Cleopatra Read online

  I fear Father will be murdered. And if he is, I, Cleopatra, want to be, and should be, queen.

  This may seem an odd confession, but my thoughts are sound. Father has six living children by his two wives long dead. I have no memory of my mother for I was quite small when she died.

  Father’s daughters are Tryphaena, Berenice, myself, and little Arsinoë. His sons are just babies, Ptolemy One and Ptolemy the Younger. Of all my siblings I am the only one who can speak the language of native Egyptians and other foreigners who live in our beautiful Alexandria.

  For reasons unknown to myself, the gods have gifted me with learning tongues. Just from my daily visits to the agora and fishing villages, I have learned to speak with the peasants from Ethiopia, Syria, and Arabia. I am beginning to understand the Hebrew scholars better by studying in the Library and Mouseion, our great learning centre dedicated to the nine Muses. The Muses, of course, are our goddesses of poetry, music, art, and so forth.

  This gift of befriending people will make me a better queen than Tryphaena, who hates the Jews and the Medes. It will help me be better than Berenice, the sister I love, who is too afraid of the streets to venture out of our royal apartments. A queen must understand her subjects and care for them. This describes me! I am sorry to say this about Arsinoë because she is just nine years old, but she is as spoiled and mean as our eldest sister, Tryphaena.

  If Father is killed, then one of us will become pharaoh. O, I do not want him to die, but I do want to be ready if necessary to be Egypt’s ruler, the best ever known. I must apply myself to gain wisdom.

  To continue…

  After eating our meal, Neva and I walked in the wet sand below the lighthouse, where the tiniest waves roll in. Puzo sat on the jetty looking like an Arab in deep thought, but I knew he was watching me with a protective eye.

  Because this beach is protected from wind and surf, it is warm even in winter. We waded up to our knees, swishing our hands in the cold water and splashing our faces. It was so refreshing I did it again and again, happy that I had not allowed Neva to paint me with cosmetics this morning. The black ochre stings my eyes if not washed off carefully.

  The nearer I am to the ocean, the more content I feel. I love smelling the salt air and watching the waves break against the outer rocks. Far out to sea the horizon looks bumpy with specks of white. This time of year, the Mediterranean is empty of ships because the wind is too wild. Though Rome is a long ocean voyage to the northwest, Father has worried for years about pirates or, worse, a surprise attack from Julius Caesar.

  Curses on him, the barbarian! His cruel legions march wherever they are ordered, conquering lands with their catapults and siege machines. Father has told me we will not let him have Egypt, ever, especially our beloved city, Alexandria.

  We are a sovereign state. The Roman Empire shall not conquer us.

  That is why our royal fleet keeps ready for battle by having its sailors mend sails and lines, and the soldiers practise their weapons. The oarsmen, who are our strongest slaves from Ethiopia, keep alert by rowing the warships out into the rough waves, then back again, day after day no matter the weather.

  It is dark now. Moments ago I walked out on my terrace to watch the remains of the sun on the sea. In our eastern harbour, torches were being lit on our little island called Antirrhodus. Here among the rocks sits a beautiful little palace that I secretly call my own, but it really belongs to the entire royal family.

  Inside the island palace are several golden statues of my father, the king, posing like a sphinx, also there are marble busts of my older sisters and myself. The artist who carved my likeness sculpted me with an Egyptian headdress and a cobra, but truly I prefer wearing my hair in the Greek style, without such heavy adornments.

  12 Januarius

  It is evening again. I will sleep well now, knowing Father is safe from the crowds who threaten him. He is hiding somewhere up the Nile, his exact whereabouts known only by his closest advisers.

  I have sent Puzo with another guard to observe Tryphaena in case she is up to evil. Neva has readied my cushions and lit a small lamp with cinnamon oil, and is now resting on her pallet at the foot of my bed. She will not let herself sleep until I do. I look at Neva’s sweet face and thank the gods for her loyalty.

  Did I mention that she is my reader, as well? During my bath is when I most love to hear her voice. Today, I listened for an hour as she read from Homer’s Odyssey, one of my favourite poems. She does it so dramatically, too. We both love this adventure of Odysseus that describes his voyage home after the battle of Troy.

  Out the window the sea looks black except for a flicker of light flashing across the waves. This is the beacon from our lighthouse that burns all day and all night, a comfort for those of us living on this northern point of Africa. The only thing I do not like about this perpetual flame is that if the Romans are marching this way or are foolish enough to sail through winter storms, they will easily find us.

  There is no hiding in darkness if there is even one spark of light.

  To continue…

  Just a few moments ago, Berenice came in to show me her hair. Her maid had braided it into dozens of tiny rows, in the style of native Nubians.

  “Look, Cleopatra,” she said, turning on her feet as a dancer does. Lamplight reflected off the assorted gems that had been woven into her braids, some were rubies, others were diamonds. I suspect these had been stolen from Father’s jewellery chest for I had never seen her with so many.

  Berenice wore two silk chitons, one draped over the other to show layers of blue and emerald, an elegant look. She wore gold bracelets on each bare arm. Her eyes were shadowed with violet and black liner, her earrings were pearl.

  “You look beautiful,” I said, knowing that was what she wanted to hear and because she is, indeed, beautiful. What I shall not tell her is how foolish she looks with tiny gold rings in her left nostril, three of them! It looks slavish and common.

  Then she glided out of my chamber and disappeared down the hall. Another banquet with dancers and musicians await her, no doubt Tryphaena is already there.

  Tonight I am happy to be just twelve years old, too young to be expected at royal parties.

  My only worry at this moment is the puff adder still sliding along the floors somewhere in the palace. We keep finding its curved track in hallways, courtyards, and in our private chambers. This horrifies me! Whoever set it on my father’s bed many days ago is probably happily waiting to hear of the next victim. I have told Arrow to catch the snake, but who can tell a cat what to do? I gathered my fingers in the fur around her neck and looked sternly in her golden eyes as I gave her my order. She blinked. Once, twice, then she batted my shoulder with her huge paw before turning away to do what she pleases. Arrow is too spoiled to care about a snake.

  The fragrance of Berenice’s perfume lingers pleasantly as I ready myself for bed. My hourglass has run out. O Isis, please let me sleep safely tonight.

  The next morning

  Early, just at sunrise, Berenice and I visited the docks. We watched the royal zookeepers carry a cage down the ramp with a new lioness and her two mewing cubs inside. They were captured last month far up the Nile, and brought to Alexandria. Word is that Julius Caesar himself has requested them to battle his gladiators. (I am pleased that Puzo is spared forever from this horrible amusement.) Also on the barge was a baby baboon, an orphan apparently. Berenice thought it looked so sweet swinging from its cage that she has taken it from the zoo back to the palace.

  I do love this sister, but she is not very imaginative. What did she name her little pet? “Baboon.” That is it. Berenice might be beautiful, but she would not make an interesting queen.

  In the early evening, I went to the royal stables. Bucephalus, my beautiful white Arabian, stomped in her stall when she saw me. I have not ridden her in two weeks and I miss her. I named her after Kin
g Alexander’s war horse, which carried him into battle as far as India. When Bucephalus died, Alexander built a magnificent city to surround the tomb.

  I wrapped my arms around her big neck. She snorted. Then she tossed her head, her white mane stinging my face, a playful habit ever since she was a filly. She nudged my arm until I brought out the treat hiding in my belt – a small square of honeycomb.

  “Here, Bucephalus,” I said. “Good girl.”

  Her brown eye watched me as I stroked her neck. A thick ivory comb hung on the gate next to my saddle. When I reached for it, she butted my hand, knocking it down to the straw. She dislikes having her mane untangled, so today I just returned the comb to its hook.

  You wild thing, I thought in my heart. You lovely wild thing. O, I envy her freedom, that she is without cares or worries.

  This evening as I was bathing and listening to Neva read, my younger sister, Arsinoë, marched into my chamber. Her dress was blue with a purple sash, and she was barefoot except for ornaments jingling on her ankles. She was followed by her nurse and three of her little barking dogs. I call them The Toads for their noses look squashed and wet.

  She tugged at her nurse’s skirt because she was too excited to speak for herself. Her nurse bowed.

  “Your Highness,” she said to me, “Arsinoë wants you to find a new playmate for her. She is tired of her brothers and wants a Pygmy child to amuse her.”

  Sinking low into my bath, I splashed warm water on my face for time to think. Arisinoë’s last request was for a child from the Dinka tribe. They are a graceful, gentle people who can grow to be more than seven feet tall. A Dinka girl was captured near her home up the Nile and brought to the palace, but she died from a fever after a few days.

  Father has given me the authority to grant any requests of my younger siblings. I enjoy this responsibility for in my heart I am practising to be queen. But as for a Pygmy child? I do not intend to give my sister everything she asks for.

  “I will see what I can do, Arsinoë. Now go to bed.”

  15 Januarius

  I spent the morning at the Library and Mouseion, where new toys and machines are often invented. As these buildings are connected to the palace, I am free to be myself – to speak in Greek and to wear my dress with the royal purple veil, Arrow at my side. She stands as tall as my waist so I rest my hand on her back as we wander about.

  As usual, Neva came with me. Unlike the times when we walk side by side along the beach or in the agora, she remained three steps behind me to show respect. Puzo stood in a doorway, his arms crossed. Today he wore a short Egyptian skirt made of leather.

  In the Library, we came upon my friend Olympus, studying on a bench beneath a window. Sunshine pours into the halls and atria here, giving good light for reading. Though he’s fourteen years to my twelve, he is already studying to be a physician and hopes one day to work for the royal family. His father is originally from Athens and is one of the philosophers we have appointed. These learned men have amazing ideas, as do our astronomers and scientists. But Father wants these ideas to stay within the palace walls, for if peasants hear too many new things, they might revolt. We need them to work our fields and fish the rivers, not to sit and think. Father says that this is the only way for the House of Ptolemy to stay in power, that thinking is for the noble class. I am not sure if this is right, but it is true.

  Olympus smiled when he saw me. His short chiton was tied at the waist, and he wore a leather pouch that holds his writing tools. A secret he and I share is that we write notes to each other! This seems curious because we see each other often, but it has proven to be an easy way to “talk” without people spying on us. His letters are so clever I have saved them. They are locked securely in the little chest by my bed.

  I remained standing while Olympus rolled up the papyrus he had been reading. He climbed onto a stool to slide the scroll into a hole in the wall where dozens and dozens are stored. The wall looks like a giant honeycomb. In fact, there are many of these throughout the Library, filling entire rooms up to the ceiling. The knob on each scroll has a string attached to it with a little tag that hangs out over the shelf. This way the next reader will be able to identify its contents, for we have the ancient writings of Aristotle and Plato as well as the Hebrew prophets. When a breeze moves through the halls, these tags flutter like hundreds of tiny white butterflies. (Homer’s poem about Odysseus is also here. I have read it twice.)

  Stepping down from the stool, he leaned close enough to whisper, “I have bad news, Cleopatra.”

  I did not answer. For a moment I just wanted to look at his face. His eyes are gentle, and his hair curls onto his forehead in the Greek style. His beard will be blond when it grows out, but for now there is just a light fuzz on his cheeks and chin.

  He took my arm with the familiarity of a childhood playmate, not concerned with my royal status. He led me to a courtyard where there was a fountain. Neva and Puzo stood at a distance, but I wish they had been next to me when Olympus gave his terrible report.

  “A plot has been discovered,” he said. “The hearts of the people are filled with schemes to do wrong – they want your father dead. Assassins are searching for him as we speak.”

  To continue…

  I lowered myself onto a seat by the pool. Cool blue mosaics cover the shallow bottom; the fountain pours over the side into a smaller pool. Arrow settled herself at my feet, her two front paws stretched out in front of her. I sat quietly stroking her head as Olympus continued. He spoke in a low voice so the noise of water would muffle his words should anyone try to hear us.

  He explained a dark truth: as Pharaoh, Father is hated by nearly everyone in Egypt, especially the villagers who live along the Nile. Not only has he mismanaged the government’s money and taxed everyone unfairly, Father ordered that any new silver coin being minted must have two-thirds of the silver left out!

  This means that in the agora or on the docks, a man’s money is now worth only one-third of what it used to be. I do not blame people for being angry.

  But how can I, Princess of the Nile, help them? And how can I keep them from murder? I remained calm while Olympus talked. Calm, that is, until he described Father’s plan.

  He wants the Romans to come to Alexandria with all their troops! He wants them to punish our angry villagers so he can come out of hiding and reclaim his throne. Father has already promised to pay ten thousand talents to a wealthy Roman money lender if he will hire these soldiers.

  At this news my heart despaired, and even though bright sunshine filled the courtyard, I began to shiver. I struggled for composure, as a princess must, but felt anxious. Egypt could be doomed if Father follows through with his plans. He knows as well as the rest of us that if the Romans land here and stake down their tents, they will never leave us alone. These soldiers are the strongest, most fearless men in the world.

  Has Father lost his mind? Maybe he is just drunk again, I thought, for he does worship Dionysus, the god of wine.

  “When does my father, the king, plan to leave?” I asked Olympus, shading my eyes with my hand to look at him. Anyone spying on us might think we were merely discussing the weather.

  “Early spring,” he answered. “Before the vernal equinox.”

  I calculated. Winter should be ending in several weeks. Then ships would resume travelling the open seas. If one counts by the moons, there are just eight months a year that ocean voyages can be safe from storms and foul winds. Father could sail to Rome and back by autumn.

  I wish in my heart that he would just send a letter asking Julius Caesar for help, instead of making such a long journey. But letters have been known to get lost or stolen, and Father says there is nothing like eye-to-eye contact to get a man to agree with you. I hope he is right.

  O Isis, I am frightened. If Father does go to Caesar to ask for help, who will be here to protect me from Tryphaena? She will take t
he throne in his absence, I know it, and put watchful, hateful eyes on me.

  While I adore Berenice, she is second in line to be queen. What worries me is that her softness causes her to be easily influenced. Will she be loyal to Father, or will she share in the schemes of Tryphaena? As for my little sister and brothers, they still sleep in the nursery and play with toys. Although Arsinoë is old enough to want a Pygmy playmate, she is no threat to me.

  Evening

  There was quite an upset at our meal tonight. Berenice brought her new pet along, to recline with her on the couch. But when Baboon saw the food, he refused to sit still. He leaped onto the table where plates of oysters were beautifully displayed with cucumbers and sea urchins (my favourite dish). Baboon helped himself.

  Before we could rescue the meal, Baboon found the bowl of onions and scooped them out with his tiny hands. They fell from the table and rolled along the floor like white marbles. Meanwhile, Tryphaena stood up, furious. She clapped her hands and ordered some servants to catch “the wretched creature”. But dinner was ruined. Three men throwing themselves at a squirming animal made a mess of our table.

  I am eating tonight in my room. Neva just brought in a nice soup, leek, I believe, with a fresh cooked duck egg and bread for dipping.

  16 Januarius

  Morning

  I am writing this early; the sun will rise in moments.

  After last night’s sleep, I feel rested. Now that I have had time to think, some hope is unfolding inside me.

  Not long ago, perhaps two years past, Father “bought” a friendship with Rome. He borrowed six thousand talents of silver from our government to pay Julius Caesar and Pompey so that Rome and Egypt would be allies. Pompey, a vigorous soldier, is also called the Bearded Executioner. In just three months, he rid the Mediterranean of pirates – 846 ships – who had been plundering vessels on the trade routes. This fearless Pompey also captured Jerusalem a few years ago, leaving Roman soldiers in charge.