Cleopatra (6 page)

Evening

This afternoon the little giraffe died. It was taken ashore and buried above the beach. The islanders crowded around, having never seen an animal with a long, spotted neck. Neva and I watched the funeral from the boat, where we sat on deck drying off from a swim.

“The giraffe missed its mother,” she said while brushing my hair. “At least now it will not have to suffer being away from home. Yes, Princess?”

“Yes, it is so, Neva.” I held up my mirror so that I could see her face next to mine. There were tears in her eyes. Suddenly I felt ashamed. She misses her own mother and I never noticed before.

During dinner, sailors reported to me about a discovery on the island. Among the temples, they saw massive stone carvings of women in pleated skirts – something they had never seen before. They do not know if the carvings are of goddesses or portraits of a queen and her servants. In any event, the statues have been nicknamed the Fat Ladies because they show plump women with enormously fat legs.

The sailors also said that when they were on the western side of Malta, cooking breakfast on the beach, they could see the little island of Goza, just one mile offshore. They were afraid to explore it though because an old legend says that the sea nymph Calypso lives there in her cave. She is the one who lured Odysseus from his ship and made him her prisoner of love for seven years. (I have had Neva read this story to me many times.)

I do not know why my sailors are so frightened. Perhaps they think Calypso is a twelve-foot-tall Fat Lady.

2 Aprilis
On the island of Malta

Nightfall, still anchored in the bay.

I am on deck, writing under a lantern hung from the mast. As the boat rocks gently on the swells, the light swings left then right, moving shadows across my paper. I can hear the pleasant sound of waves breaking on the beach then receding with a hiss.

Peaceful. That is the only word I can find to describe this day. And were it not for the loud sailors, it would be bliss.

Earlier I penned an order to our fleet, forbidding drunkenness, but as I was sealing the tablet with wax, Father rose from below deck. He was dressed in his elegant purple robe and carried his reed flutes. He plays these pipes when drunk, thus people mock him with his nickname Auletes, which means “the flute player”. For a king, this is not wise.

“Daughter,” he greeted me, smiling, but that was all he said before climbing overboard, down to the lifeboat tied up alongside us. His guards rowed him ashore where a party awaited. Royal pennants flew above the banqueting table, torches were planted in the sand like many candles.

I rubbed out my words and slipped the tablet back into my writing chest. How can a princess give an order if her father, the king, has no intention of obeying?

The next morning

It is nearly dawn. Neva and I stayed on deck all night, wrapped in blankets for I wanted to watch the stars. The freedom to be out in the open without fear gave me such gladness of the heart I could not sleep. She and I talked long into the night. I forget how many times we turned the hourglass. I imagined this is the way common sisters are, sharing secrets and dreams, as sisters who are not competing to be queen. (To honour Neva, I will not write of the dear things she confided to me.)

Just moments ago I heard the sound of oars splashing in the water so we looked towards shore. Through the grey morning light, I saw a small boat being rowed this way, a lantern in its bow. Now it has pulled alongside, and two guards are lifting my father, the king, up to the deck. His hair and robe are wet as if someone poured an amphora over his head.

I cannot make myself rush to his side! He will not recognize me or respond as a father should – and he stinks! The guards are looking at me with questions. O, curses.

Later…

Now that Father is put to bed I can continue. When the guards did not know what to do with him, I wanted to shrug or otherwise act like a girl of twelve. Quickly I thought in my heart that if I am to be queen I must begin to act like one. How would Nefertiti respond?

Thus I hurried below to straighten Father's cushions. Neva returned with a pitcher of warm water taken off the brazier, and together we washed his hands and face, then his muddy feet. He whispered tender words to me as we covered him with a silk sheet and propped up his head. It will be hours before he shakes off the fumes of wine.

“Do not worry,” I told him. “I will help you with the Romans, and they will help us with Tryphaena. Do not worry anymore. Sleep now.”

Two days later

Now once again we are at sea, heading north to the great island of Sicily. True, just days ago my thoughts were far from this course. I was content to live out my life on a beautiful, quiet island. But reason has returned to me. I must be brave and think of my country. The peasants along the Nile need a ruler who cares about them. If Father himself cannot care, then I will stand beside him and show him how.

Most important though, my father's throne is at stake, as is the future of Egypt. If he is not careful, if he is not wise, our country could fall under Roman power. Caesar would plunder our riches and parade my family in his arena. Terrible things happen to royalty who are no longer royal.

To continue…

We have just sailed past Syracuse, the town in Sicily where Puzo was born, our flags and purple sails once again adorning our lines. While anchored there, I gave him a day to visit his old grandmother. She was so proud to see him on a royal Egyptian ship she stood on the beach and covered her face with her wrinkled hands, weeping.

I gave her a present, a small carved box with a necklace inside: turquoise stones set in gold. At this she started to cry again.

“Princess, this is too much for me to receive.”

I took her hand and closed her fingers around the necklace. “But, madam,” I said, “it is not too much for me to give.” Then, impulsively, I invited her to come and live with us in the palace at Alexandria. The grandmother stood straight up with a dignity common to those who toil hard under the sun.

“Thank you, Princess, but I cannot leave my garden or my three sisters.”

Thank the gods that I understood her Latin and she understood mine. Then I thought in my heart about this woman's humble life and felt honoured to have met her. Now I understand why her grandson is my favourite guard. He is the fruit of her goodness.

Our pilot says we should see the southern tip of Italy in a day, depending on the winds, a report that pleases me because this rolling ocean is wearing me out. Now I have to turn my thoughts to the task ahead. There is business to do with the Romans, and I must not appear to be merely a spoiled princess. I must honour my father yet be ready to speak wisely if his mind fails him.

This morning at breakfast with him, my heart told me,
Yes Cleopatra, a princess you must be.
Father and I were eating melons on deck, in the shade of a blue silk canopy, for the days are getting warmer. I tried to talk to him about Julius Caesar, but on and on he spoke about his favourite subject: himself! Memories of his twenty-three years as king are as fresh as if they happened last night.

To my shame, Father described his most pleasurable days, festivals, and banquets! Thinking I could draw him into history, I asked what he thought of Egypt's Great Pyramids and the Sphinx, for he sailed up the Nile some years ago. I asked if he would like to visit the Great Long Wall of Ch'in, or the Acropolis in our ancestral country. His response?

He yawned!

My father has as little imagination as my sister Berenice.
O gods, forgive them.
How can I shake him into caring about our people or the world around us? By no means do I think he lacks intelligence, but he is not a man who reflects on significant things. For a king, this is a disgrace.

Though he has told me many times that I am his favourite daughter, the affection I felt for him as a child is growing cold. This saddens me.

I know I am young and have much to learn. That is why I study royals from the past, because I can follow their examples. The Queen of Sheba so desired in her heart to have knowledge that she rode by caravan all the way to Jerusalem to meet King Solomon, the wisest man on Earth. Queen Esther of Persia saved her Jewish people from slaughter by bravely standing before King Xerxes. Nefertiti, she, too, was brave. These queens were once as young as I am now, and they didn't have a Library or Mouseion in which to study. I am most fortunate.

Sunset

Earlier this afternoon a sailor shouted from the top of a mast, “Land!” Now we are running with the wind, tacking through the swells along a rugged shoreline. Directly ahead is a narrow channel that will allow us to sail between Sicily and Italy into the Tyrrhenian Sea. The water is extremely rough. The sailors are terrified and are crying out to their gods, Castor and Pollux, because they believe the whirlpool Charybdis is here, the one that pulls ships to the bottom of the ocean. Homer also wrote of this in his poem about Odysseus.

Before I had time to work myself into a fright, we had sailed through, and there was Italy on our starboard side.
O Isis, at the sight of this country, my heart dropped.
My tranquility has fled! What folly to think I am prepared to face the fierce Romans.

I stood in the bow to feel the breeze coming off the land, to once again smell flowers and trees. The motion of the ship rising in the waves reminds me of riding Bucephalus, her fast, smooth canter. (O, how I miss her.) I looked down into the water, and my heart filled with gladness to see dolphins leaping alongside our ship, keeping pace as if they were escorting us. Is this our reward from Poseidon and Neptune for enduring a rough voyage?

I am moving my pen quickly across this page because we will soon arrive. Neva and Puzo have been cleaning Father up, helping his assistants see to his wardrobe, then they will raise our pennants and flags. Fishing boats have been approaching. One pulled close enough for a man to shout at
me
, for he knew by our sails that an Egyptian princess was aboard.

Puzo stepped in front of me protectively and would not let me peer around him to answer. This barbarian said something so coarse, so cruel I cannot repeat it here. I wanted to cast a rope around his thick neck, but Puzo hurried me down below. Is this a warning of what awaits us?
O Isis, help!

Ever since I can remember I have applied my mind to learning, but somehow I failed to learn that the city of Rome is
not
a seaport, but lies inland some sixteen miles up the Tiber River. Our ship was guided safely to the mouth of this river by the lighthouse at the walled city of Ostia. After nearly three weeks at sea, O, my heart leaped when I saw it, such a familiar comfort from home. It is not nearly as tall as Alexandria's, but its bright flame made me feel welcome. It, too, sits on a rocky point of land.

I noticed beautiful villas along the coast, which are summer homes for the wealthy. Our pilot pointed these out to me, then steered around the lighthouse into a bay that was busy with merchant ships newly arrived from other islands and parts of Italy. The water was choppy with so many oars churning back and forth, but it is rough also because this is where the river meets the sea. Both sides of the Tiber were crowded with docks. Cargoes were being unloaded from ships and transferred to wagons because the river is too shallow for sailing.

And so, too, our royal fleet would have to remain anchored in the port of Ostia. While the crews moved our belongings onto carts and donkeys, Neva and I rested in a newly planted cornfield. As far as I could see there were lush, green vineyards, neatly laid out in rows, white clouds high overhead. We camped here one night, then early the next morning took off on a side road that runs alongside the Tiber. It was sandy and slow-going, but I quite enjoyed the walk. After so many days at sea, it felt wonderful to stretch my legs.

Imagine my pleasure to see woods and a cool forest along the way, then meadows with flowers. An oasis in Egypt is as lovely, but it is surrounded by desert. Periodically, on the side of the road, there were stone posts with numbers carved onto them, to mark distances. By these milestones, I was able to know how much further it was to Rome.

Now to mention something unpleasant: the river is
foul
. At this time of year it is perhaps only two feet deep, flowing like brown oil, bringing from the city all types of disgusting things that float: bloody rags, onions and melons, broken pieces of furniture. A stench hovers in the air for miles. As we finally entered Rome late in the afternoon, I understood why. Houses and shops have been built along the banks of the Tiber, jutting out over the water. I saw women dumping who-knows-what from their windows. There is also a sewer pouring out into the river through a well-built stone arch. On the bank directly above this sewer is the Temple of Hercules Victor – I think worshippers must hold their nose when they present their offerings.

O, I regret my complaints about the ocean, for at least it was clean. Will I sound too royal if I say that I miss the Nile, that I yearn to be near a living river?

15 Maius
Rome

Father says that when in Rome, it is good politics to do as the Romans do, thus we are all dressed in togas. They are heavy, itchy things because the linen cloth also contains wool. And the sandals, O, what discomfort. The thick leather straps cut into my feet.

I want to record as many events and sights of Rome as possible, so when I return to Egypt I will not forget. Also, Olympus and Theophilus will ask every detail of me, I know them! So, I begin.

Many of the Romans have sundials in their courtyards. They also use water clocks so they can tell time indoors and when clouds hide the sun. We have these in Alexandria, but I said nothing, not wanting to insult the official who proudly showed us around. (I prefer my hourglass in any event.)

We have been staying at the villa of Tullus Atticus, a wealthy citizen who wants to help Father reclaim his throne. Atticus is a stout bald man, pleasant enough, but he appears bloated, as one who is given to gluttony. The tips of his fingers are stained purple from eating grapes, which he does while being read to. His reader has the deep, cultured voice of an actor, so pleasant that whenever they are in the courtyard together I sit nearby to listen.

His villa is near the stinking river I mentioned earlier, but the rooms wrap around courtyards that are lovely with flowering fruit trees, fish ponds, and fountains. An atrium with an opening to the sky brings light into the entryway. A pool in the centre catches the rain, thus there is fresh water for the many cats and puppies running about. The bath in my private suite is similar to home, with hot water provided by an underground fire.

Walls inside the villa are brightly painted in blue, green, and yellow. There also are murals with scenes of the countryside, family members and the like. Pedestals throughout the halls display marble busts of dead relatives. A servant explained to me that Atticus is comforted in his sorrow over the loss of his sister, his father, and an infant daughter, by being able to gaze on their faces. A sculptor comes every year to carve the images of his children and good friends. I think in my heart that Egyptian mummies are not nearly so beautiful or lifelike as these.

Floors are decorated with mosaics, one in the entry depicts a guard dog with snarling, sharp teeth and the word “Beware”. Perhaps this is wishful thinking on the part of Atticus because I have not seen his dog do anything except wag its tail and take long naps in the shade.

Atticus also has many stables. I do love the smell of hay and horses, but so do flies, untold numbers of them. Servants follow us everywhere we go, waving peacock feathers to keep the insects away from our skin. At night when we sleep we are protected by silk bed-hangings. Another way the Romans catch bugs is with long strips of paper that are coated with a mixture of honey and resin. These hang from the ceilings so that flying insects bump into them and stick. It is not a pleasant sight, nor smell. Dead bugs stink the same as dead rats.

Yesterday, Father and I toured the city by sedan chairs, as no carriages are allowed in the streets during daylight. We were each carried by four Hebrew slaves who had been captured in Jerusalem by Pompey. I tried not to eavesdrop, but I could hear them talk among themselves. They spoke longingly of the hope they have in their god, who one day will free them from captivity. Perhaps they did not realize an Egyptian princess can understand their language. My Jewish friend Theophilus taught me well.

Like Alexandria, Rome is surrounded by a thick stone wall, built more than three hundred years ago. The city itself is full of cramped apartments built one on top of the other, with several families living in each one. Shops are on the ground floor. There are Senate offices wedged next door to tenements which are next door to marble temples. Such disorder!

And graffiti stains every wall. Some are lines of poetry written in Latin as well as Greek; some are election notices. I saw names of gladiators, even faded notes about the great Spartacus, but much of the writings are vulgar. O, the crude thoughts of man.

How can an imperial city allow such squalor?

In my opinion, the Romans have spent entirely too much effort conquering the world when they should sweep their
own
front step.

We have not met Julius Caesar. I had thought he would be on the docks when our ships arrived in Ostia, ready to receive us. But he is up north, building catapults and battering rams to conquer more of Gaul or possibly Brittania, people here are vague.

We did meet Pompey the Great.