by Jo Graham
I kicked off my sandals and put my foot in Dion’s hands. He boosted me up. I clung to the bar, and I don’t think I would have been able to get to my feet if my sister had not reached for me. “I’ve got you,” she said, leaning down from the ladder that was fixed to the wall by the shuttered windows. “It’s not far. Come on.”
The cavalry was trying to sweep toward us. Of course they would protect Cleopatra with their lives if they knew who she was, but there was no chance to explain.
I seized her hand, and nearly fell. The skirt of my long chiton caught on a nail, and I heard it rip as Cleopatra pulled me as hard as she could. I grabbed the ladder.
“Climb!” Dion yelled. Nearby, a man went down beneath one of the plunging horses. We saw his blood on the stones of the street, the horse dancing to avoid stepping on him.
Cleopatra started climbing above me, and I hung three rungs below. Dion swung himself up onto the bar as nimbly as an acrobat, barefooted and sure. That was all I needed to see. I started climbing after my sister, thinking irrelevantly that she had one shoe on, and that Asetnefer would be furious at us for losing them. Our sandals were good leather and expensive.
We clambered onto the roof, and dropped over the low railing. There were some floor mats up there and a few cushions. The shopkeeper’s family must use this as a cool place to sit or sleep on hideously hot nights. Many people did that, because you could catch the ocean breeze. I lay on a faded red cushion, trying to get my breath back.
Dion clambered over the rail and skidded to a stop on a mat. His eyes were wide.
Cleopatra was sitting cross-legged, her arms behind her and her face to the sky, taking deep breaths.
“Everybody all right?” Dion asked.
I nodded. I wasn’t sure I could talk yet.
Below there was clamor and screaming. We didn’t look.
At last Cleopatra said, “What happened?”
“A Roman killed a cat,” I answered. “That’s what a man said to me.”
“Who would kill a cat?” she asked. It was as much a rhetorical question for her as for me.
Dion looked solemn. “Someone who doesn’t know. There are lots of people who don’t, in other countries.”
“If they come here, you’d think they’d learn,” she said. “It’s stupid to go somewhere and wander around offending their gods and people.”
“He was Roman,” I said.
Dion snorted. “Which means he didn’t care.” We looked at him, and he went on. “That’s what my father says. He says the Romans don’t care anything for the customs of other people, and that they don’t even want other people to worship their own gods. That the worst thing that can happen to a people is to come under Roman rule.”
“Why would you care who your subjects worship?” Cleopatra said practically. “As long as they pay their taxes and don’t rebel? I mean, most people worship Isis and Serapis at least some, but if they don’t it’s not like there’s anything bad that happens to them.”
“Like the Jews,” I said, thinking of the most prominent group that didn’t worship Isis and Serapis. Jews had been in Alexandria forever, but there never had been any kind of problem with them.
Dion nodded. He looked very serious. “Since Rome annexed Judea four years ago, lots and lots more Jews have come to Alexandria. Haven’t you noticed?”
I hadn’t, but didn’t say so. I didn’t know a huge amount about Judea, truth to tell, though of course I knew about Queen Salome, who had only died seven years before and had been the most powerful queen in generations. Since her death, her country had fallen into all kinds of disarray.
“The Roman Pompeius Magnus even went into the Temple, into the Holy of Holies,” Dion said. “It was his way of showing that he could do whatever he wanted.”
That was serious, I thought. Almost all temples had an inner sanctum, where no one but priests were allowed. It was horribly blasphemous for anyone else to go in, and it certainly would never have occurred to Auletes to do it, even in the temples of our own gods. And it’s always a bad idea to offend other people’s gods. You never knew what might happen.
Cleopatra must have been thinking the same thing. “What happened?” she asked.
Dion shrugged. “Jews hate Pompeius. And lots and lots have come to Alexandria since then, bringing their money and their crafts.”
“And so their economy is hurt and ours benefits,” Cleopatra said with satisfaction, her question answered. “My father would never do any such thing, and people know it.”
“They do,” Dion said. He gave her a smile. “And neither would you, if you were queen.”
“I wouldn’t,” she said seriously. “But I’m not going to be queen. I have two older sisters, and my father says that when the time comes I will be married to someone advantageous.”
“Maybe even in Judea,” Dion said. “Queen Salome’s grandsons are in Rome and might be made kings—you never know. One of them would make a good husband for you.”
Cleopatra considered, her head to the side. I did too. If she married a foreign prince, in Judea or wherever, we should go with her as her handmaidens, Iras and I. I didn’t think I would mind Judea. Jerusalem or Ashkelon were not the ends of the earth.
“I wonder where Iras is,” I said.
Cleopatra sat up straight, and Dion crawled over to the edge of the roof. “I don’t know,” he said.
“I couldn’t hold on,” my sister said. Her brow furrowed. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t hold on even though Apollodorus told us to.”
“He’s probably with Iras,” I said. “I thought they got pushed that way in the crowd, back toward the Palace Quarter.”
“Apollodorus is a lot bigger than us, and he pushes better,” Cleopatra said.
“Then they’re probably fine,” Dion said cheerfully. “Apollodorus could look after Iras. They’re probably worried about you.”
No doubt, I thought. Apollodorus was probably frantic. He had no way of knowing where we were, or if we were safe. Here we were on somebody’s roof, with no shoes, and a riot between us and the palace. The last thing we wanted to do was wade back into that, especially with the troops out, and I said as much.
Dion nodded, looking at Cleopatra’s white feet, one in a sandal, one bare. “We can’t go too far,” he said. “We could go to my house. It’s not a long way, and my mother will know what to do. She might be able to send a slave to Apollodorus, or when my father comes home he could take you back to the palace.”
That seemed reasonable to us. After all, Apollodorus had said that he knew Dion’s father because he worked at the Museum, so he must be a trustworthy person.
Dion had told the truth that his house was not far away. Though I had never been in this part of the city before, I knew we were in the neighborhoods south and east of the Soma, because I could see the Soma’s dome occasionally over the rooftops. The houses were fairly large, with courtyard gates on the street, and trees and vines just visible over the walls. Most of them didn’t have shops on the ground floor, except on corners, where there might be a larger apartment building with rooms above. Even those looked nice, I thought, with communal courtyards and awnings on the balconies, a couch or two put out where people might catch the sea breezes.
Dion’s house was one of the freestanding ones on a quiet street. There was an old slave watching by the courtyard door, doubtless because of the riot. He looked dismayed when he saw Dion. Or maybe it was the state of Dion’s chiton, and the fact he was barefooted.
“Nothing to worry about, Eucherios,” Dion said breezily as we limped past him. “Is my mother home? I’ve rescued some young ladies who are in need of refreshment.” He didn’t wait for an answer, just guided us past the slave and into the courtyard.
I looked about with satisfaction. It was nothing like the palace, of course, but the courtyard was almost completely shaded by two massive terebinth trees and a weeping almond. There were three couches arranged in a semicircle on the flagstones beneath them, a mosaic table
with geometric patterns set by, and the tripod for a krater. On summer nights, it must be a lovely place for a dinner party. The garden was beautiful. Oddly enough, though, there were no statues.
“Mother!” Dion called, motioning us to follow after. “Mother? I was in a riot, but I’m fine!”
At this a woman came hurrying from the back of the house, dusting off her hands on her skirts. She was older than I expected, with gray streaking her dark hair, but the shape of her face and her laughing eyes were the same as Dion’s. “You were what?”
“In a riot,” Dion explained.
“Dion was very brave,” Cleopatra said helpfully. “I’m sure we would have been killed if it weren’t for him.”
His mother seemed to be hiding a smile, something one did around Dion frequently, I thought. “Come and sit down, girls,” she said. “I’m sure you’d like some water, and to get the filth of the streets off your feet.” She gave Dion a look that said more clearly than words: I’ll deal with you later, young man.
“And some more lunch,” Dion supplied helpfully. His mother glared at him and he shrugged. “I would hate for the Princess Cleopatra to think our hospitality is lacking.”
“The what?”
Now if looks could have killed, it would have been Cleopatra laying Dion out. “I’m Cleopatra,” she said. “Apollodorus’ student. My father is Ptolemy Auletes. And this is my handmaiden Charmian.” She gave Dion’s mother her best smile. “Please don’t distress yourself on my account. We are already beholden to your family for the great service Dion has done us.”
Dion stood up a little straighter, as though anticipating that he’d gotten out of the caning he richly deserved for running off from his tutor.
His mother shook her head. “I’m sure Dion gave perfect satisfaction.” She called for a slave to come wash our feet, and another to bring fruit and fresh bread and cheese.
I was hungrier than I thought, and sat beside my sister nibbling apricots on one of the seats in the public room overlooking the garden. It was nice and cool, though the day was getting quite warm, and the terebinth trees gave off a pleasant, resinous scent.
Dion chattered on about this and that, while Cleopatra nodded. My chiton was a mess. There was a long tear down the side where it had caught on the nail, and it was streaked with various stains. Asetnefer would be none too pleased either. I supposed mothers were like that. But for now, it was wonderful to have someone wash my torn feet with cool water, and to eat apricots somewhere safe.
Cleopatra looked at Dion seriously. “You did save my life, you know.”
He stopped in mid-gesture.
“I want you to know,” she said, “that you have the eternal gratitude of the House of Ptolemy. I shall never forget what you have done for me, and if ever I may repay you, I shall.”
It was well spoken, and what a prince should say, but even I could see that it was incongruous from a nine-year-old girl to a boy in a dirty chiton. Still, Dion knelt before her like her true companion.
“Gracious Lady,” he said, “I am at your service. Always.”
IN AN HOUR OR SO, Dion’s father came home. He was heavy-set and about fifty, with a gray beard and a very serious way about him. I should have been intimidated, had he not seemed to share his son’s good humor. By now we had learned that Dion was the youngest child of parents long married, and that he had three older sisters and an older brother who had long since had children of his own. Dion was the only one still a child, since his next oldest sister was fourteen and had recently moved to her betrothed’s house to live with him and his parents until the wedding was celebrated.
He glanced back and forth between me and Cleopatra. “So which of you is the princess?”
It hadn’t occurred to me that it wasn’t obvious; we were two girls the same age and same height, with the same look of the Ptolemies about us, and wearing equally disheveled clothes. My hair was lighter than hers, and my eyes were blue instead of brown, but unless one were looking carefully, one wouldn’t know if one had never met the princess before.
“I am,” Cleopatra said, getting to her feet.
“Apollodorus will be half-mad looking for you,” he said. “I’ll take you back myself. They’re bringing the litter now.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Do you teach at the Museum?” I asked.
He nodded. “Mathematics. I lecture in the applied sciences as well, mostly hydraulic engineering.” Used to Dion, he assumed we quite understood what hydraulic engineering was. Something to do with irrigation, I thought.
“Would you teach me?” Cleopatra asked.
He blinked. “Hydraulic engineering?”
“Hebrew,” she said. Cleopatra glanced at me, and I knew she was thinking of the princes of Judea we’d discussed on the roof. “After all, who knows whom I might marry, or where I might go?” It would be better for her if she spoke the language of her husband’s people. Better for us too, if we were to accompany her. It would be very hard to manage her household in a country where neither Iras nor I spoke the language.
Dion’s father blinked again. With his gray hair and beard, and white robe, he had the look of an overstuffed owl, I thought. A very nice overstuffed owl. “I’m not really a teacher of Hebrew,” he said. “Nor do I think you need a rabbi, just to learn to converse. You could learn as well from anyone. And you should learn Aramaic, the language as it is spoken, not the Hebrew of the Law.”
“I’ll teach you,” Dion volunteered, leaping off the couch.
Cleopatra gave him a measuring look. “You would do nicely.”
Dion stood straighter. “See, Papa? My first student!”
His father laughed. “If it is agreeable to Apollodorus, I see no reason why you can’t join the young ladies’ lessons occasionally and teach them conversational Aramaic.”
Dion’s mother made a noise in her throat.
His father turned to her. “Can’t do the boy any harm, can it, Mariamne, to have a taste of patronage at the palace?”
It certainly couldn’t. One thing I had amply learned from Apollodorus was that the Library and all of the lectures and schools surrounding it ran on money granted from wealthy patrons, and the wealthiest and most generous funder of research was the House of Ptolemy. Some Pharaohs gave to music and the arts, some to the sciences, some to literature and drama in greatest measure, but all of them gave to the great Library, and their patronage was by far the most stable. Grant money from a princess could make a young man’s career.
“Please?” Dion asked, appealing to his mother.
She shook her head. “I suppose.” She gave him a raking glance that took him in from his lost shoes to his wild hair. “You’re more trouble than the other four children put together.”
OUR RETURN TO the palace was anticlimactic. Apollodorus was still out looking for us, and nobody yet knew we were missing. We’d had our dinners before Dion’s family slave found him, and he came back gray with anxiety. If something had happened to Cleopatra, no doubt he would have been killed in a gruesome way.
We sat in the bath, Cleopatra and I, telling Iras all that had transpired. All that had happened to her was that she had been dragged around town by Apollodorus all afternoon, getting increasingly frantic. She had a few tart words to say about Dion taking us where nobody would know to look for us. And a few more when Cleopatra told her about the Aramaic lessons.
“I don’t see any need for it,” Iras sniffed. “Not with that impossible boy. He’s not a proper teacher. I’m going to find something else to study when he comes.”
“What if I marry one of the Jewish princes?” Cleopatra asked. “And we all go to Jerusalem together?”
“There are plenty of people who speak Greek in Jerusalem,” Iras said. “It’s a perfectly civilized place.”
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Cleopatra said, taking the sponge and running it over her legs. The three of us fit the bath perfectly, and never minded sharing. “The thing that’s
awful is that Apollodorus says I can’t go out of the palace on foot ever again. He says that I can’t go without a litter and guardsmen now, because something might happen to me.”
“Ouch,” I said, examining one of the alabaster jars of hair treatments on the ledge beside the bath. It smelled wonderfully of roses. I poured some into my palm. “No more plays? No more markets? No more just going about with Apollodorus and seeing interesting things?”
“I’ll never see anything interesting again with a dozen guards hovering around me,” Cleopatra said.
I scooped the roses into my hair and started scrubbing. “That’s true,” I said. Our legs looked alike in the water. Iras’ were longer and her skin darker, but then she had brown eyes like Cleopatra.
An idea struck. I ducked my head to wash out the suds, then dashed the water out of my eyes. “What about me and Iras?” I asked.
“It doesn’t matter about you and Iras,” Cleopatra said despondently. “You can go and do whatever you like. It’s only me that’s stuck.”
Iras caught my eye. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she asked.
“I think so,” I said. Sometimes we were so alike it was uncanny. “So as long as you stay here, we can go out.”
“That’s what I just said,” Cleopatra said.
“Then as long as one of us stays here, the other two can go,” Iras said. She leaned back against the tile wall of the bath. “Most of the guards don’t know us well enough to tell us apart, especially if we wear our himations modestly over our heads.”
“If you wear my clothes, and pretend to be me . . .”
“Or me,” Iras said.
“. . . then you can go out,” I finished triumphantly.
“We can take turns,” Iras said.
“It will never work,” she said. But it would. Oh, it would.
“We could try it,” Iras said.
And that is how The Game was born.
In the House of Pharaoh
Asetnefer had kept us close when we were children, but as we grew older, Iras and I had more freedom to come and go. Oh, the whole of the city was not ours, and we dared not run from Apollodorus and roam as Dion did, but when our studies were done we could go about the palace and the grounds, the park and the Royal Cemetery. We could even go down to the palace docks, where merchants with special licenses were allowed to bring goods for sale to the inhabitants of the Palace Quarter.
