The Memoirs of Cleopatra (62 page)

Pieces of the dog, its ears and tail, floated free but were soon snatched by other waiting crocodiles.

I shuddered. No wonder the villagers had sought help from the government; they could scarcely obtain water for themselves. I saw that the lone village water dipper was now enclosed by a high mud-brick wall, barricaded in. No one could dare approach the river to fill water jugs or wash clothes. And as the river flooded beyond its banks, it would wash the crocodiles out into the streets and houses. There would be crocodiles wandering the streets at noon, crocodiles lurking under benches, crocodiles napping in the shade behind buildings.

Ptolemy struggled to sit up and make his way to the rail. He hung over it, fascinated by the beasts.

“Don’t stand too close,” I warned him. I had seen how far out of the water a crocodile could lunge.

When at last we reached the temple of Kom Ombo, the sun was setting. I knew we could not make the proper supplications before darkness closed in, and so I gave orders for us to anchor offshore, far from the rustling reeds and from the sandbanks that were covered with the draped forms of crocodiles.

“No sleeping out on deck,” I told Ptolemy. The crocodiles would probably be prowling about, watching for a dangling arm. Crossly, he obeyed and came in to his bed in the cabin, flinging himself down. He fell asleep almost immediately.

I lay in the darkness, listening to the lapping of the water against the side of the boat, hearing—or imagining I heard—other sounds as well: of big, muscular animals slapping against the boards, or trying to claw their way up onto the deck. In the early dawn I rose and, drawing a mantle around me, stood and watched the sun rise. It touched the swaying reeds, kissed the golden sandstone of the temple, lighting first its roof and upper columns. Purple clouds still lingered, with a few stars on their fringes behind the temple.

My father had built part of the temple, and very proud of it he had been. On the temples of Upper Egypt he had been—carved in stone, at least—the warrior king he had not been in the flesh. I remembered my excitement when he had brought me here as a child to show me the new pylon and columns, and had kept me up late at night telling me about the caravan trade running from Kom Ombo to the Red Sea, where once the African elephants had been brought north to be trained for the Egyptian army. It had seemed a magical place then, and this morning it still cast a spell.

In the reeds a stirring announced that the crocodiles were beginning their day, and it was time we did, too.

A long gangplank was flung across the mudbank, with protective mesh on each side, and we hurried across it, alerting the crocodiles, which were still sluggish in the early light. We climbed quickly up the little hill where the temple reared itself above a bend in the Nile, looking out over the countryside. The golden pillars, carved with scenes of all the rulers who had helped build the temple, greeted us. There was one of my father being ceremonially cleansed by Horus and Sobek, for this temple was dedicated to both the falcon god and the crocodile god. Sobek, the crocodile god, stood taller than a man, with a man’s body, broad shoulders, and kilt, and then the snouted head of a crocodile, wearing a headdress and crown. His shrine and hall were on the right, and we made our way into them, passing through the roofed hall from the honeyed sunlight outside to ever-increasing dimness, and finally to the inner darkness of Sobek’s sacred shrine.

We lit candles, and approached the shrine holding the divine statue of the god, carved of dark granite. From inside the shrine the eyes of the god glared back at us, white and rounded, the perfectly rendered scales of his long snout making him look lifelike.

As Queen, and incarnation on earth of Isis herself, I spoke to him face-to-face. “Great Sobek, why do you trouble my land? Why have you sent out legions of crocodiles to infest the waters downriver from the First Cataract? Is there something you lack? Let me provide it, so that you may call your creatures home.”

The idol stared back at me, unyielding. The leaping flame of the candle played over his impassive features.

“I will provide what you lack, but I must ask you to desist from your attack on my land.”

Beside me, Ptolemy tugged at my gown. “Don’t sound so peremptory,” he whispered. “You shouldn’t talk to him like that.”

No, it was fitting. I was Queen, indwelt by Isis, and he was—let us be frank—a minor god, restricted to this little area. Other gods had beaten him back a long time ago, and Horus had even taken over half his temple.

“I leave you gifts here, Sobek, great god of the crocodiles, but in the name of Isis and of the people of Egypt, who are in my care, I insist that you call your creatures back.”

Or else Olympos and I would devise a way to poison the waters and kill the crocodiles.

Together, Ptolemy and I intoned a hymn of praise to Sobek and laid our gifts of flowers, wine, and precious ointment before his sacred barque. We stood in silence for a few moments, then departed.

The sun was well up now, and warming the courtyard of the temple. Over to one side stretched the necropolis of mummified crocodiles; on the other, a great rounded well attached to a lower Nilometer. I made my way over to it, and peered over the edge.

I was surprised to find that the water had not risen very high yet. Along the Nilometer’s wall the line of the “cubits of death” was clearly marked, below which famine would result. The Nile was still quite a bit below this cutoff point, but the season of flooding should be well advanced by now. I felt a wave of unease.

We hastened back to the boat, rushing over the gangplank serving as a bridge across the crocodiles, who were now eagerly awaiting food. They snapped to attention as our shadows flitted before their eyes; one large fellow opened his mouth, displaying rows of teeth and a fat, healthy tongue, as pink as a flower. Obviously, Sobek was taking good care of his own.

Now may Isis be so kind to us as Sobek is to his creatures! I prayed. We would press on to Philae, lay our concerns before the great goddess, and give Ptolemy up into her care.

It was another day’s sail up the gently swelling Nile before we reached the vicinity of the First Cataract. The usual roar of it was muffled, because the water had risen high enough that many of the sharp rocks were submerged, and we could sail—albeit very carefully—through the area that was normally so dangerous. The wide bosom of the water looked lustrous and pearly, reflecting the sky at twilight, where we anchored within sight of Philae.

In the dying light, the tiny island glowed from hundreds of votive candles left by pilgrims. Although the walls of the great Temple of Isis were made of sandstone, tonight they looked like the thinnest alabaster, white and translucent.

I had vowed never to return, after the strange ceremony I had gone through there with Caesar, which afterward seemed a mockery. Now I was not so sure. Perhaps ceremonies—even ones recited in unknown tongues—have a power in and of themselves. Perhaps Caesar had found himself bound by it after all.

One by one the lights flickered out, snuffed by the wind, and the outline of the temple faded. It remained only faintly illuminated by the struggling half moon that hung impaled by the reeds growing everywhere.

I lay on my bed, feeling the warm wind caressing me, feeling protected by Isis, hovering over her holy island.

We went ashore at first light, before the throng of pilgrims would arrive. We wanted time alone with the goddess. Ptolemy seemed especially listless, and had trouble walking the short distance from the landing area to the gateway of the temple.

“Look!” I said, pointing to the first pylon, where our father was depicted in full glory, armored, smiting enemies.

“Yes, yes, I see,” he said wearily.

A white-robed priest of Isis met us, bowing low. “Your Majesties,” he said, his voice low and melodious. “In the name of Isis, we welcome you to the shrine.”

“We have come to petition the goddess for healing,” I said.

“Ah yes,” he replied, moving his head to indicate all the offerings left in the courtyard. “Many hundreds come here—tribes of Nubians from the south, Greeks, Arabs, even Romans. This is the premier site of healing, the fountain of it, so near the source of the Nile. And the burial place of Osiris. It is truly holy ground.” He looked at Ptolemy kindly, and would have reached out to touch him, but it was forbidden.

I put my arm around Ptolemy’s shoulder. “May we approach the sanctuary?” I asked. “Our gift-bearers follow.” I indicated the four menservants, dressed in the requisite new unbleached linen, carrying gold caskets with myrrh, gold, cinnamon, and sacred white sweet wine from Mareotis.

The priest turned and, walking in the slow, measured steps of ceremony, led us through the portals of the first pylon into the smaller court, and then through the second doorway that led into the darkened interior, where sacred chapels flanked the inmost holy of holies.

No natural light entered here; the stones were fitted together so closely that no seam was visible, keeping out the prying sun. In the left chapel, intricate candle stands flanked a life-size gold statue of Isis standing on a pedestal, throwing a soft yellow light upon her.

She was beautiful, serene, all-compassionate, all-wise. Gazing on her, I felt a tranquillity, a peace that I had seldom felt, and then only fleetingly.

O great goddess! I murmured to myself. How could I ever forget your face?

I bowed, feeling supremely blessed and yet supremely humble that I was chosen of all women on earth to be her mortal representative.

The priest flung incense into the thurible at her feet, and a piercingly sweet scent filled the air. He began to pray, reciting a hymn of praise to her:

I stepped forward and, laying down my gifts, said, “Daughter of Re, I, Cleopatra, have come before you, O Isis, giver of life, that I may see your beautiful face; give me all the lands in obeisance, forever.” I inclined my head.

The goddess was silent. Now I must sing her a hymn, and I would sing my favorite, the joyful one I had not spoken since the ceremony with Caesar.

From a hollow behind the goddess, a high-voiced priest answered in her name, “How beautiful is this which you have done for me, my daughter, Isis, my beloved, Lady of Diadems, Cleopatra; I have given you this land, joy to your spirit forever.” There was the dry, silvery rattle of a sistrum, and the disembodied voice continued, “I instill fear of you throughout the land; I have given you all the lands in peace; I instill the fear of you in foreign countries.”

Fear of you in foreign countries…
to what destiny was she calling me? The Ptolemies had not had any foreign possessions in generations, and it was Rome who inspired fear in foreign countries now.

I bowed to show that I accepted her benefactions and gifts.

Beside me, Ptolemy was standing stick-straight, trembling.

“You must speak to her now,” I said. “She awaits.”

Still he stood silent, as if he were afraid to utter a sound.

“I will leave you in private,” I said. Perhaps that was better.

Coming out of the dark, smoke-filled sanctuary into the bright morning sunlight made me dizzy. The courtyard was still empty; the guards were holding the people back until we departed. I was alone there, except for a swaying priest or two, walking in the shaded colonnade, chanting private prayers.

Off to one side was the birth-house, a symbolic depiction of the birth of Horus to Isis and Osiris. The legend of Isis and her husband, in its many forms, was celebrated and reenacted here. Is there any child today who does not know it? Osiris was killed by his evil brother Seth, was searched for and found by the grieving, faithful Isis; miraculously she conceived her child Horus by the dead Osiris, and gave birth to him in a papyrus marsh in Lower Egypt. Then the evil Seth killed Osiris again, dismembering him and scattering all the parts up and down Egypt. Once again the faithful wife gathered all the parts and reassembled them, bringing Osiris back to life in the Underworld, where he reigns as King of the Dead, “he who is continually happy.” In the meantime, Horus grew to manhood and avenged his father by killing his uncle Seth. Together Osiris, Isis, and Horus live as the holy family, a blessed three. The birth-chapel commemorated the miraculous birth of the child. Across the water from Philae, on the neighboring island of Biggeh, part of Osiris lay buried, and every ten days a golden statue of Isis was ferried over in a sacred barque to visit her divine spouse, reenacting the old tale. I gazed at its rocky shore through one of the openings of the colonnade.