Cleopatra Confesses (19 page)

Her reply is barely above a whisper. “For more than twenty years—since before I was born.” She raises her eyes and looks straight into mine. “My mother is descended from Nubian royalty. King Ptolemy is my father,” she says.

“You are my father’s daughter?” I stare at her, incredulous.

“I am,” she says. “You and I are truly sisters, Cleopatra. But I cannot forget that you are my queen and I am your loyal servant.”

She kneels at my feet on the rough stones. I reach out to embrace her, and my heart swells with joy. For this moment at least, I am not alone.

Chapter 37

D
EATH OF THE
K
ING

On the eighteenth anniversary of my birth, the Festival of Isis, I make a special offering to the goddess with whom I identify more and more closely. Months have passed with no improvement in Father’s health. I sit at his bedside for long hours as he drifts in and out of wakefulness. He whispers bits of advice, broken phrases, an occasional name. “The Romans,” he murmurs. “Pompey was my friend. Trouble between him and Julius Caesar. Caesar, most powerful man in Rome. Perhaps in the world. Your ally or your enemy.” Father smiles weakly and squeezes my hand. “Make him your friend.”

When the time finally comes for King Ptolemy XII to draw his last breath, I am at his bedside. I am prepared for his death, but when I realize that his
ka
—his life force—has left his body, I am overcome by grief. Nevertheless, I gather my strength and go out to meet the members of his court.
Thoughts of all that lies ahead of me must be set aside as we enact the ancient rituals of death.

Everything has been well prepared. Soon after he returned from exile four years ago, Father ordered the construction of his tomb and the coffin in which his mummified body was to be laid, along with the four alabaster jars to contain his organs, and all the other objects and provisions to be placed with him for his journey through eternity. Now, for days after Father’s earthly life has ended, the high priests conduct the prescribed ceremonies with great solemnity. As King Ptolemy waits to enter the afterlife, his heart will be weighed against a feather by the goddess Maat. If his life has been good—and I believe that, in spite of his many faults, my father lived a decent life—then his
akh
, his transfigured spirit, will begin its celestial journey in the company of the Sun God Ra. The king is no longer semidivine; now he is wholly divine. In death the pharaoh has become a god.

Father’s carefully prepared body has been placed in two mummy cases, one inside the other, both richly decorated with gold, and carried through the streets of Alexandria in a somber procession. I walk with Arsinöe and our two young brothers behind the king’s mummified body while a corps of drummers keeps a slow, steady beat. Not everyone in the crowds lining the Canopic Way looks as though he is mourning the death of a king, but I know at least two faces that are marked by grief: Charmion and Lady Amandaris. Our eyes meet for a moment before both of them bow deeply.

I would give a great deal to have Charmion with me during these long ceremonies, but that is not possible—she is not recognized as the daughter of the king, because the king himself
did not formally acknowledge her as his child. Instead, I must endure the presence of my sister and the two boys. Arsinoë, soon to be sixteen, is no longer the sweet, eager-to-please little girl I remember. She has changed a great deal. She does not have the calculated coldness of our older sisters, but she is shrewd and stubborn, and her tutor-guardian, Ganymede, makes the most of it. As I predicted, she is also beautiful. Whenever she happens to be around one of the Syrian officers, she smiles and flutters her eyelashes and tosses her curls, little habits she must have learned from Tryphaena and Berenike.

I glance at our two brothers—Ptolemy XIII, just ten, and Ptolemy XIV, not yet nine—grimly enduring the long ceremony. They are under the guidance of their tutor, Theodotus, who has been with them for most of their lives. I have only slightly more regard for him than I do for Arsinoë’s Ganymede. The ambition of these guardians is boundless, and I know that I must be wary of them both.

After Father’s body is placed in his tomb and the last rituals are performed, his will is read out. We all know what to expect: I am no longer simply queen consort, but coruler with Ptolemy XIII. Father did not wish me to rule alone, and according to the terms of his will, I must marry my ten-year-old brother, who will be advised by three regents. I intend to delay formalizing the union for as long as possible. Ptolemy XIII will be my husband in name only. By the time he is old enough to take on the roles of husband and king in five years, I shall have everything firmly in hand. I will bring to the throne the ancient traditions of a long line of Egyptian pharaohs stretching back thousands of years and blend those traditions with the brilliance of the Greeks, whose genius was first brought to
Egypt from Macedonia, the land of my ancestors, by Alexander the Great.

I am painfully aware that this glorious heritage has been tarnished in recent generations. Many place most of the blame on my father and the ruinous debt under which he has buried Egypt. But no matter where the fault lies, I will change all that. My deepest desire is to win back the trust and confidence of the people—Egyptians, Greeks, Jews, foreigners—and to restore Egypt to her former magnificence. I intend to be remembered as a great queen.

Year 30 of Ptolemy XII has ended.

Now begins Year 1 of the reign of Cleopatra VII.

P
ART
VII

T
HE
N
EW
P
HARAOHS

Upper and Lower Egypt in my eighteenth year

Chapter 38

C
ORONATION

Soon after King Ptolemy XII’s death and burial, I show my devotion to my father’s memory in the Greek manner by adding the descriptive “Father Loving” to my name. I am now titled Queen Cleopatra VII Philopator. Then, during the festival of the Opening of the Year, between the end of the season of Harvest and the start of the Inundation, Ptolemy XIII and I travel with the royal court to Memphis in Lower Egypt, where pharaohs have traditionally been crowned. This is the first journey I have made on the royal boat in seven years, since my sisters and I traveled up and down the Nile with Father. It is my brother’s first time on board—a thrilling time for him, though a sad one for me as I remember all that has happened since then.

Once in Memphis, Ptolemy XIII and I each accept the double crown of Egypt, the flat red cobra crown of Lower Egypt combined with the tall white vulture crown of Upper Egypt. The
ceremony begins just before dawn with the appearance of Sirius, the Nile Star, in the eastern sky.

Ptolemy XIII is filled with excitement—he hardly slept the night before the ceremony—but as the hours pass with the shaven-headed priests chanting their monotonous incantations, and the clamorous music of goat-skin drums and brass cymbals and trumpets, he begins to lose interest.

“This crown is too heavy, Cleopatra,” he complains. “When does the feast begin? I’m hungry! Are those priests ever going to stop chanting?”

I squint up at the sky: The sun has barely passed the zenith. We have reached the point in the ceremony where my brother and I are each handed the crook and the flail, symbols of kingship and emblems of the god Osiris, and we hold these symbols crossed over our chests. “There is still much that must happen,” I whisper. “We must take the sacred oath, and then the nobles and high officials will swear their loyalty. We kneel by the altar, and incense will be burned. Then we’ll be carried through the streets on litters. You’ll be expected to acknowledge the crowds that have come out to honor us. The feasting will start sometime after that.”

This is not what my brother wants to hear. “Why don’t you just order the priest to go quickly?” Ptolemy whines.

“That is not possible,” I tell him firmly. Then I am inspired to say, “See how the people are all kneeling with their foreheads pressed to the ground? Keep your eye on them. Anyone who looks up is cursed.”

This diversion works for a little while, until he sees the ambassador from Carthaginia, or perhaps it is the minister of Babylonia, lift his head and peer around. “Look! I see one,
Cleopatra!” crows the new pharaoh. “He’s cursed! Isn’t he? Now he will fall dead!”

The high priest frowns in our direction. I shake my head to let him know nothing is wrong, and the seemingly endless ceremony continues. By the time it does finally end, just as the Great Ra touches the western horizon, young King Ptolemy XIII is sound asleep on his golden throne.

But for me this marks the start of my new life. Let the celebration begin!

Chapter 39

B
UCHIS

When the coronation festivities in Memphis are finished, my brother and I continue up the Nile in the royal boat to Thebes for a second coronation in Upper Egypt. After a visit lasting half a month, I persuade Ptolemy to return to Alexandria with his regents. He is as eager to leave as I am to have him gone, and he leaps at the bribe I offer: He can stay on the royal boat under the command of Captain Mshai. I will sacrifice the luxury and make do with a smaller, faster, less well-appointed boat. Privately, I instruct Mshai to proceed as slowly as possible. “Allow my brother to stop as often as he likes and to stay as long as he wants. Do not let Theodotus hurry him.” Ptolemy thinks I have made him a great concession. But I do not want him to arrive much before I do.

Then I set sail for the small city of Hermonthis, south of Thebes, going ashore often along the way to call on the local
priests and announce my determination to finish many of the temples and other buildings begun by my father. Those building projects earned him the loyalty of the priests, and I hope it will do the same for me.

Hermonthis is the home of the sacred bull, Buchis. When Buchis comes to the end of his life, throughout which he has been fed the finest food and cared for by a host of servants, he is mummified and buried with great ceremony. A young bull, which must have a pure white head and a solid black body, is brought forth and installed as the new Buchis.

I remember when I was a child and word reached Alexandria that Buchis had died. When the new bull was to be dedicated, King Ptolemy sent one of his high-ranking noblemen to represent him in the solemn ceremonies. This time I will attend these ceremonies myself.

I receive a fine welcome in Hermonthis, and my speeches, delivered in Egyptian, are greeted with cheers. Shaven-headed priests robed in white linen and wearing papyrus sandals—leather is not permitted—lead out the young bull. This new Buchis is unruly; several strong young men hang on ropes to keep him from charging into the crowd. Wreaths of flowers are draped over his horns, and little girls run along beside him scattering flower petals for him to trample. Older girls keep up a rhythmic tinkling with finger cymbals, and little boys perform handsprings and somersaults over and around the bull while he snorts and stomps and tosses his massive head. Special attendants walk behind Buchis, collecting his droppings, which are considered sacred.

The occasion is a solemn one, for this is a religious rite. The priests are pleased that I have come, and they show their
pleasure by greeting me with
thea
—goddess—added to my title: Cleopatra VII Thea Philopator, “The Goddess Who Loves Her Father.”

In the eyes of these devout men I am not merely their queen and semidivine pharaoh but also the embodiment of the great goddess Isis, sister-wife of Osiris, mother of Horus. At the end of the Buchis ceremony I make a special offering to Isis with the promise to honor her in every possible way. It is my desire to live up to the priests’ high opinion of me, not only in their eyes but in my own. As I stand before them, arms raised, I am exultant. This adulation is what I have lived for, longed for, all my life. My people will not be disappointed.

Because the country is still in mourning for King Ptolemy XII, I have ordered that no sumptuous feasts be held in my honor. “There will be time enough for that in the future,” I tell the priests.