Cleopatra Confesses (3 page)

It must have been obvious to everybody, not just my sisters, that I am my father’s favorite. “You are his precious jewel,” they say sourly, with curled lips. I do not disagree with them. They believe this not because he gives me costly gifts—he gives them such gifts too. They demand them! They believe it because I am the daughter he always chose to be by his side, who rode with him into the desert and sailed with him on Lake Mareotis, who accompanied him whenever he entertained visitors and cheered him when he was alone.

Monifa, who knows me as well as my father does, claims that he favors me because, of all his children, I am most like him. “You have his keen intelligence,” she once told me, “and his ability to persuade, as well as his strength of purpose.”

Her words fill me with pride, but I cannot resist pressing her to tell me more about my parents. “And my mother?” I ask. “Do I resemble her?”

“You do not look like her,” Monifa says firmly. “Your sisters more closely resemble her in their features.” Monifa no doubt sees the disappointment written on my face. “I see only your father in your eyes and the shape of your nose. But I do hear your mother in your voice. Her speech fell like music on his ears. It enchanted him and melted his heart. Yours does the same.”

Her answers delight me. I am pleased, of course, by my special status, but the situation could mean trouble. I know that being the favorite could put me in danger.

Here is why: Tryphaena and Berenike are determined to
be next in line to rule Egypt. They talk about it constantly, saying such things as “When we are on the throne” or “When Father is no longer king.” They never come right out and say “When Auletes is dead,” but I know my sisters, and I am uneasy about their intentions. They may see me as an obstacle blocking their path.

“Auletes” is an epithet meaning “Flute Player,” a name bestowed on Father by his subjects, who did not intend it kindly. He prefers to be known as the New Dionysus, the Greek god of wine, the inspirer of ecstasy. Both names fit him well. He likes to play the
aulos
, a long, finely carved ivory flute, especially when he has drunk too much wine. Sometimes he dances in honor of Dionysus while he plays. He has been doing that for as long as I can remember. I love the music and dancing, but my older sisters are not amused. They call him Auletes behind his back, never to his face.

“He’s a fool,” says Berenike.

“A drunken idiot,” Tryphaena adds.

I disagree, but I say nothing. Father is certainly neither a fool nor an idiot, but he is a man of many contradictions. I would rather think of his intelligence and his good humor and forgive his faults. His greatest weakness is his fondness for grand feasts, which sometimes causes him to neglect his duties as king.

It is my sisters who are fools. They are jealous not only of me but also of each other. Tryphaena assumes she will be the next queen and boasts about the luxuries she will enjoy—as though she is not already completely spoiled! Her name means “Ostentatious Pleasure Lover”—fitting, I think. Although she is the eldest, she is not the ablest or the most intelligent of my sisters. That would be Berenike, who is also sure that
she
is the
one who will be queen. I will not be surprised if those two someday tear each other’s eyes out in a jealous rage. It would be wise to gamble on Berenike. She has a ruthless streak that makes her more dangerous than Tryphaena.

I believe that someday I could become a great ruler of Egypt, better than my sisters can dream of being, but I must be careful not to let them know how I feel. I do not want them to see me as a rival for the throne and a threat to their plans. With Father away on a long journey, it would have been an easy matter for them to arrange my disappearance.

Now Father has returned. But is he safe, or are my sisters actually plotting against him? If they are, then my life, too, may be in peril.

Chapter 2

H
OMECOMING

The dots on the horizon grow larger. Now I can make out the striped sails. It is the hottest part of the day, but the excitement is growing. People from every quarter of the great city are gathering near the harbor—mostly Egyptians, but also Cypriots, Syrians, Jews, and of course my people, the Greeks. We are the descendants of Philip of Macedonia, the northern part of Greece. It has been nearly three hundred years since Philip’s son, Alexander the Great, liberated Egypt from the Persian occupiers and laid out the city as his new capital. Alexander’s half brother and favorite general, Ptolemy, became the first of the new line of pharaohs to rule Egypt; my father is the twelfth to bear the name. Like their ancestors going back thousands of years, the people now flocking to welcome him believe their pharaoh is a demigod, half divine and half human. It is impossible for me to imagine they might
someday accept my two silly, vain, empty-headed sisters as their rulers. Surely the people of Egypt deserve better.

I leave the shade of a colonnaded porch and plunge into the sprawling marketplace. Sellers of spices and medicines, dealers in religious charms, makers of sturdy sandals and useless trinkets, bakers and brewers—all are jammed together here under shade cloths, all shouting out their wares. I wander among them, listening. Greek is the language of my family, from my Macedonian ancestors to the present day, as it is of most of the wealthy nobility, but I also understand Egyptian, the language of the servants in the palace and the workers and vendors in the streets. I enjoy being among the common people, unrecognized, not only to escape the dull routine of my life in the palace, but to savor the exciting sights and sounds of the city. My sisters would think I am stupid—they love the attention they attract. And my father, if he knew, surely would not approve.

An old woman, blind in one eye, stirs a large pot of stew over a brazier and sings out, “Good food! Good food today!” My mouth waters at the delicious smell of her cooking, but there is a problem: I have no coins with which to buy anything. It is assumed that a royal princess has no need for money. Then I remember the two simple gold pins I used to fasten my kerchief. Maybe I can trade one of them for a bowl of stew.

I pull a pin from my kerchief and offer it to the old woman. “A bowl of stew, if you please,” I say in her language. I have learned the Egyptian language very well.

She glances at me sharply and inspects the hairpin, holding it close to her good eye. Then she thrusts the pin back into my hand. “You stole this,” she announces in a cracked old voice.

“No, no,” I assure her. “I did not steal it. It is mine. I have
nothing else to give you.” I hold out the pin again. “Please take it. Your stew smells so good, and I am very hungry.” I rub my stomach to make my point.

“Hunh,” she snorts, glaring at me suspiciously. But she snatches the hairpin and thrusts it into the folds of her frayed tunic. Picking up one of the clay bowls stacked on the ground beside her, she fills it with a thick mixture of lentils and onions and herbs, and shoves it at me with a chunk of bread. I carry my bowl to a low wall and sit down to eat, using the bread to sop up the juices.

The old woman does a brisk business. Scribes in long skirts come from their offices, and laborers wearing only loincloths lay aside their tools. Many customers are drivers of the donkey carts that carry loads of firewood over the causeway to the lighthouse. The donkeys must drag their heavy loads up a long, winding ramp to a furnace at the top of the tower, where an enormous polished bronze mirror reflects the fire and beams the bright light out to sea. The Pharos lighthouse, the most famous in the world, is taller than anything I have ever seen.

“The light can be seen from a great distance. It will lead me home,” Father said. And it has.

While I eat, I listen to the clamor of voices around me. Laborers grumble about their cruel overseers; overseers find fault with the lazy laborers. All protest the new taxes imposed by the grand vizier, Antiochus. “We have nothing left with which to feed our families when Antiochus is done with us!” cries a man wearing a ragged loincloth, and others nod their agreement, adding their own bitter complaints.

It is true. I can see with my own eyes that the common people of Alexandria do not live well. They blame Antiochus, but I wonder if it was Father who ordered the taxes.

The old woman keeps her good eye on me while she serves the crowd. When I finish, I wipe my greasy hands on Irisi’s tunic—at the palace a servant would have been waiting with a pitcher of warm water to wash my hands—and return the empty bowl to the pile. The old woman refills it and hands it to her next customer.

As I start to walk away, the woman calls out. Reaching inside her tunic, she retrieves the gold hairpin. “Here, take this. It is no use to me. Someone will say I stole it.” She waves me off impatiently when I try to protest. “You liked my stew well enough, little princess?” she asks slyly.

“Never has food tasted better,” I assure her.
Has she recognized me?
I wonder.

“Good,” she says. “Your words are all I need.” She squints at me, head cocked to one side. “I have heard that one of the royal princesses speaks the language of our people,” she adds. “I did not believe it, but now I do.”

She is right—I have learned not only the Egyptian language but several others. Once I hear a language spoken, it becomes a part of me without much effort. I nod and smile. “It is our secret.”

“Yes, our secret,” she says with a nearly toothless smile. “You come to me whenever you are hungry, little princess, and I will make sure your stomach is filled.” She turns away, calling out, “Good food! Praise to the great god Osiris, King Ptolemy is coming home! Have some good food today!”

The crowd is growing; soon the old woman’s pot will be empty. Laborers stop to refresh themselves with beer from a neighboring stall. Street dancers entertain the crowds. Boats filled with
flowers and gifts of fruit dart around the harbor, and some of the larger ones venture out through the waves that dash against the shore, sending up foaming sprays of water. The hours pass as we await the king’s arrival. The sun balances delicately on the horizon before it begins its quick descent. It is time for me to go back to the palace. King Ptolemy will make his formal entrance into the city after darkness falls.

Irisi and Monifa are waiting for me, fidgeting nervously. “It worries us when you go out alone,” Monifa frets. “We are always afraid some harm will come to you.”

Irisi undresses me, stripping off the borrowed tunic. “Look at my tunic!” she cries. “What were you doing, Cleopatra?”

“Eating stew. It was delicious.”

I stand obediently in the bathing room while the two women pour jars of warm water over me and scrub me clean with sponges. “What dirty feet!” Monifa grumbles.

Dried with soft cloths and rubbed with scented oil, I let my servants dress me in a narrow sheath of fine white royal linen held up with shoulder straps. They tie a bright-colored sash around my waist, the fringes falling nearly to my ankles. They strap handsomely worked leather sandals on my feet and fasten a pair of gold bracelets on my upper arms and a collar made of glazed beads and lapis lazuli around my neck. The hairdresser comes to fix my hair, and the face painter touches my lips and cheeks with red ochre. Monifa drapes an intricately pleated linen cloth over my shoulders.

The women look me over carefully. “King Ptolemy will find his third daughter quite pleasing, I am sure,” says Irisi. She smiles and bows, and I touch her shoulder affectionately.

I am ready to greet my beloved father.

Chapter 3

F
ATHER

It is evening, well past sunset on the day of Father’s return. Torches blaze along the broad avenues. We ride from the palace in gilded sedan chairs borne by carriers wearing decorated leather aprons. My older sisters are dressed in linen sheaths similar to mine. They must have emptied their jewel chests to adorn themselves with as many precious gems as possible. The hairdresser and face painter have done lavish work on them, outlining their eyes with black kohl and brushing a green powder on their eyelids. My sisters preen and smile. They probably think they are very beautiful, but to me they seem false, like painted statues.

We take our places on the platform among heaps of flowers and gifts brought by noble families. Glowing lanterns swing from the masts of the royal ships now anchored in the Great Harbor. The cheering grows to a roar. There he is! The king,
my father! My throat swells with pride and my skin prickles with excitement.

Wearing the double crown of Egypt and a lion’s tail slung around his waist, King Ptolemy XII stands proudly with his hands on his hips and his feet planted wide as he is rowed to shore in a gilded boat with flashing silver oars. He climbs ashore on a carved wooden ramp and mounts the platform. Each of his daughters, beginning with Tryphaena, the eldest, steps forward and bows low before him, bent almost double at the waist, and touches his feet. He does not speak, and his expression reveals nothing of how he feels. Berenike is next.

It is my turn.
Something is troubling him
, I think, glancing at my father as I step forward.
He has let his hair grow, and it is streaked with gray.
I offer my formal greeting, “Welcome, my father, my king, my lord,” though I am longing to say so much more:
I have missed you terribly. I am so glad you are here.
He acknowledges me with a faint smile and a slight nod. I had hoped for more of a response from him after our long separation, but I understand that this is a ceremonial occasion. Perhaps later he will tell me how much he missed me, how happy he is to see me again.

Stepping back, I wonder what Tryphaena and Berenike are thinking. Do they also sense that something is wrong? There is no way to guess from the false smiles pasted on their painted faces.

Arsinoë bounces on her toes, grinning stupidly, until I grab her and pull her to my side. Two high-ranking women who obviously know nothing about babies—they probably never cared for their own—present my little brothers to their father. The women kneel so that the infants can reach out their chubby hands and
touch the pharaoh’s foot. The little Ptolemies begin screaming, my father looks perplexed, and the noblewomen hurry to hand off their squalling charges to the children’s nurses.