Song Of The Nile Part 1

SONG OF THE NILE.

by Stephanie Dray.

To my mother and my grandmothers, because like Cleopatra Selene, I come from a long line of powerful and inspiring women.

Dear Reader, It's often erroneously said that Cleopatra VII of Egypt was the last of the Ptolemaic queens. In truth, that t.i.tle belongs to her daughter, Cleopatra Selene. Though Augustus would make Selene the most powerful client queen in his empire, she's typically overlooked by historians in favor of her notorious mother. It was suicide that helped to make Cleopatra so famous, but her daughter has always captivated me because Selene's story is one of survival.

Cleopatra Selene carved out a new destiny for herself in an uncertain land, but she seems always to have been looking behind her. She was a woman who forgot nothing.

I wrote this book so that we don't forget her.

As an author of historical fiction, one of my greatest joys is filling in the s.p.a.ces the historical record leaves empty. While Selene is believed to have married King Juba II of Mauretania in 25 B.C., she doesn't appear on the coins of her realm for another five years. Her exact whereabouts during this time are unknown, but as a nominal member of the imperial family, she had a unique perspective from which to witness five of the most crucial years in Roman history and religious history.

Though Isis wors.h.i.+p would eventually come to dominate the ancient world, the cult frequently came under attack even before it fell out of favor with Augustus. While the Romans generally tolerated foreign G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses, Augustus banned the wors.h.i.+p of Isis within the sacred boundaries of Rome. Ca.s.sius Dio tells us that Agrippa also cracked down on the Alexandrine cult in 21 B.C. In spite of this, or perhaps because of it, Selene actively promoted her G.o.ddess. That she appears never to have been censured by Rome for this-or for any of the more politically provocative actions she took as queen-tells us that she enjoyed an extraordinary relations.h.i.+p with Augustus.

This novel imagines and dramatizes that relations.h.i.+p.

As in Lily of the Nile, I've adopted some conventions that bear explanation. To start with, I've embraced the most familiar spellings and naming conventions for historical figures and ideas. For example, I've used Mark Antony for Marcus Antonius and Cleopatra instead of Kleopatra. I've also used English words for Latin concepts whenever possible. One instance is my adoption of the word lady when the word domina may have been more accurate. Moreover, I've addressed Augustus as the emperor throughout the novel even though our modern understanding of the word differs greatly from the traditional Roman concept of an imperator. I stand by this choice because of Octavian's nontraditional use of imperator-a t.i.tle he held lawfully in 43 B.C. and should have relinquished that same year but continued to use in front of his name until he acquired the new honorific of Augustus.

Whenever the historical record was in doubt, I've unabashedly adopted the slant most favorable to Egypt, Selene, her family, or the faith in which she was raised; the bias against Rome and Augustus reflects her views as I've imagined them, not my own. Also, Selene's relatively uncritical acceptance of the idea that native peoples must be "civilized" is not an endors.e.m.e.nt, but simply the historical att.i.tude of the time period.

Finally, though the weddings, divorces, battles, treaties, and imperial politics are all firmly rooted in historical fact, I've tried to respect this work as a novel more than as a biography. To that end, my choices and changes are explained in the author's note at the end of this book.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

There are many people I wish to thank. My wise-woman agent, Jennifer Schober, for her guidance and innate understanding of my work. My warrior-woman editor, Cindy Hw.a.n.g, who taught me how to make this story more powerful. My amazing husband, for his infinite patience and encouragement. My wonderful friends and family-especially my in-laws-all of whom have been so supportive. My sister, for her friends.h.i.+p and tireless promotion. The Rovets for their hospitality. The generous bloggers and reviewers who have helped spread the word. Kay Dion for being the most unfailingly helpful librarian in the nation. Mallory Braus, Julia Drake, Sh.e.l.ly Dunlop, Tanja Pederson, and Anna Treece for a.s.sisting me with publicity so that I could focus on writing. Paul McEndree for help with sea snail mucus and purple dye. Jessica Cooley for last-minute edits. Victoria Janssen, Rachel Blackman, Craig Lammes, and Reggie Greenberg for their vivid recollections of Athens. Sheila Accongio, Christi Barth, Sharon Buchbinder, Mallory Cates, Sabrina Darby, Moriah Jovan, Mich.e.l.le Sandmeier, Christine Rovet, Constance Chamberlain, Jen Lazarus, Kai Lawson, Joseph Kelly, and Stephanie Rice for critiquing early drafts of the ma.n.u.script. Becky Wilson and Jamie Mich.e.l.le for reading the ma.n.u.script after I made changes-and the remarkable Gabrielle Carolina, who gave up sleep to help me with the book and with study guide questions.

I also couldn't have written this without Leah Barber holding down the fort and without my Divas cracking the whip over my head every day. Nor do I think I could have kept track of the enormous piles of research for this book without the help of Scrivener, upon which I'm hopelessly dependent.

I must again thank Duane W. Roller, Professor (Emeritus) of Greek and Latin at Ohio State University, who offered his expertise on Cleopatra Selene and Juba II. I'm also grateful to anthropologist and Amazigh activist Helene Hagen, whose work on Berber culture is fascinating. Both scholars patiently answered my questions, but any mistakes in this ma.n.u.script should be ascribed to me alone.

Mindful that footnotes distract and that my sources are too numerous to cite here, I would, nonetheless, like to credit several, including W. W. Tarn's scholarly paper t.i.tled "Alexander Helios and the Golden Age" as well as Duane W. Roller's The World of Juba II and Kleopatra Selene, Margaret George's Memoirs of Cleopatra, Wilbur Smith's River G.o.d, Pharaoh by Karen Ess.e.x, and the splashy Hollywood film Cleopatra , starring Elizabeth Taylor.

I'm again indebted to authors who have also tried to bring Selene's world to life, including Andrea Ashton, whose social awareness about the conflict of Berbers and Romans helped inspire several scenes in this book. Additionally, I want to thank Alice Curtis Desmond and Mich.e.l.le Moran, whose influence can also be felt in this novel. However, it's Beatrice Chanler's 1934 novel, Cleopatra's Daughter, the Queen of Mauretania that inspired me most. My work is heavily influenced by her ideas, imagery, and lofty prose. In particular, Ms. Chanler's book captured my imagination because of its unusual theory that Cleopatra Selene and her twin brother were religious symbols-a theory that I've extended into the fantastic.

In adopting and modernizing this theory by reimagining Isis wors.h.i.+p, I relied not just upon ancient sources and current scholars.h.i.+p but also upon the wors.h.i.+p of Isis as it's currently practiced. M. Isidora Forrest's Isis Magic was invaluable on that count, as was Ms. Forrest herself, who kindly offered advice on rituals that Selene may have been familiar with. The calling prayer of Isis appears in this novel with her permission.

While it is a perilous endeavor to speculate about the s.e.xuality of historical figures, I was emboldened by Virgil in the Renaissance by David Scott Wilson-Okamura and Saara Lilja's h.o.m.os.e.xuality in Republican and Augustan Rome. I've portrayed Selene's s.e.xual morality through the lens of mythic Isiac fertility rites as explored in Merlin Stone's fascinating book When G.o.d Was a Woman, itself inspired by the work of Robert Graves. While no detailed record of Isiac mystery rites survives, I drew upon the legend that Isis herself had served as a prost.i.tute in Tyre. I was also mindful of Herodotus's claim that female adherents of G.o.ddess cults gave themselves to a stranger at least once in their lives-an idea echoed by Strabo. And, of course, I must express appreciation for The Metamorphoses of Lucius Apuleius, an Isiac work and the only Latin novel to survive in its entirety. I blended all this information with extant accounts of the Eleusinian Mysteries.

Insofar as this novel is about Augustus, I relied upon ancient historians Ca.s.sius Dio, Suetonius, and Tacitus, freely adopting the latter's uncharitable views of Livia. When it came to reconstructing Berber culture as it may have existed in Selene's reign, I consulted Susan Raven's Rome in Africa, Paul MacKendrick's The North African Stones Speak, and The Berbers by Michael Brett and Elizabeth Fentress.

For additional sources, please see my website at stephaniedray.com.

CHARACTERS.

The Court of Augustus Caesar.

AUGUSTUS CAESAR, or Octavian, Gaius Julius Caesar Octavia.n.u.s, the imperator and victor of Actium JULIA, his daughter by his former wife Scribonia, and his only child LIVIA DRUSILLA, his wife, scion of a powerful n.o.ble family, the Claudii Tiberius, her oldest son by her former husband.

Drusus, her youngest son by her former husband.

OCTAVIA, his long-suffering sister.

Marcellus, her son by her first husband Marcella, her daughter by her first husband Antonia Major, her eldest daughter by her second husband, Mark Antony Antonia Minor, called Minora, her youngest daughter by her second husband, Mark Antony Iullus Antonius, her ward, son of Mark Antony by his deceased wife, Fulvia Ptolemy Philadelphus, her ward, youngest son of Mark Antony and Cleopatra VII of Egypt Alexander Helios, her missing ward, son of Mark Antony and Cleopatra VII of Egypt, twin brother of Selene AGRIPPA, his most powerful and trusted general MAECENAS, his political adviser and overseer of imperial artistic programs Terentilla, the beautiful wife of Maecenas and mistress of Augustus VIRGIL, his revered poet and propagandist ANTONIUS MUSA, his renowned physician, a freedman The Court of Cleopatra Selene & Juba II CLEOPATRA SELENE, Queen of Mauretania, only daughter of Cleopatra VII of Egypt and Mark Antony JUBA, her husband, the Berber-blooded King of Mauretania and Numidia Lucius Cornelius Balbus, his adviser, a Roman veteran.

Circe, his mistress, a Greek hetaera.

CHRYSSA, her Greek slave girl, a hairdresser and keeper of the wardrobe TALA, her Berber attendant, sister of Maysar, a tribal leader EUPHRONIUS/EUPHORBUS, her court physician, mage, and priest of Isis from Alexandria.

CRINAGORAS OF MYTILENE, her court poet.

MEMON, her captain of the Macedonian guard from Alexandria.

LADY LASTHENIA, her adviser, a Pythagorean scholar from Alexandria.

MAYSAR, her adviser, a Berber tribal leader.

CAPTAIN KABYLE, her Berber-born s.h.i.+p's captain.

MASTER GNAIOS, her father's famous gem cutter.

LEONTEUS OF ARGOS, her court tragedian.

LADY ANTONIA, also called Hybrida, her long-lost sister, a wealthy widow and daughter of Mark Antony.

Pythodorida, her daughter.

Prologue.

ISIS.

I am nature. I am the mother of everything that has ever been or will ever be. I am all G.o.ddesses. And you know me, for I live inside you. I am in the part of you that feels magic when the wheat is harvested and cleansing wind separates golden grains from the chaff. I am in the part of you that sees a woman dance by firelight and understands the sacred power of her body. I am in the part of you that has suffered dark nights of the soul and survived to see the dawn.

You know me, because I am every strong hand that ever stretched out to help you. I am every soft kiss that soothed your tears. I am every warm meal that has filled your hungry belly. I have a thousand names, and yet, you know me.

I am the good G.o.ddess. Bona Dea. Call me Hecate or Cybele, Venus or Inanna, Neith or Tanit, Kore or Demeter. I will answer to them all. But I am properly known as Isis, for it is by this name that the world has best wors.h.i.+pped me.

They tell stories of how my husband was murdered and how I raised up my son to avenge his father. This story is true, but it is a son's story. A daughter's journey is different. That is why there are other stories they tell about me. Stories of how my daughter was taken, pulled down into the underworld, and how I refused to work my magic until she returned to me.

This is one of those stories.

One.

SELENE.

ROME.

AUTUMN 25 B.C.

MY wedding day dawned rosy as the blush on a maiden's cheek. Like the sun peeking between pink clouds to warm the sprawling city of terra-cotta roofs below, I must also s.h.i.+ne for Rome today. As morning broke, I surveyed the middling monuments that blanketed Rome's seven hills. I gazed to the Tiber River beyond, diamonds of dawn sparkling on its surface, and tried to see this day with my mother's eyes.

She was Cleopatra, Pharaoh of Egypt, a woman of limitless aspiration. And I was her only daughter. She'd wanted a royal marriage for me. She may have even hoped my wedding would be celebrated here in Rome. But could she have conceived that this wedding would come to me through her bitterest enemy? In her wildest dreams, could she have imagined that the man who drove her to suicide-the same man who captured her children and dragged us behind his Triumphator's chariot-would now make me a queen?

Yes, I thought. She could have imagined it. Perhaps she had even planned it.

Worn around my neck, a jade frog amulet dangled from a golden chain. It was a gift from my mother, inscribed with the words I am the Resurrection. On my finger, I wore her notorious amethyst ring, with which she was said to have ensorcelled my father, Mark Antony. It was now my betrothal ring, and I hoped it would steady me, for I was a tempest inside.

At just fourteen years old, I had neither my mother's audacity nor the brazen courage that allowed her to so famously smuggle herself past enemy soldiers to be rolled out at the feet of Julius Caesar. I had heka-magic-but had inherited none of my mother's deeper knowledge of how to use it. I didn't have her wardrobe, her gilded barges, nor the wealth of mighty Egypt. Not yet. But the Romans often said I had her charm and wits and the day she died, she gave me the spirit of her Egyptian soul.

Today I would need it.

It was early yet in the emperor's household; only the servants were awake, bustling about the columned courtyard, tr.i.m.m.i.n.g shrubbery and hanging oil lamps in preparation for the wedding festivities. They were too busy-or too wary of my reputation as a sorceress-to acknowledge my presence beneath an overripe fig tree, where my slave girl and I made devotions to Isis. My Egyptian G.o.ddess was forbidden within the sacred walls of Rome, but no one stopped us from lighting candles and using a feather to trace the holy symbol, the ankh, into the soft earth. The Temples of Isis might be shuttered here in Rome, her altars destroyed and her voice silent, but my G.o.ddess dwelt in me and I vowed that she would speak again.

Once we'd offered our prayers, my slave girl and I strolled the gardens with a basket because it was the Roman custom for a bride to pick flowers for her own wedding wreath. The summer had been ablaze, so hot that flowers lingered out of season. I had my choice in a veritable meadow. Stooping down, I plucked two budding roses to remind me of my dead brothers, Caesarion and Antyllus, both killed in the flower of youth. I chose a flamboyant red poppy for my dead father, the Roman triumvir, who'd been known as much for his excesses as his military talent. Finally, for my mother, a purple iris because purple was the most royal color, and my mother had been the most royal woman in the world. The sight of a blazing golden flower, the most glorious in the garden, reminded me of my beloved twin. But Helios was only missing, not dead, and I refused to tempt fate by plucking that flower from its vine. Helios promised me that we'd never live to see this day; he swore he'd never let me be married off to one of the emperor's cronies, but the day had come and Helios was gone.

A startled murmur of slaves made me turn and see a shadow pa.s.s between two pillars. It was the emperor. Augustus. The first time I ever saw him, he was a dark conquering G.o.d, a crimsonfaced swirl of purple cloak and laurel leaf, ready to mount his golden chariot and bear me away as his chained prisoner. Today he wore only a broad-brimmed hat and a humble homespun tunic cut short enough to expose his k.n.o.bby knees. But the smile he wore with it wasn't humble. This morning-the morning of the day he'd give me away in marriage-Augustus looked supremely smug.

He was without his usual retinue of barbers, secretaries, and guards. Even so, the slaves, including my Chryssa, all dropped to their knees and genuflected. He stepped over their p.r.o.ne bodies as if he were one of the Eastern rulers he derided for tyranny, for he was the master here. He owned everything in this garden: the Greek statuary, the marble benches, the colorful flowers, and the slaves. For four years now, I'd been his royal hostage and he believed he owned me too.

One day soon, I meant to prove him wrong.

"Good morning, Caesar," I said, sweeping dark hair from my eyes.

Understand that the emperor wasn't an imposing man. His power was all in the snare of his ruthless winter gray eyes, which now darkened with suspicion, as if he'd caught me trying to slip past his praetorians with their crested helmets and crimson capes. "What mischief are you up to, Cleopatra Selene?"

After all the opportunities I'd declined to run away from him, it was strange that he'd suspect me of it now. I wondered what accounted for his latest paranoia. "I'm only gathering flowers for my wedding wreath."

I showed him my basket, and seemingly satisfied, he glanced over his shoulder through the open doors to where he received clients and other morning visitors. The tabulinum was now empty except for the clutter of scrolls, bra.s.s oil lamps, and busts of his ancestors, the Julii, each painted to create the most lifelike rendition. "Walk with me," the emperor said, and I did, for no one refused him. "This morning I granted an audience to an amba.s.sador from Judea, Selene. King Herod sends a last-minute wedding proposal. He wishes to take you as his junior wife."

The mere mention of Herod's name made my steps falter. The Judean king had been my mother's rival and had long urged the Romans to exterminate my whole family. The news that he wished to make me, the last daughter of the pharaohs, a part of his harem actually forced a gasp from my lungs. The proposal would have been more insulting if it were anything other than a pretext to kill me. Herod had already murdered his most beloved wife to make an end to her Hasmonean dynasty. He wouldn't lose a moment's sleep over my death. "Caesar, you cannot mean to give me to Herod. You swore to make me Queen of Mauretania!"

Augustus smiled. I think it pleased him to see me lose my footing, to see my confidence waver. "Trust in Caesar, Selene. You're already promised to another and in such an important matter as your marriage, I wouldn't cater to the whim of a Jew-even if he's already proved his loyalty, and you haven't. Yet."

I breathed, realizing that he'd told me this only to frighten me. To remind me of his largesse. To make me gasp with fear and then relief. Though Augustus was more than twenty years my senior, no wicked boy plucking wings off insects loved cruel games as much as he did. He stopped beside a small sphinx he'd pilfered from Egypt to adorn his garden. "Be grateful, Selene. By the end of this evening, you'll be the wife of a newly made king, and the wealthiest woman in the empire. Not even your mother could have asked for more."

Of course, she did ask for more. Offering her crown and scepter to him in surrender, she'd asked that her children be allowed to rule Egypt after her. Then she took her own life. My mother's suicide had been convenient for him in every way, and I'm certain that his advisers all breathed easier when she breathed her last, but Augustus had been shocked by her death. Shaken by it. Octavian always wants most what he cannot have, she' d said, as if she' d known that it would ignite an obsession in him. He'd wanted her alive. He'd wanted her as a trophy. He'd settled upon me instead. "Half of Rome will be here for your wedding, Selene. Let my enemies bear witness to how kindly I treat Antony's daughter. Your father's partisans may whisper that I'm the descendant of slaves, but let them see how the grandson of a rope maker now gives away a royal princess in marriage."

There it was. The cavernous insecurity at the center of his character that drove his every action. It didn't matter that he'd vanquished all his rivals. Not his ever-expanding imperial compound with its marble and showy gardens, not the mountains of gold in his coffers, nor the might of his legions would ever conquer his fear that somewhere, someone was laughing at him. "Are you sure it shouldn't be a simpler wedding, Caesar? More in keeping with austere Roman values?" I asked, because I feared Roman crowds and knew from bitter experience that they could be dangerous.

He tilted his head, his eyes shadowed beneath the brim of his hat. "I mean for your wedding to be a spectacle and you're too ambitious to want it any other way. Today will make plain to Isis wors.h.i.+ppers who foment dissent in Rome and rebellion in Egypt that they dare not oppose me, for I have a Cleopatra of my very own. Remember our bargain. Marry the man I choose for you and do as I command. Glorify me and I'll show mercy to your surviving brothers, your countrymen, and those who wors.h.i.+p your loathsome foreign G.o.ddess. Be my Cleopatra and one day your mother's Egypt may be yours."

BY late afternoon, the slaves had stripped my room bare. The golden incense burners, the red and green tapestries, the painted oil lamps, and even the kithara harp I played to amuse the emperor-almost everything that had ever lent color or comfort to my room here-all packed into trunks and satchels. Turning my eyes to my dressing table, I thought of the loose brick beneath it, the one Helios used to pull out of the wall so that we could whisper to one another when the Romans slept. We'd never do that again, I realized. Even if the emperor's hounds hunted down my runaway twin brother and hauled him back to the Palatine, I wouldn't be here . . .

With a sharp knock at my door, the emperor's sister marched to my side. It was a mother's duty to dress her daughter for marriage and Lady Octavia was the closest thing to a mother that I had left in this world. She'd been my father's wife when he embarked upon his grand love affair with my mother. But after my parents were sealed in their tombs, Octavia had collected all my father's children. Though she was a rigid woman, I'd come to love her. Even so, it felt like betrayal to let her take my mother's place on this day. We were awkward together as we hadn't been in years. "Well," she said, both hands on her fleshy hips. "Let's get you ready, Selene."

She used a special comb to divide my hair into the six segments of the tutulus, the traditional hairstyle worn by Roman brides. "What a vicious little comb," I hissed, wincing as she tugged mercilessly. "Why is it shaped like a spear?"

"It's to drive out ill fortune," she said, cheerfully. "It's also to remind us of the Sabine women, the first Roman wives, forced to wed at the tip of a spear!"

"That hardly seems like something to be remembered with pride," I muttered.

Octavia only tilted my chin with a sentimental sigh. "Oh, Selene, you're going to be a lovely bride. Your father was always given to emotion, you know, and I think if he saw you, it would bring a tear to his eye." In spite of the many wrongs he'd done her, Octavia never spoke against my father, for which I was grateful. "I think you have Antony's best qualities."

This puzzled me because my father had been a big jolly man with a raucous laugh whereas I was slender and decidedly sober. "I can't imagine how I'm like my father."

"He inspired people and so do you," she said. "My daughters imitate you. Your royal poise, the way you hold your posture, and your piety. Because you work so hard at your lessons, the little ones study more. It's your gift, Selene. You lead everyone around you to aspire to something greater. Even me."

I stammered, because it was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me. "E-even you?"

As the emperor's sister, Octavia had always held influence. Now that her son Marcellus had married the emperor's daughter, Lady Octavia was the most powerful woman in Rome. Wearing her distinctively severe hairstyle with its knot over her brow like a crown, she lifted her chin. "As the emperor's heir, my son is still young, untested. Marcellus will need guidance more than ever and I think I can help him. He and Julia need to win over the people so I'm going to find a way to fund a beautiful new theater as a gift to the city."