Cleopatra Confesses (4 page)

The formal greetings end, poems are recited and hymns sung in praise of the pharaoh. So far the king has not spoken a word. It is his right, as pharaoh and demigod, to remain silent and let his presence speak for him. The procession starts down the Canopic Way. The broadest avenue in the world, as everyone says, it is paved with slabs of granite and lined with twin rows of marble columns, each column so thick that three men can barely join hands around a single one of them.

King Ptolemy rides at the head in a golden chariot drawn by a pair of high-stepping white horses. We follow in our gilded chairs, past the beautiful tomb of our ancestor, Alexander the Great. Behind us comes a crowd of noblemen and their wives. When we reach the Gate of the Moon at the western end, the procession doubles back on itself. The result is chaos, a churning sea of people. After what seems a very long time, we reach the palace to begin the night’s feasting.

Berenike glares at me through narrowed eyes. “Well, I suppose you’re happy, Cleopatra,” she says in a voice like sour wine, “now that your dear father has come back.”

I stare at my sister. “Of course I’m happy,” I reply. “Aren’t you?”

“I thought we did quite well without him,” she snaps.

“And I agree,” adds Tryphaena. “Quite well indeed. But you’re too young to understand.”

I open my mouth, ready to argue. Then I change my mind. “Let us enjoy the banquet, dear sisters. For Father’s sake.”

Idle for a year, except for the occasional imperious demands of my sisters, the palace cooks have awakened as though from
a long sleep and prepared a magnificent meal to celebrate the king’s homecoming: whole oryxes roasted on spits, bowls heaped with pomegranates, grapes, and plums, bread flavored with cardamom and other spices, cakes drenched in honey, and enormous jars of wine carried in from the royal storehouse. (That is another thing: Grand Vizier Antiochus has been helping himself to the king’s wine.)

Reclining on cushions, Father’s guests are served course after course, while lithe girls only a little older than I am perform exotic dances, bending and twisting, leaping and swaying to the music of lute, lyre, harp, and jingling sistrum. The dancers’ long braids, weighted at the ends, swing rhythmically with their graceful movements.

They have scarcely finished their performance when my father rises to his feet. I expect him to make a speech of some kind. Instead, he produces his flute and begins to play, eyes closed, dancing to his own music as though in a dream. My older sisters sigh and grimace. Most of his guests ignore the man they call Auletes and signal for more food and drink.

I yearn for sleep. Then, unexpectedly, I find my father standing before me. He reaches out to me with his free hand. “Cleopatra,” he says. That is all—just my name.

“Father! It has been so long—” But he has already turned away and begun again to play his flute. I want to tell him how happy I am that he has come home and, if I can, to whisper a warning that he may be in danger.
Later,
I think. He is home safely, and for now that has to be enough. I put my hand over my mouth to suppress a yawn. I would like to find a corner to sleep in, but that would be impolite. The celebration will probably go on until daybreak.

Chapter 4

W
AITING

Father has been back for three days and spends his time closeted with the grand vizier. I am eager to know what took place in Rome during his long year’s absence. I wonder.
What kind of agreement did King Ptolemy reach with those three men he calls the triumvirate?
But I have not seen him alone. He has not yet sent for me.

While I wait for a chance to speak with my father, I follow my familiar routine, caught up in my studies—mathematics, astronomy, and history. This pleases my tutor, Demetrius, a solemn man with bowlegs, a bald head, a big belly, and an appetite for food as great as his hunger for knowledge. Our city has long been famous for the great Library of Alexandria, which holds several hundred thousand papyrus scrolls, as well as for its place of learning—the Museion—and its scholars in many different fields. Demetrius is known to be one of the most learned.
History is his favorite subject, and he never tires of telling me stories of Alexander’s military triumphs. Before he died at the age of thirty-two, Alexander conquered vast territories with his half brother Ptolemy often at his side. His exploits excite me, and I cannot hear enough of them. But now, more than anything, I want to hear what my father accomplished in Rome.

Demetrius has traveled to many parts of the world and speaks several languages. When I told him that I, too, wished to learn other languages, he found me the proper teachers. I began to work on Arabian, Aramaic, and Syrian. After Father left for Rome, I became interested in Latin and soon mastered the writing of it, though I do not yet speak it fluently.

Of my father’s four daughters, I am the studious one. I learn easily and remember whatever I have been taught, soaking up information like a thirsty sponge. My tutor and I are well matched.

“You have a gift for learning,” Demetrius says, and I glow in the light of his praise.

My sisters mock me for it. “How can you bear to study so much?” Tryphaena once asked, though she did not actually want to hear my explanation.

“No man will ever want to have anything to do with you!” Berenike informed me.

“And why not?” I asked curiously.

“No man wants to be around a woman he feels is more intelligent than he is,” she replied in a superior tone, inspecting her polished nails.

“Then you should have no trouble at all in finding men of every sort,” I retorted, exchanging insult for insult and succeeding in infuriating her.

And that is how things now stand between us. My sisters are jealous and cannot help showing it. They resent me for being Father’s favorite—his “precious jewel”—but they do not fear me. Not yet. I believe they fear each other, for each wants to be queen. For that reason, I will never admit to them that I, too, want to be queen. If they suspected, I would become another rival to be eliminated. But I keep this knowledge to myself.

Time seemed to crawl by while Father was gone. According to our calendar, there are three seasons—Inundation, when the Nile floods each year; Emergence, when the waters recede and crops are planted; and Harvest. Each season lasts four months, with each month made up of thirty days. There are also the five days of the Opening of the Year. Father was away for a full year plus one month. Every day that he was gone, I thought of him and missed him sorely.

Shortly after my father sailed for Rome, I peppered Demetrius with questions about the triumvirate and what claim the Romans have on Egypt. Demetrius would not give me a direct answer but instead waved away my queries like a swarm of annoying insects.

“We must all wait and see what happens, Cleopatra,” he said, tucking his little chin into several layers of fat.

Now that Father has come back, I will pose my questions directly to him. I believe Father will answer me truthfully. I have not yet had a chance to talk to him. It has been three days, and I am impatient. But that is the way of kings.

Each night, Father entertains his friends at a banquet with feasting and music. I attend the banquets, but still I do not get
to see him alone. I know it is not my place to speak to him first. When another day passes without a summons from my father, I decide to pay a visit to my sisters. Usually I try to avoid such unpleasant visits. But I can often learn from them.

I find Tryphaena and Berenike lounging in the garden under the spreading branches of an old sycamore. Water trickles through a series of bronze bowls, placed one beneath the other, and into a pond that is home to a number of fish. A trio of cats sit by the pond, ignoring the flickers of orange and yellow among the water lilies. A servant stirs the sultry air with a fan of ostrich feathers. A young girl kneels nearby with a platter of dates. My sisters are sipping from silver goblets.

“It seems we have a visitor,” Berenike drawls. “Do join us, sister.”

I sit down on a marble bench, and Tryphaena signals the servants to bring me a goblet. “So?” she asks, arching her eyebrows, which have been plucked into a fine line and blackened.

“Father looks well, don’t you agree?” I ask, trying to sound offhand.

Berenike stuffs a date into her mouth and licks her fingers. “Why shouldn’t he?”

“I thought perhaps the voyage might have tired him,” I suggest.

“It’s not as though he had to
row
, Cleopatra,” she sneers.

A servant fills my goblet from a pitcher of sweet pomegranate juice. From the corner of my eye I catch a flash of color, the quick swipe of a paw, a splash of water. The cat cleans her whiskers, appearing unconcerned.
That is how my sisters would like to see it happen with Father
, I think.
A sudden disappearance.

“Have you any idea what Father has done?” Berenike asks sharply.

I dislike admitting that I do not. “He hasn’t spoken to me as yet,” I confess. The edge in her voice worries me.

“He hasn’t spoken to us, either, so we have no idea what agreement he made with the Romans. But he can’t keep it a secret for long.” Berenike glances at Tryphaena. “We have spies, you know.” She leans toward me, eyes glittering. “They’re everywhere. No one can keep secrets from us—not even
you
, Cleopatra.”

I consider myself warned. I drain my goblet, and having learned nothing of interest from my sneering sisters, as soon as I can get away from them, I do.

I sense treachery in these two. I cannot bear to be near them.

Chapter 5

C
ONVERSATION

Nine days after his return, following a banquet that ended earlier than most, Father enters my quarters and announces that he will speak to me—
now
. He has never done this. I worry: Have I somehow displeased him?

Irisi, wide eyed at this unexpected visit, helps me dress hurriedly, and I go out to greet him, bowing low and touching his feet.

“Ah, Cleopatra!” He sighs. “You’re growing up! How much you’ve changed in a year! How old are you now?”

“Ten years,” I tell him. “I will be eleven in the third month of Emergence, on the Festival of Isis,” I remind him.

He studies me carefully, shaking his head. “Time passes so quickly.”

Father climbs the stairs to the roof of the palace, and I understand that I am expected to follow. When a servant appears with a bowl of fruit, he orders her to leave it and waves her away.

Father’s mood seems serious, even sad. Perhaps now he will tell me what I want to know. He does not explain why he has come here so late at night. But it is not up to me to ask questions. I remind myself again that I must wait. I must learn patience. We sit quietly, saying nothing, listening to the cry of a night bird. I nibble on a slice of melon, though I am not at all hungry.

“Cleopatra, my daughter,” he begins at last. “I know you’re wondering what transpired in Rome. Tonight I shall tell you everything. I’ll answer all your questions. And then I don’t wish to speak of it again.”

“As you desire, Father.” Out of respect, I am careful to speak to him in formal language, not the familiar speech he uses with me.

He describes the long and difficult sea journey, in which he followed the coast toward the setting sun, beloved Egypt always on his left hand, then turned northward, and later crossed open water to reach the island of Sicily. “Fierce storms tossed the fleet about like bits of wood, and one ship was lost. I’m not a man of the sea. I prefer to look at it from the shore,” he says with a wry smile. “But that wasn’t the end of it. We encountered more storms on the way to Ostia, the harbor city of Rome. Another ship went down before we reached our destination.”

He gazes out at the dark sea, his thoughts far away, before he continues.

“First, you should know about the triumvirate, the three most powerful men in Rome, to whom special attention must be paid,” Father says. I lean toward him, listening intently. “Crassus is a rich man who has been waiting to annex Egypt for years. He is avid for our abundant grain to feed the growing population of his country. The second man is an important
general known as Pompey the Great. He befriended me when I needed his support, and in fact I grew fond of him.”

Father falls silent. The only sound is of the sea, wave after wave pounding against the breakwater. All my life I have been lulled to sleep by that sound. Now it seems not soothing but ominous. My father says nothing for so long, I believe he must have forgotten me.

“And the third, Father?” I prompt gently. “Who is the third Roman in this triumvirate?”

“Julius Caesar,” Father replies, “by far the most ambitious of the three. The others fear Caesar’s power, but they respect him too.” He rises and begins to pace restlessly. “I gave them gifts,” he says. “Very large gifts.”

“As their guest you were expected to give them gifts, were you not?”

“I promised them six thousand talents. That was the basis of our agreement.”

“Six thousand talents!” I gape at him, openmouthed. “That is an enormous sum, Father!”

“Enormous indeed. More than half of Egypt’s revenue for an entire year—an entire
good
year. But Antiochus tells me that it has not been a good year for Egypt. Last year’s flood was far less than expected, and as a result the crops failed to flourish and the harvest was poor. This season’s flood was no better. Farmers in the Nile Valley earn very little for their labors, and they complain that our high taxes are the ruin of them.”

“I have heard such complaints in the marketplace.” I should not have said that, but Father does not ask what I was doing there. He probably thinks I was visiting in the company of my tutor.

“You are likely to hear many more.” Father sits down suddenly and stares at the floor. “Pompey insisted that I give them their gift immediately.”

I may be young, but I understand very well how money is used to gain favor. Bribes are the accepted way of getting things done. But this is much more than a bribe. It is almost as though Father gave them a huge piece of the kingdom.
But what did he gain in return?
I nod and listen, saying nothing, waiting for an explanation.