Kleopatra (20 page)

“Your father wishes privacy,” warned a sour-faced man wearing a large plumed hat with a great jewel at the crown of his head
holding the feathers together. He looked like an indignant bird.

“My father shall abuse you much if you keep him from the company of his favorite daughter,” she said. The king’s attendants
never knew how to behave in these matters, so erratic was Auletes in his response to his family. But they all knew his indulgence
of this one.

Kleopatra did not dislike Hekate. This evening she wore a pale draped silk dress that showed her august neck and the creamy
pearl-colored skin of her bosom. She was much more beautiful than the queen, and more regal, too, thought Kleopatra. She wore
a sweet-smelling perfume that reminded Kleopatra of lilies, far preferable to Thea’s oppressive undiluted lotus oil with which
she immoderately doused herself. Hekate was the only one of Auletes’ mistresses that he entertained publicly. She was intelligent
in the tradition of the
hetairai
, the sanctioned courtesans of Greek nobility. She herself was born of fallen Greek aristocrats, and very graceful.

“Father,” said Kleopatra. “I must demand an audience.”

Auletes and Hekate exchanged condescending smiles. In the presence of adult women the king treated the princess like a child;
when they were alone, he gave her words and her presence full credence.

“Father,” she said, with as much dignity and force of will as she could summon in her nervous condition, “it is my wish to
accompany you to Rome.”

The king said nothing but stared at the princess. His face remained maddeningly impassive.

I must play this right, she thought, but the king gave no clues as to the next step. It would be no use to tell of Socratic
visions, of the augury of old women. Auletes would have no patience with such tales. She could not force his will. She must
argue well—subtly yet forcefully, and above all, strategically.

“I could be of great use to you, Father. I am proficient in the dialects you shall encounter in your voyage, including the
Latin tongue, which, you admit, baffles you by its coarseness.”

“My child, I have interpreters in my travel party.” Distracted, he ran his fingers along the nape of Hekate’s neck. Why was
he so pre-occupied with a woman he had had many times, and would have many more if he desired? The princess gauged her next
step.

“Do you trust your servants so much that you will not doubt their translations?”

Auletes’ implacable face turned to one of aggravation, perhaps at the notion that his eleven-year-old child might protect
him. The princess perceived that he was anxious to be rid of her so he might become more intimate with Hekate. “Come to me
tomorrow, child.”

To remain and argue her case was fruitless in the face of his desire for the pale beauty at his side. But Kleopatra stood
nonetheless, unwilling to be so lightly discharged.

“Father, if I remain behind, and you have incorrectly gauged the loyalty of your army, you shall have no heirs.” It was her
best shot, cryptically delivered and, she hoped, well timed. She turned on her toes and walked out.

“Very well,” came the voice of the king. The princess stopped, but did not turn around. “Look at me, child.”

She turned to face her father, who wore a self-satisfied expression. “Have Charmion see the Travel Steward for your allowance
of luggage and attendants. We sail for Rhodes in two days’ time. I trust your staff and your little royal personage will be
prepared.”

ROME

H
elios the Sun God lay crumpled in shimmering waters at the harbor in Rhodes. The colossal bronze statue, one of the great
wonders of the Greek world and the protector of Rhodes City, had come toppling down the last time the gods expressed their
displeasure with the island, shaking the earth until every man-made pride had fallen to pieces. The island had recovered,
rebuilt its harbor and its businesses, but the god still lay in shambles on the shore, gentle waves lapping at his headless
torso, his great bronze crown of sunrays now a tarnished barnacle green.

“Why do they not move the god?” Kleopatra asked. She could not bear to witness the god’s disgrace. She looked past the fallen
Greek idol to the shops and mansions lining the long, sandy beach, and the whitewashed houses that dotted the rose-covered
rocks and mossy slopes above the town.

“Because the people are afraid that if they move the city’s protector, the earth will shake again. The priests advise against
tampering with it,” answered the king as he searched the dock for a greeting party.

“But it is so very sad to see him lying there, headless and ugly. Can you not do something, Father? You are beloved upon these
shores.”

Auletes, like all members of his dynasty, enjoyed special loyalty from the people of Rhodes. Many centuries before, when the
city was besieged by Demetrius Poliorketes the tyrant, Ptolemy I had intervened and run him off. The oppressor was in such
a hurry to get out of town that he left his siege artillery, which the Rhodians sold to build the giant statue of the god.
For his efforts, the people of Rhodes christened Ptolemy I
Soter
, the Savior, a title he became very fond of and used officially all his life.

“We are here to solicit support and advice, Kleopatra, not to dictate to the clergy,” said the king. “The government of Rhodes
enjoys good relations with Rome. We are here to learn how to do the same. You shall have to satisfy yourself with the way
things are. We shall enjoy the islands beauty, but leave it as we find it.”

Chastened, Kleopatra groped for a subject that would recover her father’s grace. She did not want to be sent home, nor did
she wish to be left in Rhodes in the care of polite, dull Greek women while her father sailed onward to Rome. “Father, is
it true that the island of Rhodes has more butterflies than anywhere else on earth?” she asked brightly.

“Yes, and more statues, too,” said the king. “But do not be fooled. The island is also infested with snakes. So do not think
that you can run off and play like you do at home.” The king directed these words not at his daughter, but at the taller girl
who stood at her side.

“Do not worry, Sire. There will be no more games.” Mohama spoke with easy nonchalance, making Kleopatra wonder if she had
had private conversations with the king since that cold hard slap Auletes delivered to her cheek the day of the riots.

For weeks after the incident, Kleopatra had shunned her former companion, fastidiously erasing her from her thoughts, and
finally, after days and days of effort, forgetting to miss her. But the morning of the launch, when she alighted the carriage,
hounds scampering ahead of her, giant planks shivering beneath her feet as workers hustled the king’s goods aboard the ships,
Kleopatra felt a whisper of regret that she was leaving Mohama behind. Then she looked up and saw the lone dark-skinned figure
standing on the dock staring out to sea, her red travelers cloak a splash of blood against the drab morning fog. The princess
looked angrily at Charmion, who displayed no emotion and gave no apology. The day before, Charmion had suggested that they
include Mohama in their party, allowing that she might not be treated well by those who remained in the city. Kleopatra remembered
the animosity that had passed between Mohama and Berenike’s Bactrian women, but then pushed the rivalry out of her mind. She
still stung from Mohama’s betrayal and was not inclined to show mercy.

“I never want to set eyes upon her again,” Kleopatra retorted. “If you wanted to make me happy, you would bring me the news
that she has been enslaved, beaten, and tortured for placing a royal child in danger.”

“I believe that she was commissioned by your father to keep the royal child out of danger,” countered Charmion.

“Don’t tell me that you are going to defend her,” said Kleopatra, exasperated. “If we were not in a hurry to travel, I would
demand that my father have her hands cut off. Then I would have her returned to her desert tribe where she couldn’t even be
a thief anymore.”

Charmion made no response to this tirade, but gave Kleopatra a captious, almost pitying look. Kleopatra kicked her wooden
trunk in anger, stubbing her toe. She yelped in pain like a puppy, ran to Charmion, put her head in the lap of the stern lady,
and bawled great heaving tears until she wore herself out.

The next day, the king’s party—the Royal Steward, a bodyguard of seven, four Kinsmen, a priest and priestess, cooks and servers,
and pets and other animals for sacrifice—ambled up the bridge and onto the ship, looking more like travelers on an adventure
than a king’s entourage fleeing a rebellion, and Kleopatra’s dogs rushed ahead of her to greet the red-cloaked Mohama, nuzzling
their snouts against her. Exasperated, Kleopatra followed them, determined to demand that Mohama remain behind. The tall girl
petted the dogs distractedly, letting her attention linger on the water, her lovely cocoa skin green with fear.

“I am afraid.” Mohama’s face looked as if she had just been visited by a terrible phantom. “I have never been on the waters.”

“I did not know that
you
had fear.” Kleopatra had to struggle to suppress the small secret thrill she felt at being once more in Mohama’s company.
“You have faced more formidable enemies than the sea, Mohama.”

“I have heard of the wrath of the god Poseidon. He will know that I am a child of the sands and do not worship him. He will
take his vengeance upon me.” The girl’s face contorted in anxiety, her brow creased like an old woman, making curvy lines
in her smooth, chocolate forehead.

Kleopatra stood very tall and spoke with authority. “Do not be foolish, Mohama. Libya, daughter of Zeus—the goddess for whom
your land is named—was once the wife of the sea-god. From him she bore twin sons.”

“How do you know that?”

“It is a well-documented fact and known to all educated people throughout the world.” Kleopatra enjoyed her moment of condescension.
She continued patiently, as if pacifying a child suffering from imaginary fears, “Before we sail, my father, the king of the
land, will sacrifice a white cow to the king of the sea. Poseidon will forbid the sea-serpent Triton to blow his conch shell
and stir up the seas while we sail. My father shall also appease Triton with a pair of small white goats with very tender
shanks—a rare commodity for a sea creature. The king sacrifices on behalf of all travelers in his party. You will see. The
waters will remain calm.”

“Are you certain, Kleopatra?”

“I guarantee it,” said the princess, slipping her warm hand against the cool, rough palm of Mohama, lacing their fingers together,
and walking hand in hand toward the ship.

The Greek statesman who had earned the privilege of sheltering the king and his entourage on the island greeted the party
at the harbor with the news that the Roman senator Cato had landed at Rhodes. “He has stopped here on his way to Cyprus to
nurse a severe illness of the bowels that afflicted him at sea,” said the Greek, wrinkling his nose. “I trust this will not
cause Your Majesty any discomfort.”

Auletes was outraged that he should have to share the island with the villain responsible for the death of his brother, king
of Cyprus. “That man is the reason I am making my way to Rome now,” he said. “If not for him, I would have slept on my own
mattress last night, not tossed about on that hard bunker of a bed that tortured me until sunrise.”

“He is vexed by the doctors, rejects their treatment, and administers to himself the remedies of his great-grandfather,” said
the dignified Greek. “He has also taken to the extreme use of alcohol, and his condition only worsens.”

“Good,” replied Auletes. “I shall avoid the monster at all costs.”

But as days passed, the king began to think that the Roman might offer him information about the kind of reception he would
receive in Rome. Auletes circulated word of his arrival among the Rhodian population and its dignitaries in every way he knew
how. He waited two and one-half days for Cato to call upon him, but the Roman sent no indication that he was inclined to meet
with the exiled king.