Cleopatra (3 page)

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 the 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.

He is not a man I would want for an enemy. Thus when I suddenly remembered that Pompey is my patron, that he was paid to protect us royal children, I felt enormous relief.

Since we are “friends”, maybe the soldiers will be satisfied with just camping on our shores until the trouble calms down.

Father now owes sixteen thousand talents. If it takes years for an Egyptian labourer to earn just one talent, it would take many labourers many years to pay Father's debt. What does a poor man gain from his toil?

Now I understand why common, hardworking people hate my father so deeply. My heart despairs over this.

As I write this, Arrow has curled herself at my chair with one heavy paw resting on my foot. Her long, spotted tail is tucked under her chin like a cushion. What a good, old friend! Tomorrow I am going to ask the royal jeweller to make a new collar for her, a beautiful one, perhaps gold with royal purple stones.

The sand in my hourglass is almost at the bottom, my oil lamp is low. To bed now…

17 Januarius

I have turned my thoughts to what Olympus said the other day, and I believe him for he is wise beyond his years. He studies with learned men at the Mouseion and he is also friends with commoners such as cooks and chariot drivers. He listens to what people say. This is a quality that will make him a good physician, but in the meantime it makes him my valuable friend.

Since I wanted to see and hear for myself what our subjects are saying about Father, I planned a visit to the agora. With Neva's help, I washed all colour from my face and replaced my gold necklace with a seashell pendant. She combed my hair into the style of Greek girls, and we dressed in simple chitons, no perfume or earrings. We wore thin wool shawls as a northern wind had returned, making the day cold.

Early in the morning, we hurried on our errands to buy bread and little cakes, Puzo melting into the crowds behind us. This outing was just an excuse because, truth is, I have plenty of bread – the royal bakers deliver fresh loaves to me twice daily.

As usual, the streets were crowded with pushing, shoving, and shouting people – a babble of languages. Some odours were so unpleasant I drew a veil over my nose and mouth. This is one reason Berenice will not appear in public. She does not understand foreigners, particularly those who do not bathe as often as we Greeks do. Her delicate stomach makes her afraid of new foods, though she is more likely to die of poisoning within her own walls! Myself, I do love the smell of roasting meat and I love the clamour of crowds.

Thus Neva and I slowly made our way through the streets. We were pressed in on all sides and many times I was pinched by unseen hands … rudely pinched! But such is the risk of pretending to be a common girl and not allowing Puzo to stay by my side. If I brought my official guards, then everyone would know I am from the palace. With murderers looking for Father, all the more I needed to conceal my identity.

I turned down an alley that was so narrow my shoulders brushed the walls as I sidestepped puddles and piles of dung. Neva followed me, her hand hooked in my sash so we would not lose each other. We passed a doorway where a man sat on his heels. Behind him was his little store. The back wall was dark except for a small oil lamp that illuminated shelves of idols for sale, all sizes, carved from stone and wood. The length of the alley was dotted with stalls like this, their owners crouched in doorways, leering at us as we hurried past, reaching out a dirty hand.

We ran into a bright, busy street and once again blended into the crowd. I could see an Arab in his flowing
dishdasha,
a braided cord around his forehead, watching me. Dear Puzo. Once again I felt safe. When I noticed people swarming around something, I bent down to look between all the elbows and arms and saw a square cage, full of baby crocodiles, each about the length of my arm. They were writhing and snapping their jaws. I doubt they had been fed in many days. Children were poking sticks and reeds into the cage, apparently not realizing their fingers could be bitten off.

The owner of the crocodiles was a tiny black man, a Pygmy, who stood on top of the cage shouting terrible curses on my father, shouting that his crocodiles were for sale, cheap, to anyone willing to sneak them into the king's bed. The crowd roared with pleasure, by no means understanding that such an act would get them beheaded.

My heart was so troubled at this, I pulled Neva's arm and we hurried away, down towards the wharves. Near the eastern harbour there is a spit of land with rocks that form a breakwater. Nearby is the Temple of Isis, our Egyptian goddess.

We climbed the steps and entered the place of worship. It is a large, open room with a wide view of the sea. Always there is a breeze. In the heat of the summer this breeze is refreshing, but now during winter it is just cold.

I lay a small ball of incense that I had carried in my pouch at the stone feet of Isis. An attendant stepped from the shadows carrying a lantern which he used to light my offering. The steps surrounding Isis were lined with candles floating in bowls of oil. They flickered as a slave lifted a fan of ostrich feathers and began waving it over me.

O Isis,
I prayed,
protect my father. Protect me. I sense there is more danger than I can see.

To continue…

Neva and I left the temple to walk along the cold beach, Puzo far behind. A crowd had gathered in the sand. Entertaining them was a Psylloi, one of the many African snake charmers who roam the streets of Alexandria. I watched the cobra rise out of its basket, its hood flared as it swayed. People were tossing coins into a dish and applauding, pleased by the snake's dance. Do they not know that cobras are deaf to flute music? They only flare because they are angry and ready to spit their killing poison. I have witnessed men being struck dead while showing off.

Nearby, two boys standing knee-deep in the waves were pulling in a fishing net. They started to sing. It was a wicked song that made my blood chill, wicked because it was about King Ptolemy and his daughter Cleopatra – me! I felt myself begin to tremble as the song grew louder. Part of it went like this:

 

…a poisoned cup

a serpent's bite

a sword to the neck

would be just right.

 

Wanting to hear no more I pushed my way through the crowd, back along the Canopic Way to the palace, Neva following. We slipped in by one of the servants' gates. Before changing out of my clothes, I took a tablet and rubbed the wax until it was smooth enough to write upon. When finished, I lay a blank tablet face to face, and tied them together with string, then lit a purple candle. Dripping the wax on to the string, I pressed my ring into the wax for a personal seal.

“Take this to Olympus,” I instructed Neva.

He had been right. Father's life was in danger. And so was mine.