The priest flung incense into the thurible at her feet, and a piercingly sweet scent filled the air. He began to pray, reciting a hymn of praise to her:
Isis, giver of life, residing in the Sacred Mound,
She is the one who pours out the Inundation
That makes all people live and green plants grow,
Who provides divine offerings for the gods,
And invocation-offerings for the Transfigured Ones.
Because she is the Lady of Heaven,
Her man is Lord of the Netherworld,
Her son is Lord of the Land;
Her man is the pure water, rejuvenating himself at Biggeh at his time.
Indeed, she is the Lady of Heaven, Earth, and the Netherworld,
Having brought them into existence through what
Her heart conceived and her hands created,
She is the Bai that is in every city,
Watching over her son Horus and her brother Osiris.
I stepped forward and, laying down my gifts, said, “Daughter of Re, I, Cleopatra, have come before you, O Isis, giver of life, that I may see your beautiful face; give me all the lands in obeisance, forever.” I inclined my head.
The goddess was silent. Now I must sing her a hymn, and I would sing my favorite, the joyful one I had not spoken since the ceremony with Caesar.
O Isis the Great, God’s mother, Lady of Philae,
God’s Wife, God’s Adorer, and God’s Hand,
God’s mother and Great Royal Spouse,
Adornment and Lady of the Ornaments of the Palace.
Lady and desire of the green fields,
Nursling who fills the palace with her beauty,
Fragrance of the palace, mistress of joy,
Who completes her course in the Divine Place.
Raincloud that makes green the fields when it descends,
Maiden, sweet of love, Lady of Upper and Lower Egypt,
Who issues orders among the divine Ennead,
According to whose command one rules.
Princess, great of praise, lady of charm,
Whose face enjoys the trickling of fresh myrrh.
From a hollow behind the goddess, a high-voiced priest answered in her name, “How beautiful is this which you have done for me, my daughter, Isis, my beloved, Lady of Diadems, Cleopatra; I have given you this land, joy to your spirit forever.” There was the dry, silvery rattle of a sistrum, and the disembodied voice continued, “I instill fear of you throughout the land; I have given you all the lands in peace; I instill the fear of you in foreign countries.”
Fear of you in foreign countries…to what destiny was she calling me? The Ptolemies had not had any foreign possessions in generations, and it was Rome who inspired fear in foreign countries now.
I bowed to show that I accepted her benefactions and gifts.
Beside me, Ptolemy was standing stick-straight, trembling.
“You must speak to her now,” I said. “She awaits.”
Still he stood silent, as if he were afraid to utter a sound.
“I will leave you in private,” I said. Perhaps that was better.
Coming out of the dark, smoke-filled sanctuary into the bright morning sunlight made me dizzy. The courtyard was still empty; the guards were holding the people back until we departed. I was alone there, except for a swaying priest or two, walking in the shaded colonnade, chanting private prayers.
Off to one side was the birth-house, a symbolic depiction of the birth of Horus to Isis and Osiris. The legend of Isis and her husband, in its many forms, was celebrated and reenacted here. Is there any child today who does not know it? Osiris was killed by his evil brother Seth, was searched for and found by the grieving, faithful Isis; miraculously she conceived her child Horus by the dead Osiris, and gave birth to him in a papyrus marsh in Lower Egypt. Then the evil Seth killed Osiris again, dismembering him and scattering all the parts up and down Egypt. Once again the faithful wife gathered all the parts and reassembled them, bringing Osiris back to life in the Underworld, where he reigns as King of the Dead, “he who is continually happy.” In the meantime, Horus grew to manhood and avenged his father by killing his uncle Seth. Together Osiris, Isis, and Horus live as the holy family, a blessed three. The birth-chapel commemorated the miraculous birth of the child. Across the water from Philae, on the neighboring island of Biggeh, part of Osiris lay buried, and every ten days a golden statue of Isis was ferried over in a sacred barque to visit her divine spouse, reenacting the old tale. I gazed at its rocky shore through one of the openings of the colonnade.
It was so close to the truth in my own life that I was shaken. I was Isis, Caesar Osiris, Caesarion Horus…Caesar, killed by evil men, now a god…I left behind to grieve and avenge him, and raise his son to carry on his name and heritage. Like Isis, I felt that great loneliness in roaming through all the land, looking for bits and pieces of him.
Suddenly resolute, I made my way to the small chapel where we had recited those mysterious vows so long ago. Bits and pieces of him…and here was one.
I entered the little square room, its walls carved with low reliefs showing Pharaohs making offerings to Isis, watched by the winged vulture of Upper Egypt. Just here we had stood. I saw the very paving stones where his sandaled feet had rested, and the places where the hem of his cloak had brushed. I placed my feet where mine had been and reached out my hand to clasp—empty air.
Yet I was not alone. Only the thinnest of barriers, an invisible but immensely guarded one, separated us—time and death. I no longer felt mocked, or bereft, but oddly comforted. The ceremony still held across that barrier, uniting us.
Outside in the sunlight, I walked and waited for Ptolemy to appear. The gentle lapping of the water against the banks of the island was soothing, calming my racing heart. I remembered that there was a Nilometer here, too, in the form of steps leading right into the water. I descended them and realized I walked down a great many before I came to the water. The mark for a minimal rise was still five steps above where the water ended. My heart started racing again.
That there had been some rise was obvious; had we not floated over the Cataract? But it looked meager. I searched for the carving I knew was on one wall depicting Hapi, the god of the Nile, in his cave of Cataracts. What was Hapi doing to us? I said several prayers to him.
I did not notice how long I was there, but I looked up to see a weak, coughing Ptolemy being led from the temple, leaning on two priests.
“He is quite overcome by his encounter with the goddess,” said one of the priests, fanning him. Ptolemy continued to cough. I suspected it was not the goddess’s presence but the smoky incense that had overcome him. Doubtless Olympos would agree; he thought incense was a poison to the lungs.
“We wish to leave him under your care in the healing-shrine,” I said. “Do you not have a home where priests and priestesses tend the ill who have come to Isis?”
“Yes, and it is a private one. That is, it is not open to all pilgrims—or it would have to be enormous. This is a small home, where the patients can live in a healthy manner,” the priest assured me.
I was well pleased with all I saw. The paved courtyard was swept immaculate; flowers bloomed around the well in the center, and no dogs or cats prowled the quarters. Attendants, gentle women who felt they were serving Isis in her guise as a healer like Asclepius, tended the invalids, walking them in the sunshine, reading to them, bringing them food. It seemed to offer Ptolemy the best care possible.
When he did not protest at being put there, I began to be alarmed. It meant he did not have the strength to struggle.
Smoothing his brow as he was put to bed, I assured him, “The goddess will heal you, and you will be back in Alexandria this time next year, with this just a memory.”
He nodded docilely, and squeezed my hand.
I decided not to depart for several days, but I did not tell him that, lest he bolt and try to come back with me. I asked the priest to report to me each mo
rning and evening.
For the first four days, all the reports were good. Ptolemy had slept well; his color was improving; he was even eating soup and bread. But on the fifth day the priest came rushing to me before sundown.
“Your Majesty, the King, he—he choked on his food, and went into a coughing fit, and then fainted. We fanned him, and propped him up in bed, and then he started spitting up blood.”
“I had best come back with you.” Together we hurried out the door and rushed to the sick-house.
I found Ptolemy slumped over his pillows, his arms limp like cut willow branches. His face had a deathly pallor, with red spots dotting his cheeks. He was utterly changed from my last sight of him.
“Ptolemy!” I spoke softly to him, kneeling beside him.
He opened his eyes with great effort, and focused them on me. “Oh…I thought you had gone.”
“No, I am still here. I am here as long as you need me.”
“Oh.” He reached out a feeble hand and fumbled for mine. I took it; it was hot and dry, like a locust husk lying in the sun.
He gave a great sigh, filling his lungs with air. When he breathed out, frothy red foam appeared in his nostrils.
He closed his eyes, and did not open them again.
I felt his hot little hand tremble and contract a little, and then grow limp. He died, quietly, effortlessly, with a sigh for all he was leaving behind.
I said nothing, but remained holding his poor little hand. Time enough to talk when the priest returned.
Down the Nile, our boat now a funeral barque. The priests at Philae had prepared Ptolemy, readying him for his journey into eternity. That took many days, and all the while a transport-coffin was being prepared. I waited, suspended between the world of the living and the dead.
Day after day I watched the Nile making faint efforts to rise, and not succeeding. Trouble after trouble seemed to be raining upon me; would I now have to face a famine in the land, in addition to the loss of my husband, my unborn child, and my brother?
How strong do you think I am? I implored Isis. I cannot bear any more!
Yes you can, and you will, the waters seemed to murmur back, unmoved.
The boat was draped in funeral hangings, and the oarsmen wore mourning. People lined the banks—as closely as they could and still avoid the crocodiles—and watched silently as we floated past. The journey seemed interminable, and when we passed Kom Ombo and I remembered Ptolemy’s fascination with the crocodile god, I wept. So many things had delighted him. The world would be a grayer place without his laughter and boyish curiosity.
He was on his way back to Alexandria. I remembered my promise: This time next year you will be in Alexandria, and all this will be just a memory. The goddess had fulfilled my words, but not in the way I had intended.
39
Merciless, pristine-clear sun poured over the funeral cortege like water from a jar. The wagon bearing the sarcophagus of Ptolemy wound its way through the streets of Alexandria, following the route of all official processions before ending at the Soma, the royal mausoleum at the place where the two great thoroughfares crossed.
All my ancestors lay there, entombed in elaborate chambers, in ornamented stone sarcophagi. To walk past them was to see the changing taste in burial fashions—from the plain, square container of Ptolemy I to the overly decorated one of Ptolemy VIII, so festooned with carved vegetation that it looked like a grape arbor. It was a ghastly parade of the dead. I shivered as I walked past my father’s tomb, and then the unembellished—for we had punished him in death—one of my other brother Ptolemy, the traitor. This Ptolemy would have a solid one of pink granite, polished to a high gloss, carved with boats and horses. I had tried to think of what he loved best and would want to keep with him, but there were so many things he enjoyed.
Flaring torches lighted the underground passage, making a brief day. But it was soon over, the gates were clanged shut and locked, and we emerged out into true daylight.
Two funerals, each horrible in its own special way: Caesar burnt to ashes, his bones gathered later to be put in his family tomb; Ptolemy preserved to the best of the embalmer’s art and laid in a dark box, stiff and cold. Death was grotesque.
All Alexandria had to observe mourning along with the palace for seven days. Business was suspended and ambassadors waited, boats rode at anchor with their cargoes, bills went unpaid.
It was now October, and the Nile had clearly failed. The water barely touched the demarcation line of the “cubits of death” at all Nilometers. Here in Lower Egypt the water had spread out in little puddles, barely filling the reservoirs. Now it was already receding, a month ahead of time. There would be famine.
At least the low Nile meant that the crocodiles suffered. Unable to catch enough food, many of them disappeared into the mud, to sleep and wait for better times. Others waddled up on land and found themselves stranded, or at the mercy of villagers who could corner them and spear them. Others apparently withdrew to the waters beyond the cataract. Sobek had obeyed me—or, rather, Isis-in-me.
When the time of mourning was officially over, I consulted with both Mardian and Epaphroditus about the expected crisis in the harvest.
“Yes, there will be a shortfall,” said Mardian. “I have already had the figures drawn up.”
“How bad a shortfall?” I asked.
“As bad as ever we’ve seen,” he answered. He shook his head. “It is indeed fortunate that the past two years have been good ones.”
When I was away, I thought. Perhaps, in the best interests of Egypt, I should live elsewhere! I said so.
Mardian raised his eyebrows. “Now really, where would you like to live? What other place could compare to Alexandria?”
“Oh, I would consider Ephesus, or Athens.” I was curious to see them, and their two wonders—the Great Temple of Artemis, and the Parthenon.
“Bah! Too filled with Greeks,” said Epaphroditus. “Who would want to live with Greeks?”
“He has a point,” said Mardian. “They argue too much. Almost as much as the Jews! That’s why Alexandria is so riotous and quarrelsome—the Greeks and Jews keep at each other, in a continual stew.”
“Not like you placid Egyptians,” said Epaphroditus. “I think you would bore yourselves to death.”
“Now, gentlemen,” I said. “Let us not start a riot in here. My ministers should be above these national characteristics.” I was only half joking. “If we must institute relief measures for the famine, how stands the treasury? Can I afford to start rebuilding my fleet anyway?”
Mardian looked alarmed. “Dearest lady, that would cost a fortune!”
“A fortune to save a fortune,” I said. “I know the eyes of Rome will turn to the east again. The last contest, between Caesar and Pompey, was settled in Greece. The assassins are coming east, I know it. I feel it. And when they do, we must be prepared. Prepared to defend ourselves, or to lend aid to the party of Caesar.”
Mardian crossed and uncrossed his legs—a habit of his when he was thinking. “What of the four legions already here?” he finally said.
“They owe allegiance to Rome,” I said. “We need a force that answers only to us. A sea force.”
It was well known that the Romans were weak at sea. Their legions were seemingly unbeatable on land, but little of that love of battle carried over to their navy.
“Yes, I agree,” said Epaphroditus. “And I think the treasury can stand it. It will take most of what we have, though. We will be left with no reserves.”
No matter. They had filled again fast enough, and we needed this navy. “I think we will need at least two hundred ships,” I said. Both men’s faces registered surprise. “Anything less will not be much of a navy,” I insisted. “Half measures are of no use at all, but just a waste of money.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Epaphroditus. “Shall I see to procuring the timbers and shipwrights? How do you propose to compose this navy? Mainly of warships, quadriremes and up, or of lighter,
Liburnian-type vessels? It will make a difference in the size timbers I order.”
“I would have it half and half,” I said. I had done a great deal of reading, studying naval warfare, and it seemed wise to be covered on both fronts. Battles had been lost by overreliance on one type of ship. “And I myself will learn to captain a warship,” I said. Now they both looked shocked.
“Your Majesty,” said Epaphroditus, “surely you can trust admirals to command the fleet.”
“I shall have admirals,” I assured him. “But they shall be subordinate to me.”
Mardian rolled his eyes. “Oh my,” he sighed. “Oh dear.”
I ignored him. “When the famine gets severe, by March or April, we shall have to open the granaries of Alexandria to the people. We will announce this now.”
The grains of Egypt—wheat and barley—were housed in enormous granaries in Alexandria, where they awaited shipment or distribution. Guarding them was a serious duty; I employed a double detachment of soldiers around them.
“Now?” Mardian frowned. “They will come forward much earlier, then, than they need to.”
“Perhaps. But it will also serve to keep worry—and insurrection—at bay.”
He sighed again. Mardian preferred to wait for a trouble to come, rather than meet it halfway.
“This is an age-old problem in Egypt,” said Epaphroditus. “You might be interested in knowing that in our scriptures, there is a story of just such a famine. It has some interesting aspects. I will send you a copy.”
“It seems there is nothing that does not appear in your scriptures,” I said. “But I would be most interested in reading it.”
That night was duly delivered a manuscript, from the Greek version of his people’s story, about a Pharaoh—mythical, of course—who had dreamed of the famine in time to save his people. I thought Caesarion would enjoy the story, and so I asked his servants to prepare him for bed and then bring him to me.
He now had his own quarters, filled with furniture, toys, pets, balls, games, and all the things a little boy would want. There was also a bust of Caesar, before which daily offerings were placed. I wanted his father to be ever before him.
The Memoirs of Cleopatra Page 62
