Song Of The Nile Part 5

"Not our home," I said to rea.s.sure us both. "It's only a mansio. A place to stay until I return to Egypt."

I hadn't meant for Crinagoras to hear my ambitions spoken aloud, but he seemed not the slightest bit surprised. "The natives call it Iol. It means 'Return of the Sun.' "

The sun was my twin's namesake, and the thought that this place might reunite me with Helios lightened my heart. A pod of porpoises leapt in our wake as if to celebrate my return to Africa and I realized that not even the emperor could steal all the joy of this moment from me. If Helios had returned to Egypt by sea, he too would have swallowed with emotion, his heart pounding as mine did now. We'd left Egypt together as prisoners of war, two children clinging to one another at the rail. Now, without thinking, I reached for my twin's hand, grasping only empty air.

While the skipper barked out commands, it became apparent that Iol's harbor couldn't accommodate a ship such as ours and that we'd have to be rowed out, ferried to sh.o.r.e with the rest of our belongings. The smaller ships in our flotilla went in before us and as our officials made landfall, the people of Iol leaned out under tattered awnings, streaming out of flat-roofed buildings and thatched huts, hastening to the docks to greet us.

"We'd better dress in our finery," Chryssa said, urging me back to our berth.

The sight of land seemed to have worked remarkable curative powers on my slave girl, who insisted that I wear a curve-hugging gown and the expensive purple cloak. When she tried to fasten pearl earrings on me, I stopped her. "I don't want to be a peac.o.c.k."

Chryssa dared to argue with me. "They're expecting to see their new queen! Why shouldn't you want to look beautiful?"

Because the emperor and Juba both claimed it was the way I'd dressed on my wedding day that had driven Augustus to violate me. Chryssa, of all people, had probably guessed it, so why did she harry me? "It doesn't matter how I look; they'll all say that I'm beautiful to curry favor."

"What will they say when you aren't listening? They want to see Cleopatra's daughter. Do you want your new subjects to think that you're some dowdy Roman matron?"

"Better that than an ornament on Juba's arm." It'd only been days since I'd been held down against my will, less since I'd learned my husband's part in it. "I refuse to be the pretty plaything of a petty king!"

"Majesty," Chryssa began cautiously, her world-weary eyes meeting mine in a direct stare that most slaves avoided. "When slaves are flogged, the first thing we do is reach for clothes. We want to hide the injury, hide the shame, but we can't suffer the cloth against our wounds. It makes it worse. The cruel masters know this. They count on that extra humiliation to break us. But you're no slave; you can't hide in shame and you can't let anything break you."

I tossed my head in denial; she had no right to speak to me this way and tears stung my eyes. It was as if she could see through me, like clear water, and I worried she might actually speak aloud what the emperor had done. I'd do anything to keep her from naming what had happened to me, so I blinked my tears away and surrendered silently, allowing her to make me presentable. I couldn't wear the sleeveless dress because I'd scratched my arms red and raw, so Chryssa draped me in a white chiton, sleeves fastened with golden pins. I wore the pearl earrings and let Chryssa fasten my hair in a circlet of gold. Thus attired, I made ready to meet my new subjects.

Lucius Cornelius Balbus offered me a hand, helping me down into the rowboat, and I found myself face-to-face with my husband. Juba gave me a curt nod of acknowledgment. I gave him a cool stare. Once on sh.o.r.e, I knew we must stand together, but we wouldn't have to clasp hands as Romans considered open affection between a husband and wife to be unseemly. These thoughts so consumed me as we made landfall that I was taken entirely by surprise by that first unexpected pleasure of planting my sandaled foot upon the soil of Mauretania.

It all rushed to me. Sea and salt, sun and sand. The lowing camels made strange music beneath the voices of the people in the crowd. The spice market must not have been far, for my senses were a.s.sailed with the scents of mint, lavender, turmeric, marjoram, mustard, oregano, and rosemary. Delighted, I stifled my sputter of amazement.

Had we been in Alexandria, crowds would have mobbed the deck at the sight of royal banners, throwing flower petals and holding their hands out for coins, but here in Mauretania, the crowd was merely curious. Dark and sandy-skinned merchants gathered, many of them wearing Greek or Roman garb. Some of our subjects were startlingly fair. These weren't Arabs or black Ethiopians. These were camel-mounted Berbers, native Africans who claimed descent from Hercules. They were ferocious-looking men in striped tunics, colorful head coverings, animal skins, and flowing burnoose cloaks. Some were desert nomads. Others were hardy mountaineers. Their interested stares slid from us to the vast treasure being unloaded from the belly of our ship with the seemingly endless stream of slaves.

The Berber men wore swords on their belts. I wasn't frightened, though, and the sight of Roman soldiers holding the crowd back only served to anger me. These soldiers were members of the Legio III Augusta, the Roman legion from the nearby province of Africa Nova. I wasn't grateful for them. Nor was I grateful for Juba's stance in front of me, as if to protect me in case the crowd would surge forward and attack. If they did, I'd sooner jump into the sea than seek shelter in Juba's arms.

Officiously, we alighted a small podium that had been hastily erected for us, and then Juba cleared his throat to speak in Latin. "Salvete, Mauretanians! I come to you the son of King Juba, restored to my patrimony." Of course, his father had been a Numidian king, not Mauretanian, which forced him to use my name to bolster his claim over the kingdom. "My queen is Cleopatra Selene of House Ptolemy, Princess of Egypt, so be confident in a prosperous reign. We're both children of the line of Hercules and will rule justly. May the G.o.ds bless our glorious undertaking here!"

When he repeated his speech in Greek, only some of the crowd applauded. "Sweet Isis," Chryssa murmured. "Are they hostile or don't they know Greek? Have we been sent amongst savages?"

"Don't call them that," I whispered harshly. This wasn't Egypt. These weren't my people. But I'd asked to rule over them and I would honor them as I hoped they would honor me. When Juba finished speaking, I stepped forward to say a few words of my own, but he caught me by the arm. That he should touch me again was more than I could bear and I gave my husband a baleful look that stopped his tongue, midutterance.

In the king's silence, Balbus was bold enough to say, "It isn't proper for you to speak, Queen Selene."

Was I to take lessons on propriety from Romans? It seemed so. Balbus was a big man who blocked my path just long enough for most of the courtiers and government officials to turn their attention to our processional. It would have taken a trumpeter to get their notice again. Angry that I'd missed this first opportunity to speak to my subjects, I wanted to throttle Balbus but steadied myself with a deep breath of the intoxicating air. This land was hallowed and, somehow, as familiar to me as the palm trees that swayed in the breeze. I felt as if I'd come here to find the missing part of myself. As if Helios were standing right beside me.

A little girl dressed in brightly colored scarves came forward carrying a garland of flowers, and I stooped so she could put it around my neck. I gave her a small token of favor, a little bag of coins, then sent her back to her mother, whose hands were decorated with brown tattoos that whirled into flowers and crescent moons. "Beautiful," I said, first in Greek, then in Punic, which the woman seemed to understand, because she smiled.

At length, a Roman commander introduced us to the local garrison officers, and then Juba and I were ushered into litters with our entourage. Carried through the humble streets, we pa.s.sed a charred and gutted apartment building, metal grates bent away from burned and crumbling bricks. Balbus was our self-appointed tour guide, and he explained that since the death of old King Bocchus, the city had fallen into decay. From what I could see of the streets where barefoot children played, Iol hadn't been much to speak of at its peak. Yet I felt charmed by every resilient patch of swaying gra.s.s and each brave wildflower that blossomed between the neglected paving stones. We pa.s.sed an open-air market where colorful awnings shielded a mult.i.tude of traders wearing fringed leather and striped cloaks. An escaped goat zigzagged through the shoppers, a bell ringing loudly on its neck as several merchants gave chase. I smiled at the rusticity because it reminded me of the little townships in Egypt, but Juba put his face in his hands. "We'll need a new market," he said.

"Hopefully the locals will welcome it," Balbus said. "It's good that we brought slaves because if the tribesmen don't like a project, they won't work. These Berbers, the Mauri and the Gaetuli and others, they're the most backward and bullheaded barbarians you'll ever encounter."

I bit my lip, for Juba was himself a Berber, but if the new king took offense, he didn't show it. Perhaps Juba had become accustomed to such disparagement, or perhaps he'd never considered himself anything but Roman. A subtle tug of sensation made me turn my head and open the curtain of our jostling litter. On the street, I spied a little group of musicians, pounding drums and shaking rattles. Beyond the music, there was something else that drew my attention. It was faint but exotic. In Egypt, I'd learned the scent of magic while trailing behind my mother and her court mage, Euphronius. I knew this wasn't the floral scent of light magic nor the metallic scent of dark magic. This magic was some combination of the two, tinged with something more bracing, like mint. Sagging against its stone pillars, a crumbling temple leaned into view, and I had no doubt it was the source of the magic I'd scented. The temple's broad wooden doors were carved with a symbol that looked very much like the looped cross of an ankh, but with a wider base. A bronzed crescent moon sat atop the building, forcing me to exclaim, "Oh! A temple to Isis . . ."

"It's Tanit's temple," Juba corrected me, adopting the same tone he'd used when I was a child in his cla.s.sroom. "She's the Carthaginian mistress of the moon."

It didn't matter by what name they called her. I knew my G.o.ddess anywhere and by any name. "I wager she's mistress of more than the moon, isn't she? She's a mother G.o.ddess, and a maiden, and a magician."

Juba arched a brow. "So they say, but the tales of this G.o.ddess are dark ones, Selene. The Carthaginians gave children in sacrifice, though the Berbers claim Tanit brings forth souls into new babes when women ask for her blessing. Her temple certainly isn't much to look at, here amongst the squalor of the street vendors."

"Where else should it be?" After all, my G.o.ddess was no indifferent Olympian, to be viewed from afar on some high hilltop. She was a G.o.ddess for all the people and heard their prayers. Though lacking in grandeur, this temple held so much magic that it seemed to seep out of the bronze-studded doors and the hairs on my nape rose in response. I wanted to go inside. To feel powerful again. To wield magic again. To worship Isis and thank her for delivering me from Augustus.

But it would have to wait.

Our procession moved on and Juba gritted his teeth every time a new side street came into view. "It will take a lifetime to turn this place into a modern city," he said, and when our litter arrived at the squat homestead of Mauretania's last king Juba's mood only worsened. The dilapidated mansion may have once housed royalty, but cracks in the plaster now gave way and the red-tiled roof sagged like an old man's jowls. Vines had overgrown the gate, their wild leaves scrambling over the ironwork like an army in a.s.sault. Juba sighed to Balbus. "This is hardly a place suited to my wife's Ptolemaic pride."

I didn't want the Romans to dismiss me as a spoiled Easterner. "My royal husband is overly solicitous of my comfort, Lucius Cornelius. I a.s.sure you, I'm content with this homestead."

Juba seemed dubious. "We don't have to stay, Selene. Augustus wants us to build our new harbor here, but we can rule from Volubilis, inland to the west. Or from the imposing cliffside city of Cirta, in Numidia."

Curiosity overcame me. "Do our lands extend that far?"

The king was forced to shrug. Though everyone said we were to rule the largest client kingdom in the Roman world, the borders of our territory seemed amorphous and subject to change no matter which map we consulted or official we spoke to. Perhaps Augustus wanted Juba to be able to claim that he now ruled his father's lands, when the truth was that Numidia had been almost entirely absorbed into the Roman province of Africa Nova.

As we climbed out of our litters, Roman soldiers hastened about. Our swift arrival seemed to have caught them unawares. Had no one told them we were coming? If we were to be a sovereign kingdom, these Romans would have to leave.

A menagerie of dead animals crowded the entryway. A giant rug of leopard skins stretched over a cracked tile floor and the skin of an elephant, ears and all, hung from the wall like a drab gray tapestry. I swallowed to disguise my aversion.

The staff stumbled over themselves to make obeisance, prostrating fearfully before Juba, for it had been his father's name too, and a name they feared in a king. Several of the girls peeked up at me with an expression of awe. The name Ptolemy still held power, and the name Cleopatra bespoke glamour, so I was very glad that I'd agreed to let Chryssa dress me in my fineries.

At length, my new lady's maids came forward, but exhaustion defeated my best intentions to remember their names. Seeing me sway on my feet, a pregnant servant, a Berber if I wasn't mistaken, asked in thickly accented Latin, "You want bath? Can fill tub."

"Atub?" Chryssa yelped, unable or unwilling to disguise her dismay.

Like me, she was accustomed to the Roman luxury of running water and heated baths but I desperately wanted to feel clean again, so we would simply have to make do. "A tub will do nicely."

The servants showed me through the rotting latticework doors to my chambers. Chryssa seemed eager to take charge, and I found myself grateful for her newfound sense of authority. With the noise from the courtyard, the scampering of lizards on the windowsill, and the strange aromas coming from the direction of the kitchen, this place was foreign to me. Yet I felt as if I'd found a refuge where everything that was broken in me might be healed again.

This wasn't only because of the temple and the magic I'd scented, but because, in the way of a twin, I sensed Helios near.

Eight.

IF I'd hoped for a lavish palace and majestic coronation, I was to be disappointed. We'd invaded Mauretania like a small army and our reward was the old royal mansion, with its soot-stained walls. Our artists and other retainers all needed accommodation. The surveyors, engineers, and slaves needed lodgings too. There wasn't enough room for them, so some bedded down with the soldiers and others were forced to pitch tents on the grounds. To feed the mult.i.tude, our new cooks roasted meat on spits outside and boiled vats of porridge in the kitchen from morning till night. One afternoon, pushing away his bowl, Crinagoras leaned to me and said, "This gruel doesn't inspire me, Majesty. I do hope you intend something grand here in Mauretania, because this is no suitable place for a poet of my stature!"

Juba overheard, and though it was plain to me that Crinagoras was teasing, my husband gave him a sharp look. In truth, I wondered how either of them could have greeted the prospect of this new adventure so glumly. Unwilling to let them spoil my mood and eager to explore the grounds, I summoned the Berber woman to give me a tour. She was enormously pregnant, her bulk emphasized by bright clothing, flowery henna tattoos, and a mysterious blue sheen to her skin. The blue was a fascination to me, but I hesitated to ask about it lest I offend. Moreover, the Berber servant and I had difficulty understanding one another. She seemed to have some authority over the others and spoke better Latin-but that wasn't saying much.

"I am Tala," she said, showing Chryssa and me to an overgrown garden courtyard where a cistern-fed fountain snorted up muddy water. "You are king's only woman?"

Chryssa huffed with indignation. "She's your queen. Not the king's woman. She's his wife."

I was neither in truth, but Tala didn't seem impressed. "Numidian kings keep . . . much . . . wives."

"Many wives," Chryssa snapped. "King Juba will have only one. He's a Roman citizen. Learn to speak more respectfully, you insolent barbarian!"

I hadn't ever seen Chryssa in such a temper and Tala was a big woman-bigger because of her pregnant belly. She towered over my slave girl and I worried that the two might come to blows, but Tala turned her attention to me and said, "Carthaginians come, then go. Romans come, but they will go. This queen, she is Greek. Or Egyptian. She will go too. Always, only Amazigh remain."

Not even as a captive in Rome had I allowed servants to speak to me in this manner. "Tala, I'll be Queen of Mauretania for as long as the G.o.ddess wills it. Now, either tell us why every corridor has animal tusks protruding from the walls or leave my presence at once."

Tala gave a sullen shrug. "Old king liked hunt. Gave many animals for Roman arena."

It was a reminder of our obligations to Rome. There must be lions and elephants aplenty for the gladiators to fight. We'd be expected to provide them, and though it sickened me, it would enhance the prestige of our kingdom.

Later, when we were alone, Chryssa's temper hadn't cooled. "Why didn't you dismiss that impudent savage immediately?"

I earnestly pondered her question. It had been my deeper instincts that told me not to send Tala away. "Chryssa, I must win her over. If I can't win the love of my household staff, how can I win the rest of Mauretania?"

THAT night, the servants brought me a plate of flat bread and a board of goat cheese with a knife to cut it. I read from a scroll in my lap while I ate, leaving the oil lamps burning, never dreaming that Juba might take the glow under my door for an invitation. He knocked briefly, letting himself in and waving all my servants away. "What is it?" I asked, not rising to greet him. "News?"

"Nothing from Thebes, if that's your concern." Juba's eyes fell upon the scroll on my lap. "What are you reading?"

I fingered the vellum, for I liked its texture. "A copy of Mago's treatise on agriculture."

Juba looked suitably impressed. "In Punic? I knew that you'd learned a few words but not that you'd mastered it."

"I haven't yet," I admitted, wondering why he'd come. I didn't want him here. I hadn't forgiven him. I was certain I never would. "I'd do better with a translation, but I'm trying to learn the language of our people."

"Punic isn't the original language of the Berbers," Juba said, sitting beside me at the low table near the remains of my meal. "They speak it here in the cities, but in the highlands, they speak a thousand dialects. Better that we make our subjects learn Latin or Greek. Still, if you're determined, I'll send you a teacher and perhaps I can help you practice myself."

"That's very considerate," I allowed. "But you're a king now. You've more important things to do than tutor me."

An awkward silence fell between us until he cleared his throat. "Selene, I've given some rational thought to our situation. I understand how unhappy you are in this marriage, but you must also remember that Mauretania fell into the hands of the Romans because the king died without heirs. We're here to forge a new dynasty. We represent a second chance-perhaps Mauretania's last chance-for independence."

"I am aware," I said, antic.i.p.ating a lecture.

"Then you must know that we have a duty to our new kingdom. Given your age, I hoped to wait some years, to give you some time to grow into womanhood. Unfortunately, we cannot wait. We must have children and we must have them soon."

How could he speak of it now? Memories of the emperor's bony knees bruising my thighs raised a cool sweat on the back of my neck and nausea rose in my throat.

Juba must have noticed because his posture stiffened. "I can plainly see that you find me too lowly a prince for your affections, but I'll endeavor to make the act of conception as pleasant for you as I can."

Embarra.s.sment singed my ears. "And what if I'm already carrying the emperor's child?"

Again, I said it only to hurt him, to wound him as he' d wounded me. But Juba must have considered the possibility already, because he didn't flinch. "I'll claim your child, Selene. It's no fault of the babe that it should have to endure the taint of illegitimacy."

I stared up at him in surprise and the scroll fell from my hands. "You'd do such a thing?" I'd been called the b.a.s.t.a.r.d brat of Antony more times than I could count. That Juba would spare a child that pain softened me toward him.

Juba nodded once, his fingers lacing together in quiet reserve. "Our reign can only benefit by raising the offspring of Augustus. If you're already with child, I'll simply wait a respectful interval before getting my own sons upon you. Motherhood will be good for you, Selene. It'll give you something useful to do."

He was trying to be reasonable. He was trying to be generous and conciliatory. It only drove me to rebellion. "And if I should refuse to let you 'get your sons upon me'?"

Just like that, the pretense of magnanimity vanished and Juba's lips thinned. "Don't play the Vestal Virgin, Selene."

He made a gesture that I mistook for an intention to grab me. "Don't touch me," I cried, my voice not nearly as steady as I wished it to be. I scrambled to the other end of the table, upsetting cups and plates along the way.

Seeing me flee from him in white-knuckled fright, Juba put his face in his hands as if he needed to master himself. When he finally looked up, his eyes hardened. "All your life, you've known me as a solicitous tutor, Selene. You should know that I'm a soldier too. I descend from King Ma.s.sinisa of Numidia and my father was Juba the warrior king. You don't want to test me. I can be ruthless for the greater good."

At his displeasure, I should have lowered my head meekly the way Lady Octavia had taught me to do, but he was threatening me, and that was beyond endurance. "Just because you can ride a horse doesn't make you a soldier," I seethed. "And we both know you're a coward besides."

This time, he did reach for me. Though I gave it no conscious thought, my fingers wrapped around the hilt of the table knife. I was almost as astonished as Juba when the tip of my blade pressed against his belly. The knife stopped Juba short and we both stared at one another over the sharp edge. My chest rose and fell, rage making my hand shake, but I didn't lower the blade.

Eyes wide, hands slightly raised, Juba said, "You're as vicious as a she-wolf!"

He could have disarmed me, but he didn't try. Instead, he retreated and I called after him. "Think twice before you lord your barbaric ancestry over me, Juba! I'm a Ptolemy and you may trust that you'll be found dead in your bed before I ever let another man force himself on me."

THE next afternoon, swarthy desert men rode up to the gate. Their leaders dismounted effortlessly, swinging bright burnooses over their shoulders. There were other riders too, dangerous-looking men with braided hair, clad in animal skins, and carrying daggers and shields of rawhide. Some were dark-skinned, others were fair, and yet they were all allied tribesmen who eyed the Roman guards with hostility. Though we were unprepared for guests of any kind, it would have been insulting not to receive them, so Juba and I stood together in the audience chamber, not sparing each other a glance while the Berbers bowed before us. We had little to offer them for supper, so we served spare quant.i.ties of capers, yogurt, brown bread, and grilled lamb in juniper sauce. We shared this modest meal at low tables and one of the Berber chieftains rose to his feet.

Like Tala, his skin shimmered blue in the creases of his elbows, his hands, and some of the lines of his face. Lifting a goblet in salute, he introduced himself as Maysar of the Gaetulian tribes, then went on in pa.s.sable Latin. "Juba son of Juba, the Gaetulians, the Musalamii, and the Mauri tribes bring to you an offering of horse stock, some of the finest steeds in this land."

Juba's expression lightened for the first time in days. "I'm honored by this gift! Horses are a pa.s.sion of mine."

The chieftain glinted a pearly smile. "May these horses sire a royal cavalry that will be the fear of all nations!"

"To the greater glory of Rome," Juba said, for he couldn't show military ambition in front of so many Romans. Even I understood this, but some of the tribesmen scowled, conferring with their heads close together.

To distract from the angry murmurs, I asked, "Do you have a wife, Maysar? After so fine a gift as horses, it seems only right that I should gift your wife with a token of my esteem."

"I have a wife, just not . . . at the moment. She's in sanctuary. We're divorced tonight, but will remarry upon the morrow."

Sure that I'd misunderstood his words, I turned to Juba, who said, "It's a Berber custom."

"When our women wish for fortune or healing," Maysar explained, eager to teach me, "they spend the night in a tomb of our ancestors. Failing that, a cave or other sacred s.p.a.ce. Whatever she dreams there will come true. Only unmarried women can go into sanctuary. Since we're a practical people, a married woman ritually divorces before she goes, then remarries when she returns."

This fascinated me. "Perhaps I should go into sanctuary, to bring good fortune and blessings upon this land."

The Berber chieftain tilted his head in surprise, a glimmer of pleasure in his eyes at my suggestion. At the same time, the Romans scoffed, and it was no secret that their opinion mattered more to Juba than mine. The king smiled tightly, swirling some of his watered wine in his cup. "I'm not sure it's fitting . . . My queen isn't Berber."

"But it's most fitting," Maysar argued. "Since our tribes and the Numidian tribes of your father are all Berbers, we greet you as a brother as well as a king. Your wife should share our customs."

Juba was clearly uncomfortable to be reminded of his heritage in this manner, and in the awkwardness, Crinagoras rose to recite an amusing epigram in which he maintained that he was himself a more revered poet than Homer. The guests all laughed, and the tension dissipated, for which I was grateful.

Later, when the men broke into groups, some to discuss commerce, others to plan construction, and still others to gossip, I sought out Maysar and his group of warriors. He bowed. "Queen Cleopatra."

It was my name but my mother's too. "You may call me Queen Selene. Your men don't much like the Roman soldiers, do they?"

At this, the Berber's smile faltered. "We're eager for them to be gone. We rejoiced to hear that a Berber king was being sent to us. Then we saw all the Roman settlers and all the slaves . . . We call ourselves the Amazigh. It means 'free people.' We won't bend easily under a yoke and we don't like to see others bent."