Kleopatra (45 page)

Instead of grace, she was struck with the worst kinds of visions. Even if she succeeded here and procured the loyalty of the
Thebans, to what wickedness would she return? The revelation of her father’s death and her treachery in concealing it? The
Royal Macedonian Household Troops or the Gabinian soldiers bribed into serving the government of Pothinus and her younger
siblings? Hephaestion killed, or, worse, shown to be in conspiracy with the others? She might already be exiled from the city.
She would not know until she tried to return. And to what was she returning? A eunuch’s dagger in her back? A hostile army
at the palace gate? There was no sense in pursuing these horrible possibilities, yet she could not entirely block them from
her mind. She took slow, deep breaths to push the fears away, but the hot air threw off her equilibrium even more.

Lady of Compassion
, she prayed again.
As Athena, the wise one, came to her beloved Odysseus in many disguises, always sending him the help he needed, mentoring
him, befriending him, guiding him through the darkest moments of his journey—come to me now.

Was my father wrong to make me believe that the gods were good to those who honored them? Lady of Compassion, I am your daughter
and this is my journey. Come to me as Athena came to her devoted Odysseus. Please do not forsake me, Mother of All.

The waters of the Nile, bluer now in the morning light, rushed past the boat like rough-cut sapphires. Feeling the weight
of the goddess’s crown, Kleopatra balanced herself against the priest as the boat rocked into the harbor. She stood at the
steps of the barge, blinded by the sun, waiting for the Egyptian military escort to help her descend, feeling safer once an
officer’s warm, strong hand was on hers.

Despite the shaft of sunlight and the weightlessness in her head, she discerned the silhouette of the tremendous temple, the
smooth pillars, the stark, bleached courtyard beyond, and the cavernous black windows that gaped like dark open mouths. Thousands
of people waited at the gates to the sacred place, all dressed for the ceremony, a brilliant blanket of white against the
vibrant reds and blues and greens of the painted pylons, with only a narrow path cut through the middle for the procession.
Kleopatra realized that she would have to walk past them all. She closed her eyes against the harsh morning light, grateful
for the momentary respite of blackness, feeling safety in the moment, and wishing she did not have to move from that spot.

Slowly, her dizziness tapered into clarity. With the escort leading her, balancing her, she descended the boat on a painted
golden bridge hooked into the side of the vessel, its other end planted firmly on the shore. Kleopatra took very deliberate
steps, feeling the planks beneath her feet, planting each foot firmly before the other, walking into the mass of Egyptians.
She heard the bull snort as his hoofs hit the bridge, his step quickening as he descended behind her, and she hoped that he
would not break his leather restraints and crush her from behind.

Steadily, she walked on toward the gates of the Bucheum. The shadows of its columns reached her, giving her eyes temporary
umbrage from the brutally direct sun. The temple was huge, built high against a dry cliff that housed the mummified bodies
of the many hundreds of sacred bulls who had presided over the temple though the ages. Kleopatra was closed enough now to
see the eyes of the people in the crowd upon her—dark, curious ovals drawn like magnets to her face, but dropping quickly
like nuts from a tree if she met their glance. Redjedet walked behind her, next to the bull, and Kleopatra heard the priestess
whispering low murmuring sounds to calm the beast against the presence of the people. The guard before her called out to the
crowd to widen the path to the temple. Though she knew that this courtesy was for the animal and not herself, she was grateful,
for she was certain she would pass out cold if she had to walk through such a narrow passage, through such thick walls of
human flesh. Through a body of people who probably did not care if she made it through their ranks alive.

She looked behind her to see if her own attendants were anywhere in her sight, but all she saw was the bull, his golden horns
reflecting the god’s rays. Oh she was foolish. Why had she come on such short notice, so ill-prepared, so vulnerable? Well
she would simply not do it. She was queen and she would prevail. The bull can lead himself, she thought. I am going back to
my ship.

A congregation from the temple approached her. Male and female alike, they were costumed as soldiers of the god, their metallic
breastplates blinding her, their muscular legs, wrapped tight under short brilliant white skirts, marching toward her. Some
wore the headdress of the fierce and warlike lion-goddess, Sekhmet, lips frozen in a snarl, eyes wide and angry. Armed with
golden bows and silver swords, they headed straight for their Greek queen, the last eight of them carrying what appeared to
be a golden, slatted battering ram.

Kleopatra thought she might run. She turned around, but Redjedet was guiding the lumbering bull forward, blocking any escape.
The Egyptian army strode directly up to the queen, its members flanking her sides until she was face-to-face with the giant,
shimmering rammer. They turned the cylinder upright and stood aside. It was not a weapon, but a ladder, painted with a sparkling
metallic alloy, and hung on both sides with garlands. Kleopatra stared at the strange object until the priest invited her
to ascend it. She hesitated, wondering if they were putting her on this podium to stone her to death, or if this was part
of the ceremony. She looked everywhere for her adviser, for her guard, but in the brilliant sunlight and in her dizzy condition,
she could find no familiar faces. She was aware that all eyes were upon her. In the silence, she could feel the anticipation
of the crowd. Praying for a sudden inspiration by which she might save herself, Kleopatra grabbed the sides of the ladder.
Buoyed by the firmness of the wood, she carefully put one foot in front of the other as she climbed each small step. When
she reached the top, she looked out over the swarm of people.

The sun struck her face like a blast of fire. She clutched at the top of the ladder and shut her eyes so tightly that her
face shook, willing away the urge to give in to the heat and faint, when she realized that the sun was not draining her power,
but fueling it. She turned her face upward like a flower and let its rays soak into her skin. She shivered as the heat ran
down her body like lightning, and she felt so electrified that she let out an inaudible laugh. Laughing inside for the first
time in so long, she let her lips fall open so that even her mouth could capture the blessings of the sun.

Suddenly, through her moment of joy, she heard the thunderous voice of the high priest crack the muffled hush of daybreak.

“All Hail King Kleopatra, Daughter of Isis, Daughter of Ra.”

The Egyptians began to chant her name. Kleopatra. Kleopatra. The priest cried out again in Greek. “All Hail Kleopatra, Daughter
of Alexander, of Ptolemy the Savior, Lord of Alexandria and the Two Lands of Egypt.”

Kleopatra heard her name repeated by the crowd, first in the rows of people so close to her that their shadows crossed the
steps of the ladder, and then, again and again through the layers of spectators. Soon the name Kleopatra seemed as if it were
being chanted from the very walls of the temple, from the ground beneath her, from the banks, both east and west, of the river.
She was surrounded by the sound of her own name as it waved through the crowd. It filled every breath of the hot desert air,
and she felt embraced by the very sound of it.

Kleopatra, Kleopatra, Kleopatra. Glory to her father.

Slowly, cautiously, Kleopatra opened her eyes. The priests and priestesses, the lesser clergy, the sacred clerks, the officials
both Egyptian and Greek, the peasant farmers, the military men, even Redjedet—all but the bull himself—were bowed low to the
ground.

EXILE

S
ons of Marcus Calpurnius Bibulus, welcome to Alexandria.”

Kleopatra received the young Romans in the Royal Reception Room favored by her late father, defying Hephaestion’s warning
not to entertain important foreign visitors without a representative from her brother’s Regency Council. Let them find out
about the Romans’ visit from their elaborate network of court spies, she had said.

Kleopatra had made no changes in her father’s government since the announcement of his death, but at that time, the lines
of power were drawn. Pothinus the eunuch came into her office as she sat with Hephaestion making arrangements for the king’s
funeral. Pothinus costumed his late-middle-age girth in voluminous painted robes, adorning himself with more silver-and-gold
jewelry than the prostitutes in the Fayum. He clanked as he walked with the four attendants—two scribes, two slaves—who followed
him at all times. On this day he was accompanied by a larger retinue that included Achillas, a commander of the army, a clever
and handsome man with swarthy skin and white teeth, whom the queen did not quite like, and Theodotus, a small-minded Samian
academician with a mouth pursed like old prunes, who now tutored the young Ptolemy brothers. Kleopatra wondered why Samos,
the fair isle that gave the world Pythagoras, the genius architect Theodorus, and the fabulist Aesop, had long ago ceased
to produce original minds.

The queen gave all leave to sit in her office, relieved when the motion terminated the jingling of Pothinus’s ornaments. Ceremoniously
presenting her with a copy of the deceased king’s will, Pothinus said nothing, but waited for her reaction.

“All Egypt and much of Rome have seen this document, Pothinus,” Kleopatra said wearily, returning her attention to the review
of the king’s death certificate. “Unless you’ve doctored it, it contains no surprises.”

“Your Majesty, we’ve come to see about the wedding.”

“Who is this ‘we’?” she asked, looking at Achillas, who had the audacity to smile at her. Theodotus could not meet her gaze.
I will have trouble with him, she thought.

“We, the Regency Council of your brother and bridegroom, Ptolemy XIII the Elder.”

“By whose authority have you appointed yourselves Regency Council?”

“By our
own
, Your Majesty.
We
are the Chancellor,” he gestured to his own person. “And the guardianship of an underage king does fall under our sole jurisdiction.”

Kleopatra was well aware of the eunuch’s power but was still annoyed when she looked to the Prime Minister, who apologetically
nodded confirmation of this fact of the government’s structure. She knew she was stalling for time, her mind racing for the
best strategy to establish herself as this fop’s superior.

“Where are the proper formalities, Chancellor? You burst in upon my grief on the day of my father’s death without offering
the consolations of the gods? I will see about having such an impious man in my government.”

“How unkind of me.” He sniffed, sat erect, and composed himself “May the gods carry the king swiftly across the River of Death
on a winged chariot. May his earthly blessings follow him to the House of Eternity. May he justify himself to Lord Osiris,
King of Life-Ever-After, and board the Divine Ship to the Underworld. May his eternal glory forever stay in the memory of
those on Heaven and Earth.”

“May he safely reach the port of the land that loves silence,” Theodotus interjected nervously. “May the Lord of Brightness
receive his Divine Essence—”

“Thank you both. May the gods bless you for your fervent prayers.”

Achillas suppressed another smile as Kleopatra interrupted them. She saw this and silently cursed his audacity. Was he trying
to form some covert alliance with her? These days, her instincts in reading the motivations of others were rarely wrong. She
rebuffed his complicit gaze, giving him no indication that she had picked up his signal.

“Your Majesty, may we focus on the interests of the living?” Pothinus asked condescendingly, his small black eyes opaque as
onyx beads. “Ptolemy the Elder, heir to his father’s throne, has commanded that we set a date for the wedding ceremony.”

“We, not just my brother, are heirs to the throne. And I am already queen,” she replied. “I assume that is what you meant
to say?”

Pothinus said nothing but glared through his eye makeup.

“As for my brother, he wastes no time mourning the dead king, does he? But for myself, even I cannot plan a funeral, a wedding,
and a coronation on the same day,” Kleopatra continued. “Surely it would bring ill luck to us to set a wedding date on the
day of the king’s death.”

“Nonetheless, it must be carried out according to your father’s wishes.” Pothinus had slipped into a tight-lipped, terse way
of speaking that seemed completely foreign to his demeanor.

Kleopatra quickly took stock of her situation: Already she was queen; her brother required a ceremony to make him king. “You
needn’t remind me of my father’s wishes,” she said. “I was at his side at the drawing of the will. We are in mourning; an
elaborate ceremony would be in poor taste. According to Egyptian law, a marriage is legal upon the signing of the contract.
No public display is necessary. Have the papers drawn up for me to sign. As you are aware, I am of age and require no guardian.”