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give my son his name and I can return to my rooms and collapse in bed.
    “Your son,” I agree, taking my place at Juba’s side.
    It is the king’s privilege to name the child. It would not surprise me if he meant to name his son in honor of his own family. Another Juba, perhaps, or Masinissa. But the divine ichor in our son’s veins is the blood of the Ptolemies; my legacy is far more prestigious than my husband’s. Though it would help to erase any doubt that Juba was the father of this child, I am the one who labored hard to bring the child into the world so I say, “His name is Ptolemy.”
    The joy on Juba’s face fractures. “Ptolemy? Why not Gaius, after our patron, the emperor?”
    Is that sarcasm I hear? Does he seek to shame me after all? Surely he knows that naming my son after the emperor would invite scandal. Not to mention the fact that I would never name my son after the man who destroyed my family, stole Egypt, and violated me. I shake my head so violently that my dark hair lashes at my face. Somehow, I manage to swallow down my bile long enough to whisper, “Flattery will not sweeten this news for Augustus. Let the baby be named Ptolemy; it will stand him in good stead.”
    My husband can be an agreeable man—a mild-mannered king—but I am asking a rather grand concession from him. Looking down fondly at the newborn in his arms, he finally nods. “I’m told the birth was a struggle. You’ve given me a precious gift: a son to secure our reign. If you wish to call him Ptolemy, I won’t refuse you . . . but we’ll have to write Augustus. There can be no more delay.”
    I exhale, relieved and grateful. Motioning to the crowd, I say softly, “Augustus may hear it from them before he hears it from us. Now that the seas have opened, rumor will reach Rome in a week. No more than two.” Fear tightens my stomach, but I lift my chin with resolution. “Then we’ll reap what we’ve sown.”

Three

    DURING the month named for the Roman goddess Juno, our subjects take to the fields to cut down the ripe grain before it is burnt by the high heat of summer. The largest plantations, worked by gangs of slaves, are the first to get their grain to market. Even now, caravans of colorfully saddled mules clog the city streets, bound for our harbor. Camels, horse-driven wagons, and even carts pushed by laborers descend upon us from the hills, all laden down with sacks of oats, barley, and wheat.
    If I close my eyes, I can already smell the bread that will be baked with all this grain. It’s a sacred scent that calls me to my duty. So why am I listless? I’m healed now from the birth of my son. The illness made my milk run dry, but my infant son thrives at the breast of his wet nurse.
    There is no accounting for my overwhelming sadness.
    Yet I have no appetite. I’m short-tempered with servants. I hide in my chambers, shunning our court. Though summer bathes my kingdom in golden light, I lurk in gloom. Perhaps it’s because I await word from Rome. When Augustus hears of the birth of my son, how will he answer? Will he rage like a possessive lover and mete out revenge? Or will he care at all? Maybe what I do is beneath the emperor’s notice now and he will greet the news with indifference. That is the best I can hope for . . .
    Alas, I suspect my gloomy mood has less to do with the emperor than with what I saw when consumed by fever. They say I called his name. Helios . My other half. Twin. Brother. Lover. King. There was a time I would’ve gone anywhere with him—disappeared into the desert, sailed away into the farthest reaches of the sea. I’d have abandoned my husband, my crown, my kingdom, and the prophecies too. For Helios and I are of one spirit, one akh . We have been together in all the worlds that have ever been or will ever be. That is how I know he lives. We are bound. If he were dead, I would know it. I would be torn asunder. My world could not stand on its foundations without Helios in it.