Daughters of the Nile Read Online Free PDF

do while I still have the courage for it.
    Tala appears, her silver bracelets jingling together as she knocks lightly against the half-opened carved wooden door. “The king has called together the court to attend to him.”
    So we leave for the throne room, my sandaled feet shuffling slowly on the mosaic floors. My Macedonian guards snap to attention, their eyes lowered in deference. I am a tall woman, but I make myself stand taller, for I must preserve my reputation as a fertile young queen. My ability to bring forth life in this land is at the heart of the people’s love for me. I cannot be seen as weak.
    In an archway, I peer between shimmering draperies to see King Juba seated on his ivory throne chair—the one given to him by the Senate and people of Rome, along with a purple robe, ivory scepter, and golden crown. My husband’s full lips turn down at the corners when he is pensive, and they are turned down now. He fidgets while our courtiers crowd the throne room.
    Romans. Greeks. Egyptians. Berbers. Ours is a court of many languages and complexions. Knots of men stand together amidst the pillars, fanning themselves with palm fronds to fend off the afternoon heat while discussing the latest news from Rome. In the farthest corner, Lady Lasthenia instructs her students on some point of Pythagorean theory. Reclining upon a cushion in the presence of royalty as only our court poet is brave enough to do, Crinagoras sees me beneath the archway and shouts, “All hail to Queen Cleopatra Selene!”
    Lifting my chin with a regal air, I force myself to stride to the raised dais. My gossamer cape billows behind me as if caught by the wind, and the crowd makes way. Behind me, Tala carries the baby in her sturdy Berber arms.
    I walk purposefully, pausing only once to keep my balance. Watching me, the king’s brow creases with worry. In my white silks, I must appear very pale and frail indeed. But when my son lets out a cry, my frailty is forgotten. My husband launches to his feet, and his eyes fasten eagerly on the newborn. A smile breaks over the king’s face. He holds out his arms for the child but I catch Tala’s elbow before she can give the swaddled bundle over. “No,” I murmur. “Do as we discussed.”
    Scowling, she lays the babe down on the floor at the king’s feet. I’ve no fondness for this custom either, but I know the Romans. My father was one of them and my husband may as well be. Even so, the king startles when I so publicly offer him the opportunity to reject my child. Perhaps he is remembering that I was no maiden when I came to his bed. His gaze darts to meet mine, a question in his eyes that I do not answer. My expression remains placid, inscrutable, even when the assembled courtiers lapse into silence, anticipating scandal and humiliation.
    Many here have seen the emperor’s eyes gleam with lust for me. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were, even now, counting the months since I left the court of Augustus to take my place as the Queen of Mauretania, and wondering about the paternity of my child. My husband isn’t beyond such speculation. He knows already my daughter was not of his get. Perhaps he will reject my son for fear that he has been betrayed again.
    Juba hesitates before lifting his robes above his sandals, descending the stairs, and stooping to examine the babe. I resent that he folds back the blankets to reveal my child’s sex, but it takes all my strength to remain standing; I’ve none to spare for irritation.
    At the sight of the little phallus, the king smiles and holds the child aloft, naked, exposed. “My son!” Juba cries with joy. A cheer goes up from the crowd and a little bleating lamb’s cry goes up from my baby.
    Just a few moments more, little one.
    I have created a dramatic moment—one that will cause talk in Rome. It was the emperor, my mentor, who taught me such stagecraft, so I know how to ensure that this news reaches him. Just a few minutes more. Just long enough to