Kleopatra (30 page)

“Then return I must. Are you telling me I no longer require a Roman legion to march with me into my city? That I may simply
pack my trunks and go home?”

Kleopatra felt her cousin’s hand tense. He lowered his voice. “It is a bit more complex than that. You see, in the confusion
following the death of the queen, your eldest daughter seized power.”

Berenike. The Amazon queen, now the queen of Egypt. Kleopatra shuddered, recalling her vision: the bleeding neck of Arsinoe,
her own dead body at the child’s feet, Berenike victorious over her sisters. Had she planned it all from childhood? Had she
feigned attachment to Thea, knowing that she would use their closeness for Thea’s demise?

“Seized? What do you mean, seized? How does a petulant girl ’seize’ power?” The king was less shocked than disdainful. “Berenike
is a child. Come, let us make arrangements to go home.”

Archimedes dropped Kleopatra’s hand and moved closer to the king. “She is eighteen, Your Majesty. And she is backed by the
eunuch Meleager, the
demes
of Middle Egypt, and the army. The priests of Upper Egypt and certain Greek factions in the city are still loyal to you.
But the situation is grave. That is why I left my studies in Greece and returned to your service.”

The king sat back in his chair, exhaling violently, as if expelling all the joy from his body.

Archimedes continued. “Apparently, Meleager has been quietly raising support for Berenike all over the country. He has sent
a party to Seleucus, a bastard Syrian prince, to propose that he marry Berenike and bring his army to Alexandria. It is said
that Berenike is against the marriage, but Meleager wishes it because Seleucus is someone he can control, someone who would
be beholden to him for his power.”

The astonished king said nothing. Kleopatra waited for him to begin to rail in his usual manner against her sister, transferring
the loathing he had visited upon Thea onto Berenike, but the king merely sat motionless, as if he had been stabbed from behind
and was dead.

“Sire, there is much to do. Meleager has sent a delegation to Rome to speak out against you.”

“Here? Here to Rome? But he is against all things Roman,” argued the king.

“They call themselves the One Hundred. I believe he paid them handsomely to come here. But they are traitors. In the middle
of the voyage, about twenty of them left the expedition to join a Cilician pirate hunt for gold. Such is their allegiance
to their cause.”

“And what is their cause?” Auletes asked anxiously.

“They are headed by a philosopher, Dio, and they intended to appear before the senate to speak out against you, to squelch
any assistance for your return, and to ask Rome to back Berenike as the legitimate ruler. They also plan to ask for Rome to
sanction Berenike’s marriage to Seleucus.”

“I am lost.” The king threw back his head and began to cry.

“Your Majesty, we do not have even one hour to waste in meditation or regret. Or grief for that matter,” Archimedes said.
“The One Hundred have already docked in Italy.”

“Wretched is the man betrayed by his own family,” Auletes said.

“Oh nonsense, Your Highness. Utter nonsense.”

Hammonius—friend, merchant, Kinsman, spy, a man not of royal blood but with the wealth of a king—had been silent through the
discourse. Gathering his affably heavy body into an erect position, he reminded Kleopatra of the great brown bear in the Alexandria
zoo that had been a gift from a Galatian queen. “Let us not admit wretchedness. Let us plot victory.” Hammonius raised his
ample arms. “Are we ghoulish spirits bringing you bad omens? Or are we your Kinsmen, ready to rally to your cause? Your Majesty,
we are men of action. Now let us act.”

“You are right, my friend. I must collect myself. Tell me about the One Hundred. Or is it the Eighty?” The king laughed, to
Kleopatra’s relief. “Who are these eighty traitors and how shall we dispense with them? And who is this Dio? Do you know him,
Daughter? Do you consider him a philosopher of any importance?”

Kleopatra did not like Dio. He was arrogant and had paid her no attention when, as a child, she had traipsed after the dark-gowned
scholars of the Mouseion seeking access to their knowledge. “He teaches the works of others but cannot be called an innovator
or a thinker himself. Nor does he have the compassion of our Demetrius.”

Archimedes said, “Dio is the mouthpiece of Meleager, Your Majesty. It was the eunuch who petitioned for him to be brought
from Athens to the Mouseion. All the while he was on Your Majesty’s payroll, he was secretly publishing pamphlets against
you and distributing them through a network set up by Meleager throughout the city. And now he is here, docked at Puteoli,
waiting for the senate to schedule a time when he might lead his eighty into the Curia with a list of their grievances against
you to plead the case for the reign of Berenike.”

“Where will they get with the senate?” Auletes asked with contempt. “Why should the senate back them when I am here as the
guest of Pompey?”

“It is believed that Berenike has access to the treasury,” answered Archimedes.

It was almost dawn. Auletes looked at the princess. “The lessons of monarchy are not always pleasant.”

She shrugged. Auletes stared at his daughter for a long while. “I’m not another Potbelly, you know, killing philosophers just
because they displease me.”

“Of course not, Father.” Did he think her attachment to the scholars caused her to overestimate this Dio’s worth? Berenike
was a traitor. Kleopatra was first in line for her father’s throne. “Father,” she said. “It would hardly be like denying the
world an Epicurus. Let us act now and without remorse.”

“Spoken like a queen.” Hammonius knelt before Kleopatra. “May I have permission to kiss your hand?”

Kleopatra extended her hand, allowing the big man to place his soft, warm lips upon the back of her small mitt. “The princess
has an infallible ability to judge character.”

Archimedes followed Hammonius and kissed the hand of his cousin. But Archimedes was twenty-two years old and tall with very
square shoulders and lean, dark arms. Kleopatra quivered when his lips lingered against her skin. He must have felt it, too,
because he looked into her eyes as he held her hand and said, “What a princess you are. What a woman you shall be.” She blushed
and hoped that no one noticed—though how could they not?—and she chastised herself for this display of emotion at such a tense
and crucial time. After all, she had just sanctioned a man’s death. And on that matter she felt numb, bloodless. Her father
and his men were fools if they thought Demetrius could kill anyone. Kleopatra was certain that it was Berenike who killed
Thea and Demetrius.

Hammonius brought the meeting back to order. “Your Majesty, I know a man. He is not a particularly good man, but he is a powerful
man. A man of action. An effective man. I believe we might take our dilemma to him. I believe he can help us.”

“Tell me, Brother,” said the king, interested, “is there a Roman who might come to our assistance? I have found them to be
entirely inert. I would be happy to contribute to the purse of one who has no fear of action.”

Hammonius looked about the room. “All here are beholden to secrecy. Swear it now upon your lives and the lives of your families.
Whoever betrays his brothers in this matter will surely die. The man who will save the king is despised in this home.”

“Here is what I think of your choice of husband, eunuch.” Berenike stepped aside. Three of her women dropped the strangled
corpse of Seleucus, the Syrian bastard prince, at Meleager’s feet. The young Arsinoe stood next to her tall sister, laughing
at the spectacle. The astonished eunuch beheld the dead man, his neck purple and bruised, his head dangling loosely from the
rest of his body, his lifeless face contorted in surprise and agony.

“Did you really expect the queen of Egypt to accept this saltfish-monger?”

“You have known him three days. How is it that you believe you can murder whomever you do not like?”

“I am exercising the ancient right of queens to choose and even to murder their husbands.” Berenike laughed, her grin a radiant
half-moon. “I remember all your lessons, Meleager. As you taught me, in the days before Theseus disrupted the natural order,
the Greek queens of old selected a new king every year, sacrificing the old one up to the goddess for the fertility of the
soil. 1 simply sacrificed this one a little early.”

The little girl Arsinoe radiated the same lustrous smile in the direction of the eunuch, as beautiful as Berenike’s, though
more chilling in the younger face.

“Those are ancient myths, Your Majesty,” he replied, careful not to stare too long into the dead man’s eyes, for it made him
shudder. “Not instructions for the living.”

“Then you should have made that more clear in your lessons,” she said triumphantly. “Please rid us of the body,” she continued.
“And never forget that I make my own policies. I have chosen my husband. He is Archelaus of Pontus, whom I met when I last
visited that country. He is brave, he commands a large army, and he is handsome beyond compare.”

Archelaus of Pontus? How could this dazzling girl’s judgment be so demented?

“But Your Majesty, he is the illegitimate son of Mithridates, the enemy of Rome. Have you forgotten that one hundred of your
most esteemed countrymen are in Rome at present petitioning the senate on your behalf? What will the Romans think when they
hear It you married the offspring of the man with whom they were at war for three generations?”

“They are not paid to think.”

Meleager tried to modulate his voice. “I must urge you to choose another Syrian. The Roman Gabinius is soon to be rewarded
governorship of Syria. He may wish to be involved in your selection of husband.”

“He will be denied that privilege. I have already told you my position on the matter. I expect Archelaus within the month.
Please make arrangements for the accommodations for his men.”

Berenike stepped over the body of Seleucus, turning her back on him so fast that her dress fluttered behind. The three women
followed, leaving the corpse of the dead prince for Meleager. Little Arsinoe—how old was she now? Seven?—skipped behind the
mad queen and her cutthroat entourage.

It had all been done so sloppily. He himself had planned the disposal of the queen and the philosopher. After speaking to
Demetrius and hearing his guilty tirade about his betrayal, his “mistake,” Meleager realized that the adultery was a godsend—that
he could have both of them eliminated and make it appear that the philosopher, in a moment of forlorn remorse, had murdered
the queen and had then gone back to his chamber and taken his own life. It would have been so neat. No untidy, unexplained
details. No one to blame but the dead.

But Berenike was one step ahead of him. She came to him, eyes blazing with passion and madness, and told him that she had
solved all their problems. She had killed them both. Now there was only Auletes and the little troublemaker who stood in their
way. But do not worry, she had taken care of them, too. The sister of one of her women had been taken aboard Auletes’ ship
as a scullery maid. Before she left she was given a special cargo. A little something with which she might season their food.

It might have all worked out even then. There was only one problem—the queen was mad. Meleager, who had given his life, his
very manhood, to the goddess, had been directed by that mysterious deity to arrange for a lunatic murderess to sit on the
throne.

Meleager fell prostrate on the cold floor of his apartment, his nose flat against the tile, ignoring the fact that he lay
next to a dead man. “Why have you forsaken me, Lady?” he sobbed into the floor. “Why have you done this thing?”

What use was it to ask the gods the question they inevitably refused to answer—why me? He cried for what seemed to be a long
time. Finally, in the chaos of his memories, he saw a pattern emerge, an order, perhaps. Not his order, but a Higher Order.
So what if he did not like or approve of the outcome? The goddess was under no obligation to make everything turn out in his
favor. He was but a grain of sand in the desert, a minor player in a drama that began long before he was born and would continue
long after he was forgotten. He did not have the whole picture; he saw only a few tiles in the mosaic. The Ptolemies, Egypt,
Rome. The goddess had commissioned him to make certain that Berenike IV became queen. He had done that. So what if he, too,
had paid a price?

He had come to the end of his service. As soon as he realized it, a great relief settled over him, like a warm bath after
a long ride in the desert. It was as simple as that. The complexities he had pondered and woven all added up to this one thing.
He had been given a Divine mission to see Berenike queen and he had completed that mission. What happened now was neither
his concern nor his responsibility.

So that when he went to his private box of carved ebony from the Numidian forests and extracted the dagger, he did not waste
even a moment in regret. He had lived an extraordinary life. He called for his servant to draw a bath; while his man fixed
the temperature of the water, Meleager would write a letter to his mother.