Cleopatra Confesses

by Carolyn Meyer

  Arsinoë, watching with me, shudders. “I’m afraid of them,” she says, pointing at the crocodiles, and I put my arm around her shoulders to comfort her. She seems so young and innocent, lacking our older sisters’ hard outer shell and inner selfishness and pride.

  Then Demetrius summons me to my studies. “You must not waste your time simply gazing at the scenery, Cleopatra,” he says. “We shall concentrate on mathematics, the area where I find you to be weakest.”

  He is wrong about that; I am not weak in any area. But I enjoy mathematics and do not protest.

  Before darkness falls, the royal boat and the long line of boats traveling with it are maneuvered into a quiet cove for the night. Lamps are lit. Baskets of prepared food are hauled by ropes and pulleys from the kitchen boat to the serving pantry next to the royal dining hall, and Demetrius seizes another chance to improve my mind.

  “The compound pulley was invented by Archimedes of Syracuse, the greatest mathematician who ever lived, and a Greek!” my tutor informs me. “Have I not been telling you, Cleopatra? With one hand and a compound pulley, he once moved an entire ship, loaded with men and armaments. Tomorrow you will make a drawing of a pulley to show how it works.” Then Demetrius adds somberly, “Archimedes was killed by Roman soldiers during the battle of Syracuse, even though their general had given orders that the great genius must be spared. Another incident showing that Romans cannot be trusted.”

  But Father must surely trust them, I think to myself. If he did not, he would not have promised to give them so much of Egypt’s treasure—would he?

  I have begun to be concerned about my father’s decisions. We are traveling in great luxury, but already I have seen signs of the poverty in which many of our people live. Does Father give any thought to them? Is he worried? It would be unthinkable for a daughter to question her father’s authority, and even asking Demetrius for an opinion was unseemly.

  And so I keep my thoughts, as well as my questions, to myself.

  Chapter 8

  PROMISE AND WARNING

  In the evening of the first day as the royal boat drifts at anchor in the quiet cove, we feast on roast duck with crackling brown skin, rice from the Orient fragrant with spices, custard sweetened with honey, and fruit so full of juice that it drips down my chin. As he often does, my father waves his hands to dismiss the musicians and reaches for his flute. Tonight he is playing two short auloi at once. He dances as he plays, eyes closed, as though he is in a trance.

  Most of the guests ignore him, but one who does not is a man named Seleucus. I cannot imagine why my father has invited him on this journey. Seleucus is Syrian and claims to be from a royal family, but he is extremely crude. Behind his back, people call him Cybiosactes, “Saltfish Monger,” hardly a flattering epithet. He was given the name for his offensive odor—probably he does not bathe. His voice is loud. “Play on, Auletes!” he shouts. Worse, he has a way of pressing himself up against any woman who happens to catch his eye. I am too young for him to bother—thank the gods!—but I have heard rumors that he wants to marry one of my sisters, whichever one is likely to succeed Father and become Queen of Egypt. It makes me laugh to think that Tryphaena or Berenike could end up as the wife of this smelly oaf!

  The noblemen and their wives begin to drift away, my sisters disappear, and even the repellent Seleucus takes himself off. Father does not seem to mind. He plays not for their enjoyment but for his own. At first his tunes are lively; then, as the night wears on, the music becomes melancholy and subdued.

  There is a sharp chill in the river air, but I stay on deck, listening. Monifa brings a fine woolen robe and drapes it around my shoulders, whispering as she does, “Come to bed, Cleopatra.”

  “I’ll come later,” I murmur. “I want to stay here with Father.”

  The torches have burned low. Most of the light comes now from a nearly full moon. My father stops playing and leans on the boat rail, staring down at the silvery light shimmering on the black water. The sails are furled, and the wind moans softly in the ropes that hold them. The waters of the Canopus lap at the sides of the boat. Wrapped in my woolen robe, I go to stand close beside my father. He sighs and puts his arm around me.

  “Well, daughter,” he says, squeezing my shoulder.

  “Well, Father,” I reply, playfully mimicking his tone. We often start our conversations that way, and it usually makes him smile. This time it does not. “You seem troubled, Father,” I say.

  “You’ve observed correctly, Cleopatra.” He lets go of me and grips the boat rail with both hands. “I’ll tell you why. Antiochus has warned me that the agreement I made with the Romans is arousing anger among the people. Many of my subjects resent the enormous amount of money I promised the triumvirate to keep them from interfering in Egypt. They claim that I burdened them with ruinous taxes in order to stay in power.”

  Can they be right? I wonder, but quickly push the thought out of my mind. I dare not question my father’s decision. He has his reasons, I tell myself, and wait for him to continue.

  “What I have done is for the good of Egypt!” he declares. “I have ruled this country for more than twenty-three years, and I believe that in time most Egyptians will see the wisdom of my decision. I have undertaken this journey to greet the people of the Nile Valley and reassure them that I have acted in their best interests. By the time we return to Alexandria, we will have learned if I have fallen into disfavor.”

  “But you are their pharaoh!” I exclaim. “Your subjects have to accept your decision.”

  “Correct again, daughter. It is not necessary to have their approval, or their love. Not all pharaohs are beloved,” he adds thoughtfully. “People who hate you usually find a way to undermine what you want to do. And sometimes to get rid of you entirely.”

  “I understand,” I say, thinking of Tryphaena and Berenike. But is he also thinking of them? Is he aware of their selfish ambitions? Or are there others who want to see him stripped of his crown?

  “I’m not sure you do understand, Cleopatra.” Father turns and takes my face in his hands so that I am forced to look into his eyes. “I’m not sure you realize yet that my wish is for you to rule Egypt someday, and that burden—and the power—will then become yours.”

  I stare at him in disbelief. “But that is impossible! My sisters are next in line!”

  “True, they are—and they make it clear that they believe one of them will be queen and that they are prepared to challenge my choice. But the gods have their own plans for us. I certainly never expected to become pharaoh. You are in your eleventh year, Cleopatra. It’s time for you to hear this story.” He pauses, gazing out into the darkness. Neither of us speaks. At last he breaks the silence. “The Ptolemies have a history of bloodshed. I was not even in line to become pharaoh. My brother and I were living in Syria when our cousin, Ptolemy XI, strangled his new wife only three weeks after their marriage. This so infuriated the citizens of Alexandria that they fell upon him, dragged him off, and stabbed him to death. After these two murders, the people turned to me, the natural son of Ptolemy IX, and chose me as their next pharaoh. My brother was given the crown of Cyprus. I was in my thirties, no longer a young man. I was inexperienced as a ruler, but I was not naive—I, too, could be killed at any time. I saw immediately that, if I were to survive, I could trust no one ever again. Believe me, Cleopatra, that is a lonely fate for any ruler.”

  I listen to his story, astonished by what my father is telling me.

  “It’s a brutal world, my girl,” Father concludes. “I don’t believe in shielding you from the truth. If you are to rule one day, as I desire, you must learn now to be watchful. Of everyone,” he adds, and I believe I understand: He means for me to keep a sharp eye on Tryphaena and Berenike. He is aware of their ambitions.

  He bids me good night and places a kiss on my forehead. I bow low and reach out to touch his feet before he dismisses me. I hurry off to my quarters, where Irisi is waiting to undress me. I hope she is too sleepy to no
tice my agitation, for my mind is reeling from the conversation I have just had.

  My father may face enemies not only among the people he rules, but also among those closest to him. I understand that it can be a mistake to trust the bonds of family for protection. If my sisters believe that Father has chosen me as his heir instead of one of them, they will do whatever it takes to rid themselves of me. Including murder.

  Chapter 9

  SAIS

  On the second day, before the chariot of the Sun God Ra ascends above the eastern horizon, the oarsmen tow the royal boat out of the still waters of the cove. We pass stands of papyrus growing lush and thick on every side, leave the Canopus, and make our way through the marshy delta by canal to another branch of the Nile. The sun climbs high. Sweat is pouring from the brows of the oarsmen when we arrive at Sais, a royal city dating back thousands of years to the beginnings of Egyptian civilization. King Ptolemy will make his first official visit to the ancient temple built in honor of Neith, goddess of hunting and mother of the crocodile god.

  Father dons the royal kilt and a golden collar heavy with precious stones. He attaches a false beard with leather straps that hook around his ears. “All pharaohs have worn these, and I must as well,” he says, tugging at the braided horsehair. “The ancient Egyptian pharaohs had some strange customs. My advisors tell me it is best to follow them, even though every man I know is clean shaven.”

  A servant sets the elaborate double crown of Egypt on Father’s head. One part is the flat-topped Red Crown; it was the cobra crown of Lower Egypt, the Nile Delta, before the unification of Upper and Lower Egypt some three thousand years ago. It is combined with the vulture crown, the tall White Crown of Upper Egypt, which includes the Nile Valley and the lands south of Memphis all the way to the Nubian Desert.

  “A clumsy thing, but impressive, don’t you agree?” Father asks. His eyes look watery and bloodshot, as though he had scarcely slept.

  A small gilded boat waits to take us ashore. The crocodiles gliding nearby are close enough to touch. Even the boatmen look uneasy. Berenike and Tryphaena are pale with fear and make no attempt to hide it. Arsinoë fiercely clutches her pet monkey and pushes out her lower lip. Father studies his four daughters. “Stay where you are,” he growls, and climbs into the boat.

  But I am determined to go with him. “I am not afraid,” I declare bravely. It is a necessary lie, but I believe that if I do not allow myself to show fear, then the fear will go away. It is also necessary because I want to show that I am not like my faint-hearted sisters, their mouths drawn up tight and their hands squeezed in their armpits.

  The king gestures to one of the oarsmen, who reaches up and swings me down into the gilded boat. I clasp my hands to still the trembling. As the boat is rowed toward shore, followed by noblemen in other boats, I watch the water uneasily. I do not draw an easy breath until I have stepped onto the carpet spread on the muddy riverbank.

  The priests of the temple approach us with measured steps. They are dressed in long linen robes and papyrus sandals, their hair and beards have been plucked, and their heads are oiled. They bow low with arms outstretched to greet King Ptolemy and lead him in a solemn procession toward the temple of Neith. The chief priest conducts a long ceremony with many hymns chanted, prayers recited, and sacred objects handed back and forth, as tambourines thump and jingle. The rest of us wait while the pharaoh disappears into the innermost sanctuary, where he alone presents offerings to the statue of Neith: a slaughtered lamb, a wreath of flowers, a loaf of bread still warm. When Father finally emerges, he looks exhausted, as though he simply wants to have his religious obligations finished and go back to the royal boat to rest.

  He stomps over to where I am waiting. “Enough,” he grunts. “Return to the boat.”

  Father decides to remain in Sais for three more days. On the day after his visit to Neith’s temple, a delegation paddles out to the royal boat and requests a meeting with their pharaoh. The men own weaving shops where flax is made into fine linen. He agrees to see them, and the men climb aboard. King Ptolemy gives them permission to speak.

  I hear only part of what is being said, but dissatisfaction is written clearly on the men’s faces. Father listens for a while, but then he grows impatient and sends them away as another delegation arrives. The next day new groups appear, each one repeating the same complaints.

  Father’s mood has turned dark, and he orders Captain Mshai to leave Sais a day early. “It is just as I said. The people of Sais are angry,” he tells me later. “They want relief from their heavy taxes. They say the workers are going hungry.” Father rubs his face wearily. “They have not yet heard that things are about to get much worse,” he says bluntly. “But there is no course of action for them. I cannot tell them to take their complaints to the Romans who demanded the bribe, or to the moneylender who demands repayment.”

  This is the first time he has used the word “bribe” instead of “gift.” For, a bribe is what it was.

  Chapter 10

  PYRAMIDS

  At dawn on the fifth day of our journey the royal boat pulls away from the shore. Red and yellow sails are let down from the crossbeams, and the north wind fills them. The boats move swiftly toward the place where all seven branches of the Nile come together as one great river with its mysterious origins far to the south. I am idly gazing off toward the vast emptiness of the western desert when an astonishing sight comes into view. Three huge pyramids rise starkly from the plain, the late-afternoon sun glinting off their polished stone surfaces.

  My father comes to stand next to me at the rail. “An amazing spectacle, is it not, daughter? The pyramids of Giza, built as tombs by pharaohs of ancient times.”

  Soon Demetrius joins us. I am content just to stare at these remarkable pyramids, but Demetrius tries to draw Father into a debate about how such an enormous thing could have been built, how the gigantic stones were quarried and moved to the plateau, how they were lifted into place, how many men must have worked on it, how long it must have taken them.

  Father brushes my tutor’s questions aside. “I really do not care how they were constructed,” he says, “so long as my own mortuary temple is built and the proper arrangements made for me for the afterlife. It is not too soon to begin preparations,” he adds. Father walks away, hands clasped behind his back, and leaves me to listen to my tutor’s theories. I wonder why Father is thinking now of his life after death. Is he not well? He looks tired, his spirits low. The complaints of the linen makers have taken a toll. Or is it more than that? Does he believe his life is threatened?

  Arsinoë rescues me, begging me to play a game of Hounds and Jackals. I agree, but my mind is not on the game. I cannot forget the things Father has told me—the enormous debt, the heavy taxes, the rising anger of the people—and I worry how these problems will be resolved. In spite of interruptions from Ako, the monkey, who tries to steal the animal-headed wooden pegs, I play sloppily and still somehow manage to win, though I intended to allow Arsinoë a victory. Her loss makes her unhappy.

  “I’m going to find Nebtawi,” she says, snatching up the board and the pegs. “He doesn’t cheat.”

  Before nightfall we drop anchor at Memphis, long-ago capital of Lower Egypt before the unification. It is too late to see much of the old city or of Saqqara, the nearby burial grounds. The next morning the rising sun bathes the smaller Saqqara pyramids in a golden light. My sisters are not impressed.

  “We wish we were anywhere else,” Tryphaena complains. “This place is as dull as death.”

  “You’re right,” I tell her. “That’s the necropolis, the ancient city of the dead.”

  Tryphaena glares at me and pulls a sour face. “Very amusing, Cleopatra,” she says, but she plainly does not find me amusing at all.

  Chapter 11

  DINNER GUESTS

  For eight days a steady wind sweeps our boats up the Nile. Farmers leave their fields, weavers and potters desert their workshops, women abandon their chores, and a
ll rush to the riverbank to stare in wonder at the magnificent royal boat as it passes. When they realize that it is their pharaoh, they seem at first to be struck dumb. Then the cheering begins, and the children run along the banks, waving and shouting, trying to keep up with us. Father looks pleased.

  He has instructed Captain Mshai to drop anchor wherever there is a major temple. And so we stop often, for there are many gods and many temples to honor them. Mshai, an Egyptian who has spent much of his life on the Nile, allows me to study the charts he has made of the river. I copy his map onto a papyrus scroll and carefully note the names of the temples and any landmarks I observe.

  At each stop Father repeats the required ceremonies and makes his offerings. Sometimes I accompany him ashore; sometimes I do not but watch instead from the deck of the royal boat. The priests always greet him with deep reverence, acknowledging their pharaoh as a demigod, the living connection between this world and the afterlife. While Father makes his offering in the temple, the cook and his helpers bargain for food and drink at the market.

  After each dutiful visit, Father returns to the boat and yanks off the false beard and the teetering double crown. We always remain at least one night, sometimes two or three in the larger towns. Then the sails are unfurled and we continue on, past the green fields and the mud-hut villages and the men in loincloths who gather on the banks. Later, when the great Sun God Ra begins his descent, the sails are again gathered and the anchor chain rattles for the last time that day.