The Memoirs of Cleopatra (29 page)

“Well, let the man approach the throne and speak his piece,” I said, although I was not seated on a throne.

The high doors swung open on their oiled bronze hinges, and a tall Nubian entered the room, straight and with long strides despite the chains weighing him down. He was flanked by a pair of my household guards.

“Most gracious Majesty Queen Cleopatra, I am the emissary of the exalted and mighty Kandake Amanishakheto of the Kingdom of Meroe. Greetings!”

The man’s voice boomed out like a warrior’s.

“Unchain him!” I commanded. “I would not be pleased to hear that my messengers were bound! Neither will the Kandake.”

I knew that
kandake
was their word for queen. Meroitic was similar in some ways to Egyptian, and to Ethiopian, which I spoke. I had always had great curiosity about Meroe, our sister kingdom to the south.

Hastily they bent and unlocked the chains. The messenger stepped out of them and flung them off like a crane flinging water from its back. He seemed to grow even taller.

“I have come, O Majesty, many, many days’ journey on the Nile. I have traversed the Five Cataracts, and passed from the land of the ostrich and hippopotamus and lion down to this city of the sea,” he said. His Egyptian was heavily accented. It was hard for me to understand all his words. “I bring gifts of gold, ivory, and leopard skins.”

“For which your land is renowned,” I said.

“The box was taken from me to be searched,” he said. “It will be presented when your servants have inspected it. But I have a message which only you may hear. These attendants must leave.”

This was not wise. I must not be left alone with this unknown man on such a pretext. “One of the guards must stay,” I insisted. “And I will send for my senior minister, Mardian.”

“No. The Kandake said no one.”

“Then I cannot hear her message. You have come all this way for nothing. My minister is to be trusted. And a guard must always be present.”

He stood for a moment, trying to decide what to do. Clearly he revered every word his queen said, and was as obedient thousands of miles away as he was in her presence—the sort of servant I would treasure.

“Speak to me in Ethiopian,” I said. “Do you know that tongue? The guard and my minister cannot understand it.”

The man’s face broadened in a wide smile. He nodded enthusiastically. “Very well, Your Majesty,” he said.

I had a little trouble following him, but could understand the main thrust of his speech.

“What is this urgent message?” I asked.

“It is this: A man claiming to be Ptolemy XIII has been captured in Meroe.”

I was stunned. “What?” was all I could manage to say.

“He is about seventeen years of age, almost a grown man. He was gathering an army when the Kandake’s soldiers captured him. He demanded to be taken for an audience with her, and in her presence he swore he was your brother, the true ruler of Egypt, who had escaped after the battle with Caesar’s forces and made his way into Nubia. He was most persuasive. My Kandake wishes to know your instructions. We are holding him in confinement.”

An impostor! I had seen my poor dead brother, seen him collapsed in his golden armor, little trickles of swamp water running out his nostrils. He was entombed right here in Alexandria, in the mausoleum of the Ptolemies.

“Execute him!” I said. What other instructions could there be?

“I am afraid we cannot do that, until he has been positively identified.”

“Who knows who he is? Does it matter? He is not my brother, of that I am sure. He deserves death for pretending he is.”

“Then you must come and look him in the face and say he is a pretender.”

“What? Journey to Nubia? Let him make the journey! Send him here and I will deal with him,” I said.

“We cannot,” he said. “Surely you can see why. It is too dangerous; he might make his escape somewhere along the route. No matter how carefully we had him guarded, there would doubtless be opportunities on the way. The moment the word got out—the moment there was a rumor—supporters would appear. It is always thus. People rally to any cause, just to have something to occupy them. That is why I did not wish anyone in Alexandria to hear of this. The merest whisper must not reach any ears. Are you sure they do not understand Ethiopian?” He looked nervously over at the one remaining guard and at Mardian, who had arrived and was standing at the far end of the table, his eyes fastened on us.

“I swear it,” I assured him.

“Will you accompany me back?” he said. “I am prepared to wait. But I urge you to come as soon as possible. The less time between his capture and his…settlement…the better.”

He was right. Every day that passed, with the self-styled Ptolemy XIII talking—to his guards, to his fellow prisoners—the more dangerous he became.

“Very well,” I groaned. “I can see that I have no choice. But I must think of a reason why I suddenly must undertake this journey, which no Pharaoh and no Ptolemy ever has. It is not like deciding to visit Canopus!” I realized I had to think of it before this interview ended, so I could pretend it was part of the man’s message. Mardian was staring at me, clearly trying to fathom what was happening.

Why would I have to go to Meroe? What possible reason? Think! I told myself. To see something for myself…what could it be? The trade routes to India? A lost city? Should I take a scientific expedition? I could take geographers and mathematicians from the Museion, those who were always concocting experiments to measure the earth’s curve. But why would
I
need to go? Surely the scientists could go by themselves. And so could the merchants who might be interested in the trade route. And the elephant and leopard hunters. None of these excuses would serve.

Mardian was watching me as the moments of silence passed. When I spoke, I would have to give the reason for this visit—the public reason. Privately I would be able to tell Mardian the real reason. But now, spies might be in the outer chamber.

“My sister queen, the renowned Kandake Amanishakheto, has extended her hand in friendship to me,” I finally said. “I wish to go in person to her fabulous court in Nubia and see what none of my ancestors has ever beheld. On the way I will make treaties and trading agreements with the tribes along the Nile. Let me open a new frontier, in a new direction, for Ptolemaic Egypt. Perhaps our future lies southward, toward Africa, rather than eastward to Asia or westward to Gaul. Rome has taken most of Asia and all of Gaul. Our way is blocked. What my ancestors held in those regions I cannot hope to regain. But other lands, other horizons beckon. Can I do less than see for myself?”

I said this first in Ethiopian, then in Greek. I saw Mardian’s expression. I knew it sounded implausible. But what else could I say?

The wide highway of water drew me southward, ever southward, past the sites in Egypt that were old friends to me: the pyramids, Thebes with its golden temples, the teeming life alongside the riverbanks. The weighted poles were lined up, dipping and swaying as their buckets hauled water; children ran on the dusty paths; donkeys and camels blinked at us as we swept by, dogs barked, and the village daughters, coming to fill their water jars, paused, looking curiously at my royal vessel with its lotus-bud bow and its fringed sun pavilion as our sails filled with the north wind, sweeping us past.

I could see the water damage, but all that was over now, and the fields were green as the barley and emer and beans grew. Egypt had survived.

Philae again—the Holy Island, with its sacred college of priests. Again I did not go there and visit the little chamber where I had stood with Caesar. My heart felt as if it had no power to beat as we sailed slowly by, seeing the white buildings turning gold in the afterglow of sunset. It had not been holy to Caesar, had it?

“Sail on,” I said. “Sail on, and let us anchor out of sight of Philae.”

We were approaching the First Cataract. I could hear it—first just a low murmur, like a lover’s whisper, then louder, like a whining child. Finally it turned into a roaring bull. And suddenly I could see it ahead. The Nile had widened into a lake, and in the lake a thousand islands gleamed, some sprouting palm trees and others only jagged, naked rocks. The river is glassy there, reflecting the islands and trees, making everything double. I leaned over the side of the boat and saw myself looking down, reached out and touched my own fingertips; only the sudden ripples showed me it was an image. As night fell, the surface turned from bronze to silver, but still it shone like polished metal.

We would anchor here for the night, and then in the morning be hauled up over the cataract by a team of men who, five months out of the year when the river was low and the rocks exposed, made their living doing just that.

The sun burst out of the horizon, rising hot that morning. The labor for the men hauling the boat was intense; they were strung together with long ropes, some guiding and some pulling, all under the direction of the foreman who knew where rocks were positioned to gouge a deadly hole in the bottom of the boat. We were bumped and buffeted, and it took two days until we finally floated free of the vicious rocks.

Beyond the cataract, the river changes as you enter Nubia. On one side are black granite cliffs, and on the other golden sand. There is little life on it; the Nile flows silently past valleys too narrow for cultivation. The dogs, the villages, the fields of Egypt have vanished, and in their place is the quiet of desertion. High in the bright, cloudless sky I could see an occasional hawk, but nothing else moved.

Yet the Pharaohs had been busy here. There was gold to be mined in the wadis and ravines, and forts built to smelt and refine it—massive mud-brick structures at Kuban, which marked the extent of my jurisdiction. We floated past it, on the dreamy surface of the Nile, the fierce sun glinting off the water. I was in alien territory now, under the hospitality of another ruler.

Suddenly the river valley widened, and a huge plantation of date palms beckoned us. They were the famous fields of Derr; we sent ashore for some of their renowned date palm wine.

Sunset, another day. All the days were flowing together on this endless journey, although we were making good time with a steady wind. Abu Simbel in the cliff ahead. From a distance we could see the giant figures, but the darkness had fallen before we reached them. We anchored and sat on the deck, drinking the fiery yellow date palm wine as the figures dissolved into the dark. We lit lanterns and continued to drink the wine; everything seemed to pulsate in a golden glow. What a strange country this was.

That night I noticed for the first time that no coolness ever came. There was no need for any covering, for anything to drape around the shoulders, and in the morning there was no chill. There were only two temperatures now: warm, and hot.

At earliest light we set sail, so that we could see the great monuments at Abu Simbel as the dawn light touched them. The likenesses of Ramses the Great sat in serene contemplation as we passed them by; we watched the rosy light creep down over them. The Pharaoh sat guarding his frontier, drifts of sand up to his massive knees, as he had for thousands of years, still warning the Nubians of his might. He stared at us as if to ask why we were hurrying by, and what we sought. His enigmatic smile seemed to say that it was no use seeking it, that it would do us no good and could not last. Even statues were futile, and would crumble like old bones. One of his heads lay on the ground at his feet, staring up at the empty sky.

We approached the Second Cataract, set like a plug in this land of scorching sun. The bleak, hard terrain showed no pity to living creatures. Several gigantic mud-brick fortresses, built to guard both sides of the Nile, glared down at us from the Semna Gorge.

At this cataract, known as the Great Cataract, we would abandon our vessel; it was too arduous for our boat to withstand. We transferred to another one waiting beyond the sixteen-mile stretch of hundreds of rocks and channels.

Our new boat was a plain, stoutly built vessel of thick timbers that would serve us the rest of the way. Immediately we embarked on the sixty-mile stretch called the “belly of rocks” for its utter inhospitality. The Nile pours through a channel of stone, bordered on each side by rocks, boulders, and sheets of granite. The sun pierces down like a thousand javelins, transfixing you, blinding you. The light screams from the sky, the rocks, the water. No living creature moves, neither are there any clouds. The heat radiates like an oven; the rocks shimmer.

Then the Third Cataract comes, a baby after the others. And all at once the landscape changes, the valley widens, and there are green fields. The river spreads out with a sigh, and embraces the land. I saw livestock and villages, and then we were passing Kerma, once an important city of the Nubian kingdom, now dwindled into a village once again. I could see the ruins of a huge structure off on the horizon—a mud-brick temple? Ramses was right; it does not last. A few chipped and half-buried ram-headed sphinxes were visible from the boat, looking forlornly at us, remnants of a forgotten avenue leading to…what?

Now we passed the Dongola Reach, and the scenery stayed friendly—green, palm-studded. The Nile makes a gigantic loop back toward the north as it approaches the Fourth Cataract, the farthest outpost of the Pharaohs. There was the Holy Mountain of Jebel Barkal at Napata, still a site of pilgrimage; strange, steep-sided pyramids were barely visible on the plain.

The Nile continued to go northward, like a son who has lost his way; at last he turned south again, and as he made the curve and the sun was once again in our faces rather than at our backs—although most of the time it was straight overhead—I saw the last trace of direct Egyptian power: a boundary text inscribed by a Pharaoh on a boulder. It had been wishful thinking; Egypt never truly controlled this portion of the Nile valley, although it had laid boastful claim to it.

Again the river narrowed as we rushed toward the Fifth Cataract, were pulled and guided over it, and came to the Nile’s first tributary: the Atbara, bringing water from Ethiopia. Then before us loomed our goal: Meroe, the rich city of fabled Kush: that is, Nubia.

It lay on a fertile plain, waving with millet and barley, dotted with cattle. A fresh breeze, smelling of cool green plants, blew across the bow of our boat. Instantly I could understand why the Nubians had retreated to this area and held it. They could not be reached here easily, and this place was a paradise.

Ahead of us I saw an impressive long landing pier, jutting far out into the shallow waters. The palmwood pillars were carved and gilded, with blue and gold pennants flying. A royal welcome indeed.

They had spotted my boat, identified my insignia, and before we arrived the dock was thronged. As we tied up, I saw so many rich robes milling about that it looked like a tumble of jewels.

A tall man, even more ornately dressed than his fellows, approached and addressed us, but I could not understand him; evidently he was speaking Meroitic.

“Can you speak Greek?” I asked.

He shrugged, unable to respond. Someone whispered in his ear, then he shook his head.

“Egyptian, then?”

He smiled. “Yes, Exalted One.”

“Or Ethiopian?”

“Yes, that as well. Which do you prefer?”

It seemed selfish to choose Egyptian, but I could speak it much better. “Egyptian, unless you have another tongue you wish to use,” I said.

“Egyptian suits me as well as any other,” he said. He nodded to the messenger, standing beside me. “Kandake Amanishakheto will reward you for your speed and powers of persuasion.” He turned to me. “Come, Exalted One. I will take you to the palace.”

As we made our way through the staring throng, immediately I was struck by two things: Some of the people were very tall and almost spindly, while others were like elephants from the waist down, with wide haunches and enormous, treelike legs.

Litters were brought to transport me and my companions to the royal enclosure; the rest would walk. I had brought Iras with me, thinking that she would like to see her homeland again. But as we glided along, borne by six strong men, she leaned over and confided to me, “I have never seen anything like this. My family was from Lower Nubia, near the border with Egypt. This is different…so different!” She was wide-eyed.

“Can you understand any of this Meroitic?” I asked.

“No. Only a few words sound familiar, but they speak so fast, and the accent is difficult to follow.”

I studied her features: the shining dark skin, the high-bridged nose, the curving lips. Facially she resembled them, but her body was in no way like the two types predominant here.

The city was one of wide streets and circular dwellings made of mud and reeds that looked African; certainly we had nothing like them in Egypt. Then, suddenly, we approached a high stone wall with a massive gateway to the royal enclosure, carved with Pharaonic-looking figures. Guards in kilted uniforms flanked it; they wore silver caps topped with colored plumes. Gigantic bows were slung over their shoulders; Nubia had been known as “the land of the bow” since ancient times, and the Nubians’ prowess with the weapon was fearsome. At our approach, they threw back the bolts of the gate; the heavy studded doors swung open with a deep groan, revealing a tender green vista.

Spread before us was a carpet of tiny ground flowers, framed by jewel-toned shrubs; arbors covered with the heavy, twined vines of grapes and climbing roses waved their multitude of pointed leaves and blossoms in the soft breeze and urged us to enter into their scented shade and linger. I saw a movement from the shadows; someone was stretched out on a bench, one hand trailing down in aimless repose. Farther in the distance I saw an orchard of fruit trees, their branches frothy with bloom.

Scattered about these sensual grounds were many buildings: what looked to be temples, palaces, baths, all of golden sandstone.

Pathways paved with wide stones wound throughout the enclosure, and servitors, wearing thin red and green tunics, passed from building to building. Gigantic plane trees and graceful palms sheltered them from the noonday sun.

They set the litters down before a square building with entrance steps of marble. “The guest palace, Exalted One,” said our guide. “We have many envoys, merchants, and traders from Arabia, India, Africa, and we treat them as kings. It is not our wish to dishonor you by lodging you in their quarters, but rather to honor them by allowing them to experience royal accommodations.” He bowed. “Besides, we find it makes them more amenable to trade agreements,” he added.

“Yes, flattery will do that,” I said, stepping out of the litter. As ruler of the greatest trading city in the world, I appreciated all the tricks. I would have to see about building a palatial visitors’ lodging in Alexandria.

Iras and I were led up a flight of wide steps of gleaming blue-black porphyry to a suite of rooms. The ceilings were of fretted cedar—obviously imported from Lebanon. But how had they managed to get it here? Certainly the fifty-foot timbers could not have survived a trip over the cataracts—let alone all five of them. They must have come by way of the Red Sea. But how did they get
there?
I must ask the Kandake.

I have been accused of being a hard-hearted businesswoman, grasping, greedy, and calculating. (It is primarily Octavian and his mouthpieces who say this.) But all calumnies are built on some leaning or grain of truth, and in standing in the midst of this magnificent chamber and wondering about trade routes, I show myself where this later slander came from. I do think of money and trade; when I see gold I think of mines, and when I see silk I think of India and trade routes, and when—oh, why try to explain it? It is both my strength and my weakness. And I notice that Octavian lusts after my treasure in most unseemly fashion himself. But that is getting ahead of my story.

One of the things I noticed immediately was a service of silver vessels on the table—a tall, gracefully spouted pitcher, slender cups, an oval tray. Silver is rarely used in Egypt because it is actually scarcer than gold; now it caught my eye for that reason.

I picked up the pitcher, liking its feel in my hand, and poured out some brownish liquid into a cup; it proved to be tamarind juice.

“From India, Exalted One,” said a voice from the doorway. I set the pitcher down with a jerk.

A wraithlike girl, wearing what appeared to be both an odd and strangely familiar costume, stood in the door. “I am here to serve you,” she said, bringing up her cupped hands in a gesture of submission. “My Kandake wished you to have our favorite refreshment, and me to explain about it.” She glided across the floor and took the handle of the pitcher and poured, in one gracious, sinuous motion. She handed both Iras and me a cup. “Drink, and welcome.”

The tart, tawny liquid stung my lips. At the very hint that it was sour, the girl said, “There is honey for that.” She gestured toward a shiny black-lidded jar. Now I saw that Iras’s extreme gracefulness was part of her heritage. This girl had the same smooth, liquid movements.