Cleopatra (9 page)

Summer, fifteen days after Solstice

This afternoon Julia and I soaked in hot pools that flow up naturally from the ground. We think the water comes from inside Vesuvius because the top of the mountain is often hidden by what looks like steam. No one really knows. I have not mentioned this before, but Rome also has baths from natural hot springs, public ones that are meeting places for senators and knights after they have argued all day in court.

Here in Herculaneum I was thankful that one of the bath chambers is for ladies only. It had a window looking out to sea, with double panes of glass to let in the light yet keep out the cold air. The glass was thick and blurry, thus it afforded us privacy from the various men wandering along the path outside.

A slave girl came in with a pitcher of cold water and poured it into a basin that stood on a marble pedestal. From this we splashed ourselves to cool off. A masseuse was there to rub oil on my back and shoulders. Then she gave me a strigil, a curved stick made of iron to scrape my skin clean. She offered to pluck the hairs from under my arms as she was doing for other ladies.

“No, thank you,” I said. “Not this year, madam.”

Father's ships have not come yet. Messengers bring word that new soldiers are training, but still there are not enough to form one legion, a legion having between three and six thousand men. Knowing we are not ready to travel makes me restless, but also I feel a measure of peace because it means Father has not sailed home without me. Meanwhile, vessels from Egypt bring letters from my old friends. I read their words again and again.

Theophilus still writes to me in Hebrew (to keep my mind active, he says!). His report: in the Mouseion, scholars are talking about the steam engine invented some years ago. Now they are trying to put it on a chariot to see if it can roll along without horses. These scholars also were able to make a boat move across the Nile by using steam, but they have decided to abandon the idea.

 

Do you know why, Cleopatra? It will leave the rowers with nothing to do, and you well know that idle slaves just cause trouble.

 

His letter caused
me
trouble in my thoughts. I wish Theophilus were here to observe the Romans and discuss these things with me. If I become queen, will I forbid inventions that allow slaves to sleep all day? I do not know. Ever since Spartacus, people who own slaves have worried about another revolt.

I have just read my other letter, the one from Olympus, and now have an ache in my heart. The good news, he says, is the puff adder was found coiled up in a basket, sleeping, and was quickly killed.

But the unhappy news is that Arrow, my loyal leopard, has been missing since the night she ate the little baboon. She has not shown up at the zoo or anywhere in sight of the palace. I suspect Tryphaena's cruelty. Did she do terrible things to Arrow before she herself was killed? Woe!

 

On another matter, Olympus wrote that Queen Berenice was so bored with her husband that after three days of marriage she had him strangled. Who this man was, I do not know.

Late summer

I have stopped keeping note of the months for, to me, summer is summer. I live in the blissful knowledge that the sea is outside my door. Three wide steps lead down from my terrace to the water's edge. Every day Neva and I swim in the bay. Usually we wear short silk tunics that we belt at our waists so our legs have freedom of movement.

The sea is a beautiful turquoise blue and so clear that when I am underwater my open eyes see fish and tall, waving plants that are attached to the sandy bottom.

Around the jetty is another beach where a wealthy nobleman has built public baths within a small cove. Twice a day the incoming tide washes over the rocks, filling the pools with cold, tingly salt water.

It was here that I learned something about Puzo.

To continue…

That day Neva and I first swam in the protected pools, then ventured out into the cove itself where bigger waves unfurl onto the beach. Suddenly she was floating away from me on a fast current. In a panic we reached for each other, but our hands slipped apart and she began to be swept out to sea.

I screamed, “Help, someone!”

Her wet hair was matted over her face so I could not see her eyes. But I did see terror in the way her mouth tried to call for help. That was when I noticed Puzo running along the jetty, trying to run faster than the tide. At the outermost tip of land, he threw off his sandals and sword, then dove into the waves that were breaking hard against the rocks.

I saw only his arms above the water as he swam for Neva. Meanwhile my feet had lost touch with the bottom and now I myself struggled in the current. I swam hard for shore. It seemed forever. Eventually I felt a swell under me, pushing me up and over the crest of a wave, dropping me inside the churning foam. I tumbled, choking and swallowing salt water that also rushed painfully up my nose.

At last my feet touched bottom and I dragged myself to shore. Sick with dread, I looked for Puzo.

He was climbing over the rocks with Neva in his arms. He brought her to me, alive. O joy! My heart was touched when I saw the tenderness with which he regarded her.

I knew then that, while Puzo will surely guard me with his life, it is Neva he loves with his heart.

The next morning

Neva and I have both been ill to our stomachs from drinking the sea. I thank Poseidon that he did not pull her down to the depths, but returned her to me safely.

As we rest, Puzo stands in the doorway watching over both of us, quiet as usual, his arms ready to reach for his sword.

My heart feels lonely. How is it that I feel old yet I am still young, nearing my thirteenth birthday? Some princesses are already married by my age, but if for love, I do not know. In fact, I just received a wedding invitation from a daughter in the wealthy Sabinus family, to take place next week in Pompeii, a resort town below Mount Vesuvius. The affair promises to be quite lavish, but the girl's age? Twelve.

As I wrote earlier, I will not betray the secrets Neva has confided in me, but I will say this much. She adores Puzo. She has loved him from first sight. Am I to fear that their affection for each other will diminish their loyalty towards me? Am I to be like Berenice, who forbids marriage between slaves? Should I be cold-hearted like Father who will sell a man's bride to a caravan going far, far away?

Or Tryphaena? Her cruelties would be graffiti on this page, so I will not describe them.

I wonder in my heart about Queen Esther and Queen Nefertiti. What would they have done about my two servants? Did the Queen of Sheba ask Solomon about these matters? O, to have their wisdom!

As Neva was brushing my hair this morning I put my hand on hers.

“I am pleased you have eyes for Puzo and he for you,” I told her. My heart ached remembering how she had left her family in Greece to serve me. She might never again see her mother or her own sisters. And Puzo, too, was away from his dear grandmother and great-aunts. I never asked him if he would have preferred a gladiator's honourable death to guarding the Princess of the Nile.

I fear asking questions about things I do not want to change.

Neva bowed so that her cheek brushed mine, then she resumed brushing my hair. Her sweetness captured my heart.

Still, I do not know what to do, except to keep Father from seeing their love, as much for my sake as for theirs. If he learns that I approve of their romance, he could put me in chains. Or worse. It is an odd thing to be royal. At times I feel cherished by my father, but at times I worry he will discard me like an old cloak.

It is hot this evening, for the wind is from the east, blowing warm air across the sun-baked vineyards out to sea, blowing off the tops of the waves. My heart is filled with gladness for the generosity of Tullus Atticus who allowed me to spend the summer on the beautiful sea. Surely the dirty heat of Rome would have made me fall into madness.

2 October
Rome again

We have returned to Rome, for now that autumn is near the heat is not as miserable. We have returned also because Father sent word that he needs me. It seems that while I was in Herculaneum, he was not meeting with Roman officials or seeing to the soldiers as he had promised me. He was seeing to his headaches!

Father's excuse is that meetings are more interesting when I am there. What I think he really means is that people are less likely to mock him, since they know I understand their language.

Forgive me, Isis, but in my heart I mock him myself
. Because he has squandered so much time it is now too late to voyage home, for the season of storms is upon us. The rough seas would swallow our ships.

I am so low it feels as if my heart has stopped beating.

My small pleasure is listening to Neva read as I fall asleep. Recently it has been the love poems written long ago by the Greek woman Sappho. The poems are more cheerful than I feel.

26 October

After sunset I heard voices in the garden outside my room. I could not help but hear that it was two lovers speaking tenderly to each other – Neva and Puzo! As I write this they have now gone, where, I do not know.
O Isis, do not let Father catch them.

27 October

This morning I called them both to meet me in the vineyard beyond the kitchen wall. I had been so worried last night that I slept little and was now pacing, speaking in a voice soft enough that only they could hear.

“You must pretend
no
affection for each other,” I told them. “Neva, if Father finds out he will sell you to the Romans. Puzo, he will force you to become a gladiator once again. My father, the king, will tolerate no devotions among his household except to him.”

Puzo bowed, his hand on his sword. Neva also bowed. Her hands were cupped towards me in a gesture of thankfulness. They turned for their separate duties, as if the other were not there. What I did not tell them was my own life is in danger if Father finds out.

30 October

The days are cool. Rain fills the pools in the courtyards and washes the filth from the streets into the river. Julia said that soon the Tiber will be deep enough for barges to sail right to Rome.

A merchant ship arrived in Ostia last week from Alexandria. It almost sank after having taken on water during a storm, but her mariners lay all their strength to her oars and arrived safely. When vessels have sunk in years past, people have starved from the lack of Egyptian wheat. Julia told me that the greatest enemies of her father, Julius Caesar, are not the Gauls or other barbarians. Winter and famine kill more soldiers than anything.

I mention this particular ship, which now will spend the winter sixteen miles away at Ostia because, not only did it bring grain, but also it brought food for my soul: letters in Hebrew from Theophilus and letters in Greek from Olympus, my dear friends. Now I wait for spring. Surely by then there will be enough soldiers ready to escort us home.

Meanwhile, I will care for Father who, I am ashamed to admit, needs a nursemaid more than he needs a daughter. I will put my fury aside, for this is my royal duty.

It is also wise politically. I must remain in the king's favour.

 

SCROLLS 8–11
56
BC

12 Februarius

Folly has struck. Woe to me!

Yesterday was the first sunny day in
weeks
. Neva and I took our clothing trunks outside to our courtyard, to dry out our ever-damp dresses and shawls. We draped them over the statues and bushes. (O, we miss the heat and sun of our Alexandria.)

I set Puzo to the task of sharpening his sword, polishing my necklaces, the usual. As he and Neva are literate, they often write notes to each other, which are passed through my willing hands, then destroyed so they might never be read by Father. Thus, their romance remains a stolen glance here and there and whispered conversations when we three sit by the fountain.

Anyone watching will think it is I who am instructing them, rather than the three of us sharing thoughts. It is not the elevated sort that I have with Theophilus and Olympus, but the words exchanged among us are sweet nonetheless, and kind. I am soothed by our hours together.

But I digress. My folly was that while sunning ourselves I brought out my letters and papers to read, where the light was good. I was distracted by the sound of horses approaching up the gravel road and dogs barking. Hellos were shouted. I knew the voice of Atticus, but not the other. (Father must have been sleeping again.)

I hurried out, Neva behind me, then Puzo. When I reached the entryway, I dismissed them both for the afternoon.

Our visitor was Marcus Tullius Cicero, a stately man in a toga that was wrapped twice over his shoulder. I had heard of him … yes, in fact, Neva has read many of his speeches to me. He is Rome's most famous orator, a lawyer feared in the courtroom by his opponents for his sharp tongue. He had been banished from this city for over a year. The reasons, I don't know, politics perhaps. It seemed curious to me that he was so well dressed because Julia told me whenever a man is banished from Rome he is thereafter forbidden to wear the toga. Maybe Cicero just does as he pleases.

He did not talk about his exile, only mentioning that it had to do with words he said against Caesar's friend. But things are all right between them now.

Introductions were made. I did not bow, of course (nor did he bow to me), but I spoke courtesies to him in Latin, a tongue in which I am now quite fluent. During this meeting I realized we had met before, but I doubt he remembered.

In the summer when I was in Herculaneum, I had just finished a swim and was sunning myself on the rocks. An older man wandered by, waving a long stick of driftwood and talking to himself. He seemed peculiar, for his toga was wet up to his knees and he kept pointing passionately at the ocean.
An odd one,
I had thought.

But now I know this had been Cicero, perhaps practising an argument that he might give in court. Evidently he was enjoying summer at his villa in Pompeii.

Cicero now took my hand in both of his. “Cleopatra,” he said, “that idiot Marc Antony told me a little Egyptian girl is here with us in Rome. Obviously he is a liar for you are no child. You may already know that Antony is usually drunk, therefore, he seems to spew rather than speak.”

I like Cicero. Words fly from him like darts. He is near the same age as my father, but he is not dull or soft. We spent an hour, he and I and Atticus, discussing another play called
The Frogs
. Cicero said he is an active student of Greek literature and tries to keep his mind sharp by memorizing entire works. (I was so interested in this conversation, I did not touch our meal of sardines and olives, nor taste my wine.)

Only when his sedan was brought to the door did I realize it had been raining. He stepped over a wide puddle, holding the hem of his toga to climb up into his chair. Remembering my journal I hurried through the halls to my room. The courtyard was flooded, our dresses were soaked as were my letters. Carefully I peeled apart the soggy papers, hoping to preserve them, but the ink had run. Not one word remained.

My folly was forgetting that in Rome it can rain any time without warning. Thus, the record of my first winter here is lost.

Now, to bed. It is raining once again. The white cat is curled by my feet, a small reminder of my Arrow. I am comforted by its purring.