Cleopatra (5 page)

Before sunset

Our last night in Alexandria was chaos. My heart is heavy over something that happened with my sweet Berenice.

I had just finished reading the warning from Olympus when a terrible scream filled the palace. My heart beat wildly.
Where is Puzo? Should I hide?
Neva peered out of our chamber, then pointed down the hall. Blood was streaked along the marble, a narrow wet path that led to a courtyard.

O Isis, someone has been murdered!
I pressed my hand against my heart to still its pounding.
Am I next?
I wondered.

Tryphaena appeared with three of her Nubian guards. Their black skin glistened with oil, their swords clanked against the bronze ornaments on their skirts. When she pointed at me I stopped and held up my hands.

“What is it, Sister?” I asked.
Stay calm,
I told myself. The sight of her angry face, I admit, filled me with terror. This is the sister who wants me dead. Would she be so bold as to have me killed here, now?

“When I catch that cat of yours,” she said, “I will deliver it to you with its head on a platter.” Before I could ask questions, she had spun around and gone out through the atrium. Though she was out of sight, I still felt fear and ran down the hall to Berenice's suite.

I found her on her bed, weeping. She sat up and grabbed my shoulders. Black eye paint streaked her cheeks.

“Did you do it on purpose?” she asked.

Then she told me. She had been in her chamber playing with Baboon on the Persian rug where I now stood. Berenice went into the next room to find a toy when she heard her pet shriek, as babies often do when their mothers leave.

Berenice took no notice until the shrieks grew louder. She returned to see a leopard in the doorway, crouched low, stalking the little monkey. While Berenice screamed for help, my Arrow (yes, my bad cat) pounced on Baboon and carried it away in her jaws, disappearing out into the garden.

I grieve over the fate of Berenice's little pet, but I think in my heart that a leopard is a leopard whether it walks through a jungle or palace.

As the night grew late, Neva, Puzo, and I hid ourselves on one of the roof gardens, safe inside a tangle of vines. From here, we could look down into the main courtyard and see Tryphaena and her guards every time they passed an open hallway. She was searching for me, I believe. We tried to remain perfectly still, without a breath or rustling of leaves, for I did not want her to find us. When I saw some of her guards row out to my island palace, I thanked Puzo in my heart for not letting me hide there.

From the roof garden we also watched the harbour. At last, we saw a torch being waved from the jetty and knew Olympus was signalling us. Puzo hurried with us out into the dark streets to the docks where ships from the royal fleet were casting off. He jumped onto the boat then reached over the water to grab us as we leaped aboard. My heart was beating so fast I had no breath to thank him.

When Father first saw me the next morning he was shocked.

How did we find him and why were we here? he asked. He was steadying himself against the rail, the rolling sea at his back. I was still dressed in a brown chiton. (Neva was below, unpacking our chests that had been sneaked aboard days earlier.) I explained there were schemes against my life, not just his, and how Olympus helped me escape.

“I want to be with you, Father,” I said. “When you meet Caesar, two Ptolemies will be stronger than one.”

He looked at me with tired eyes and took both my hands in his. Smiling sadly, he said, “Daughter, you are as brave as Nefertiti.”

My heart soared. Does he know how I admire Nefertiti? In my jewellery box I keep a brooch, with the carved profile of this beautiful queen who lived more than a thousand years ago. During my many hours in the Library, I have studied her greatness and that of her husband, Pharaoh Akhenaton. Their religion was based on worshipping one god only, the Spirit of Truth. Some Egyptians hated them so much for this, they destroyed monuments and erased their royal names from many of the records. I am honoured that Father thinks I resemble Nefertiti in character. She stood strong for what she believed and did not worry about what others thought of her. I will write more on this after my stomach settles. I am feeling ill again.

To continue…

Our ship is among a small fleet of royal triremes with Father's servants, advisers, and other loyal officials. He is the commander, but unfortunately he is sleeping again. He is sick not only from the sea, but also from wine. As the days draw near to when he will face the Romans, his courage flees. They might laugh at him or kill him. As he takes pleasure in drink, he prays to his god Dionysus that they will still be our friends and will sail back with us to Alexandria with soldiers.

It is nearing sundown. The northern coast of Africa is on our left, our port side. Desert mostly. A thin strip of white appears to be waves breaking onshore. They must be huge if we can see them at this distance.

A shout has come from one of the sailors climbing the mast! A ship is rapidly approaching from behind.

The next morning

There was no small commotion as Puzo rushed me below the forward deck for safety, in case of pirates. I ducked under the low timbers and noticed Father lying in a berth, passed out with vomit on his chin. I love him, but how can he rule if he is drunk so often? Am I wrong to think that I am the most capable royal aboard this ship?

Another guard threw a cover over Father's head so he would appear to be just one of our drunk sailors, while Puzo tucked me inside a hot little closet filled with coiled ropes. It was horrid. I strained to hear what was happening on deck above and wished I had my hourglass to see how much time was passing. Finally a thump against our hull told me the other boat had caught up to ours and was tying on.

I waited, expecting sounds of fighting, but instead heard the low murmur of men talking. I unlatched the door to my closet and crept out. A fresh breeze flowed down the stairway, along with it a voice I recognized.

Olympus!

The boat's rocking made it impossible for me to run up the steps, so I clung to the railing and pulled myself up. I could see that our pilot had turned us into the wind so we could raft up to our visitors without sailing away. Since we were not moving forward our ship bobbed in the tall swells, tipping far to the left then far to the right. I struggled against dizziness.

O, my heart took delight in seeing Olympus. He held on to a line, his feet spread to balance himself. His smile betrayed our friendship, but his words were solemn.

“Princess Cleopatra,” he read from a scroll, “your sister Tryphaena wishes you to know that because you and your father are fleeing to Rome she is now queen and pharaoh. If either of you ever set foot in Egypt, you will be executed immediately.”

So it was true. Tryphaena had wanted me dead. Her loyal friends must have been singing songs about me in the streets and writing those murderous notes. I wonder which mummy's grave she had robbed to get the skull that had been put in my palace on Antirrhodus.

Olympus glanced at me. He stood bravely, but he swallowed hard with this terrible report. He and I both knew that if I returned to Alexandria I was doomed. If I stayed away to save my life, he and I would never see each other again. If he sailed with me now he, too, would be banished, never again to see his own family.

“Father is ill,” I said to the two officials with Olympus. “I will give him your message. Thank you.”

O, my heart ached at that moment. I wanted to be alone with my friend, to have one of our long, quiet talks, but already he was lowering himself over the side, down the rope ladder. The messenger ship that had brought him was a small swift vessel with slaves rowing double-time and in shifts through the nights.

Wait,
I wanted to cry to Olympus. Instead I grabbed the side of my chiton so I wouldn't trip and went down below. A guard followed me but I waved him off. “I wish to be alone with my father,” I told him.

I went to his bunk and removed the blanket from his head. A waterskin hung against the wall, which I poured onto a cloth that Neva handed me. She sat on the floor next to me as I washed Father's face, all the while telling him about Tryphaena, how she is like a spider waiting in his web.

He slept on. With a sadness I could not yet understand I lay my head on his chest and wept.

“Father,” I whispered, “what will we do?”

My heart was also grieving for Olympus … would I ever see him again?

28 Martius

The days seem long. Father did not take the news about Tryphaena well.

Neva helps me to practise Latin by reading the poems of Catullus to me. It is quite possible that I will need to speak to the Roman senators myself if Father does not recover. My accent is rough, I am sure. Suddenly the thought of coming face to face with Julius Caesar makes me tremble. I am just a girl! For me to ask him to send soldiers to Egypt and pay all expenses for such a campaign will take a boldness I do not yet feel.

I dare think that much of being a princess is being an actor.

This morning a shout came from our lookout. He had seen an Egyptian grain vessel coming towards us, apparently on her way back to Alexandria. I and others on our boats have been hurriedly writing notes. I have been considering Tryphaena's threat. Because Father will not discuss this I have taken it upon myself to send a message to her from both of us. Soon I will explain my strategy to him.

If the weather is not too rough, passing ships always try to exchange letters to deliver when they arrive in the next port. At this moment, the Egyptian grain vessel is dropping her sails, and we are dropping ours so we can approach each other slowly. Just below her bow is a figurehead of the twin gods Castor and Pollux, who appear to be dancing as the ship rises with each wave. The figurehead is painted gold, red, and royal blue, one of the most elegant carvings I have ever seen, perhaps because sailors believe these gods will protect them.

Later…

Well, it is done. Our sails are up again. We now have a pouch of their letters bound for Sicily and Rome, they have ours. I am cheered to think that in two weeks Olympus might be reading mine.

 

Princess Cleopatra, aboard the royal ship
Roga,
in the Mediterranean Sea, to Olympus, scholar and trusted friend:

Mercy to you and peace. Deliver the attached letter to my sister Tryphaena, please. I have told her she may remain queen, that Father and I will submit to her authority and be her humble servants if we return to Egypt. Perhaps if she does not fear us, she will let us live.

I await to hear from you, dear friend, when the next ship from Alexandria brings letters to Rome. If you find Arrow take her, please, to the zoo. She will be safe with the other leopards there. Bucephalus is surely doing well in your care.

And does the terrible snake still hide in the palace? If Isis favours me, she will lead that serpent to Tryphaena.

To continue…

The seas are calm. No wind fills our sails today so we move slowly. When I look over the side, I can see the long wooden oars swinging up out of the water, their silver tips dripping, then swinging back down into the swells. Over and over and over. The row master sits below, beating his drum to a rhythm that rarely changes. His hourglass hangs from an overhead beam so he knows when to pass around the water bag. Often he sings, some times the slaves join in. When the wood begins to creak, he pours olive oil into the leather straps holding the oars in place, to lubricate them. I have noticed this must be done at least once a day.

I do not like to watch these men, for unlike my household slaves, these live in miserable conditions. Their ankles are chained at all times to keep them from diving overboard and trying to swim away. Because this ship has three levels of oars, the rowers must sit inside the hull on benches, one bench on top of the other. Their arm movements must not vary by even an inch or their oar will hit one of the others, causing the ship to veer off course.

A sound I often hear, but close my heart to, is the crack of a whip over these men's backs. They are beaten often, especially for falling asleep at the oar.

On another subject, the water is so clear I can see barnacles on the sides of our ship. A fish with large black wings appears from time to time just beneath the surface, as if it is our companion. It is as wide across as I am tall, and it uses its wings as if it were a bird. Sailors are trying to catch it to see if it will taste good.

Last night brought sounds from the different ships in our fleet. The god Dionysus is being worshipped daily. This I know because of the crude songs and wild laughter. There is much tossing of the dice, too. Brawling sailors have been rolling empty amphorae overboard, which is foolish because these storage jars are valuable and we would have been able to refill them at the wineries in Rome. I plan to put a stop to this waste.

From one of the ships I heard moaning, loud moaning. Neva and I leaned over the side hoping to hear better.
Someone must be ill or injured,
I thought. But our captain said no. It was just the lioness and her cubs, caged beneath one of the decks. He said there is also a young giraffe, deliveries for Caesar.

30 Martius

We have come to an island called Malta, far north of the African coast. Our fleet is anchored in a bay so everyone can rest and bring aboard fresh fruit and meat. The water is beautiful, clear emerald green; when I look over the rail I can see down to the white sandy bottom. Schools of colourful fish dart here and there. To our amazement, we also can see the remains of a ship lying on its side, her mast broken in half. The bottom is littered with vases and amphorae, probably once filled with wine or olive oil from Rome. I wonder if the ship and her crew perished in a storm. Certainly, any slaves in chains would not have survived.

The wreckage appears to be shallow enough that we could jump into the water and walk on the soggy remains. So I instructed some of my men to swim down for a closer look, for there could also be treasure or valuables.

Neva and I watched from the bow as three sailors dove overboard. They swam down and down and down and still had not reached the bottom. I had counted to fifty when two of the men suddenly began swimming back up to the surface. As they gasped for air I continued to watch the other man still down there. Gradually he stopped moving his arms and legs. I am sorry to say that by the time I shouted for someone to go in after him it was too late. The poor man had sunk even deeper and could not be reached.

By royal decree I have now forbidden anyone from our fleet to dive for treasure. Perhaps Neptune and Poseidon want to keep it for themselves.

This morning Father's guards rowed him to shore in the little lifeboat, and he is now sleeping on the beach in the warm sunshine. The island is inhabited with a light-skinned people with brown eyes and brown hair, friendly, but not curious about our royal flags. Their language is similar to Latin, but hard for me to understand so we just smile and gesture to one another. As I reflect, it is possible that some of them are descended from shipwrecked sailors.

Puzo is suffering with a bad cold so I have given him the day off to rest.

Thus Neva and I spent the afternoon by ourselves. The waves are small, just to our ankles, and perfect for swimming but I wanted to do so without Father's guards staring at me. These men are tall Dinkas with ebony skin, quite strong. I am thankful they are here to protect us, but sometimes I just want to be alone. Finally, they agreed to sit on the rocks a distance away.

Neva and I held hands to wade in up to our waists. Our chitons floated up like sails. I wanted to swim far out, like the big fish with wings, but was afraid my dress would pull me down.

“Princess,” said Neva, “let us wait to swim off the boat, without these long dresses. It will be safer, please.” She pulled my arm towards shore.

O Isis, forgive me.
All I could think about today was how tranquil it is here. Not once was I afraid for my life or worried about spies. I did not have to whisper my thoughts to Neva, we just spoke out loud like commoners. I could stay on this restful island forever; take care of Father, nursing him back to health; coax Olympus to move here with his family. We could all live in peace even if Alexander the Great does not rise from his tomb.

Would it be so terrible to be a princess in exile?