Hand of Isis

by Jo Graham

  Demetria came on, looking lovely in her simple white chiton. “Yes, Mother?”

  “We will save your baby brother by hiding him in a basket in the reeds. We will set it to drift on the Nile. Better that than he die. Take this basket to the river.” Putting the doll in the basket, she handed it to Demetria.

  I was frowning at what seemed to me the distinctly anti-Egyptian tone of the piece, and wondering why in the world Dion had thought this was a good idea, when Demetria took the doll to her breast and began to sing.

  “?‘Sleep, my love, on the breast of the Nile. Sleep while stars shine down on thee. Sleep, my love, on the heart of the waves. Sleep, my brother, sleep. Sleep my brother, promised one, sleep while God watches over thee.’?” Her voice was clear and cool, without a single tremor or shake, a bright treble falling like water, innocence personified. She stood with one knee bent, the doll to her shoulder, her face raised as though to invisible stars. Light shone in her eyes. There was not a sound in the entire house.

  She laid the basket in the painted waters and let it go, bidding farewell to the baby they must expose, the baby they could not keep. She stopped on the edge, half turned as though watching it drift away.

  Somewhere in the audience, a woman took a breath almost like a sob.

  And then she turned, raising her eyes to the audience, or to the invisible God. “I have to follow him,” she said. “I have to!” And she ran from the stage.

  I clutched Dion’s hand. “She’s good, Dion.”

  He bent his head toward me. “I told you she was. Charmian, she’s exceptional. She’s not but eleven years old.”

  There was a flourish of drums and trumpets, and with great pomp a royal procession appeared, a princess in the center, clad in pleated linen.

  “Every day,” she said, “I go with my maidens to bathe and play beside the river. I am Pharaoh’s daughter. But what is this I hear? Is that a baby crying?”

  One of the princess’ handmaidens came forward with the same basket. “Here it is, Princess. It is a baby, in a basket that had drifted into the reeds. A little boy.”

  Pharaoh’s daughter lifted the doll from the basket and held it to her, her face painted, not a mask. I could swear that was a real woman, not a man. I didn’t think the Jewish theater had eunuchs on stage. “A child of the poor who could not keep him. Well, he has come to me. Do not be afraid, little one. I will care for you.”

  At this point Demetria sprung up, as though from among the reeds. “Gracious Lady, I know a Hebrew woman who would make a good wet nurse. She has lost her own son. Shall I go and get her?”

  “Yes, do so,” she said.

  Demetria paused at the edge of the stage, looking toward the audience as though to take them into her confidence. “I will go find my own mother, that she may nurse her son for Pharaoh’s daughter.” And then she went off again.

  Dion leaned to me. “That’s Demetria’s whole part. When Mariamne comes on again later in the play, she’s grown up. Demetria only plays child Mariamne. She has that one song.”

  “That was lovely,” I whispered. “I had no idea she could sing like that. Or act. She could do the Mysteries.”

  Dion looked amused, and whispered back, “These are the Mysteries, Charmian. The stories on our holiest scrolls, done before all the world, for anyone to see. That’s why people mind.”

  “Oh,” I said. I thought a few minutes, while on stage the baby, grown into a youth, seemed to be having a quarrel with Pharaoh’s son, involving a lot of singing. “No wonder people mind, then. Why do you do it, Dion?”

  He leaned back over. “Because truth doesn’t belong to any one people, but to all of the souls in the world who seek it. And there are truths to be scattered everywhere, even in places where they will not take root for many years. Thus are we all advanced in the service of the Most High. To say this truth belongs only to the Jews is like saying that philosophy should only be studied by Greek men, or that Isis cares only for Egyptian women.”

  I thought a while longer. On stage, Moses had killed a soldier and was now fleeing, which seemed to involve a lot of singing, while three men dressed as archers performed in counterpoint, complete with very well executed dancing.

  Dion leaned in again. “Truth makes us free, Charmian. The best we can do is to carry the banner proudly in our own time.”

  I squeezed his hand. “I think you are a very good man, Dion,” I whispered.

  It was well into the third act before I saw Dion’s handiwork. As we took our seats again after the pause, he grinned at me. “You’ll like this. I know you will. I thought of you when I was figuring out how to do it.”

  With a fanfare, the music began.

  The Jews, it seemed, were fleeing Egypt, and had come at last to the edge of the sea. However, Pharaoh’s chariots pursued with a heavy drumbeat and menacing trumpets. A painted backdrop of the billowing waves stood across the stage, unsupported on either end or above, rather fierce looking waves, I thought.

  “?‘Oh, what shall we do?’?” the chorus of Jews sang. “?‘We will be killed!’?” In counterpoint, the drums and trumpets and Egyptian soldiers were all singing their parts, a big set piece of a song with all the trimmings.

  Moses took his staff, topped with a serpent’s head that looked rather like the uraeus, and stretched out his arms dramatically, shouting one word aloud. The drums crashed, and all of the music halted on a single note.

  Slowly, with no visible mechanism at all, the backdrop of the ocean parted, each piece rolling smoothly backward with no hand upon it. There was no walk above from which they could have been pulled, since this was a lecture hall, not a theater. They did not extend to the makeshift draped wings. No hand touched them at all as the waves glided smoothly apart.

  “Hurry!” grown-up Mariamne yelled. “We must cross while the waves are parted! There is not much time!”

  At that the flutes began again, and the song of the Jews as they tumbled into the place between the waves, carrying children and bundles and looking fearfully behind. They passed in the middle, then broke into two lines across the back of the stage, into either wing. Last of all came Moses, his arms still outstretched, passing between the massive set pieces, each twice a man’s height. The drums and trumpets began to pick up; Pharaoh’s chariots were approaching. The painted waves towered over him. When he stood behind them, he once again shouted a word of command.

  And again, soundlessly, and without the touch of human hands, the waves glided together once more, ending precisely together, Moses behind them, just as the music ended.

  The audience broke into thunderous applause.

  Dion stretched and grinned in his seat as the actors came out to take their bows. Demetria was one of the last, but her face glowed, and there was a wave of stronger applause when she came forward, for child Mariamne.

  Afterward, we stood while people milled around, waiting for Demetria.

  “How in the world is it done, Dion? The waves must be yours. I remember when we talked about that story.”

  Dion grinned wider. “On the back of each one there’s a big basket of sand on a cord tied to the axle of the piece’s wheels. When the sand empties out of the basket into another, the weight pulls the cord, and the scenery moves across the stage and lifts the full basket. There it sits, until the gradual emptying of the full basket into the now empty one reverses it, and the cord winds the other way. When it does, the scenery moves back. You can change the timing by varying the amount of sand, but you have to be very precise. Otherwise the waves will move before Moses tells them to. When he walks through the waves and stops behind them, he can see how much sand is left, and times the command for the waves to close to when the basket empties.”

  I looked at him with astonishment. “That’s incredibly clever!”

  “I thought so,” Dion said modestly.

  Demetria came hurrying up. “Well?”

  I hugged her. “All right, you can keep the part! If Dion will make sure you don’t hav
e to walk home from the theater alone.”

  “I swear,” Dion said.

  Demetria threw her arms about me and Dion both. “I love you so much!”

  “And I suppose we should see about voice lessons,” I said. “I imagine the temple would be happy to have you as a full-time student.”

  THUS WHEN the play ended, just before Demetria turned twelve, she became an acolyte, spending all day, every day at the Serapeum and the Temple of Isis, arriving early for choir for the Morning Offices, and then taking lessons and lunch there. In the afternoon she had music, voice and instrumental both. In four years she would be a dedicant, if she excelled, an irrevocable commitment to temple and to Goddess. A dedicant could still marry, if she wished, but her vows were for life.

  I supposed that sixteen was not too young to make that choice. I had known what my life would be when I was fourteen.

  I HAD A LETTER from Emrys, written from Antioch.

  Hail Charmian,

  Antonius is here with us in Syria, and they say we are going against the Parthians again next summer. I was not in Jerusalem at the beginning, as light cavalry is of no use in close street fighting, but I do not want to ever see such again. I think everyone would have been killed, had Herod not called Sossius off. I do not mind so much facing armies in the field, but I do not like sacking cities, and I cannot help but feel it too much. Now Herod is a very great hero in the eyes of everyone here, as well as being a good soldier. They call him Herod the Great without a trace of irony.

  I am glad to hear Demetria is well and that her studies are progressing. Does she miss the nursery and Caesarion, or is it time for her leave that behind her so that she does not yearn for it? You can be very proud of your daughter.

  Less than two more years . . .

  Straight on the heels of this, Antonius’ general Gaius Capito arrived in Alexandria, with letters for the Queen and a personal plea that she come to Syria immediately, bringing all possible supplies and ships.

  He made his request as gracefully as possible, before the Queen’s entire council, clearly knowing what a position Antonius had put him in, and appreciating it not at all. Consequently, the Queen did not torment Capito, but told him that he would have his reply in a few days, and that he might enjoy the hospitality of the city in the meantime. He left, looking as though he’d expected to spend the next few days in an oubliette instead.

  After he departed, the council all looked at each other, as if daring another to speak first.

  It was Apollodorus who did, who had been with her since childhood. “Gracious Queen,” he began. “Herod and the Parthians . . .”

  “Of course we must go,” she said, folding her hands in her lap. “I have not done all for the alliance, only to scrap it.”

  WE SAILED FOR ANTIOCH, and with thirty ships now we were quite a great fleet. Caesarion and Iras stayed in Alexandria, but the twins came with us. Antonius had never seen them.

  This time, when we came into the harbor, we did not come like Aphrodite of the Waves, courting. We came on a warship, and we did not sing.

  Antonius recognized the difference, of course. He came to the ship immediately himself. A show of respect? I wondered. Desperation for supplies? Or did he truly want to see Cleopatra? In any event, he hurried, and he was well dressed in a harness of white leather studded with gold over a blinding purple tunic with broad golden borders, short enough to show off his handsome legs.

  He made his bow to the Queen, his officers behind him, while we all stood like statues. She wore the double crown and uraeus, the snake jutting gilded from her brow, and in her pleated linen sat as still and impassive as any statue, like a carving on a wall of Isis in the Halls of Amenti.

  She said one word. “Kneel.”

  I took a breath.

  “I will not,” Antonius said.

  Her eyes bored into him. “Kneel to this throne, or our alliance is over.”

  “Cleopatra . . . ,” he began, spreading his hands.

  “Kneel.”

  The color rose in his face. “Can’t we discuss this privately?”

  “The state of our alliance?” Her painted brows rose. “I think not. Now kneel as any proper suppliant. That is what you are, isn’t it? Without me you will not keep what you have won.”

  She will break it, I thought. She is humiliating him before his officers, and surely his pride will not bear it.

  Instead, Marcus Antonius sank to his knees. “There,” he said. “Does that suit you now?”

  “Very well,” she said. “And I will give you what you want. Provisions and grain to fight the Parthians, food for your men and their horses, and a fleet to guard your back.”

  Bareheaded, he gave her half a smile. “In exchange for what?”

  “All of the cities on the coast of Phoenicia from Ashkelon to Ptolemais Ace, and from Ptolemais Ace to Balanea, excepting the cities of Tyre and Sidon. The province of Ituraea, between the Roman province of Syria and the Kingdom of Judea. The cities of the Decapolis in the interior of Judea, including the cities of Hippos and Gadara, and the groves of Gilead, near Jericho. Also the Nabatean coast of the Red Sea along the Gulf of Elat.”

  Antonius’ smile faded. “You are asking for a third of our eastern territories.”

  “And if I do not have them, they will be overrun by the Parthians, and you will not have them either,” she replied coolly.

  “Half that land is already given to Herod,” he said.

  “How very unfortunate for him.”

  “Cleopatra . . .”

  “When Herod can bring you a fleet and supplies, then no doubt it will be in your better interest to enforce his claim. Right now he brings you nothing, due to the brilliance of your General Sossius, who has managed to impoverish the nation and loot the capital of your own ally. But then,” she said, pausing as if suddenly remembering something, “you weren’t here, were you, Imperator? I believe you were opening the games in Athens.”

  Antonius’ mouth opened and shut. Then he got to his feet, spun on his heels, and stalked out of the audience without another word, his officers scrambling after.

  I waited until they were gone. “Gracious Queen?”

  Cleopatra had not moved at all. “He will be back,” she said. “He needs me more than I need him.”

  Lords of the East

  The next day Cleopatra had an invitation to dine with Antonius at the palace of Antioch, which he had taken for his own.

  “Very well,” the Queen agreed, “but in two days our fleet sails for Egypt. Tell the Imperator that he must decide whether he will meet my terms, or watch his supplies sail back to Alexandria.”

  I wanted badly to see Emrys, who was stationed in Antioch, but did not dare to. It would be too great a test of my loyalty, with our masters opposed. I thought he must feel the same way, as he had made no attempt to see me either.

  I waited while she went ashore to the dinner, and was there when she brought Antonius back to the ship for a private conversation. Of course, for the great, private conversations are rarely private. I was hanging about the back of the cabin, in case she wanted anything, and was both surprised and pleased that the bodyguard Antonius had brought was Sigismund.

  We exchanged happy glances while the slaves brought wine for the Queen and Antonius. I would have gladly run and hugged him, and vice versa, but we were both on duty. He looked fit, if a bit older, and his long blond hair was now severely cut in the Roman fashion, a new scar across his cheek. He still looked like he could lift an ox, though.

  We both faded into the background on our respective sides of the room as the cupbearer closed the door.

  Cleopatra was all Greek today, in an Ionic chiton of pale lavender, the borders worked with violets. She sat down not on the couch, but in a hard chair, her arms resting along its armrests like a Roman legate. “Well?”

  “I’m sorry.” Antonius poured himself a cup of wine from the cool amphora left standing. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  “So
rry for what?”

  “For marrying Octavia. Is this jealousy?” He did not look at her, but rather into the depths of the cup. “Do you want me to tell you I don’t love her, that I’ve never thought about anyone but you? That I didn’t enjoy a moment with her and that I missed you every second?”

  “Are those things true?” Cleopatra’s voice was completely dispassionate, as though she spoke of someone else, long ago.

  He took a quick drink of the red wine. “No.”

  Sigismund’s eyes met mine across the room, and I could read his thought as clearly there as if he’d said it aloud: Not good.

  I sincerely hoped this didn’t come down to violence or kidnapping. Me against Sigismund was no contest, but he knew as well as I that I would have to try. Still, he could probably stop me with no worse than a broken arm or wrist, and he would do as little as he could.

  “It seemed the wise thing to do, marrying her. It seemed the way out of a situation with Octavian, that my brother, curse him, got me into. And Octavia’s not a bad sort. She’s not you or Fulvia, someone I would choose, but I like her well enough. She didn’t really want to get married again so soon, but she knew she had to, and that she would have to marry to improve her brother’s position. She liked me better than Tiberius Nero, and she liked the idea of making peace between me and her brother.” Antonius took another deep drink. “I didn’t know how you’d take that.”

  “As the political expedience it had to be,” she said. “What I do not appreciate is my letters remaining unanswered, and you sending diplomatic correspondence as though I were a mere acquaintance.”

  Antonius turned around, and there was something real in his eyes, something raw. “I didn’t know what to say!”