While I wait for a chance to speak with my father, I follow my familiar routine, caught up in my studies—mathematics, astronomy, and history. This pleases my tutor, Demetrius, a solemn man with bowlegs, a bald head, a big belly, and an appetite for food as great as his hunger for knowledge. Our city has long been famous for the great Library of Alexandria, which holds several hundred thousand papyrus scrolls, as well as for its place of learning—the Museion—and its scholars in many different fields. Demetrius is known to be one of the most learned. History is his favorite subject, and he never tires of telling me stories of Alexander’s military triumphs. Before he died at the age of thirty-two, Alexander conquered vast territories with his half brother Ptolemy often at his side. His exploits excite me, and I cannot hear enough of them. But now, more than anything, I want to hear what my father accomplished in Rome.
Demetrius has traveled to many parts of the world and speaks several languages. When I told him that I, too, wished to learn other languages, he found me the proper teachers. I began to work on Arabian, Aramaic, and Syrian. After Father left for Rome, I became interested in Latin and soon mastered the writing of it, though I do not yet speak it fluently.
Of my father’s four daughters, I am the studious one. I learn easily and remember whatever I have been taught, soaking up information like a thirsty sponge. My tutor and I are well matched.
“You have a gift for learning,” Demetrius says, and I glow in the light of his praise.
My sisters mock me for it. “How can you bear to study so much?” Tryphaena once asked, though she did not actually want to hear my explanation.
“No man will ever want to have anything to do with you!” Berenike informed me.
“And why not?” I asked curiously.
“No man wants to be around a woman he feels is more intelligent than he is,” she replied in a superior tone, inspecting her polished nails.
“Then you should have no trouble at all in finding men of every sort,” I retorted, exchanging insult for insult and succeeding in infuriating her.
And that is how things now stand between us. My sisters are jealous and cannot help showing it. They resent me for being Father’s favorite—his “precious jewel”—but they do not fear me. Not yet. I believe they fear each other, for each wants to be queen. For that reason, I will never admit to them that I, too, want to be queen. If they suspected, I would become another rival to be eliminated. But I keep this knowledge to myself.
Time seemed to crawl by while Father was gone. According to our calendar, there are three seasons—Inundation, when the Nile floods each year; Emergence, when the waters recede and crops are planted; and Harvest. Each season lasts four months, with each month made up of thirty days. There are also the five days of the Opening of the Year. Father was away for a full year plus one month. Every day that he was gone, I thought of him and missed him sorely.
Shortly after my father sailed for Rome, I peppered Demetrius with questions about the triumvirate and what claim the Romans have on Egypt. Demetrius would not give me a direct answer but instead waved away my queries like a swarm of annoying insects.
“We must all wait and see what happens, Cleopatra,” he said, tucking his little chin into several layers of fat.
Now that Father has come back, I will pose my questions directly to him. I believe Father will answer me truthfully. I have not yet had a chance to talk to him. It has been three days, and I am impatient. But that is the way of kings.
Each night, Father entertains his friends at a banquet with feasting and music. I attend the banquets, but still I do not get to see him alone. I know it is not my place to speak to him first. When another day passes without a summons from my father, I decide to pay a visit to my sisters. Usually I try to avoid such unpleasant visits. But I can often learn from them.
I find Tryphaena and Berenike lounging in the garden under the spreading branches of an old sycamore. Water trickles through a series of bronze bowls, placed one beneath the other, and into a pond that is home to a number of fish. A trio of cats sit by the pond, ignoring the flickers of orange and yellow among the water lilies. A servant stirs the sultry air with a fan of ostrich feathers. A young girl kneels nearby with a platter of dates. My sisters are sipping from silver goblets.
“It seems we have a visitor,” Berenike drawls. “Do join us, sister.”
I sit down on a marble bench, and Tryphaena signals the servants to bring me a goblet. “So?” she asks, arching her eyebrows, which have been plucked into a fine line and blackened.
“Father looks well, don’t you agree?” I ask, trying to sound offhand.
Berenike stuffs a date into her mouth and licks her fingers. “Why shouldn’t he?”
“I thought perhaps the voyage might have tired him,” I suggest.
“It’s not as though he had to row, Cleopatra,” she sneers.
A servant fills my goblet from a pitcher of sweet pomegranate juice. From the corner of my eye I catch a flash of color, the quick swipe of a paw, a splash of water. The cat cleans her whiskers, appearing unconcerned. That is how my sisters would like to see it happen with Father, I think. A sudden disappearance.
“Have you any idea what Father has done?” Berenike asks sharply.
I dislike admitting that I do not. “He hasn’t spoken to me as yet,” I confess. The edge in her voice worries me.
“He hasn’t spoken to us, either, so we have no idea what agreement he made with the Romans. But he can’t keep it a secret for long.” Berenike glances at Tryphaena. “We have spies, you know.” She leans toward me, eyes glittering. “They’re everywhere. No one can keep secrets from us—not even you, Cleopatra.”
I consider myself warned. I drain my goblet, and having learned nothing of interest from my sneering sisters, as soon as I can get away from them, I do.
I sense treachery in these two. I cannot bear to be near them.
Chapter 5
CONVERSATION
Nine days after his return, following a banquet that ended earlier than most, Father enters my quarters and announces that he will speak to me—now. He has never done this. I worry: Have I somehow displeased him?
Irisi, wide eyed at this unexpected visit, helps me dress hurriedly, and I go out to greet him, bowing low and touching his feet.
“Ah, Cleopatra!” He sighs. “You’re growing up! How much you’ve changed in a year! How old are you now?”
“Ten years,” I tell him. “I will be eleven in the third month of Emergence, on the Festival of Isis,” I remind him.
He studies me carefully, shaking his head. “Time passes so quickly.”
Father climbs the stairs to the roof of the palace, and I understand that I am expected to follow. When a servant appears with a bowl of fruit, he orders her to leave it and waves her away.
Father’s mood seems serious, even sad. Perhaps now he will tell me what I want to know. He does not explain why he has come here so late at night. But it is not up to me to ask questions. I remind myself again that I must wait. I must learn patience. We sit quietly, saying nothing, listening to the cry of a night bird. I nibble on a slice of melon, though I am not at all hungry.
“Cleopatra, my daughter,” he begins at last. “I know you’re wondering what transpired in Rome. Tonight I shall tell you everything. I’ll answer all your questions. And then I don’t wish to speak of it again.”
“As you desire, Father.” Out of respect, I am careful to speak to him in formal language, not the familiar speech he uses with me.
He describes the long and difficult sea journey, in which he followed the coast toward the setting sun, beloved Egypt always on his left hand, then turned northward, and later crossed open water to reach the island of Sicily. “Fierce storms tossed the fleet about like bits of wood, and one ship was lost. I’m not a man of the sea. I prefer to look at it from the shore,” he says with a wry smile. “But that wasn’t the end of it. We encountered more storms on the way to Ostia, the harbor city of Rome. Anothe
r ship went down before we reached our destination.”
He gazes out at the dark sea, his thoughts far away, before he continues.
“First, you should know about the triumvirate, the three most powerful men in Rome, to whom special attention must be paid,” Father says. I lean toward him, listening intently. “Crassus is a rich man who has been waiting to annex Egypt for years. He is avid for our abundant grain to feed the growing population of his country. The second man is an important general known as Pompey the Great. He befriended me when I needed his support, and in fact I grew fond of him.”
Father falls silent. The only sound is of the sea, wave after wave pounding against the breakwater. All my life I have been lulled to sleep by that sound. Now it seems not soothing but ominous. My father says nothing for so long, I believe he must have forgotten me.
“And the third, Father?” I prompt gently. “Who is the third Roman in this triumvirate?”
“Julius Caesar,” Father replies, “by far the most ambitious of the three. The others fear Caesar’s power, but they respect him too.” He rises and begins to pace restlessly. “I gave them gifts,” he says. “Very large gifts.”
“As their guest you were expected to give them gifts, were you not?”
“I promised them six thousand talents. That was the basis of our agreement.”
“Six thousand talents!” I gape at him, openmouthed. “That is an enormous sum, Father!”
“Enormous indeed. More than half of Egypt’s revenue for an entire year—an entire good year. But Antiochus tells me that it has not been a good year for Egypt. Last year’s flood was far less than expected, and as a result the crops failed to flourish and the harvest was poor. This season’s flood was no better. Farmers in the Nile Valley earn very little for their labors, and they complain that our high taxes are the ruin of them.”
“I have heard such complaints in the marketplace.” I should not have said that, but Father does not ask what I was doing there. He probably thinks I was visiting in the company of my tutor.
“You are likely to hear many more.” Father sits down suddenly and stares at the floor. “Pompey insisted that I give them their gift immediately.”
I may be young, but I understand very well how money is used to gain favor. Bribes are the accepted way of getting things done. But this is much more than a bribe. It is almost as though Father gave them a huge piece of the kingdom. But what did he gain in return? I nod and listen, saying nothing, waiting for an explanation.
“The only way I could meet Pompey’s demands was to borrow the entire amount from a Roman moneylender. To repay six thousand talents, plus all the interest due, I must order everyone in Egypt to pay much higher taxes. The people will hate me for it—they are already overburdened. I have to convince them that I did what is best for our country.”
I still do not understand. Why would my father give away so much of Egypt’s treasure? I ask him quietly, “What did the Romans give you in return, Father?”
“Julius Caesar promised to leave Egypt alone, and the triumvirs will continue to recognize me as the pharaoh. I have Caesar’s word, though I am not sure I can trust him.”
My father puts his head down in his arms and begins to weep. I have never seen him so distraught. I want to believe that my father really has acted for the good of our country, but I wonder if the people of Egypt will be as understanding. Some are sure to believe he did it only to keep himself in power.
We have been talking for so long that the stars have begun to fade. I creep close and lay my hand lightly on Father’s shoulder, but he shrugs it off. “Leave me, Cleopatra!” he groans, and obediently I tiptoe away.
Chapter 6
FESTIVAL OF ISIS
It is winter now, and the winds sweeping in from the sea are bitter. Father has been back in Alexandria for four months. Today, the Festival of Isis, I am eleven years old. At the banquet honoring the great goddess of fertility and motherhood and also of magic, Father calls upon me to be recognized by our guests. I stand by his side and smile and even manage to say a few words in praise of Isis, though I am not at ease speaking before a large crowd of people who would rather be talking among themselves or enjoying the dancers. When I have finished my brief speech, Father announces his plan to begin a journey by royal boat up the Nile, stopping at towns and cities to greet his subjects and to make offerings at the temples of the gods. He intends to go as far as the First Cataract, where the river is shallow, the bottom is rough, and huge boulders block a boat’s passage. My sisters and I will accompany him, and most of the members of the court present at this banquet will join the party as well.
“We will all enjoy a journey to warmer places,” he says. I understand that the real reason is to show himself to the people and remind them that he is their pharaoh.
Preparations begin at once for our large entourage—as many as a hundred noblemen and their wives and servants—to set out near the end of the fourth month of the season of Emergence as the crops along the river are nearly finished ripening. The journey will be a long one, likely lasting through the four months of Harvest, until summer begins, and perhaps even longer.
I am delighted. I have never before traveled with Father. I had begged him to take me with him to Rome, but he refused, saying, “A voyage of this kind is no place for you, Cleopatra. You are too young to be faced with the dangers of sea travel.” I was only nine then. But now that I am eleven I wonder if he would consider me old enough to accompany him on such a voyage, if he decides to make another. I long to travel to distant places, but in fact I have seldom been outside Alexandria.
Arsinoë is excited too, so long as her monkey will be allowed to come with us. But our disagreeable older sisters pull long faces.
“Four months on a boat! It will be too boring,” Berenike complains.
“Unbearably dull,” Tryphaena agrees. “We have much more interesting things to do here in Alexandria. Don’t we, Berenike?”
The two exchange glances, and I wonder what they are plotting. “No doubt you look forward to the journey, Cleopatra,” Berenike says archly. “Father will surely want to have his precious jewel to display wherever he goes.”
“I am not his precious jewel!” I retort, and immediately regret allowing her to see how easily she can annoy me.
I have not seen much of my older sisters since Father returned. The royal palace compound is large and sprawling, with many separate parts, and we each have our own small palaces, our own servants and tutors and bodyguards. My sisters certainly do not seek me out. Father expects us to attend his dinners when he entertains guests—that is nearly every night—and we manage to be polite when we meet there. But it will be much harder to keep my distance from my sisters on a boat, even one as large as the king’s.
Neither have I seen much of my father during these preparations. He spends most of his days with Antiochus and his other advisors, and at night there are the banquets. We have had no more private conversations. In less than a month we are ready to embark on our journey up the Nile. Perhaps now he will have time for me.
PART II
THE NILE
On the river, during my eleventh year
Chapter 7
THE ROYAL BOAT
Before we leave Alexandria to begin our journey, my father, my sisters, and I climb a hundred steps to reach the beautiful golden-roofed temple built to honor the god Serapis, protector of the city. Set on the highest point in Alexandria, the temple houses the statue of Serapis, brought here from Greece by the first Ptolemy. The enormous statue with curly hair and beard has a basket of grain on its head; at its feet sits the snarling three-headed dog, Cerberus, a frightening figure that sends Arsinoë to huddle close by my side. We leave our offerings—mine is the blue-glazed figure of a hedgehog—and descend the stairs. Our bearers are waiting to carry us in our chairs to the royal boat, which is anchored in Lake Mareotis, south of the ancient city walls.
When my sisters and I were still young children, Fath
er gave us each a boat just large enough to carry a princess and a small entourage of servants and oarsmen. I have sailed on these calm lake waters many times on my own little boat. But this is the first time I or any of my sisters have been a passenger on the king’s vessel.
The king’s royal boat is an awesome sight, built of rare cypress and cedar brought here from Lebanon. It is some two hundred cubits long and thirty cubits wide—a cubit being the distance from the elbow to the tip of the middle finger—and gilded from end to end. It will take me days to explore it all.
The king’s boat lacks nothing. A palace built on the smooth wooden deck has an open area sheltered from the sun by striped awnings. The dining hall, its walls hung with crimson silk and its floors tiled with polished stone, is large enough to seat about two hundred guests. Trees and flowering gardens line the paved walkways, and bright-colored fishes dart about a reflecting pool. There are shrines to the great goddess Isis and to Father’s favorite deity, Dionysus. Each of us has our own large apartment with quarters for our servants. My trunks of clothes and jewels are already in place. Demetrius and the other tutors who accompany us share quarters. Father says we must continue our studies, though I am sure my sisters will avoid it if they possibly can.
Dozens of luxurious small boats decorated with pennants and flowers are fitted out to carry the noblemen and their wives. Cooks and servants and the musicians and dancers who will entertain us travel on smaller, crowded boats. Barges manned by oarsmen will tow the royal boat through the canals and pull it when the winds are not strong enough to drive it upstream against the current.
The oarsmen bend their backs to the rhythm of a muffled drumbeat. The boats cross the lake and enter a canal leading to the Canopus, the most western of the seven branches of the Nile that stretch like fingers northward toward the sea. Soon we are in the great swampy river delta, where men are cutting down tall, feathery papyrus reeds and loading them onto rafts. Wading birds stalk through the reeds on thin, naked legs. Geese and ducks rise into the air on a whirr of wings, and boys propel little papyrus boats through the shallow water with long poles and shoot at the water fowl with bows and arrows. Crocodiles with dark bronze backs glide by, only their green eyes glowing above the surface.
Cleopatra Confesses Page 3
