The Memoirs of Cleopatra (63 page)

It was so close to the truth in my own life that I was shaken. I was Isis, Caesar Osiris, Caesarion Horus…Caesar, killed by evil men, now a god…I left behind to grieve and avenge him, and raise his son to carry on his name and heritage. Like Isis, I felt that great loneliness in roaming through all the land, looking for bits and pieces of him.

Suddenly resolute, I made my way to the small chapel where we had recited those mysterious vows so long ago. Bits and pieces of him…and here was one.

I entered the little square room, its walls carved with low reliefs showing Pharaohs making offerings to Isis, watched by the winged vulture of Upper Egypt. Just here we had stood. I saw the very paving stones where his sandaled feet had rested, and the places where the hem of his cloak had brushed. I placed my feet where mine had been and reached out my hand to clasp—empty air.

Yet I was not alone. Only the thinnest of barriers, an invisible but immensely guarded one, separated us—time and death. I no longer felt mocked, or bereft, but oddly comforted. The ceremony still held across that barrier, uniting us.

Outside in the sunlight, I walked and waited for Ptolemy to appear. The gentle lapping of the water against the banks of the island was soothing, calming my racing heart. I remembered that there was a Nilometer here, too, in the form of steps leading right into the water. I descended them and realized I walked down a great many before I came to the water. The mark for a minimal rise was still five steps above where the water ended. My heart started racing again.

That there had been some rise was obvious; had we not floated over the Cataract? But it looked meager. I searched for the carving I knew was on one wall depicting Hapi, the god of the Nile, in his cave of Cataracts. What was Hapi doing to us? I said several prayers to him.

I did not notice how long I was there, but I looked up to see a weak, coughing Ptolemy being led from the temple, leaning on two priests.

“He is quite overcome by his encounter with the goddess,” said one of the priests, fanning him. Ptolemy continued to cough. I suspected it was not the goddess’s presence but the smoky incense that had overcome him. Doubtless Olympos would agree; he thought incense was a poison to the lungs.

“We wish to leave him under your care in the healing-shrine,” I said. “Do you not have a home where priests and priestesses tend the ill who have come to Isis?”

“Yes, and it is a private one. That is, it is not open to all pilgrims—or it would have to be enormous. This is a small home, where the patients can live in a healthy manner,” the priest assured me.

I was well pleased with all I saw. The paved courtyard was swept immaculate; flowers bloomed around the well in the center, and no dogs or cats prowled the quarters. Attendants, gentle women who felt they were serving Isis in her guise as a healer like Asclepius, tended the invalids, walking them in the sunshine, reading to them, bringing them food. It seemed to offer Ptolemy the best care possible.

When he did not protest at being put there, I began to be alarmed. It meant he did not have the strength to struggle.

Smoothing his brow as he was put to bed, I assured him, “The goddess will heal you, and you will be back in Alexandria this time next year, with this just a memory.”

He nodded docilely, and squeezed my hand.

I decided not to depart for several days, but I did not tell him that, lest he bolt and try to come back with me. I asked the priest to report to me each morning and evening.

For the first four days, all the reports were good. Ptolemy had slept well; his color was improving; he was even eating soup and bread. But on the fifth day the priest came rushing to me before sundown.

“Your Majesty, the King, he—he choked on his food, and went into a coughing fit, and then fainted. We fanned him, and propped him up in bed, and then he started spitting up blood.”

“I had best come back with you.” Together we hurried out the door and rushed to the sick-house.

I found Ptolemy slumped over his pillows, his arms limp like cut willow branches. His face had a deathly pallor, with red spots dotting his cheeks. He was utterly changed from my last sight of him.

“Ptolemy!” I spoke softly to him, kneeling beside him.

He opened his eyes with great effort, and focused them on me. “Oh…I thought you had gone.”

“No, I am still here. I am here as long as you need me.”

“Oh.” He reached out a feeble hand and fumbled for mine. I took it; it was hot and dry, like a locust husk lying in the sun.

He gave a great sigh, filling his lungs with air. When he breathed out, frothy red foam appeared in his nostrils.

He closed his eyes, and did not open them again.

I felt his hot little hand tremble and contract a little, and then grow limp. He died, quietly, effortlessly, with a sigh for all he was leaving behind.

I said nothing, but remained holding his poor little hand. Time enough to talk when the priest returned.

Down the Nile, our boat now a funeral barque. The priests at Philae had prepared Ptolemy, readying him for his journey into eternity. That took many days, and all the while a transport-coffin was being prepared. I waited, suspended between the world of the living and the dead.

Day after day I watched the Nile making faint efforts to rise, and not succeeding. Trouble after trouble seemed to be raining upon me; would I now have to face a famine in the land, in addition to the loss of my husband, my unborn child, and my brother?

How strong do you think I am? I implored Isis. I cannot bear any more!

Yes you can, and you will
, the waters seemed to murmur back, unmoved.

The boat was draped in funeral hangings, and the oarsmen wore mourning. People lined the banks—as closely as they could and still avoid the crocodiles—and watched silently as we floated past. The journey seemed interminable, and when we passed Kom Ombo and I remembered Ptolemy’s fascination with the crocodile god, I wept. So many things had delighted him. The world would be a grayer place without his laughter and boyish curiosity.

He was on his way back to Alexandria. I remembered my promise:
This time next year you will be in Alexandria, and all this will be just a memory
. The goddess had fulfilled my words, but not in the way I had intended.

Merciless, pristine-clear sun poured over the funeral cortege like water from a jar. The wagon bearing the sarcophagus of Ptolemy wound its way through the streets of Alexandria, following the route of all official processions before ending at the Soma, the royal mausoleum at the place where the two great thoroughfares crossed.

All my ancestors lay there, entombed in elaborate chambers, in ornamented stone sarcophagi. To walk past them was to see the changing taste in burial fashions—from the plain, square container of Ptolemy I to the overly decorated one of Ptolemy VIII, so festooned with carved vegetation that it looked like a grape arbor. It was a ghastly parade of the dead. I shivered as I walked past my father’s tomb, and then the unembellished—for we had punished him in death—one of my other brother Ptolemy, the traitor. This Ptolemy would have a solid one of pink granite, polished to a high gloss, carved with boats and horses. I had tried to think of what he loved best and would want to keep with him, but there were so many things he enjoyed.

Flaring torches lighted the underground passage, making a brief day. But it was soon over, the gates were clanged shut and locked, and we emerged out into true daylight.

Two funerals, each horrible in its own special way: Caesar burnt to ashes, his bones gathered later to be put in his family tomb; Ptolemy preserved to the best of the embalmer’s art and laid in a dark box, stiff and cold. Death was grotesque.

All Alexandria had to observe mourning along with the palace for seven days. Business was suspended and ambassadors waited, boats rode at anchor with their cargoes, bills went unpaid.

It was now October, and the Nile had clearly failed. The water barely touched the demarcation line of the “cubits of death” at all Nilometers. Here in Lower Egypt the water had spread out in little puddles, barely filling the reservoirs. Now it was already receding, a month ahead of time. There would be famine.

At least the low Nile meant that the crocodiles suffered. Unable to catch enough food, many of them disappeared into the mud, to sleep and wait for better times. Others waddled up on land and found themselves stranded, or at the mercy of villagers who could corner them and spear them. Others apparently withdrew to the waters beyond the cataract. Sobek had obeyed me—or, rather, Isis-in-me.

When the time of mourning was officially over, I consulted with both Mardian and Epaphroditus about the expected crisis in the harvest.

“Yes, there will be a shortfall,” said Mardian. “I have already had the figures drawn up.”

“How bad a shortfall?” I asked.

“As bad as ever we’ve seen,” he answered. He shook his head. “It is indeed fortunate that the past two years have been good ones.”

When I was away, I thought. Perhaps, in the best interests of Egypt, I should live elsewhere! I said so.

Mardian raised his eyebrows. “Now really, where would you like to live? What other place could compare to Alexandria?”

“Oh, I would consider Ephesus, or Athens.” I was curious to see them, and their two wonders—the Great Temple of Artemis, and the Parthenon.

“Bah! Too filled with Greeks,” said Epaphroditus. “Who would want to live with
Greeks?
”

“He has a point,” said Mardian. “They argue too much. Almost as much as the Jews! That’s why Alexandria is so riotous and quarrelsome—the Greeks and Jews keep at each other, in a continual stew.”

“Not like you placid Egyptians,” said Epaphroditus. “I think you would bore yourselves to death.”

“Now, gentlemen,” I said. “Let us not start a riot in here. My ministers should be above these national characteristics.” I was only half joking. “If we must institute relief measures for the famine, how stands the treasury? Can I afford to start rebuilding my fleet anyway?”

Mardian looked alarmed. “Dearest lady, that would cost a fortune!”

“A fortune to save a fortune,” I said. “I know the eyes of Rome will turn to the east again. The last contest, between Caesar and Pompey, was settled in Greece. The assassins are coming east, I know it. I feel it. And when they do, we must be prepared. Prepared to defend ourselves, or to lend aid to the party of Caesar.”

Mardian crossed and uncrossed his legs—a habit of his when he was thinking. “What of the four legions already here?” he finally said.

“They owe allegiance to Rome,” I said. “We need a force that answers only to us. A sea force.”

It was well known that the Romans were weak at sea. Their legions were seemingly unbeatable on land, but little of that love of battle carried over to their navy.

“Yes, I agree,” said Epaphroditus. “And I think the treasury can stand it. It will take most of what we have, though. We will be left with no reserves.”

No matter. They had filled again fast enough, and we needed this navy. “I think we will need at least two hundred ships,” I said. Both men’s faces registered surprise. “Anything less will not be much of a navy,” I insisted. “Half measures are of no use at all, but just a waste of money.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Epaphroditus. “Shall I see to procuring the timbers and shipwrights? How do you propose to compose this navy? Mainly of warships, quadriremes and up, or of lighter, Liburnian-type vessels? It will make a difference in the size timbers I order.”

“I would have it half and half,” I said. I had done a great deal of reading, studying naval warfare, and it seemed wise to be covered on both fronts. Battles had been lost by overreliance on one type of ship. “And I myself will learn to captain a warship,” I said. Now they both looked shocked.

“Your Majesty,” said Epaphroditus, “surely you can trust admirals to command the fleet.”

“I shall have admirals,” I assured him. “But they shall be subordinate to
me
.”

Mardian rolled his eyes. “Oh my,” he sighed. “Oh dear.”

I ignored him. “When the famine gets severe, by March or April, we shall have to open the granaries of Alexandria to the people. We will announce this now.”

The grains of Egypt—wheat and barley—were housed in enormous granaries in Alexandria, where they awaited shipment or distribution. Guarding them was a serious duty; I employed a double detachment of soldiers around them.

“Now?” Mardian frowned. “They will come forward much earlier, then, than they need to.”

“Perhaps. But it will also serve to keep worry—and insurrection—at bay.”

He sighed again. Mardian preferred to wait for a trouble to come, rather than meet it halfway.

“This is an age-old problem in Egypt,” said Epaphroditus. “You might be interested in knowing that in our scriptures, there is a story of just such a famine. It has some interesting aspects. I will send you a copy.”

“It seems there is nothing that does not appear in your scriptures,” I said. “But I would be most interested in reading it.”

That night was duly delivered a manuscript, from the Greek version of his people’s story, about a Pharaoh—mythical, of course—who had dreamed of the famine in time to save his people. I thought Caesarion would enjoy the story, and so I asked his servants to prepare him for bed and then bring him to me.

He now had his own quarters, filled with furniture, toys, pets, balls, games, and all the things a little boy would want. There was also a bust of Caesar, before which daily offerings were placed. I wanted his father to be ever before him.

He was now three years and six months old, a serious child who seemed to keep his own counsel, as if he had already seen too much, and it weighed on him. He was going to be tall, and as his face grew less rounded and babyish, his resemblance to Caesar became more pronounced. He spoke like an older child.

“Come and sit by me,” I said, patting a cushioned hassock. Outside, the sky was a tender gray of twilight—a good time of day, when it slid into night. Obediently he came and settled himself, nestling against me. “Our good friend Epaphroditus has sent me a story about a Pharaoh of long ago, and a clever minister. I thought you would like it.”

“Let me hear it,” he said solemnly.

“It tells how the Jews first came to Egypt,” I said. “There was a slave who knew how to read dreams, and it seems that the Pharaoh had a terrible nightmare. He dreamed that seven heads of good sweet grain bloomed, but they were eaten up by seven ugly, withered heads. Then he dreamed that seven fat cows came to drink at the Nile, but seven starved cows emerged from the river and devoured them.”

Caesarion shivered. “But how can a cow eat a cow?” he asked, seriously.

“It was just a dream,” I said. “Things happen in dreams that cannot happen in real life. Anyway, that is what puzzled the Pharaoh. When he awoke, he could not forget the dreams. He asked all his wise men what they meant, and nobody knew.”

“No wonder. It didn’t make any sense.” He nodded wisely.

“Let me read you what happened,” I said. “One of Pharaoh’s servants remembered a Hebrew prisoner, named Joseph, who had the gift of interpreting dreams. ‘Then Pharaoh sent and called Joseph, and they brought him hastily out of the dungeon: and he shaved himself and changed his raiment, and came in unto Pharaoh. And Pharaoh said unto Joseph, I have dreamed a dream, and there is none that can interpret it: and I have heard say of thee, that thou canst understand a dream to interpret it.’

“ ‘And Joseph answered Pharaoh, saying, “It is not in me: God shall give Pharaoh an answer of peace.”

“ ‘And Pharaoh said unto Joseph, “In my dream, behold, I stood upon the bank of the river. And, behold, there came up out of the river seven kine, fat-fleshed and well favored; and they fed in a meadow. And behold, seven other kine came up after them, poor and very ill favored and lean-fleshed, such as I never saw in all the land of Egypt for badness.” ’ ”

Caesarion giggled.

“ ‘ “And the lean and the ill-favored kine did eat up the seven fat kine. And when they had eaten them up, it could not be known that they had eaten them; but they were still ill-favored, as at the beginning. So I awoke.

“ ‘ “And I saw in my dream, and behold, seven ears came up in one stalk, full and good. And behold, seven ears, withered, thin, and blasted with the east wind, sprung up after them. And the thin ears devoured the seven good ears. And I told this to the magicians, but there was none that could declare it to me.” ’ ”

Caesarion knitted his brow. “It must have to do with food, and eating. Grain and cows.”

“Wise boy,” I said. “Now listen. ‘And Joseph said unto Pharaoh, “The dream of Pharaoh is one. God hath showed Pharaoh what he is about to do. The seven good kine are seven years; and the seven good ears are seven years: the dream is one. And the seven thin and ill-favored kine that came up after them are seven years; and the seven empty ears blasted with the east wind shall be seven years of famine. This is the thing which I have spoken unto Pharaoh: What God is about to do he showeth unto Pharaoh. Behold, there come seven years of great plenty throughout the land of Egypt; and there shall arise after them seven years of famine. And all the plenty shall be forgotten in the land of Egypt, and the famine shall consume the land. And the dream was doubled unto Pharaoh twice, because the thing is established by God, and God will shortly bring it to pass.

“ ‘ “Now therefore let Pharaoh look out a man discreet and wise, and set him over the land of Egypt. Let him appoint officers over the land, and take up the fifth part of the land of Egypt in the seven plenteous years. And let them lay up corn under the hand of Pharaoh, and let them keep food in the cities. And that food shall be for store to the land against the seven years of famine, which shall be in the land of Egypt, that the land not perish through the famine.”

“ ‘And the thing was good in the eyes of Pharaoh, and in the eyes of his servants. And Pharaoh said unto his servants, “Can we find such a one as this is, a man in whom the Spirit of God is?” And Pharaoh said unto Joseph, “Forasmuch as God hath showed thee all this, there is none so discreet and wise as thou art. Thou shalt be over my house, and according unto thy word shall all my people be ruled: only in the throne will I be greater than thou.” And Pharaoh said to Joseph, “See, I have set thee over all the land of Egypt.” ’ ”

Caesarion wiggled. “What trust the Pharaoh had in him! What if Joseph had read the dreams wrong?”

I hugged him. “The greatest gift a ruler can have is to read those who come to him to serve him,” I said. “Now listen: ‘And Joseph was thirty years old when he stood before Pharaoh, king of Egypt. And Joseph went out from the presence of Pharaoh, and went throughout all the land of Egypt. And in the seven plenteous years the earth brought forth by handfuls. And he gathered up all the good of the seven years, which were in the land of Egypt, and laid up the food in the cities. The food of the fields, which was round about every city, laid he up in the same. And Joseph gathered corn as the sand of the sea, very much, until he left numbering, for it was without number.’ ”

“Oh!” said Caesarion. “I should like to see that grain, all heaped up!”

“ ‘And the seven years of dearth began to come, according as Joseph had said: and the dearth was in all the lands, but in all the land of Egypt there was bread. And Joseph opened all the storehouses, and sold unto the Egyptians. And all countries came to Egypt to buy corn, because the famine was so sore in all lands.’ ”

I closed the scroll. “And so you see, Egypt saved all the world from starvation.”

“Do you think that’s a true story? Did it really happen?”

“Do you mean was there a real Joseph? I don’t know. But I know that we do have granaries now where we store up our crops to protect us from famine. And we know how to predict a famine—by how high the Nile rises. But we can only do it for one year at a time. We already know there is not going to be enough food this year. And so, just like Joseph, when the time comes we will open our storehouses and distribute food.”

“To the whole world?”

“Egypt already feeds the whole world,” I said. “We export grain to Rome, to Greece, to Asia—we are a very rich country.” I ruffled his hair, which was turning darker now. “When we open the storehouses, do you want to see?”

“Oh yes!” he said. “I want to see those heaps and heaps of grain! Are they like mountains?”