Lily of the Nile Page 22

  It was something uniquely Roman to kill with such waste. In Egypt, the spirits of animals were revered and holy—part of the great family of the divine. We killed them only for food or holy ceremony, mummifying some for eternal life.

  “This isn’t fair,” Philadelphus objected as a graceful gazelle met with an angry lion and the hunters tried to prod the lion into attacking it.

  “Life isn’t fair, though, is it?” the emperor asked as the lion attacked one of the hunters instead, leaving a gash in the man’s thigh, spurting blood. The Romans cheered for this too, the torture of man and beast equally entertaining.

  Half my blood was Roman, and I’d tried for the past two years to become like them. I read their poets, I learned their traditions, and I’d even come to love the Saturnalia. I looked like them, I dressed like them, and I sat with them. But as I watched this Roman spectacle of gory death, absolute conviction dawned upon me that I would never be one of them.

  The emperor waved toward me with his cup. “The hunt grows stale. Juba, why don’t you share with Selene the good news?”

  Juba smiled. “We’re going to scout for a site to build a port in Mauretania. Your idea was a good one.”

  “Selene, what do you think of this news?” As the emperor smiled, I felt guilty for having made the suggestion.

  Aware of Helios’s eyes on me, I copied Octavia and folded my hands in my lap. Helios’s words about how the emperor would starve Egypt and steal grain elsewhere weighed upon me, and so I settled upon, “If it pleases Augustus, then it pleases me.”

  The trumpets started again and the emperor leaned forward in his seat. The volume of the crowd’s cheers grew impossibly louder. I’d not heard such a wall of sound since Octavian’s Triumph. My heart beat faster as the noise brought back to me all the fear of that day. “Have you seen gladiator games before?” the emperor asked.

  When I shook my head, he looked surprised. “I’d have thought your father held them in Alexandria.”

  He must have been feeling very confident indeed to bring up my father. “My mother didn’t care for them.”

  In truth, my mother had said that the most arrogant pharaoh in Egypt wouldn’t dare ask her people to fight one another to the death for the sake of amusement. Besides, such games were strictly against the teachings of Isis.

  “I think you’ll enjoy them, Selene,” the emperor said as helmeted gladiators trooped their way into the arena and saluted. I watched their grim faces and their grimy armor with apprehension. As two novice gladiators took to the ring, the crowd began placing bets.

  One gladiator was a Gaul armed with a sword and buckler. The other was a native Egyptian who fought with a trident and a net. I noticed the scars of the whip on his dark skin and wondered what had brought him here. Had he served in my mother’s forces and been dragged here to die? Did he have family that he would never see again? He looked frightened, and I became frightened for him.

  As the two gladiators rounded one another, they didn’t want to fight, but the officials lashed them with the whip and promised a slower death than they’d find in the ring.

  “Don’t watch,” I whispered to Philadelphus, and tried to cover his eyes.

  “I can still see it,” he said, so I closed my fingers tighter.

  At last the two men clashed, wounds opening, each man dancing back. The crowd jeered their self-preservation. Then the men went at one another again. The trident missed its mark, but the swordsman dashed the net out of the Egyptian’s hand and sent him scrambling for it. A sudden cheer went up as the Egyptian, who seemed to be getting the worst of the battle, tangled his opponent within his retrieved net. But soon the Gaul was thrusting his way free and tackled the Egyptian to the ground where he lay helpless and pinned.

  This was over too quickly for the mob and they booed. The legs of the prone Egyptian were soaked with sweat or urine, I couldn’t tell. I thought the death blow would come, but it did not. Instead, the victorious gladiator looked to the emperor for his approval, and all eyes turned to the imperial box. It was for the emperor to decide the gladiator’s fate.

  “Spare him!” Helios shouted.

  Instead, the emperor’s eyes fastened upon me. “Shall I spare him, Selene?”

  With a slow dread, I turned to look at the wan face of the Egyptian on the ground as he contemplated death. His lips were moving, and I saw her name upon his lips. Isis. The doomed man called for my goddess and I saw his eyes soften. Was he already looking from this world into the next? Did he hear the beautiful voice of Isis calling to him? Did it sound the same as it had in my own ears when her messages had cut themselves into my skin?

  I tell you truly, that even with a weapon at his throat, her name brought a smile to the gladiator’s lips and his faith nearly broke me. Trembling, my first bitter thought was that Isis could not help him now … or could she?

  Before my mother died, she told us to adhere to the dictates of Isis, to care for the less fortunate, and I remembered the lightness I felt the day Helios and I had given all our coins to the beggars. Perhaps I had been a naive child expecting the magic of Isis to work always in a flash of heka. I had given up my faith without truly understanding it.

  My faith had been tested, and I had failed, but did Isis still dwell in me? Could she still work through me if I gave myself to her again?

  Iullus had accused me of being the emperor’s favorite. Surely that must have its advantages. “Please, spare him,” I said to the emperor, my lower lip aquiver.

  Isis. The gladiator mouthed the word again and it echoed in my head as if he’d shouted it. I had been without Isis. I had lost my way. In difficult times, I had given up my amulet and my goddess. But this man, when faced with his end, still called to Isis and I was humbled.

  The emperor, a consummate showman, seemed to enjoy keeping the crowd in suspense. “Selene, would you ask for mercy if the Gaul were defeated instead of the Egyptian?”

  “Yes,” I said quickly. “Mercy is universal.”

  “Yet, you had little mercy for the cheating interpreter.”

  A lump rose in my throat at the reminder of that far-off day before my first Saturnalia. I remembered the hungry look of that interpreter and how I’d helped condemn him. How long had the emperor waited to put this mantle of guilt upon my shoulders? But perhaps it was no less than I deserved. I cringed to think how many times I had failed my goddess.

  Isis, forgive me. Please return to me.

  “The interpreter was a thief,” I said. “But what crime has the gladiator committed?”

  The emperor’s thin lips twitched into the hints of a smile. He was enjoying playing my emotions, I knew.

  My fingernails dug into my palms. “If you spare him, he might live to fight and entertain you another day when he’s better trained.”

  “Selene?” the emperor asked me. “What is your brother’s name?”

  All of the other times the emperor had pressed me to betray my family or my faith, I had struggled with my choice. Not this time. The fate of that interpreter had been the emperor’s to decide; he was Roman. But if any part of Helios and me were still Egypt, then this gladiator belonged to us. All I had to do was give the emperor what he wanted. Simple words in exchange for life. Cooperate and my people live. Fight and they die.

  With clear enunciation, I said, “My twin’s name is Marcus Julius Alexander.”

  Helios lurched forward in his seat, but I didn’t cower before my twin’s wrath. There were prices for pride that I would never pay. I felt my surrender was unquestionably justified when the emperor made a gesture with his thumb, and the Egyptian gladiator was spared.

  It all began to meld together—the dirt, the arena, the sea of peasants. The stink of death mingled with the scent of sausages and beer. Above it all, I caught magic on the breeze, like sandalwood and jasmine, poignant and sad. My fingernails dug so deeply into my palms I feared that they’d bleed. In fact, I could almost feel the wetness of the blood and the sting of the cuts. No, I did feel
it.

  I turned my hands over and slowly uncurled my fingers as blood began to drip down my arms.

  Twenty

  I’D never before seen the emperor shocked. Not truly. The petulant lines of his mouth fell lax as he watched hieroglyphics scroll across my palms and down my wrists in blood. He wasn’t the only one to see it, for Julia let out a scream that sent Agrippa to his feet.

  I’d invited Isis to return to me, but now I was seized with fear. I called out for Helios as speckles danced before my eyes. He rushed to help me, but Juba was in his way.

  They would kill me for this—they would accuse me of witch-craft again. I remembered how Octavia reacted the last time this happened, and that hadn’t been in public. The crowd’s attention shifted to the uproar in the imperial box and the emperor was conscious of their stares.

  “Up!” the emperor shouted, and the family rose, obstructing the crowd’s view. Then praetorians encircled us, as if there’d been an attempt on the emperor’s life.

  “Is she hurt? Is she ill?” Octavia asked, trying to quiet the little ones. Agrippa didn’t answer her but snatched a palla off Marcella’s shoulders and bound my hands with it.

  It was then that Juba lifted me into his arms and shouted, “Make way!”

  Held aloft by Juba, I saw Helios and called his name again, but this time he looked away, down at his hands, spreading them as if they were helpless and foreign to him. His gaze finally fell to the crushed wreath at his sandaled feet, an unreadable expression on his face.

  “Helios!” I cried again, but he made no move to reply and it was as if my whole world went dark. Like the blotting out of the sun. Helios had said he’d always defend me, but perhaps I’d finally gone too far when I helped the emperor strip him of his name. I’d thought the bond Helios and I shared was unbreakable. But then, I’d been mistaken about many things.

  Juba cradled me against his chest as he carried me through the path that guards cleared in front of us. The heralds reassured the mob that the emperor was unharmed and that one of the girls had simply swooned from the excitement as women were wont to do. Curious Romans strained their necks as Juba carried me out of the arena, but most of them were eager to return to the games.

  A sob tore itself from my throat and Juba said, “Shhh, Selene, don’t cry.”

  I didn’t want to cry. Queens didn’t cry, but I wasn’t a queen anymore. Even my name didn’t belong to me if the emperor could take it away. Then visions swam before my eyes and I realized I was fainting after all.

  “SELENE, wake up,” Juba said softly, getting me to stir. I was on a couch in the emperor’s study with a wet cloth upon my brow. I had no sense of how much time had passed. Juba lifted a cup to my lips as he’d done on the very first day we’d met. “Here, drink this. It’s a restorative.”

  “Is it one of Livia’s tonics?” I turned my head away.

  “No, Octavia sent it. You should drink it.”

  I took a sip and it tasted like grass and beer. Then I lifted my hands and found each one tightly bound with bandages. “I need to read my hands.”

  Juba smoothed my hair onto the pillow behind my head. “I don’t know if the emperor would want that. Besides, you’ve lost much blood.”

  If the blood smeared on his clothes belonged to me—and it must have—then he was right, but I didn’t care. “Isis is with me!” Frantically, I tried to pull my hands free. “Help me read her words.”

  Juba surrendered, his long fingers gently unwinding the ruined palla from my arms. Then we both stared in amazement at the figures still carved into my skin. “You can read that?”

  I nodded, slowly translating the figures I knew and puzzling at those that were more difficult. Serpents, wings, and scales wriggled into my skin. All of it bled so that I had to wipe my hands to see the red lines in my rent flesh. I’d only read as far as the wrist of my right hand when the emperor arrived. His skin was paler than usual and the unhealthy circles under his eyes accentuated his furious expression. The last time I’d been in this study, he’d reminded me there were still kings like Herod demanding my death, and now I’d given him an excuse to oblige them. “I didn’t work magic,” I said quickly, though I wasn’t entirely sure that was true.

  The emperor didn’t answer right away but pulled up a chair beside me, waving Juba away. The ruler of the world looked so thoroughly unnerved that it frightened me and he stared at my face as if he would never stop staring. “Calm yourself, dear child,” he finally said.

  It wasn’t his habit to use terms of endearment, so that terrified me even more. He’d seen the blood on my sleeping garment before, but he’d never truly believed that symbols carved themselves into my hands. Not until now. Even so, he didn’t show the joy of religious revelation—he displayed the grim determination of a man who’d seen the enemy. “This is the work of the Isiacs,” he said.

  “Please believe it’s Isis herself.” I let my passion show, hoping it would convince him, that he would allow himself to understand the beauty and mystery of the goddess I would no longer deny.

  “That’s what they want us to believe,” the emperor said, touching my shoulder in a gesture that might have passed for compassion. He was an actor with a thousand roles, but he seemed to believe each one. “Selene, when Agrippa first suggested it years ago, I didn’t believe him, but now I understand. They’ve attacked you with their magic and they won’t get away with it.” His fingertips were cool to the touch and I wanted to recoil, but I found myself unable to move. A mask of possessiveness fell over his face as he asked, “Are you in much pain?”

  I nodded because my hands burned like fire. This was the longest the inscriptions had stayed on my hands, and as much as it hurt I hoped it wouldn’t go away before I could read it. The emperor put his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together under his chin, contemplatively. “Since coming into my household, you’ve been a good girl and done what I’ve asked of you. I’ll protect you in return. I’ve drawn up a formal accusation against the Isiacs for working magic against you, and when you’re better I want you to sign it.”

  “They didn’t do anything.” My eyes sought out Juba’s support, but he didn’t meet my gaze.

  “How do you know?” Octavian asked.

  “I just know,” I said, feeling the power of a presence inside me. “Why do you need my signature or seal anyway? Since when do the Romans give merit to the testimony of a girl?”

  “Romans don’t, but Isiacs may,” the emperor said as I bled. “I’d like you to translate the words on your hands. Juba will write it down.”

  Where I had hurried to read the inscriptions before, now I hesitated. “I want Helios. I want my brothers. Where are my brothers?”

  “They’re downstairs waiting for you,” the emperor said in a coaxing tone. “I’m going to let you see them shortly. You did well today, and a man even owes you his life. You’re a very good girl. I just need this one thing from you.”

  My hands trembled, but I translated the tiny precise cuts, spirals and feathers, vultures and flags, all scrolling as I tilted my head to the side at the change in tone from the last message.

  “Do you feel secure, Master of the World?”

  The emperor leaned forward in his chair and Juba’s reed pen paused over his writing as if he doubted me. I started reading from the beginning.

  “Do you feel secure, Master of the World? Will your star shine brighter if you harness my moon and my sun? You have my throne, but will you sit on it? Will you nourish my people as Pharaoh must? You think the war is well and truly won, but perhaps in this River of Time, it’s just begun.”

  The emperor’s eyes flickered with something akin to panic. His pasty face shined with sweat and he lifted an unsteady hand to wipe it. “Are you lying, child?”

  “I swear it by Isis. That’s what it says,” I told him.

  Then each tiny carving healed, each wound closing perfectly until only bloody bandages remained as evidence of my wounds.

  “It�
�s just the propaganda of zealous Isiacs,” Juba said. “They do work magic. I’ve seen it in their temples.”

  “You’ve seen this before?” the emperor asked.

  “No,” Juba admitted. “These bleeding messages … no.”

  The emperor strode to the window that overlooked Rome, where we could see the colossi that he’d stolen from Egypt. The folds of his purple-bordered toga swayed as he stared out the window. “It’s not the Isiacs,” the emperor said.

  “It’s Isis,” I replied.

  “No,” the emperor said with his back to us. “It’s Cleopatra.”

  Twenty-one

  “ALWAYS Cleopatra!” he shouted. “I thought I had shaken her, but here she is again. Always in my way. She took my uncle from me and when he died, she claimed my rights for her brat Caesarion. Even before I could ally with Antony, she was already in his heart, blocking my path.”

  I stared at the emperor, entranced. Afraid to interrupt. “But I saw her dead,” he continued. “She had no pulse or breath. She lay as cold as marble. I should’ve gone to that funeral and watched them seal her up in that tomb.”

  Juba tried to soothe him, “Queen Cleopatra is dead. The Egyptians are skilled with magic, Caesar. They’re using their powers to give you doubts.”

  The emperor’s eyes were shadowed as he turned back to me. “What causes these outbreaks of blood upon your hands, Selene? Do they happen at the same time of day? Do you eat or drink anything unusual?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered quickly and honestly. “Twice it happened in the early morning, this time in the late afternoon.”

  Now that he’d abandoned the charade of protective warmth, his gray eyes sent that familiar chill through me. “Where is your mother?”

  “She’s in the afterworld,” I whispered.

  “Where is Cleopatra?” the emperor demanded again. “She’s speaking to me, through you, so I know she’s alive. Was there a double? How did she escape, and where is she now?”