16 Martius
This is my second spring away from home. O, my heart feels so lonesome at times. I have hopes that we can be home by summer solstice.
Because a messenger ship is leaving from Italy tomorrow, for Alexandria, I’ve gathered together the recent letters I have written to Olympus and Theophilus. (Nothing for Berenice – what would I say? Have you strangled another husband?) Surely they will grow faint when they see the volume of my words. A princess who misses her friends has much to express. I pray there will be no storms on the great sea, or serpents.
To be stupidly honest I’m not sure who to pray to – Poseidon, Neptune, Isis, or the Unnamed God? There is Zeus, Apollo, dozens more, but I do not know which one is most likely to listen to a girl.
This morning I visited Father in his garden where his reader was reciting lines from Homer. I dismissed the servant with a wave of my hand for I wanted to be alone with my father.
He did not look well. When I asked about the soldiers, he walked away from me, over to the fountain where he began splashing his face. I stepped around to the other side so he would see me, but he remained busy washing his ears, then cleaning his teeth with his finger.
“Father, please talk to me.” My voice was full of tears. When he would not answer or even look at me I burst out crying. There must be something he is not telling me.
How I wanted to scream my fury at him, my frustration. I wanted to rage, to weep.
Even so, there remained a part of me – a small part – that wanted to behave as a queen might. She must not lose herself to temper or else folly might capture her. The other part of me – the big part – wanted to be a thirteen-year-old daughter who is taken care of by a wise father. I wanted him to take us home now and promise to always keep me safe.
But as I looked at this man, the fallen king of Egypt, my father, I saw clearly as if in a vision, that this hope of mine was foolish. If one counts years, I was merely a child, but I knew I was the strong one. There was no time for me to weep and carry on.
“Come, Father.” I took his hand and led him to a bench in the warm sunshine. I unwrapped the cotton shawl from my shoulders and dried his face with it. I thought in my heart that there were tears on his unshaven cheeks, for soon after I had pinned my shawl back on, his face was moist again.
Are these tears of regret? I wondered. Does he see what he has become? Though I feel pity for him, I am still cautious. In some ways a king reminds me of my leopard: he can be gentle and loving, but if threatened, he will kill.
To continue…
Father and I spent the afternoon at the soldiers’ barracks. When I noticed a group of men near the stables, I left Father resting on a stool and myself went over. They were not drilling, they were playing a game!
Set into the ground about twenty paces apart were two iron stakes, each about one foot high. There were men behind each stake tossing the curved iron shoes that had been taken from dead horses, throwing them, trying to ring them onto the post.
I was thinking in my heart of what to say, or do, when an officer stepped forward, laughing. It was Marc Antony.
“Hail, Cleopatra! What brings you here today?”
Clearly he had been drinking because he reeked of wine. I did not want to waste time.
“Are you in command of these monkeys?” I asked. “For that is what they are, you know, playing games when there is work to be done.”
“Princess,” he said, spreading his arms in a shrug, “how does such a little thing like you get such a big temper?”
I held up my hand to shield my eyes from the sun.
“Marc Antony,” I said, “how does such a big man like you have such a little brain?” At that I walked away from the stables.
Now it is evening. I am angry with myself for using sour words on a man I need for a friend. Even though Cicero dislikes Antony, I do not. I rather enjoy his wit and his good looks.
What is the matter with me?
Aprilis, Spring!!
Spent today in the city, at the Forum. The court was seated, as they say, lawyers for both sides had arrived and the magistrates were ready (so many clean white togas!).
From where I sat, high up in the gallery with other spectators, I could hear Cicero clearly. His speech went on for six hours, until his last water clock ran out. Because there are three water clocks per Roman hour, there were nearly twenty of these little machines on the table in front of him – such noise, all this clicking! Why can’t they use an hourglass? A slave could watch and turn it when needed.
In any event, Cicero was defending a man accused of trying to strangle a shop girl; this girl then apparently cut off his ear with her own dagger. The trial was in its third day because the law allows a prosecutor six hours and the defence nine hours. An entire day was spent examining one witness. O, the lies and fakery I heard.
My heart is heavy to admit that I found Cicero’s strategy unsavoury. He attacked the girl’s character in such embarrassing detail. O, I was shocked to hear it. This is his argument: so what if the man tried to strangle her? She must have deserved it, and now this poor fellow has only one ear.
I have learned that Roman law does not take a person’s silence as an admission of guilt. Yet even though this girl did not speak a word in her defence, the court still found her guilty. Cicero won the case.
She has chosen exile over being stoned to death. Now she will live out her days on one of Italy’s remote islands. It seemed to me, by her manner and young face, that she is about fifteen years old.
I ponder the meaning of justice. As queen, will I have a heart of stone or a heart of flesh? This I do not know yet.
When I returned to the villa, Neva had my bath ready and a surprise. Letters! I had written to Olympus about a cut on my wrist that had not healed. His response:
…Now then, about that sore on your arm. Prepare a poultice of figs and apply it to the wound, leave on overnight for five nights and you will recover…
I observed my first brain surgery under the skilled knife of Titus. The patient lay awake through the entire procedure, even telling memories from his boyhood. He experienced no pain, and lives to this day…
I miss Olympus! If I were in Alexandria I could observe these medical classes, too. I could be in the great Library. O, I must stop yearning so much for what I do not have, it only puts sorrow in my heart.
Rome does have a library, though a small one compared to home. Julia and I were there together when a little boy about the age of seven ran up to her. His name is Octavian and he is the grandnephew of Julius Caesar. He looks sickly to me, quite thin and pale, but he is very sweet.
Upon introductions, Octavian took my hand and led me to a garden outside, where there was a pond with baby ducks swimming about. He had made a little boat of papyrus and sticks, so we played together, he on one side of the pond, myself on the other, pushing the boat back and forth. The ducklings merely paddled out of the way each time the boat sailed into them.
He reminds me of my brother Ptolemy, who has no cares but for his own amusements. But such is the duty of children, to play.
Theoplilus, friend and student, to Cleopatra, the princess with as many questions as there are stars in the sky:
I write in Hebrew so you will not forget all my teachings. You ask me why Isis will not answer your prayers for coming home to Alexandria. You ask me why your food offerings at the Temple of Castor and Pollux remain on the statues until mice carry them away.
O Cleopatra, do you not know? Have you not heard?
Your idols are silver and gold, stone and wood, made by the hands of men. They have mouths but cannot speak; eyes but they cannot see; they have ears but cannot hear; nor is there breath in their mouths. Those who make them will be like them, and so will all who trust in them.
No dear friend, Olympus and I have not found your beautiful leopard. I am
sorry. We will keep searching for her until your return.
1 Maius
A visitor arrived at the villa this morning early, before dawn. Marc Antony. It turns out he had not yet gone to bed!
We were so courteous to each other Neva later asked if I was feeling all right.
“Yes,” I told her. “I have just decided not to be so difficult.” To myself I thought, A queen must learn how to get along with all sorts of people. I am practising.
We have plans for tomorrow. When Antony heard I am eager to see the troops Father has hired, he said he personally would take me to Ostia to check the ships.
Thus my pleasant manner today reaped a pleasant result.
On another subject … just before bed I saw Neva and Puzo in the garden. He was holding her hand and looking at her with such adoration I smiled to myself. But suddenly my heart froze.
Across the courtyard, walking through an open corridor, was Father. I saw his face, then the flash of his gold belt as he turned the corner. He had seen them together!
O Isis, please make Father forget what he saw. For once, let him spend his night soaked in wine.
2 Maius
My feet are sore, my palms have blisters, but this day I am the happiest princess alive. It is quite late as I write this, all in the household of Atticus are sleeping.
I had expected Antony to pick me up in a carriage of some sort, so that Neva and I could ride together out of the weather.
But no. The clatter of hooves on the stone road was a chariot pulled by three galloping horses! Antony stood with the reins in his hands, sturdy-looking in his soldier’s tunic and boots. I was ready to protest. I wanted my maid and guard to accompany me, and I certainly did not want to stand up for sixteen rough miles, then back again.
But I thought in my heart, I am a girl of thirteen and I am learning how not always to have things my own way.
I stepped up into the chariot. It was so narrow my dress brushed against Antony’s sword, our arms touched.
“Hold tight, here,” he said, showing me how to grasp the bronze rim. Then without another word he shook the reins and we were off, down the sandy road that ran along the Tiber, westwards to the coast. I turned to look over my shoulder and saw a horseman riding fast, my good man Puzo.
I had not felt wind in my hair like this since I was at sea, in the bow of Father’s ship. The air was cold on my neck and bare arms, but the sun on my face was warm. Of course, I could not hear a word of what Antony was shouting to me because of the noise, such jangling of harnesses and the rolling swish of the tall wheels in the dirt.
Soon I smelled the salt air, then I saw the sea. O, joy! The busy port of Ostia excited me for ships were coming and going, workers were on docks loading and unloading cargo. It reminded me so much of my beloved Alexandria.
Antony took me to the soldiers’ barracks. (Puzo stayed an arm’s length from me, his hand on the hilt of his sword at all times.) I saw men training, marching. We toured the beach where Roman galleys lay on their sides, having barnacles scraped from their hulls so they would move faster through the waves. The harbour master told me that my father’s fleet had been out of the water last month, scraped, and with new tar pressed between the beams for a better seal. All was ready.
By the time Antony returned me to Rome it was sunset. I could smell aromas from the street kitchens, meat roasting and fresh onions. O, I was famished, having not eaten since breakfast. My fingers ached from holding on so tightly that I could not unstrap my sandals. It took Neva an hour to untangle my windblown hair and she said my face is so burned I look wretched, like girls who toil in fields under a hot sun.
But I suffer only from the most pleasant fatigue. And from knowing we will soon be able to leave for Egypt. My heart is merry, also, because Antony and I did not quarrel. Not once during the entire day.
Summer again
Should I complain because once again I am in a villa on the sea? Atticus has graciously sent me here, he has proven to be more a friend than I had first thought. But all is not well with him.
Cicero spoke a violent argument before the Senate, attacking Atticus’ character and others who want to help us. He said the moneylenders are fools to squander good money and good soldiers on Egypt, especially under a commander like Antony who is (these are his words) “nothing more than a wretched, insignificant, intoxicated subordinate of Caesar’s”. I was in the gallery when Cicero also pleaded his case against my father, King Ptolemy XII.
“He is just the drunken Flute Player,” he said. “It is only a matter of time before Alexandria becomes a Roman province.”
Oh, I was crushed at his words, crushed. I wanted to run and hide so I could weep privately, but I stayed, for a queen must bear bad news with dignity. (I must learn to do this, I must!) Also, I did not want the ladies sitting with me to think I am merely a child. But silently my heart was screaming, We will never let you barbarians have our beautiful city.
Here is the sad story. Father is ready to sail home, the soldiers are ready, our ships are ready. But we must stay in Italy until the Senate hears all the legal arguments. Politics!
It is good that I am here at the sea, away from the quarrels. My admiration of Cicero has fallen – I thought he was my friend. The very words I once found enchanting have been used against me.
My comfort is the white cat, whom I carried on my lap the entire journey from Rome. The curtains on my carriage stayed closed along the Appian Way, so the beautiful countryside appeared as a silky blue scene. I did not want to see the crosses in bright sunlight.
I wish Crassus would take the remaining ones down. The sight of them, though few, chills my heart. No matter how friendly we have all become, life still boils down to one ugly truth: it is folly to be an enemy of Rome.
All morning I sat on the beach looking out at the beautiful sea. I no longer feel safe knowing that powerful Roman men are quarrelling about my father and our Alexandria, or that even the great Cicero will argue to his advantage. Also, I am uneasy about my father personally. If he has any thoughts on the romance between Puzo and Neva, he is keeping them to himself. I do not know if he has forgotten or if he plans to take action.
Another truth for a princess: it is folly to be an enemy of the king.
Early morning
Little Octavian is here, such a dear child! Julia, his aunt, brought him from the sweltering heat of Rome. Already the sunshine and sea breezes have improved his complexion and he is most cheerful. But he has begged to stay with me instead of her because the villa she is living in this summer is in Pompeii, a few miles inland, much too far away for a boy anxious to build sancastles on the beach.
Thus, by staying at the villa of Atticus, Octavian can run from his room into the water whenever he pleases, and play in the waves. (We are so alike on this!)
Two days later, Sunset
Some days my heart is so lonely, it feels as if I am a bird sitting alone on a roof. I watch the sea and wish my little island Antirrhodus was in the bay, near enough for me to swim to. Would sitting in my own palace make me feel more at home?
In my mind I see Marc Antony in his soldier’s tunic, coming for me, his warship ready to sail for Egypt.
I think about him often.
Princess Cleopatra to Olympus, student of medicine, and Theophilus, student of philosophy, both friends much missed:
Mercy to you and peace. Summer solstice passed a few weeks ago. A grain ship is now anchored in the Bay of Naples, on its way to Alexandria. I can see from my window the mariners rowing to shore in little boats to gather supplies from town. Their pilot has promised to take this letter to you so I will hurry.
Heartache describes my daily thoughts. In fact, as I write this I am in great distress (which is why my words are in Greek not Hebrew, Theophilus). Cicero says that it is against ancient Sibylline prophecies for Romans to help Father r
eclaim his throne, thus for now we must remain in Italy. (I do not understand!)
In the meantime, the seaside villa of Atticus comforts me.
Someone is tapping on my door. My candle is lit to make wax for my seal. Know it is I, dear friends, your Cleopatra, who writes this in my own hand.
SCROLL 12
55 BC
Rome
Winter again
I have not written for weeks, for I have been low in spirit.
Suffice to say that the week of Saturnalia, which started the seventeenth of December, passed with loud celebrations and feasting to honour the Roman harvest god. For seven days, courts of law and public businesses were closed. Even slaves were free to attend the festivities.
I, Princess Cleopatra, did not enjoy one moment. Each time Father tried to pull me into the crowded streets for dancing, I told him Saturn is a Roman god, leave me alone. The truth is, I am homesick, but he does not understand the heart of a fourteen-year-old girl.
O, yes, I am now fourteen. Dear Atticus held a small dinner in my honour a few weeks ago. It was simple and exactly to my pleasing. Two readers stood in opposite corners of the room, reciting in unison The Birds, a cheerful fantasy about a city in the sky, written so very long ago by Aristophanes.
It was a satisfactory evening, I must admit. Especially my unexpected meeting with Cicero. At first my heart was hard towards him, but he soon won my favour with his pleasantries. I asked him to step outside with me in the courtyard. Torches and charcoal fires placed around the fountain made the winter night feel balmy.
“Sir,” I had returned to addressing Cicero formally, “it is you who stands between my father’s and my returning to our home. Why?”
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