Daughters of the Nile (30 page)

He teaches me the incantations and rituals to call forth my
heka
and turn it to vengeance, but I realize that he is only humoring me when he adds, “Of course, you would need some essence of him—his urine, his semen, his saliva. Something of his body.”

This I do not have. “Should I send servants to search his empty apartments for a stray hair or nail clipping?”

“Majesty, I have told you before that all magic cuts its way out of you. Curses have especially jagged edges and hooks that take chunks of you with them. Even with careful wording, dark magic may come back upon you. It is a thing to be feared and used sparingly, which is why the laying of curses is work for mages, not for monarchs . . .”

But he cannot do it for me. He drew his magic from the Temples of Isis in Egypt and has too little to spare. I draw my magic from wherever I feel her presence. That is why my blood is infused with
heka
and he, having forsaken Egypt to follow me, has withered in his powers. If a curse is to be laid upon this villain, I must be the one to do it. But before I can send for servants to scour the architect’s room for some trace of his person, my mage asks, “Majesty, do you not think Isis can avenge herself without your prompting?”

This question strips me of my high-minded reasons and makes me suspect that the honor I seek to avenge is my own. In the matter of the architect, I allowed myself to be guided by too much prejudice and too much pride. Can I justly curse Necho of Alexandria—or whatever his true name is—without also cursing myself?

“He is beneath you, Majesty,” the old man advises. “Save your wrath for worthier opponents.”

Grudgingly, I accept his counsel. I do not want to be like the emperor used to be, punishing most severely the faults in others that found a source in himself. Augustus was a man who seldom forgave and never forgot, and I am desperate to believe that he is my apprentice now, and that I am no longer his . . .

* * *

THE
king returns at the head of a legion.

A year and a half my husband has been gone, and in that time, he has raised troops enough for a light infantry and a fearsome cavalry. I know better than to ask too closely as to how this was accomplished. Juba has equipped them with the finest mounts and says our Berbers are the best horsemen in Africa. Some are archers, others carry javelins, and some fight with swords, but they are all trained for quick strikes, and even the Romans praise them for agility on their fleet-footed mounts.

After their parade into the city, the king dismounts, greeting me formally. I greet him just as formally, though it is a struggle not to smile. At fourteen, Pythia bows with poise. I have taught Dora to bow to the king too, but she is so excited that she runs to him, crashing into his legs. Juba stoops to kiss her hair, then scoops our son out of my arms. I fear that little Ptolemy will not know his father, but he laughs as if he only saw him yesterday.

I throw a fine banquet to celebrate the king’s return, during which Crinagoras recites his new poem about the lion that would have eaten my Berber woman did she not command him in my name. Juba is amazed by this story, asking for details I had not thought to, such as whether anyone else was harmed by the lion before it was captured or killed. He wants the lion’s pelt to present as a gift to me, but I remind him that it was Tala, and even the half-wild boy, Tacfarinas, who were heroic and deserving of reward.

“Yes, what will you have of us, Tala?” the king asks.

She shrewdly turns away his largesse, insisting that she would rather hold a favor in reserve one day when she might need it more. Such is the practicality of Berbers.

“Surely you want something, Tacfarinas,” the king says, motioning to the boy. “Maysar tells me that you will grow up to be a true horseman.”

The Berber boy seems startled by the praise and pushes out his chest. “I can ride without saddle cloth or reins. Give me two javelins and a round shield of hide and I can harry my enemies.”

This makes our soldiers laugh, for it is a proud boast for a boy so sleight of build. Give him two javelins and a round shield of hide and he would stagger under the weight. Still, Juba rubs his chin and pretends to consider it. “Perhaps, when you are of age, you would like to serve in my cavalry and harry
my
enemies?”

Delight shines in the boy’s eyes. “I would gladly serve a true Berber king.”

My husband raises his goblet in a toast. “What am I if not a true Berber king? I am Juba the son of Juba. I am a descendant of Masinissa. Kin of Jugurtha too.”

Of those names, only Masinissa was loved by the Romans. The rest were rebels and the boy must know it too. “Will you join with our Berber brothers in fighting the Romans near Egypt?”

I shoot a potent glare at Lady Lasthenia, who is to bring me such news before I hear it anywhere else. “What fighting near Egypt?”

It is the king who answers me, reminding me that when he moved his court to Volubilis, most dispatches from Rome were sent there too. “There is a rebellion on the border of Egypt, near Cyrenaica. The Garamantes who survived the campaign fought by Lucius Cornelius Balbus have made alliance with other tribes. Publius Sulpicius Quirinius is leading legions into the interior of Africa.”

“We should fight Quirinius,” Tacfarinas insists, heedless of the many Romans in our court who would count this akin to treasonous rebellion. “We should come to the aid of our Berber brothers.”

Seeking to tamp down the fire in the boy’s words, Juba says, “I did not raise a legion to go to war, but to see that we don’t have to. Have our brothers not had enough fighting, Tacfarinas?”

“But this time, they will
win
. The Garamantes worship Egyptian gods. They have with them a warrior forged of fire.
Horus the Avenger
they call him, and he will burn all our enemies to dust.”

With my hand, I cover a gasp.
Horus the Avenger.
Still fighting Rome on the borders of Egypt. If it’s true—if it is not just a rumor, not just legend—then it is proof that Helios still lives. It has been years since I saw my twin with my own eyes, kissed him with my fevered lips, caressed his cheeks with my fingers. And this news awakens me as if from a long sleep. It puts a terror in me that my twin may yet be caught, captured, dragged before the emperor, and revealed by name. No, not Helios. He would die before giving Augustus that satisfaction. But oh, he is not dead. If it is true what the Berber boy has said, then Helios must be somewhere in this world, and the relief I feel is such that I am suddenly dizzied . . .

When I sway, Juba stares at me, and I am forced to look away. Heedless of how his words have affected me—indeed, how they have shocked the whole court—the boy goes on. “We should ally with the Garamantes, Majesty. Do that, and we will fight for you to the end.”

Juba should grab Tacfarinas by the tunic and shake him, threaten him, and make a great show of displeasure, but the king surprises me by laughing. “Well, if the Garamantes have a god such as Horus on their side, they hardly need our help, do they?”

The king’s jest cuts the tension. Laughter rings throughout our hall. Even the Romans laugh. Only Tacfarinas stands before his king red-faced, for he has been made to look like an inconsequential little boy. Sensing the boy’s shame, Juba says, “Come work in my stables, Tacfarinas. I will have you as my groom and give you a horse of your own.”

It is too generous a gift for even a resentful boy to turn aside, and Tacfarinas bobs his head in submission. I think Juba will regret this offer, for Tacfarinas will most likely take his horse and ride off into the hills where we found him, never to be seen again. But perhaps it would be better for us if he did.

That night, as the banquet draws to a close, leaving us to finish up the dregs of our wine with only a few intimates, talk turns to our new settlers. Some are Isis worshippers. Some are merchants and moneylenders. But most are discharged soldiers, fresh from the legions, who are to be settled in our lands in keeping with the promise that Augustus made to them. It is their payment for many years of service, but they come at the expense of our Berber tribes, who must make way for these settlers.

Berber grazing lands are being turned into farmland, and the arrival of settlers brings a flood of court proceedings surrounding property. The need for magistrates is so patently obvious that not even the Romans object to my presiding over disputes. “You are, perhaps, a better judge than I am,” Juba confesses.

“To the contrary,” I protest, glad of his return and hoping he can sense it. “You’ve memorized every point of Roman law and understand how to make them work with our own. It is only that I find out the liars more easily than you do.”

“You have help in that, do you not?” the king asks, gaze falling upon Chryssa. “Your freedwoman has made a terror of herself to every farmer, merchant, and shipowner who does business with the crown. I am told she makes them account for every copper.”

“Is that true?” I ask her.

Chryssa is unrepentant. “If the king and queen wish to forgive the thievery of their subjects, it is within their powers. Your Majesties, it is for
you
to be benevolent, but your council should be merciless with those who try to steal from you.”

Whatever happened to the sweet slave girl who first knelt to me in homage, so timid even in speaking the name of Isis? Her freedom in Mauretania has made her bold, but then, has it not done the same for me? I glance at the king to see what he thinks of Chryssa’s exacting standards.

“I cannot find it within myself to argue with your freedwoman,” he says. “So long as such officiousness does not end in her murder at the hands of an aggrieved banker.”

Maysar idly strokes the weapon at his hip. “Hopefully fear of her fierce Berber husband and his big shining sword should serve to protect her.”

We all laugh. Then, with eagerness in his eyes, Juba reaches across the couch to lace his fingers with mine. “Come, wife. We should leave our companions to their reunion and indulge in a happy reunion of our own.”

Nineteen

IOL-CAESARIA, THE KINGDOM OF MAURETANIA

SPRING 14
B.C.

MAKE
the arrangements swiftly,
Julia writes
. And your niece can be a queen before the year’s end
.

Apparently, King Polemon of Pontus is in dire need of a wife. Julia has secured Agrippa’s permission for him to marry Pythia, so we will not need to ask the emperor. Unfortunately, King Polemon has a different bride in mind. Throwing open a chest of exotic gifts, fragrant herbs and spices, shining silks, and golden leaves pounded thin as papyri, the king’s emissary says, “My king offers this and more for your daughter, Cleopatra Isidora, heir of the Ptolemies.”

Juba gives the answer we’ve been giving since Herod’s proposal. “Isidora is too young and my wife will not part with her yet.”

Wearing a cone-shaped hat and a robe of silver mesh, the emissary glances to where Pythia sits with the rest of my women. “Your princess looks ready for marriage. If a girl so beautiful has not already caught the attention of men twice her age, she soon will. Especially when you leave her free to be seen by all those who come to court.”

If he thinks to argue his way into a marriage agreement, he has miscalculated. I do not like his manner and my husband likes it even less. Juba snaps, “That is my wife’s niece you look upon so boldly and without my leave.”

Another girl might blush and let her pretty dark eyes fall to the mosaic floor, but fifteen-year-old Pythia lifts her chin. I’ve not raised her to hide in the women’s quarters or veil her face from the gaze of men and I feel strangely proud of her for this decided lack of modesty. So I say, “If your king is content to have my niece—as the emperor’s daughter assures me he is—we might consider it. But a marriage between the King of Pontus and my daughter is quite impossible.”

We should not have to say it. He should have known better than to ask, but Herod set the shameless example . . .

The emissary withdraws to consider. And that night, we bring out the maps. Pythia runs her fingers over the vellum, murmuring, “With the combined kingdoms of Pontus and the Bosporus, we would have dominion almost over the entirety of the Black Sea . . .”

It would be a marriage of great advantage to us, but I don’t think Pythia understands what it will entail. “King Polemon is not a young man. You would not be his first woman, nor his first bride.”

Fortunately, she is not naive, this girl that I have helped to raise. “I hope he is old. I hope he is
very
old, so that he will need my companionship, comfort, and care. I can give those things. They are a small price to pay for a throne.”

They are, to be sure, less than the price I paid for mine.

She understands the way of the world. She has no romantic notions. What a magnificent queen she will make! But it hurts my heart to think of parting with her. “You would be amongst strangers, Pythia. Do you understand how far away those kingdoms are?”