possession. His mistress. The emperor will never believe that I do not belong to him unless he sees me as the true wife of another man. So if I will not make love to Augustus Caesar, I must make love to my husband.
Lavender perfume wafts up from the linens, and a shift of gossamer white drapes over the chest at the foot of my bed. Every beeswax candle in the palace has been brought to my chambers as if to turn my bed into a sacred altar. But the preparations make me uneasy. “Must we go to so much trouble? King Juba is, at heart, a practical man.”
Tala tests the consistency of the henna paste between her fingers. “He is also a man preparing himself for you as a bridegroom. After his morning ride on his new stallion, he washed, sat in the steam room, and had himself rubbed down by a Nubian slave before calling for a barber. He’s demanded a special dinner in your rooms and hasn’t let a drop of wine touch his lips.”
Warily, I ask, “How do you know this? Do you have spies in his chambers?”
Tala shrugs with insolent mirth. “If I reveal my sources, you’ll think I’m easily replaced.”
“What if I paid you extra to tell me?”
She grins. “Never haggle with a Berber, Queen Selene. You cannot win.”
Tala is typical of my adopted people. Proud and resilient with a fierce sense of self. I’ve chosen to live amongst the Berbers and rule as their queen. I’ve chosen , I remind myself, to forsake my mother’s throne in Egypt and make my life here with a man who is my husband but is also, in many ways, still a stranger to me.
In making myself ready for him, I allow the servants to pluck every hair on my body below my eyebrows. I linger in a bath of honey and almond milk. Then the slaves dry me with warm towels. They massage lavender oil into the muscles of my arms and legs until I’m so limp and lethargic that I quietly acquiesce to the painting of Berber patterns on my nude flesh.
I try to adopt the native customs of my kingdom whenever practicable. In this case the custom suits me, because Berber brides go to their husbands tattooed. As my husband is a Berber by blood, I hope it will please him.
While the henna sets, Tala urges me to play a game of Senet with her. I race my ivory cones against her ebony wheels until I emerge victorious, a thing from which I take great satisfaction because it’s not in Tala’s character to let me win. When it’s finally time to scrape the dried henna from my body, she reassures me, “The color will change in time. The tattoo will deepen, just like the love between a husband and wife.”
At this, I scowl. For though I’m the daughter of two famous lovers, I didn’t marry for love. By the traditions of my family, I would have married my oldest brother, Caesarion, the King of Egypt. When the Romans murdered him and conquered Egypt, I should have wed my twin brother, Alexander Helios.
But when I came of age, the emperor wanted me for himself.
In Juba, the emperor found a man who was willing to pose as my husband. It was only as the spoils of war, as a reward for his loyalty, that I was given to this Berber king. In truth, I have many reasons to despise him—and not only because of our chaste wedding night and his willingness to surrender me into the emperor’s bed. I am acutely aware that my husband has, in his own way, been partly responsible for every tragedy that has befallen my family and me.
And yet my resentment is tempered by the knowledge that I have betrayed him too. Tonight we must forget these betrayals, so I want to be done with these endless preparations for an act that has been more than five years in the waiting. “Let us not speak of the love between a husband and a wife, Tala. There’s no need to fill my head with romantic notions. I’m no fearful virgin.”
Never cowed by my imperious nature, she asks, “Then why are you sweating like one?”
She’s right. In spite of the coolness of the autumnal evening, my nape is damp. Fortunately,
Lavender perfume wafts up from the linens, and a shift of gossamer white drapes over the chest at the foot of my bed. Every beeswax candle in the palace has been brought to my chambers as if to turn my bed into a sacred altar. But the preparations make me uneasy. “Must we go to so much trouble? King Juba is, at heart, a practical man.”
Tala tests the consistency of the henna paste between her fingers. “He is also a man preparing himself for you as a bridegroom. After his morning ride on his new stallion, he washed, sat in the steam room, and had himself rubbed down by a Nubian slave before calling for a barber. He’s demanded a special dinner in your rooms and hasn’t let a drop of wine touch his lips.”
Warily, I ask, “How do you know this? Do you have spies in his chambers?”
Tala shrugs with insolent mirth. “If I reveal my sources, you’ll think I’m easily replaced.”
“What if I paid you extra to tell me?”
She grins. “Never haggle with a Berber, Queen Selene. You cannot win.”
Tala is typical of my adopted people. Proud and resilient with a fierce sense of self. I’ve chosen to live amongst the Berbers and rule as their queen. I’ve chosen , I remind myself, to forsake my mother’s throne in Egypt and make my life here with a man who is my husband but is also, in many ways, still a stranger to me.
In making myself ready for him, I allow the servants to pluck every hair on my body below my eyebrows. I linger in a bath of honey and almond milk. Then the slaves dry me with warm towels. They massage lavender oil into the muscles of my arms and legs until I’m so limp and lethargic that I quietly acquiesce to the painting of Berber patterns on my nude flesh.
I try to adopt the native customs of my kingdom whenever practicable. In this case the custom suits me, because Berber brides go to their husbands tattooed. As my husband is a Berber by blood, I hope it will please him.
While the henna sets, Tala urges me to play a game of Senet with her. I race my ivory cones against her ebony wheels until I emerge victorious, a thing from which I take great satisfaction because it’s not in Tala’s character to let me win. When it’s finally time to scrape the dried henna from my body, she reassures me, “The color will change in time. The tattoo will deepen, just like the love between a husband and wife.”
At this, I scowl. For though I’m the daughter of two famous lovers, I didn’t marry for love. By the traditions of my family, I would have married my oldest brother, Caesarion, the King of Egypt. When the Romans murdered him and conquered Egypt, I should have wed my twin brother, Alexander Helios.
But when I came of age, the emperor wanted me for himself.
In Juba, the emperor found a man who was willing to pose as my husband. It was only as the spoils of war, as a reward for his loyalty, that I was given to this Berber king. In truth, I have many reasons to despise him—and not only because of our chaste wedding night and his willingness to surrender me into the emperor’s bed. I am acutely aware that my husband has, in his own way, been partly responsible for every tragedy that has befallen my family and me.
And yet my resentment is tempered by the knowledge that I have betrayed him too. Tonight we must forget these betrayals, so I want to be done with these endless preparations for an act that has been more than five years in the waiting. “Let us not speak of the love between a husband and a wife, Tala. There’s no need to fill my head with romantic notions. I’m no fearful virgin.”
Never cowed by my imperious nature, she asks, “Then why are you sweating like one?”
She’s right. In spite of the coolness of the autumnal evening, my nape is damp. Fortunately,
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