Cleopatra (2 page)

The next afternoon

Caravans arrived today from Gilead and Arabia. Their camels were loaded with treasures that will be traded for our grain. The merchants have pitched their striped tents outside the city wall near the canal that brings Nile water to Lake Mareotis. I watched from my roof garden, glad the stench of camels cannot reach me, though I always enjoy hearing the bells and bangles that hang from their saddles.

When I saw some of our slaves carrying chests towards the palace, I was too excited to wait on the roof. I ran down the inside steps to wait in the courtyard. Berenice and Tryphaena were already there, of course.

As princesses, we are the first in Alexandria to run our fingers through the sacks of spices, pinching small amounts to flick in the air like perfume. The courtyard was soon filled with the sweet aromas of cinnamon, myrrh, cassia, and frankincense. My sisters and I also are the first to unwrap the parcels of silk. This fabric is so delicate that we can see through it, and when we throw a piece in the air it floats down slowly. When we were younger, we used to run with it back and forth through the halls and around the columns, in and out, the silk flying from our outstretched hands like lovely coloured flags.

But now that Tryphaena is so much older, she sits on a stool while bowing servants bring everything to her. Today, she unfolded the silks as if they were dirty bedlinens, then tossed them aside, bored. Next, she pushed a chest with her foot until it tipped over. Out spilled an elegant array of bracelets and sashes, Persian slippers, mirrors, and ivory hair ornaments. Berenice and I glanced at each other. These things were much too beautiful to be thrown on the floor.

Then Tryphaena reached into a wooden crate and dug through the straw to uncover hundreds of tiny alabaster jars. She uncorked one. Instantly there was the wonderful scent of almond oil. (How I love to rub it into my skin after a bath.) She sniffed it, frowned, then opened other jars. There were fine perfumes, coconut oil, and the balm of Gilead itself, a most prized item.

The last chest to be opened was full of jewels and necklaces. I saw a rope of pearls that was so exquisite I could not help myself. As I started to clasp it around my neck, Tryphaena grabbed a dagger from inside her dress and placed it against my throat. I felt the sharp edge scrape my skin.

Slowly, I handed the pearls to my sister and backed out of the room.

8 Januarius,
Just before sunset

Five days have passed since Father disappeared. The snake that killed his slave Mento is still loose in the palace. Its moist trail was seen last night near the bath. Servants are looking everywhere, but it hides itself well. I am careful where I step and where I sit.

This morning, Arrow and I were in one of the small palace courtyards, enjoying the winter sunlight, when I heard shouts. I could see Tryphaena down a hallway, pacing back and forth, her arms waving angrily. She was yelling at an official who held a scroll and who seemed to be pleading with her.

I overheard words that brought joy to my heart. Father is alive! He is still king and he has sent a message to my sister:

If she doesn't stop pretending to be queen, he will have her executed.

At this, I slipped away so she would not see me, Arrow quietly at my side.

To continue…

For the rest of the morning, I wandered along the harbour with Neva, my favourite maid. We were dressed in the linen chitons of common Greek girls so we could pass unnoticed among the fishermen. Rather than have her carry my sandals as usual, I held them myself so we would appear as two equals. I
can
look plain and un-royal when I want to. Also, be cause I am able to speak with native Egyptians in their own language, I can mingle in the agora, the marketplace, without drawing attention to myself – a privacy I much enjoy. If commoners know a princess walks among them, they will either smother her with affection or bother her about problems that belong to the king.

One of my favourite guards, Puzo, followed at a discreet distance. He is from the island of Sicily, but as a youth he was enslaved by the Romans and trained as a gladiator. He was fierce and proud, often compared to the famous Spartacus. When he was sent to Alexandria for the amusement of my father, I bought his freedom before he was forced to fight. Ever since, Puzo has kept me safe. When we are in public together, if I wish not to be noticed, he disguises himself, often as an Arab in a
dishdasha,
a flowing white robe.

Near the water's edge, Neva and I met a Hebrew man selling figs and barley loaves from his cart. We purchased enough for our midday meal, then walked out to Pharos Island on the Heptastadion. This is the stone bridge that is high enough for boats to sail under, from our east harbour to the west. It is one mile long. Out here we can speak privately. Small tide pools among the rocks draw flocks of seagulls that shriek and cry with a noise loud enough to keep anyone nearby from hearing our conversation.

Neva is pure Macedonian Greek, like I am, descended from the royal servants of Ptolemy I. I, of course, am descended from Ptolemy himself. Though Neva and I share the same light skin and blue eyes and could pass as sisters, we are content with our inherited roles: she as maid, I as princess. A skilled listener makes a good friend, and this perfectly describes Neva. She is a few years older than I, perhaps she is fifteen. I trust her with my life; my secrets are hers – to my knowledge she has never betrayed a confidence. This morning as we stepped around the tide pools, there were two things I wanted to tell her.

I fear Father will be murdered. And if he is, I, Cleopatra, want to be, and should be, queen.

This may seem an odd confession, but my thoughts are sound. Father has six living children by his two wives long dead. I have no memory of my mother for I was quite small when she died.

Father's daughters are Tryphaena, Berenice, myself, and little Arsinoë. His sons are just babies, Ptolemy One and Ptolemy the Younger. Of all my siblings I am the only one who can speak the language of native Egyptians and other foreigners who live in our beautiful Alexandria.

For reasons unknown to myself, the gods have gifted me with learning tongues. Just from my daily visits to the agora and fishing villages, I have learned to speak with the peasants from Ethiopia, Syria, and Arabia. I am beginning to understand the Hebrew scholars better by studying in the Library and Mouseion, our great learning centre dedicated to the nine Muses. The Muses, of course, are our goddesses of poetry, music, art, and so forth.

This gift of befriending people will make me a better queen than Tryphaena, who hates the Jews and the Medes. It will help me be better than Berenice, the sister I love, who is too afraid of the streets to venture out of our royal apartments. A queen
must
understand her subjects and care for them. This describes me! I am sorry to say this about Arsinoë because she is just nine years old, but she is as spoiled and mean as our eldest sister, Tryphaena.

If Father is killed, then one of us will become pharaoh. O, I do not want him to die, but I do want to be ready if necessary to be Egypt's ruler, the best ever known. I must apply myself to gain wisdom.

To continue…

After eating our meal, Neva and I walked in the wet sand below the lighthouse, where the tiniest waves roll in. Puzo sat on the jetty looking like an Arab in deep thought, but I knew he was watching me with a protective eye.

Because this beach is protected from wind and surf, it is warm even in winter. We waded up to our knees, swishing our hands in the cold water and splashing our faces. It was so refreshing I did it again and again, happy that I had not allowed Neva to paint me with cosmetics this morning. The black ochre stings my eyes if not washed off carefully.

The nearer I am to the ocean, the more content I feel. I love smelling the salt air and watching the waves break against the outer rocks. Far out to sea the horizon looks bumpy with specks of white. This time of year, the Mediterranean is empty of ships because the wind is too wild. Though Rome is a long ocean voyage to the northwest, Father has worried for years about pirates or, worse, a surprise attack from Julius Caesar.

Curses on him, the barbarian! His cruel legions march wherever they are ordered, conquering lands with their catapults and siege machines. Father has told me we will not let him have Egypt, ever, especially our beloved city, Alexandria.

We are a sovereign state. The Roman Empire shall not conquer us.

That is why our royal fleet keeps ready for battle by having its sailors mend sails and lines, and the soldiers practise their weapons. The oarsmen, who are our strongest slaves from Ethiopia, keep alert by rowing the warships out into the rough waves, then back again, day after day no matter the weather.

It is dark now. Moments ago I walked out on my terrace to watch the remains of the sun on the sea. In our eastern harbour, torches were being lit on our little island called Antirrhodus. Here among the rocks sits a beautiful little palace that I secretly call my own, but it really belongs to the entire royal family.

Inside the island palace are several golden statues of my father, the king, posing like a sphinx, also there are marble busts of my older sisters and myself. The artist who carved my likeness sculpted me with an Egyptian headdress and a cobra, but truly I prefer wearing my hair in the Greek style, without such heavy adornments.

12 Januarius

It is evening again. I will sleep well now, knowing Father is safe from the crowds who threaten him. He is hiding somewhere up the Nile, his exact whereabouts known only by his closest advisers.

I have sent Puzo with another guard to observe Tryphaena in case she is up to evil. Neva has readied my cushions and lit a small lamp with cinnamon oil, and is now resting on her pallet at the foot of my bed. She will not let herself sleep until I do. I look at Neva's sweet face and thank the gods for her loyalty.

Did I mention that she is my reader, as well? During my bath is when I most love to hear her voice. Today, I listened for an hour as she read from Homer's
Odyssey,
one of my favourite poems. She does it so dramatically, too. We both love this adventure of Odysseus that describes his voyage home after the battle of Troy.

Out the window the sea looks black except for a flicker of light flashing across the waves. This is the beacon from our lighthouse that burns all day and all night, a comfort for those of us living on this northern point of Africa. The only thing I do not like about this perpetual flame is that if the Romans are marching this way or are foolish enough to sail through winter storms, they will easily find us.

There is no hiding in darkness if there is even one spark of light.

To continue…

Just a few moments ago, Berenice came in to show me her hair. Her maid had braided it into dozens of tiny rows, in the style of native Nubians.

“Look, Cleopatra,” she said, turning on her feet as a dancer does. Lamplight reflected off the assorted gems that had been woven into her braids, some were rubies, others were diamonds. I suspect these had been stolen from Father's jewellery chest for I had never seen her with so many.

Berenice wore two silk chitons, one draped over the other to show layers of blue and emerald, an elegant look. She wore gold bracelets on each bare arm. Her eyes were shadowed with violet and black liner, her earrings were pearl.

“You look beautiful,” I said, knowing that was what she wanted to hear and because she is, indeed, beautiful. What I shall not tell her is how foolish she looks with tiny gold rings in her left nostril, three of them! It looks slavish and common.

Then she glided out of my chamber and disappeared down the hall. Another banquet with dancers and musicians await her, no doubt Tryphaena is already there.

Tonight I am happy to be just twelve years old, too young to be expected at royal parties.

My only worry at this moment is the puff adder still sliding along the floors somewhere in the palace. We keep finding its curved track in hallways, courtyards, and in our private chambers. This horrifies me! Whoever set it on my father's bed many days ago is probably happily waiting to hear of the next victim. I have told Arrow to catch the snake, but who can tell a cat what to do? I gathered my fingers in the fur around her neck and looked sternly in her golden eyes as I gave her my order. She blinked. Once, twice, then she batted my shoulder with her huge paw before turning away to do what she pleases. Arrow is too spoiled to care about a snake.

The fragrance of Berenice's perfume lingers pleasantly as I ready myself for bed. My hourglass has run out.
O Isis, please let me sleep safely tonight.

The next morning

Early, just at sunrise, Berenice and I visited the docks. We watched the royal zookeepers carry a cage down the ramp with a new lioness and her two mewing cubs inside. They were captured last month far up the Nile, and brought to Alexandria. Word is that Julius Caesar himself has requested them to battle his gladiators. (I am pleased that Puzo is spared forever from this horrible amusement.) Also on the barge was a baby baboon, an orphan apparently. Berenice thought it looked so sweet swinging from its cage that she has taken it from the zoo back to the palace.

I do love this sister, but she is not very imaginative. What did she name her little pet? “Baboon.” That is it. Berenice might be beautiful, but she would not make an interesting queen.

In the early evening, I went to the royal stables. Bucephalus, my beautiful white Arabian, stomped in her stall when she saw me. I have not ridden her in two weeks and I miss her. I named her after King Alexander's war horse, which carried him into battle as far as India. When Bucephalus died, Alexander built a magnificent city to surround the tomb.

I wrapped my arms around her big neck. She snorted. Then she tossed her head, her white mane stinging my face, a playful habit ever since she was a filly. She nudged my arm until I brought out the treat hiding in my belt – a small square of honeycomb.

“Here, Bucephalus,” I said. “Good girl.”

Her brown eye watched me as I stroked her neck. A thick ivory comb hung on the gate next to my saddle. When I reached for it, she butted my hand, knocking it down to the straw. She dislikes having her mane untangled, so today I just returned the comb to its hook.

You wild thing
, I thought in my heart.
You lovely wild thing
. O, I envy her freedom, that she is without cares or worries.

This evening as I was bathing and listening to Neva read, my younger sister, Arsinoë, marched into my chamber. Her dress was blue with a purple sash, and she was barefoot except for ornaments jingling on her ankles. She was followed by her nurse and three of her little barking dogs. I call them The Toads for their noses look squashed and wet.

She tugged at her nurse's skirt because she was too excited to speak for herself. Her nurse bowed.

“Your Highness,” she said to me, “Arsinoë wants you to find a new playmate for her. She is tired of her brothers and wants a Pygmy child to amuse her.”

Sinking low into my bath, I splashed warm water on my face for time to think. Arisinoë's last request was for a child from the Dinka tribe. They are a graceful, gentle people who can grow to be more than seven feet tall. A Dinka girl was captured near her home up the Nile and brought to the palace, but she died from a fever after a few days.

Father has given me the authority to grant any requests of my younger siblings. I enjoy this responsibility for in my heart I am practising to be queen. But as for a Pygmy child? I do not intend to give my sister everything she asks for.

“I will see what I can do, Arsinoë. Now go to bed.”