Cleopatra (7 page)

16 Maius

Our third night here, and Atticus held a banquet in our honour. Neva helped me to dress in a fresh white toga with a sachet of myrrh tucked next to my skin. She painted my toenails blue then fastened delicate gold chains with tiny bells around my ankles. I wore a crown of henna blossoms, my hair brushed straight to my shoulders, my eyelids also painted blue.

I wanted to appear royal, but not cheap like Berenice. Neva held up my mirror for one last look, then we walked outside. We followed a path lit by tiny oil lamps that had been placed in the dirt alongside the stones. When we passed the kitchen, I saw a long fire pit where several wild boars were roasting on spits, other meats were turning, also ducks and small fowl.

The banquet hall was a grand room that opened on to gardens, reminding me of home. Couches had been arranged around low tables, so that three of us could recline together while eating. Pillows and covers are in the same colourful fabrics we have in Alexandria, I suppose because we trade with the same countries.

I leaned into one of the cushions and tucked my feet under my dress. As soon as I did, a serving girl appeared. She set before me a simmering dish of small roasted songbirds arranged quite beautifully with asparagus tips and spotted quail eggs, cooked in their shells. Red grapes were piled in the centre of the table like Mount Vesuvius, surrounded with plates of figs and large green olives. So much to eat!

As bowls and platters were moved about, I noticed the tablecloth was stained from many meals past, crusted with dried foods and vomit. In my royal opinion, it was a disgusting way to offer a meal, but I said nothing.

Eventually, slaves brought to Father and me flasks of water to pour over our fingers so we could wash between bites, while someone held a bowl under our hands to catch the drippings. I was grateful for this because the little birds were greasy and I did not want to wipe off my fingers on the soiled tablecloth or in my hair (like two of the senators were doing).

Father seemed startled when soldiers in helmets and red plumes marched into the room with trumpets. After they played a few piercing notes, General Pompey himself strode in, a red cloak draped over his shoulder (like Alexander the Great!), and thick armbands. He touched the handle of his sword and looked around the room as if he were in a hurry to go somewhere else.

When his hard eyes fell on me I began to shake inside, but I knew I must at least
pretend
to be brave. I held my head high and could feel my pearl earrings brush my neck as I turned to face him. As princess I will never bow or curtsy to a barbarian, though Neva at my side did so. Puzo stood behind me, I could hear his breathing and a
clink
as one of his bracelets touched his own sword, ready to defend me.

“Well then!” Pompey shouted, clapping his hands over his head. Dancing girls appeared. They wore billowy silk and on the ends of their fingers were tiny brass cymbals. The dancers swayed to the music of tambourines and African drums. In between the tables a family of Pygmies did somersaults; they wore brightly coloured harnesses with bells. I felt in my heart that everything was too loud and wild.

To continue…

As our meal began, Pompey walked over to our table, smiling broadly. When Father stood to greet him, Pompey clasped both his arms and began speaking rapidly in Latin. Father didn't understand one word, but I surely did.

“King Auletes,” the general said, “so we finally meet, you gorilla face. Indeed you are half-baked, a decrepit drunk with a nose like a plum. Did our trumpets wake you from your nap, you lazy dullard?” Dropping Father's arms, he turned to where I reclined.

“Ah, little child.” He smiled.

O Isis, I can't repeat what Pompey said to me, but the words were as rude and hurtful as the fisherman's who came alongside our ship in the harbour. His words were graffiti on my heart.

Slowly I stood up and looked around me. The soldiers were grinning with pleasure at their leader's clever trick. I thought in my heart that I must be brave and strong, like Queen Esther and the Queen of Sheba who in their day spoke before the most powerful men on earth.

“Sir,” I began in Latin, “I am Cleopatra, Princess of the Nile, third daughter of the King and Pharaoh of Egypt, the man you have so cruelly insulted.”

At first, I was so nervous my voice trembled. The Latin words felt awkward on my tongue, but soon I was speaking with confidence, quite well, it seems, because the look on Pompey's face was one of shock. His soldiers' smiles dropped like dead flies. I began to relax.

Bless Father! His pale expression had changed to delight and admiration for me. He hadn't understood the words, but he understood the tone.

“General Pompey,” I continued. “We come before you humbly to ask your help, but not as fools. If this evening is sport for you and your baboons, to mock the royal family of Egypt, with whom your country has traded precious items for years, just say so. We will return to Alexandria immediately and burden you no longer.”

O, I could have gone on and on, but I stopped myself, remembering something Olympus often would say when I talk too much:
the more words, the less the meaning, and how does that profit anyone?

My heart was pounding so furiously I wanted to stomp out of the banquet hall, but that would have been the temper of a twelve-year-old girl, not the noble response of a princess. As I put my thoughts to what I should now do, Pompey looked directly at me.

“No indeed, Your Highness,” he said in a voice soft enough that only I could hear. “You are no fool. Come, let us sup.” Thank the gods, I was spared further embarrassment.

But as for Father … a different story.

19 Maius

Of course, the banquet made Father merry. Even though Romans dilute their wine with water, he still drank too much. He brought out his pipes, which had been tied to the sash of his robe. He played, he sang, he danced, he showed his good manners by belching as loud and often as Pompey. When slaves began to snuff out the torches, to signify the evening was ending, I was pleased that no one had further mocked my father.

In my heart I know they wanted to, but they silenced their jokes knowing that their language was understood by the Princess of the Nile. Also in my heart, I thanked Olympus for teaching me Latin and I thanked Neva for helping me practise during our long ocean voyage.

Back in my chamber I undressed and bathed while Neva read one of Cicero's speeches to me. He was a famous lawyer here in Rome, but is in exile now. When the last grains of sand in my hourglass had dribbled through, I went to bed.

I lay awake for hours it seemed, Neva on the floor mat next to me, Puzo sleeping in the doorway. I could hear the fountain outside my window and the sweet song of a night bird. The wool blanket itched through my cotton tunic, but it was warm at least. I pulled it up over my bare shoulders. A small lamp burning with olive oil flickered in the corner, the smell is unlike the sweet fragrances of my home.

O, I want to go home
, I cried silently.
I wish I had my island palace in which to hide
. Hot tears soaked the pillow under my cheek. Standing up to the barbarian Pompey may have seemed natural to those watching, but it left me in pieces inside. He is one of the most forceful, dangerous men in the world. Three years ago he, Julius Caesar, and a rich politician named Crassus seized control of the Roman government. They call themselves the Triumvirate.

Woe to Father! Tonight I learned he is not respected at all. By anyone. This is why I want to go home. My life is not safe here with Romans who laugh at King Ptolemy. It would be easy for them, and probably would give them great pleasure, to feed the two of us to the lions. They then could invade Alexandria, do away with my sisters and brothers, and add Egypt to their empire.

At this moment, my heart is filled with rage at Father because he is not my protector. He is more a fool than I ever realized.

Olympus says knowledge is the way to wisdom, but he did not tell me that wisdom hurts the heart.

To continue…

A few days ago a ship arrived in Puteoli, the port south of Ostia, having sailed from Alexandria in a record-breaking twelve days. When I heard that a courier from this ship was racing on horseback to Rome (one hundred miles!), I knew in my heart that there were messages for us. I ran from the villa, down a path to the road. The courier handed me a parcel, somewhat moist from its sea voyage, but dry inside. Letters! Six for Father, two for me!

I broke open the seal on one of mine and read hungrily.

 

Olympus, friend, loyal companion, and student of medicine in Alexandria, to Princess Cleopatra in Rome, friend much missed:

Good news. Come home.

 

His message was shorter than his greeting! And mysterious. What did he mean? I tucked the other letter in my toga to read later, for at that moment I heard shouts from Father's chamber.

20 Maius

For three days, there has been much celebrating.

Tryphaena is dead.

Those letters to Father detailed how, after we left Alexandria, his friends sneaked into the palace while Tryphaena slept, then killed her guards. (In my heart I thought,
What friends?
) Awakened by the commotion, she sat up in bed and screamed for help while putting on her slippers. (An odd thing to do, in my opinion.) But men tied up her arms and carried her through the dark streets to the Gymnasion, where some of our wrestlers were waiting. One of them stood behind her, grabbed her around the neck, then with his strong arms lifted her up until she was strangled. A slipper that had fallen from her foot was delivered to Father as proof.

“Long live King Ptolemy!” each message read.

No word was given about Berenice, if she lives, dies, or if she has been put in chains.

My heart did not miss a beat when I heard the report about Tryphaena. During one of my many debates with Theophilus, he said that God Almighty created men and women in his image. If this is true, I argued, then surely Tryphaena has a good side if only we look hard enough.

“Maybe so, Cleopatra,” he said, “but can the Ethiopian change his skin or the leopard its spots? Neither can they do good who are accustomed to doing evil.” He and I and Olympus once spent hours reasoning together on this subject, but in the end they both agreed I would never be able to trust Tryphaena. Now that she is dead I need worry no longer.

And yet … her murder means it would be even easier for the Romans to conquer Egypt. All they would need to do is quickly kill Father and me. This thought makes me frantic to leave Rome … now! While we are still alive.

I asked Father if Tryphaena's death means we can return to Alexandria.

“Oh, yes, Daughter, soon.” His eyes were clear, he looked alert. I enjoy my father when his high spirits are from good news, not good wine. But I do not think he understands the danger we are in.

Thus, I was quiet when we spoke to Atticus. In his citizen's toga with his plump white arms he looked like an imperial rich man. We stood in an office of his villa as a scribe wrote down everything that was said. In my heart I believe Romans do not care about us, or who is on our throne. To them, Egypt is merely another province waiting to be seized by their empire. I knew this was true by the way Atticus shrugged his fat shoulders at our report, his big loose lips turned down with boredom. Pompey, too, was casual. He slapped Father on the shoulder and opened his mouth to laugh. A few Latin words tumbled out – I will not repeat them here – but he glanced my way and took a respectful tone.

“Friends,” he said, “we will sup tonight when the moon rises.”

I have been in my chamber resting from the day's excitement. Tonight is another banquet, a celebration. In my heart I worry that Atticus and Pompey might be planning to kill Father and me.

To continue…

Now I sit at the table by my bed. I must think carefully how to tell Father what I have just learned.

Neva was pouring hot water into a basin for me as I unwrapped my toga and lay it on a bench. A letter fell to the floor, the one I had forgotten about. Turning it in my hand, I saw the seal was from a student at the Mouseion: Theophilus!

I opened it with happy anticipation, as one who is about to eat a sweet. Theophilus was always pleasant with me, and eager to share something he had just learned, especially if it came from one of the scrolls of his Torah. My eyes fell to the middle of his letter, which he had written in Hebrew, to the words “Berenice has crowned herself queen”. Then I started at the beginning, reading the entire letter several times before I understood.

Apparently of all the messages delivered to us today, Theophilus' was the last written, the last to be hurried aboard the ship leaving for Rome. He reported this:

Hours after Tryphaena was strangled, Father's few friends who had seen to the deed were, unfortunately, too wise in their own eyes. Congratulating themselves with wine, they soon fell into a stupor. Immediately they were attacked by Berenice's guards, killed with flying swords.

Now
Berenice
sits on Father's throne! I tried to see her in my mind. Was she haughty and proud of her new role? I did know she would enjoy our dead sister's wardrobe and jewels. I wonder if she has acquired another monkey. And is she now married, as is expected of Egyptian queens?

Woe to Berenice. I am frightened for her. She is too bland and timid to stand up to Father when he returns. Did she forget the Romans would be coming, too?

Evening, after sunset

Father took the news calmly. After meeting again with Pompey, all is as originally planned. As soon as soldiers can be gathered our fleet will set sail, Roman warships escorting us.

In my heart I wonder if I can trust this plan. Another worry is that, though Father adores me, he is unpredictable. What if the next time he is drunk, he gets it in his head that I, his third daughter, am trying to seize his throne? His officials would kill me.

At times I feel so burdened by these worries.

During the meeting last night I sat on a stool next to Father. We heard someone walking towards us through the long hallway. I knew it was a soldier, because of the clicking his boots made against the marble, for all military sandals have iron hobnails in the soles. He entered the room smiling, his helmet tucked in his arm. Over his tunic he wore the brass belt of an officer with an apron of leather strips decorated with pendants. These ornaments fell to his knees and made a jangling noise with every step he took.

He saluted by placing his right fist over his heart then raising it towards Pompey. I was quite taken by this soldier's robust looks and his cheerful manner. Introductions went around. I pushed my stool back to stand and say my name, but I was not going to bow to him.

“Marc Antony,” he responded, smiling at me, “and I am enchanted, Your Highness.” He said something else in Greek, but his accent was so rough I didn't understand him.

An official standing behind me whispered that Antony, though Roman, was born in my city, Alexandria. He is about twenty-six years old and is the chief cavalry officer who will lead the soldiers to Egypt, to restore Father to the throne. He seemed so merry I could not see in my mind how he might wield a sword against enemies. Was he to be my protector?

I looked at him directly. In Latin I said, “Is your good cheer from what you drink, Marc Antony, or is it from what you think?”

He threw his head back in laughter. “Clever girl,” he said, “but you are just a child to speak so.”

O, my temper rose at this. I gave him a cold, hard stare before remembering I must be on good terms with this commander. If he succeeds in deposing Berenice and restoring Father to his throne, then my life in Alexandria will be safe once again. Safe, that is, if the Romans leave us alone. And safe, as long as Father believes I am his favourite daughter, not a competitor.

The sharp words I wanted to say to Marc Antony remained in my head. Thus I was silent. Father broke the tension with a cheerful report on the weather. As the men joined in with other meaningless chatter, I kept my eye on Antony. He had a well-grown beard and a strong face, and I noticed that his laugh brought smiles to those around him, even myself.

After many moments, my heart softened.