.”

He didn’t hide his annoyance but pushed no further. “As you wish, Selene, but this will be the last time you refuse me. When I return victorious from Parthia, you’ll be the one to kneel.”

THINGS happened swiftly after that as the grand machinery of the empire rolled into place. Preparations for the emperor’s departure were made with military precision. He readied for a campaign. He wouldn’t be delayed even by the news that the Romans had again refused to elect a new consul, hoping Augustus would relent and take up the office again. The Romans had clearly not realized what the rest of the world already knew—if Augustus succeeded in Parthia, the highest office in Rome would be too small for him.

And I—what part would I play in making him a giant? Since the night he told me that he might call me to his side on the battlefield to use my sorcery for war, I’d dreamed of battle and blood. Horrible dreams. My mother had been a warrior, but she’d given that strength to Helios, not to me. Like the emperor, my weapons were treachery and guile, and I doubted that either of us would fare well in open warfare. Still, the emperor pressed on with his plans.

In the absence of an elected consul, a man named Rufus had claimed the office for himself and created some sort of minor rebellion in Rome that was swiftly put down. Along with this news came a cadre of men accompanying a boy. “Who is he?” I asked as we loitered on the balcony.

“A Parthian prisoner,” Lady Lasthenia said. “Tragic, really.”

“A pretty boy, though. He’d fetch a fortune in certain Greek quarters,” Lady Hybrida said.

I glanced down again at the boy with his dark ringlets, all gleaming with oil. He wore gold bands about his neck and an expression upon his face that I recognized, for I too had once been a chained captive. “How dear is he to the Parthians?”

“He’s the son of the Parthian king,” Lady Lasthenia replied. “He was kidnapped.”

I closed my eyes.
Surely there is something the Parths want that you can offer in exchange for Roman battle standards
, I had said. Now I must earnestly hope that the King of Parthia would bargain for the life of his son. “A package, Your Majesty,” someone said, and I opened my eyes to see it was Captain Kabyle, who was so restless with his ship always at anchor that he’d taken it upon himself to bring the first news from the docks every day. Or perhaps it was only his excuse to see Tala.

It was winter; I hadn’t expected letters until spring, but Chryssa must have believed it urgent, for she’d sent me a letter along with a tiny pouch. I opened the letter first.

Beloved Queen,

I write to inform you that as the Proconsul of Africa Nova, Lucius Cornelius Balbus has begun a campaign against the Garamantes on the eastern frontier of your kingdom. King Juba has not committed Mauretanian soldiers to the cause, but neither will he hear the appeals of the Berber tribesmen who want the king to negotiate a truce. In truth, the king will hear nothing at all on any subject but his horses. He’s out riding all morning, at the stables all afternoon, and in the evenings he shuts himself up in his study. Only one command the king has given—to strike a coin. I thought you might like to see it.

It had all unfolded just as Maysar predicted, only made worse by the fact that my husband had somehow transformed from a competent monarch into a brooding malcontent. I opened the little pouch and reached in for the coin, with its new portraiture of Juba. But when I turned the little gold disk over, I startled to see my own face. It was an engraved image of me in profile, a diadem in my hair, my cloak fastened over one shoulder. I traced the lettering. Juba’s side was engraved in Latin. Mine was in Greek. Moved beyond words, my throat tightened. I, Cleopatra Selene of House Ptolemy, was no petty plaything for an unimportant princeling. Here was proof. I was queen. Queen of Mauretania. Writ there on enduring metal for all the world to see. It wasn’t the best likeness of me, my nose too long, my chin too short, but I imagined that all that I’d suffered, all that I’d survived, was somehow captured in my expression.

“Is it bad news?” Circe asked.

I clutched the coin, but only said, “There’s war on the boundary of Mauretania. We must return.”

Tala, making eyes like a moon calf at the ship’s captain, seemed pleased by this statement, but my Alexandrians were stricken. Lady Lasthenia actually grasped the hem of my shawl. “Your Majesty, Mauretania is
behind
you.
Alexandria
is before you.
Egypt
is in your grasp.”

She couldn’t know how truly she spoke. Euphronius would have told me to forget Mauretania if he were here, but he was not. He was safely ensconced in my palace by the sea.
My
palace, which I had helped design in every particular and which might almost be finished now. And this coin, this
coin!

Below, the emperor was finishing his business and preparing to depart. Smartly dressed in his military garb—a blue tunic layered over a red one, all worn beneath a colorfully enameled breastplate—he removed his oak-leaf crown and made to leave.

I swept down the stairs and stopped him before his procession reached the gates. In a rush, I said, “Balbus is making war on the Garamantes in Africa Nova.”

Augustus nodded. “They are just tribesmen, no? In his dispatches to me, Balbus claims he can defeat them handily.”

“Send me back to Mauretania,” I said in some fit of madness. “To help end the conflict. Surely you don’t wish to leave such instability in the empire while you fight the Parthians.”

Augustus tilted his head as he regarded me. “Mauretania is a half world away. Let Balbus handle matters. I need you here and you know why. There’s a chance I must send for you.” As his sorceress. His secret war weapon. Here waiting in the East where stormy seas couldn’t prevent my journey to the battlefield. It’d been foolish to ask, but if I hadn’t tried, how could I call myself queen?

When I bowed my head, Augustus said, “You will stay here. Or do I need to leave soldiers behind to guard you?”

“I’ll stay,” I promised. “Memnon and my Macedonians will be sufficient protection.”