“I did not have time to think about it, Princess,” he says with a careless shrug. “Many were lost, and I regret that I could not do more to help.”
He smiles sadly. How handsome he is!
I change the subject to Akantha.
“How is your dear sister?” I ask. “I’m sorry she did not come on this journey. But perhaps it’s just as well that she stayed in Alexandria, considering the dangers we have faced.”
“I am sure she wishes she were here. Life in Alexandria is not so pleasant for her now. She never leaves the palace quarters. Our parents feel it is too dangerous.”
“Too dangerous? Why is that, Titus? What is happening there?”
Titus shakes his head and flashes another of his gleaming smiles. “Cleopatra, I know you take these matters seriously, as young as you are. More seriously than your older sisters! But these are matters for the king.”
I am flattered that he sees me as more serious than my sisters. “Titus,” I beg him, “please tell me as much as you can.”
“Rumors have spread that your father the king is preparing to raise taxes again, to repay the Roman moneylender. The common people are angry.”
“Is that why you came, Titus? To warn Father of their anger?”
Titus looks away. “I think it is more than a matter of taxes, Princess Cleopatra. I have already told you more than I should. Now I beg you to excuse me.”
He bows and hurries off.
I am worried about Father, but I am also pleased that Titus has confided in me.
Tryphaena and Berenike continue to compete for Titus’s attention. “It is easy to see why,” Charmion says. “Titus is extremely handsome, and he has shown that he is brave and strong as well.”
I agree. “What if he chooses one of my sisters and not the other? What if he chooses both?”
Charmion shakes her head. “Trouble,” she says. “Lots of trouble.”
But when it becomes clear that we must remain here for many days, Father decides to send Titus back to Alexandria to explain the circumstances of our delay.
That night, we have another banquet in honor of Titus. My sisters are dressed in their finest linen gowns, displaying their bodies as well as their finest jewels. I can scarcely believe it when Tryphaena reaches for a lute and sings a song for him. She does not play well, because she never practices, and her voice is harsh, but that does not stop her. Titus smiles politely, but to me it looks more like a grimace. She sings another song. I wonder if anyone will stop her. Finally, Berenike does. My sisters do not seem to grow more sensible with age.
The next day, Titus leaves in his fast boat—it came through the turbulent water undamaged—and we settle down to wait for the royal boat to be repaired.
Our stay in Dendara lasts much longer than anyone expected—most of all Father. But it is as though he has decided that, whatever the unpleasantness awaiting him in Alexandria, he will enjoy these last days. He orders banquets prepared every evening. There are somber notes, of course—half a dozen guests and twice that number of servants were lost to drowning in the whirlpool. Their absence is felt but not spoken of.
Day after day, I leave my tent and go down to the riverbank to watch the carpenters of Dendara at work on the royal boat. Ten days have passed. The dancers have found a secluded place to practice, and sometimes I arrange to meet them there. Charmion and her mother assure me that I have a talent for dance.
“You are strong and graceful and quick, and those are the three qualities all dancers must possess,” Lady Amandaris tells me, and I treasure her approval. I have always taken it for granted that Demetrius will praise me for my intellectual accomplishments, but I did not expect to earn words of praise for dancing, and I blush and smile, pleased with myself.
PART IV
INTO EXILE
Alexandria, in my eleventh year
Chapter 22
RETURN
After nineteen days of labor, often by torchlight far into the night, the damaged portion of the royal boat has been rebuilt. Captain Mshai invites us to inspect it. He seems very nervous. He has apologized over and over to Father. I do not believe he could have avoided the whirlpool, though many—including my sisters—say he should not have attempted to navigate the difficult passage so late in the day.
“He caused the deaths of several high-ranking people,” Berenike says. “His life should not be spared. He must first guide the boat back to Alexandria and then be put to death.”
“I thought you liked Captain Mshai,” I reminded her. “He taught us to sail when we were small.”
“That has nothing to do with it,” she says coldly.
Perhaps she is right. But her harshness shocks me.
The jagged gash in the hull has been repaired, and the elegant palace on the deck rebuilt in even finer style with material donated by a wealthy Dendara merchant. The whole city turns out to celebrate the achievement. Father makes a grand promise: “In payment for what you have done,” he tells the smiling local governor and the throng of officials and townspeople, “I will build a magnificent temple here in honor of Hathor.”
Hathor, daughter of Isis and Osiris, is the favorite goddess of the Dendarites. She is worshipped as the goddess of love and pleasure and so, not surprisingly, she is also the favorite of my sister Tryphaena. In her human form, Hathor wears the horns of a cow and a sun disk on her head. On one of her feast days, her statue is carried to the roof of Dendara’s old temple, where she receives new energy from the sun. It happens that this is also Tryphaena’s birth anniversary. My oldest sister is now seventeen, and she has persuaded Father to celebrate this as well.
Father’s announcement is greeted by roaring cheers. The celebration goes on all night, and Tryphaena has made herself the center of attention while Berenike sulks and plots her own birth celebration. She has already declared it will be even grander and more elaborate.
Later, when the feasting and music are over and we are alone, Father says, “Someday, Cleopatra, you will have a son and you will bring him here. Together you will make your offerings to Hathor.”
I bow and touch his feet and thank him for his generosity, but I wonder if such a temple will ever be built.
Once again we are on our way. Once again the peasants in the fields stop their work to watch the brilliant procession of boats passing by them like an exotic dream. But there are no more visits to temples, no more sacrifices of freshly slain sheep, no more long ceremonies. We stop every evening before sunset. Now we are truly going home.
As the king’s boat enters the Nile Delta and begins to work its way through the canals to the Canopic branch and Alexandria, Father dispatches a messenger to let Antiochus know we are about to enter Lake Mareotis, back where we began. Our journey has taken us four months and thirteen days.
We arrive in Alexandria at the start of the five-day festival at the Opening of the Year. This marks the beginning of Year 24 of the reign of King Ptolemy XII. The festival is timed to the rising of Sirius, the Nile Star, signaling the start of the Inundation and one of the longest days of the year. Though the hour is late, twilight lingers. Torches are just being lit. A crowd has gathered along the lakeshore by the royal dock, and at first I assume they have turned out to celebrate our return. But the mood here is anything but festive. There is no cheering, no musicians are playing, no groups of children carry flowers, only complete silence and sullen staring. If Father notices—How can he not?—he says nothing. I feel uneasy, and my stomach tightens and churns. Monifa reaches for my hand and squeezes it.
The grand vizier and a handful of palace officials wait on the dock, all wearing somber expressions. Guards stand ready to escort us to the royal palace. Antiochus steps forward, bowing low. The king orders him to speak. I can feel the tension, and I wait anxiously to hear what he has to say.
He salutes the king and clears his throat. “It is my solemn duty to inform you, my lord, that your brother, King Ptolemy of Cyprus, is dead,” the grand vizier announces in a loud voice.
&n
bsp; My father hardly reacts to this news. I suspect that he already knew, that it was in the coded message delivered by Titus. “By what means is my brother dead?” he asks. I believe he knows that, too.
“By his own hand, my lord,” the grand vizier replies.
Father’s brother was made king of Cyprus at the same time my father was made king of Egypt. I never met my uncle, and I have rarely heard Father speak of him. I sense that the crowd is deeply disturbed. But why? Has the death of this faraway king had consequences that I cannot yet imagine?
Father bribed the Romans to let him keep the throne of Egypt. But, Antiochus explains, the triumvirate moved to annex Cyprus as a possession, claiming that this large island to the north actually belongs to Rome. The triumvirate offered my uncle a position as high priest in a remote Cypriot city if he would agree to relinquish the crown. “Ptolemy of Cyprus declined their offer, claiming it disrespected him,” says Antiochus gravely. “Instead, he swallowed poison.”
My father listens to this explanation in silence. “Do the people of Alexandria know all this?” he asks.
“They do, my lord, and they are very angry. They cannot understand why you did nothing to help your brother.”
“Me?” Father demands. His voice is shaking, and he has gone very pale. “What did they expect me to do? Was it not up to my brother to keep his crown on his own head? I can barely hold on to power in Egypt, let alone take up for my feckless brother in Cyprus!”
“The people do not see it that way, my lord. This only feeds the anger that has smoldered since you left on your journey months ago and they learned about the latest increase in their taxes. They burn with resentment that you, your daughters, and your friends enjoy every luxury while they, the common people, suffer great privation. They demand that you return and assume the responsibilities of ruling.” He adds somberly, “Your people are blinded by their anger, and their anger is turning to violence.”
“My people!” he sneers. “My people can throw themselves into the sea if they do not like it!”
With those bitter words, Father storms off the royal boat, climbs into a waiting chair, and orders the bearers to carry him to the palace. The bearers pick up the chair and take off at a run. My sisters and I look at one another, shocked by what we have just seen and heard. Here, for the first time, I sense that Father’s power has begun to slip away like sand through his fingers. I believe that even my sisters sense it too.
“I think our dear father is facing a difficult time,” Berenike says. She recovers more quickly than the rest of us and commandeers another gilded chair and climbs in, clutching Bubu. Tryphaena crowds in beside her, though the chair is not built to carry two. With a dazed expression, Arsinoë watches them leave without her and bursts into tears. “What about me?” she wails, but I do not expect our sisters to be concerned about us. They have not cared in the past—why would they change their behavior now?
Crowds of people, their faces twisted with rage, surge around us, rushing away from the lake toward the royal quarter. Demetrius, Irisi, Monifa, and our other servants have been swept off in the confusion, leaving us utterly alone. I seize Arsinoë by the hand and pull her away from the tumult.
“I know these streets well,” I assure her. “We’ll take the long way around and enter the royal quarter by the harbor.”
But Arsinoë resists. “Where’s Ako? I can’t go without Ako!”
“He’s probably with Panya. He’ll show up eventually. Now we must go,” I insist impatiently. “We have no time to waste on your monkey.”
Arsinoë whines in protest—“If Nebtawi were here, he’d know what to do!”—but I hush her and hurry my sister through empty streets. Usually, during the festival of the Opening of the Year, these streets would be filled with throngs celebrating the New Year as a time of rebirth and the coming of the floods. But even the Canopic Way is almost deserted. Darkness closes around us. The Pharos lighthouse blazes in the distance, but without the torches that should have been lighted for the celebration, the broad avenue is eerily dark.
When my sister and I reach the harbor, we find an old man and a boy dozing in a small fishing boat. Waking them and addressing them in Egyptian, I ask them to take us to the Royal Harbor, part of Alexandria’s Great Harbor. But they are reluctant.
“Order them!” Arsinoë urges. “Tell them who we are!”
“That we are the daughters of the king who has aroused everyone’s fury?” I ask. “Better not to tell them anything.” I turn to the boatmen. “My sister is frightened,” I explain. “I beg you to help us.”
Arsinoë’s tears and one of her gold rings finally persuade the old man.
Their small boat glides almost soundlessly over the black water. There is no moon. I can scarcely make out my sister’s face. No one speaks. I wonder if the others can hear my heart pounding.
The palace is bathed in the light of many torches, and as the boat draws closer, the angry shouting becomes a roar. I point out the little dock at the rear of the compound, where servants keep a few small boats. The boy helps us climb out. The old man eases the boat away from the dock, and they are quickly swallowed up in the darkness. We feel our way cautiously to a narrow door in the outer wall surrounding the palace compound. This door is always guarded. “He’ll recognize us and let us in,” I tell my sister more confidently than I feel.
The guard is asleep. This makes it easier for us, certainly, but it will also make it easy for anyone to steal in, make his way to the great palace gates, and throw them open to the angry crowd. I shake the guard awake with a warning. “Hold your post!” I order him, and he snaps to attention. Berenike would not hesitate to have him put to death for sleeping on duty.
We circle to the rear of the main palace and cautiously enter through the servants’ quarters. The corridors are empty, but I am not sure if this is a good thing or not. Where is everyone? I steer Arsinoë across a deserted courtyard to her quarters. Her nurse, Panya, rushes out to meet her, carrying Ako. There is much weeping as they are reunited. I wish them good night and turn to leave.
“Where are you going, Cleopatra?” Arsinoë asks, clinging to her monkey.
“To bed,” I tell her. That is a lie. I am going to the king’s palace to find Father. This time, I will not wait for Father to summon me. I must know if he is safe and what he intends to do now.
For perhaps the last time, I forget to worry about my own safety.
Chapter 23
PROMISE
An angry mob surrounds the king’s palace. I skirt the hundreds of fist-waving, shouting people who are demanding that King Ptolemy come out and face them. I seize a chance to slip by the distracted guards and race through darkened corridors to the king’s private apartment. Once inside, I find Father huddled with Antiochus and his other advisors, debating what to do. Everyone has a different idea. The men are so deeply involved in their discussion that they do not even notice when I glide in behind a servant. I recognize the girl: She is one of Berenike’s servants. I murmur close to her ear, “I will serve them. You may go.” I dismiss her, but she hesitates.
“It is all right,” I assure her, taking the jar from her hands. “Princess Berenike has asked me to take your place.”
That is another lie. Berenike will be furious when she finds out.
I have never served before, but I have watched often enough to know how it is done. Then Antiochus happens to glance my way. At first it seems he cannot believe it is me he sees.
“My lord,” he says to my father, interrupting him, “your daughter has joined us.”
“My daughter?” The king’s head jerks up. All the men turn to stare at me. “Cleopatra! What are you doing here?”
“I have come to serve you, my lord,” I reply, and begin to fill the men’s goblets.
“You have no business here, daughter,” he says. He sounds weary, drained of energy.
“My business is to be sure that you are served by a friend, not by a spy.”
“Princess Beren
ike sent the girl to serve us. All the others have retired for the night.”
I say nothing. Let him figure it out for himself.
I carry around a platter of fruit, but I am careful with the wine, adding only a few drops to Father’s goblet. He needs to keep his wits about him.
Annoyed, he holds up his goblet. “If you are indeed here to serve us, Cleopatra, then be kind enough to fill my goblet. To the brim.”
I bow low. “I beg your forgiveness, my lord, but the wine jar appears to be empty.”
My third lie. I think he knows it, and I am a little afraid he will be angry and send me away to bring another jar. Father reluctantly sets down his empty goblet, and the men resume their discussion.
Suddenly, he rises. “I have made my decision. For the sake of Egypt I shall go into exile. I shall leave as soon as my ships are made ready and provisioned.” The men begin to talk loudly, all at once. Father pounds his fist on the table, and his empty goblet clatters. “I, Ptolemy XII, king of Egypt, have spoken! Antiochus, summon the commander of my ocean fleet.”
His decision stuns me. If his advisors are surprised, they hide it well. Maybe it is what they have urged him to do. The men stand, bow low with hands outstretched to their pharaoh, and leave the hall in silence. I remain still as a statue, unable to move, though my mind is reeling. My father turns to me. His face is lined and haggard, and he looks much older than his fifty-nine years. I long to throw my arms around him and beg him not to leave, but I do not. It has not been our way to express our deepest feelings so openly.
“So, daughter, it seems we must again say good-bye. It saddens me to leave you, but I have no other choice. I am sure you understand that.”
No, I do not understand! I choke back the words. Tears well up in my eyes, but I control the urge to weep. “Where will you go, Father?” I ask him. I cannot stop the trembling in my voice.
“To Rome,” he says. “Perhaps my friends there will help me again.”
Cleopatra Confesses Page 8
