by Karen Essex
“All my ancestors were great hunting men. That is, except Potbelly, who refused to hunt. “We hunt dancing girls,’ he used to say.
The king raised his right arm to the sky as if sanctioning the westward movement of the marsh fowl that flew overhead. “I like dancing girls myself,” he said, winking at the philosopher. “But there is no greater thrill than to be face-to-face with the hot tusks of the wild boar. When I was ten years old, I read about Alexander’s single-handed slaying of the lion, and from that time on, I could not get enough of the hunt.”
Kleopatra took the opportunity to interject. “Father, you raised me on the same tales that you read when you were a boy, and yet you refuse to allow me to participate in the pleasures of the big kill.”
“The princess is tortured by the constraints of age upon her person, Your Majesty,” Demetrius said.
“But surely Alexander hunted with his father when he was ten,” Kleopatra argued.
“Be patient, my little one. You will not be a child all your life.”
Kleopatra was alone in the thick of the woods, dressed in a pale green chiton, feet and calves laced tightly into coarse leather hunting boots. She held the same style bow as the Bactrian girls and felt the weight of a full pouch of arrows on her right shoulder. The muddy, narrow path under her feet was imprinted with fresh hoofprints big enough for her to walk in. A large tree had toppled over, its uprooted trunk staring at her like a tombstone. On it grew an odd fungus that looked like a cluster of amethysts, an offering of jewels bursting from something long dead. She dared not touch it though she was curious about its texture.
Leaping from one hoofprint to the next, she came to a giant elm—more mountain than tree—with gnarled roots like dragon toes clinging determinedly to the ground and high branches that disappeared into the hidden skies. Under this timber, a lion stood victoriously atop the hunting net that had been laid to ensnare him. His head and paws were over-large, his body sinuous, his mane puffed, his eyes watery and ferocious. The beast was surrounded by a young man with the crest of a king on his hunting tunic and five Kinsmen on horseback. The king and the beast played a staring game, each entranced with the other’s unshakable gaze.
The princess recognized her ancestor. It was he, whose mummified corpse rested in the glass tomb in her city—the city that bore his name. He was with his Companions, those men of history and legend who had loved and served the king from boyhood—Seleucus, Lysimachus, old Antipater, the treacherous Cassander, and beak-nosed Ptolemy. Alexander was splendid—muscled, proud, beautiful. He was not, however, very tall. Kleopatra loved him even more for being short. All her life, she had wished that she could go back into ancient times and know him. She lately had come to believe, in the romantic way of young girls, that he would have been her perfect and true mate, and that history had botched their union. She thought, if only he knew me, I would be his and he would be mine, though Demetrius tried to spoil her fantasy by insisting that Alexander was a devout catamite. Yet here he was, sent to her, she was sure, by the gods.
“Cousin,” she said, stepping between the king and the beast.
Alexander replied courteously, as if he had known her all his life. “Cousin, step aside.” He addressed the creature. “Beast, lord of animals whose entrails were fed to Achilles by the Centaur to make him strong, prepare to die.”
Alexander raised his spear, and the animal leapt like a comet, its belly suddenly Kleopatra’s sky. The king tumbled off his horse as he thrust his spear into the lion’s gut. He landed on top of the beast, its great paw swiping his face, leaving a bloody stripe.
“Kinswoman, help me,” he pleaded, his face and body soaked in the thick, incarnadine red that flowed from the beast’s wound.
Kleopatra reached behind for a quiver with her right, but her pouch was empty.
“Grandfather,” she said to Ptolemy. “An arrow to save the king!”
From his hunting pouch Ptolemy took a gold-tipped arrow. He placed it in his bow and aimed not at the lion, but at the princess. She struggled to pull away, but her legs were like stone columns planted deep inside the earth. She folded herself into a ball as the arrow escaped Ptolemy’s bow. With a sickening crack of her spine, she lost the feeling in her body.
Then she was aloft, looking back at the scene as if through a red-colored glass, her vision narrow now, but intensely focused. Alexander had one foot on top of the lion, whose life gushed out of the deep wound, seeping back into the earth. Ptolemy raised his empty bow to her in a salute. As she soared away, she realized that she was no longer the princess Kleopatra but an eagle.
She woke confused, dry-mouthed, and earthbound, surprised to find herself again in human form, and not sure of the meaning of the night vision. There was no one on the expedition with whom she might discuss its meaning but Demetrius, and he did not believe in omens from dreams.
Now fed, washed, and dressed—shod in tall leather boots, cloaked in a light linen wrap against the morning chill, and wearing a wide-brimmed hat in defense of the soon-to-rise sun—the princess rode the warm, damp Persephone through the morning mist. The king had announced that the “ladies,” Berenike, herself, and their attendants, would chase hare with the assistance of two net-watchers, boys who were responsible for carrying, repairing, and guarding the nets, while the “gentlemen and Kinsmen” would hunt, ensnare, and conquer the wild boar. “That is, if we find one,” he laughed.
“My father and king,” came the husky voice of Berenike. “I am sixteen years of age. My women and I are seasoned in the art of the kill. I am a better marksman than even yourself—a. fact I humbly submit.”
Snickers from the Kinsmen, giggles from the Bactrian girls. It was true, however, that Berenike could outshoot her father. Berenike was as tall as the ungainly king, but lithe and well muscled. Her eyesight, too, was far superior.
If she goes on the big-game hunt, thought Kleopatra, so shall I. She was torn between wishing for the king to reprimand her haughty sister and desiring that he accede to her wishes so that she, too, might accompany the men.
“If the princess Berenike wishes to engage in manly sport, she may do so in her own time and in her own kingdom. In the meanwhile, I am king and I have segregated the sexes on this expedition. And now, a final prayer to our Lady Artemis—”
“The goddess of the hunt is a woman,” interrupted Berenike.
“And the princess Berenike is a mortal,” replied her father. Before he could continue in prayer, Berenike interrupted him again.
“How is that so, my father, when you bear the title New Dionysus? Do the gods-on-earth sire mortal children? Forgive me, my knowledge of theology is limited in these matters.”
No sound was heard but the low blowing of horses’ lips, anxious to take to the path. The courtiers, the Kinsmen, the attendants, the slaves, all remained securely moored in their places. Eyes darted where heads dared not turn.
Auletes’ thick, black brows knitted together in anger, forming one dark ominous linear hedge across his forehead. “May the Lady of Wild Things set the Calydonian boar upon you and tear you to shreds should you continue to vex the king!”
Berenike remained utterly still, nonchalant at the king’s insults. Auletes put the tortoiseshell horn to his lips and sounded the low, braying call to begin the chase. Without delay, the men took off in the direction of the west. Only Demetrius looked back to Kleopatra in sympathy as he turned to follow the king.
Berenike, Kleopatra, Mohama, the two Bactrians with bows and quivers, two slave boys with nets, and two indifferent guards, all sat sour-faced on their horses. Six restless hounds rattled their cages on a cart driven by an old Cilician man, who had been the Keeper of the Hounds until a strange twitching disease impaired him.
Berenike reviewed the members of her hunting party. “Who kills nothing is not allowed to recline at the banquet tonight,” she said, looking directly at her younger sister.
“No one reclines around a campfire, Sister, unless he is drunk,” Kleopatr
a replied. She kicked her heels into the hard flanks of Persephone and led the gallop toward the meadows, riding as fast as she dared in a territory she did not know.
The haughty dog, Pharaoh, was the first to give course. Berenike overtook Kleopatra, who followed her into a glen. From the top of the glen she saw a little brownish creature running fiercely to keep ahead of Pharaoh. The dog’s long legs stretched both ahead and behind his sleek body. Kleopatra was not entirely sure that the animal’s paws hit ground. The dog has no equal in grace, she thought. Suddenly, though, the dog stopped dead in his tracks, front and hind legs tumbling furiously over one another. The little rabbit had tricked him by doubling back over his path. The hare ran right past the humiliated Pharaoh, skittering to avoid the hooves of Jason.
“There he goes!” yelled Kleopatra as the hare darted back up the hill and out of the glen. Pharaoh was on his feet again and leading the chase with Kleopatra on his heels. She leaned into Persephone’s long neck, so close that she could smell the animal’s musky scent and hear her snorting breath. She liked to ride this way, letting the horse govern, unconcerned for herself—not even aware of being Kleopatra at all, but losing that part of herself that witnessed her life. Sight blurred, she became a mere appendage of the beast, who, with its horse intuition, traveled at wild speed, avoiding the rocks and low branches and other obstacles that would injure them.
The rabbit made a mad dash under the stump of a tree, and found himself ensnared in one of the net-watcher’s small meshes. Kleopatra halted Persephone and descended. Breathless, quivering, the imprisoned animal’s nose twitched wildly.
“There, there,” she said to the frightened animal. Pharaoh growled menacingly as she approached the net.
“Back, Pharaoh,” she said with all the authority she could muster. “Stay back.” Pharaoh backed up two steps but kept his teeth bared. “You won’t bite me,” she said evenly. The others arrived and dismounted in time to see Kleopatra take the small rabbit, damp from its run, out of the net and into her arms. “It’s still shaking,” she announced to Berenike. One of the Bactrian girls produced a knife.
“We’re setting it free,” Kleopatra said.
“Pharaoh is my dog,” said Berenike. “The rabbit’s fate is mine to decide.”
“It is sport, Sister. The rabbit gave a good chase. The little creature has a brave and crafty spirit. Let it be. The philosophers advise it this way.”
“The rabbit is lunch,” Berenike said, raising herself to her full height, her proud, full bosom as intimidating to the younger princess as her height. “And no philosopher need partake of its meat.”
Kleopatra clutched the small, quaking thing to her chest. Mohama took a stance next to Kleopatra. The net-boys looked at each other. The two Bactrians stood behind Berenike, while the guards trotted closer.
“Very well, Sister, release the hare. I shall catch another,” Berenike said, laughing, mounting Jason. “This one has already given you his thanks.” Kleopatra was stunned that her sister had backed down, until she realized that the hare had shot little black pellets into the crook of her arm.
Berenike turned the steed Jason around and was met by a very different challenge. A boar had stepped from the glade and into the clearing, and stared at the tall princess. Its four hooves were planted firmly on the ground. Berenike pulled so hard on Jason’s bridle that the horse reared up.
“Do not approach it, Princess,” ordered one of the guards. “Let us back out of here slowly, with our eyes on the animal.”
Ignoring him, Berenike held her arm out toward the Bactrians. One of them tossed her a spear, which she caught in her right hand.
“No, Princess!” pleaded the guard in a low, beseeching voice, not wishing to startle the boar. But Berenike drew the spear back. Kicking Jason in the flank, she advanced on her enemy. The boar stood motionless, but when Berenike got close to him, he charged. Startled, Berenike threw her spear so hard that she fell off of Jason. The spear grazed the boar’s tusk and dropped on the ground. The Bactrian girls began to empty their pouch of quivers into the boar, a few barely penetrating the tough hide. Berenike rolled away, and Jason, rearing back, intercepted the charge of the beast. The animal gored the horse in the underbelly and retreated through Jason’s legs. The horse fell on his side, kicking his legs wildly.
“Jason! Jason!” Berenike yelled his name in anguish, a plea to deaf gods, as his insides came gushing forth, a red flood of death.
Kleopatra thought she might vomit. Mohama held her from behind as she watched the Bactrian girls shoot and connect, the boar writhing each time an arrow drilled his tough hide, but not relenting, not even when an arrow pierced his eye.
A net-boy held an ax in his hand, but was paralyzed to use it. One of the Bactrians took up a spear and approached the undulating beast. Its remaining eye rolled wildly in its head. She held the spear in one hand, teasing the tormented beast, keeping it at bay so that the other Bactrian could load another arrow. Her tribeswoman shouted to her in their native tongue, “Under the neck, my love. The soft spot. The moment my arrow hits! The gods are with you.” The endearment surprised Kleopatra, who alone understood what the girl had said.
The arrow flew from the bow and into the beast’s ear, jerking its head back, exposing the soft, vulnerable flesh of its neck. The other girl thrust the spear into the throat of the boar, but the animal mustered its final strength to charge her. Weaponless, she fell backward, helpless against the boar’s lumbering gait. Mohama tossed Kleopatra to the ground, grabbed the ax from the motionless net-boy, and with a preternatural howl, plunged it into the back of the boar, breaking its spine with a hideous crack. The animal dropped. The Bactrian girl ran to her companion, who lay dazed on the ground. Kleopatra remained on the ground, staring at the dead, bleeding Cyclops. In death he looked much smaller. Berenike was draped over the crimson belly of Jason. She raised herself, exposing her bloody chest to the sky, cursing the gods.
“Where did you learn to wield an ax, desert girl?” the Bactrian asked Mohama as the bedraggled hare-hunting party limped toward the royal encampment. Kleopatra did not like the woman’s tone. She waited for Mohama’s response, wondering if perhaps the violence was not over for the day.
“I received instruction in the art of the kill from a Persian gamesman in the king’s employ,” Mohama said quietly.
“I didn’t know you could take instruction while your mouth was full.” The Bactrian laughed, already forgetting that Mohama had saved her friend from being trampled.
“You can do many things with your mouth full,” Mohama retorted. “But very little when your head is empty.”
Kleopatra ate quickly and greedily, letting the fat of the meat run down her fingers and trickle all the way to her elbows. The freshly roasted boar tasted greasy and wild. Under the open evening sky, she ate with no self-consciousness, as if she were one of the men. Fresh kill was meant to be eaten this way. She looked up. The stars seemed like a million silver coins tossed about the sky. She was sure that the day’s hunts had pleased the gods.
After dinner, Auletes sat with his clan and friends around the fire. Kleopatra was made to repeat the story of the killing of the boar. She kept looking to Berenike to see if her rendition of the events pleased or displeased her sister, but Berenike listened with indifference, probably still mourning the loss of the irreplaceable Jason. Flanked by the Bactrians, she leaned lazily against one and then the other, making it difficult to know if she listened to the storytelling at all.
By the time Kleopatra finished her tale, the fire had diminished to embers. The king drained the last of the wine from his vessel. He raised his arms and said, “And now, to bed.”
But Kleopatra could not bear the thought of leaving the cool enveloping night sky.
“Father, won’t you tell us a story?” she urged.
“I fear that Calliope, the beautiful Muse of storytelling, has left me a drunken old man. She doesn’t like it when I worship too keenly Lord Dionysus,” replied the ki
ng, waving his wine goblet.
“Father, call upon that fickle Muse and insist that she gift your tongue once again. Your daughters and your subjects await.”
The king sighed. “Calliope, Lady who visited the Great Blind One, descend on me, your humble servant who worships your sister Euterpe.” Auletes looked reverentially to the sky, took a breath, and keeled backward. “It is of no use. I am drunk!”
“Tell us anyway, Father,” Kleopatra insisted, throwing herself on his great belly. “Tell us the story of how you came to the throne!” She loved to hear her father tell the story of his ascent. The details brought her mother—Kleopatra V Tryphaena, the mother of Thea, Berenike, and herself—back to life in a way that her memory could not.
“Help me up, girls,” Auletes said. Kleopatra and Mohama each took one of the hairy bearlike paws of the king and pulled him forward. The king inhaled, his dark bug-eyes looking around the circle to ensure that he had the attention of all.
“I am a bastard,” he said, slowly, solemnly. “That is the beginning of my story, but, may the gods be with me, not its end. My mother was a beautiful woman, a Syrian princess of royal Macedonian blood, directly from Seleucus, Alexander’s great Companion. My father, Laythrus, met my mother while he was exiled at the Syrian court. He did not marry my mother because he was still wed in a loveless match to his second wife and second sister, Kleopatra Selene. He loved my mother and stayed with her as long as he could, but he was called back to Egypt to assume the throne.
“I grew up in Syria at my mother’s side. She did not have a tutor for me, but taught me to form my letters and then read with me all that is worth reading. She had a fine voice for reading, grand and dramatic. At the right time, she sent me to Athens to study. And that, my friends and Kinsmen, is where I learned to play the flute.
